by Shirl Henke
“It's my duty to offer what I can easily afford. After all, we're family now.” He met Sinclair's eyes and read resignation and acceptance in them. This was not the time to push for a showdown with Rebekah’s family. He knew how hard it was for Rebekah and her father to accept Snead's crimes and how guilty Rebekah felt for killing him.
“I'll stay the night with Leah. I expect she'll be needing me. Will you be all right, Rebekah?” Ephraim studied her pale but composed face. She had always been the stronger of his girls.
“I'll be fine, Papa. Just take care of Leah and the boys.”
Rory put his arm around her waist proprietarily. “We can talk when everyone's up to it.” He and his wife watched as the reverend left in his small black buggy, heading for Leah's house.
Once Ephraim was gone, Rory turned to Rebekah. “I have to deliver Kelso to the sheriff in Wellsville along with Snead's satchel full of money and securities. It'll be safer locked up in town until the marshal from Carson can come for it. I'll bring Doc Marston back here to look at my brother.” He smiled at Rebekah's muddy, disheveled appearance. “I think you should relax in a big tub of hot water and soak off that medicinal mud while I'm gone.”
She sniffed him. “Look who's talking. Are you certain you can ride that far with that wound reopened?”
“I'm fine. As I said, it's just a scratch. Patrick's the one to worry about.”
“At least let me rewrap it with clean linens,” she protested.
“No time. It's getting dark already. Clean yourself up, then look in on my brother. I'll be back as soon as I can.”
“At least take one of the hands with you. Even tied on a horse, I don't trust Kelso.” She shuddered, just thinking of the big brute Rory had beaten into submission with his bare hands.
“All the fight's out of him for a while,” Rory replied grimly.
“I never believed I'd be grateful that you were a boxer, but I was this afternoon.” Without being aware of it, she raised her hand and brushed one of his mud-smeared cheeks tenderly.
Rory grinned in that old cocky way she remembered from eight years ago. “He never laid a mitt on me.” He took her hand and moved it to his lips, placing a warm, soft kiss in her palm. “Take care of yourself. I'll be back as soon as I can.” He pulled her against him for a long, thorough kiss, then headed for the door.
As she watched him ride away, Rebekah realized that there was much left unsaid and unsettled between them. He had legally claimed his son. Now, with Amos' financial empire crumbling, she and her whole family were beholden to her husband. He said it was his duty to care for Leah and her boys. But Rebekah did not want to be just another duty to Rory Madigan. Her pride simply could not bear it. She had spent eight years as one man's ornament. Never again. She wanted to be Rory's wife.
“No, you want more. Admit it. You want to be his love, not just his wife. You want the three of us to be a real family,” she whispered, hugging herself. Dare she hope that he wanted the same things? No matter what her heart's desire, she would not risk Michael becoming an innocent pawn in a struggle between his parents. She had protected him from Amos. She would protect him from Rory if need be.
Rebekah had not missed the silent exchange earlier between her husband and her father. Rory still felt Ephraim was involved in their separation eight years ago. What if it was true? After all the shock and losses he had suffered, Rebekah could not turn away from her father, even if he was guilty. Would Rory ask that of her?
Someday you'll have to choose, Rebekah.
She was too weary to think straight. Rebekah went to the kitchen and asked the cook to heat water for her bath. Tomorrow would be time enough to face the future.
When Rory returned with Doc Marston, it was nearly midnight. The physician examined Patrick, then said he had a mild concussion which should not prevent him from returning to Carson City in a few days, even returning by train all the way home to his family in San Francisco within the week.
Once assured his brother was safe, Rory slipped into Michael's room to check on his son.
When he emerged, Rebekah was waiting in the hallway.
“I've had a bath drawn for you. When you're through, I'll rewrap your shoulder.”
“Doc already looked at it.” He shrugged, then smiled at her. “But I'll not turn down your medical attention. Bring your supplies to our bedroom, wherever that is.”
She wet her lips nervously. “Rory, I think it wise if we don't sleep together until we've had a chance to explain to Michael—”
“Michael's fast asleep. He won't know a thing. But I won't deceive him, Rebekah. I'm your husband and his father. He deserves the truth.”
“He's a little boy! How can you expect him to take all this in—the man he thought was his father is dead, me remarried, you appearing suddenly as his real father?” Her voice had taken on a hysterical edge. “We have to settle things between us first before we involve Michael.”
“There's nothing to settle,” he said firmly, taking her by her shoulders. “You're my wife, and we both could use a good night's sleep.”
She sighed in defeat. “All right, but...please, let it be anywhere but the master suite. I can't bear—”
“Obviously,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “I don't relish Amos' ghost hovering over us as we sleep.” He tipped her chin up and brushed her lips with his, softly.
She waited in a guest bedroom across the hall from where Patrick slept. It was small but had a good-sized bed with clean linens. Doc Marston left her a supply of fresh bandages and ointment for tending to Rory's injury. If the old Wellsville physician had any thoughts regarding her hasty marriage to Amos Wells' foe, he kept them to himself. Rebekah was certain few others would be so disinclined to gossip.
Rory found her sitting nervously on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the medical supplies when he returned from his bath. She was wearing the same pale green robe she had taken to Virginia City on their wedding night. He smiled, remembering that she had never been given the opportunity to wear it then.
Rebekah felt his eyes on her before she saw him standing in the doorway. He had just come from his bath and was clad only in a pair of clean denims, barefooted and bare chested. His hair was still damp, and that one errant lock fell across his forehead as he leaned against the oak sash, his gaze dark and hungry. Heat suffused her body, staining her cheeks and pooling low in her belly. She could not meet his eyes, but was unable to keep her own from sweeping down his tall, half-naked form.
The angry red slash across his shoulder stood out from the other old wounds, long scarred over. The deep, puckered white one around his side just above the waistband of his pants must have been from the assassins Henry had sent to kill him in Denver. She shivered, thinking of how close he had come to dying in order to fulfill a cold-blooded killer's designs.
His lips curved into a quietly amused expression. “Like what you see?” He stepped into the room.
Rebekah shot up off the bed, the trance broken. “Your shoulder should be tended,” she said too quickly, her breath coming in unsteady little gasps. She ignored his innuendo and bent over the small bedside table where the bandages lay. “Sit down so I can look at it.”
“Seems you were doing a pretty fair job of looking from where I stood,” he replied as he obeyed her command. Her fingertips felt soft and cool as they spread the healing ointment across the throbbing flesh wound.
“It must be painful.”
“Doc hardly had to stitch it once he got the bleeding stopped. I've had worse.”
“Like this one?” Her hands grazed the big scar on his side. “Henry's men did that.”
He could hear the pain in her voice. “No more of the past, Rebekah. We've lost these years, but we have a chance to start over. You and I and Michael.”
She wrapped his shoulder carefully and tied off the strips, trying not to tremble when she touched him. “Rory...about Michael...”
“Shh. Not tonight. You've been through so much.” The
pads of his thumbs caressed the dark circles beneath her eyes. As she lowered her lashes, he kissed her eyelids tenderly, then began to unfasten the belt of her robe and slide it from her shoulders. “Just lie back and go to sleep.”
He tucked her in and put out the light, then peeled off his denims and climbed into the bed beside her. Gathering her into his arms, he curved his big warm body around hers and fell fast asleep. Lulled by the comfort of his presence, she too slipped into a deep, exhausted slumber.
* * * *
Rebekah awakened as she felt the tickle of whiskers brushing against her neck and shoulder. Then, Rory's warm lips began to trail soft kisses down the curve of her spine. When his hand reached over to unfasten the front of her nightgown and cup her breast, the last drugging vestiges of sleep vanished. Frissons of pleasure shot through her, making her feel languorous and willing to let him work his magic on her body. But with wakefulness came the realization also of where they were and all that had happened, and not happened, since their marriage.
She squirmed away from his grasp and scrambled free of the sheets, grabbing her robe from where he had thrown it on the floor beside the bed. Pulling it on, she felt better able to think clearly. “We have to talk, Rory.” But then she made the mistake of looking down at him as he reclined casually on the bed with the sheet barely covering his naked body. How bronzed and sinuous his flesh was against the whiteness of the bed linens. How blue and piercing his eyes as he stared at her, waiting for her to continue, arrogantly amused with her discomfiture.
“Michael could come searching for me any moment. We have to talk about him,” she began nervously, turning away from the disconcerting sight he presented.
Sighing, he slid from the bed and padded over to where his denims lay. He began to pull them on as he said, “What is there to say, Rebekah? You know we have to tell him the truth—Amos wasn't his father. I am. Do you really think the idea will make him unhappy?”
“I'm not certain,” she replied, wringing her hands as she paced. “He missed a father's love with Amos. But not liking the man he believed was his father is one thing. Finding out he's dead is another. And that I've married you so soon—it's all too complicated. He's only seven years old.”
“And a very bright, quick seven years, from what I've seen. He'll be all right, Rebekah. He'll trust me. But will you?” He studied her agitated figure, willing her to look at him.
She turned and met his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked defensively.
“You know,” he replied softly. “You're the one who's confused and afraid. Don't ascribe your own motives to your son. You still think it's possible that I could’ve deserted you when you were alone and pregnant, don't you?”
“No...I don't know what to think...”
“You mean you don't like the other alternative. If you admit I'm telling the truth, that when I was unable to return for you I wrote to you and explained, asked you to wait, then that means your parents—probably your beloved father—destroyed my letters.” He waited for her to confess her fears.
She whirled angrily, the pain of so many betrayals over the years clawing at her. “It always comes down to your stubborn Irish pride, doesn't it? You can never forgive my father for thinking you unworthy. You want me to choose—him or you. It isn't fair, Rory. My father and Henry were the only ones I could rely on before Amos was killed. They were my bulwark, my protection—they were there for Michael. Now Henry has betrayed me. And you want me to believe my father has betrayed me, too. I can't do it!”
“I want you to face the truth!” His bitterness broke through the patience he was struggling to maintain. “I lost seven years out of my son's life. I can't get those years back, but Michael will damn well know now that I am his father and I'm here to stay!”
“Even if he has to give up his grandpa to have you? You don't love your son half as much as you hate Ephraim Sinclair!”
“That's a bloody lie!”
Outside the bedroom door, Michael listened to his mama and Mr. Madigan argue. The sound of their rising voices had led him to the end of the hall in his search for her. Their exchange amazed and confused the boy. Surely Mr. Madigan, who had been so laughing and kind, would not hurt his mother. He knelt beside the keyhole and peered in.
They stood on opposite sides of a rumpled bed, she in her robe, he half naked. Could they have slept together in that big bed? Only married people did that, his friend Paul had said. Michael had always wondered why his father and Mama never slept together. But now, if Mama had slept with Mr. Madigan, he knew that was wrong. And they were arguing over him. Mr. Madigan said he was his son! And the man he believed was his father was dead!
Michael could not bear the angry words being hurled on the other side of the door. He had to get away. Mr. Madigan was angry with Mama and with Grandpa, too. And Mama was crying. Why had Mama married Amos Wells if Rory Madigan was his real father? Was it all his fault? He ran down the carpeted hall, away from the shouting. They were yelling at each other just as Mama and Father had—but no, Amos Wells was not really his father. Somehow, Michael knew that part was true. But it did matter if his real father was angry with him and Mama, too. All he could do, it seemed, was cause the grown-ups to argue.
He ran downstairs and into the kitchen, where the cook was busy beating biscuits for breakfast. The fat old man looked down at the boy and saw his tear-streaked face.
“Yew ‘pear to be a mite upset. Mebbe some fresh sweet milk 'n warm biscuits with honey'd help out,” Joe said kindly. His rheumy eyes squinted merrily and he smiled, revealing several missing teeth. Over the years since old Amos had married, Joe the cook had only laid eyes on the young master half a dozen times since Michael was old enough to be sent away to boarding school. Still, he guessed the boy must be upset to know his pa was dead, even if Wells had been a mean and neglectful man.
Michael didn't really feel hungry, but the sympathetic smile of the old man made him feel better. “I—I'd be much obliged for some biscuits. I could take them with me down to the corral. I'm going to see my pony,” he added, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve. Miss Ahern would scold, but he did not care.
“Reckon I kin fetch a few carrots fer yew ta feed ta yore pony. Mr. Madigan give him ta yew, didn't he?” Joe asked, seeing if the boy wanted to talk.
Michael's heart constricted as he remembered the angry stranger upstairs arguing with his mama. “Yeah, he did.”
“Yew miss yer pa?” Joe asked as he placed a small sack full of carrots on the table.
“No! I don't need a father,” the boy replied, grabbing the sack and heading for the back door. “I'm going to see Snowball.” With that, he was gone, leaving the old man scratching his shiny bald pate in puzzlement. Maybe, it was best to leave the boy to grieve with his pet for a while before awakening his mother.
Michael headed to the barn where Snowball was stabled. The saddle was too heavy for him, but he had learned how to bridle the pony. He'd seen other boys ride bareback and thought it looked like fun. But fun was the farthest thing from Michael's mind as he ran into Snowball's stall.
“Here boy, have a carrot,” he said. When Snowball was finished with the treat, Michael struggled with the bridle.
Upstairs in the ranch house, Rebekah and Rory faced each other, their angry epithets all spent now. He rounded the bed and reached out for her. She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly by her shoulders.
“This is no good, Rebekah. I don't want your father standing between us. Not after all we've survived just to be together. I love you. I want us to be a real family—you, me, and Michael. I'd like to have brothers and sisters for him, wouldn't you?” He waited with his heart on his sleeve.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, wanting desperately to throw herself into his arms. How long she had waited for this declaration. She read the earnest love in his eyes and knew he meant every word. “I love you, too, Rory. More than anything. I will choose you over my family if I must...but if my father did do
what you believe...couldn't you forgive him? It would mean so very much to me.”
He looked into the fathomless depths of her eyes and read the pain and the longing reflected in his own. “You've suffered more than I, Rebekah. You were the one who was forced into that nightmare of a marriage with Amos Wells. If you can forgive, how can I not?”
She could see the tears glistening in his eyes, and her heart turned over. “Oh, Rory, my love, tell me nothing will ever separate us again.” She melted against him.
He enfolded her in his arms, feeling the weight of the world drop from his shoulders. “Nothing will ever separate us from each other or Michael. We'll go slow explaining to him about Amos, about us. He's young and resilient. He'll accept, Rebekah.” In his heart, Rory prayed that the boy's self-righteous old grandfather would be half so willing. I'll meet him halfway. Hell, he'd do whatever it took and he knew it.
“Let's go see if Michael is awake,” she said at last and there was a joy, a new sense of freedom in her heart that she had not felt in years.
Just then, they heard the sound of a carriage pulling up in front. “That must be your father.” At the flash of concern in her eyes, he smiled and said, “Don't fret. I'll talk to him and make my peace, Rebekah. You see to Michael.” He kissed her softly, then headed downstairs, shrugging on the shirt he had borrowed from one of the hands to replace his own mud- and blood-stained clothes.
Ephraim was waiting in the kitchen, where he had just poured himself a cup of Joe's inky coffee. The old cook was out back gathering fresh eggs from his chickens for breakfast. The two men greeted each other warily as Rory helped himself to coffee also.
“How is Leah?” Rory asked.
Ephraim sighed. “She took it better than I expected. I guess she's suspected something was wrong for a long time now. She wants to take the boys and go back east to spend some time with my brother Manasseh and his family. They may decide to live there permanently. Leah has always put a lot of stock in what folks think. The scandal of Henry's killing Amos and all the rest...she wouldn't bear up well under that, not well at all.”