by Shirl Henke
Pressing several coins in her son's small hand, she kissed him. “That's to buy yourself a sweet at Mr. Silverstein's confectionery. You be sure to mind Miss Mulcahey.”
“I love you, Mama! I wish I never had to leave you or Nevada again.” He hugged her, then dashed off to the kitchen, not seeing the tears that glistened in her eyes.
Rory had been following Michael's routine for several days, waiting to approach the boy when his mother was not with him, but there had been no opportunity until this afternoon. He watched as the wagon pulled around the house from the servants' quarters. A small Chinese man drove the team and several domestics, including an imperious-looking Frenchman whom he knew to be the Wells' cook, were chattering as they rode in the buckboard.
Michael sat beside a mousy-looking little maid, his small face lit with excitement. Rebekah had allowed him to go for an outing at the capital market. He followed at a discreet distance, his heart hammering in his chest. What would he say to the seven-year-old son he had not even known he had until a few short days ago?
Michael loved going to the market. If only his mother could have come, too, it would have been a perfect day; but her young maid was very nice. She had asked him to call her Patsy, saying Miss Mulcahey made her feel too old. She didn't correct his grammar or try to teach him lessons the way Miss Ahern always did, either. Patsy giggled a lot and told him wonderful stories about growing up in Ireland in a family filled with brothers and sisters. Michael thought wistfully about having lots of brothers and sisters. How wonderful that would be. Once, he'd asked his mother why he didn't have any; but it had seemed to make her so sad, he never brought it up again.
“Now mind, don't be wanderin' too far,” Patsy instructed her charge.
“I'll only go as far as Mr. Silverstein's confectionery. I want to buy a peppermint stick with the money Mama gave me. Would you like one, Patsy?”
“Bless yer soul, but I think not today—sweets give me the toothache, you know. But you enjoy an extra one fer me,” Patsy replied, smiling as he scampered off toward the candy shop.
Michael secured his treat, then meandered down the busy street, gawking at the sights and listening to the magical sounds of foreign words. Two Chinese merchants were passing time with a game of dice while a fat German woman haggled with an Italian greengrocer over the price of his cabbages. Then, Michael saw the most beautiful matched team of milk-white horses hitched to a carriage across the street. Unable to resist, he stepped out into the dusty thoroughfare intent on looking at them close-up. He stood entranced, sucking on his peppermint stick in the middle of the road.
“Golly, they're beauties,” he breathed. Dared he approach and pat them? As he debated, Michael did not see the wagonload of beer casks and its whip-wielding driver rounding the corner from the opposite direction, headed straight toward him.
Rory had been working up his courage to approach his son when the scene unfolded in front of his horrified eyes. He jumped from the porch of the apothecary shop where he had been standing and raced down the block, yelling Michael's name. The boy turned in his direction just in time to see the cloud of dust the runaway horses were churning up as their drunken driver sawed ineffectually on the reins. Michael's eyes rounded with terror; but before he could react, Rory was there, sweeping him into his arms and leaping clear of the flying hooves.
They landed in the thick reddish dirt beside the boardwalk of the mercantile as the team and wagon thundered by. Rory shielded his son with his body until the danger had passed, then rolled over with Michael in his arms. He placed the breathless boy on his feet and knelt beside him. They both coughed from the dust. Rory trembled.
“Michael, boyo, are you all right?” He clutched his son by his slim shoulders, holding him at arm's length, barely able to speak. I could’ve lost him forever!
“Yes—yes, sir. Thank you for saving me,” the boy said between coughs. His eyes focused on Rory curiously. “How did you know my name?”
Before Rory could answer, Patsy Mulcahey fought her way through the gathering crowd, screeching like a banshee. “Michael! Are you all right, lad! They said you'd near been run down!” She seized her charge by his arm and turned him to face her, then hugged him. “I told you a hundred times niver to cross a street by yerself.” She tried to sound stern but failed. “What were you doin’?”
“It was the white horses, Patsy. I wanted to see them better. They're so beautiful.”
“They near got you killed by them other brutes.”
“But this man saved me,” Michael said, remembering Rory, who still knelt quietly behind him. “This is Patsy Mulcahey, Mister—?” He waited for the stranger to give his name.
As Rory stood up, Patsy looked from the dark stranger's face to Michael's and back. Her eyes widened.
Before she could say anything, Rory quickly smiled and answered, “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Mulcahey. I'm Rory Madigan.”
“Sure and you are,” she said in wonder. “I've seen you from a distance—durin' yer last election campaign for the Congress. My brother Gabriel was one of yer organizers in the mines.”
“Gabe Mulcahey's sister. I should've recognized you,” he replied, hoping he had just made an ally in the Wells household.
“Aye, Irish family resemblances are easy enough to spot,” she replied, glancing at Michael. So much made sense now. Her mistress' desperate unhappiness married to a mean one like Amos Wells, and his coldness and lack of interest in his only son. She studied Madigan with shrewd brown eyes. “Mrs. Wells, as well as meself, will be wantin' to thank you for savin’ the boy.”
She knows. The more time he spent around Michael, the more people would begin to remark on their resemblance, which only promised to grow stronger as the lad grew older. It would not matter once Amos was out of the way. But for now, he must be careful.
“No thanks necessary. I'm just grateful I was here.” He had a good feeling about Patsy Mulcahey. Turning on his charm, he decided to test the waters. “Gabe was one of my best campaign workers. I could always depend on him.”
“Yes, Mr. Madigan, and you can be dependin' on me as well,” Patsy replied with a soft smile.
Her meaning was not lost on Rory. “I appreciate that, Patsy. Please, a countrywoman like yourself should call me Rory.” She blushed and nodded. He turned his attention back to Michael. “You like horses, eh?”
“Oh, yes sir. I sure do!”
“It just happens I own a whole ranch full of them in Eagle Valley, and even part interest in the Jenson Racetrack outside of town. I have a pony or two just right for a lad your size. And one of them is pure white, too.”
“A white pony! Really? My father has a big stable but no whites and no ponies.” His expression saddened for a moment as he added, “Of course, it really doesn't matter because I'm not allowed to ride his horses anyway. The grooms are too busy to take me out.”
Anger churned in Rory's gut. A seven-year-old boy who'd never been on a horse! The servants had no time. What the hell was that bastard who called himself Michael's father doing that he couldn't devote a minute for his supposed heir? “Maybe one day I can teach you to ride. But first I have to convince your mother.”
Patsy chuckled knowingly. “With yer gift of the blarney, sure and she'll be agreein'.”
“What's blarney, Mr. Madigan?”
Rory struggled to explain. “Well, it's charm, I suppose—a way with people, to get them to like you and do what you want them to.”
“Will I ever have it?” the boy asked, his big blue eyes round and guileless as he stared up into his new friend's face.
Rory fought the tightening in his throat and ruffled his son's hair. “Yes, Michael, I believe you already do. Now, how about my buying you another of those peppermint sticks? It seems you dropped the one you were eating in the dust.”
They walked back to the confectionery, and while the boy went inside to make his selection, Rory took the opportunity to talk with Patsy.
“Yes, to your unspoken q
uestion. He is my son.”
“If I hadn't seen you two right together 'n you holdin' the lad for dear life, I might not o' realized the truth o' the matter.” There were unspoken questions in her eyes, but Patsy would not presume to ask. It was obvious to her that he cared deeply for his son.
“I never knew he existed until a few days ago,” he said simply.
“Ah, sir, how sad for you...and for Miz Rebekah, too. There's niver been any love lost between her 'n that devil man she married.”
Rory's face darkened ominously. “Wells won't be a problem much longer. He's going to prison—maybe he'll even hang if we're lucky.”
Patsy paled and crossed herself. “I always knew he was a bad one. Gabriel said he was in on some awful minin' accidents that wasn't accidents, if you take me meanin', sir.”
“Aye, that I do, Patsy. My brother died in one of those ‘accidents’.”
“Amos Wells can't be brought to justice soon enough,” she replied fervently.
“Patsy, I'd like to spend some time with my son. I do have that white pony I mentioned. Is there a time when Wells will be gone? I could bring it around and take Michael for a ride.”
Her brow furrowed. “He keeps crazy hours now that he's not a senator. Up half the night with his political cronies, meetin' at the house. But sometimes he spends all day at the capital. I suppose I could send you word...but what about the missus?”
“I'll handle Rebekah, but I don't want Amos turning his anger on her or my son.”
“You don't have to worry about the servants tellin' himself. They're all loyal to the missus. They hate him, he's that vile to everyone.”
“Just let me know when the coast is clear.”
* * * *
A poorly scrawled note arrived the next morning, indicating that Amos was off to visit with several of his mining supervisors in the Comstock District and would not return until nightfall. Rory had instructed his foreman to bring the white pony to town the preceding evening. He was at the front door of the Wells city house before noon.
Cue Ging opened the door and bowed respectfully before the well-dressed gentleman. “Mr. Wells not at home.”
“I've come to see Mrs. Wells,” Rory replied.
“Who is calling, please?”
He grinned. “Just tell her it's the man with Michael's white pony. I'm sure she'll know.”
Upstairs, Michael had heard the horses' hooves in the drive and dashed into his mother's sitting room at the rear of the house. “It's him, Mama! Mr. Madigan! And he brought it! He really brought it—the most beautiful white pony in the world!”
Rebekah bit her lip and tried to smile at her son's joyous little face. This is what he always sought from Amos—time, attention, love. Love? Did Rory love his son? According to the way Michael and Patsy sang his praises last night, he had indeed saved Michael's life and risked his own to do it. Even if he loves Michael, that doesn't mean he wants you, she reminded herself.
“A pony? I don't know, Michael. You've never ridden before.” And Amos will be furious if he hears Rory has been here.
“Aw, please, Mama. Come meet Mr. Madigan. He's really a nice gentleman. Patsy says he was a United States Congressman. You'll like him.”
Before Cue Ging could announce Rory, Rebekah followed her babbling, excited son downstairs like a prisoner walking to the gallows, trying desperately to put on a brave facade. Inside, her heart was hammering and the metallic taste of fear dried her mouth. Rory was insane to come here so openly. But then, she should have known he'd come after Michael. Cue Ging stood at the front door, holding it open as the boy dashed out and raced up to where Rory was holding the pony in the drive.
“You brought him! Oh, he's ever so beautiful!” Michael reached up to rub the velvety nose.
“He's yours...that is, if your mother says yes,” he added, turning to Rebekah, who stood frozen on the front step.
He looked devastatingly handsome, dressed in black. That color seemed to be his trademark now and accented his dark good looks, from the flat-crowned hat shoved carelessly back on his head to the leather vest and the breeches that hugged his long legs. His white shirt made a snowy contrast and was unbuttoned to reveal that disturbing thatch of dark hair curling on his chest.
“Hello, Rory,” she said softly, forcing herself to draw nearer. “I understand you saved Michael's life yesterday. You know how grateful I am.”
“Then, you'll repay me by letting the lad ride the pony,” he said with a blinding white smile.
“He's so small to be riding alone—”
“He won't be alone. I'll be with him. I breed these Welsh ponies especially for children. He's gentle and well-trained. He'll be safe enough.” He looked into her troubled eyes and said softly, “Don't be afraid of Amos. It won't be long now.”
She nodded mutely. What was there to say? She should feel some twinge of guilt for the hope that Rory's statement brought. She wanted to see her own husband in prison. Or dead, God forgive her. Yes, dead. I'm a wicked person. “Be careful, Rory,” was all she replied.
Rory helped Michael onto the pony and began to lead it around the driveway, showing the boy how to sit properly, hold his feet in the stirrups, and use the reins to guide the pony. Shortly, he mounted Lobsterback, and the pair rode slowly down to the street.
Rebekah stood watching them until they disappeared beyond the trees. What would Amos say if he learned of the excursion? Make no mistake... She shivered. The servants would never tell him. To the last one, they had become loyal to her over the years and intensely disliked her husband, who was overbearing and inconsiderate, often venting his temper on them without reason.
But the capital was a close-knit community, and both Amos and Rory were well-known political figures. Even if no one saw them today, it would not be long before tongues would wag. People could not help noticing the resemblance between Rory and Michael.
Rebekah hoped and prayed Rory was right about her husband's fate. Stop him soon! But how could she ever explain the truth of Michael's paternity to her son? That question and the confusing and unresolved nature of her own relationship with Rory Madigan were enough to send her upstairs in search of her headache powder. Dare I trust him?
* * * *
Amos Wells rode fast and hard toward Carson City that afternoon, more frightened and more furious than he could ever remember being in his life. Sly Hobart was dead—killed by a high-powered rifle right in front of his eyes when the two of them walked out of the mining office at the Silver Star. The second shot had grazed his cheek. He would have been shot as cleanly as his mine superintendent if one of the miners hadn't knocked him aside in a split second.
Who wanted him dead? The question—and a long list of obvious answers—dogged him on the way home. He was tempted to head for the Flying W, but it was farther away and he wanted to clean out all his papers from the office here. Were Bascomb and Sheffield backing out of the bank merger, or trying to double-cross him out of it? Or was it that snake-in-the-grass Hammer, now on his way back to Washington after refusing to support his cabinet aspirations with that mealy-mouthed reformer Rutherford Hayes?
Well, he had the goods on all three of them and more. But he needed protection until he could get his hands on the evidence and confront those bastards. It might be best to get Rebekah and the boy safely out of harm's way as well. He had enemies who would gladly stoop to kidnapping to try to obtain a hold over him.
“We seem such a loving couple,” he snickered bitterly to himself as he rode up Stewart Street. His thoughts were interrupted when an old crony from the state legislature pulled up in his buggy and greeted him.
“Afternoon, Amos. You on your way home?” Graham Elden asked, spitting a noisome lob of tobacco from between blackened lips.
He looked happier than a flea in a doghouse. Something was afoot, a sixth sense warned the already agitated Wells. Elden owed him a favor or two. “Afternoon, Graham. Yes, I'm just on my way back from inspecting some mining property.”
<
br /> A crafty light shone in Elden's narrow eyes. “Just thought you might be interested to know your boy was out ridin' this mornin' with Rory Madigan. I thought it wuz real peculiar, him bein' a damned Democrat and doin' his best to see you didn't get them votes in the legislature for reelection to the Senate.”
Amos felt pole axed. “Madigan took my son riding?” He couldn't keep the croak from his voice and hated the smug, crafty look on Elden's face. Does he know?
“Yessir, he did. Brought the lad one of the fancy leetle horses he breeds out at his ranch. Glad I run into ya. Figgered you'd wanna know. Me, I'd never let my boys go near that mickey scum. Can't imagine what Mrs. Wells was thinkin', beggin' yer pardon for saying so.”
“I'm obliged, Graham,” Amos replied coldly, then kicked his horse into a trot. As if he did not have enough to worry about, now Madigan had come after the boy! Then the thought hit him. Madigan. It could be the damned Irishman trying to kill him. Yet somehow, he knew it was not Madigan’s style to ambush him. A proud son-of-a-bitch like that mick would confront him head-on. It didn't matter. He'd have both Rory and Rebekah killed for being so indiscreet.
Rebekah was reading to Michael when she heard the sound of Amos's angry voice downstairs. Quickly, she closed the storybook. “Go down the back stairs to the kitchen, Michael. I'm sure Francois will have some scones and jam for you. Tell him I said to let you eat your fill.”
A frightened look darkened his eyes. “Mama, is Father mad—angry about something?”
Rebekah shook her head. “It's probably just politics,” she lied, trying to soothe the child. Amos had never shown Michael his vicious side, and she wanted desperately for it to remain that way. “Please, hurry along now,” she said, shoving him out the door and down the servants' steps. She composed herself and walked back into her sitting room.