by Shirl Henke
This time he headed down the main street. Aspens and shaggy pines shaded businesses which lined the streets. A general mercantile stood two stories high next to a prosperous modiste's shop. Farther down was a newspaper office—this one, unlike the defunct Self-Cocker, bore the lofty title The Wellsville Truth. Wryly, he wondered if truth in Wellsville was somehow different than elsewhere in Nevada. Across the street sat a bank, the local Wells Fargo office, and a livery stable. He could see the steeples of several churches scattered among the prosperous businesses and wondered which one belonged to Rebekah's father.
“Not the side of the tracks where we're usually welcome, is it, Lobsterback?” Rory asked his bay, giving the big red stallion's neck an affectionate pat. He had purchased the dark red horse in Denver; and no matter how much he gambled or drank, he had never given up the splendid beast. The bay was a sharp contrast to the far less flashy brown gelding January had ridden.
He would miss his old friend and mentor. January had found him when he had been down and out, a hungry runaway from an orphanage in New York. He'd given Rory's life the purpose and discipline of the boxing art. Of course, January's discipline and training had seldom curbed his pupil's excesses after they had won a big prize. But that was all behind him now. January was off to start a new life in London, where being a man of color would not prevent his owning a fight club. Rory would make a life here in Nevada, no matter the stigma of being Irish. After all, January was right about there being Irish millionaires aplenty on the Comstock.
As he reined in before Jenson's Livery Stable, Rory had no grandiose schemes in mind to become fabulously rich. The wants of a Presbyterian minister's daughter should be simple enough. But would she want a man like Rory Madigan to come courting? He'd see soon enough, but not until he had a steady job. Dismounting, Rory headed through the wide-open double door of the mammoth livery, leading his bay. The sound of an argument echoed from out back, where another set of doors stood ajar, leading into a large series of corrals.
“If I told y'all once, I told y'all a dozen times, Herrick, no tearin' up the mouth on a good piece of horseflesh. You're fired.” The angry bass voice belonged to a big, heavy-set man with the jowly face of a bulldog. Rory recognized him from the first boxing match across town.
“Yew cain't break wild horses with sugar treats 'n sweet talk. Yer a fool, Jenson,” the lanky, hard-faced cowboy said with a distinct Appalachian twang. He threw down the Spanish bit he had been holding and stalked off furiously, leaving Jenson trying to calm a pinto mare that rolled her eyes and backed away from him.
Rory tied Lobsterback to a stall inside, then approached the livery owner. “I might be able to help,” he offered.
Jenson squinted suspiciously at the tall, black-haired man. “Say, ain't you the feller who boxed Cy Wharton's ears the other day? Heard tell y'all beat him again in Virginia City.”
Rory reached out and gently touched the pinto's neck, stroking it slowly as he spoke. “Yes, I'm Rory Madigan, formerly the Kilkenny Kid.” The horse quieted a bit and Jenson stood back, letting the Irishman continue soothing the mare as he watched. Rory spoke low Gaelic love words in her ear and blew his breath into her muzzle. As she calmed, he very carefully pulled back her lips and examined the bleeding mouth. “Your handler would only break the spirit of a horse treating it this way.”
“That's what I figgered, but hell, it's hard to find a good man. All the fellers young enough to work stock is either green tenderfeet that don't know come'ere from sic’em ‘bout horses, or else they got gold fever and head fer the mines.”
He watched Madigan soothing the mare, then asked, “Y'all quittin' boxin'?”
“Aye. I'm sick of getting beaten bloody, even if I do win the fight—sort of like this girl here. I don't want to end up scarred and mean either.”
“Heard that rematch with Wharton was some fight. Wish I could’ve seen it. Bet ole Cal Slocum was fit to be tied.”
Rory grinned. “Let's just say he was surprised at the way the fight ended. Wharton would've been too—if he'd been conscious.”
“Y'all seem to know horses. That big stallion of yourn is a prime piece of horseflesh,” Jenson said, looking at Rory's horse standing with his ears pricked toward the mare in the corral.
“My father was head stableman for an English earl in Galway. I grew up around fine racehorses. The gypsies moving through the countryside taught me a few tricks, too. That man you just fired was wrong. You can gentle a horse with sweet talk—provided it's Romany or Gaelic,” Rory added with a grin.
“Y'all want a job, Madigan? I need a man to work the horses I buy. I run a string of racers, too. Could use someone to help with the training and lend a hand at the track. I'll pay ten dollars a week—more if y'all prove yourself. I know it ain't miner's wages—”
“That doesn't matter. I'll never dig in a mine,” Rory said abruptly. “Mr Jenson, you just hired yourself a horse handler.”
Chapter Three
Amos Wells sat in his opulently appointed office, which was filled with maroon leather and blue-velvet furniture. Racks of antlers and the stuffed heads of a mountain ram and a snarling puma attested to his skill as a sportsman and hunter. He leaned back in the big swivel chair behind his mahogany desk and considered the gilt-framed photograph in his hand, brooding at the narrow, unsmiling face of the woman in it.
Heloise's thin lips pursed and her narrow eyes glared back at him as if she were ready to launch into another of her weeping tirades. Cold, unnatural woman. He was glad she was dead. Now that his year of mourning was over, he could get on with the business at hand and find a more suitable replacement for her. He had been young and foolish when he wed her, and truth be told, greedy. Her father had settled a sizable dowry on him for taking his spinster daughter in marriage.
Amos had used the money to invest in his first banking and mining ventures. Within a decade, he had become a rich man, moving on from California to Colorado to the Comstock. Now, he owned controlling interest in three banks, two railroads, and half a dozen mines; and he had built a mansion on his huge ranch, the Flying W. He was putting down roots in Nevada. The political climate suited him. A handful of millionaires, mostly California bankers and Nevada mine owners, controlled the silver state. He had spent years cultivating those who were useful and making his own connections in the state legislature.
Amos Wells planned to be the next United States Senator from Nevada, but there was one complication. He needed a wife, someone beautiful to fire his blood and turn the heads of jaded politicians and cynical silver kings, yet someone young and malleable with an even disposition who would do his bidding without shrewish whining. Heloise had always had a high opinion of herself and her family's blue blood. She had made him feel that he was unworthy of her from the first day of their sham marriage.
Stroking the point of his carefully manicured Vandyke beard, he smiled faintly as he slid the old photo into a bottom desk drawer and closed it, considering how to approach his courtship of Rebekah Sinclair. Dinner last Sunday had gone well. Her parents were both favorably impressed with him, especially since he had volunteered to pay for a new pipe organ for the church, a luxury which heretofore only the Episcopalians of Wellsville could afford. Rebekah herself had been pleasant in a quiet, unassuming way. She was quite young, but that only meant she would stand in awe of him. Indeed, she had said little during the course of the meal, leaving the conversation to the men while she assisted her mother in serving the superb meal.
Rebekah had been raised in genteel poverty, doing without fancy clothes or servants to cook and clean for her. He knew every young girl's silly head was turned by a bit of silk and lace. Wait until she saw his twenty-room home on the Flying W and the elegant brick city house he was going to purchase in Carson City once his election as a Nevada senator had been voted by the legislators. Never would his wife have to bake her own bread or redden her hands by scrubbing dishes. Nor would he allow her to grow plump and dowdy like her mother.
&n
bsp; Just then a light tapping on the door of his office interrupted his ruminations. Henry Snead entered at Wells' command and took a seat across from him. Snead was a big man with the sort of craggy blunt features and wavy light brown hair many women found pleasing. He always had a ready smile, which accentuated his heavy handlebar mustache and straight white teeth.
“Glad you could get away from the Flying W for the day, Henry. You've been working too hard. Surely, your bride doesn't like to see you gone so much of the time,” Amos said, measuring Snead's reaction.
“There's no problem with Leah,” Henry replied with a wave of one meaty hand. “She's tickled to death with that fancy new stove I just bought her—and with the two Chinks I hired to help fetch and carry for her around the place. The spring roundup went really well, and we should get top dollar for those prime steers when we sell the beef this fall. I figure to invest my share of the profits in your latest mining stock deal.”
“You want to branch out, eh?” Amos said, a sly smile hovering on his lips.
“I don't plan on running stock the rest of my life.” Henry's smile gleamed like a tooth powder advertisement in a mail-order catalogue. “But I do appreciate the opportunities you've given me, Mr. Wells.”
Amos nodded in approval. “You'll go far with me, Henry. Far indeed. Mr. Bascomb was commenting on your acumen just the other day.”
Snead's eyes lit up. Hiram Bascomb was the president of the Greater Sacramento Trust Bank and a major stockholder in several of Wells' mining operations.
“Yes, indeed, stick with me, my boy, and soon you'll be buying that pretty blond bride of yours jewels and furs. Tell me, Henry, how well do you know your sister-in-law, Rebekah? Are she and your wife close?”
Henry was not surprised at the sudden shift in the conversation. “Rebekah is a sweet girl,” he said noncommittally. He'd heard a rumor that Amos Wells had asked Reverend Sinclair's permission to court the girl. “She's like her pa, I expect, concerned with Christian charity.” He was not about to burst Amos' bubble by telling him Leah thought her younger sister a hopeless hoyden without a spark of propriety. “Miss Rebekah is headstrong and high spirited, but she'll make some man a fine wife.”
Wells ran his fingers through his dark hair, which was liberally streaked with gray. “As you know, Henry, the year of mourning for my dear departed Heloise is past. I must have another wife, someone suitable as a hostess for the business and political entertaining I must do. Do you think Rebekah Sinclair would serve?”
Snead could feel the dampness of perspiration against his shirt. Damned wool suit was too heavy for Nevada's hellishly hot summers, but a man of property had to look the part. It was expected of him now. “Yes, I do. She's studious and bright. I could see her learning her way around the politicians' wives in Carson City, even those in Washington, given time.” If she'll have you.
“Good. I concur. And I count upon your good offices as a member of the Sinclair family to support my suit.” Without waiting for Snead's reply, Wells picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk and shoved them toward the younger man. “These are instructions for the managers at the Silver Star and Glory Gulch mines. Production is down and we need to—er, boost market interest before selling our stock.”
A sharkish grin raised the tips of Snead's mustache. “Looks as if there's going to be another big bonanza by next week. I'll get right on it.” He picked up his new bowler hat from the chair and rose to leave, but Wells' parting words stopped him short.
“Do remember me to your sister-in-law when you and Mrs. Snead dine with the reverend and his family tonight. I'd be most interested in your impressions of how Rebekah is receiving my suit.”
* * * *
Rebekah Sinclair sat staring out the kitchen window, not seeing the pale pink mountains on the distant horizon or the riotous gold sunflowers growing against the picket fence out back. Mechanically, she snapped beans for dinner, going through the motion like a sleepwalker as her thoughts tumbled through her brain.
Why couldn't Amos Wells have set his sights on Celia Hunt? Celia would swoon in bliss to have the rich, powerful man for a suitor. But he had fixed his attentions instead on the Reverend Sinclair's second daughter. Why me? She was no great beauty—her figure was far too slender, possessing none of the hourglass flair so in vogue. Her hair, unlike Leah's pale silvery blond, was a brassy dark yellow that had always seemed tawdry to Rebekah. Lord knew, she was no pious, proper clergyman's daughter, although she had tried to be on her best behavior at dinner last Sunday.
What an ordeal it had been, smiling, trying her best to be shy and modest so as not to embarrass her father in front of his treasured parishioner, yet at the same time trying not to encourage Amos in his courtship. He had made no overt gestures to her that in any way betrayed his prior conversation with Ephraim. But he was a shrewd silver baron, used to keeping his own council, hardly the sort to come with nosegays and candy boxes in hand. If only he were not so aloof and pompous…so old. When Celia heard about his intentions, Rebekah knew her friend would be hurt and jealous.
Why did nothing ever seem to work out the way anyone wanted? Dorcas wanted a rich son-in-law, and her father wanted her settled down with a suitable man. Celia wanted Amos, but Amos wanted her. What did Rebekah Beatrice Sinclair want? A pair of laughing blue eyes with a lock of inky hair curling over a high forehead flashed into her mind. Rory.
Don't even think about him, she scolded herself angrily, pulling the end of a bean so hard the whole thing came apart in her hands.
“Mind what you're about, young lady,” Dorcas admonished. “It will be a fortunate thing that you'll have servants to cook and clean for you as Mrs. Wells. You're a poor enough help around here.”
“I'm not affianced to Mr. Wells yet, Mama,” Rebekah replied crossly, pushing a wisp of burnished gold hair from her cheek. The heat was growing worse, and the hour neared noon. A kettle boiled away on the stove, and the big granite coffeepot sat ever ready with steam rising from the spout.
“Mind your manners and you soon will be.”
“But I don't love Amos Wells. He's...he's more than twice my age. Leah got to choose her own husband, and I shall do the same.” There, she had said it, even though she knew she would pay for it.
Dorcas's ruddy face grew even redder in the hot kitchen as she yanked the bowl of green beans from Rebekah's hands. “Old indeed. Mr. Wells is in his prime. A fine figure of a man. You should be honored that a man of his importance has even taken note of you. Your sister was always a dutiful girl who chose a man her family approved. Now, you, who have never felt a shred of family responsibility, have the best catch of the valley interested in you; and this is how you respond! If only Leah were single, she would make Mr. Wells a perfect wife.” Dorcas sighed in martyrdom and tossed the beans in a pot along with a chunk of salt pork.
Knowing how taken Leah was with Henry, Rebekah had a strong suspicion that even her saintly sister for once would have balked at their mother's wishes. She said nothing, however, just began to set the table with their chipped but serviceable everyday dishes.
A loud banging on the front door, followed by a low, urgent conversation between her father and another man, drew both women to leave the kitchen and investigate. Reverend Sinclair was talking to Emett Watkins from the Pelonis Peak Mine.
The minister's face was grave as he said to his wife, “There's been an accident at the mine—an explosion. A dozen of the miners are trapped below, and nearly twenty more have been brought up.”
“Pelonis—isn't that the fellow who hires all sorts of foreign riffraff? Irish and Cornish—even those yellow heathen?” Dorcas asked, her face tight with distaste.
“Most of the injured men are Chinese, yes, but they're not all heathen. You know I've baptized several families down in Alder Gulch. It's my duty to see if I can help, Dorcas.”
His wife gestured in frustration, knowing he would risk life and limb for those worthless foreigners and she could do nothing to stop him. The tribula
tions of being a minister's wife were a heavy burden at times.
“I'll go with you, Papa. I could help with the injured,” Rebekah volunteered.
“You most certainly will not, young lady. No daughter of mine will set foot among those rough men.”
“Your mother is right, Rebekah. A mining camp is no fit place for a young innocent such as you,” Ephraim said firmly. “Please fetch me my Bible.” He turned to Dorcas and took her hand. “I would appreciate it if you would have the ladies from the guild gather medicines and blankets.”
Rebekah was left behind to tend to the dinner, which would have to be warmed over when her busy parents returned. Dorcas gave her explicit instructions about storing the food, along with a list of other chores to occupy her daughter's idle hands, then bustled off for a nice long visit with her friends. The guild ladies would gossip as they did their Christian duty. Once Rebekah had cleaned up the kitchen, she felt restless and frustrated. Her life seemed so meaningless at times such as this. Only married ladies had the freedom to go out in society and perform useful tasks, not that she relished the prospect of rolling bandages while Lucinda Maybury carried on about the latest scandal in the congregation.
“I want to be free. Maybe I just want to get away from Wellsville. For certain, I don't want to be married—at least not to Amos Wells or any of the other eligible men I've met.” But she did want to wear silk dresses and travel in elegant sleeping cars on the Central Pacific, drink champagne and dance all night in big eastern cities—all the exciting things she had only read about in books. “I must stop being so selfish. Just think of all the poor people involved in that mining cave-in. In fact, imagine how poor their lot in life is compared to yours—and you're pining away for frivolous pleasures like Celia talks about.”
Rebekah stared out the kitchen window at the vegetable garden. Heat rose in shimmering waves from the dry alkali soil across the road, but here in her backyard the earth was dark and moist. The parsonage sat beside a deep well that yielded water enough to allow the luxury of gardening—if one considered canning peas and carrots and pickling cabbage and beets a luxury.