by Shirl Henke
“And I had to go and spoil your plans by running off to get married,” Rory said wryly. Then, he became serious. “Patrick, they tried to frame Rebekah for Wells' murder. She could still be in danger. So could Michael. I want you to take her to her father's place in Wellsville and pick up my son—”
“May I come in?” Rebekah's voice sounded nervous yet determined from the other side of the office door.
Rory ushered her in and watched with amusement as she and Patrick sized each other up. “Patrick, may I present my wife, Rebekah. Rebekah, this is my rapscallion elder brother.”
Rebekah looked into a pair of dark blue eyes, identical to Rory's, set in the same finely chiseled face, different only because of the bright red of his hair. No wonder Michael was the mirror image of his father! The family resemblance was uncanny. “I'm pleased to meet you, Patrick, and so happy Rory found you alive after he'd given you up for dead so long ago,” she said softly.
Rebekah was not what Patrick had expected. Oh, she was heartbreakingly lovely with her golden hair and green eyes. She was dressed in an elegant rose-linen traveling suit that accented her slim curves perfectly. His brother had always gone for strikingly beautiful women. But there was a vulnerability in her that touched him. She must have loved Rory once. Perhaps she still did. Patrick hoped so for his brother's sake and for Michael's.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips in the same endearing European manner Rory had first charmed her with eight years ago on the Wellsville bandstand. “I'm rather happy not to have drowned, myself. My felicitations on your marriage. I only wish it could’ve been eight years ago.” Patrick was not certain what he expected her reaction to be, but he studied her intently.
“You don't trust me, do you, Patrick?”
Her forthright question pleased him. This might work out after all. “I'm not sure, to be perfectly honest, but I have hopes.”
“You'll have time enough to take each other's measure as you ride to Wellsville,” Rory interjected, taking Rebekah's arm possessively and showing her to a chair across from his desk. Then, he explained what had transpired in Carson.
“You think Michael could be in danger?” she asked when he had finished.
“No. I don't think it's him they're after. But for some reason they seem to want you disposed of. Maybe they think you were privy to Amos' schemes. Whatever their reasons, you and Michael have to get out of harm's way. I have to return to Carson. Patrick will take you to get our son, then to my ranch in Eagle Valley.”
“That's a long ride out of the way. It would be closer to just take us to the Flying W. My sister is nearby; and once we're safe there, Patrick can return to the capital and help you,” she said, turning from her husband to his brother.
Patrick nodded. “It makes sense, but I don't think I'd leave you alone until we know those men are all in jail.”
“I agree,” Rory added. “You stay with her, Patrick.”
“I'm ready to leave now, Rory.”
Taking her in his arms, he reassured her, “Michael will be all right. You both will.”
“Take care of yourself, Rory,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek tenderly.
He kissed her palm and pressed it back against his face. There was so much yet unsaid. He tried to read her fathomless eyes and saw—what? Love? Or did he only imagine it?
* * * *
Wellsville
Ephraim sat alone on the porch. He could still hear the echo of Michael's laughter, so boyishly happy. Was I ever that young? That carefree? At the moment, he felt old far beyond his sixty-one years. Madigan had won. He had Rebekah as his wife and he had claimed his son. Was this in truth the Lord's judgment against his own presumption in meddling with other people's lives?
“I should never have destroyed those letters. Rebekah had the right to choose,” he whispered brokenly as he stared out across the sunny backyard. Would he ever have the courage to confess to her what he had done? It had weighed more and more heavily on his conscience as the years passed.
He had known the first time Rebekah and Amos returned from Washington that all was not well in their marriage. The way Amos kept his wife separated from Michael over the years only confirmed his worst fears. And the haunted sadness in his daughter's eyes ate into his soul.
When Rory Madigan had returned and begun his meteoric rise to power, Ephraim lost his last excuse for destroying those letters. Now, the Irishman was back in their lives to stay. “Sooner or later, old man, you'll have to tell her...” He only prayed that Madigan really cared for Rebekah and Michael.
The sound of a rider pulling up distracted Sinclair from his troubling reverie. He stepped down from the side porch and walked around to the front yard.
Henry Snead dismounted and approached.
“Morning, Henry. What brings you here so early? Leah and the boys—”
“They're fine, just fine,” Henry hastened to reply, quelling the older man's alarm. “It's Rebekah I'm concerned about.” Henry turned his hat nervously in his big hands. “Amos is dead, Ephraim. Someone shot him at his office in Carson. The sheriff thinks Rebekah did it.”
“I know,” the old man answered quietly. At Henry's startled expression, Ephraim hastened to add, “She told me all about it.”
“Then she's here?” Henry's voice was filled with relief. “When she and Michael disappeared from Carson with Rory Madigan, I was worried sick. I need to see her to finalize arrangements for Amos' funeral.”
“They were here. Michael spent the night. Earlier this morning, Rebekah and Patrick Madigan came for him.”
Snead blanched. “I don't understand. What have those damned Madigans to do with our family?”
The sadness in the old man's hazel-green eyes was soul-searing. “You know as well as I the answer to that, Henry,” Ephraim replied gently.
His son-in-law's face turned dark red. “That's all in the past.”
Sinclair shook his head. “No, not any longer. Rebekah has married Rory.”
Snead's red-faced embarrassment turned to furious incredulity. “Amos isn't even cold in his grave! The day after his death! What will people think? What the hell was she thinking?”
“You sound like Leah, Henry,” Ephraim reproved.
Henry had the good grace to flush once more. “She can't have thought this out. He must've forced her. Why did you allow it?”
Ephraim explained how events had unfolded, ending with Patrick and Rebekah coming earlier that morning to collect Michael. “He's taking them to the Flying W. They'll be safe there. Rory went back to Carson to see about some urgent business.”
“Well, I’ll feel better after I've talked to Rebekah myself. I' m not without influence in Carson. I could protect her and Michael from the Madigans—if she wants me to, that is.”
“You've been her true friend, Henry. I've always appreciated that. I know it’s not right to speak ill of the dead, but Amos made a hard life for my daughter. She relied on you.”
“She still can,” Henry replied earnestly. “I have to go back to Carson—Amos' affairs are in shambles; and his business partners will be moving in like vultures after a kill. I'll protect Rebekah and Michael's interests. Maybe, I'll have a talk with Madigan while I'm at it. If Rebekah's made a mistake, we can extricate her from it.”
Ephraim shrugged. “I don't know, Henry. It might be we've meddled enough in their lives already....” His voice faded away.
Henry just patted him on the back fondly. “Don't worry. This time I'll see that things turn out all right, Ephraim.”
As the younger man rode away, his father-in-law watched mutely, the war inside him still raging. Finally, he walked over to the church where he had spent so much of his life. It was time—long past time—for him to pray.
Chapter Nineteen
The Flying W Ranch
The sun was shining gloriously, and the zephyr winds were still that morning. Rebekah watched Michael and Patsy riding ahead of them and marveled at how well the boy handl
ed his new pony. Rory had arranged for one of his hands to bring the beautiful white to the ranch, much to Michael's delight.
“He's a natural rider,” Patrick said, watching the way her eyes never left her son. “Just like his father. Rory always did have a way with horses, like our da.”
“Rory said your father was head groom for an earl. Why did he leave Ireland? Surely, there was security in his position.”
Patrick's face, so startlingly similar to Rory's, took on a faraway expression as he remembered the past. “It's difficult for you, born and raised in this country, to understand. There we could never have been anything but menials. Oh, we had a decent roof over our heads and food enough to eat. In Ireland not many are so fortunate. But our parents wanted more.”
“The streets of America aren't always paved with gold,” Rebekah replied, remembering the tragic circumstances the Madigans had encountered in New York.
“No. But here a man can breathe free, and everyone has the chance to look for his own pot of gold—even an Irishman.”
“You and Rory certainly succeeded. Has it been worth all the sacrifice?”
Patrick studied her. “I'd trade every cent Madigan & Madigan Ltd. has to have our parents and Sean and Ryan alive again. But I can't undo what's in the past. Neither can you.”
Her expression became guarded as she tried to read the meaning behind his enigmatic remarks. “Do you believe that I betrayed Rory? That I married Amos Wells for his money?”
“You are forthright,” Patrick replied, laughing softly. “Once, not very long ago, I would have answered yes. Now... I don't honestly know. I've only heard Rory's side of what happened eight years ago, or what he knew of it. The Madigans aren't the only ones who have made sacrifices, are they, Rebekah?”
She could feel those piercing blue eyes, so like Rory's, on her. “Rory had gone to Denver, and I received no word from him for nearly a month. I was expecting Michael, and my family thought it was providential when Amos offered me marriage. I won't lie to you and say I didn't feel bitterly betrayed by your brother. I hated him then...especially when I realized what kind of monster I'd been forced to marry.”
“Wells must've arranged all of it—sending Rory to Denver, the attempt on his life, all to have you.” The waste of all these years saddened him beyond measure. “The question now is, do you still hate my brother?”
Her expression was guarded when she turned to face him. “No. But I can't trust him either.”
Patrick's bark of laughter had a ring of frustration in it. “You can't trust him? He gave you an alibi when you were accused of murdering Wells, and then he married you.”
“Yes, he did,” she replied simply. “It was the only way to get Michael. He offered to make me his mistress before he knew about his son.”
Patrick swore beneath his breath. “You've been frank with me. I'll be the same with you. Rory planned revenge not only against Amos but you as well. He was obsessed with what he believed was your betrayal. But believe this, Rebekah.” He reached out to her and reined in their horses. “Even when he thought he hated you, I could always sense something else—something deeper than the hate. He couldn't stop loving you. That's what really ate him alive, what drove him. And that's why I was so upset when I received his wire saying he'd married you. There were other ways to get his son back—if that was all he'd wanted to do.”
“Beginning with letting me go to prison for killing Amos.” She sighed in confusion. “I don't know, Patrick. He's changed so much. When I saw him for the first time in Washington four years ago, the old laughter in his eyes had died. He's hard, ruthless.”
“And you've had more than your share of experience with that kind of man. You can't believe Rory is like Amos Wells and his minions.”
“No. But there are things he's said...things I've said. We've hurt each other too many times. I don't know if all of it can be undone.” Thoughts of her father's possible complicity in their separation almost surfaced. She quashed them. Rory had always told her that one day she would have to choose between her father and him. After all these years, it might come to that yet.
Patrick watched her struggle with her inner torment and wished he could offer some sage advice that would smooth the way for them, but he had none. As they once more kicked their horses into a trot to catch up with Patsy and Michael, he described Rory's rise in business and politics, hoping it might enable her to understand how driven and lonely his brother had been.
“All these years and all the money and power he's amassed, yet my brother never married. He's wanted no woman but you, Rebekah. Believe that.”
“Perhaps, that very single-minded obsession is another reason why I should distrust him,” she replied sadly.
* * * *
Wellsville
Ephraim Sinclair struggled with his conscience all through the day. By evening, he had made the most painful decision of his life—even more agonizing than the parting from Kathleen back in Boston. He must confess to his beloved younger daughter what he had done. First thing tomorrow, he would ride out to the ranch and get it over with.
“No more rationalizations or excuses. My own blindness has caused such hurt, it may never be undone,” he murmured to himself. The empty house echoed his words as he walked through the shabby parlor and into his small, cluttered office. Although never elegant, the house had been kept immaculately neat while Dorcas was alive.
Now, the ladies of the church guild took turns bringing him his meals and tidying up. Their efforts were well intentioned, but Ephraim had always been prone to absentmindedness, strewing his books and clothes about. How Dorcas had scolded him, he thought wryly, following him around as tenaciously as a bulldog, picking up after him.
“Ah, Dorcas, I sinned against you, too, in my blindness.” The silence closed in on him. Twilight eroded the light, but he did not touch the lamp on his desk. Finally, unable to bear his loneliness, he decided to ride out to Leah's place. With Henry in Carson, his elder daughter and her boys would be glad of some company. Henry left them alone too often.
Ephraim knew there had been trouble between Leah and Henry. He had always turned a blind eye, as he had to so much else, hoping they could work it out, or live it out as he and Dorcas had. Leah had always been unreasoningly jealous of her husband's friendship with Rebekah. When he realized how desperately unhappy Rebekah was with Amos, Ephraim had been grateful for Henry's concern. He should have tried to explain to Leah that her mistrust was unfounded.
If he could not help Rebekah, perhaps he could do something for Leah. Or at least listen to her troubles. After tomorrow, Ephraim feared Rebekah's outpouring of confidences to her father would cease forever. Even though he had grievously wronged his younger daughter, he had always favored her. There were amends to be made to his elder daughter and no better time for doing so than the present.
When he pulled up in front of Leah's fancy gingerbread house, the place was brightly lit. He climbed down from his old buggy and headed toward the front porch, where one of the small army of servants was waiting with the door open.
“Miz Leah will be pleased to see you, Reverend,” the man said. “She's putting the young masters to bed. I'll have cook bring you some dinner—”
“No, James, thank you. I'm not hungry right now, just in need of some company.”
“Very well, sir. I'll send word up—”
“Let me do that myself. I'd enjoy helping her tuck in Hank and Jed.” Ephraim headed upstairs.
An hour later, he sat across from Leah in her elegantly furnished sitting room. Dorcas' silver tea service was on the turret-top table in front of them, its contents cooling and ignored as Ephraim told her about Rebekah's marriage to Rory Madigan.
“I can't believe she's done such a thing.” Leah's eyes grew round; and her face reddened with indignation, making her resemble her mother even more. Over the years her weight had continued to increase, and her once silver-gilt hair was now the same dull, streaked gray Dorcas' had been. “Amos dead
one day and Rebekah running off to get married the next. It's positively barbaric. And to marry that—that Irishman! Whatever possessed her?”
If Ephraim had hoped to oil the waters, it was evident that his plans would come to naught. Leah had always been as obsessed with social propriety as her mother. “She had good reason, Leah.” He explained about Sheriff Sears' absurd suspicions that Rebekah had killed her husband and the way Rory Madigan had rescued her—with the proviso that she wed him in return. “He forced her into the marriage, Leah. But the ceremony was performed in secret. They won't release the news until a respectable time has passed. She and Michael are staying at the Flying W for the present. That should cause no gossip until the mystery of who killed Amos is solved.”
“For all I can see, my sister may very well have killed Amos just so she could have her Irishman now that he's rich,” Leah snapped.
“Leah, that is a shameful thing to say!”
“You always defend her! So does Henry! Everyone loves her best. If she's so innocent, then why did the sheriff try to arrest her in the first place?” Tears threatened to spill down her plump cheeks. Her eyes grew puffy and narrow when she blinked the salty droplets back.
“Someone tried to make it look as though she were guilty. That awful gun Amos bought her was used to kill him. One of her gloves was found lying beside his body.”
Leah had begun to stir an extra lump of sugar into her cold tea as he spoke. The spoon dropped from her fingers with a clatter. Her face turned the color of old parchment, and her skin looked just as stiff and wrinkled. She swallowed and looked around the room, frantically, like a wild creature caught in a trap.
“Leah, child, what is it?” Ephraim took his daughter in his arms and held her as she rocked back and forth, sobbing desperately.
* * * *
Carson City