Broken Vows (44 page)

      
As if reading her mind, he grinned and winked. “Top of the morning, darlin'. I trust you slept well. I sure did.” He touched her bare shoulder and let his fingers trail down to the tip of one breast, which rewarded his boldness by puckering into a hard little nub.

      
She tried to squirm away. “Rory, we have to talk.” His hand trespassed further, while his other arm held her fast.

      
“We can talk later,” he said as he leaned down and claimed her lips in a languid good-morning kiss.

      
By the time they had finally risen from the badly rumpled bed, there was a commotion from downstairs. Rory threw on a pair of denims and a shirt. “Peal should be here with bathwater for you in a few moments. We need to get back for Michael,” he said as he pulled on his boots.

      
Just then a sharp rap on the outside door drew his attention. “What the hell—”

      
“Rory—it's Patrick. I have to talk to you,” his brother's muffled voice called through the heavy oak door.

      
“Wait here while I see what's wrong,” Rory instructed Rebekah.

      
She paled. Patrick was the one who had first uncovered Amos' involvement in their brother's death. How would he feel about Rory's hasty marriage to the Widow Wells? Somehow, she knew his reaction would not be favorable. There was so much left unsaid and unsettled between her and her husband.
We need time.

      
Rory vanished out the door, and the hulking black man arrived a few minutes later with buckets of fresh hot water.

      
While Rebekah performed her morning toilette, Rory took Patrick downstairs to his office and ordered coffee for the two of them. Then, his harried brother explained about the attempt on his life earlier that morning.

      
“You think it was Sheffield's doing?”

      
Patrick shrugged. “Sheriff identified my assailant as one Chicken Thief Charlie Pritkin. Quaint, isn't it?”

      
Rory swore in amazement. “Pritkin was a drunken hard case from Wellsville. He used to hang around the glitter district. I saw him a lot when I worked at Beau's livery. I wonder...”

      
“You think he was involved in the assault on you eight years ago?”

      
Remembering a dark hotel room above the Bucket of Blood Saloon, Rory nodded. “Too bad he isn't alive to tell us.” He added with a grin, “Not that I'm unhappy you proved a better shot than he. I'd hate to be the one to have to face your wife—”

      
“Speaking of wives, let's discuss yours. I know you wanted the boy, but couldn't it have waited?”

      
“Yesterday morning Sears was going to arrest Rebekah. You know I couldn't let that happen,” Rory replied defensively.

      
Patrick studied him with intent blue eyes. “You're still in love with her after all these years. That's dangerous, Rory. Maybe she did kill Wells.”

      
“Don't be an imbecile. Leave that to the sheriff. Rebekah and I will work out our problems ourselves.”

      
The finality in Rory's tone made it clear that the discussion about Rebekah was closed. “There is another reason I came here.”

      
“I had hoped so, since I scarcely expected you to join us on our honeymoon,” Rory replied dryly.

      
Patrick ignored the jibe and explained. “Before he was killed, Hobart gave a satchel full of papers to one of my men. I finished going through them yesterday. We have enough evidence to arrest Sheffield and Bascomb right now. If only that snake Hammer was around.”

      
“Nothing on him?” Rory leaned forward across his desk.

      
Patrick ground his teeth in frustration. “No. But I think he may not have left Nevada. He could be hiding out in Carson, waiting to see what happens when the dust clears.”

      
“What have you done about arresting Sheffield and Bascomb? That might flush him out.”

      
“As you've made abundantly clear, the local sheriff in Carson is not reliable. I'm afraid I need your help, Rory. Who can we trust to round up these weasels before they slip the trap? After the attempt to kill me this morning, I'm afraid they're already wise.”

      
“I know people in the capital. I'll talk to the governor. He can order the federal marshal and his deputies to arrest Shanghai Sheffield and Hiram Bascomb while I nose around for Stephan Hammer. Where is Hobart's evidence?”

      
“In our safety deposit box in the First National Bank in Carson,” Patrick replied, handing Rory a key. “As soon as I looked through it, I knew not to take any chances with it until I could locate you.”

      
“And I had to go and spoil your plans by running off to get married,” Rory said wryly. Then, he became serious. “Patrick, they tried to frame Rebekah for Wells' murder. She could still be in danger. So could Michael. I want you to take her to her father's place in Wellsville and pick up my son—”

      
“May I come in?” Rebekah's voice sounded nervous yet determined from the other side of the office door.

      
Rory ushered her in and watched with amusement as she and Patrick sized each other up. “Patrick, may I present my wife, Rebekah. Rebekah, this is my rapscallion elder brother.”

      
Rebekah looked into a pair of dark blue eyes, identical to Rory's, set in the same finely chiseled face, different only because of the bright red of his hair. No wonder Michael was the mirror image of his father! The family resemblance was uncanny. “I'm pleased to meet you, Patrick, and so happy Rory found you alive after he'd given you up for dead so long ago,” she said softly.

      
Rebekah was not what Patrick had expected. Oh, she was heartbreakingly lovely with her golden hair and green eyes. She was dressed in an elegant rose-linen traveling suit that accented her slim curves perfectly. His brother had always gone for strikingly beautiful women. But there was a vulnerability in her that touched him. She must have loved Rory once. Perhaps she still did. Patrick hoped so for his brother's sake and for Michael's.

      
He took her hand and raised it to his lips in the same endearing European manner Rory had first charmed her with eight years ago on the Wellsville bandstand. “I'm rather happy not to have drowned, myself. My felicitations on your marriage. I only wish it could’ve been eight years ago.” Patrick was not certain what he expected her reaction to be, but he studied her intently.

      
“You don't trust me, do you, Patrick?”

      
Her forthright question pleased him. This might work out after all. “I'm not sure, to be perfectly honest, but I have hopes.”

      
“You'll have time enough to take each other's measure as you ride to Wellsville,” Rory interjected, taking Rebekah's arm possessively and showing her to a chair across from his desk. Then, he explained what had transpired in Carson.

      
“You think Michael could be in danger?” she asked when he had finished.

      
“No. I don't think it's him they're after. But for some reason they seem to want you disposed of. Maybe they think you were privy to Amos' schemes. Whatever their reasons, you and Michael have to get out of harm's way. I have to return to Carson. Patrick will take you to get our son, then to my ranch in Eagle Valley.”

      
“That's a long ride out of the way. It would be closer to just take us to the Flying W. My sister is nearby; and once we're safe there, Patrick can return to the capital and help you,” she said, turning from her husband to his brother.

      
Patrick nodded. “It makes sense, but I don't think I'd leave you alone until we know those men are all in jail.”

      
“I agree,” Rory added. “You stay with her, Patrick.”

      
“I'm ready to leave now, Rory.”

      
Taking her in his arms, he reassured her, “Michael will be all right. You both will.”

      
“Take care of yourself, Rory,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek tenderly.

      
He kissed her palm and pressed it back against his face. There was so much yet unsaid. He tried to read her fathomless eyes and saw—what? Love? Or did he only imagine it?

* * * *

Wellsville

      
Ephraim sat alone on the porch. He could still hear the echo of Michael's laughter, so boyishly happy.
Was I ever that young? That carefree?
At the moment, he felt old far beyond his sixty-one years. Madigan had won. He had Rebekah as his wife and he had claimed his son. Was this in truth the Lord's judgment against his own presumption in meddling with other people's lives?

      
“I should never have destroyed those letters. Rebekah had the right to choose,” he whispered brokenly as he stared out across the sunny backyard. Would he ever have the courage to confess to her what he had done? It had weighed more and more heavily on his conscience as the years passed.

      
He had known the first time Rebekah and Amos returned from Washington that all was not well in their marriage. The way Amos kept his wife separated from Michael over the years only confirmed his worst fears. And the haunted sadness in his daughter's eyes ate into his soul.

      
When Rory Madigan had returned and begun his meteoric rise to power, Ephraim lost his last excuse for destroying those letters. Now, the Irishman was back in their lives to stay. “Sooner or later, old man, you'll have to tell her...” He only prayed that Madigan really cared for Rebekah and Michael.

      
The sound of a rider pulling up distracted Sinclair from his troubling reverie. He stepped down from the side porch and walked around to the front yard.

      
Henry Snead dismounted and approached.

      
“Morning, Henry. What brings you here so early? Leah and the boys—”

      
“They're fine, just fine,” Henry hastened to reply, quelling the older man's alarm. “It's Rebekah I'm concerned about.” Henry turned his hat nervously in his big hands. “Amos is dead, Ephraim. Someone shot him at his office in Carson. The sheriff thinks Rebekah did it.”

      
“I know,” the old man answered quietly. At Henry's startled expression, Ephraim hastened to add, “She told me all about it.”

      
“Then she's here?” Henry's voice was filled with relief. “When she and Michael disappeared from Carson with Rory Madigan, I was worried sick. I need to see her to finalize arrangements for Amos' funeral.”

      
“They were here. Michael spent the night. Earlier this morning, Rebekah and Patrick Madigan came for him.”

      
Snead blanched. “I don't understand. What have those damned Madigans to do with our family?”

      
The sadness in the old man's hazel-green eyes was soul-searing. “You know as well as I the answer to that, Henry,” Ephraim replied gently.

      
His son-in-law's face turned dark red. “That's all in the past.”

      
Sinclair shook his head. “No, not any longer. Rebekah has married Rory.”

      
Snead's red-faced embarrassment turned to furious incredulity. “Amos isn't even cold in his grave! The day after his death! What will people think? What the hell was she thinking?”

      
“You sound like Leah, Henry,” Ephraim reproved.

      
Henry had the good grace to flush once more. “She can't have thought this out. He must've forced her. Why did you allow it?”

      
Ephraim explained how events had unfolded, ending with Patrick and Rebekah coming earlier that morning to collect Michael. “He's taking them to the Flying W. They'll be safe there. Rory went back to Carson to see about some urgent business.”

      
“Well, I’ll feel better after I've talked to Rebekah myself. I' m not without influence in Carson. I could protect her and Michael from the Madigans—if she wants me to, that is.”

      
“You've been her true friend, Henry. I've always appreciated that. I know it’s not right to speak ill of the dead, but Amos made a hard life for my daughter. She relied on you.”

      
“She still can,” Henry replied earnestly. “I have to go back to Carson—Amos' affairs are in shambles; and his business partners will be moving in like vultures after a kill. I'll protect Rebekah and Michael's interests. Maybe, I'll have a talk with Madigan while I'm at it. If Rebekah's made a mistake, we can extricate her from it.”

      
Ephraim shrugged. “I don't know, Henry. It might be we've meddled enough in their lives already....” His voice faded away.

      
Henry just patted him on the back fondly. “Don't worry. This time I'll see that things turn out all right, Ephraim.”

      
As the younger man rode away, his father-in-law watched mutely, the war inside him still raging. Finally, he walked over to the church where he had spent so much of his life. It was time—long past time—for him to pray.

Chapter Nineteen

The Flying W Ranch

      
The sun was shining gloriously, and the zephyr winds were still that morning. Rebekah watched Michael and Patsy riding ahead of them and marveled at how well the boy handled his new pony. Rory had arranged for one of his hands to bring the beautiful white to the ranch, much to Michael's delight.

      
“He's a natural rider,” Patrick said, watching the way her eyes never left her son. “Just like his father. Rory always did have a way with horses, like our da.”