by Shirl Henke
“This wasn't what I planned...” What should he say? I intended to seduce and humiliate you? “Nothing is turning out as I expected. We need to talk, Rebekah.”
Rebekah struggled to sit up. Muscles she had not used in eight years cried out as she moved. Gradually his words registered. He had not planned to make love with her—or had he simply not intended to be swept into the madness of their passion? Shame washed over her like a tidal wave, guilt beyond bearing. She had broken her marriage vows. Even though Amos Wells had never been a true husband to her, he was still the man to whom she legally and morally owed her allegiance.
“Coming here was a mistake,” she said, her voice barely audible, so overwhelming was the tight knot of pain building inside her.
He turned and looked at her as she gathered her scattered garments and began putting them on with clumsy, trembling fingers. “Rebekah, your marriage—”
“My marriage won't go away, Rory. For better or worse, I am Amos Wells' wife. Nothing can change that. Only now, I'm an adulteress.”
He could hear the choked tears in her voice. “Presbyterian guilt,” he said with a sigh. “Your marriage was a mistake. There are ways to end it.”
“Divorce?” Her head snapped around and she looked at him for an instant with a shocked expression. “Surely if you're still Catholic, you wouldn't suggest it—but of course, I forgot. You don't want to marry me, only install me as your mistress once you've gotten rid of Amos.”
“Consider the bright side. He might hang,” Rory replied flatly, reaching for his pants. He quickly slipped them on and stood facing her as she fastened her heavy riding skirt and fumbled with her blouse, too badly torn to button. He could see she was fighting to keep a tenuous grip on her emotions. Would you marry her? The thought flashed into his mind. He had never dreamed of it over the bitter years, but suddenly he was no longer certain.
“You don't really want me, Rory. You only want to use me in your twisted vendetta against Amos.” She used his sarcasm to fuel her anger. “You want to destroy everyone connected with your brother's death. Did you come to Wellsville to seduce me because Amos planned to marry me? Was I a part of your revenge even then?”
“Don't talk crazy. I didn't even know about Wells and Ryan when I met you. Wells is a monster—and no kind of husband. I could tell that when I made love to you, Rebekah. Leave him—now.” He reached out, trying to take her in his arms, but she backed away, slapping at his hand.
“No! I can't. In case you didn't know, I have a son to consider.” At least, she would know now whether or not he knew the truth about Michael. She studied his face and held her breath expectantly.
Her angry rejection, while no surprise, still stung. “I've heard about the boy. You're such a devoted mother hardly anyone in Nevada's ever seen him, least of all his parents. Governesses and tutors are raising him. Isn't he back east somewhere right now in boarding school?”
Misery and guilt choked her. Her sins against Michael were now compounded by her adultery with his father. But at least it would seem there was one small blessing. Rory did not know Michael was his son. “It's what Amos wants,” she said woodenly, turning to go.
The pain in her eyes was real. He could sense it in his gut. No one, not even Rebekah, could be such an actress. “Rebekah, wait.” This time he took her arm firmly and held it fast, forcing her to turn and look at him. Their eyes locked as he struggled to find the right words, but before he could, the loud pounding of hoofbeats interrupted them.
Her bereft expression turned to one of blind panic. “Someone's headed right toward us! If I'm caught here with you like this—”
“Ride across the stream and head around the trees to the north. I'll stop whoever it is.” He tossed her up onto her mare and slapped the horse into a trot, then quickly walked out of the copse of trees toward the approaching rider, cursing the ill timing of it all.
“Mr. Madigan,” Jem Butler called out. “We been looking for you everywhere. One of the new colts has sprained his leg—er, at least that's what the fellas at the stable think.”
“I'm coming, Jem,” he yelled to the youth, who was apprenticed as a trainer at his Carson City racetrack. As he made his way back to the big stable that housed some of his most valuable racers, Rory's mind was far more concerned with what he would do about Rebekah Wells than with the problem at hand.
He did not see the shadowy figure emerge from the copse of cottonwoods and watch his retreating figure.
* * * *
Amos Wells sat in his cluttered office, staring at the message in his hand as the blood boiled in his veins. His sallow complexion was mottled beet red, and his whole body shook with rage. “Cheap, wanton trash—frigid in my bed, then going back to that damned mickey like a bitch in heat!” He held up the report and took a lit cigar from the ashtray beside his chair, holding the rosy tip to the paper until it caught. If word of her escapade ever got out, his chances of getting the federal appointment would be ruined.
As he leaned back and watched the paper smolder in the heavy brass ashtray, a plan began to take shape in his mind. He had swallowed his bile and used that bastard of Madigan’ s as his heir, allowing him the privileges of the Wells name and position since there was no way he could hope to have a son of his loins. Over the years Michael had proven a good tool to keep Rebekah in line. He would prove so once again. Smiling, Amos rose and called for his secretary to take a message over to the telegraph office. Michael Wells was coming home from school for a visit with his beloved family.
* * * *
Rebekah spent a desperate afternoon, pacing like a caged lioness in her room, emotionally spent and racked with guilt. How could she have fallen to the ground with him? They had rutted in the open like a pair of animals! What if that rider had discovered them? Shame washed over her as she sank onto her bed and gave in to the tears that had been burning behind her eyelids since she had returned to Amos' big city house.
Amos. Her husband. The man who held her fate and that of her son in his hands. He had warned her about the terrible retribution if ever she created a scandal. Make no mistake... Not only would she suffer, but so would Michael. Hunched in a small ball of misery, she closed her eyes and tried to picture her son's cherubic little face, but an adult version of it kept appearing in her mind's eye. She saw Rory. Her love. The man who held her heart. In spite of all he had done to her, she could not stop loving him. But for all she held sacred—her honor, her child's very life—she must never see him again.
He 's just using me. It 's a blessing he doesn't know Michael is his. Yet try as she might, Rebekah could not blot out the memories of how his wild loving had gentled when he felt her pain, how considerate he had become. And what of afterward? His cold and accusatory remarks had cut her to the quick, but then he had realized his power to wound her. What was he going to say when we were interrupted?
“No!” She sat up in bed and covered her ears, shaking her head. It was madness even to think about it, about him, about all they had shared and lost—and found again in one golden afternoon. She must put it all behind her and try to go on with her life. Yet forgetting the splendor of his touch was impossible. Her body cried out for his. She was still young and passionate. She wanted more children, a real marriage, a real father and brothers and sisters for Michael. Then, a horrifying thought struck her. She could once again be carrying Rory's child! Yet all Rory offered her was the shame of divorce compounded by the ignominy of becoming his kept woman.
What was she now but Amos' kept woman? A possession to be placed on display for every man to admire and no man, including himself, to touch. Her head ached, and she looked a fright. Dinner at the Ormsby House Hotel tonight was important to Amos' political aspirations. If she appeared in this state, he would demand to know why.
Rebekah slid from the bed and reached for the bell pull, summoning Patsy, then went to the dry sink and poured cool water into the basin. She would soak her tear-ravaged face and have Patsy fetch her some fresh cucumber
from the kitchen to bring down the swelling. As to the rest, she would try not to think of anything until she recovered her equilibrium.
By the time Patsy had finished her ministrations, Rebekah looked like a new woman—at least on the outside. Inside, she still quaked with guilt and confusion, but when Amos watched her descend the spiral stairs of their city house that evening, his look of proprietary satisfaction indicated that he was pleased.
She had taken particular care with her appearance, touching a hint of kohl to her eyelids and rouge paper to her pale cheeks. Patsy had dressed her hair in an elaborate series of coils entwined with dark blue silk ribbons, piled high on her head and drawn severely back from her face, emphasizing her dramatic features. Her gown was a rich royal blue brocade trimmed with delicate silver stitching around the low neckline and sleeves. She wore his diamonds.
“Splendid, my dear,” Amos said indulgently, taking her gloved hand and tucking it in the crook of his arm with almost fatherly affection. “You'll have every man in Carson City lusting after you. Perhaps, you already do.”
The shift in his tone of voice alerted her even before his words registered. She faltered as he handed her into their waiting carriage, then clutched her ermine cape tightly about her shoulders to keep her hands from trembling.
Amos climbed in beside her and took his seat. When the carriage began to move, he stared across the cramped interior, studying her frozen features with his cold pewter eyes. The smile that curved his lips turned her blood to ice. He knows! But how?
“Cold, my dear?” he asked in that overly solicitous voice again. “Your new ermine wrap should keep you quite warm—as if you weren't hot-blooded enough already.”
Rebekah felt the hard buttons on the carriage seat upholstery pressing into her back. Damned if I cower from him! “Stop playing with me, Amos. Say what you intend to say and be done with it.”
He feigned a look of wounded bewilderment. “What? Is your conscience perhaps bothering you? It wouldn't have anything to do with Rory Madigan being here in Carson City, would it? One of his prizewinning thoroughbreds will race tomorrow against Senator Sheffield's best at that track he owns. You are familiar with the track...near the small stream that feeds into the river a few miles up.”
“You set men to spy on me again,” she said flatly. Dear God, the humiliation of it was unbearable! Something so private, so beautiful as those few stolen moments, now tarnished irretrievably.
“Let's just say I know. Everything. Although I found Michael useful, he is the only heir I wish. You had better not provide me with any more of Madigan's by-blows or I will be forced to take retribution. We've already discussed how unpleasant that would be.”
He watched her as he spoke, enjoying the terror in her eyes, seeing her face grow gray and her body tremble. He wanted to hear her plead. But she regained her composure and sat as regally poised as a queen, showing no signs of breaking. His fury boiled over. “You swore to be a faithful wife! What would your beloved father say were I to tell him his harlot daughter compounded the sin of lying with a man before marriage by crawling back to him again, breaking her oath to me? Me—your lawful husband!”
“You are my legal husband, Amos. I'm sorry I have dishonored my marriage vows. It will never happen again,” she replied softly. His tirade did not terrify her the way such vicious outbursts, with their accompanying violence, had in the past. She was beyond fear, beyond caring. Maybe I have no soul left. But then his next words brought that fear blossoming back like a mine shaft explosion billowing up from the bowels of hell itself.
“I've sent for Michael.” At last, he could sense the reaction in her that he desired. He calmed and continued, “He should arrive within the week. You didn't want him so far away. I thought perhaps a reunion of mother and child would help...soothe matters.”
His voice was oily now, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “Do what you want to punish me, Amos. I'm guilty. But if you harm a hair on that innocent boy's head, I swear I'll kill you!”
“Don't make threats you can't keep, my dear. Michael is my son by law—for as long as I care to recognize him.”
Rage washed over her, overshadowing her own guilt. She leaned forward in the seat and faced him with blazing eyes. “If you ever so much as touch a hair of Michael's head, I'll tell the world Michael is your son only by law!”
He recoiled in shock. “Don't be absurd. You're overwrought.” Quickly, he recovered his poise. “So overwrought, my dear, one might even say you were emotionally unstable. What would happen to Michael if his mother were so unbalanced that I had to commit her to an asylum?”
“You've already done your worst to me, Amos. I'm doomed and I accept it. But I know your political concerns could not survive the gossip of my accusations. After all, you're over fifty years old. Michael is your only child. The merest hint that he isn't yours would really start tongues wagging.”
“You'd actually subject your son to such ignominy?” He tried to scoff, but there was an edge to his voice that betrayed fear.
“Anything—even being called a bastard—would be better than to have Michael live under your fist as I have. I've already told you I'm bound by my own past sins and my vows to you. But Michael is innocent! Touch him and you'll pay.”
The cold finality of her words chilled him to the bone. He stared at a dangerous and unexpected enemy as if seeing her for the first time. This would take careful consideration—as if he did not have enough on his plate already, he thought bitterly, his mind racing ahead to tonight's gathering. Once he secured the Washington appointment, he would send the boy off to Europe and then deal with his faithless and dangerous wife once and for all.
Chapter Fifteen
Virginia City, one week later.
The cloyingly sweet odor of opium hung in the air, overlying the stench of sour sweat on unwashed bodies. Rory walked down the dark hallway strewn with refuse and knocked on the last door.
The voice bidding him enter still carried the heavy accent of her native Yorkshire, but it was scratchy and weak from disuse now. Here in this cheap place, she worked around the clock and was paid only in the opium, which let her mind drift in a dream world even as it wasted her body. English Annie did not care. In the years since she had come to Nevada, she had been on a continuous downward spiral. She had begun at the fanciest parlor house in Virginia City. Now, she eked out a wretched existence in the lowliest crib. She would die here soon, but not soon enough.
Rory studied the skeletal woman reclining on the rumpled, greasy sheets. Although the room was dimly lit, the flickering shadows could not hide the ravages to her face and body. Graying hair in filthy snarls hung about bony shoulders. She brushed a wisp from her eyes with a yellowed, shaky hand. “You got the token, luv?” Her pale, watery eyes squinted.
Two bits. A quarter to purchase a token at the door. The price of English Annie's services. He tossed two of the house's copper tokens on the table beside her bed where her opium pipe lay. “I only want to talk to you, Annie. Years ago, when you worked the Howling Wilderness Saloon, you had a regular customer—Amos Wells,” he began.
Her eyes narrowed. “How'd you learn that, luv?” A frisson of alarm penetrated the drugged haze of her mind.
“From a man named Sly Hobart. He's a mine supervisor who works for Wells. He knew you in the old days, same as Wells.”
“So?”
“Tell me about what happened to a girl called Magnolia. She worked at the Wilderness around the same time as you. In fact, she was murdered in your room about eight years ago.” He could see the fear in her eyes now as she clutched her pipe with white knuckles. “I'll buy you enough opium so you won't have to work for a week, Annie. Just tell me what you know about Magnolia.”
“If he ever found out—”
“He won't know who told me. I'm going to see he hangs,” he interrupted.
She gave a choking laugh. “Hang a rich man like Amos Wells for killing a down-'n-out whore?”
“He killed my brother, too. Make no mistake, Annie, Wells is a dead man. I want to know everything you've heard about what happened that night at the Wilderness.”
“She died the night after I left…”
By the time Rory paid English Annie and got out of the fetid air inside the crib, he was sweating and sick to his stomach. Sweet Holy Mother of God! Rebekah had married that vicious, sick pervert. What might Wells have subjected her to over the years? No woman, no matter how selfish she was or how she had betrayed him, deserved a man like Amos Wells. The very thought of that bastard putting his hands on Rebekah, sleeping beside her, made him ill.
As he rode back to his office, he thought about how to extricate her from Wells' clutches as quickly as possible. It might take months yet for Patrick's agents in Sacramento to gather all the evidence about illegal stock transactions. Sly Hobart had not yet given them what they needed either. Although he was certainly a better prospect, Rory was afraid to wait too long. But until every shred of information was exhumed and catalogued, they dared not move against Wells. He had to get Rebekah free now. He would write her, asking her to meet him again.
She had been upset about breaking her marriage vows and mistrusted his motives for seducing her, but she still felt something for him—something a lot more compelling than simple guilt over the way she had betrayed him. Her desire for him was as strong as ever. As strong as yours is for her.
Pushing the disquieting thought and its implications away, he composed a message and dispatched it to Carson City by rider, confident that she would agree to see him.
* * * *
“You've done what!” Patrick's blue eyes blazed in amazement. He combed his fingers through his long red hair and paced back and forth in front of Rory's desk, casting incredulous glances at his brother.
“I've asked Rebekah Wells to be my mistress. I don't see why that's so incomprehensible. She's a beautiful woman.”