Broken Vows (48 page)

      
Rebekah scanned the room, looking for a weapon. Henry was a big man, and somewhere on the premises his hired killer lurked. How could she outwit them by herself? Patrick was injured, unconscious, and bound. As Snead walked around the desk, she said as calmly as she could, “You can't get away with this, Henry. Take the money and leave Nevada—run. Rory and Patrick went to the governor. Rory is helping arrest Senator Sheffield and all the others right now. They'll implicate you.”

      
“I'm afraid not. Mr. Kelso took care of Sheffield and Bascomb last night. Hammer is too smart to talk. Besides, being a high-ranking federal official, he knows he can buy his way out, and after the unfortunate deaths of his friends, he'll want nothing more than to get the hell out of Nevada and never return.”

      
“But Rory—”

      
“Madigan tried to stop Kelso. He's dead, too,” Snead said, watching her reaction carefully.

      
Black spots floated before Rebekah's eyes as she struggled to breathe.
No! I would know if you were dead, Rory. Surely, I would know....

      
Just then, a hulking giant with a lethal-looking Colt strapped to his hip walked into the office. “The coast is clear, boss,” the hard-looking stranger said in a raspy voice.

      
“You carry Madigan. I'll escort the lady. Oh, Rebekah, I'd advise you against screaming. The only men around to hear you are the old cook and a stable boy. I don't think you'd want their deaths on your conscience, now would you?” he asked gently.

      
“What are you going to do?” She forced out the words, trying not to recoil when he took her arm and moved toward the door. Kelso picked up Patrick and slung the big Irishman across his shoulder as if he weighed no more than Michael.

      
“You're still under suspicion for your first husband's death. When you and your second husband's brother abscond from the ranch with all Amos' money from his secret safe...well, it won't take much to convince Sheriff Sears that you and Patrick planned the whole thing.”

      
They headed to the kitchen with Kelso preceding them to the back door, carrying Patrick. Rebekah shook off Henry's hand and walked calmly ahead of him. As soon as they were inside the room, she saw what she had been praying for—the small, sharp paring knife the cook used to cut vegetables from his garden out back. It lay in the shadows on a small corner table beside the door with his apron carelessly thrown beside it. How could she slip it inside her skirt pocket without Henry noticing?

      
When Kelso opened the back door and started to maneuver Patrick through it, Henry's attention was diverted. Rebekah stumbled against a kitchen chair and fell forward toward the table, crying out as if it were an accident. Before Snead could reach over to catch her, she had concealed the knife and straightened up. She did not have to pretend the shiver of terror when she looked up at him as if expecting that he would strike her.
Just don't look at that apron that fell onto the floor,
she prayed. “I... I felt a bit dazed,” she murmured.

      
As solicitous as the old friend she had always believed him to be, Henry smiled and took her arm. “Be careful, my dear. I know you're frightened. It won't be much longer and this will all be over.”

* * * *

Carson City

      
The search for the killer had proven fruitless. Rory sat in his suite at the Ormsby House, pinching the bridge of his nose, exhausted and frustrated. His shoulder kept a steady throbbing beat in time with the pounding in his temples. When the man who murdered Sheffield had shot him in the orchard, he'd fallen, striking his head against the trunk of a peach tree.

      
By the time the marshal found him, their quarry was long gone. Against his will, the semiconscious Rory had been taken to the doctor, then driven back to his hotel, where he passed out on the bed. By the time he had awakened, it was late morning; and the news the governor's aide brought him was not good. When the deputy had arrived at Hiram Bascomb's house the night before, the little banker was as dead as Shanghai Sheffield, probably shot by the same assassin. A thorough search of Carson City yielded nothing.

      
Wells and his cohorts were all dead. All but one—Stephan Hammer—and he was securely held in the Ormsby County jail, refusing to say a word except to express outrage and indignation at being detained. Perhaps, he had hired the professional who took care of his fellows, but things still did not fit.

      
“I'm missing something. What would a man like Hammer have to gain by framing Rebekah for Amos' death? If he was afraid she knew about Amos' illegal associations, why not just have her killed along with the others?” He looked at the breakfast tray a maid had brought earlier. He had no appetite, but considered that perhaps food would fortify him so he could think straight. Then, he'd ride out to the Flying W and discuss the whole debacle with Patrick. Between the two of them, with Rebekah's help, maybe they could make sense of the puzzle.

      
Just as he was finishing the last bite of steak, a loud rapping sounded on the sitting room door of his suite. Rory shoved the plate away and reached for his gun. He walked slowly to the door and unlocked it, standing clear as he yanked it open. The last person on earth he expected to see was Ephraim Sinclair.

      
The reverend took one look at the pistol barrel so near his face and stiffened, but did not step back. “I have urgent information I need to share with you,” he said in a low, weary voice. “I've spent the night asking the Lord for guidance.”

      
“And He sent you to me?” A sardonic smile swept over Rory's face as he lowered his gun and motioned for the old man to come inside.

      
“You're Rebekah's husband. A part of this family now. And I...I don't know where else to turn, what to do.”

      
“Sit down, I'll get you some coffee. It should still be fairly hot.” Rory looked at the old man's haggard face. Something was badly amiss. A moment later, he shoved a cup of strong black coffee into Sinclair's hands and sat down across from him, unconsciously rubbing the bandage on his shoulder. Damn, he was still groggy from whatever that doc had given him last night. Shaking his head to clear it, he said, “Maybe you'd better tell me what this is all about, Reverend Sinclair.”

      
The old man's shoulders slumped as he carefully set the cup and saucer down on the table beside his chair. “Last night I went to have a talk with Leah. You know how angry I was that you'd forced Rebekah to marry you. I suppose that's part of the reason... Anyway, the rest can wait. The issue now is who killed Amos.”

      
“What could you or Leah know about—Snead!” Rory jumped up abruptly. “It was Snead, wasn't it?” He cursed his own obtuseness as Sinclair nodded, a bewildered expression on his face. Rory continued, “It all makes sense. He worked for Amos and was in with the others. He just hid his trail more carefully.”

      
“But why did he implicate Rebekah? He's always been her champion against Amos,” Ephraim asked, bewildered.

      
“With Rebekah out of the way, all Amos' estate would go to Michael. His uncle would have been the logical one to act as my son's guardian and executor—if I hadn't gotten in the way. But how did you find out what Snead had done?”

      
“The gun—Rebekah’s gun. Leah found it while she was going through Henry's desk the day before Amos was shot. She just assumed he'd taken it to clean or repair it for her sister. He was always doing errands for Rebekah. That was one of the things that drove Leah to such jealousy....” His voice faded away.

      
“I don't expect swiping one of Rebekah’s gloves was any difficult feat for him either,” Rory said angrily. “Does Leah have any idea where he might be?”

      
“He came by my place late yesterday after Patrick and Rebekah left with Michael. He acted concerned that Rebekah had run off with you and told me he was going to confront you here in Carson when I explained where you were.” His eyes moved to Rory's bandaged shoulder, revealed through the front of his robe, which hung open to the waist. Sinclair blanched. “He tried to kill you!”

      
Rory strode across the room and gathered up his clothes. “Go to the federal marshal's office on Stewart Street. Tell him everything we've discussed. He can start the search here for Snead. I'm going to the Flying W to see that Rebekah and Michael are safe.”

      
“Surely if your brother is with them...”

      
“I hope you're right! Go for the marshal,” Rory added, as he threw on his clothes.

* * * *

The Mud Pots near Pyramid Lake

      
The heavy blanket covering her was suffocating. Patrick still had shown no signs of awakening as they bounced along the rocky ground headed toward the flat sink in whose center lay the magnificent blue-green Pyramid Lake. The area was surrounded by russet-brown volcanic cliffs and the domed, twisted deposits of sediment called tufa rock. It was a wildly beautiful place that Rebekah had always delighted in visiting, but its very desolation would now seal her doom if Patrick did not awaken to help her in the attempt to overpower Snead and Kelso.

      
Kelso had brought an old spring wagon around to the rear of the house. He had put Patrick's unconscious body in it and she was instructed to join him. The thug had covered them and then driven off. Henry followed at a distance sufficient to keep any possible witness from associating him with the wagon, yet close enough to keep watch so she could not jump free and run for help.

      
Sweat ran in rivulets over her body, soaking her dress. Every breath she drew in the fetid heat was burning and painful. She felt the knife in her fist and squeezed it for courage, debating about cutting Patrick free. If he did not regain consciousness and Henry decided to remove the blanket, her last element of surprise would be lost when he saw the rope removed. Yet alone against the two armed men, with only her small weapon, what could she do anyway?

      
Kill Henry
. The thought settled in her mind and repeated itself over and over with every turn of the creaky wheels. Yes, failing everything else, she must do that. Even if Kelso shot her, she would stop Henry from gaining guardianship of Michael.
Papa will take care of Michael if we're all dead.

      
In the back of her mind, she still held out the faint thread of hope that Rory was not dead. But with every mile they drew nearer to the mud pots, Rory's help was farther away. She had listened as Henry explained to Kelso how she and Patrick were to vanish. The vast basin area between the Carson and Humboldt sinks was scattered with mires of muddy water that bubbled up like small volcanic eruptions from deep beneath the earth. In places, there were literally acres of the deadly morass. The mud pots could, and often had, swallowed up man and horse alike.

      
She and Patrick would vanish without a trace in a boiling cauldron of mud. Kelso would drive the wagon across the Utah border, and its trail would be lost in the zephyr-driven sands of the high desert. Most people would assume what Henry intended for them to assume—that she and Patrick had run off with Amos' money. Would Rory believe it? No, but that was because he trusted his brother, not her.
Please be there for Michael, Rory.

      
Rebekah continued her attempts to prod and nudge Patrick without alerting Henry. She could hear the muffled hoofbeats of his horse beside the wagon now. Then Patrick groaned softly and moved a tiny bit. Now or never, she had to cut him free and take her chances. Slowly, carefully, she slid the knife close to the ropes binding his wrists. He lay on his side with his back to her. Several minutes later, she had him free but still he did not regain consciousness.

      
Rebekah whispered to him in a low, desperate voice, trying to rouse him and explain their danger. Kelso had probably given him a concussion!

      
The wagon slowed and came to a stop. Rebekah pulled Patrick flat on his back with his hands still partially hidden beneath him, praying she could reach Henry before the men saw that she had cut Madigan free. She sat up and kicked off half of the covers, leaving them on her unconscious brother-in-law. Henry was dismounting ten feet from her while Kelso climbed down from the wagon seat and watched.

      
Rebekah coughed and looked around, trying to accustom her stinging eyes to the blinding late-afternoon sunlight. They were at the edge of what looked like a fantastical landscape imagined in Dante's Inferno. Acres of yellow-ochre and bronze-red ooze spread to the east, with small treacherous paths of firm ground threading between the cauldrons of bubbling mud. Steam hissed in sibilant geysers, filling the air with a stench of sulfur...and death.

      
Not giving Henry a chance to realize her intent, Rebekah leaped from the wagon and ran to him, the knife hidden in the folds of her skirts. Just as she drew up in front of him and fell to her knees, seemingly in supplication, hoping he would reach down to pick her up, Kelso yelled out a warning.

      
“Madigan's been cut free!”

      
Henry reached for the pistol in his shoulder holster, but Rebekah rose up like a she-bear. She butted him in the stomach and knocked him backward to the ground, then came at him with the knife clenched in her fist. Snead struggled to recover his wind and roll free of the demented woman who was on top of him.

      
Rebekah slashed at his throat, narrowly missing but opening a long, ugly gash across his right shoulder and down his arm before his left fist slammed against the side of her head. Even while the pain lanced through her in black waves, she held fast to the paring knife as the force of his punch sent her flying into the yellow mud. Rolling up, Rebekah tried to clear her head and gain purchase in the hot, squishy mud pot as Henry came after her.