Broken Vows (52 page)

      
Patrick was up and about by dinnertime that evening, and Doc Marston pronounced him well enough to travel by train the next day. Ephraim bid Rebekah, Rory, and Michael goodbye, promising to visit them at their new home in Eagle Valley. He headed for Leah's place to help her and the boys prepare for their journey east.

      
Bright and early the next day, Patrick departed for the train station in Reno. He would return to Carson and see the end of the Madigans' quest for justice.

      
Rory took his wife and son, along with Patsy Mulcahey, and rode away from the Flying W for the last time. They were leaving all the sad and bitter memories of the past behind them. The big ranch with its garish house would be sold as soon as a buyer could be found. They stopped at Leah's for a very strained and brief farewell between the sisters.

      
That night, two doting parents tucked their son in his new bed in his new room at their very own home—a home, Rory explained carefully, in which Michael would spend the rest of his childhood. No more governesses or boarding schools, ever again. He would attend the Eagle Valley public school just like all the rest of the local children.

      
“Tomorrow, can I ride Snowball bareback again? I kinda liked that,” he said sleepily.

      
Rory looked at Rebekah's worried expression and chuckled. “Well, I expect it might be better if you used a saddle for a little while yet—unless of course, I'm with you to catch you in case you fall.”

      
“Aw, I won't fall. I didn't yesterday....” Then he looked up at the ceiling, having just finished saying his prayers and added, “Well, only one time. But I'll practice real hard if you'll teach me, Pa.”

      
Rebekah ruffled his hair as Rory chuckled. “I'll teach you, son.”

      
They tiptoed from his room and down the hall to their own spacious master suite. The ranch house, like his place in Virginia City, was decorated in a bold masculine style with heavy, rough-hewn furniture and polished hardwood floors. Although everything was done in impeccably good taste, from the Argon lamps to the silk wallpaper, Rebekah decided it needed a woman's touch.

      
“Your home is beautiful, Rory,” she said when he closed the bedroom door.

      
“After I commissioned the architects to build it, I was never very interested in it. At first, it was just another symbol of success. Success! What a joke. I was alone and the place was so damn big.

      
“You're not alone anymore,” she whispered, coming into his arms.

      
“Maybe, I built it for you and could never admit it to myself. It's your home, now, Rebekah. Do what you want with it.”

      
“I want to live in it, to put down roots.”

      
He grinned. “How about planting a garden? I was thinking of a cabbage patch and some pumpkins...”

      
She pummeled him laughingly, and he scooped her up in his arms and whirled her around. “You're right, Rory. This is a big house, and Michael is just one little boy. How about filling the place up with brothers and sisters for him?’'

      
All laughter died as he framed her face with his hands and gazed into her eyes. “And for us. Nothing would make me happier.”

      
He kissed her softly, and she clung to him as he carried her to the big canopied bed, an exact match to the one in Virginia City in which they had spent their wedding night. This time there was no hesitation, no tension or fear, nothing to hide from one another. They loved and they trusted as they had in the glorious innocence of their youth that very first time they had exchanged vows.

      
He began by unfastening the small pearl buttons down the front of her dress, kissing her skin as he peeled away the soft fabric. “You're so pale and delicate from city life. I want you all golden, the way you were when we first met.”

      
She chuckled, her own hands busy opening his shirt and massaging that wonderful black hair on his chest. “You want the mud from the cabbage patch too?”

      
He nuzzled her ear. “I want whatever you want,” he whispered into it. By this time he had the pink batiste dress in a puddle at her feet and was busily engaged in unfastening her lacy camisole and petticoats.

      
“You know what I want, Irishman,” she whispered. Her lips grazed his shoulder as she slid his shirt off, pausing carefully over his injury. She pressed her lips to the scars that marked his body, beginning with that most recent one. He had the tapes of her petticoats undone, and his hands cupped her small, rounded derrière as he pulled her pantalets over her hips. He took the tip of one delicate breast in his mouth and suckled on it until she arched against him and moaned, pulling his head closer.

      
Rory lifted her and placed her on top of the bed before stepping away long enough to shed his boots and slide off his breeches. He could feel her eyes on him, devouring his body. “Wanton little witch,” he breathed as he lowered himself into her open arms.

      
They rolled across the bed, kissing and caressing as their bodies melded together, arms and legs entwined. Then, he rolled her on top of him so her hair fell around him in a glorious, rich golden curtain. She leaned forward, and their mouths met in a deep, slow, probing kiss. Their tongues danced, tracing outlines across the other's lips, then plunged deeply, entwining, thrusting, tasting.

      
His hands cupped her breasts, and his thumbs circled and teased her hard pebbly nipples. She writhed frantically, arching into his hands as frissons of pleasure lanced through her body, settling low in her belly. He broke off the kiss and raised his head to suckle one pearly globe suspended like ripe fruit before his hungry eyes. She let him feast for several moments, savoring the heat of his mouth moving from one breast to the other. When she could bear the sweet torture no longer, she rose, pressing her palms against his chest and arching her back so her hair fell behind her, brushing against the hard, pulsing length of his phallus. She shook her head, and the weight of her long mane teased his rigid staff until he gasped aloud in a mixture of curses that were really endearments.

      
His hands pushed up against her breasts, causing her to throw her head back even further. She looked like some Valkyrie, pagan and glorious. “Where did you learn that, you inventive little tease?” he muttered breathlessly as he slid his hands down from her breasts to her hips. He raised her and arched into the soft, wet heat of her body, impaling her slowly, watching the expression of rapture wash over her face as he completed their joining.

      
Rory guided the rhythm in slow, lush strokes, holding her hips cupped in his hands. They stared deeply into each other's eyes, communicating in the sweet intimacy of sex and love. Gradually, the tempo increased as the pleasure built to a molten inferno. Sweat sheened their bodies in the warm night air.

      
Rebekah buried her fingers in the hair on his chest. Her hands glided up to his shoulders, then framed his face. He took her hair, wrapping it around his fists, and pulled her to him. They licked and tasted of each other's skin, letting their lips caress, coming nearer and nearer until they met in a hard, hungry kiss. She was out of control now, spiraling ever upward into the ecstasy that seized her and would not let go. She felt his staff swell and pulse deep within her, spewing his hot seed against her womb as he shuddered and cried out her name. The waves of her release gradually subsided and she collapsed onto him, limp and utterly satiated.

      
Rory wrapped his arms around her and stroked the silken curtain of her hair, breathing in the scent of lemon combined with the musky warmth from their lovemaking. She brushed his face and throat with soft, lethargic little kisses.

      
“This is the way we were, darlin'. When we first vowed our love to each other in your father's orchard,” he murmured.

      
“Only it's better now, more complete. We're both grown up. We've learned to understand, to forgive. I feel a communion with you beyond anything I felt ever before.” She raised her head and gazed into his eyes, trying to read their dark blue depths.

      
He caressed her cheek. “I felt it, too. Ah, Rebekah, we have the best of it all now and the rest of our lives to enjoy it.”

      
A few moments later, as she lay against his chest listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, he murmured, “I have something for you.”

      
She pressed a soft kiss against his chest and whispered, “I think I can already guess what.”

      
He chuckled wickedly. “That, too, but there is something else.” When she began to wriggle over him, he forgot what it was as the sweetness of their love obliterated all words, all conscious thought.

      
Much later, as Rebekah dozed, Rory gently disentangled himself and tucked the sheets about her, then pulled on a robe and crossed the big room, stopping in front of an oil painting on the wall. He pressed the frame and it swung forward, revealing a safe.

      
As he opened it and withdrew a small object, Rebekah awakened and watched with a puzzled expression on her face. When he turned back to her, she scooted up to the edge of the big rumpled bed and sat lost in the tangle of covers. He knelt down in front of her and offered her the box.

      
“I bought these eight years ago in Denver,” he said simply.

      
Rebekah opened the velvet lid with trembling hands and gazed at the exquisite rings nestled inside. One was a beautiful square-cut emerald engagement ring and its mate a heavy, braided-gold band. Inside the wedding ring was engraved, “Rebekah and Rory, forever love.” Tears filled her eyes as she whispered, “You brought these with you to Wellsville when you came back for me.”

      
He nodded as he took them from the box and slipped them on her finger. “I wanted to throw them away at first, but I never could. Then, I vowed they would be a reminder of the revenge I'd one day take against you and Amos. I really kept them for now, only I never knew it until these past few days. You are, you always have been, you always will be my wife, Rebekah.”

      
“Oh, Rory, and you my only husband, forever.” She leaned forward, and their lips met briefly. Then, he held her hand as she raised it for the rings to catch the light. Clasping his hand in both of hers she brought it to her lips and said in a low, almost hesitant voice, “There is one thing I would ask...”

      
“Anything.”

      
“To be married in church. It can be in your church, I don't care. I only want us and our children to receive the Lord's blessing.”

      
For a moment, Rory seemed to consider, his expression grave. “Well, darlin',” he began in a wretched imitation of his own brogue, “sure and that's a fine idea, and one worthy of an Irish politician—if it's your own da who'll be performin' the nuptials.”

      
With a sob of pure joy, she threw her arms around him. “Yes, oh yes, my love!”

Epilogue

Wellsville, Summer, 1879

      
The First Presbyterian Church was crowded to capacity for the occasion. Beaming with happiness, Reverend Ephraim Sinclair waited to perform the sacrament. Music from the organ rose, and the congregation joined in singing a hymn of thanksgiving as Celia Kincaid, flanked by Patrick Madigan, stepped up to the altar with the precious bundle. Standing beside them, Rory and Rebekah each held one of Michael's hands as he stared in rapt fascination at his Grandpa.

      
“Is he gonna cry?” the boy whispered, looking from one parent to the other.

      
Rebekah put her fingers to her lips with a smile, urging him to be quiet, but Rory leaned down and whispered, ”I don't think so. He's too happy.”

      
“Happy just like all of us,” Michael replied. His eyes returned to the chancel, where his grandfather asked the ritual questions of Celia and Patrick.

      
The godparents made their pledges clearly for everyone to hear. Then, the minister's voice rose sonorously over the assembly as he leaned over the font and touched the infant's head with water. “I baptize thee, Ephraim Patrick Madigan, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

      
Michael's baby brother blinked up at his grandfather with surprise, then gurgled in contentment. Although his namesake did not have tears in his eyes, Ephraim did, but no one seemed to notice.

Author’s Note

      
When I first had the idea for a tale of broken vows between two young lovers, separated by fate and the villainy of family and foe alike, I knew Rebekah would be a prim and proper preacher's daughter who surprised even herself with her attraction to a shockingly unsuitable man, a foreigner of some sort and of the Roman Catholic faith to add an extra element of conflict. But where to set this story presented a challenge.

      
After some general background reading, I stumbled on the colorful and raucous era of the Comstock Bonanza in 1870s Nevada, a land of “restless strangers” as Wilbur S. Shepperson called them. Nevada's foreign population outnumbered the native born, creating a unique backdrop for characters like the Madigan brothers, January Jones, Cue Ging and Patsy Mulcahey, not to mention the return of that incorrigible and lovable rascal, Blackie Drago, from my “Colorado Couplet” of books,
Terms of Love
and
Terms of Surrender.