Broken Vows (34 page)

      
“Don't make threats you can't keep, my dear. Michael is my son by law—for as long as I care to recognize him.”

      
Rage washed over her, overshadowing her own guilt. She leaned forward in the seat and faced him with blazing eyes. “If you ever so much as touch a hair of Michael's head, I'll tell the world Michael is your son
only
by law!”

      
He recoiled in shock. “Don't be absurd. You're overwrought.” Quickly, he recovered his poise. “So overwrought, my dear, one might even say you were emotionally unstable. What would happen to Michael if his mother were so unbalanced that I had to commit her to an asylum?”

      
“You've already done your worst to me, Amos. I'm doomed and I accept it. But I know your political concerns could not survive the gossip of my accusations. After all, you're over fifty years old. Michael is your only child. The merest hint that he isn't yours would really start tongues wagging.”

      
“You'd actually subject your son to such ignominy?” He tried to scoff, but there was an edge to his voice that betrayed fear.

      
“Anything—even being called a bastard—would be better than to have Michael live under your fist as I have. I've already told you I'm bound by my own past sins and my vows to you. But Michael is innocent! Touch him and you'll pay.”

      
The cold finality of her words chilled him to the bone. He stared at a dangerous and unexpected enemy as if seeing her for the first time. This would take careful consideration—as if he did not have enough on his plate already, he thought bitterly, his mind racing ahead to tonight's gathering. Once he secured the Washington appointment, he would send the boy off to Europe and then deal with his faithless and dangerous wife once and for all.

Chapter Fifteen

Virginia City, one week later.

      
The cloyingly sweet odor of opium hung in the air, overlying the stench of sour sweat on unwashed bodies. Rory walked down the dark hallway strewn with refuse and knocked on the last door.

      
The voice bidding him enter still carried the heavy accent of her native Yorkshire, but it was scratchy and weak from disuse now. Here in this cheap place, she worked around the clock and was paid only in the opium, which let her mind drift in a dream world even as it wasted her body. English Annie did not care. In the years since she had come to Nevada, she had been on a continuous downward spiral. She had begun at the fanciest parlor house in Virginia City. Now, she eked out a wretched existence in the lowliest crib. She would die here soon, but not soon enough.

      
Rory studied the skeletal woman reclining on the rumpled, greasy sheets. Although the room was dimly lit, the flickering shadows could not hide the ravages to her face and body. Graying hair in filthy snarls hung about bony shoulders. She brushed a wisp from her eyes with a yellowed, shaky hand. “You got the token, luv?” Her pale, watery eyes squinted.

      
Two bits. A quarter to purchase a token at the door. The price of English Annie's services. He tossed two of the house's copper tokens on the table beside her bed where her opium pipe lay. “I only want to talk to you, Annie. Years ago, when you worked the Howling Wilderness Saloon, you had a regular customer—Amos Wells,” he began.

      
Her eyes narrowed. “How'd you learn that, luv?” A frisson of alarm penetrated the drugged haze of her mind.

      
“From a man named Sly Hobart. He's a mine supervisor who works for Wells. He knew you in the old days, same as Wells.”

      
“So?”

      
“Tell me about what happened to a girl called Magnolia. She worked at the Wilderness around the same time as you. In fact, she was murdered in your room about eight years ago.” He could see the fear in her eyes now as she clutched her pipe with white knuckles. “I'll buy you enough opium so you won't have to work for a week, Annie. Just tell me what you know about Magnolia.”

      
“If he ever found out—”

      
“He won't know who told me. I'm going to see he hangs,” he interrupted.

      
She gave a choking laugh. “Hang a rich man like Amos Wells for killing a down-'n-out whore?”

      
“He killed my brother, too. Make no mistake, Annie, Wells is a dead man. I want to know everything you've heard about what happened that night at the Wilderness.”

      
“She died the night after I left…”

      
By the time Rory paid English Annie and got out of the fetid air inside the crib, he was sweating and sick to his stomach. Sweet Holy Mother of God! Rebekah had married that vicious, sick pervert. What might Wells have subjected her to over the years? No woman, no matter how selfish she was or how she had betrayed him, deserved a man like Amos Wells. The very thought of that bastard putting his hands on Rebekah, sleeping beside her, made him ill.

      
As he rode back to his office, he thought about how to extricate her from Wells' clutches as quickly as possible. It might take months yet for Patrick's agents in Sacramento to gather all the evidence about illegal stock transactions. Sly Hobart had not yet given them what they needed either. Although he was certainly a better prospect, Rory was afraid to wait too long. But until every shred of information was exhumed and catalogued, they dared not move against Wells. He had to get Rebekah free now. He would write her, asking her to meet him again.

      
She had been upset about breaking her marriage vows and mistrusted his motives for seducing her, but she still felt something for him—something a lot more compelling than simple guilt over the way she had betrayed him. Her desire for him was as strong as ever.
As strong as yours is for her.

      
Pushing the disquieting thought and its implications away, he composed a message and dispatched it to Carson City by rider, confident that she would agree to see him.

* * * *

      
“You've done what!” Patrick's blue eyes blazed in amazement. He combed his fingers through his long red hair and paced back and forth in front of Rory's desk, casting incredulous glances at his brother.

      
“I've asked Rebekah Wells to be my mistress. I don't see why that's so incomprehensible. She's a beautiful woman.”

      
“She's the calculating bitch who cold-bloodedly threw you over for that murdering snake Wells with all his ill-gotten wealth! You're confusing lust with hate, Rory. A dangerous business. Once Amos is gone, she'll be punished enough. Leave her to heaven.”

      
A strange look came into Rory's eyes. Haunted and uncertain. “What if it isn't hate...or even lust?”

      
Patrick cursed in Gaelic and gave his younger brother a baleful look. “Even worse! You're still in love with the heartless Jezebel. She'll destroy you. Rory. Forget her.”

      
“After what I learned about Wells yesterday, I can't leave her with him. God, the bastard might strangle her the way he did that poor whore in the bordello—and who knows how many other women?”

      
“If she's survived the past eight years, I think that highly unlikely. Forget her,” he repeated.

      
“Maybe, the best way to do that is to keep her in my bed for a while.”

      
“What you need is a good, decent woman for a wife. You're nearly thirty years old. Have you no thoughts of a family?”

      
A crooked grin spread across Rory's mouth, lightening his mood. “You've scarce been wed a month. The honeymoon's not over yet. Just wait before you start urging me to join you in connubial bliss. I've no desire for a wife.”

      
“Yet you'll take Amos Wells' wife. What of his son? Have you given a thought to him?”

      
“Wells has scarce been a doting father. The boy lives back east in boarding school. He won't even know about Amos' disgrace, much less learn about what passes between his mother and me.”

      
“You're getting in over your head, Rory. Let the past lie. My men will soon have enough to bring Wells and all his cronies to justice. Let it end there. Go out to that ranch you've built in Eagle Valley and raise horses.”

      
“Someday, Patrick.” The finality in his voice indicated that the subject was closed.

      
Rory waited through the afternoon, too nervous with anticipation to concentrate on the mountain of paperwork piled on his desk. Finally, the messenger from Carson City arrived. He broke open the letter eagerly, recognizing Rebekah's precise, elegantly slanted handwriting.

Rory,

What passed between us the other day was a regrettable folly on both our parts. I am deeply ashamed of my actions and take full responsibility for them. My duty is clear. I must remain with my husband. You must proceed with your vengeance. We always were on opposing sides of every issue. There can be nothing between us.
 

R.

      
“Nothing between us!” He swore and balled up her missive. The self-righteous, stubborn little fool. He had to get her away from Wells.

      
The trip from Virginia City to Carson was a brisk few hours ride. By the time he entered the verdant Eagle Valley, Rory's anger had cooled. He had calmly thought out a course of action. Although a Democrat, he had cultivated a number of influential Republicans in the capital, mostly through business dealings over the years. Social occasions had provided the opportunity to reinforce those acquaintances by charming the politicians' wives.

      
One such connection was with Bryan Kincaid, the California railroad magnate. His flighty little partridge of a wife, Celia, had at first been wary of her friend's former lover. However, in the past years Rory had sufficiently impressed her with his wealth and refinement to cause her to consider him in a completely new light. Celia had always been a romantic at heart. He was certain he could enlist her aid in setting up a tryst with her old friend.

* * * *

Reno

      
Ephraim watched the train pull into the station with mixed feelings. He was always eager to see his grandson Michael, yet the terse note he had received from Amos asking him to meet the train in Reno and bring the boy to Carson City troubled him. Why couldn't Rebekah have come for her son, even if her husband was tied up with important business affairs and unable to accompany her?

      
He knew their marriage had never been happy and blamed himself for his daughter's suffering—even more for the loneliness of young Michael, who had been deprived of both parents' love for so much of his young life. He had wrestled with his conscience over Rory Madigan for years, ever since the penniless drifter had turned into a wealthy, respectable businessman. Perhaps, he should not have interfered between the Irishman and Rebekah.

      
“It's all past now. Too late. Amos has legal claim over Michael, and nothing can change that,” he murmured to himself. If he told Rebekah about Madigan's letters, it would break her heart and alienate her from her own father. These days he felt both she and young Michael needed him too much to risk that. He suffered the pangs of conscience in bitter silence.

      
“Grampa!” Michael's voice was shrill with excitement as he leaped down from the train and raced across the platform, flying into the old man's arms. Millicent Ahern approached at a more sedate pace and stood back as grandfather and grandson were reunited.

      
“I do believe you've grown at least a head taller in the past few months,” Ephraim said as he inspected the boy after a big hug. “How is that new school?”

      
Shoving a black curl off his forehead, the boy shrugged. “It's all right, I guess.” His eyes scanned the platform. “Where's Mama?”

      
Ephraim could hear the fear and uncertainty in the boy's voice.
He never asks for his father.
“Your mama couldn't come, but I'm taking you to Carson in my carriage. You'll be with her and your father by tonight.” He prayed he was right. Amos' note had been vague about the reasons Rebekah could not meet the train.

      
“Why did my father have me sent down from Calverton at the beginning of the term?” Michael asked.

      
“Well, he didn't say,” Ephraim replied.

      
“I wish I never had to go back,” the boy blurted out suddenly. “It always rains in Massachusetts—except for when it snows. I'd rather be home in Nevada with Mama and you.”

      
Ephraim’s heart wrenched. If only he could talk some sense into Amos; not that he hadn't already tried, but he would try again. “Someday you'll be able to stay here—if you still want to after you've made a lot of fine new friends back east,” he replied to the lad.

      
“Oh,” the boy said, suddenly fidgeting uncomfortably but meeting his grandpa's eyes, “I wanted to tell you in person how sorry I was about Grandma.”

      
“That's all right, son. I appreciated your condolence letter.”

      
“But I wanted to be with you for the funeral,” the boy replied earnestly.

      
“There was no way you could’ve traveled so far so quickly.” Ephraim hugged the boy again. It had always been a bitter regret that Dorcas had not favored Rebekah's son as she did Leah's boys. To his wife, Michael had been a symbol of her daughter's sins, tainted by Rory Madigan's blood. Although Michael knew nothing about that, he had always sensed, with the uncanny ability of bright young children, that his grandmother did not love him as she did his cousins.