Broken Vows

by Shirl Henke

  Horace “Shanghai” Sheffield had spent his youth in the China trade dealing in opium. When he made his fortune and entered politics, he made much of the former fact and totally buried the latter. He was now an elder statesman. In recent years, he had begun to contemplate retirement from the Senate to enjoy the money he had made from imparting misery and death. But he found that the cycle of busts and bonanzas on the Comstock had dissipated his fortunes even more quickly than opium wasted its victims.

  His frivolous and expensive young wife had done her share to deplete his wealth. In fact, she was in San Francisco spending more money right now. But his risky mining speculations and dealings with dangerous men like Stephan Hammer and bumblers like Hiram Bascomb had him pacing the floor late at night. He raised one shaggy brow and fixed the always sweating weasel Bascomb with his most intimidating glare. “You're positive Hobart gave those papers to Madigan?”

  “He told me so—and you know he's always been right.”

  Sheffield cursed. “And now when Madigan has everything he needs to ruin us, that bungling flunky Pritkin goes and gets himself shot! We've got to get our hands on every scrap of information Hobart gave Patrick Madigan.”

  “Well, er...that might be difficult. He placed everything in his safety deposit box in the First National Bank.”

  “Then, we have to get rid of those damn Madigans immediately. They're becoming more of a liability than Amos ever was.”

  Sheffield leaned back in his big leather chair and steepled his fingers as Bascomb sat across from him trembling like the miserable worm he was. Possibly, it was time to get rid of this weak link, too. He needed to discuss it with Stephan and—

  A hard-looking gunman barged into his private office, interrupting their clandestine meeting.

  “Who the hell are you?” Sheffield asked, inspecting the big man's fancy Colt and unshaven visage. A shock of greasy yellow hair hung across his low forehead, and pencil-thin dark eyebrows drew together over opaque light eyes. Killer's eyes.

  His uninvited guest smiled evilly, revealing dull yellow teeth. In a rusty-sounding voice, he replied, “Your business associate hired me to dispose of a couple of problems for you.” He closed the door, then looked at Bascomb with eyes as dead and cold as a three-day-old fish. “Who's this?”

  Bascomb daubed at his brow and upper lip with his handkerchief. “I'm Hiram Bascomb, President of the Greater Sacramento Trust Bank.” He tried to sound authoritative, but his voice broke.

  Sheffield turned to Bascomb. “Pay a visit to your dear friend Sam Pfeiffer at First National in the morning. See what you can do about getting those papers from Madigan's box.”

  “But—”

  “Don't argue, Hiram. Just do it.” Once Bascomb had sidled out of the room, Shanghai turned to the gunman. “Hammer sent you?”

  “I've done a few jobs for him over the years.”

  “You got a name?” Sheffield asked sourly. Damn, this man made him sweat!

  “Yeah. But it don't matter. What does is the Madigan boys. Patrick got away, but his baby brother's back in town.”

  Sheffield squinted his beetle brows together. “Rory Madigan—here?”

  “Rode in this afternoon and took a room at the Ormsby House. Right after, he paid a call on the federal marshal.”

  Shanghai was sweating in earnest now. “That means you don't have much time.”

  “Don't need much time. I was told you'd have my money ready soon as the job was done.” The killer grinned at the senator. “Five thousand for each brother, the younger one first.” He dared the old man to argue.

  Sheffield did not, although it infuriated him that Hammer would stick him with paying the assassin. It was just like that bastard to handle things this way. “You stop Rory Madigan from getting to that safety deposit box. Bring me the key.” He smiled thinly. Maybe, this would make things a little easier. The killer nodded and started to leave, but Sheffield stopped him as he reached for the doorknob. “I have more work for you.”

  “Bascomb?”

  “Bascomb for openers. Get rid of him and Madigan. After that, I want you to take care of someone else…

  * * * *

  Rory watched the deputy marshal hand a furiously protesting Stephan Hammer over to an amazed Sheriff Sears, who put him under lock and key. Prior to checking into the hotel that afternoon, the younger Madigan had made a furtive visit to the First National Bank by the back door. There he had met the governor and the state's attorney. Together they had gone over the evidence stored in Patrick's safety deposit box. Warrants were issued for the arrest of all the conspirators involved in the mining fraud—Hammer, Sheffield, Bascomb, and half-a-dozen lesser men on the Nevada-California state line.

  “We won't get anything out of Hammer,” Rory said to the marshal. “He has friends in Washington who will most likely save him.”

  “So does ole Senator Sheffield,” the marshal replied. His deputy nodded in agreement.

  “This here whole thing is crazy, you ask me,” August Sears interjected, even though no one had.

  “Just keep watch on our illustrious guest,” Rory replied. Turning to the marshal, he said, “I think we should pay a midnight call on the Senator.”

  His young deputy chuckled. “That old boy will sure be pissed. At his age, he needs all the beauty sleep he can get.”

  The three of them departed, leaving a bewildered Sheriff Sears to attend to the strident cries of the undersecretary issuing from the rear cell in the Ormsby County jail.

  As they headed to the Sheffield mansion, Rory realized that the more he tasted of it, the less he cared for his long-sought vengeance. Rebekah and Michael were of far more concern to him. What could he say to convince her to trust him, to give their marriage a chance? Yet as he thought of her, he kept returning to the evidence planted at the scene of Amos' murder.

  Who among the conspirators wanted not only Wells dead but Rebekah out of the way? Something just did not add up. At least Patrick is with them. They 're safe.

  * * * *

  After leaving Senator Sheffield's office, the gunman headed to the rendezvous he had planned with his employer in a cheap hotel on the outskirts of the city. He knocked and was admitted to the dingy interior.

  “You were right,” the killer said without preamble. “Sheffield plans to double-cross you.”

  “You know what to do, Kelso,” his boss replied.

  The gunman slipped out into the night, moving with amazing stealth for a man of his size. Within ten minutes, he was climbing in the kitchen window of the Senator's mansion. Locating the old goat should not prove difficult. I can just follow the sounds of his snoring, he thought with a sneer. He moved soundlessly down the hall and into the front foyer, then climbed the thickly carpeted spiral stairs to the master suite. Pausing outside the door, he withdrew a wicked-looking knife from his belt, then turned the brass knob with a low click.

  As Rory and the federal officers crossed the grounds of Sheffield's place, they heard a bellow of rage coming from inside.

  “I'll take the back door—you, Billy, take the front door,” the marshal commanded.

  Without waiting for instructions, Rory headed for the big glass doors at the west side of the mansion. By breaking a windowpane, he let himself in more quickly than the marshal and deputy who pounded for entry, then waited for sleepy servants to admit them. Madigan took the stairs two at a time, nearly knocking the elderly butler over as he passed him. With his gun drawn, he slipped up to the open door of Shanghai's bedroom suite and peered inside.

  One gaslight was barely lit, casting eerie shadows around the room, which was in shambles. Senator Sheffield had put up quite a fight. The pier table was overturned and two lamps were shattered across the thick Turkey carpet, which greedily soaked up the blood pouring from an evil slash across Sheffield's throat. He lay in a grotesque sprawl with a gun clutched in his hand.

  “Tough old buzzard,” the deputy said, coming up behind Rory.

  “Not tough enoug
h. He was awake. I imagine that surprised his assassin,” Rory replied, his eyes sweeping the scene for signs of the killer.

  “He's the one who looks surprised,” the deputy said, studying the strange grimace on the old politician's face as he knelt beside the body.

  Rory was already sprinting down the hall. He could hear sounds of a struggle coming from the rear of the house. When he reached the kitchen, he saw a big man running out the back door. The marshal was slumped on one knee, holding on to a table, shaking his head doggedly. The servants had all vanished.

  “Are you all right?” Rory examined the grizzled lawman's body for signs of injury.

  “He just used his Colt to club me aside the head. Go after him, Madigan.”

  “Right, but send your deputy to arrest Bascomb right away! I have a feeling he's next on the list; and he's our weak link—the one who'll talk once he's in jail and frightened!”

  As the marshal nodded, Rory took off out the door after the assassin.

  A dim quarter moon sent small slivers of light to illuminate the dark grounds. A dense stand of pines obscured his view to the north. Rory stood still in the backyard and listened, then heard the crunch of gravel near the senator's orchard. He started running as fast as he could in the darkness. Moving swiftly through the trees, he sighted a shadowy figure ahead of him. As the killer turned and fired, Rory dove for the protection of a fallen log. The slug missed him by inches.

  Rory returned the shot, but it was too late. The killer had disappeared among the peach trees. Madigan followed cautiously, using the shadows for cover. Then, he heard the click of a hammer being cocked and spun around just in time to see the flash of the blast.

  * * * *

  The Flying W Ranch

  Early the following morning, Rebekah awakened with the sun. She sat in her big, empty bedroom, staring out the window at the dawn. She had scarcely slept the night before, tossing and turning in the cold, lonely bed—as if spending one night in Rory's arms had made her unable to rest without him! She rubbed her aching head and gazed out, seeing nothing.

  Everything in her life had changed with Amos' death. He would never again threaten her or Michael. “I suppose Papa was right about how we break the commandments. I've certainly murdered Amos in my heart a thousand times. And I would’ve pulled the trigger without hesitation if he had ever touched Michael.”

  But that part of their lives was over and done. Now, she was Rory Madigan's wife, and that fact presented a whole new set of problems. What might they have said to each other yesterday morning if Patrick had not interrupted them? “If only I weren't so vulnerable.” If only you weren't so in love with him, an inner demon tormented her.

  Yet there was a chance that he loved her, too, now that he knew she had not deserted him for Amos' wealth and position. Perhaps, he could forgive her and even her family for their prejudices, although in her heart she doubted it. She would still have to choose between him and her father.

  “Don't be a fool, Rebekah. He hasn't asked you to convert. He doesn't want to marry you in church,” she chided herself. The memories of their wedding night rushed back to her—the passion, the wild, incredible pleasure he had given her. But that very pleasure had brought out a wanton response in her that revealed her weakness. She could still see the gleam of predatory male satisfaction that blazed in those dark blue eyes after he had brought her to that singular climax and she lay open and vulnerable before he took her again.

  He had placed his mark on her for all time. She would always love him, whether or not he still loved her. But that was of secondary importance. The innocent victim in all this was Michael. She would never let anyone use her son again, not even his own father.

  As if the thought had summoned him, Michael came running through her bedroom door with a squeal of delight. Although he did not know Amos was dead, the boy was relaxing, acting like a normal child, as if he could sense that the fearful authority figure had been removed.

  “Mama! Remember, you promised. You and Patsy and Mr. Madigan were going to take me on a picnic out by the pond today!” Excitement danced in his eyes as he jumped onto the bed and into her open arms.

  She squeezed him to her, and this time he did not protest, but returned the hug with gusto. He senses that he's free. Rebekah tousled his hair and forced down the lump in her throat. “I imagine we can have that picnic, but I'm not certain if your...that is, if Mr. Madigan can come along.” She had almost said “your uncle!”

  “Aw. I really like him—almost as much as his brother, the other Mr. Madigan. Rory. That's an Irish name, isn't it, Mama?”

  “Yes, son, it is.”

  “Grandpa doesn't like Irishmen—or at least he didn't used to—but he likes Patsy. Is that because she's a lady?”

  Rebekah smiled sadly. “Maybe your grandpa has changed his mind about Irish people.” He loves you, and he’s always known you're Rory's son.

  Refusing to worry about what was ahead, Rebekah seized the promise of the bright new day. “Let's get washed up and dressed. We'll have some breakfast, then we'll see about packing up a picnic lunch.”

  Michael grimaced at the prospect of morning toilette, but quickly brightened when he remembered his new treasure. “Can I ride Snowball?”

  “Of course, he's your very own pony. Let's get cleaned up.”

  “Yuk.” The boy sighed but wriggled from the bed and headed resignedly to the washroom down the hall with his mother behind him.

  When they came downstairs, Rebekah heard conversation in the front parlor. She recognized Henry's voice and then Patrick Madigan's.

  Henry's tone was guarded and hostile. “I was concerned about Rebekah and Michael. They vanished suddenly with your brother. When Ephraim told me that she and Rory—”

  “Good morning, Henry,” Rebekah quickly interrupted before her brother-in-law blurted out that she and Rory were married. She had spent the past day trying to decide how she could explain that fact to her son. “I'm so happy you're here. I know Papa was concerned for Michael, but everything will work out all right, given time.” Her eyes implored him to drop the subject of her marriage as she held on to Michael's shoulder, ushering him into the parlor in front of her.

  Henry gave her a relieved smile. “I'm certain it will, Rebekah,” he replied gently, reaching down to pat his nephew on the head. “Morning, Michael.”

  “Good morning, Uncle Henry,” the boy replied politely. “We're going on a picnic,” he added, turning from his uncle to Patrick, working up the courage to invite his new friend to join them.

  “Why don't you head to the kitchen and see if Patsy and the cook have started frying chicken for our basket?” Rebekah shooed the boy off down the hall, then turned to Patrick and Henry, who stood like two fighters about to square off in the prize ring.

  “I came as soon as I could, Rebekah. What the hell have you done, marrying that bastard? He probably murdered Amos just to get control of the boy.”

  “Now I'd be watchin' what I say, bucko,” Patrick said, stepping menacingly forward. His soft brogue only heightened the threat radiating from his tall, lean body.

  Rebekah stepped between the two big men. “Will you both stop this bravado at once,” she commanded in a steady voice. Heavens above, the last thing she needed was for Henry and Patrick to have a brawl! Men could be such idiots at times. “My reasons for marrying Rory are my own, Henry, and to even think he would shoot Amos the way the sheriff described is ridiculous. Rory Madigan is many things, but a cold-blooded killer is not one of them. We all have to think of Michael,” she added as a reminder to them both that their nephew was just down the hall.

  Henry sighed and ran blunt fingers through his thick brown hair. “I'm sorry, Rebekah. It's just that this whole thing is such a shock. Your father made it clear that Madigan blackmailed you into marrying him. You don't have to stay with him. I'll help you—”

  “You'll be stayin' out of it and lettin' Rebekah and Rory settle it between themselves, is what you'll be doin',�
� Patrick interjected.

  “I appreciate your concern, Henry, but Patrick is right. Rory is my husband now, and we'll have to work out our differences. He has a right to know his own son.”

  “You haven't told Michael?” Henry asked, aghast.

  Rebekah shook her head. “He doesn't know Amos is dead or that Rory and I are married. We have to think through how to explain everything to him.” Her eyes met Henry's levelly. “You know Michael had no reason to feel close to Amos. I don't think his death will be as much a blow as...other things.”

  “He already loves Rory. I could tell it by the way he talked about him all day yesterday,” Patrick said. “It's natural, Snead.”

  “If he's such a loving father, then why isn't he here with his boy?” Henry asked.

  “Rory has important business in the capital,” Patrick began cautiously.

  “And you want to join him, I know,” Rebekah said. “Go, Patrick. Michael and I will be safe here. Henry could stay with us.” She turned to her brother-in-law. “That is, if you have time?”

  “Of course. I came out to see if you were all right and to tell you I authorized Former’s Mortuary to prepare Amos' body. Under the circumstances, I thought a private service would be best. We can return to Carson tomorrow to take care of that. Amos has a bevy of lawyers to handle his estate. I expect that when they get it straightened out, they'll be in touch. Meanwhile, there are two new stud bulls down at the barn that I should check on and there's always plenty of paperwork for the Flying W that Amos has no doubt left in arrears,” Henry replied.

  Patrick looked from Snead to Rebekah. Her expression was one of implicit trust, perhaps relief, that a member of her family had come to help her. He disliked Snead; but even though the man had worked for Wells, there had been nothing in the evidence to implicate him in the deadly dealings with the conspirators. In fact, when Wells and Sheffield were arranging the blast that killed Ryan, Snead had not yet met either man. Patrick was too close to Rory, and his friendship with his new sister-in-law was too fragile to presume she would prefer his company over Henry Snead's.