by Shirl Henke
“I had no choice...there are some things too personal, too painful to discuss, Henry. But I do appreciate your being my friend.”
“You can always rely on me, Rebekah, I promise.”
They made their way downstairs through the glittering press of silver kings, cattle barons, bank presidents, and railroad magnates. The assembly was liberally sprinkled with newspapermen from over a dozen leading papers in northwest Nevada and politicians of every stripe. All the rich men had their ladies on display, but none equaled Rebekah's fresh young beauty. She greeted everyone with a smile and laughter, hiding her inner anguish.
“There you are, dear, and don't you look splendid!” Dorcas gave her younger daughter an affectionate hug as if nothing had ever been amiss between them. She beamed with pride as she inspected Rebekah's glittering outfit.
Ephraim, always uncomfortable at such lavish gatherings, smiled wanly and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Your mother's right. You look wonderful, child.”
“And you look tired. Have you been getting enough rest?” Rebekah scolded.
“No, he hasn't, and it's all the fault of those heathen Chinese up on the Comstock.” Dorcas said crossly.
“Now, my dear, you haven't seen the wretched conditions under which those poor people are forced to live. I'm only doing a small bit to help—”
“More noble servitude, eh, Ephraim?” Amos interrupted, proprietarily taking Rebekah from her father's arm and pulling her to his side, playing the doting husband. When he raised her hand and kissed it gallantly, half the women in the room fairly swooned in delight.
“Aren't Mr. Wells and his bride just the most romantic couple?” one matron gushed behind her fan.
“Of course, he is practically old enough to be her father, but a girl can always use the steady hand of experience to guide her,” her companion commented discreetly, wishing she were in Rebekah's place as Amos Wells led his bride into the grand ballroom to open the dancing with a waltz.
The host and hostess floated across the floor to the sounds of violins while the perfume from huge sprays of roses and lilies filled the air. Glittering crystal chandeliers at both ends of the enormous room gave off multifaceted light which reflected brilliantly on Rebekah's diamonds as she whirled in silken splendor, a fuchsia canary in a jeweled cage.
Outside the wide patio doors, the swell of the music was faint as Rory made his way across the formal garden. In the darkness at the outskirts of Carson, the mansion had shone like a beacon, every window filled with dazzling light and color. “Jasus, it's a damned palace,” he muttered beneath his breath as he rounded the topiary and looked across the fountain. She had chosen well. The Flying W Ranch, the fanciest frame house in Wellsville, and a mansion like this in the capital. Still, some small part deep in his heart of hearts longed to find it was all a mistake—that Amos Wells had not made her his wife and swept her off here. He had to see her for himself.
Knowing he'd be refused entry at the front door and being too proud to sneak in through the servants' quarters, he had opted to cut through the estate's gardens. Once he reached a side entrance, he had no idea what he would do next. The lilt of the waltz drew him toward the laughter and gaiety, although he felt nothing but the hollowness of desertion and betrayal.
Two sets of double doors were closed to the chill evening air, but the beveled glass panes acted as windows, bringing the brilliance of the assembly out onto the patio. He drew closer, crossing the marble inlaid tiles on the steps until he stood with his face so close to the glass that his breath frosted one pane as he peered inside.
Rory had reached out to turn the knob and slip in when he caught sight of her. He froze. If he needed proof positive that Rebekah had chosen the life Amos Wells could offer her over his own paltry dreams, it danced before him in a cloud of fuchsia silk. Lord above, he had thought her beautiful in mended hand-me-down dresses with her hair cascading in wheaten waves. But this—this defied imagining. Rebekah glowed like a goddess, dripping with diamonds, her hair coiled high atop her head in an elaborate coiffure of burnished gold. She was garbed in a billowing ball gown that bared an indecent amount of her creamy breasts, which once he alone had been privileged to see.
Now, her coldly elegant husband held her in his arms, gazing down at that bounty while the crowd gawked and fluttered like a pen full of gaudy geese. Rebekah was smiling as serenely as Queen Victoria when another couple on the polished dance floor called out some sally, and her laughter bubbled out. He could not really hear it through the glass separating them, nor could he smell the sweet, delicate perfume of her scent, but both were achingly familiar to him and always would be. He knew the sounds she made in the throes of passion, the scent of her when he had caressed her body, the taste of that sweet flesh, the touch of her silken skin. And he would never know them again.
“Not as long as I'm a poor Irish immigrant who boxes for prize. But one day, Rebekah Sinclair—Madame Wells—one day I'll have you again,” he muttered fiercely. “I'll be rich, and you'll come crawling to me. I swear it before God!”
PART II
EPIPHANY
For there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.
Matthew 10:26
Chapter Twelve
Washington, D.C., 1874
Representative Rory Madigan stood at the edge of the crowded room, watching the assembly of dignitaries. The gala at the British Embassy was his first big social event since arriving at the capital as the newly elected United States Representative from Nevada. Being a Democrat who had won his seat on the strength of Democratic governor Lewis Bradley’s influence, he scarcely expected President Grant and the ranking House Republicans to pay him much attention. That suited his plan perfectly. Being in politics was a means to an end—justice for Amos Wells and revenge for Rory Madigan. Rory also needed to secure the government's timber contract and shipping franchise for Patrick, which meant playing the game the same way all the politicians did.
Patrick. Just thinking about the miracle of finding his brother alive was enough to bring a smile to his harsh face. After leaving Carson City in the fall of 1870, he had invested his prize money with Beau Jenson in some blooded racehorses. He quickly gained a reputation as a trainer and had taken a string of his most valuable stock to San Francisco. At the auction, his best bay was purchased by the agent for a prosperous shipping magnate who owned a big warehouse on the Embarcadero. When Rory delivered the prize animal, he was stunned speechless to find that the magnate was his brother.
Patrick had not been aboard the whaler that had gone down in the North Atlantic. Instead, he had shipped out on a vessel in the China trade and had returned to San Francisco with enough profit to start his own shipping business. He had traveled back to New York to the orphanage but had missed Rory by scant weeks.
Reunited, the two had spent the next several years increasing the scope of their business. Patrick's contacts up and down the Pacific Coast led to more lucrative shipping contracts; and Rory expanded inland, buying up timbered lands to provide lumber for the voracious Comstock mines and ever-expanding railroads. Soon, his lumber operations in Nevada had grown so lucrative that he purchased a large ranch in the Eagle River Valley outside Carson City and began to enjoy his one abiding pleasure, breeding splendid racing stock. Patrick ran their office in San Francisco and Rory ran his end of their venture from Virginia City. But always he kept his eye on the ultimate goal—the destruction of Amos Wells. And her.
Since Amos had become one of Nevada's United States Senators, he and Rebekah had spent most of their time in Washington, with only rare visits to Carson City. Rory had not crossed paths with them, since he spent most of his time in Nevada. It did not suit his plan for them to meet yet, but she was never out of his thoughts. After four years, would she look different—be fat and faded as her sister had become? He doubted she would recognize him, for he had changed a great deal. An unholy smile, utterly devoid of mirth, flashed across his face. S
omeday, Rebekah...someday. He had learned patience over the years.
“You look like a hungry tomcat watching a robin,” Dorothea Paisley purred, running one elegant gloved hand up his arm while patting her sleek ebony coiffure with the other.
The beautiful brunette was married to an older Senator, who had survived the vicissitudes of the war and wielded considerable influence in spite of being a Democrat in a predominantly Republican Senate. Dorothea was almost as knowledgeable about where the skeletons were buried in Washington closets as was her husband. She had been Rory's mistress for the past several months.
He made it a point to confine his affairs to older, sophisticated women, mostly the bored wives of politically influential men. Not only was the practice a useful source of information, but it also kept him free of emotional entanglements. How ironic that the once pariah Irishman without a cent to his name had now become one of the most sought-after bachelors from San Francisco to Washington. But marriage was not in his plans. Not now, not ever. He had pledged himself once and been betrayed. One broken vow was enough.
“I've been talking to Senator Harbridge's wife about the mining bill. If you want to come to my place later tonight, we can discuss it....” She let her hand slip surreptitiously beneath his coat and felt his heartbeat accelerate. A smile curved her lips. “Until later, then. Horace won't be home all night,” she added discreetly.
“Thea, pet, I shall look forward to our discussion,” he said gravely, raising her hand in a brief salute. Suddenly, he saw them and froze.
Thea sensed the change at once, as if an electrical storm had swept through the room, leaving Rory crackling with tension. “What's wrong?” Her eyes followed his to where Senator Wells had just entered the crowded room and stood on the marble stairs with his stunning blond wife. “Surely you've met your distinguished colleague from Nevada, darling,” she said in a saccharine tone, clearly implying that it was the woman, not the senator, in whom he was interested.
“I've met Wells—and his wife,” he replied tersely, his eyes never leaving Rebekah's face. The years had been more than kind to her. She had grown from an innocent nymph into a breathtaking woman. The contours of her face had taken on more definition. Her cheekbones seemed higher and more elegant, her mouth sensuous and fuller. There was a flair about her as she moved with grace and assurance, passing along the line of luminaries, even pausing while President Grant and his wife exchanged pleasantries with her and her husband.
A flash of rage welled up, white hot, almost bubbling over before he brought it under control. The sudden force of it took him completely by surprise. He had worked for years to learn how to bury his emotions and channel his temper, his pain, his hate, all toward one goal. Swallowing hard and clenching his fists, he took a deep, cleansing breath and forced a smile to his lips, a smile that did not reach his eyes. Perhaps, she could be useful. How much did she know about her husband's crooked stock manipulations?
“If you'll excuse me, darlin', I have to renew an old acquaintance. As you pointed out, the Senator and I are colleagues now.”
Rory left Thea in a frosty huff and started across the floor. He was stopped frequently by fellow congressmen and other politicians. He smiled and laughed genially as he made his way slowly to where Rebekah stood with two older women he recognized as cabinet members' wives.
Rebekah saw him almost as soon as she stepped into the room. She had overheard Amos and Senator Brockman discussing his recent election as Nevada's only member of the House of Representatives and wondered how long it would be before their paths crossed. Rory. He looked so different. Older, yes, but more than that. He looked elegant, cultured, at home in the expensive black superfine suit expertly tailored to his tall, lean body. She knew little about his business interests out west; but she suspected that if his wealth did not yet rival her husband's, one day it would. She felt it in her bones.
I wonder what Mama and Papa would say about his suitability as a husband now? She tried to look away, to ignore the way he threw back his head and laughed, that same old blinding white smile, the gesture with those graceful, long-fingered hands, the unruly curl of night-black hair that fell onto his forehead. It was all so painfully familiar.
She had lived in virtual isolation these past years, far from friends and family back in Nevada. Amos had insisted. It was another means of keeping her in line. Mostly he traveled back to Nevada alone, leaving her and young Michael at their Washington residence. As she had watched her son grow from infancy into a bright, cherubic child, she always saw his father in him, a daily reminder of all she had lost. Yet she adored her son with a single-minded devotion. He was her whole life, the one good and perfect thing to come after Rory's betrayal.
It was not fair that he should reappear in her life once more, to disrupt it here. She shook as he drew nearer, realizing that he intended to speak to her. Her eyes swept the room, looking for Amos. He had vanished with several other senators into a smoke-filled corridor to discuss congressional business. She found herself actually wishing for once that he would reappear and save her from having to face Rory.
“Ooh, my dear, that devilishly handsome young rogue from your home state is coming this way. Surely, you know Representative Madigan? He's been cutting a wide swath through the ladies around the capital, I can tell you,” Bernice Gould whispered to Rebekah.
‘‘He's still an Irish upstart, I don't care how pretty his face—and he's a Democrat,” Bernice's friend interjected, as if belonging to the opposite party were tantamount to membership in the legions of Attila the Hun.
“I met Mr. Madigan several years ago,” Rebekah replied, trying to steady her breathing and not stare as he drew closer. A predatory smile slashed across his face, and Rebekah felt time and the world slip away when he spoke.
“Top of the evening to you, Mrs. Gould, Mrs. Stowe....” He hesitated just a moment before making his bow to Rebekah. “And Mrs. Wells. How good to see a familiar face from home. Would you honor me with this dance?”
Without giving her a chance to refuse, he swept her into his arms as the music started up, leaving the two matrons gaping in consternation. Gossip would soon fly thick and furious around the capital.
Rebekah stiffened as his arms went around her, but without creating a humiliating scene she could do nothing except dance with him. Amos would be livid when he heard. Just having him touch her, feeling his nearness, made all the old memories thrum through her body, as painful as a freshly lanced wound.
“Why are you here?” she asked before she could bring her chaotic thoughts into order.
“I'm the new congressman for Nevada. You do remember Nevada? Your home,” he prodded sarcastically. “I know you've seldom been there in recent years. Life in Washington seems to agree with you.”
"Wealth and power seem to agree with you." God, he looked as ruthless as Amos! The coldness in his eyes, the hard set of his face, were nothing like the young man who had loved her. He looked at her the way he would an opponent he planned to beat senseless in the prize ring. She missed a step.
“So, to the heart of the matter. Now that I'm nearly as rich and powerful as Amos Wells, do you think your family would approve of me?” His voice was silky, taunting.
Remembering her very thoughts when she first saw him across the room, Rebekah felt the heat steal into her cheeks. The nerve of the arrogant wretch! She would be the one to pay for his cruel little game when Amos learned of their meeting. “My family's approval no longer signifies. I wouldn't have you if you owned the whole damn Comstock!”
He felt her try to pull away, all stiff and breathless. The furious anger leaped between them like a flame in dry tinder. “Oh, no, you don't get off so easily.” His voice was silky but low and menacing as he whirled them toward a set of open doors. “Think of the scandal if you stalked away from me in mid-dance.”
She eyed the direction he was taking them, and her heart skipped a beat. “Think of the scandal if I don't!”
“Worried about go
ssip—or Amos? I imagine a man who bought a wife would be rather unreasonable.” He felt her flinch and knew he'd struck a nerve. “Not a marriage made in heaven?” He tsked sardonically as he slipped quickly behind the fronds of potted palms beside the door.
Rebekah twisted in his arms, now growing desperate. “Let me go!”
“What are you afraid of, darlin'? That you might still enjoy my touch more than all his money?” He swept her into the muggy Washington night outside the crowded ballroom and pinned her against the warm bricks of the embassy wall. “I like your perfume. Expensive. French, isn't it? And this...” His fingertips grazed the top of the elegant celery-green silk ball gown cut in simple, straight lines, unlike the billowing fuchsia finery in which he had first seen her decked out. “Understated. Tasteful. When did you stop letting Amos select your clothes...and jewelry?” he purred. The trespassing hand lifted the single strand of pearls gleaming luminously at her throat.
His touch sizzled through every pore, every nerve ending in her body, leaving her paralyzed, unable to think—only feel. And with that feeling came mindless remembrance—and yearning.
She stifled a sob, whether of misery or frustration, she—and he—could not discern.
Rory whispered a succinct oath and lowered his head, kissing her savagely, grinding his mouth over hers, his tongue probing at the tight seam of her lips until she opened for his pillaging. He plunged inside and felt her tongue collide with his. Her mouth was as delicate and sweet as he remembered. He dug one hand into the elaborate coils of her hair, holding her head immobile as he worked on the kiss. His lips, his tongue, his very breath demanded a response to the brutal invasion. She could fight him, bite him; he was beyond caring as the taste and scent of her intoxicated him with unbearable hunger.
Rebekah felt the anger in his rough caress and remembered all the times in their past when he had been that angry, that possessive, and had taken her so. Always she had given in to him. But now she was married to another because he had betrayed her. Fool, fool, she heard a voice whisper as her hands stole up his arms and her fingers dug into his shoulders. She molded herself against him, letting his tongue duel with hers, thrusting and dancing that old familiar ballet.