by Shirl Henke
“You do me a great honor, Mr. Wells, but it is all too sudden and overwhelming.” Just as it was with Rory, yet I fell in love with him at once!
“Your affections are not otherwise engaged, and you've had no gentleman callers as yet. I fear, as an older man, that if I were to wait another year to press my suit, you would select someone younger. Why not give us the opportunity to get to know each other?”
What could she say without revealing that her heart was engaged? If he even suspected that it was the Irishman she loved, his vanity would suffer a terrible blow. The reprisals against her family could be terrible. But he had not really seemed threatening tonight, just afraid of looking the fool—an older man who needed an ornamental young woman to further his political career. He had been honest with her. And she had—at least by omission—not been as forthcoming with him, nor dared she be...Make no mistake… She wet her lips nervously. “As long as you understand that I will never marry a man I do not love.”
He nodded, “Yes, at your age love seems all important. I was wed when I was scarcely older than you. The first Mrs. Wells passed on after twenty-one years. She was a dear lady, and I have missed her sorely; but it is the companionship, not some grand passion, that one truly comes to value in a marriage. I expect someone like Celia Hunt would not have the maturity to appreciate that. But you, my dear, I think, could, given time.”
Rebekah nodded mutely. This was not going at all as she had hoped. “Might I offer you some tea, Mr. Wells?” She gestured to the table laden with her mother's treasures, trying to think of a way to extricate herself from his web.
“That would be charming, my dear. You make a gracious hostess.”
Struggling to hold the heavy pot steady, she poured.
* * * *
Rory had waited by the river every evening for the past week, hoping Rebekah could slip away. But she had not come. He knew her parents kept a strict watch over her, especially since he had come into her life. Amos Wells' threats and overtures worried him. The man had a fearsome reputation in the Comstock towns as a ruthless mine owner who manipulated men's lives as easily as he did stocks.
Rebekah was being harried, a lamb at the mercy of a wolf, yet she insisted that she had to fight this battle alone. He feared discouraging Wells would not be easy, especially considering how strongly her parents encouraged the match. Wells had all the ammunition he needed—power, wealth, social standing. Everything Rory did not possess.
He had spent the past five days working with some of the finest thoroughbreds he had seen since leaving Ireland. Normally, after a backbreaking week, he would take the pay he had just collected and head to the nearest saloon to celebrate, but no more. He was going to have to change his ways if he expected to win Rebekah, and that meant not only giving up carousing but saving his money as well.
The thought that Rory Madigan would ever become such an industrious and sober man brought the hint of a mocking smile to his lips. It was a wonder what a woman—the right woman—could do. Morosely, he considered his chances as he climbed the stairs to his spartan quarters above Jenson's stable.
“Madigan, some kid delivered this for you while you were gone,” old Wilt Blevens said, scratching the half dozen or so greasy gray hairs straggling across his scalp as he hobbled across the livery floor toward the stairs.
Rory turned and reached down to take the piece of paper from Blevens' hand. Who would be sending him messages? Rebekah? Mumbling his thanks, he hurried upstairs as he unfolded the note. It was only two lines, hastily scrawled, unsigned.
Be at the river road south of town around half past seven. You won 't like what you see.
A prickly sense of warning raced up his spine, causing the hair at his nape to bristle. What was going to happen, and who was setting him up to see it? Somehow, deep in his gut, he knew it had to do with Rebekah. He crumpled up the message and tossed it into a corner, then sprawled across his bunk and stared at the cobwebs woven through the crude rafters overhead. Should he go?
* * * *
“Are you ready, Rebekah? It's almost a quarter to the hour,” Dorcas called up the stairs, her voice cheerful.
Why shouldn't she be cheerful? Her mother was getting exactly what she wanted. Amos was taking her on a ride around town to show off his fancy new George IV phaeton. He had called twice more at her home the past week, the soul of courtly kindness in front of her parents, seemingly impervious to her attempts to put off his suit. He had made no further veiled threats but rather had turned on his charm, making himself so vulnerable that to refuse this outing would have been tantamount to a churlish insult. As long as he remained polite and made no attempt to kiss or touch her the way Rory had, she would continue to see him. In time, he surely would realize that his plan was doomed to failure and become bored with the minister's prim daughter.
She was attempting to enhance that image by dressing as demurely and drably as she could without arousing her mother's suspicions. The yellow muslin dress with its gray jacket and ruffled trim was surely as ugly as anything she owned. She picked up a matching gray bonnet and started to tie it on her head. Ugh! No, it was simply so dreadful that her mother would become suspicious. When Elmira Priddy had given it to her, she had told Dorcas she would never wear the monstrosity. Hearing the carriage pull into their driveway, she tossed the hat aside and headed downstairs. The sooner they took the ride, the sooner it would be over.
Once they were out of town on the river road, Amos turned to Rebekah. “You seem distracted, my dear. Is anything wrong? Perhaps, I've been so anxious to show off my new rig that my driving is a bit too fast for you.” Amos reined in the matched pair of Morgans and leaned back against the rich burgundy velvet upholstery of the phaeton.
“No, the rig gives a smooth and splendid ride,” Rebekah admitted truthfully, running her hands across the lush cushions. A breeze from the river loosened a curl from the coil of hair at her nape. The evening was so beautiful and the carriage so grand that she would have loved to pull down her heavy mass of hair, letting it blow in the wind as the rig raced full-out across the open river road. But of course, she could never do that, not with a man like Amos. With Rory, though, she could fly, soar like the wind itself. But Rory would never own anything as expensive and elegant as a George IV phaeton.
“I'm pleased you're enjoying the ride, Rebekah. The carriage was worth every cent. So were the Morgans.”
“You bought them from Mr. Jenson, didn't you? I understand he's becoming one of the leading horse breeders in Nevada.”
“Beau is a partner of mine.” At her look of surprise, he chuckled indulgently. “Few people know I lent him the money to start his livery and even backed the racetrack. Don't tell your father. I know how he feels about gambling,” he whispered conspiratorially.
In the soft evening light he looked younger, handsome in an austere, distinguished sort of way. She could not help the small peal of laughter that escaped her lips. “No, I shall not tell him.”
“Would you like to see a race on Sunday afternoon? Quite a few of the ladies from town attend—with proper escorts, of course. There's a special box reserved for the owners and their families, away from the lower sorts in the crowd.”
It sounded like a marvelous adventure, but not with Amos Wells. Besides, what would Rory say? He might be there, since he worked for Mr. Jenson. Then, the thought struck her. Amos could have Rory fired just as easily as he could dismiss Henry. “I think perhaps it would be unwise, in light of my father's opinion on gambling,” she demurred.
‘A lady of principle. How admirable.” His voice was dry and teasing. If he was disappointed or angry with her refusal, he gave no indication of it.
Across the road, hidden by thick clusters of sagebrush, Rory stood watching the slipper-shaped conveyance as it glided slowly past him with its top down, revealing the man and woman seated inside. He could hear Rebekah's laughter float across the warm evening air, see her return Wells' smiles, engrossed in softly murmured conversation.
“No wonder someone wanted me to be here,” he muttered to himself with an oath. So much for her getting rid of Wells! If he drove her to his fancy mansion on the Flying W and seduced her in a silk-sheeted bed, she would forget her fine religious scruples easily enough. And why not? Amos Wells could offer her all the things he never could—security and wealth, social position, glamorous travel, servants and jewels. But Rebekah, his Rebekah, who had responded with such artless passion in that cabbage patch, would never sell herself. Or would she? a nagging voice sneered.
* * * *
Too agitated to sleep, Rory made his way silently through the empty streets of the respectable neighborhoods. The moon rode low in the starry night sky, full and golden. A dog yipped in the distance, then grew silent as he drew near the tall, white-steepled church. The old frame parsonage was situated beside the church. Dressed all in black, riding his blood bay, he blended into the shadows cast by cottonwood trees along the way.
The churchyard was large. Behind it lay the cemetery, where gravestones were interspersed with thick stands of juniper and peach trees. Rory tied Lobsterback's reins to a low-hanging branch and then made his way to the side of the parsonage. Rebekah had told him she often watched the sunrise from her bed. He calculated that there was only one upstairs window from which that would be possible. He would gamble that he did not awaken the reverend or his wife. Even so, it was unlikely that a preacher would own a gun or would shoot him if he did, he thought sardonically as he picked up a few small pebbles and aimed them at the window, which was half open to catch the night breeze.
Rebekah awakened with a start when the first small pebble landed on her sheet with a light plink. She sat up as another fell to the floor beside her bed. What on earth? Was it hailing in her open window in midsummer? She scooted off the bed, stepped over to the window, and looked down. When she saw Rory standing directly below her, she thanked the lord that her parents' bedroom was across the hall from hers. Dorcas snored so loudly that she had always slept with her door securely closed to drown out the noise.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered as she stuck her head out the window.
“Better question, darlin', is what yerself was doin' laughin' and smilin' with the likes of Amos Wells out on the river road tonight?” His tone was bitter and the brogue was pronounced, a sure sign that he was angry.
“You were spying on me!” she accused him defensively.
“You promised to discourage Wells, but it's an odd way you have of doin' it,” he said, taunting her, his glittering eyes piercing through her thin cotton nightgown. When she drew her head back and crossed her arms over her breasts, he felt a swift stab of anger. “I thought you were my woman, Rebekah. Don't hide from me.”
“Go away, Rory. If anyone sees you—if my parents wake up—”
“Not until we settle things between us,” he said stubbornly, standing with his feet braced apart and his fists curled at his sides. “Come down where we can talk.”
“I—I don't dare.”
“Then that means you've chosen the easy way out. Wells' money will be your consolation in a cold marriage bed,” he said tightly, turning on his heel to stalk away.
“No, Rory, wait—you're wrong. Please.”
Her voice carried on the warm night air, pleading with an edge of desperation in it. He stopped with his back still turned and waited.
“I'll slip down to the peach orchard out back.”
He was waiting for her, half hidden among the shadows of the low-growing trees. At first she did not see him. Then, he stepped out from behind his leafy cover. She had quickly thrown on a shapeless old rose-pink chenille robe. Her bare feet peeped out from beneath the hem.
She curled her toes in the grass and said, “I didn't want to make any noise when I came downstairs, so I went barefoot. It feels kind of good,” she added, nervous and appalled at her folly. Why didn't he say something instead of standing there, scowling at her?
Rory watched as she stood with the raggedy old robe closed across her bosom like a shield.
She wet her lips and blurted out, “I had to go on that ride with Amos.”
“You didn't have to enjoy it so much,” he retorted, taking a step closer to her.
“I didn't enjoy his company—only the phaeton.” She took a step forward, too, looking defiantly into his eyes. “How did you know I'd be out on the river road with Amos—if you weren’t spying on me?”
“Someone sent me a note, saying I should go there around seven.”
A look of horror came into her eyes, and her hand flew to her lips. “Someone knows about us.”
He shrugged stiffly, trying not to let his temper flair. “Wouldn’t it be the end of the world now, if people knew?”
“We've been over this before. Of course it would—and not just for my family. Amos Wells owns a share in Jenson's properties, too. He could have your job as well as Henry's. Then, where would we be?” She started to tremble. “Oh, Rory, what shall we do? I'm so frightened. Who could know about us?”
He reached out and drew her into his arms, stroking her long, silky hair, warming her with his body. “Don't cry, Rebekah, darlin'. Whoever it is, he hasn't gone to your parents or Wells. In fact, sending me that note, he seems to be taking my part. We'll get through this if only you love me. When I saw you sitting there so close to Wells, heard your laughter—I nearly went crazy. I could’ve killed him.”
She could feel the barely leashed violence in him. It should have frightened her and yet it did not. Instead, she felt a thrill of excitement and heat from deep inside her. She slid her hands up his chest. The contours of his body were familiar now.
With a curse that was more of a groan, he buried his hand in her hair and cradled her head, tilting her face up to meet his descending lips. “Rebekah, I love you so much. I can't bear to let another man near you.” His mouth ground down on hers possessively.
Rebekah knew she should stop him now, before things got out of hand again as they always seemed to do when the two of them touched. They were alone in the dark. It was utterly wrong. Yet when his hands glided up and down her back, caressing her, his arms enfolded her, and his mouth moved with such rough desperation over hers, it felt so right, so good. The warm, spiraling heat swept over her in dizzying waves. She gave in to it and raised herself on tiptoes to return his fierce, sweet kiss. They sank slowly to their knees on the soft grass beneath the peach trees.
Chapter Seven
Lacy patches of moonlight danced in and out through the leaves, dappling their bodies, bathing them in a soft silver glow as they melded together. Rory's lips brushed frantic kisses across her face and throat as his hands pressed her to him. She answered, burying her fingers in the long shaggy mane of straight black hair, pulling his head lower as he murmured against her skin.
“Please, Rebekah. Let me love you. Don't turn away. Tell me that you're mine.” His hands reached for the collar of her robe and pulled it open, revealing the sheer nightgown beneath. He stopped, letting his arms fall away, waiting for her assent, even though he ached to pull her down to the soft grass and cover her with his body.
She trembled, not from cold or even fear, although she was afraid of what his big male body would do to her delicate female flesh. The mystery of it would at least be over. So would her innocence. And her morality. Doing this violated every tenet by which she had been raised, yet Rebekah knew she would do it anyway. She let the robe fall from her arms and drop to the ground, covering her feet. Then, she raised her arms in invitation. “I love you, Rory,” she whispered softly.
With a moan, he pulled her back into his arms. “And I love you. I'll go slow, Rebekah. I can make it good for you.” He knew he would have to hurt her at first, but he would not frighten her with the stories other women had told him about losing their maidenheads. He would be gentle and careful. In spite of his tender years, he had plenty of experience to guide him, although he had never taken a virgin before. Rebekah was his, and only he wo
uld ever have the right to touch her. No woman had ever belonged to him this way before—and he had never belonged to any woman this way either. We 're both virgins—in love. Just thinking of the enormity of this commitment, a lifetime together, made him tremble.
After spreading her robe like a blanket on the grass, Rory turned back to her and let one hand glide lightly over the sheer cotton nightgown. He could feel the darning threads on the shabby, much-mended garment. But when it revealed her lovely young body, it seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, a thing of regal beauty because of the woman who wore it.
Reverently, he curved his hands around her breasts, molding them and teasing the nipples with his thumbs, then moved lower, over the indentation of her slender waist to the soft swell of her hips and down her sleek thighs. “You are so lovely,” he breathed as he reached up and untied the drawstring at the neck of her gown, letting the loose, gauzy garment fall open at her shoulders.
Rebekah's palms rested against Rory's chest, feeling his heart beat erratically, just as her own did. He was so hard and warm, so beloved, yet she felt shy, uncertain of what to do or say. Maybe, she should do nothing, remain silent. Yet her uncertainties made her speak out. “I want you to love me, Rory—I don't want to wait—but could we at least exchange vows between ourselves? That's how it was done in olden times, I think, and it was considered a true marriage before God.” Would he laugh at her missish vapors?
“Aye, I've heard that, too.” In a low, husky voice, he began solemnly, “I, Rory Michael Madigan, take thee, Rebekah...” He hesitated at her middle name, and she whispered it, her eyes aglow. “Beatrice Sinclair, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”