Broken Vows (16 page)

      
He seized a fistful of greasy yellow hair and forced her head down to his groin. “Get on with it, dammit!”

      
Annie began by stroking him with her hands, using every technique in her considerable repertoire; but she could quickly see that it was doing no good. He growled in frustration, his fists pounding the mattress. “Annie'll take care of ya, luv, never fear,” she crooned in a singsong voice, her breath hot on his staff. She took it into her mouth and began to ply it with teeth and tongue.

      
He let out a few whimpering moans as the old familiar sensations danced at the periphery of consciousness. Almost. He was almost there. His hips began to arch up, jerking convulsively in a desperate attempt to speed the process along.

      
Annie increased her efforts, lips and tongue busily at work. Her hands cupped his testicles and he let out a strangled sob and surged to life for one fleeting moment. Then, it was over. For that, at least, she was grateful.

      
“See, luv, I told you English Annie could do it for you,” she said. She rolled from the bed and began to dress, turning her back on him. The whore did not see the murderous look burning in his eyes as he watched the jiggle of her fleshy body.

* * * *

      
Henry Snead stood in the Flying W office, staring broodingly out the bay window at the vast empire of Amos Wells. The mountains were a hazy pinkish-gray on the distant horizon. The flat, grassy basin land shimmered in the afternoon heat as a zephyr blew in sudden gusts, stirring up dust and making the grass lie flat to the earth. He had been summoned by his employer and told by the housekeeper to wait in this lavishly appointed room.

      
Letting one large hand glide over the gold-embossed leather volumes that lined the wall, Henry thought about the future. He was general foreman now, and Wells had been pleased enough with his work to bring him into the management of his silver interests. Hard-rock miners and cowboys were not all that different to handle. All it took was a few brains and a lot of grit. Henry Snead possessed both. Someday, he would own a fancy house like this, and Leah would have all the silk dresses and fancy rigs she was always mooning about. Maybe, it was time to ask Wells for another raise. Maybe not. More stock might be a better idea. Yes, that was definitely a better idea. In a few years, Henry Snead planned to be a silver baron, too.

      
Wells entered the room, nodded affably to Snead, and motioned for him to have a seat. He slid into the big leather-upholstered chair behind his desk.

      
“You wanted to see me about something, Mr. Wells?”

      
Amos Wells steepled his fingers in front of his face, studying the younger man with cool, calculating gray eyes. “Yes. We've already discussed my calling on your sister-in-law.”

      
“Yes, sir, we did.”

      
“How does your wife feel about her sister becoming my wife?”

      
Snead suppressed the consternation he felt. He stroked his mustache, then said carefully, “Leah would be delighted to have you in the family, of course.”

      
“Apples never fall far from the tree. Rebekah and Leah are sisters. If I'm going to marry into the Sinclair family, I want to know what sort of people they are. Tell me about your wife. Is she biddable?”

      
Henry spread his hands over the smooth chair arms. “Leah's dutiful, a good cook and housekeeper, although I have hired a Johnny to do the heavy chores for her. Those Chinese work really cheap. That seemed to please Mrs. Sinclair. My mother-in-law always wanted help, but with her husband being a preacher, well, they just couldn't afford it.”

      
“So, the Sinclairs want better for their daughters, do they?”

      
“I expect all parents do,” Henry replied reasonably, keeping his voice noncommittal. The last thing he wanted to discuss was Leah! Or the way the sisters detested each other.

      
“Well, considering the limited circumstances in which the Sinclair daughters were raised, they should both appreciate the niceties that prosperous husbands can provide for them. You do see the obvious advantages of the two of us being brothers-in-law, Henry?” Amos asked gently.

      
“Yessir, that I certainly do. What exactly do you want me to do, Mr. Wells?” Henry asked, leaning forward in his chair.

      
Wells gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Not one to beat around the bush, are you, Henry? That's what I liked about you when I hired you. That and your ambition. You talk to your missus about her sister. Make sure she's using her influence to see that Rebekah is favorably disposed to my suit. I want a beautiful wife to take with me to Washington, and I'll be inclined to great generosity toward her family.”

      
“Generous enough to let me in on more mining investments?” Snead knew Wells was dangling a carrot in front of his nose, but damned if he'd go docilely along without bringing it out in the open.

      
Wells nodded solemnly. “Stock in the fastest-rising mining operations on the Comstock. Inside information for inside information, if you get my drift.

      
A smile of understanding was exchanged between the two men.

* * * *

Wellsville

      
The back alley was dark, and a Washoe zephyr tossed dust up in swiftly circling swirls, then skipped on, letting it settle against the sides of the buildings, piling up on sashes and filling corners with the reddish powder. Chicken Thief Charlie Pritkin stood in the shadows between two of the noisiest saloons in glitter town, his collar turned up against the stinging summer wind. The man was late for their appointment. Charlie needed a drink and wanted one of the soiled doves inside, but could afford neither until he was paid.

      
Suddenly, the sound of boots padding firmly through the dust caused him to turn. His employer materialized from around the corner. “I been waitin' fer a spell.” His voice was hoarse and surly.

      
“What have you to report?”

      
Charlie cleared his throat nervously, uncertain of how his benefactor would take the news he had to impart. “Miz Sinclair, she's been real busy the past few weeks. That mickey she seen at the fight, I heerd she met him at the park the next day.”

      
“Imprudent, but harmless enough. I already knew about it. Go on.”

      
“Well, he come over to her house a few days later, when her folks wuz out 'n she wuz workin' in th' garden.” He wet his lips and plunged ahead. “Had 'em a real mud wrasslin' contest, right out in front a God and ever'body. Then, she up and come to the river that Sunday to meet him, real private like.”

      
“Did she lose her virginity before the box social at the park?”

      
Charlie scratched his dirty red cowlick and shrugged uneasily. “I don't think so, but last night...well, he come to her house real late, 'n she snuck out to the orchard with him. I couldn't get too close, but they wuz in them trees a long time 'n when she come runnin' back inside, she warn't wearin' nothin' but one of them female nightshirts—all billowy and see-through.”

      
His employer nodded, his face carefully hidden in the shadows. Only his eyes burned as he stared broodingly at his hireling. “Keep watch on them. I want to know everything that goes on between them—but I don't want anyone else to hear a whisper about this. You understand?”

      
As Chicken Thief Charlie Pritkin bobbed his head up and down, his employer tossed a double eagle to him, then vanished down the deserted alley. Charlie scratched his cowlick in perplexity. There was no figuring those fellows from the right side of town. He could have sworn his boss
wanted
the preacher's daughter to tumble with that mickey boxer. Now, what kind of sense did that make?

* * * *

      
Rebekah lay awake in her lonely room, awash in misery. It had been three days since she had given herself so recklessly to Rory Madigan. She had scarcely slept, not at all that first night. In the morning, she had finally rolled from her tangled bed sheets and peered bleakly into the mirror, afraid she would see the evidence of her lost innocence stamped clearly on her face.

      
She had looked no different, just puffy-eyed from weeping and pale from lack of sleep. Yet inside of her everything was changed. She had pledged herself to Rory not only physically but with her heart, her very soul, as well. They had made solemn vows before God that should never be broken. But no legal words had been spoken before man, and if her family had any say in the matter, none ever would.

      
Rory was right. She would be forced to choose between him and them. How could she hurt her father and disgrace the Sinclair name by running off with a prizefighter? How could she remain and betray her vows by wedding Amos Wells?
How can I live without Rory?

      
She had gloried in his touch, boldly followed his lead, and reveled in the pleasures of the flesh. Although her mother had never explained anything specific, Rebekah knew good Christian women were not supposed to enjoy the physical side of marriage. She had overheard Dorcas' discussion with Leah before Leah's wedding, and her sister had seemed to be in complete accord with that sentiment.

      
Why was she so unlike her mother and sister? What was wrong with her that she took such delight in physical love? She had actually hungered for Rory's touch. And, God forgive her, she still did. In spite of the shame and guilt that tied her insides in knots, she still ached with wanting her lover's arms around her, craved the bliss that his touch evoked.

      
If only there was some way for them to marry with her father's blessing. She sat up in bed, rubbing her aching temples. The banjo clock struck midnight, and the chimes echoed dolefully from the parlor below, each bong like a warning. What if Rory left Wellsville and returned to the prize ring? She had hurt him. She knew Rory Madigan was a proud man, but a poor one; and she had made it clear that material comforts and security were important to her as well as to her family.

      
Amos Wells had come calling again last evening. She had pleaded a headache and fled to her room, repelled at the very thought of fencing with him while her nerves were strung so tightly and she was riven with guilt and confusion. If only he were not complicating matters with his unexpected courtship, she might be able to get her parents to view Rory in a more favorable light. He had a respectable job. Well, almost respectable, she amended, realizing that working around racehorses was not precisely something her father would countenance. But it was a steady job, and if he were willing to convert and let her father marry them, that should weigh heavily in his favor.

      
She must think of some way to get rid of Amos without angering him. Playing calm and aloof only seemed to pique his interest. Could she dare explain that her heart was already pledged? No, that course was too risky. The waiting game would go on as he tried to wear her down. And every time he came to call, she could not have girlish vapors and refuse to see him. But if she did see him, Rory would be jealous. He might think she had chosen Amos.

      
The clock finished striking, and the silence pooled around her, chill and foreboding. “I can't let him believe I don't love him,” she whispered desperately.

      
Without giving herself time to think, she got out of bed and began to dress quickly and quietly. She finished by donning an old bonnet with a wide brim that hid her face, not that any respectable person should be out and about to recognize her at this ungodly hour.

* * * *

      
Rory lay on his bunk with a book of poetry clutched in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other.
Leaves of Grass
, which used to fascinate and enchant him, seemed as stale as yesterday's beer now. Even the bottle, once a certain source of oblivion, offered no solace. He could not even do a decent job of getting drunk. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Rebekah, small and forlorn, with her virginal white nightgown puddling around her as she sat crumpled in the orchard.

      
He had been wickedly wrong to take her innocence—worse, he had been a fool to exchange vows of lifelong commitment when there were such formidable obstacles to overcome.

      
“If I had any sense, I'd ride out of here tomorrow and never look back. Those vows mean nothing to her. They shouldn't to me. Let her marry that rich old bastard and be the senator's wife.” He sat up and placed the book on the floor, then reached over for the bottle beside it and uncorked it, preparing to pour another shot. The sharp creak of a rusty hinge, followed by soft, rustling sounds brought him out of his ruminations. He set the bottle down and reached for his Colt, then blew out the flickering lantern and moved quickly to the door.

      
Rebekah kept looking over her shoulder, but could see nothing in the darkness of the big stable. Horses nickered restlessly and stomped their feet dully against the straw-covered earth. She had the eerie feeling that someone was following her. But that was ridiculous. No one had been out on the darkened streets as she made her way furtively downtown to Jenson's place.

      
She let her eyes adjust to the dark interior. Thin streams of moonlight poured in through the cracks between the planks, and larger squares of light were cast from the high windows at the sides of the barn. Blinking, she made her way as much by feel as by sight, keeping the narrow stairs at the rear of the building fixed in her mind. About halfway across the stable, she heard the sudden click of a weapon being cocked and froze. Then, a powerful arm encircled her waist, dragging her backward into one of the empty stalls.