Broken Vows (41 page)

      
Rory ran his fingers through his hair and stared up at the ceiling, trying to gather his thoughts. “All right. We won't tell him anything until we can agree how to do it.”

      
“Including the fact that I'm marrying you the day after my husband's death?”

      
“Including that,” he conceded.

      
“Let me take him to my father in Wellsville.” She saw the dark flash of anger in his eyes before he masked it. “He's devoted to his grandson. Now that Amos can't come after us, Michael will be safe there—and I can tell Father about Amos' death...” She paused and wet her lips nervously. “And that we're getting married. Please, Rory, I don't want him to hear it from strangers. He'd be devastated.”

      
“I suspect he'll be beside himself anyway when you tell him, but it won't change our agreement, Rebekah,” he warned. “I suppose he could keep Michael overnight while we go to Virginia City to be married,” he added grudgingly.

      
On the ride to Wellsville, Michael chattered excitedly, delighted that his new friend was coming with them and that he and Patsy Mulcahey were going to spend the night at his grandpa's house. As Michael plied Rory with the hundreds of curious questions seven-year-olds seemed to always have on their minds, Patsy watched them with genuine fondness. She easily joined in their laughter, as if seeing the two of them together was the most normal thing in the world. Rebekah wished she could take everything in stride half so well as her maid.

      
But her own thoughts were fixed on facing Ephraim. The closer they came to town, the greater her panic grew. Only by watching the warm exchange between father and son was she able to gain some consolation. Rory did seem to genuinely love Michael.

      
How could he not love his younger self?
How alike they were. The physical resemblance was augmented by their quick laughter and bright, incisive minds. Once word of her appallingly hasty remarriage got out, no one would doubt for an instant whose son Michael truly was.
I'll be branded a shameless adulteress.
What would Ephraim say about such public disgrace? How could she face her father?

      
All too soon, Rory's fancy open carriage pulled up in front of the small white house on Bascomb Street, and Ephraim Sinclair's tall, stoop-shouldered silhouette appeared in the front door. When he saw Madigan with them, his expression grew troubled and his face pale.

      
The old man walked across the yard, and Michael went barreling into his arms. “Grandpa! You'll never guess what! I'm here to spend the night, me and—that is, Patsy and I,” he corrected himself, “are going to spend the night. Mama has to go somewhere with Mr. Madigan. Have you met him? He brought me the keenest white pony and took me for a ride. He says I'll get to ride it again at his ranch!”

      
As the boy chattered on, Ephraim's troubled hazel-green eyes rose to meet his daughter's. Something was badly amiss; he could read it in her face.

      
“Father, why don't you show Patsy and Michael where you keep those cookies the guild ladies bring you every few days? When the two of them get settled inside, I have to talk with you.”

      
Rory did not touch her, but as he stood by her side, his very presence was proprietary. He knew Sinclair sensed it and felt the old man's animosity. He nodded coolly. The sooner Rebekah faced her father and laid this out in the open, the better. He did not expect it would be a pretty scene.

      
“I know where the cookies and milk are, Grandpa. I can show Patsy,” Michael crowed.

      
“I'll be takin' him inside, if that's all right with you, Reverend, sir,” Patsy said uneasily, eager to get the boy away from the storm she could sense brewing.

      
Ephraim nodded. As soon as the maid and her charge disappeared inside the house, he turned to Rebekah. “Perhaps, it would be best if we went inside the church.”

      
“Yes...I suppose,” she said. Guilt and sadness mingled as she remembered that it was in that very building where she had made her vows to Amos. And in the orchard beyond it where she had earlier made heartfelt ones to Rory. Her whole body trembled, and she found breathing difficult.

      
Once they reached the narthex of the small frame church, Rory quickly outlined what was going on, beginning with Amos' involvement in illegal mining practices and imminent arrest prior to his mysterious murder and the fact that the sheriff had come to arrest Rebekah.

      
When Rory had finished explaining everything, Ephraim glared at Madigan. His own guilt was swept aside for the moment. “You're blackmailing my daughter into marriage.”

      
“You're a fine one to accuse me of that,” Rory replied with cold contempt. The barb struck home.

      
The old man crumpled as he turned to his daughter. “I'm sorry, Rebekah. So very sorry.”

      
She could see the tears gathering and hated Rory Madigan for this final assault on her father's already shredded dignity. She hugged him. “Don't—don't blame yourself. Everything will be all right. Rory and his brother have agents gathering evidence against Amos' associates. They'll find out who killed him and it will all end. Michael...Michael was never close to Amos. In time, he'll accept Rory.”

      
“He's my son, Sinclair. Don't you think I have the right to give him a father's love—the love Wells never did?” His jaw clenched and his eyes bored into those of the old man, daring him to protest.
You destroyed those letters, you old son-of-a-bitch!
He ached to accuse Sinclair, but Rebekah was so emotionally overwrought that he knew it would be folly to open that Pandora's box now.
Someday, Sinclair…,
his eyes promised.

      
Ephraim's expression made it clear that he understood the unspoken threat, but he ignored Madigan’s bitter question. Turning to his daughter, he said, “We could get a lawyer, Rebekah. We could fight this if you don't want to marry him. I don't want you forced into a second marriage against your will.”

      
She patted his hand, then squeezed his gnarled fingers as if they were a lifeline. “No, Papa. Michael would find out that I was accused of killing Amos. I'd have to go to jail. It would be awful. It's better for him this way.”

      
“What about you, girl? You know what folks will say—marrying your husband's enemy the day after his death.”

      
“Those kind of people don't matter. I'll take care of Rebekah.”

      
“You'd better, Madigan, or you'll have me to answer to. I've made mistakes, but I'm through seeing my children pay for them.” There was a ring of the old authority in Reverend Sinclair's voice as he faced his tall young nemesis.

      
“Come on, Rebekah. We have a long drive to Virginia City.”

      
The first time she wed, her father had blessed the union. Now, he was to be denied even that opportunity. She knew how painful it was for him to think of a Roman priest performing the ceremony. She refused to consider Rory's hateful accusations against him. Wordlessly, she hugged Ephraim and let Rory guide her from the cool interior of the church back into the bright sunlight.

      
After swift good-byes to Michael, with promises to return the following day, the bridal couple set out for Virginia City. Rebekah endured Rory's preoccupied silence for miles, but the turmoil of her own thoughts was too disturbing. She needed distraction from considering the possibility that he was right about her father. Had Ephraim destroyed his letters? Her father had seemed more shaken and guilty than he had angry, almost as if he were defeated by Rory Madigan in some sort of turnabout justice.

      
No. It can 't be true.
She rubbed her temples and tried to put the thought out of her mind. There was enough to consider in beginning this marriage.
If I said I wanted to marry you because I still loved you, you wouldn't believe me.
His words haunted her. Had he been trying to tell her the truth? Did he really care for her, not just want Michael?

      
She smoothed the practical twill traveling suit, perfectly fine for a train trip, but hardly a wedding dress. “Is this suit all right?” She felt the blush heat her cheeks as he turned distractedly to look at her. “I mean, will it be suitable in St. Mary's Church?”

      
Her question took him completely by surprise. “We're not getting married in church,” he replied.

      
“But I thought—it's the only Catholic church in the area. I assumed that's why we were going to Virginia City....” Her voice trailed off in confusion.

      
“I have a friend there who's a judge. He can marry us and be trusted not to tell anyone until this whole mess is cleared up. He can also take care of the legalities of giving Michael my name.” The moment he added the latter, Rory saw the stricken look in her eyes and realized he had made a mistake.

      
“You'll have everything the way you want it, won't you?” she snapped back. “Legal claim to your son without the encumbrance of marrying me in your church. Catholics married by a priest can't ever get divorced, can they?”

      
“They also can't get married, unless both parties are Catholic. And it takes three weeks for the banns to be read before a priest will perform the ceremony.” He waited until that sank in, then said, “Anyway, what makes you think I'd let you escape with a divorce?”

      
Rebekah was confused by his blasé answer. Did he really care about her or was this his way of humiliating her? Whenever he looked at her, touched her, she melted like a puddle of wax at his feet. But this time, she must guard her heart. Too much was at stake—not only her life, but Michael's as well.

      
“So, there will be no divorce,” she said, staring straight ahead, her voice chilly in the hot, dusty air.

      
“But there will be a marriage. A real one this time, Rebekah.” That drew her attention from contemplating the horizon. He grinned. “I'll be your husband tonight. And you'll be my loving wife, won't you, darlin'?” She jerked her face forward again and he chuckled low.

      
The pink in her cheeks gave away her discomfiture, but she refused to allow him the satisfaction of a reply.

* * * *

      
Dusk fell over Carson City that night as the four men sat around a big mahogany table in the opulent senatorial offices of Shanghai Sheffield. The old man pointedly glanced from one associate to the other, measuring each one until he could feel them squirm beneath his ice-blue eyes. One shaggy, snow-white eyebrow rose as he gestured to the large number of documents spread out across the table. “We're missing several rather vital pieces of evidence. Not to mention a fortune in negotiable securities. I know Amos had them in his safe.”

      
“Not the one in his office here. It was open when I came in. Everything was spread out on his desk,” the Senator's associate said.

      
“You should have beat the truth out of the fool before you killed him. He was hiding enough evidence to hang us all twice over,” Sheffield snapped.

      
“I gathered up everything in the office. And I've checked the study in his city house. Nothing. Are you certain he left nothing in the Wellsville bank?” the killer asked the man seated next to him.

      
“Nothing in his old office or in the vault,” Hiram Bascomb replied nervously, dabbing the sweat from his upper lip with a limp linen handkerchief.

      
“It seems to me,” the fourth man at the table said from the shadows, “that leaves only one other possible place—unless he entrusted a hoodlum like Sly Hobart with such valuable materials.”

      
“Hell, no. Wells was a liability and a fool, but even he wasn't that stupid,” the killer replied in disgust. “I took care of Hobart.”

      
“But not before he did us all substantial damage by turning over his information to those accursed Irishmen,” the man from the shadows replied.

      
“I can handle the Madigan brothers.”

      
“First things first. We must have the rest of those documents that Amos hid,” Sheffield cut in. “Where do you think they are—the ranch?”

      
The man in the shadows nodded to the killer. “I think we had better decide who will pay a visit to the Flying W. And in the meanwhile, we really must make plans for dealing with the Madigans as well.”

      
“Pritkin can handle Patrick. I'll take care of Rory Madigan personally,” the killer replied grimly. If Pritkin had done his job eight years ago, none of this would have happened, but the Senator's associate was not about to reveal that gaffe. It was a long way from Nevada to Washington, but soon Amos Wells' murderer would be making the big step up.

      
Stephan Hammer stepped out of the shadows and smiled at him. “I'm sure we can rely on you.”

Chapter Eighteen

Virginia City

      
A second marriage. A second desolation in the exchange of vows. This time the ceremony was not even in a church but before a civil official. Her marriage to Rory Madigan had been brief and even more stark than had been the travesty with Amos. She was wed in a dusty twill suit and sensible low-heeled boots. Her hair was windblown and she wore no jewelry. There had been no time to purchase a ring.

      
Perhaps it’s better this way,
Rebekah thought bitterly as she sat gazing into the mirror at her own haunted eyes and pale, hollow expression. She had exchanged vows with Rory once before when she truly believed in them and thought he did too.