by Shirl Henke
“She's the calculating bitch who cold-bloodedly threw you over for that murdering snake Wells with all his ill-gotten wealth! You're confusing lust with hate, Rory. A dangerous business. Once Amos is gone, she'll be punished enough. Leave her to heaven.”
A strange look came into Rory's eyes. Haunted and uncertain. “What if it isn't hate...or even lust?”
Patrick cursed in Gaelic and gave his younger brother a baleful look. “Even worse! You're still in love with the heartless Jezebel. She'll destroy you. Rory. Forget her.”
“After what I learned about Wells yesterday, I can't leave her with him. God, the bastard might strangle her the way he did that poor whore in the bordello—and who knows how many other women?”
“If she's survived the past eight years, I think that highly unlikely. Forget her,” he repeated.
“Maybe, the best way to do that is to keep her in my bed for a while.”
“What you need is a good, decent woman for a wife. You're nearly thirty years old. Have you no thoughts of a family?”
A crooked grin spread across Rory's mouth, lightening his mood. “You've scarce been wed a month. The honeymoon's not over yet. Just wait before you start urging me to join you in connubial bliss. I've no desire for a wife.”
“Yet you'll take Amos Wells' wife. What of his son? Have you given a thought to him?”
“Wells has scarce been a doting father. The boy lives back east in boarding school. He won't even know about Amos' disgrace, much less learn about what passes between his mother and me.”
“You're getting in over your head, Rory. Let the past lie. My men will soon have enough to bring Wells and all his cronies to justice. Let it end there. Go out to that ranch you've built in Eagle Valley and raise horses.”
“Someday, Patrick.” The finality in his voice indicated that the subject was closed.
Rory waited through the afternoon, too nervous with anticipation to concentrate on the mountain of paperwork piled on his desk. Finally, the messenger from Carson City arrived. He broke open the letter eagerly, recognizing Rebekah's precise, elegantly slanted handwriting.
Rory,
What passed between us the other day was a regrettable folly on both our parts. I am deeply ashamed of my actions and take full responsibility for them. My duty is clear. I must remain with my husband. You must proceed with your vengeance. We always were on opposing sides of every issue. There can be nothing between us.
R.
“Nothing between us!” He swore and balled up her missive. The self-righteous, stubborn little fool. He had to get her away from Wells.
The trip from Virginia City to Carson was a brisk few hours ride. By the time he entered the verdant Eagle Valley, Rory's anger had cooled. He had calmly thought out a course of action. Although a Democrat, he had cultivated a number of influential Republicans in the capital, mostly through business dealings over the years. Social occasions had provided the opportunity to reinforce those acquaintances by charming the politicians' wives.
One such connection was with Bryan Kincaid, the California railroad magnate. His flighty little partridge of a wife, Celia, had at first been wary of her friend's former lover. However, in the past years Rory had sufficiently impressed her with his wealth and refinement to cause her to consider him in a completely new light. Celia had always been a romantic at heart. He was certain he could enlist her aid in setting up a tryst with her old friend.
* * * *
Reno
Ephraim watched the train pull into the station with mixed feelings. He was always eager to see his grandson Michael, yet the terse note he had received from Amos asking him to meet the train in Reno and bring the boy to Carson City troubled him. Why couldn't Rebekah have come for her son, even if her husband was tied up with important business affairs and unable to accompany her?
He knew their marriage had never been happy and blamed himself for his daughter's suffering—even more for the loneliness of young Michael, who had been deprived of both parents' love for so much of his young life. He had wrestled with his conscience over Rory Madigan for years, ever since the penniless drifter had turned into a wealthy, respectable businessman. Perhaps, he should not have interfered between the Irishman and Rebekah.
“It's all past now. Too late. Amos has legal claim over Michael, and nothing can change that,” he murmured to himself. If he told Rebekah about Madigan's letters, it would break her heart and alienate her from her own father. These days he felt both she and young Michael needed him too much to risk that. He suffered the pangs of conscience in bitter silence.
“Grampa!” Michael's voice was shrill with excitement as he leaped down from the train and raced across the platform, flying into the old man's arms. Millicent Ahern approached at a more sedate pace and stood back as grandfather and grandson were reunited.
“I do believe you've grown at least a head taller in the past few months,” Ephraim said as he inspected the boy after a big hug. “How is that new school?”
Shoving a black curl off his forehead, the boy shrugged. “It's all right, I guess.” His eyes scanned the platform. “Where's Mama?”
Ephraim could hear the fear and uncertainty in the boy's voice. He never asks for his father. “Your mama couldn't come, but I'm taking you to Carson in my carriage. You'll be with her and your father by tonight.” He prayed he was right. Amos' note had been vague about the reasons Rebekah could not meet the train.
“Why did my father have me sent down from Calverton at the beginning of the term?” Michael asked.
“Well, he didn't say,” Ephraim replied.
“I wish I never had to go back,” the boy blurted out suddenly. “It always rains in Massachusetts—except for when it snows. I'd rather be home in Nevada with Mama and you.”
Ephraim’s heart wrenched. If only he could talk some sense into Amos; not that he hadn't already tried, but he would try again. “Someday you'll be able to stay here—if you still want to after you've made a lot of fine new friends back east,” he replied to the lad.
“Oh,” the boy said, suddenly fidgeting uncomfortably but meeting his grandpa's eyes, “I wanted to tell you in person how sorry I was about Grandma.”
“That's all right, son. I appreciated your condolence letter.”
“But I wanted to be with you for the funeral,” the boy replied earnestly.
“There was no way you could’ve traveled so far so quickly.” Ephraim hugged the boy again. It had always been a bitter regret that Dorcas had not favored Rebekah's son as she did Leah's boys. To his wife, Michael had been a symbol of her daughter's sins, tainted by Rory Madigan's blood. Although Michael knew nothing about that, he had always sensed, with the uncanny ability of bright young children, that his grandmother did not love him as she did his cousins.
“Do you miss her?” Michael asked, unable to squelch his boyish curiosity. Miss Ahern began to reprove Michael, but Ephraim signaled her gently with one hand. “It's all right. Yes, I do, Michael, but it was the Lord's will that she be taken. We must accept that.”
“Just so the Lord doesn't want to take you,” the boy said fiercely.
How lonely for a father's love he is. “Never fear, son. I expect I'll be around for a while.”
As he exchanged pleasantries with Michael's governess, Ephraim secured the bags from the porter and had them placed in his battered old carriage for the long ride to the capital. Always bright and curious, Michael began to chatter and ask endless questions. Ephraim’s misgivings about the summons faded. He settled down to enjoy the rare treat of having his grandson home.
The weather was dazzling, cool and cloudless, a perfect autumn day in Nevada as they rode south toward the capital. With any luck, they would arrive in plenty of time for supper.
* * * *
Rory Madigan, too, made his way to Carson that golden fall afternoon. He had enlisted Celia Kincaid in his plan. Tomorrow, she was supposedly having an intimate tea as a farewell before she and her family returned to Sacramento.
Rebekah would, of course, attend. But there would be no other ladies at the Kincaids' hotel suite, only Rory, waiting to talk with her.
He had to convince her of the danger if she remained with Wells. The man was far more than merely an unscrupulous businessman who would kill for profit. He abused and killed women to feed his own sick perversions. She would have to believe him. Sweet saints, had she already been subjected to Wells' brutality? That might be the reason behind her terse, hurtful note to him last week.
“I can protect her from him. She has to trust me.” Of course, Rebekah had little enough reason to trust him these days, he admitted. Her own guilt and his bitterness were enough to make her tread warily. As he considered what to say to her tomorrow, he rode up a broad, tree-lined street on the outskirts of the city.
Without consciously realizing it, he had headed for the neighborhood in which Amos Wells' elegant city house was located. Are you hoping for a glimpse of her? some inner voice mocked. He was acting like a lovesick schoolboy! Perhaps, Patrick was right to be worried about his obsession with Rebekah Wells.
Just as he was about to rein in Lobsterback and turn to avoid her street, Ephraim Sinclair's battered old black carriage came around the opposite corner. Rory remained in the shadows of a tall alder tree, watching the old man pass by, busily engaged in a laughing conversation with a young boy. Rebekah's son. What was he doing at home? Something was naggingly familiar about him. A primordial urge led Rory to follow the carriage.
A drab-looking spinsterish type sat in the backseat of the open buggy. He dismissed her as some kind of nursemaid, pitying rich men's children raised by servants. When the carriage approached the big horseshoe-shaped driveway of the Wells mansion, Rory eased his bay into the cover of a stand of dense pine trees and dismounted. Not knowing why he felt so compelled, he stealthily cut through the shrubbery. When the carriage pulled up and stopped in front of the house, the boy jumped down. He was tall for his age, Rory thought. He waited until Rebekah's son turned so that he could see the boy's face close up.
The breath rushed from his lungs as if he had been gut-punched in a prize ring. He was staring into a younger version of his own face—the mirror image of an old daguerreotype his parents had had taken of him back in Ireland.
Blessed Virgin, he's mine! Rory stood frozen behind the juniper bushes, staring at the boy who was so near him he could almost reach out and touch him.
The child knelt in the grass and scooped up a fallen bird's nest. “Look, Grampa! Baby birds were once hatched in this!” He jumped up with his treasure and ran across the drive toward the porch, clutching the nest as he asked, “Where's Mama? Is she home?”
Blood pounded in Rory's ears as he watched Ephraim and the governess follow his son up the wide stone stairs. His son!
Then, Rebekah appeared in the front doorway and knelt, clasping the child in her arms. “Michael, you're home. How I've missed you!”
Michael. She had named his son after him, yet she had deserted him and given the child to Amos Wells. Was the name some sort of ironic jest, or did the illustrious Wells family have a Michael in their family tree? “Damn you, Rebekah!” he ground out savagely, thinking about the ruthless and brutal Amos Wells raising his son. Thank God Wells had spent no time with the child. The farther away Michael could be kept from a madman like Amos, the better.
“I'll get you back, Michael. Both you and your mother, I swear it!” He had to think, to regain his self-control before he foolishly gave way to impulse and ran into the house to confront Rebekah and her sanctimonious father. That would frighten Michael and accomplish nothing.
He took a deep breath, then looked down and realized he was holding on to the rough branches of the juniper so tightly that he had ground splinters into his palms. His hands were scratched and bleeding, but he did not feel anything. He turned and made his way to Lobsterback. There were a great many things for him to consider before he met Rebekah in the morning.
* * * *
While Rory made plans outside the mansion, inside his son was getting reacquainted. “Uncle Henry. Good evening, sir,” Michael said with his best boarding school manners as he greeted the tall man with the mustache who stepped out of his father's study into the hallway.
Rebekah smiled at Henry as he returned his nephew's greeting. For some reason, Michael had never been as fond of Henry as she would have hoped, considering that his two boys were close in age to her son, and Henry was around a great deal more than Amos. But perhaps, that was the difficulty. Hank and Jed had a father while Michael always sensed that he did not. He has a father in name only who 's brought him home only to blackmail me, she thought in misery.
“Good evening, Henry. What brings you here—more business with Amos? I thought he was tied up at the capital,’' Ephraim said as the two shook hands.
“I've been in the Comstock towns the past week or so. Just stopped by to check on Rebekah and see this young man here.”
“Isn't Father coming home tonight, sir?” the boy asked. The question had become perfunctory. He knew it was expected that he ask about his father, but the austere man with the cold gray eyes who always seemed to stare at him as if he'd done something wrong made him uncomfortable. He was just as well pleased to have his mother to himself and his father off on business.
“I'm afraid your father has a dinner meeting that will last past your bedtime,” Henry said, ruffling the boy's hair awkwardly. “You'll see him tomorrow.” He turned to Rebekah. “If you'll forgive me, Rebekah, I do have to meet Amos and Stephan at the Ormsby House.”
“Of course. Give Undersecretary Hammer my regards,” Rebekah replied as Henry made his way down the hall.
Ephraim took in the scene with mixed emotions. In the past years, Rebekah and Henry had become closer as both their marriages deteriorated. Leah was jealous of her younger sister and accused her and Henry of crazy things he knew to be totally false. Rebekah did need a friend, the Lord knew, but he wished Henry had not been drawn into Amos' circle of business associates, even peripherally.
Recently, he had been hearing some alarming rumors about the way Stephan Hammer and Amos Wells made their money. If they lured Henry with promises of illicitly gained wealth, Ephraim feared his son-in-law would be tempted. And Leah would be at fault, for her love for expensive clothes, houses, and servants had grown insatiable. Rebekah's words broke Ephraim's troubled reverie.
“You must be tired, Papa. I've had the maids prepare your room and draw a bath before dinner.”
“Do I have to take a bath, too?” Michael made a face, still clutching his bird's nest in two small, grimy hands.
Rebekah eyed his sweaty little face and dusty, travel-stained clothes. “I think it might be best, don't you?”
Sighing, he nodded. “Knew you'd say that.”
* * * *
Rebekah rose early and spent the morning playing with Michael. Amos had returned home late last evening and departed again early, leaving word via his manservant that he would be in the Comstock for several days. He made no inquiries about Michael other than to ascertain that he had arrived on schedule.
“If I had known Michael would be here today, I'd never have accepted Celia's invitation,” she said to her father as she slipped on a pair of kid gloves.
“The two of you have been friends since you were in pigtails, and she's leaving for Sacramento tomorrow. Go and wish her Godspeed. I'll tend to my grandson until you return,” Ephraim replied, peering out the window at the boy playing in the big swing that hung from the gnarled branch of an old cottonwood tree in the backyard.
Rebekah, too, watched him with a wistful expression on her face. “It seems he gets to play so seldom. I fear all they do in that awful school is dress him up in uncomfortable clothes and make him stand at attention.”
Ephraim smiled sadly. “I think you exaggerate, but I do wish he could live with you until he's older. Possibly, Amos had him brought back with that intention in mind,” he said hopefully.
&n
bsp; Rebekah’s expression hardened. “No. He had another intention altogether, Papa.” She turned and picked up her reticule. “I'll only stay long enough to bid Celia good-bye.”
Ephraim watched her leave with troubled eyes.
* * * *
Celia observed Rebekah's carriage pull up in front of the hotel, then dropped the curtain and looked nervously over at Rory. “I hope I'm doing the right thing.”
His eyes were unreadable. “You are. More than you could ever realize.”
With one last wary glance his way, she turned and fled the parlor of her suite by a rear door.
When Rebekah knocked, a hotel maid opened the door and ushered her inside, then bobbed a curtsy. “Good morin', mum,” she murmured, then left before Rebekah could reply.
She was a bit late. Odd that none of the other ladies had arrived yet. She peeled off her hot gloves and called out, “Celia?”
“Celia's not here.”
Rebekah dropped a glove as she stared aghast at Rory, leaning indolently against the door frame between the suite's parlor and hall. She struggled for composure as her thoughts whirled. If Amos found out... “What are you doing in her suite?”
“That should be pretty obvious. You and your friend were ever good at matchmaking.” He glided like a predatory mountain lion, blocking her retreat via the front door.
Damn Celia and her harebrained ideas! “I can't stay, Rory. We have nothing to talk about.” She tried to step around him. His question froze her to the ground.
“No? How about Michael?” His voice was deceptively soft.
She had seen his lightning Irish temper ignite a dozen times over the years, but this was different. The hairs on her nape prickled in warning. She tried to frame a reply, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as he stepped closer. He knows!