by Shirl Henke
“Yessir, that I certainly do. What exactly do you want me to do, Mr. Wells?” Henry asked, leaning forward in his chair.
Wells gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Not one to beat around the bush, are you, Henry? That's what I liked about you when I hired you. That and your ambition. You talk to your missus about her sister. Make sure she's using her influence to see that Rebekah is favorably disposed to my suit. I want a beautiful wife to take with me to Washington, and I'll be inclined to great generosity toward her family.”
“Generous enough to let me in on more mining investments?” Snead knew Wells was dangling a carrot in front of his nose, but damned if he'd go docilely along without bringing it out in the open.
Wells nodded solemnly. “Stock in the fastest-rising mining operations on the Comstock. Inside information for inside information, if you get my drift.
A smile of understanding was exchanged between the two men.
* * * *
Wellsville
The back alley was dark, and a Washoe zephyr tossed dust up in swiftly circling swirls, then skipped on, letting it settle against the sides of the buildings, piling up on sashes and filling corners with the reddish powder. Chicken Thief Charlie Pritkin stood in the shadows between two of the noisiest saloons in glitter town, his collar turned up against the stinging summer wind. The man was late for their appointment. Charlie needed a drink and wanted one of the soiled doves inside, but could afford neither until he was paid.
Suddenly, the sound of boots padding firmly through the dust caused him to turn. His employer materialized from around the corner. “I been waitin' fer a spell.” His voice was hoarse and surly.
“What have you to report?”
Charlie cleared his throat nervously, uncertain of how his benefactor would take the news he had to impart. “Miz Sinclair, she's been real busy the past few weeks. That mickey she seen at the fight, I heerd she met him at the park the next day.”
“Imprudent, but harmless enough. I already knew about it. Go on.”
“Well, he come over to her house a few days later, when her folks wuz out 'n she wuz workin' in th' garden.” He wet his lips and plunged ahead. “Had 'em a real mud wrasslin' contest, right out in front a God and ever'body. Then, she up and come to the river that Sunday to meet him, real private like.”
“Did she lose her virginity before the box social at the park?”
Charlie scratched his dirty red cowlick and shrugged uneasily. “I don't think so, but last night...well, he come to her house real late, 'n she snuck out to the orchard with him. I couldn't get too close, but they wuz in them trees a long time 'n when she come runnin' back inside, she warn't wearin' nothin' but one of them female nightshirts—all billowy and see-through.”
His employer nodded, his face carefully hidden in the shadows. Only his eyes burned as he stared broodingly at his hireling. “Keep watch on them. I want to know everything that goes on between them—but I don't want anyone else to hear a whisper about this. You understand?”
As Chicken Thief Charlie Pritkin bobbed his head up and down, his employer tossed a double eagle to him, then vanished down the deserted alley. Charlie scratched his cowlick in perplexity. There was no figuring those fellows from the right side of town. He could have sworn his boss wanted the preacher's daughter to tumble with that mickey boxer. Now, what kind of sense did that make?
* * * *
Rebekah lay awake in her lonely room, awash in misery. It had been three days since she had given herself so recklessly to Rory Madigan. She had scarcely slept, not at all that first night. In the morning, she had finally rolled from her tangled bed sheets and peered bleakly into the mirror, afraid she would see the evidence of her lost innocence stamped clearly on her face.
She had looked no different, just puffy-eyed from weeping and pale from lack of sleep. Yet inside of her everything was changed. She had pledged herself to Rory not only physically but with her heart, her very soul, as well. They had made solemn vows before God that should never be broken. But no legal words had been spoken before man, and if her family had any say in the matter, none ever would.
Rory was right. She would be forced to choose between him and them. How could she hurt her father and disgrace the Sinclair name by running off with a prizefighter? How could she remain and betray her vows by wedding Amos Wells? How can I live without Rory?
She had gloried in his touch, boldly followed his lead, and reveled in the pleasures of the flesh. Although her mother had never explained anything specific, Rebekah knew good Christian women were not supposed to enjoy the physical side of marriage. She had overheard Dorcas' discussion with Leah before Leah's wedding, and her sister had seemed to be in complete accord with that sentiment.
Why was she so unlike her mother and sister? What was wrong with her that she took such delight in physical love? She had actually hungered for Rory's touch. And, God forgive her, she still did. In spite of the shame and guilt that tied her insides in knots, she still ached with wanting her lover's arms around her, craved the bliss that his touch evoked.
If only there was some way for them to marry with her father's blessing. She sat up in bed, rubbing her aching temples. The banjo clock struck midnight, and the chimes echoed dolefully from the parlor below, each bong like a warning. What if Rory left Wellsville and returned to the prize ring? She had hurt him. She knew Rory Madigan was a proud man, but a poor one; and she had made it clear that material comforts and security were important to her as well as to her family.
Amos Wells had come calling again last evening. She had pleaded a headache and fled to her room, repelled at the very thought of fencing with him while her nerves were strung so tightly and she was riven with guilt and confusion. If only he were not complicating matters with his unexpected courtship, she might be able to get her parents to view Rory in a more favorable light. He had a respectable job. Well, almost respectable, she amended, realizing that working around racehorses was not precisely something her father would countenance. But it was a steady job, and if he were willing to convert and let her father marry them, that should weigh heavily in his favor.
She must think of some way to get rid of Amos without angering him. Playing calm and aloof only seemed to pique his interest. Could she dare explain that her heart was already pledged? No, that course was too risky. The waiting game would go on as he tried to wear her down. And every time he came to call, she could not have girlish vapors and refuse to see him. But if she did see him, Rory would be jealous. He might think she had chosen Amos.
The clock finished striking, and the silence pooled around her, chill and foreboding. “I can't let him believe I don't love him,” she whispered desperately.
Without giving herself time to think, she got out of bed and began to dress quickly and quietly. She finished by donning an old bonnet with a wide brim that hid her face, not that any respectable person should be out and about to recognize her at this ungodly hour.
* * * *
Rory lay on his bunk with a book of poetry clutched in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. Leaves of Grass, which used to fascinate and enchant him, seemed as stale as yesterday's beer now. Even the bottle, once a certain source of oblivion, offered no solace. He could not even do a decent job of getting drunk. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Rebekah, small and forlorn, with her virginal white nightgown puddling around her as she sat crumpled in the orchard.
He had been wickedly wrong to take her innocence—worse, he had been a fool to exchange vows of lifelong commitment when there were such formidable obstacles to overcome.
“If I had any sense, I'd ride out of here tomorrow and never look back. Those vows mean nothing to her. They shouldn't to me. Let her marry that rich old bastard and be the senator's wife.” He sat up and placed the book on the floor, then reached over for the bottle beside it and uncorked it, preparing to pour another shot. The sharp creak of a rusty hinge, followed by soft, rustling sounds brought him out of his ruminations. He se
t the bottle down and reached for his Colt, then blew out the flickering lantern and moved quickly to the door.
Rebekah kept looking over her shoulder, but could see nothing in the darkness of the big stable. Horses nickered restlessly and stomped their feet dully against the straw-covered earth. She had the eerie feeling that someone was following her. But that was ridiculous. No one had been out on the darkened streets as she made her way furtively downtown to Jenson's place.
She let her eyes adjust to the dark interior. Thin streams of moonlight poured in through the cracks between the planks, and larger squares of light were cast from the high windows at the sides of the barn. Blinking, she made her way as much by feel as by sight, keeping the narrow stairs at the rear of the building fixed in her mind. About halfway across the stable, she heard the sudden click of a weapon being cocked and froze. Then, a powerful arm encircled her waist, dragging her backward into one of the empty stalls.
Rebekah tried to scream, but a hand fastened over her mouth, stopping her outcry.
“You little fool!”
Chapter Eight
Rory crushed her against him, then spun her roughly in his arms as she crumpled, clinging to him and struggling for breath.
“You frightened the life out of me,” she gasped.
“I could’ve shot the life out of you—me or one of Jenson's other hands. They're off in town for the night, thank God, or you might’ve been dragged into one of these stalls and raped.”
His voice was low and tight with anger. There was whiskey on his breath. She could not see his face, only feel the leashed fury in him as he swept her into his arms and carried her up the narrow, rickety stairs to his quarters. He deposited her in the center of the small, dark room, then struck a match, lighting the kerosene lamp.
In the dim light, he looked like a menacing stranger when he asked, “What are you doing here?”
She moved back, edging toward the door. “It was a mistake. I shouldn't have come.”
“But you did,” he said, stepping between her and the door, barring her exit.
“You've been drinking.”
“For all the good it's done me, yes.” He looked into her eyes. They were round with fear, luminous and dark as emeralds. Her lips trembled, and she flinched when he reached out his hand toward her. “Ah, God, I'm sorry, Rebekah. I've the devil's own temper, and you were crazy to risk coming here. I was afraid for you. I could've shot you for a horse thief—and that's the best of the bad things that could’ve happened.”
The tears choked her, welling up and overflowing as she sobbed, unable to blink back the shimmering droplets that clung to her lashes. “I had to see you, Rory. After the way we parted the other night—I couldn't let you leave thinking that I didn't love you.
“That you took shameless advantage of me and then cast me aside?” he whispered. A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth as he extended his hand, letting his thumb gently wipe away the trail of tears from one delicate cheekbone.
Suddenly, he was Rory again, not the frightening, angry stranger who smelled of whiskey and held a gun. The tight knot inside her loosened, and she met his gentle smile with a hesitant one of her own. “When you put it that way, it does sound pretty ridiculous, doesn't it?”
Neither of them knew who reached out first; but suddenly, they were embracing, their hands and lips soft yet hungry, seeking the warm assurance that their young bodies gave.
“I could never leave you, Rebekah. I love you more than life itself, but I don't like this sneaking around in the dark.”
“If only Amos Wells weren't so powerful—why does he want me, of all the women he could choose? I'm nobody—”
His lips stopped her words; then he brushed his mouth across her cheeks and eyelids, murmuring, “You're somebody very special, Rebekah darlin', beautiful and bright and brave. The love of my life.”
The love of my life. When he held her, his breath warm on her as he kissed her and murmured his devotion, the world went away. Rebekah forgot Amos, even her own father and the consequences if she were found here with her love. “I can't bear for us to be apart. I haven't slept since we argued and you left me in the orchard. Don't ever leave me…”
His mouth swooped down to claim hers. She opened to him, tasting the alien tang of spirits on his tongue. Rather than repelling her, it seemed only to add to his forbidden allure. No man but her Rory would ever kiss her, touch her, know the intimate secrets of her body. She returned the kiss, running her hands across his shoulders, sliding her fingers inside his shirt, hungry to feel his warm, smooth flesh and the crisp, springy hair on his chest.
Rory feasted on her lips as he deftly unfastened her dress and began to work it from her shoulders, letting his mouth travel over her skin as he bared it, inch by inch. Rebekah responded with a boldness that surprised them both, and delighted him. She let the tip of her tongue trace small swirls around his hard male nipples, making him tremble. His little Puritan was a passionate woman who would be a warm and loving wife. He finished stripping off her simple calico gown and mended cotton undergarments, then laid her back on his narrow mattress and knelt to kiss and caress her.
“You're so beautiful. I only wish this were eiderdown instead of corn husks. I wish I could give you silks and jewels—”
“Only give me yourself, beloved,” she whispered against his lips, silencing him.
He tugged off his denims and climbed onto the bed, covering her slender body with his own.
Downstairs in the darkness, Chicken Thief Charlie Pritkin crawled into one of the stalls, watching the flickering light coming from between the rough board walls of Rory's small room. This time there was no doubt that Madigan had despoiled the preacher's daughter. He wondered how his employer would take that news as he waited patiently for them to emerge. They were young and obviously randy. He placed his greasy hat over his eyes and lay back in the straw to catch a nap. Several hours had elapsed when he awakened to the sound of muffled footfalls and whispered voices.
“I’ll see you safely home.” Rory walked into the stall where he kept Lobsterback and began to saddle the big bay as he and Rebekah argued heatedly.
“But you can't come to my house either. What if Papa awakened and came downstairs to read? He does that sometimes when he can't sleep late at night.”
“I should come courting in the daylight. This is no good.” He yanked the cinch tight, and the bay snorted in protest.
Rebekah shook her head in misery. “We've already had this argument. Please, Rory...give me time. We'll think of a way.”
“It's the damn money. If I could show your father that I had cash to stand on, he'd have to relent. I'll go back to the prize ring. There's big money to be made in the mining camps.”
“No! You'd be hurt or killed—and besides, that's money made from blood. My parents would never approve of your boxing.”
“What will we do, then? It's too dangerous for you to come here, but I can't be without you.” He paused as they walked the bay to the stable door; then he took her in his arms. They stood silhouetted in the moonlight, clinging together, oblivious of the rest of the world. After a moment, they broke apart and he swung onto the bay, then pulled her up in front of him and took off at a slow walk.
Her voice carried on the still night air. “The river. I'll come to your place by the river. It's close by my house, and no one will find us there. Since Leah's married, I'm usually left alone on Sunday afternoons; and sometimes, if we finish supper early on weeknights, I can get away for a ride with Celia without Mama fussing too much.”
“But what about Wells? He's been hanging around you like a bee at a honey tree. He'll give you no free time, Rebekah.”
“I'll talk to my father about needing more time to think about Amos' intentions. If he thinks I'm feeling pressured or rushed just because of what my mother wants, he'll relent. I know he will—just be there for me. At the river. Please?”
“I'll try, Rebekah, but I have to find a way out of this—a way
to get some money fast.” She started to protest, but he pressed his fingers over her lips and continued, “If that means traveling some distance to win a big purse for a stake, I'll go. Your family need never know how I earned the money. I'll not hear another word about it. It fair eats my guts out to see Wells touch you.”
Their voices faded as they rode around the corner. Pritkin, who had slipped silently through the side door to follow them, realized he could not keep up on foot. But he had learned enough. More than enough. Maybe, there was even a bonus in this.
* * * *
Celia Hunt's big brown eyes nearly popped from their sockets when her friend explained about Rory Madigan. “You can't mean it! Why, he's penniless—and he's Irish, for heaven's sake.” She looked at the stubborn set of Rebekah's jaw, a sign she had learned when they were children.
“You're really involved with him, aren't you? Oh, Rebekah, you haven't let him...” Her voice trailed off and she coughed discreetly, then peeked at her friend's flushed face. Rebekah's eyes would not meet hers, and she was nervously fidgeting in the balloon-backed armchair.
The two young women were whispering conspiratorially in the Hunts' rear sitting room while Mrs. Hunt held her weekly mission board meeting in the main parlor. Dorcas and Leah were in attendance; but as young unmarried girls, Celia and Rebekah were excused from what they considered an odiously boring activity.
“You have let him! Ooh, Rebekah! What was it like? Did you enjoy it? Tell me everything!” Celia gushed excitedly.
“Shh. I can't tell you,” Rebekah whispered, praying that Celia's squeals would not bring one of the servants in to check on them. “It's very personal and private...and beautiful,” she added with a defiant lift of her chin. “But I do need your help to slip away and meet him.”
“I could get in so much trouble,” Celia said.
