by Shirl Henke
“Then why don't you marry Amos Wells and be done with it? He could give you everything you want,” he said angrily.
“I could never love Amos Wells.” Her voice broke, and she bit down on her knuckle until she drew blood, trying to hold the confused, miserable tears at bay.
“Could you love me if I was rich, Rebekah? I could quit my job with Jenson and go back to fighting.” His voice was detached, flat.
Was he mocking her or was he so angry that he dared not let it show? She had hurt him, and suddenly Rebekah realized that hurting Rory Madigan upset her more than hurting anyone else in the world. “No! I don't ever want you to box again! You could be injured, even killed!” She threw her arms around his neck and held on to him, burying her head against his shoulder.
“I could make a lot of money boxing. I have before, only I had no reason to hang on to it then.” He stroked her silken hair and pulled her onto his lap. “After a few big fights, I'd have enough of a stake to come back and ask your da to let me court you properly.”
“No, Rory, please.” She sat back with her palms pressed against his chest. “I don't want to lose you. Those awful men who tried to drug you—there are others like that, aren't there? You might never come back.”
“But if I'm just a stable hand, your family will never accept me. Boxing is all I know—that and horses.”
“Surely in time Mr. Jenson will give you a better job. You said he was letting you work with his racers.” Her voice was hopeful now.
He scoffed. “Time is right. It could take years—and I'd still be Irish, a foreigner with no social standing, no family.”
“I'll wait for you, Rory. I'll wait forever before I marry anyone but—” She stopped abruptly. Her cheeks crimsoned, and her hand flew to her lips in embarrassment.
A crooked grin slashed across his face; and he winked at her, his earlier somber mood broken. She loved him, and she would have no other! It would all work out. “You'll not marry anyone but me.” He thumped his chest in boyish arrogance and pulled her into his arms. “And I'll not marry anyone but you—somehow I'll figure a way for us to wed, Rebekah.”
“But no boxing. Please promise me, Rory?” Her eyes were a fathomless dark green now.
He sighed in capitulation. “No boxing. And now, if you don't want me to ruin what's left of your reputation, we'd best eat this lunch before another hunger wins out, and my baser nature takes over.”
Rebekah scrambled off his lap, realizing that anyone could stroll by and catch them in such a compromising position. Opening the basket, she took out a cloth and spread it on the grass, then lifted out a covered dish filled with fried chicken, a jar of her mother's special pickles, and a bowl of Boston baked beans.
He sniffed appreciatively. “Smells divine. Where is that devil's food cake?”
“It's in the basket,” she said, nervously thrusting a heavy crockery jug at him. “Please pop the cork. It's lemonade. I hope it's still cool enough to taste good.”
He took a bite of the chicken, then tugged the cork out of the jug. “Everything is wonderful. You are some cook! Or did your Mama do all the work—after all, she thought it was for Amos Wells, didn't she?”
“I made everything myself except the pickles, and I didn't do it for Amos Wells—or for you either, so wipe that cocky look off your face, Mr. Madigan,” she said like a schoolmarm scolding a particularly devilish and endearing pupil.
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied as he attacked a crisp dill pickle with his white teeth.
Rebekah's appetite was not nearly so voracious as Rory's, but she watched him with a warm glow of purely feminine pleasure as he enjoyed her cooking. Yet no matter how much she delighted in being with him, she knew there would be grave repercussions for their time together. Forcing the unpleasant thought aside, she decided to enjoy the afternoon and dug into her chicken and the sweet, savory beans. “Tell me about Ireland, Rory. I've never been farther east than Kansas.” She made a face. “That's where I was born. My parents moved to Nevada when Leah and I were little girls.”
“And we all know how long ago that was,” he said with a chuckle. A faraway look came into his eyes when he leaned back against a tree trunk and laced his fingers behind his neck. “Ireland...strange, but I haven't thought of it in years. Green as your eyes, it was, and the air heavy with mist every morning. Nothing like this dusty, wild country.”
“You said your father was head groom to some nobleman.” Her expression held a hint of awe, for she had never even seen a person with a title, much less known one.
“The Earl of Waltham. He wasn't a bad sort—for a Sassenach. He let my brothers and me attend classes when his son was tutored. Waltham Hall was a grand place. Built in the sixteenth century, a great drafty fortress it was—more castle than country estate.”
“Do you know that when you speak of your childhood, your accent returns?” Rebekah asked softly, guessing how lonely and frightened he must have been.
“Aye. When I lose my temper it comes back, too. And I've a terrible swift temper, as you might have guessed,” he said with a heart-stopping smile.
“So I've noticed. It's a proud and prickly man you are, Rory Madigan,” she said, mimicking his brogue with a saucy tilt of her head. Her expression grew serious as she reached out and touched his hand tentatively. “I can't imagine what it's like to lose everything—everyone you love. You're braver than anyone I've ever met, Rory.”
“No, I'm not brave, Rebekah. I'm just a survivor, that's all. I've spent years wandering from place to place, living from hand to mouth. I've made a lot of money boxing. Then lost it just as fast gambling, drinking...and other things.” He held her hand, feeling the delicate pulse inside her wrist.
She snatched it away angrily. “Those other things wouldn't happen to be women, would they?”
He sat up with a low chuckle and reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “I'm a reformed rake, Rebekah. You have my word on it. No more drifting, no more carousing.”
“And no more women?” she asked, pouting, yet waiting as his lips drew nearer.
“Only one woman,” he murmured against her mouth as he drew her into a kiss.
* * * *
The Hunts brought Rebekah home after she and Rory said a very formal, proper good-day at the park. A decidedly cool Amos Wells had done the same with Celia. Neither girl had been able to confide in the other in the Hunts' presence, but Rebekah knew all had not gone well between her friend and Amos in spite of Agnes Hunt's excited chattering about what an honor it was that her daughter had been lucky enough to attract Mr. Wells.
Rebekah had no more than stepped inside their door before her mother launched her attack, seizing her with red, meaty fingers and dragging her into the parlor for the dressing down of her life. “How could you do such a thing? What were you thinking of, to go off with that—that Irish trash! Rachel Dalton just left. She felt it her Christian duty to tell me what a scandal you created at the park.” Dorcas Sinclair was so angry that tears of sheer fury formed beneath her puffy eyelids. She blinked them back as she glared at her younger daughter. If only Ephraim were home, but he had been summoned to the Grants' place, where the elderly grandfather had just passed on.
“Mr. Madigan outbid everyone for my basket. What was I to do? Surely having lunch with him isn't anything I should be ashamed of—and he did contribute twenty dollars to charity for the privilege.”
“Twenty dollars indeed—the last money that profligate will see for the year or I miss my guess. Is that the price you place on your reputation?”
“My reputation isn't harmed—”
“Don't you interrupt me, young lady,” Dorcas snapped irrationally, ignoring the fact she had asked the question. “And what about Amos Wells? He expected to get your basket and ended up with Celia Hunt. I know the two of you cooked up the scheme. Don't compound your sins by denying it.”
“She wants Mr. Wells's attention. I don't,” Rebekah said baldly, knowing it was utter folly, but not caring.
“You selfish, stupid girl,” Dorcas hissed. “You're not just throwing away your own chance for a brilliant marriage, but ruining the rest of the family as well.” When all else failed, guilt might work to bring a headstrong child like Rebekah to her senses.
“I know Papa will be disappointed, but I've already told him I don't favor Mr. Wells. He said I didn't have to marry any man I didn't love.”
“Love!” Dorcas threw up her hands. “Come down from those clouds and face the real world, Rebekah. Amos Wells is not only the largest contributor to your father's church, but Henry Snead's employer as well.”
Rebekah blanched as Dorcas's words sank in. “He couldn't be so vindictive as to dismiss Henry if I refuse his suit.” Her voice carried no conviction as she recalled that flash of ruthless fury he had quickly masked when he discovered the deception over the lunches. She had not mistaken it. “How could you ask me to marry a man like that?”
“Amos Wells is a fine, upstanding member of the community, but a man doesn't become rich and powerful without using that power. He can make or break any person in Wellsville. Henry could have a brilliant future with him. So could your father's church—and so could you, if that scoundrel hadn't come along and lured you down the path to hell and damnation!”
“Rory Madigan isn't like that! His intentions are just as honorable as Amos Wells's.”
Dorcas pounced. “So, he is trying to court you, isn't he?” Her hands rested on her hips, balled into angry fists.
Rebekah's chin came up. What was the use in denying it? “Yes, but he said I didn't have to convert for him. He—”
“He's deceiving you, child,” Ephraim's voice interrupted as he stepped dolefully into the parlor, his hat in hand and a somber expression on his face. “I know his kind. There are things I could tell you...” He shook his head and sat down wearily on the sun-faded easy chair by the window.
A look of panic flashed in Dorcas's eyes and she wrung her hands. “Ephraim, don't—” Her voice choked and she turned and walked quickly from the room.
Shaken and confused, Rebekah looked from her mother's retreating figure back to her father, “I—I don't understand, Papa. You've never met Rory. I know he was a boxer, but he has a steady job now and—”
“You're correct, Rebekah. You do not understand. He's Irish, and he's Catholic.”
“I do understand about the religion. I won't convert, Papa, but why do you hate the Irish if not for that?”
“He tells you now that you don't have to turn from your faith, but when the time comes to marry—then he'll lure you into his church. That's their way. I grew up in a poor section of Boston adjoining an Irish neighborhood. Believe me, I know them for what they are—drunken brawlers and whoremongers.”
I've made a lot of money...lost it just as fast...gambling, drinking...and other things. Rebekah could hear Rory's rueful confession of sins. Did he well and truly consider them with enough regret to mend his ways? Could she trust him? Trust her heart? Standing there, looking into her father's sad eyes, she was seized by cruel doubts.
“This has all happened so fast. Meeting Rory—and Amos Wells coming courting,” she temporized.
“That was a childish trick you played with the box lunches, Rebekah. Several folks stopped me on the way home to tell me what happened at the park. You and Celia Hunt planned it, didn't you?”
“Yes, Papa—but only to give Celia a chance with Mr. Wells. I didn't know Rory would bid on my basket, honestly.”
“If Amos wanted to pay court to Celia, he would do so. He chose you instead, and you led him to believe you would share that picnic with him.”
She sank onto the chair across from her father, realizing how badly the whole scheme had turned out. “I guess I owe Mr. Wells an apology, don't I, Papa?” she said in a small voice, still cringing at the thought of Amos Wells' veiled anger. Would he retaliate against her family because of her childish actions?
“I'm certain he'd be happy to hear it, Rebekah. Give him a chance. Don't let this young drifter turn your head with empty promises. He'll only break your heart.”
What might Amos Wells do, if provoked? Her father saw only good in the man. He would dismiss his wife's threats about reprisals against poor Henry, not to mention Wells withdrawing his support of the church. But Rebekah could not do that. She must tread very carefully around Amos and Rory for the immediate future, at least until the gossip died down. After that, she had no idea at all what she would do.
“I'll write a note to Mr. Wells and ask if he would be so kind as to pay a call this week.”
“There's my good girl,” Reverend Sinclair said, patting her hand fondly.
* * * *
Rebekah sat on her bed with the crumpled note clutched tightly in one hand as she stared, unseeing, at the eastern sky outside her window. She hugged her sheer batiste nightgown against her legs as she hunched over with her knees bent, watching the first gray light touch the dark horizon. Sunrise in Nevada was sudden and breathtaking as the sky changed from the faint glow of silver to the dazzling brilliance of gold.
Smoothing out the note from Amos Wells, Rebekah read it for what seemed the hundredth time. Since Henry had delivered it to her last night, she had practically memorized the lines.
My Dear Rebekah,
I shall call upon you tomorrow evening precisely at seven. We shall put behind us the unpleasant mistake at the park this afternoon and plan for our future happiness. Remember, my dear, happiness and security are purchased only with prudence. Make no mistake, to this fact both your beloved father and brother-in-law will attest.
Until Monday evening,
Amos
The handwriting was a series of bold slashes across the expensive, water-marked stationary. She stared at it numbly, reading the stark ruthlessness in every word, every pen stroke. “Your beloved father and brother-in-law will attest,” she whispered to herself with a surge of rising hysteria. Poor Henry Snead was haggard and silent when he handed her the note, telling her parents that Leah was expecting him home for dinner and he had no time to visit. She had read the message, then quietly told her father that Mr. Wells would be calling the next evening.
Rebekah was unable to bear his concern and burden him by revealing the veiled threats Wells had made. Her mother had already said Amos might take reprisals against Henry. She could only imagine what punishment he would mete out for her “unpleasant mistake.” After a night spent tossing and turning, Rebekah had risen nearly an hour ago and watched for the dawn like a felon waits for the last walk to the gallows.
“Damn him! He can't do this to me! To my family.” She threw the note into the litter basket beside her vanity. But no sooner had she uttered the words, than she realized that Amos Wells could do anything he pleased—at least as far as withdrawing his support from First Presbyterian or dismissing Henry Snead from his post at the Flying W. Rebekah bounded off the bed and began to splash her face with cold water. By the time she had performed a simple morning toilette and dressed in a white shirtwaist and brown cotton riding skirt, the sky was growing light.
She would just have to eat crow and let the vain, mean-spirited silver baron lord it over her. The trick with the box lunches was a childish, irresponsible means of discouraging his suit and obviously did not help Celia's cause either. Embarrassing Wells the way she had had probably lessened Celia's chances, not to mention creating a whole new series of problems to be resolved. No, if she were to extricate her family and herself from Amos' clutches, she would have to do it very carefully; and the last thing she needed was for Rory to show up at another critical point and further exacerbate the situation before she had convinced Wells to change his own mind about courting her.
She needed to talk to Rory—to plead with him if need be—so that he would stay away until Amos had withdrawn his suit and her family was safe. If there was one thing the stubborn and impetuous Irishman understood, it was family loyalty.
Yesterday, before they parted at the picnic, he h
ad asked her to meet him this morning at the river to discuss his plan to call on her father. There had been no time to dissuade him before Celia and several of the other young women from church had come looking for her, but today she had to make him see reason. They had agreed on eight o'clock, but she could not wait several more hours. Maybe he would arrive earlier.
She prayed he would as she crept through the dim light filtering into the house and slipped silently out the back door. Monday was the nearest thing to a day off her father ever allowed himself in his busy schedule. To accommodate him, her mother did not rise early to wash as most of the local women did, but waited until Tuesday. Rebekah would not be missed until after nine. Please be early, Rory.
As she rode her old mare Bettie May to the river, Rebekah began to have second thoughts. Maybe this was a mistake. Am I using my fear of Amos as an excuse to see Rory again? Just thinking about him set her pulse to racing. Blood thrummed through her veins, and her heart beat erratically when she replayed the time she had spent alone with Rory Madigan. What spell had he woven over her? She had only seen him a handful of times, yet she shared his laughter and his pain and his passion in such full measure that it robbed her of all reason.
“I'm insane to be here,” she whispered to the old horse as she dismounted and tied the reins to a sapling. She walked through the soft dust, rounding the thick trunk of a willow tree and peering through its dense, low-hanging branches.
Even before she saw him, she heard the sounds of splashing accompanied by melodious whistling. She almost called out as she reached to shove away the leafy barrier, but then her eyes fastened on the shallows. Her heart skipped a beat. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She struggled to swallow and forgot how.