Broken Vows (38 page)

      
Rory's face darkened ominously. “Wells won't be a problem much longer. He's going to prison—maybe he'll even hang if we're lucky.”

      
Patsy paled and crossed herself. “I always knew he was a bad one. Gabriel said he was in on some awful minin' accidents that wasn't accidents, if you take me meanin', sir.”

      
“Aye, that I do, Patsy. My brother died in one of those ‘accidents’.”

      
“Amos Wells can't be brought to justice soon enough,” she replied fervently.

      
“Patsy, I'd like to spend some time with my son. I do have that white pony I mentioned. Is there a time when Wells will be gone? I could bring it around and take Michael for a ride.”

      
Her brow furrowed. “He keeps crazy hours now that he's not a senator. Up half the night with his political cronies, meetin' at the house. But sometimes he spends all day at the capital. I suppose I could send you word...but what about the missus?”

      
“I'll handle Rebekah, but I don't want Amos turning his anger on her or my son.”

      
“You don't have to worry about the servants tellin' himself. They're all loyal to the missus. They hate him, he's that vile to everyone.”

      
“Just let me know when the coast is clear.”

* * * *

      
A
 
poorly scrawled note arrived the next morning, indicating that Amos was off to visit with several of his mining supervisors in the Comstock District and would not return until nightfall. Rory had instructed his foreman to bring the white pony to town the preceding evening. He was at the front door of the Wells city house before noon.

      
Cue Ging opened the door and bowed respectfully before the well-dressed gentleman. “Mr. Wells not at home.”

      
“I've come to see Mrs. Wells,” Rory replied.

      
“Who is calling, please?”

      
He grinned. “Just tell her it's the man with Michael's white pony. I'm sure she'll know.”

      
Upstairs, Michael had heard the horses' hooves in the drive and dashed into his mother's sitting room at the rear of the house. “It's him, Mama! Mr. Madigan! And he brought it! He really brought it—the most beautiful white pony in the world!”

      
Rebekah bit her lip and tried to smile at her son's joyous little face. This is what he always sought from Amos—time, attention, love. Love? Did Rory love his son? According to the way Michael and Patsy sang his praises last night, he had indeed saved Michael's life and risked his own to do it.
Even if he loves Michael, that doesn't mean he wants you,
she reminded herself.

      
“A pony? I don't know, Michael. You've never ridden before.”
And Amos will be furious if he hears Rory has been here.

      
“Aw, please, Mama. Come meet Mr. Madigan. He's really a nice gentleman. Patsy says he was a United States Congressman. You'll like him.”

      
Before Cue Ging could announce Rory, Rebekah followed her babbling, excited son downstairs like a prisoner walking to the gallows, trying desperately to put on a brave facade. Inside, her heart was hammering and the metallic taste of fear dried her mouth. Rory was insane to come here so openly. But then, she should have known he'd come after Michael. Cue Ging stood at the front door, holding it open as the boy dashed out and raced up to where Rory was holding the pony in the drive.

      
“You brought him! Oh, he's ever so beautiful!” Michael reached up to rub the velvety nose.

      
“He's yours...that is, if your mother says yes,” he added, turning to Rebekah, who stood frozen on the front step.

      
He looked devastatingly handsome, dressed in black. That color seemed to be his trademark now and accented his dark good looks, from the flat-crowned hat shoved carelessly back on his head to the leather vest and the breeches that hugged his long legs. His white shirt made a snowy contrast and was unbuttoned to reveal that disturbing thatch of dark hair curling on his chest.

      
“Hello, Rory,” she said softly, forcing herself to draw nearer. “I understand you saved Michael's life yesterday. You know how grateful I am.”

      
“Then, you'll repay me by letting the lad ride the pony,” he said with a blinding white smile.

      
“He's so small to be riding alone—”

      
“He won't be alone. I'll be with him. I breed these Welsh ponies especially for children. He's gentle and well-trained. He'll be safe enough.” He looked into her troubled eyes and said softly, “Don't be afraid of Amos. It won't be long now.”

      
She nodded mutely. What was there to say? She should feel some twinge of guilt for the hope that Rory's statement brought. She wanted to see her own husband in prison. Or dead, God forgive her.
Yes, dead. I'm a wicked person.
“Be careful, Rory,” was all she replied.

      
Rory helped Michael onto the pony and began to lead it around the driveway, showing the boy how to sit properly, hold his feet in the stirrups, and use the reins to guide the pony. Shortly, he mounted Lobsterback, and the pair rode slowly down to the street.

      
Rebekah stood watching them until they disappeared beyond the trees. What would Amos say if he learned of the excursion?
Make no mistake...
She shivered. The servants would never tell him. To the last one, they had become loyal to her over the years and intensely disliked her husband, who was overbearing and inconsiderate, often venting his temper on them without reason.

      
But the capital was a close-knit community, and both Amos and Rory were well-known political figures. Even if no one saw them today, it would not be long before tongues would wag. People could not help noticing the resemblance between Rory and Michael.

      
Rebekah hoped and prayed Rory was right about her husband's fate.
Stop him soon!
But how could she ever explain the truth of Michael's paternity to her son? That question and the confusing and unresolved nature of her own relationship with Rory Madigan were enough to send her upstairs in search of her headache powder.
Dare I trust him?

* * * *

      
Amos Wells rode fast and hard toward Carson City that afternoon, more frightened and more furious than he could ever remember being in his life. Sly Hobart was dead—killed by a high-powered rifle right in front of his eyes when the two of them walked out of the mining office at the Silver Star. The second shot had grazed his cheek. He would have been shot as cleanly as his mine superintendent if one of the miners hadn't knocked him aside in a split second.

      
Who wanted him dead? The question—and a long list of obvious answers—dogged him on the way home. He was tempted to head for the Flying W, but it was farther away and he wanted to clean out all his papers from the office here. Were Bascomb and Sheffield backing out of the bank merger, or trying to double-cross him out of it? Or was it that snake-in-the-grass Hammer, now on his way back to Washington after refusing to support his cabinet aspirations with that mealy-mouthed reformer Rutherford Hayes?

      
Well, he had the goods on all three of them and more. But he needed protection until he could get his hands on the evidence and confront those bastards. It might be best to get Rebekah and the boy safely out of harm's way as well. He had enemies who would gladly stoop to kidnapping to try to obtain a hold over him.

      
“We seem such a loving couple,” he snickered bitterly to himself as he rode up Stewart Street. His thoughts were interrupted when an old crony from the state legislature pulled up in his buggy and greeted him.

      
“Afternoon, Amos. You on your way home?” Graham Elden asked, spitting a noisome lob of tobacco from between blackened lips.

      
He looked happier than a flea in a doghouse. Something was afoot, a sixth sense warned the already agitated Wells. Elden owed him a favor or two. “Afternoon, Graham. Yes, I'm just on my way back from inspecting some mining property.”

      
A crafty light shone in Elden's narrow eyes. “Just thought you might be interested to know your boy was out ridin' this mornin' with Rory Madigan. I thought it wuz real peculiar, him bein' a damned Democrat and doin' his best to see you didn't get them votes in the legislature for reelection to the Senate.”

      
Amos felt pole axed. “Madigan took my son riding?” He couldn't keep the croak from his voice and hated the smug, crafty look on Elden's face.
Does he know?

      
“Yessir, he did. Brought the lad one of the fancy leetle horses he breeds out at his ranch. Glad I run into ya. Figgered you'd wanna know. Me, I'd never let my boys go near that mickey scum. Can't imagine what Mrs. Wells was thinkin', beggin' yer pardon for saying so.”

      
“I'm obliged, Graham,” Amos replied coldly, then kicked his horse into a trot. As if he did not have enough to worry about, now Madigan had come after the boy! Then the thought hit him. Madigan. It could be the damned Irishman trying to kill him. Yet somehow, he knew it was not Madigan’s style to ambush him. A proud son-of-a-bitch like that mick would confront him head-on. It didn't matter. He'd have both Rory and Rebekah killed for being so indiscreet.

      
Rebekah was reading to Michael when she heard the sound of Amos's angry voice downstairs. Quickly, she closed the storybook. “Go down the back stairs to the kitchen, Michael. I'm sure Francois will have some scones and jam for you. Tell him I said to let you eat your fill.”

      
A frightened look darkened his eyes. “Mama, is Father mad—angry about something?”

      
Rebekah shook her head. “It's probably just politics,” she lied, trying to soothe the child. Amos had never shown Michael his vicious side, and she wanted desperately for it to remain that way. “Please, hurry along now,” she said, shoving him out the door and down the servants' steps. She composed herself and walked back into her sitting room.

      
Amos came through the door, his face mottled with rage. “You bitch. You stupid, ungrateful little bitch. I took you in, gave your bastard a name, treated you both like royalty. And you repay me by making me a laughingstock right here in the capital!”

      
“Amos—”

      
“Amos!” he mimicked nastily. Seeing the fear in her eyes made the rage in his guts burn hotter. “You let Madigan ride out in public with his brat. The resemblance can't be missed. Graham Elden picked it up as soon as he spotted them. By week's end, the whole state of Nevada will be smirking about Madigan's bastard!”

      
“Don't you ever call my son that again!” Rebekah stood with her fists clenched, heartily sickened by the whole sordid mess in which her innocent child had been caught.

      
“Don't you presume to tell me what I can say,” he growled as his hand lashed out, striking her a ringing blow to the cheek and knocking her back onto the settee. He fell on her, seizing her dress by the neckline and ripping it halfway down the front.

      
Rebekah saw the crazed light in his eyes.
Dear God, he's going to try to rape me!
She clawed at his face, raking a bloody set of furrows down his cheek.

      
Amos hissed in pain, letting her go, the moment of lust passing as quickly as it had sprung up. “I told you if you ever crossed me again, the retribution would be unspeakable.”

      
“It has been. Every minute of every year married to you,” she whispered, rolling away from him and seizing a poker from the hearth. “Get away from me, Amos, or so help me God, I'll use this!”

      
He backed off, daubing at his bloody cheek. “I think not. Consider what will happen to your son if I have to have you put away. A wife who threatens her husband with a poker and attacks him?” He tsked nastily as he watched her heaving breasts and saw the terror in her eyes. “Yes, you know I could have you committed. No one would blame me. And then what would become of poor Michael? Legally, he's mine. If I sent Madigan's bastard off to Europe, no one would blame me for that either.”

      
“If you even try, I
will
kill you!” she shouted.

      
He cursed and turned to the open door. “You'd have to stand in line. Have your things packed. Tomorrow, I'm sending you both to the Flying W until this gossip dies down. Then, we'll discuss young master Michael's future.”
      
He stormed out of the room and down the hall.

      
Rebekah clutched the poker, her knuckles white against the black iron as she made her way down the hall to the head of the stairs. She did not release it until she saw Amos stride furiously toward the front door and heard it slam behind him. Cue Ging and the parlor maid stood at the bottom of the steps looking up at her. Patsy came tiptoeing from behind a door down the hall and gently took the weapon from her hands.

      
“Let's be gettin' you into a nice hot bath, ma'am.”

      
“Michael—”

      
“Francois's keepin' him busy in the kitchen. You don't want him seein' you like this.”

      
Shame washed over Rebekah. She reached up to her bruised cheek, already starting to swell, then pulled together the torn pieces of her bodice and nodded.

      
She soaked in the tub, holding an ice-filled compress to the side of her face, while her mind twisted and turned back on itself. How could she free Michael from Amos' power? She damned Rory for coming back into their lives this way. After watching his son from afar and saving his life this morning, he should have let well enough alone. If he was telling the truth about Amos' imminent arrest, there would be time enough later for him to come forward and spend time with Michael.