by Shirl Henke
“Since when has that ever bothered you?”
“You say you don't want Amos; but if we both ruin our reputations, he won't want either of us, and I do want him.”
“As I said, all the more reason to help me be with Rory. If all else fails, we may have to elope once he's saved enough money. That would leave Amos for you.”
“Oh, fiddle, why not? If you're that desperate, even willing to run away with him against your parents' will, I suppose the least I can do is stand by you.”
“Celia, I knew I could count on you,” Rebekah said, throwing her arms around her friend.
* * * *
Over the next few weeks, Celia rode by the Sinclair place just after the supper hour and the two friends went riding. At first Dorcas fumed, but because of Rebekah's talk with Ephraim about needing time to think over Amos Wells' suit, her father allowed her the leeway.
On their latest excursion, the conspirators headed toward the river, but before reaching it, Rebekah reined in and said, “You needn't wait for me. I'll tell my parents you rode home at dusk the same as I.” What a wicked liar I've become.
Celia grinned and kicked her new palomino filly into a brisk trot, calling back over her shoulder, “Do enjoy yourself.”
Rebekah slowed old Bessie Mae as she approached the trees, wondering if Rory would be there tonight. He was not always able to finish work at the racetrack in time to return to town before dusk. Please let him be waiting for me.
So preoccupied was Rebekah that she did not see Bart Slocum rein in his mount just after Celia departed. He watched her dismount and make her way toward the dense willows near the bend of the river, wondering what a high-toned lady like the preacher's daughter was doing out, leaving her girlfriend to ride back to town alone. He'd always had an itch for Reverend Sinclair's pretty little blond daughters, and now one had just dropped right into his lap.
He left his horse close to hers and stealthily raced through the tall grass to get ahead of her. “Wal, now, little yellow bird, whatcha doin' out all by yore lonesome?” He unfolded his lanky frame from where he was leaning against the trunk of a gnarled old willow and reached out for her.
Rebekah gasped in surprise as she snatched her hand from his grasp. “You get away from me, Bart Slocum.”
“So you know my name, huh? Wouldn't think a good girl like you would—but then you ain't such a good girl 'er else you wouldn't be out here all alone, now would ya?”
“I'm not alone. I'm waiting for a friend—and you are not he,” she said, trying to emulate the snotty voice Leah used when she wanted to give someone a set-down.
But Leah's social circles did not encompass men like Bart Slocum. His arm snaked out and grabbed her, catapulting her against his chest with a sudden thud, knocking the breath from her. “Now, ain't you the unfriendly one. Who you meetin'? Cain't be nobody yer pa'd allow. I heard you was sparkin' with ole Amos Wells. He shore wouldn't have to sneak around.”
“Let—me—go,” she gritted out, fighting down panic. Please, Rory, please come!
In response, Slocum took a fistful of her hair and yanked brutally on it, until her face was tilted up for his descending mouth. She screamed, but he quickly stopped her cries with his fetid kiss. Her struggling only increased his excitement. For such a slim young thing, she had some real curves beneath her prim clothes! He reached up and tore her blouse open, revealing one creamy shoulder and the swell of a breast above her camisole. “Gawd, you are a lush peach just ripe for pickin'!”
“You'll go to jail—be hanged for this,” she managed to cry out as he wrestled her to the ground.
“I don't think so. You tell 'n it'll go harder on you than me. You'll be ruined. Besides, you're no better 'n you ought ta be, sneakin' out here. You ain't gonna lose nothin' you ain't already lost.”
Slocum held her pinned with his body atop hers, reaching down with one hand to unfasten his breeches. Just as he did so, Rebekah bucked up and kneed him in the groin as hard as she could. When he gasped and fell off her, she rolled to her hands and knees and began to scramble away.
As she raced through the willow thicket, she could hear him, cursing and panting, in furious pursuit. He was gaining on her! Then, she stumbled and would have fallen, but Rory's strong hands were there as he suddenly materialized from beneath the curtain of a willow, running from where he had dismounted outside the trees when he heard her scream.
“Oh, Rory, I prayed you'd come,” she sobbed as he shoved her behind his back, then advanced on Slocum, who quickly began to back up.
“Now, Kid, I ain't no boxer. You can't—”
Slocum's plea was cut short as Rory's fist connected swiftly with his jaw in a stiff left jab followed by a powerful right that sent Slocum flying backward onto the seat of his breeches, which were gaping open obscenely. He shook his head, sending blood flying from his cut lip as he struggled to his feet, trying to avoid the Kilkenny Kid's advance.
Rory gave him no opportunity. His fists delivered a flurry of punishing blows to his foe's face and body. Slocum never landed a single punch as he retreated, feebly attempting to stave off his infuriated opponent by holding up his arms to protect himself. His knees buckled beneath the onslaught, and he fell to the ground again; but Madigan simply took hold of his shirt with one fist and continued smashing his other into Slocum's face until it resembled a shattered watermelon.
“Rory, no. You've killed him!” Rebekah's pleas did not seem to penetrate the killing rage surrounding him until she threw herself across his back.
Gradually, he came to himself and dropped Slocum's inert body to the ground. Breathing heavily, he turned to Rebekah and saw the horror in her eyes. Saints above, was it he she feared? He reached out one hand, palm open, to her entreatingly. “Rebekah, it's me, Rory. I'll never let anyone hurt you.”
She looked at his hand that had so often caressed her with such gentleness. Dear God, his knuckles were bloody and swollen from the beating he had administered to Slocum. She raised her eyes to meet his, so dark blue, compelling her, imploring her. This was her love, who had rescued her as she prayed he would. She flew into his arms, and he held her, soothing her with soft love words, crooning to her. She reached up when he tenderly brushed the tears from her cheeks and took one of his injured hands in hers, kissing the bruised knuckles, then holding them against her pounding heart. “Oh, Rory, thank God you came when you did!”
“This should never have happened,” he said grimly. “What if I had worked late?” He swore. “I almost stayed to give Jenson's new racer another time trial. If I had...”
“But you didn't,” she replied, burrowing her head against his chest.
“It could happen again. We'll not be meeting like this anymore, Rebekah. The next time I see you, I'll be riding up to your house and asking your father for your hand.” He stilled her protest and went on, “And when I do I'll have a large enough stake to be respectable.”
“You can't box anymore, Rory. Please! It will only make matters worse with my father.”
“Worse than this?” He gestured to Slocum's crumpled, unconscious body, then walked over and heaved the man across his shoulder. “I'll take him to town and make certain he understands that if he comes near you again—or breathes a word about us—this will seem like an exhibition compared to what I'll do to him then. Come on, I'll see you're safe on Bessie Mae before I ride into town with him.”
In silent misery, she followed, unable to think of anything that could sway him from his course.
* * * *
Amos sat arranging documents on his big desk in the Wellsville First Charter Bank when Henry Snead was ushered into the room. Snead, dressed nattily in a new black broadcloth suit and string tie, looked every inch his up-and-coming protégé. Wells smiled and offered a handshake. “Have a seat, Henry. Looks as if your new duties at the mines are agreeing with you.”
“Leah complained a bit about the long hours, but then I bought her a new phaeton and matched team. That settled that issue,” h
e added with a shrug of satisfaction, not wanting to let Wells know what a shrew his beautiful wife could be when she set her mind to it.
“Good, good,” Wells replied dismissively, his thoughts elsewhere. He picked up a crystal paperweight and turned it over in his well-manicured hand, watching the facets of light reflect off its polished surface. “That matter of the Irishman we've discussed...”
“Mr. Wells, I know Rebekah's been foolish, but she's young yet. Blood will tell, and she's from a fine Christian family.”
“I'm willing to overlook her youthful indiscretions—up to a point—but I don't want a public scandal, else she'll be of no further use to me. In fact, she would become a political liability.” He set down the paperweight abruptly, and his chill gray eyes bored into Snead's murky dark ones. “I want you to arrange a job for Jenson's stable hand. What better way for him to make a lot of money than to be offered the chance to fight a London Prize Ring Champion in Denver?”
A slow smile tilted Snead's mustache up at its edges. “You have enough influence to get a backwater fighter like the Kilkenny Kid a bout with one of those fancy Brit boxers?”
“My dear Henry, I have enough influence to get an audience with Queen Victoria herself, if I were interested,” he boasted. “It so happens one of my banking associates from Sacramento is quite the fight enthusiast, and he's arranging a match in Denver. The purse—what's being offered aboveboard, not to mention the side bets—is five thousand dollars.”
“You don't think Madigan could win?” Snead asked, his dark eyes enigmatic.
“No, but in the most unlikely event he did, I think Rebekah's family would be so scandalized by her bloodied paladin returning to claim her that they would lock her in her room until she agreed to marry me.”
“I still don't see why it wouldn't be easier to simply tell the Sinclairs about Rebekah's association with the Irishman and be done with it.”
“That might eliminate him as my competition, but Rebekah would blame me if I did so—and more likely, she would simply run off after him. Far better if he vanishes in disgrace after being beaten senseless. But even if he wins, she'll see him through her father's and mother's eyes—a blood-soaked barbarian with an infamous reputation as a brawler. Then, when everyone else castigates her, I'll be there to console and forgive.”
“What do you want me to do?” Snead asked, shifting in his chair uneasily.
“I've made arrangements for a match with Archimedes Poole, who'll be in Denver next week. Beau Jenson owes me money. He'd love to get out of debt, and he'll jump at the chance to let the Kilkenny Kid help him do it. Talk to him discreetly and suggest that he might want to accompany Madigan to Denver. Once he knows how much money he could win, I doubt he'll need further convincing.”
* * * *
Bart Slocum sat nursing a bottle in the back room of his brother's saloon. The whiskey burned his split lips and bloody gums as he swallowed, but the fire deep in his gut helped assuage his misery. There was not a place on his body that did not pain him. His eyes were swollen to slits and his nose so badly broken that the doc had just shrugged and said, “Reckon you'll have to learn to breathe through your mouth, Bart.”
He would carry the scars from the beating that mickey gave him for the rest of his life. He cursed and took a long pull from the bottle.
“Thet won't help—leastways it won't fer long. Naw, if’n I wuz you 'n I had me a score to settle with thet mick, I'd do somethin' b'sides drink.”
Slocum looked at Chicken Thief Charlie's greasy beard and calculating dark eyes. “You got somethin' in mind, Chicken, 'er you jist blowin' off hot air agin?” Pritkin was the town snoop, a petty thief. As far as the Slocum brothers were concerned, he was a general nuisance who annoyed paying customers by begging drinks.
“I got a job fer you...if you got the nerve ta do it.” A crafty look came over his face as he pulled up a chair beside Bart and eyed the whiskey bottle.
“Whut kinda job kin you offer me?” Slocum scoffed.
“Feller's payin' real good ta follow th' Kilkenny Kid to Denver 'n see thet he don't come back. If Poole don't kill him in the ring, we do it while he's sleepin' off his beatin'. I figger ya might want th' chance ta use a knife on him. Course now, if yore skeered after the way he worked ya over…”
“Who'd pay you to kill thet dumb mick?”
Chicken Thief Charlie scratched his beard stubble and grinned guilelessly. “I ain't allowed ta say, but he pays real good.” He pulled out a wad of greenbacks and flashed them in front of the startled Slocum. “You in? He'll pay five hunnert—when it's done.”
“Yeah, Pritkin, I'm in.”
* * * *
“Please, Rory, don't do this. Even if you could win, it isn't worth the chance.” Rebekah's voice was thick with tears she struggled not to shed.
“It's our only chance. I can take Poole. I've seen him fight. He's overrated and getting slower. That's probably why he was willing to take on an unknown. I'm grateful Jenson was able to get me the fight.” Rory looked out on the river flowing so peacefully, as they argued in the very place where they had so often made love in the past month.
“You'll forgive me if I don't share your gratitude,” she said angrily. She had been so overjoyed to receive his note, asking her to meet him at their old trysting place after more than a week of separation. She rushed to the river, thinking he had changed his mind and was going to welcome her into his arms. Instead, he had told her his “wonderful” news!
“It's five thousand, Rebekah. That's enough to buy a piece of land, run some cattle, and start breeding horses. We won't be rich; but if I work hard, in time I can make a success of it,” he said earnestly.
“And if you fail, you can always go back to boxing. My father won't accept blood money won in a contest of chance as a marriage settlement.”
“And because your father's lofty principles won't allow my grubby money, neither will you.” His words had the bite of lashing fury in them, barely under control. He fought the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled.
“You'll be beaten senseless and end up with nothing,” she said, reaching out to him with a sob.
He stepped stiffly away. “Thank you for that vote of confidence in my boxing prowess, but I think I'm a slightly better judge of the issue than you. I can beat him. I know it.” His eyes darkened with the strength of his impassioned feelings.
“What if you can? You’ll come back to Wellsville, the conquering hero with your face all swollen and cut up, waving fistfuls of dollars. I'm certain everyone in glitter town will be dying to welcome you.”
“But the good respectable folks won't. Rebekah, I may be a penniless Irishman, but I am a man and I have a man's pride. I won't beg and I won't pretend to be what I'm not to please your sanctimonious family or anyone else. I quit the ring and settled down, took a steady job; but I still wasn't good enough to come calling at your front door like Amos Wells. No matter what I do, I never will be, so there's no sense in us ever meeting again. Marry Wells and be done with it. It'll make your father happy!” He turned and strode toward his big bay.
Rebekah stood frozen in shock for a moment, watching him walk away, out of her life. Forever. “Rory, no! We made solemn vows. We swore to love each other—and I do love you. I'll always love you, no matter what.” She ran to him and fell at his feet, her arms wrapped around his legs as she crumpled onto the earth. “I don't care about the money. I'll go with you—now, anywhere you say. Don't leave me.”
Drawing a ragged breath, he turned and knelt by her side, pulling her into his arms and burying his face in the silky golden hair that tumbled down her back. “Don't cry, Rebekah, please don't cry.” He cupped her chin with one hand and kissed the trickle of tears from her thick lashes. “I'll come back for you—win or lose. I swear on my honor I will. But I have to fight this fight. It's my one chance to amount to something—to prove to your family that I can take care of a wife. And I will win. Believe in me and wait for
me. Then, if your family still won't accept us, we can elope, but this way there is a chance they might.”
She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Her emotions had become so intense lately. She seemed to cry at the slightest thing. “We will have our chance,” she finally managed to say. “Amos hasn't called in the past few weeks. Perhaps, I've succeeded in discouraging him, and he won't hurt my family when we marry.” She met his level blue eyes, searching for assurance. And found it.
He studied her lovely face, cradling it in his hands. “I'll be back, Rebekah darlin'. And the devil himself won't keep us apart. I swear to you.”
“I'll be waiting, Rory, I swear to you. Just keep yourself safe and hurry back to me.”
He gave her that heart-stopping grin and winked at her. “Even before my cuts and bruises heal?”
She kissed the tiny white scar on his temple as she whispered, “I'll always love you, scars and all. Just come for me.”
“I made a vow. I'll never break it as long as you love me.”
“Then the vow is sealed for all time,” she murmured against his lips as they sank to the soft grassy earth, locked in an embrace.
Chapter Nine
Denver had a look of permanence about it that none of the Comstock towns ever achieved. Although not possessing as large a population as Virginia City in its boom years, Denver in 1870 was growing steadily with five thousand residents. After earlier fires and floods, churches and newspapers, banks and mercantiles had all been rebuilt of sturdy brick and stone.
When Rory and Beau Jenson rode into town, they bypassed the imposing wide streets north of Cherry Creek and east of Laramie, where mansard roofs and Gothic spires were crowned by wrought-iron railings, all glowing like fairy-tale creations beneath the newly installed gaslights. Their destination was the unsavory district where prizefights and other illegal affairs were winked at by the local police.
