by Shirl Henke
The tension between them was palpable. She looked into his beautiful blue eyes—Michael's eyes, only they weren't Michael's eyes, alight with childish laughter and love. These were ice cold with fury held under monumental control.
“Yes, Michael. My son. Tell me, did you name him after me? Was that your idea of some sort of cruel jest, Rebekah?''
Finally, anger overrode her speechlessness. “Cruel! You're a fine one to accuse me of cruelty! You—”
“You've let that degenerate bastard Amos Wells raise my son.”
“I had little enough choice in the matter. At least, he gave Michael his name.”
“His name? Or his wealth? That was your choice. I offered you the Madigan name, but it wasn't good enough. Wells had the money and the power you wanted.”
“That's a damnable lie. I never wanted to marry Amos!”
“I'm sure you repented your bargain soon enough in spite of the glittering life he bought you. Diamonds are so cold when you're alone in bed, aren't they, darlin'?” His fingers reached up and glided mockingly along her cheek.
She flinched and slapped his hand away. “You're every bit as despicable as Amos.”
He looked down at her with contempt. “And every bit as rich—now. But it took me years to catch up and you couldn't wait, could you?”
“No! I couldn't. I was seventeen and pregnant. You deserted me for the bright lights of Denver.” Her voice sounded hurt and bitter, weaknesses she did not want to reveal to him.
“You knew I was coming back,” he replied defensively. “I took a fearful beating. Then—”
“I'll just bet you did,” she lashed out furiously. “I begged you not to go. Maybe, I knew all along you'd never come back for me.”
“Such faith in my love, Rebekah?” His rhetorical question was delivered in a sardonic tone of voice.
“I was alone—”
“And along came Amos, dangling diamonds in front of you—never mind that you were giving away my child to that pervert!” His control was breaking as he answered her anger with his own. “I thought I'd never forgive you for marrying my brother's murderer, but now I've found out the real depth of your greed—to take my son away from me and give him to Wells. Tell me, does Amos know the boy isn't his?”
Her ashen face was answer enough.
“What sort of mother would let her son be punished by a sadistic son-of-a-bitch like Wells?”
Rebekah advanced on him, her nails curving into claws as fury roared in her veins. “For all his faults, Amos has treated Michael as his son and heir. He's never abused my son. He never will,” she said flatly.
Rory studied her with a jaded expression on his face. Sweet Virgin, how he wanted to believe her! But dare he? “I arranged this meeting to warn you about him. You damn well might die—he strangled a woman over in Virginia City eight years ago. It isn't safe for you to be around him. You have to get away. I can offer you protection. Bring Michael—”
“All you want is my son!” she gasped in outrage as his calculating plan became clear to her. “You don't give a damn about me—you only want Michael!”
“That's crazy. I can keep you and my son safe from Wells. He's dangerous, I tell you.”
“He'd never dare harm Michael. I told you, Michael is his only heir.” The words sounded hollow, even to her own ears; but she could trust Madigan no more than she could Amos. Perhaps less, for at least Amos had become a known quantity.
“He let nursemaids raise Michael while he had you on display in Washington. Has he hidden my son away because he couldn't bear to see the resemblance to me?”
The barb struck home, for Rebekah had often thought as much, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “Just because you've found a son who's your mirror image, you can't walk in and take him away after all these years.”
“Some devoted mother you are,” he said scornfully. “I'm surprised the boy recognized you yesterday, he sees you so seldom.”
“You followed my father—you were spying on us,” she accused him.
A look of pain flashed across his face, but he quickly masked it. “Not spying. Just a lucky coincidence. I saw Michael in Ephraim's carriage. I wanted to take a closer look.”
His pained expression confused her. Even though he did not love her, maybe he did care about his son. “The resemblance between you is uncanny. It grows greater with every passing year,” she said softly. A wistful look had replaced her earlier anger. “I... I didn't think you'd care.”
He stiffened. “Not care? He's my son,” he ground out furiously.
She threw back her head and stuck out her chin pugnaciously. “Surely, you have bastards from coast to coast by now.”
He took her by her shoulders, prepared to shake her teeth loose. “There are no others! I'd never let a child of mine go unacknowledged.” He saw the look of doubt in her eyes. “I've always been scrupulously careful about taking precautions with women—but everything was different with you. I intended to marry you.”
“I can't believe you,” she said stubbornly. He only wants Michael.
“I don't give a damn whether you do or not. It really doesn't signify since I've withdrawn the proposal. But make no mistake, Rebekah. I will have you, and I will claim my son.”
“You can't! No matter how much he resembles you, Amos Wells is his legal father. You have no rights. You gave them up when you left me eight years ago.”
“Once Amos hangs for his crimes, we'll just see about my legal rights. I'm the one who has the power now, Rebekah darlin',” he said mockingly. “I swore you'd come to me and you will.”
“I will not.” She stood close enough to feel the heat of him, the fury he had once again banked under such cold, calculating control.
She refused to back down from him when he reached out and pulled her into his arms, but her body remained rigid. “Down at the river last week you gave in quickly enough,” he taunted.
“That was a mistake. I told you I never wanted to see you again.”
“In a note. You were afraid to see me again. Afraid I'd get you to succumb again. You've become a coward, Rebekah. That must come from living with a man like Amos Wells.”
“Yes, I suppose you're right...I am.” She bit her lip, feeling like the coward he had named her—but not for herself. For Michael. In spite of her threats to Amos, her husband might still succeed in harming the boy. Send him to Europe. Enroll him in one of those ghastly military academies. Have her declared an unfit mother and deprive her of her right ever to see her son again. Exposing his own sexual inadequacies would be small compensation for Michael's suffering.
She wanted to trust Rory's protestations that he cared for her as well as Michael. She wanted to accept his offer to take them both away. But she could not trust Rory. She simply had to survive and pray he was telling the truth about Amos' imminent fall. Only then would her son be safe.
Rory tried to read what went on behind her troubled eyes. He wanted to trust her, to love her, to offer her marriage when Wells was disposed of. But that would be baring his soul to her as he had done eight years ago. He could not take that chance.
And still, he could not release her. Slowly, feeling her passive resistance, he lowered his mouth to hers for a parting kiss.
Only to prove a point.
Liar.
Ignoring the mocking voices inside his head, he kissed her, letting his lips brush hers, his tongue rim her mouth, then tease the tight seam until it parted. With a groan he plunged inside, tasting, exploring, feeling the velvety glide of her tongue dance with his.
Her mind screamed no, but her body capitulated as she answered his kiss. He molded her flesh against his from head to toe, crushing her breasts against his chest and pressing her pelvis against his. She could feel the pressure of his erection grinding against her belly and gloried in his male vitality and her own answering feminine fire. God, but she wanted him, ached for him. With a muffled cry, she wrapped her arms around his neck and moved with the rh
ythm he had set between them.
Rory almost succumbed. They were alone. He could take her here on the thick carpet just as he had down by the river. But he had proven his point. She would be his again. She was his. This was not yet the time or place to reveal his own hunger, his weakness. He reached up and pulled her hands from his shoulders, holding her by her wrists.
His eyes mocked her, and she reddened in shame, unable to hold up her head. Dear God, if he released her, she feared she would sink to her knees in front of him! “Please go,” she choked out.
“A minute ago, your body was telling me to stay,” he mocked.
“Just go.” When he released her, she bit the inside of her lip, drawing blood, just to stand straight and face him. “Get out.”
“I'm going. But I'll be back for you and my son.”
As soon as he closed the front door behind him, she sank onto her knees and wept for all that could have been between them, but most of all she wept for Michael. Could Rory love his son?
Could he love you?
“No, no, no...”
Chapter Sixteen
Virginia City
Sly Hobart slipped in the back door of the Howling Wilderness Saloon and found the small table hidden in the alcove, just where Rory Madigan had said to meet him. He squinted into the shadows and saw the tall figure, his chair tipped back with seeming indolence against the wall.
“Madigan?” Hobart whispered nervously. The usual assortment of miners, whores, cowboys, and a variety of Eastern slickers were all too busy drinking and gambling to pay any attention. Still, it made him nervous to meet with Wells' enemy.
Rory lowered his chair back onto the floor. “Yeah, I'm Madigan. Get out of the light and sit down. You left word with Patrick that you had inside information about Wells' latest stock deal.”
Hobart grabbed a chair and shoved it toward the darkest recess of the corner. His narrow face was as furtive as a weasel's. He grinned nastily, revealing pointy, tobacco-stained teeth. “Soon, I'll have enough to stop the whole bunch of 'em—Wells and that fancy Washington politician Hammer. Shit, even ole Shanghai Sheffield's involved. They're planning to spread rumors the Alder Gulch Mine has just struck another bonanza.”
“That should drive up the price of shares,” Rory said dryly.
“It'll make 'em worth ten times what they are now. Truth is, the mines are plumb gone bust. I been down in ‘em. There ain't nothin' left but the smallest sprinkles of cheap-grade silver. Cost more than it's worth per ton to bring it out.”
“But they plan to sell out after they've driven the price sky high.” Madigan's voice was disgusted.
“They been holdin' the miners below ground, too,” Hobart added with relish.
At once, Rory's expression shifted from jaded to implacable. “Do you know who and where? I want times, places—everything.”
From across the crowd, a pair of crafty eyes studied the two men engaged in such an intense conversation in the corner. Chicken Thief Charlie Pritkin had been following Sly Hobart for several weeks, ever since he had seen him in conversation with Patrick Madigan at Jenson's Racetrack. Sly was a luckless gambler who owed big money to Beau, who was a partner of the Madigan brothers. A man didn't have to know comere from sic 'em to figure the mine supervisor was selling information to pay off his markers.
He felt nervous about getting near Rory after his brush with death in that Denver saloon. The damn mickey should be dead! Slocum sure enough was. But the Irishman had not seen his face in the dark. He'd be safe enough, and his employer paid better than ever lately. Pritkin moved through the crowd and edged against the wall by the alcove so he was hidden around the corner yet able to hear the exchange between the two men.
“You got that old whore to talk?” Hobart asked.
“Annie told me about Amos' penchant for beating up women,” Rory replied flatly. “He killed one right here, upstairs in her old room.”
“Shit. I always knowed he was a mean bastard.”
“I can't exactly depend on English Annie's recollections in court,” Madigan replied sarcastically. “You said you have some hard information about this stock deal.”
“I seen a hidden wall safe in his office in Carson. Never mind how I found out,” he added with a sly chuckle. “Filled with stocks and deeds of transfer, all sorts of written proof about how he's made deals and with who.”
“Sounds rather careless,” Rory replied dubiously. “That sort of evidence would incriminate him, too.”
“You wanna know what I figger?” Hobart went on without expecting an answer to the rhetorical question. “You know how I been collecting information about him, keeping his handwritten instructions, stuff like that?”
“To blackmail him someday,” Madigan supplied the answer. “You think he's done the same thing.”
Hobart shrugged. “Might be to bleed a feller like that high 'n mighty Hammer, or maybe it's a way to keep him or one of the others in line. Could be he's gonna use 'em to force his way back into politics.”
Rory leaned forward. “Can you get me those papers? I'll not only forgive your gambling debts—I'll pay you ten thousand extra.”
Hobart’s eyes gleamed with avarice. “It'd be hard. Might take a few weeks. I don't exactly get invited there real often,” he added dryly. “But I reckon I can get in sometime. Lots of stuff on Wells there.”
Rory stroked his chin speculatively, thinking not only of Amos Wells, but of his wife. Wells most probably used Michael the same way he did those incriminating documents—to keep Rebekah in line. Amos Wells is legally his father.
Deep in thought, Rory did not notice when Chicken Thief Charlie Pritkin slipped past the alcove and headed to the bar to celebrate the money he would shortly collect.
* * * *
Eagle Valley
For several days Rory agonized over his bitter confrontation with Rebekah. He replayed their conversation in his mind, realizing that he had handled the matter badly. She was afraid of him, thinking he was using her only to get his son—and that he wanted the boy to use as a pawn the way Amos had always done.
“But he's my son, dammit,” he raged to himself as he pounded his fist against the unyielding walnut desk in the study of his new ranch house. The two-story white stone building was grand indeed, but all that his money had been able to buy meant nothing now that he had a son he could not claim and a woman who still haunted his dreams, sleeping or awake.
Her accusations troubled him deeply. The more he had time to consider their parting eight years earlier from her point of view, the less of a crass monetary betrayal it seemed. She had been only seventeen, raised in a rigorously strict religious environment, with parents who hounded her to make an advantageous marriage to Amos Wells. Who could she have gone to when he was hundreds of miles away in Denver? How terrifying it must have been to find herself expecting a child with no husband.
Of course, he had pledged to return for her and had sent three letters during the time he was recovering from the attempt on his life. What if she never received them? He would certainly not put it past her conniving parents to have destroyed the letters. And he was gone long enough that she could have believed he would not return.
Over the years, Rory had never given much thought to the senselessness of that attack on him. He'd just assumed Bart Slocum and the mysterious companion who escaped after stabbing him were stupid cutthroats after revenge and his prize money. But now, their attempt on his life took on far more sinister implications. What if Amos Wells had dispatched them to get him out of the way, then arrived like a knight in shining armor to propose to Rebekah? Had her family known she was pregnant? They would have moved heaven and earth to make her wed Amos if they knew.
It was ironic. If his suspicions proved true, Rebekah had every reason to be as bitter and mistrustful of him as he had been of her. He had believed her to be a shallow fortune hunter. What if she believed he was a faithless philanderer who had seduced and deserted her and left his son at the mercy of
a miserable cur like Amos Wells?
Rebekah had been fighting tears when she defended her separations from Michael, separations Rory was increasingly certain were forced by Wells, who used the boy to blackmail her. Now, it could appear to her that he was doing the same thing. She did seem to care deeply for her son. If only she were telling the truth about Wells never harming her or Michael.
All this may be a fool's wishful thinking. I never have gotten her out of my mind. It's as if she's robbed me of my very soul. Although it was only late afternoon, Rory poured a glass of fine Irish whiskey and took a sip, savoring the mellow burning as it traveled to his gut, soothing the confused thoughts that tormented him.
The key to the tangle lay with Michael. Whether he was right about Rebekah's reasons for deserting him or not, Rory was determined to have his son. And in so doing, he just might learn a great deal about Michael's mother. He smiled and raised the glass in a salute as he gazed out the window at the big corral.
“Here's to you, Rebekah darlin'.”
* * * *
Carson City
“Please, Mama, please, can—may I go to the market with Miss Mulcahey?” Michael's young face was alight with excitement, which he tried to contain.
His precise speech and struggle to restrain his natural boyish enthusiasm made Rebekah's heart ache. He's being robbed of his childhood by tutors and boarding schools. “If you promise to do just as you're told, I suppose it will be all right,” she conceded, eliciting a shout of glee that would bring reproof from Amos if he heard it. But her husband was upstairs changing for the reception Hiram Bascomb and his wife were giving that afternoon. She, of course, had to accompany him and could not go to the market with the servants, a chore she normally enjoyed.
The market was a colorful hodgepodge, typical of Nevada, a state in which the foreign-born outnumbered natives. Italian and Slovak grocers vied with German butchers and French bakers. Jews, Serbs, Mexicans, and Chinese all hawked their wares amid the overflowing stalls. Rebekah's xenophobic mother had always hated Carson and Reno, not to mention the raucous Comstock towns like Virginia City, all filled with such heathen foreigners. Over the years, as she had broadened her horizons by traveling across the United States, Rebekah had come to appreciate Nevada's diversity. She wanted Michael to grow up in an environment without Dorcas Sinclair's intolerance.