Broken Vows (9 page)

      
“But in spite of his being such a paragon, you don't want him to come calling, do you?” He studied her, confused by her ambivalence.

      
“No, but you made it sound as if my father was selling me to some beastly old man. Celia Hunt—you remember, she was with me the day you fought Cy Wharton?”

      
“The plump little redhead,” he supplied, impatient for her to explain.

      
“Well, she's always been smitten with Mr. Wells. When I told her about his interest in me this morning, I was afraid I'd lose my best friend, but she's loyal and understanding.

      
In fact, we've concocted a scheme to give her a chance to catch Mr. Wells's eye at the box lunch social next week.”

      
She quickly outlined the deception that she and Celia had devised. “So you see, Mr. Wells will bid on her basket with the pale pink ribbons because I've told him I'll be using pink. Mine will have rose-red ribbon, and after all the sales are made, he'll have to do the gentlemanly thing and eat with Celia.”

      
“And who will get your basket?”

      
She shrugged. “It really doesn't matter, just so Mr. Wells and Celia end up together.”

      
“So, you're really willing to pass up all his money and political aspirations? You could be a senator's wife and travel back east. Live in mansions and wear furs and jewels. I thought all women wanted those things.”

      
She flushed beneath his scrutiny, tracing the pattern of the frayed checkered cloth that lay between them. “I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a covetous person. In fact, I suppose if I was a Catholic, I'd have to say a lot of Hail Marys to make up for my sins. I've always been envious of Celia's pretty clothes and the places her family has taken her.”

      
“But you wouldn't marry just to get them?” he prompted. When she shook her head, his chest, which had been tight with apprehension, eased; and he took a deep, cleansing breath. They had problems to overcome, but perhaps money would not be one of them. He leaned over to raise her chin for another kiss; but just then, a loud splash interrupted. His pole was bent at a precarious angle, and the cork had vanished beneath the surface. As the rocks holding the pole in place rolled away beneath the pressure, the cane started to slide into the water.

      
Rory jumped up and grabbed for it, but missed as it glided just out of his grasp. With an oath, he splashed into the water and promptly slipped on the mossy, slick rocks beneath the shallows. As he tumbled face forward into the river, he seized the pole and yanked hard on it while rolling to sit upright, waist deep in the water.

      
Droplets splashed everywhere, spraying onto Rebekah, who had also jumped up and run to the edge of the river. She squealed with excitement, then tried to suppress her giggles as he rolled around in the water, soaking his clothes to his skin. A long shock of midnight hair lay plastered to his forehead. He gave her a baleful glare, then turned his attention to the fish.

      
“Laugh at me, will you,” he said with mock ferocity as he turned the pole to the shore, dragging a fat, thrashing trout across the top of the water. He flipped the hooked fish neatly at her feet, then rose, pole still in hand, and waded back onto the bank, where he made a courtly bow, using the pole as if it were an overlong gold-handled walking stick.

      
Rebekah gave a startled squawk and jumped back, then burst into gales of laughter. “You should’ve seen your face when you tripped on those rocks and fell in headfirst.”

      
“You should’ve seen yours when that trout tried to jump up your petticoats...not that it's such a bad idea,” he said in a husky voice as he threw the pole and his catch aside and reached out for her. All laughter died between them.

      
She watched the incredible grace with which he moved, unable to turn away or protest—unable even to tear her eyes from his compelling male beauty. His simple white cotton shirt had become almost translucent, revealing the curling black hair on his chest. Every lean, sinuous muscle in his body stood in bold relief beneath the clothes that clung to him so sensuously. The age-softened denims hugged his legs as he stepped up to her and reached out to take her in his arms.

      
His hands were cold from his dunking and she gasped in surprise; but as soon as he pulled her against him, the heat of his hard body enveloped her. The pounding of his heart was a dull thud, pillowed against the softness of her breasts as he bent his head to kiss her. Her hands came up, soft palms running along the wet, slick contours of his biceps, then curving around his broad shoulders. His mouth was like his hands, cool at first touch, then meltingly hot as he made contact with her flesh.

      
A low, feral groan tore from him as he felt her respond, opening her mouth for the invasion of his tongue. He held her tight, molding her soft curves against his wet body until he had soaked her, put his mark on her. His lips moved from the sweetness of her mouth, across her cheeks, brushing her eyelids, nose, and brows, then moved lower to ravish her slender throat, unfastening the tiny cloth-covered buttons until he could taste the silky skin stretched across her collarbone. His hand cupped her breast, lifting it in his hand as his mouth descended toward it. He was lost, all his good resolutions fled.

      
Rebekah felt his heat, gloried in the impossible breathless pleasure of his hands and mouth gliding over her body, unbuttoning her dress and taking liberties with her breasts that no other man would ever have dared. She felt his hand slide down over the curve of her hip to stroke her buttock and lift her lower body against his. The familiar ache of desire that she had experienced last week in her muddy garden swept over her again; and this time they were in a secluded place, far away from the prying eyes of the town.

      
“Rebekah,” he murmured against her hair as he pulled it free of its pins. Long, heavy waves of dark gold cascaded down her back and he wrapped his fingers in it, tugging on her scalp until her head fell backward, exposing her throat and breasts to his voracious kisses.

      
She was ready to give in, to sink down to the soft, grassy riverbank and let him do with her as he wished. Then the trout, lying forgotten on the ground, made one last desperate series of flops, arching its tale and flipping around their feet. Rory's words flashed into her mind.
That fish tried to jump up your petticoats...not that it's such a bad idea

      
She could feel his hand lifting up her thin cotton skirt, gliding along her thigh. She pushed against his chest and jumped back, nearly tripping over the floundering fish. One hand covered her mouth, and the other tried to pull together the prim little buttons of her dress. Her eyes had turned so dark green that they looked almost black, like deep pools of shame. The spell was broken.

      
To allay her fears, he knelt and seized the fish, then freed it from the hook and tossed it back in the river. “I've let it go. And I'm letting you go, too...for now. Only for now, Rebekah.”

      
His voice was low and raspy, as intense as his dark blue eyes which bored into her. Rebekah turned and fled. Rory made no attempt to stop her as she scrambled up on her old mare and kicked the poor beast into a trot.

* * * *

      
Celia and Rebekah stood among the nervously chattering young girls and a few slightly older women, all clustered together beneath the tall oak trees in the city park. The box lunches prepared by the single females of First Presbyterian and its neighboring church, Wellsville Methodist, were spread before them on a long trestle table situated on the bandstand. The picnic baskets had each been carefully trimmed with ribbons, flowers, and other decorations, indicating to the eager males in the crowd whose prize—and whose company—they were “purchasing.”

      
“Do you think Amos will be angry?” Celia whispered nervously to Rebekah as they scanned the crowd.

      
“I don't think so. After all, we'll just say it was a misunderstanding—pink and rose ribbons could be mistaken.” Rebekah really was not certain if Amos Wells would care, but for Celia's sake, she hoped not. She was still mystified as to why a rich, older man like him had decided to court her in the first place. He hardly knew her. Prior to the Sunday dinner two weeks earlier, he had scarcely spoken more than a few dozen words to her in her life.

      
But Rebekah was absolutely certain her parents would be angry. In fact, Mama would no doubt be in a towering rage because she had missed the opportunity to flaunt such a prestigious suitor in front of the whole community. Papa would be disappointed, too, and that bothered her a good deal more. Thank heavens Mama had come down with one of her headaches just before the picnic and Papa had decided to stay home with her. The Hunts had picked her up in their fancy new German landau with its top rolled down to accommodate the warm summer weather. She was relieved that Leah and Henry had decided not to attend the social.

      
“Deacon Wright is about to start the bidding, and I don't see Amos,” Celia said, scanning the crowd.

      
“Oh, he's here. I saw him earlier.”
When I assured him that my basket had the pink ribbons,
she thought with a tremor. Well, at least this would probably end his suit.

      
“Who do you think will bid on your basket, Rebekah?”

      
Celia's friend shrugged. “I haven't told anyone which one is mine.”
Except Rory, and he won't be here.

      
“Wouldn't it be awful not to have anyone buy it!” Celia's eyes grew huge as the thought suddenly struck her.

      
Rebekah laughed. “Celia, in a state where men outnumber women ten to one, do you honestly think there's a chance of that? Look around you.” She gestured with one hand, then quickly brought it to her throat in shocked dismay.

      
There, tall as a church steeple, was Rory Madigan, standing in the back of the motley crowd, leaning with casual arrogance against the trunk of a cottonwood. He was dressed in a simple white shirt, black breeches, and a black leather vest.

      
“Ooh, I don't believe his nerve! A papist like him coming to our church gathering,” Celia hissed. “And look at the way he's dressed. Why that shirt collar is open so low, you can actually see his chest!” She looked at Rebekah with enormous eyes.

      
But Rebekah was staring at Rory in such horror-struck fascination that the words barely registered. She had seen a good deal more of that hairy chest—and felt it! Not to mention even more private parts of his anatomy. Wouldn't Celia be shocked? Wouldn't everybody?

      
He was heart-stoppingly handsome. A flat-crowned black hat trimmed with silver conchos was shoved carelessly on the back of his head, and that disturbing lock of inky hair hung across his forehead as he regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes.

      
Among the awkward cowhands in plaid shirts and denims and the pale town clerks sweating in woolen suits, Rory looked dark and dangerous. He was an outsider whose very bearing indicated that he did not give a damn what anyone thought. Not only was his shirt unbuttoned indecently low, but his sleeves were rolled up, revealing those long, sinewy forearms with fine black hair growing on them.

      
He grinned at her and winked.
I'm letting you go...only for now, Rebekah
.

      
He wouldn't dare. Would he? With a sinking heart, Rebekah realized that he would, and short of betraying Celia and indicating to Amos that the rose-ribboned basket was hers, she could do nothing but wait and pray that someone else outbid him. How much money could a stable hand have, after all?

      
Rory had enough, since he had held on to the last of his prize money when he returned to Wellsville and began working for Jenson. Two double eagles jingled in his vest pocket, and he was willing to spend every cent, if need be, on that rose-trimmed basket.

      
He had stayed away from Rebekah all week, working from dawn to dark with Jenson's racers at the track outside Reno, deliberately driving himself to exhaustion. Every night he had fallen onto his narrow cot, too tired to lie awake and think of her. Yesterday, when Jenson had paid him his wages, he had gone into the thriving city of Reno and purchased the fancy new clothes, spending more on the silver concho hat and vest than the rest, but deciding he preferred the way they made him look, like a Westerner, yet different from the cowboys in denims or the townies, sweating in their hot, silly suits.

      
She’s wondering what I'm going to do. Or maybe she isn't.
With Rebekah, it was always difficult to tell. She was strikingly beautiful and bright, yet thought herself plain and lacking in the female accomplishments men admired. She had to believe he wanted her. His passion had frightened her, yes, but it had also ignited an answering desire in her. Perhaps, that side of her own nature frightened her most of all.

      
The first few baskets were held up, their contents peeked at and extolled, then bid upon, usually in prearranged order, each courting man having an understanding with his fellows not to encroach when he bid. In a few instances, two or three swains smitten with the same girl would bid up her lunch as high as the princely sum of a half eagle. Although the women were to remain around the bandstand until the auction was complete, many edged away into the shelter of the trees with their suitors once their transactions were satisfactorily completed.