Broken Vows (45 page)

      
“Rory said your father was head groom for an earl. Why did he leave Ireland? Surely, there was security in his position.”

      
Patrick's face, so startlingly similar to Rory's, took on a faraway expression as he remembered the past. “It's difficult for you, born and raised in this country, to understand. There we could never have been anything but menials. Oh, we had a decent roof over our heads and food enough to eat. In Ireland not many are so fortunate. But our parents wanted more.”

      
“The streets of America aren't always paved with gold,” Rebekah replied, remembering the tragic circumstances the Madigans had encountered in New York.

      
“No. But here a man can breathe free, and everyone has the chance to look for his own pot of gold—even an Irishman.”

      
“You and Rory certainly succeeded. Has it been worth all the sacrifice?”

      
Patrick studied her. “I'd trade every cent Madigan & Madigan Ltd. has to have our parents and Sean and Ryan alive again. But I can't undo what's in the past. Neither can you.”

      
Her expression became guarded as she tried to read the meaning behind his enigmatic remarks. “Do you believe that I betrayed Rory? That I married Amos Wells for his money?”

      
“You are forthright,” Patrick replied, laughing softly. “Once, not very long ago, I would have answered yes. Now... I don't honestly know. I've only heard Rory's side of what happened eight years ago, or what he knew of it. The Madigans aren't the only ones who have made sacrifices, are they, Rebekah?”

      
She could feel those piercing blue eyes, so like Rory's, on her. “Rory had gone to Denver, and I received no word from him for nearly a month. I was expecting Michael, and my family thought it was providential when Amos offered me marriage. I won't lie to you and say I didn't feel bitterly betrayed by your brother. I hated him then...especially when I realized what kind of monster I'd been forced to marry.”

      
“Wells must've arranged all of it—sending Rory to Denver, the attempt on his life, all to have you.” The waste of all these years saddened him beyond measure. “The question now is, do you still hate my brother?”

      
Her expression was guarded when she turned to face him. “No. But I can't trust him either.”

      
Patrick's bark of laughter had a ring of frustration in it. “You can't
trust
him? He gave you an alibi when you were accused of murdering Wells, and then he married you.”

      
“Yes, he did,” she replied simply. “It was the only way to get Michael. He offered to make me his mistress before he knew about his son.”

      
Patrick swore beneath his breath. “You've been frank with me. I'll be the same with you. Rory planned revenge not only against Amos but you as well. He was obsessed with what he believed was your betrayal. But believe this, Rebekah.” He reached out to her and reined in their horses. “Even when he thought he hated you, I could always sense something else—something deeper than the hate. He couldn't stop loving you. That's what really ate him alive, what drove him. And that's why I was so upset when I received his wire saying he'd married you. There were other ways to get his son back—if that was all he'd wanted to do.”

      
“Beginning with letting me go to prison for killing Amos.” She sighed in confusion. “I don't know, Patrick. He's changed so much. When I saw him for the first time in Washington four years ago, the old laughter in his eyes had died. He's hard, ruthless.”

      
“And you've had more than your share of experience with that kind of man. You can't believe Rory is like Amos Wells and his minions.”

      
“No. But there are things he's said...things I've said. We've hurt each other too many times. I don't know if all of it can be undone.” Thoughts of her father's possible complicity in their separation almost surfaced. She quashed them. Rory had always told her that one day she would have to choose between her father and him. After all these years, it might come to that yet.

      
Patrick watched her struggle with her inner torment and wished he could offer some sage advice that would smooth the way for them, but he had none. As they once more kicked their horses into a trot to catch up with Patsy and Michael, he described Rory's rise in business and politics, hoping it might enable her to understand how driven and lonely his brother had been.

      
“All these years and all the money and power he's amassed, yet my brother never married. He's wanted no woman but you, Rebekah. Believe that.”

      
“Perhaps, that very single-minded obsession is another reason why I should distrust him,” she replied sadly.

* * * *

Wellsville

      
Ephraim Sinclair struggled with his conscience all through the day. By evening, he had made the most painful decision of his life—even more agonizing than the parting from Kathleen back in Boston. He must confess to his beloved younger daughter what he had done. First thing tomorrow, he would ride out to the ranch and get it over with.

      
“No more rationalizations or excuses. My own blindness has caused such hurt, it may never be undone,” he murmured to himself. The empty house echoed his words as he walked through the shabby parlor and into his small, cluttered office. Although never elegant, the house had been kept immaculately neat while Dorcas was alive.

      
Now, the ladies of the church guild took turns bringing him his meals and tidying up. Their efforts were well intentioned, but Ephraim had always been prone to absentmindedness, strewing his books and clothes about. How Dorcas had scolded him, he thought wryly, following him around as tenaciously as a bulldog, picking up after him.

      
“Ah, Dorcas, I sinned against you, too, in my blindness.” The silence closed in on him. Twilight eroded the light, but he did not touch the lamp on his desk. Finally, unable to bear his loneliness, he decided to ride out to Leah's place. With Henry in Carson, his elder daughter and her boys would be glad of some company. Henry left them alone too often.

      
Ephraim knew there had been trouble between Leah and Henry. He had always turned a blind eye, as he had to so much else, hoping they could work it out, or live it out as he and Dorcas had. Leah had always been unreasoningly jealous of her husband's friendship with Rebekah. When he realized how desperately unhappy Rebekah was with Amos, Ephraim had been grateful for Henry's concern. He should have tried to explain to Leah that her mistrust was unfounded.

      
If he could not help Rebekah, perhaps he could do something for Leah. Or at least listen to her troubles. After tomorrow, Ephraim feared Rebekah's outpouring of confidences to her father would cease forever. Even though he had grievously wronged his younger daughter, he had always favored her. There were amends to be made to his elder daughter and no better time for doing so than the present.

      
When he pulled up in front of Leah's fancy gingerbread house, the place was brightly lit. He climbed down from his old buggy and headed toward the front porch, where one of the small army of servants was waiting with the door open.

      
“Miz Leah will be pleased to see you, Reverend,” the man said. “She's putting the young masters to bed. I'll have cook bring you some dinner—”

      
“No, James, thank you. I'm not hungry right now, just in need of some company.”

      
“Very well, sir. I'll send word up—”

      
“Let me do that myself. I'd enjoy helping her tuck in Hank and Jed.” Ephraim headed upstairs.

      
An hour later, he sat across from Leah in her elegantly furnished sitting room. Dorcas' silver tea service was on the turret-top table in front of them, its contents cooling and ignored as Ephraim told her about Rebekah's marriage to Rory Madigan.

      
“I can't believe she's done such a thing.” Leah's eyes grew round; and her face reddened with indignation, making her resemble her mother even more. Over the years her weight had continued to increase, and her once silver-gilt hair was now the same dull, streaked gray Dorcas' had been. “Amos dead one day and Rebekah running off to get married the next. It's positively barbaric. And to marry that—that Irishman! Whatever possessed her?”

      
If Ephraim had hoped to oil the waters, it was evident that his plans would come to naught. Leah had always been as obsessed with social propriety as her mother. “She had good reason, Leah.” He explained about Sheriff Sears' absurd suspicions that Rebekah had killed her husband and the way Rory Madigan had rescued her—with the proviso that she wed him in return. “He forced her into the marriage, Leah. But the ceremony was performed in secret. They won't release the news until a respectable time has passed. She and Michael are staying at the Flying W for the present. That should cause no gossip until the mystery of who killed Amos is solved.”

      
“For all I can see, my sister may very well have killed Amos just so she could have her Irishman now that he's rich,” Leah snapped.

      
“Leah, that is a shameful thing to say!”

      
“You always defend her! So does Henry! Everyone loves her best. If she's so innocent, then why did the sheriff try to arrest her in the first place?” Tears threatened to spill down her plump cheeks. Her eyes grew puffy and narrow when she blinked the salty droplets back.

      
“Someone tried to make it look as though she were guilty. That awful gun Amos bought her was used to kill him. One of her gloves was found lying beside his body.”

      
Leah had begun to stir an extra lump of sugar into her cold tea as he spoke. The spoon dropped from her fingers with a clatter. Her face turned the color of old parchment, and her skin looked just as stiff and wrinkled. She swallowed and looked around the room, frantically, like a wild creature caught in a trap.

      
“Leah, child, what is it?” Ephraim took his daughter in his arms and held her as she rocked back and forth, sobbing desperately.

* * * *

Carson City

      
Horace “Shanghai” Sheffield had spent his youth in the China trade dealing in opium. When he made his fortune and entered politics, he made much of the former fact and totally buried the latter. He was now an elder statesman. In recent years, he had begun to contemplate retirement from the Senate to enjoy the money he had made from imparting misery and death. But he found that the cycle of busts and bonanzas on the Comstock had dissipated his fortunes even more quickly than opium wasted its victims.

      
His frivolous and expensive young wife had done her share to deplete his wealth. In fact, she was in San Francisco spending more money right now. But his risky mining speculations and dealings with dangerous men like Stephan Hammer and bumblers like Hiram Bascomb had him pacing the floor late at night. He raised one shaggy brow and fixed the always sweating weasel Bascomb with his most intimidating glare. “You're positive Hobart gave those papers to Madigan?”

      
“
He
told me so—and you know he's always been right.”

      
Sheffield cursed. “And now when Madigan has everything he needs to ruin us, that bungling flunky Pritkin goes and gets himself shot! We've got to get our hands on every scrap of information Hobart gave Patrick Madigan.”

      
“Well, er...that might be difficult. He placed everything in his safety deposit box in the First National Bank.”

      
“Then, we have to get rid of those damn Madigans immediately. They're becoming more of a liability than Amos ever was.”

      
Sheffield leaned back in his big leather chair and steepled his fingers as Bascomb sat across from him trembling like the miserable worm he was. Possibly, it was time to get rid of this weak link, too. He needed to discuss it with Stephan and—

      
A hard-looking gunman barged into his private office, interrupting their clandestine meeting.

      
“Who the hell are you?” Sheffield asked, inspecting the big man's fancy Colt and unshaven visage. A shock of greasy yellow hair hung across his low forehead, and pencil-thin dark eyebrows drew together over opaque light eyes. Killer's eyes.

      
His uninvited guest smiled evilly, revealing dull yellow teeth. In a rusty-sounding voice, he replied, “Your business associate hired me to dispose of a couple of problems for you.” He closed the door, then looked at Bascomb with eyes as dead and cold as a three-day-old fish. “Who's this?”

      
Bascomb daubed at his brow and upper lip with his handkerchief. “I'm Hiram Bascomb, President of the Greater Sacramento Trust Bank.” He tried to sound authoritative, but his voice broke.

      
Sheffield turned to Bascomb. “Pay a visit to your dear friend Sam Pfeiffer at First National in the morning. See what you can do about getting those papers from Madigan's box.”

      
“But—”

      
“Don't argue, Hiram. Just do it.” Once Bascomb had sidled out of the room, Shanghai turned to the gunman. “Hammer sent you?”

      
“I've done a few jobs for him over the years.”

      
“You got a name?” Sheffield asked sourly. Damn, this man made
him
sweat!

      
“Yeah. But it don't matter. What does is the Madigan boys. Patrick got away, but his baby brother's back in town.”

      
Sheffield squinted his beetle brows together. “Rory Madigan—here?”