by Shirl Henke
Rory nodded at the old man, who looked so broken and defeated. He's losing a daughter and two grandsons, and he's afraid I'll cost him Rebekah and Michael too. “Ephraim, we need to make a new beginning.” The reverend's eyes met his with surprise, and perhaps hope.
“I want that very much, but first there is something I have to—”
“Rory—Papa! Michael's gone!” Rebekah came running into the kitchen, her face pale and distraught. “He must've awakened early and dressed by himself. Patsy thought he might have come downstairs.”
“Maybe he's out with Joe gathering eggs,” Ephraim said.
The three headed out the back door just as the fat old cook was waddling up the porch steps, egg basket clutched in one meaty red fist.
“Have you seen Michael?’ Rory asked.
Joe scratched his shiny pate. “‘Bout half hour 'er so ago. He come into the kitchen. I give him some carrots fer his pony. He'd been cryin' 'n didn't say much. Just that he wanted ta talk ta Snowball. Is everthin' all right?”
Rebekah gasped and looked at Rory. “What if he overheard us arguing?”
Rory's face was grim. If the child only heard the first part of their conversation, how might he have interpreted it? “I'll check the corral. Rebekah, you and your father search around the grounds.”
Within minutes they had discovered that the boy and his pony were both missing. “But how could he have ridden off bareback?” Rebekah asked incredulously, wringing her hands.
“He's a natural with horses. It's in the Madigan blood,” Rory replied as he threw a saddle on Lobsterback. “I have the hands all searching. He can't have gotten far, Rebekah. Don't worry. We'll have him back safe in a little while.” He swung up on the big bay and headed out.
Ephraim put his arm around Rebekah’s trembling shoulders.
“We were arguing about how to tell him...about Amos...and that Rory is his real father,” she said haltingly.
Reading between the lines, Ephraim knew there was more. “Rory knows what I did, Rebekah. He figured it out as soon as he learned why you were forced to wed Amos,” he said gently. “I committed a terrible, unforgivable sin.” His voice was raw with anguish as she turned to him.
“Oh, Papa, you of all people, a minister of the Lord, know there's no such thing as an unforgivable sin.” She placed her arms around his waist and hugged him.
“The Lord forgives, but can you? I caused so much pain when I destroyed those letters. You all paid the price for old hurts and hates that I've let fester inside since my youth.”
“Don't, Papa. It's over and done with now. You made a mistake, but you did it out of love for me. You were...misguided, perhaps, but you always wanted me to be happy. You tried to protect me, I know that. Rory and I talked it over. He said he'd forgive you, too.”
“Yes, I believe he will. I've misjudged Rory Madigan. He was the man for you all along, wasn't he, Rebekah?”
She smiled through her tears. “Yes. And now that we're back together, we'll be a real family, and you're part of it, too. If only we can find a way to explain to Michael,” she said as worry rushed over her again. “With the wind up, there are no tracks for the men to follow. Where could he have gone?”
A sudden light flashed in Ephraim's eyes. “Rebekah, I may know! There's a place where I took him a few times. We called it our special place. Let me try—” He hugged her, then rushed out to where his shabby old buggy stood and climbed aboard it.
Rebekah could not bear to stay behind, but if Michael should return home, someone had to be there waiting for him. “Oh, please, Lord, please keep my son safe,” she prayed more fervently than she ever had in her life as she watched her father drive off.
Ephraim took the old road across the ranch that headed southwest toward Wellsville. Ever since Michael had stayed with him as a very little boy, the two of them had shared a special hiding place that Ephraim had discovered years earlier. It was in pretty rough foothills, so he had not felt the cave was suitable for girls. Leah would have hated it, but now he realized that Rebekah would have been delighted with it. Leaving the buggy at the edge of the rocks, he began the climb up.
By the time he reached the summit by the small, shallow cave overlooking the valley, Ephraim was sweating in the morning heat. Snowball stood patiently at the entrance. The minister said a prayer of thanks as he called his grandson's name.
He found Michael sitting on the cool floor of the cave by the old, burned-down ashes of their long-ago campfires. “Would you mind some company, son?” he asked as the boy rubbed a grimy little hand across his eyes.
“Hi, Grandpa. I sort of guessed you'd find me.”
“Maybe you hoped it'd be me,” Ephraim said as he sat down beside the boy and they gazed out on the valley spread below them. The view was spectacular, but he knew the boy was thinking only of his parents.
“I guess I did. I don't know.” He scratched circles in the dirt with a stick, refusing to look up into his beloved grandfather's eyes.
“You want to talk about why you ran away?” Ephraim prodded gently.
“They were fighting—over me. He's my father, not Amos Wells, isn't he?” He dared to meet his grandpa's kindly hazel-green eyes, and the old man nodded.
“Yes, son. He's your pa.”
“But Mama married Amos Wells. He never liked me. I could tell. I don't think anyone likes me. All I do is cause trouble. They were yelling at one another. It was all my fault.” Michael began to hiccup, and Ephraim put his arms around the boy.
“No, no, son. It wasn't your fault at all. Sometimes, even people who love each other have arguments.”
“If they love each other, then why didn't they get married? Why'd he leave us?”
Ephraim steeled himself to do the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life. “He didn't leave you, son. He went to Denver to earn enough money so he and your mother could get married. But then...” His voice broke and he hugged Michael. “Some very bad things happened, and in part I was responsible.”
Ephraim told the boy the whole story about how Amos Wells and Henry Snead had conspired to keep Rebekah from marrying Rory and how he himself had destroyed the letters the boy's father sent to his mother. When Ephraim finished the rest of the story leading up to the near-tragic events of the preceding day, he was trembling. He looked down into the small, trusting face of his grandson.
Michael digested all the incredible facts for several moments. Finally, he said, “Then my father was mad at you because you didn't give Mama his letters. He wasn't mad at me?”
“No, Michael, he's never been angry with you. He loves you very much—and your mother, too.”
“Is that why they got married?” he asked innocently. Any idea of lack of propriety in Rebekah's sudden remarriage was lost on the boy.
“Yes, son. That's why.”
“If they aren't mad at me, do you think they're mad at you?”
“I deserve it, Michael; but no, they've forgiven me for a terrible mistake and I'm grateful. But above everyone else, you're the one I should beg forgiveness of.” His thin, gnarled hand caressed the boy's face, searching.
Michael threw his arms around the old man's stooped shoulders. “Oh, Grandpa, I could never be mad at you!”
Ephraim Sinclair closed his eyes tightly, squeezing out the tears as he hugged his grandson and offered a fervent prayer of thanks for the Lord's goodness shown through this small child.
* * * *
Rory was making one last sweep to the southeast when he saw the carriage with Snowball tied to the back of the battered old rig. He tore across the dusty ground to meet Ephraim and his son. “Where did you find him?”
“Pa?” Michael asked uncertainly as his father leaped from his horse and reached for the boy.
“Yes, Michael, I'm here, I'm here,” Rory said as he hugged Michael.
“I told him everything, Rory,” Ephraim said quietly. “He'd overheard a small bit of your argument with Rebekah and misunderstood. Now, he knows the rea
l reason why you've been separated until now.”
Rory nodded with respect as he met his father-in-law's forthright gaze. “Thank you, Ephraim. I think from now on things are going to be fine for all of us. Is there room enough in that old rig for three?”
The old man grinned. “Tie that big red devil to the back with Snowball and climb aboard.”
* * * *
Patrick was up and about by dinnertime that evening, and Doc Marston pronounced him well enough to travel by train the next day. Ephraim bid Rebekah, Rory, and Michael goodbye, promising to visit them at their new home in Eagle Valley. He headed for Leah's place to help her and the boys prepare for their journey east.
Bright and early the next day, Patrick departed for the train station in Reno. He would return to Carson and see the end of the Madigans' quest for justice.
Rory took his wife and son, along with Patsy Mulcahey, and rode away from the Flying W for the last time. They were leaving all the sad and bitter memories of the past behind them. The big ranch with its garish house would be sold as soon as a buyer could be found. They stopped at Leah's for a very strained and brief farewell between the sisters.
That night, two doting parents tucked their son in his new bed in his new room at their very own home—a home, Rory explained carefully, in which Michael would spend the rest of his childhood. No more governesses or boarding schools, ever again. He would attend the Eagle Valley public school just like all the rest of the local children.
“Tomorrow, can I ride Snowball bareback again? I kinda liked that,” he said sleepily.
Rory looked at Rebekah's worried expression and chuckled. “Well, I expect it might be better if you used a saddle for a little while yet—unless of course, I'm with you to catch you in case you fall.”
“Aw, I won't fall. I didn't yesterday....” Then he looked up at the ceiling, having just finished saying his prayers and added, “Well, only one time. But I'll practice real hard if you'll teach me, Pa.”
Rebekah ruffled his hair as Rory chuckled. “I'll teach you, son.”
They tiptoed from his room and down the hall to their own spacious master suite. The ranch house, like his place in Virginia City, was decorated in a bold masculine style with heavy, rough-hewn furniture and polished hardwood floors. Although everything was done in impeccably good taste, from the Argon lamps to the silk wallpaper, Rebekah decided it needed a woman's touch.
“Your home is beautiful, Rory,” she said when he closed the bedroom door.
“After I commissioned the architects to build it, I was never very interested in it. At first, it was just another symbol of success. Success! What a joke. I was alone and the place was so damn big.
“You're not alone anymore,” she whispered, coming into his arms.
“Maybe, I built it for you and could never admit it to myself. It's your home, now, Rebekah. Do what you want with it.”
“I want to live in it, to put down roots.”
He grinned. “How about planting a garden? I was thinking of a cabbage patch and some pumpkins...”
She pummeled him laughingly, and he scooped her up in his arms and whirled her around. “You're right, Rory. This is a big house, and Michael is just one little boy. How about filling the place up with brothers and sisters for him?’'
All laughter died as he framed her face with his hands and gazed into her eyes. “And for us. Nothing would make me happier.”
He kissed her softly, and she clung to him as he carried her to the big canopied bed, an exact match to the one in Virginia City in which they had spent their wedding night. This time there was no hesitation, no tension or fear, nothing to hide from one another. They loved and they trusted as they had in the glorious innocence of their youth that very first time they had exchanged vows.
He began by unfastening the small pearl buttons down the front of her dress, kissing her skin as he peeled away the soft fabric. “You're so pale and delicate from city life. I want you all golden, the way you were when we first met.”
She chuckled, her own hands busy opening his shirt and massaging that wonderful black hair on his chest. “You want the mud from the cabbage patch too?”
He nuzzled her ear. “I want whatever you want,” he whispered into it. By this time he had the pink batiste dress in a puddle at her feet and was busily engaged in unfastening her lacy camisole and petticoats.
“You know what I want, Irishman,” she whispered. Her lips grazed his shoulder as she slid his shirt off, pausing carefully over his injury. She pressed her lips to the scars that marked his body, beginning with that most recent one. He had the tapes of her petticoats undone, and his hands cupped her small, rounded derrière as he pulled her pantalets over her hips. He took the tip of one delicate breast in his mouth and suckled on it until she arched against him and moaned, pulling his head closer.
Rory lifted her and placed her on top of the bed before stepping away long enough to shed his boots and slide off his breeches. He could feel her eyes on him, devouring his body. “Wanton little witch,” he breathed as he lowered himself into her open arms.
They rolled across the bed, kissing and caressing as their bodies melded together, arms and legs entwined. Then, he rolled her on top of him so her hair fell around him in a glorious, rich golden curtain. She leaned forward, and their mouths met in a deep, slow, probing kiss. Their tongues danced, tracing outlines across the other's lips, then plunged deeply, entwining, thrusting, tasting.
His hands cupped her breasts, and his thumbs circled and teased her hard pebbly nipples. She writhed frantically, arching into his hands as frissons of pleasure lanced through her body, settling low in her belly. He broke off the kiss and raised his head to suckle one pearly globe suspended like ripe fruit before his hungry eyes. She let him feast for several moments, savoring the heat of his mouth moving from one breast to the other. When she could bear the sweet torture no longer, she rose, pressing her palms against his chest and arching her back so her hair fell behind her, brushing against the hard, pulsing length of his phallus. She shook her head, and the weight of her long mane teased his rigid staff until he gasped aloud in a mixture of curses that were really endearments.
His hands pushed up against her breasts, causing her to throw her head back even further. She looked like some Valkyrie, pagan and glorious. “Where did you learn that, you inventive little tease?” he muttered breathlessly as he slid his hands down from her breasts to her hips. He raised her and arched into the soft, wet heat of her body, impaling her slowly, watching the expression of rapture wash over her face as he completed their joining.
Rory guided the rhythm in slow, lush strokes, holding her hips cupped in his hands. They stared deeply into each other's eyes, communicating in the sweet intimacy of sex and love. Gradually, the tempo increased as the pleasure built to a molten inferno. Sweat sheened their bodies in the warm night air.
Rebekah buried her fingers in the hair on his chest. Her hands glided up to his shoulders, then framed his face. He took her hair, wrapping it around his fists, and pulled her to him. They licked and tasted of each other's skin, letting their lips caress, coming nearer and nearer until they met in a hard, hungry kiss. She was out of control now, spiraling ever upward into the ecstasy that seized her and would not let go. She felt his staff swell and pulse deep within her, spewing his hot seed against her womb as he shuddered and cried out her name. The waves of her release gradually subsided and she collapsed onto him, limp and utterly satiated.
Rory wrapped his arms around her and stroked the silken curtain of her hair, breathing in the scent of lemon combined with the musky warmth from their lovemaking. She brushed his face and throat with soft, lethargic little kisses.
“This is the way we were, darlin'. When we first vowed our love to each other in your father's orchard,” he murmured.
“Only it's better now, more complete. We're both grown up. We've learned to understand, to forgive. I feel a communion with you beyond anything I felt ever before.” She rai
sed her head and gazed into his eyes, trying to read their dark blue depths.
He caressed her cheek. “I felt it, too. Ah, Rebekah, we have the best of it all now and the rest of our lives to enjoy it.”
A few moments later, as she lay against his chest listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, he murmured, “I have something for you.”
She pressed a soft kiss against his chest and whispered, “I think I can already guess what.”
He chuckled wickedly. “That, too, but there is something else.” When she began to wriggle over him, he forgot what it was as the sweetness of their love obliterated all words, all conscious thought.
Much later, as Rebekah dozed, Rory gently disentangled himself and tucked the sheets about her, then pulled on a robe and crossed the big room, stopping in front of an oil painting on the wall. He pressed the frame and it swung forward, revealing a safe.
As he opened it and withdrew a small object, Rebekah awakened and watched with a puzzled expression on her face. When he turned back to her, she scooted up to the edge of the big rumpled bed and sat lost in the tangle of covers. He knelt down in front of her and offered her the box.
“I bought these eight years ago in Denver,” he said simply.
Rebekah opened the velvet lid with trembling hands and gazed at the exquisite rings nestled inside. One was a beautiful square-cut emerald engagement ring and its mate a heavy, braided-gold band. Inside the wedding ring was engraved, “Rebekah and Rory, forever love.” Tears filled her eyes as she whispered, “You brought these with you to Wellsville when you came back for me.”
He nodded as he took them from the box and slipped them on her finger. “I wanted to throw them away at first, but I never could. Then, I vowed they would be a reminder of the revenge I'd one day take against you and Amos. I really kept them for now, only I never knew it until these past few days. You are, you always have been, you always will be my wife, Rebekah.”
“Oh, Rory, and you my only husband, forever.” She leaned forward, and their lips met briefly. Then, he held her hand as she raised it for the rings to catch the light. Clasping his hand in both of hers she brought it to her lips and said in a low, almost hesitant voice, “There is one thing I would ask...”