by Shirl Henke
“Good morning, Mort. Is Mr. Jenson around?”
The boy tipped his battered hat awkwardly and said, “Yes'm. He's out back by the corral.”
When she thanked him and headed through the big stable, he stared after her curiously. Rebekah tried not to look up the rear stairs to Rory's quarters, where she had so shamelessly gone to him in the night. Once she asked Mr. Jenson about him, Rory's boss would know that she had been involved with the Irishman. She only prayed he was chivalrous enough not to reveal it to anyone. Beau Jenson was not a member of her father's nor any other church in Wellsville, but he was a somewhat respectable businessman, if one overlooked his association with the racetrack and the fact that he was from Alabama originally and voted a straight Democratic ticket. The best families of Wellsville were Northerners and Republicans.
When the big, beefy man saw Rebekah Sinclair approaching, his bulldog face reddened even darker. So this was the filly Madigan had taken such a beating for—a preacher's kid.
Who would have guessed? He doffed his hat and smiled respectfully. “Good mornin', Miss Sinclair. What brings y'all to my livery?”
His eyes were shrewd but kind. He knows! She swallowed for courage as she nodded a return greeting, then plunged ahead. “You accompanied Mr. Madigan to Denver several weeks ago...”
“Yes, ma'am, I did,” he replied, aware of the awkwardness of the situation. Surely, her snooty family would never approve of a kid like Madigan sparking their daughter. “Rory won the fight—and a battle royal it was, too! You'd a been proud of him, Miss Sinclair.”
“That—that was over three weeks ago. Did he say when he was returning? I mean, surely his job here—”
“Aw, he quit his job, ma'am. I warn't surprised none. He won the five-thousand-dollar prize plus several thousand more on side bets that his friend Blackie Drago made for him.”
“Who is this Mr. Drago?” Rebekah asked, already dreading the reply.
Beau's face turned even redder as he realized that Madigan's plans may have changed regarding the quiet little preacher's daughter. “Blackie Drago's a real influential person in Denver,” he began uneasily. “He's a sportin' man, if y'all take my meanin'.”
Rebekah did, all too well. “You mean he's involved in saloons, gambling...and other things.”
“Yes'm.” Beau's face would have glowed in the dark, it was so fiery red as he thought of Junie Killian's attentions to young Madigan. “Well, anyways, Blackie knowed Rory from when the boy first come west. After the fight, even though he won, Rory was beat up pretty bad.” She paled and he hurried on. ”Aw, nothin' serious, but he said he just wanted to stay at Blackie’s place and heal up for a spell afore he come back to Wellsville. Said he wuz gonna write a letter explainin' it all to his, er, intended,” he finished lamely.
“Well, as we can both see, Mr. Jenson, he's had a change of heart. I received no letter.” He had left her. He was not coming back! Rebekah felt the world spinning away, and her own voice sounded thin and distant. Everything went black.
The next thing she knew, she was sitting on a bench against the outside wall of the livery with Beau Jenson attempting awkwardly to hold her up and wipe a wet cloth across her forehead.
“Miss Sinclair, you all right? Y'all fainted dead away on me. Like to scared daylight out of me,” he said as she stiffened and sat up.
Her reticule had fallen in the dust, and her hat had come loose from her head, leaving her hair straggling down her back. She must look a fright! What would Mr. Jenson think? “Please, I—I'm all right. I apologize for giving you such a start. May I ask you a very great favor?” He nodded, and his bulldog jowls shook. “Please don't tell anyone that I've made inquiries about Rory Madigan.”
“Y'all got my word on that, ma'am, and a Alabama man never breaks his word,” he said solemnly as he helped her stand up. “Y'all sure you're all right? Maybe I should see you home in one of my rigs.”
“Thank you, but no. I'm fine. I really must be going now.”
“Ma'am, give him a chance. I expect he needs a little time to get used to havin' so much money 'n all. But he'll be back. Just wait and see,” Jenson said earnestly, praying he was right.
But Rebekah Sinclair did not have time. Wait for me. Rebekah darlin.’ How could he do this after all the nights he had held her in his arms and loved her, after the sacred vows they had exchanged? He had sent no word of explanation. His face should have healed from the fight by now. Nothing was keeping him in Denver. Nothing but an old friend by the sinister name of Blackie Drago, who probably had enough whiskey and loose women to tempt the devil himself. Rory had confessed to her the profligate existence he had lived before coming to Wellsville. Apparently, the bright lights of Denver had lured him back to it.
* * * *
Over the next weeks, Rebekah's certainty that she was with child grew as surely as her certainty that the child's father would not return to claim it. She had to do something but had no idea what. The very thought of facing her mother's screaming tirade or her father's shocked anguish was more than she could bear. Sweet, giggling Celia would have no idea of what to do and would blame herself for helping Rebekah along the road to perdition. Leah was her only hope.
Although the two had never been close, Leah herself was expecting a baby. Perhaps, her sister's joy in approaching motherhood would soften her heart. As she drove their old buggy out to the pretty ranch house Henry had built for Leah, Rebekah rehearsed how she would explain her desperate situation. They had relatives back in Boston. Possibly, she could go east and save her family from disgrace.
Rebekah choked back tears. What a watering pot she had become. Since she met Rory Madigan, it seemed she had cried more than she had in all her life. Leah and Henry were well enough fixed that she did not feel it would be impossible to ask her sister and brother-in-law for a small amount of money to see her on her journey. If only the relatives in Boston would take in an unmarried pregnant woman.
“I'll never see my home again. Never see my father. I hate you, Rory Madigan! I'll never forgive you for your betrayal.” She whipped up the old nag, and the rickety buggy gave a lurch as one wheel hit a rut in the road.
Leah's new house was quite the prettiest thing Rebekah thought she had ever seen, a confection of gingerbread trim, gabled roofs, and wide bay windows around the parlor and dining rooms. The Sneads had just moved in a few months ago, and Rebekah had visited only once with her parents. That day a proud Henry had announced that they were expecting a child—news that was greeted with unbounded joy. How differently her own pregnancy would be treated. Resolutely, she climbed down from the buggy and picked up the gift she had brought—several tins of freshly baked raisin rolls, Leah's favorite sweet, and a jar of piccalilli she had made for Henry.
The Chinese boy who worked for the Sneads led her into the parlor with grave courtesy, then excused himself to go and inform the missus that her sister had come calling. Rebekah sat nervously on the lovely new Méridienne sofa and looked around at the cluttered room, filled with lace doilies and porcelain figurines. Two lamps sat on opposite sides of the room, and a bronze Seth Thomas clock ticked steadily from the handsome marble mantel.
Leah entered the room, looking pale and haggard in spite of the beautiful pink silk gown she wore. Her figure had grown fuller but she still laced herself, something that Doc Marston had told her only aggravated the discomfort of her pregnancy. Since she had always tended toward fleshiness, her present condition quickly took its toll on her voluptuous figure; but Leah Snead was not one to give up her appearance any sooner than she absolutely must.
“What a surprise, Rebekah,” she said with no particular enthusiasm in her voice.
“I brought you some fresh-baked raisin rolls and Henry some piccalilli Mama and I put up last week.”
Rebekah handed the small basket to her sister and followed as Leah headed toward the kitchen with it. “How have you been feeling, Leah?”
“I've been poorly, but that's to be expected in my con
dition,” Leah replied tartly. “If you want some coffee, Won will make it for you. These days I can't abide the smell of it.”
Rebekah shook her head. “No, thanks. I'm sorry you're not feeling well,” she said sincerely. Leah had always been a complainer who disliked any small discomfort, yet she did look genuinely ill. Wanting to shift the conversation to a more positive note, she said, “Henry's really pleased about the baby.”
“Oh, he's pleased right enough, I guess,” Leah said bitterly. She dug into the sweet rolls, licking the gooey icing from her fingers. “My only consolation was to tell Henry that he'll have to sleep in the spare bedroom now that he's done this to me.” Her cheeks pinkened after she realized what she had blurted out to her unmarried younger sister. At Rebekah’s look of appalled surprise, Leah tossed her silvery curls angrily and took another bite from the roll. “You needn't look so shocked. It's a woman's lot to be miserable when she's in a family way.”
“Maybe if you didn't lace yourself, you'd feel better,” Rebekah suggested. Remembering the exquisite joy Rory's touch had brought her, Rebekah could not imagine how her sister, lawfully wedded, her union blessed by the Church, could feel so differently.
“I finally have all these beautiful gowns. and now I can't even get into them. Besides, what would you know about it?” Leah snapped pettishly.
“That's what I needed to talk to you about....” This might not be such a wise idea after all. Yet who else could help her? She took a deep breath for courage and said, “I know more than you think, Leah—and I need your help. I'm with child, too.”
“Good God!” Leah exclaimed, paling and dropping onto a kitchen chair. “How could you do such a vulgar, immoral, disgusting thing? How will I hold up my head in the community? Mama and Papa will be disgraced. Papa might have to leave the ministry. Who did this? You've only had one serious—surely Mr. Wells didn't do this to you?”
Rebekah's knuckles whitened as she clenched the back of an oak chair. “Of course not. I never encouraged Amos Wells to call.”
Leah gave a nasty bark of laughter. “Well, I scarcely expect he'll be calling any more once he hears of this.” Her eyes narrowed on her sister. “Who is the father, Rebekah? Tell me. Maybe Henry can force him to marry you before we're all dragged down in the mud with you.”
“He left Wellsville. Left Nevada. But perhaps there is a way for our family to escape disgrace—if you and Henry would help me. I could go to Uncle Manasseh's, in Boston.”
“Don't be absurd! His wife Esther would die before she took in a fallen woman. You must get married. That's all there is to it. Who is this scoundrel? Henry could fetch him back if need be.”
“No! Rory doesn't care about me. He broke his solemn pledge to—”
“Rory! That—that Irish brawler who paid twenty dollars for your box lunch! Small wonder he expected something more than food for his money,” Leah said cruelly watching Rebekah blanch. “So that's why he took a job at Jenson's Livery. To stay here in town and seduce you. Of all the men in the world—how could you, Rebekah?” Leah's face, so red with anger a moment ago, grew pale as the magnitude of the family disgrace struck her. “You must wed, but marrying that penniless foreigner would be as big a disgrace as remaining single.” She rubbed her head, then glared at Rebekah, who stood with shoulders slumped, looking down at the kitchen table, unable to meet her sister's accusatory glare.
“There is no one to marry me,” she whispered brokenly. I couldn't bear anyone else to touch me after Rory's betrayal.
“Let me think. I shall summon Henry. He'll know what to do. Perhaps, if Amos Wells didn't find out about the baby—”
“I couldn't lie to him.” Rebekah's head shot up as a shiver of fear raced down her spine. “Besides, he's not called for several weeks. I made it clear I didn't favor him.”
“You'll come down from that prideful position quickly enough and do whatever we decide is best. Just let me discuss the matter with Henry.”
* * * *
Amos Wells came to call the next evening. He brought a bouquet of magnificent damask roses for Rebekah and asked her to walk out in the garden with him so they might speak privately. “Go on, go on,” Dorcas called gaily. “I'll just arrange these in my best crystal vase.” She turned to her husband. “You know the one, Ephraim, that your brother Manasseh gave us as a wedding present. Fetch it while these young people take a nice walk. I've baked some gooseberry pie we can all share when you've returned.”
Amos held open the side door with a flourish. “After you, my dear.”
Rebekah clutched her gray wool shawl around her shoulders and tried to force a smile. ‘‘Thank you, Amos.”
They walked around the well-tended rows of vegetables. Rebekah could not bear to look down at the pumpkin vines and fat cabbage heads. Where I fell in the mud and Rory... No! Don't think about it. Amos' voice interrupted her unhappy reverie.
“I regret that business has kept me away from Wellsville so much over the past weeks, but I thought perhaps it might be best to allow you time to discover your own mind and better consider my suit.”
Discover my own mind. Oh, she had done that. For days—weeks now—she had done nothing but turn her own thoughts inside out until her stomach knotted in misery. What should she do? Tell him about the baby—and guarantee he would repudiate her? Or do as Leah insisted and gratefully accept if he proposed. “I have noted your absence, Amos,” she replied carefully. The thought suddenly struck her between the eyes like a sledgehammer. What if Leah had told Henry, and Henry had told Amos about her pregnancy?
She stumbled on a pumpkin vine and Amos took her arm to steady her. “Careful, my dear. You could fall on those pesky vines,” he said kindly.
No, her sister and brother-in-law would never have done that, for they wanted the match. And if Amos knew, certainly he would not have come calling with roses for her!
“I've given you time, but now I must go to Carson City to deal with the governor and the legislators. Securing an election to the United States Senate is not a simple matter. Then, there are my mining and banking investments to consider. I fear I must have your answer soon, Rebekah. We could be married quietly by your father here in Wellsville, then have a gala celebration to announce our nuptials in the capital.” He stopped at the edge of the garden beneath an elm tree and took her hand between his, waiting expectantly.
It's all wrong. His touch felt cold, alien. There was none of the thrill, the tingling awareness that always flamed between her and Rory. But her Irishman was gone, off in Denver with his ill-gotten gains and his whores, leaving her behind to take care of herself and his child as best she could. Still, all she could manage was, “Marriage is very serious, Amos. Let me discuss this with my father. I'll let you know my decision tomorrow...if that is all right?” She looked up into his cool pewter eyes, unable to read what lay behind them.
He smiled and raised her hand to his lips for a brief, chaste salute. “I shall look forward to tomorrow.”
* * * *
Rebekah sat huddled miserably in her father's study, unable to meet his eyes, her head bowed, her own eyes red and swollen from weeping. “I'm so sorry, Papa, but I couldn't consider Mr. Wells' proposal without telling you the truth.” She wrung her hands and forced herself to look him in the face. “I don't think I can do as Leah suggested.”
“You mean you won't marry Amos?” He had feared this as her story came pouring out, shattering his very soul. Why, oh Lord, not only me but my favorite child as well, prey to those heathen Irish?
“I mean that I must tell him about the baby. I can't enter into holy wedlock with a lie hovering between us. He'd learn the truth soon enough.” Her face reddened, but she was too numb with misery to really feel embarrassment.
“Maybe not,” Ephraim began cautiously. “Rebekah, there's an innocent life to consider here. That of your unborn child, a child destined not to know a father's love...unless we can provide one. Amos could believe the baby was his. He would treasure a child—the heir
his first wife was not able to give him.”
Rebekah looked at her father in shock. “You—you actually mean lie to him—deceive him?” she blurted out, appalled. Her father had taught her about morality and truth, honor, justice—every value she held sacred.
Ephraim read the horror in Rebekah's eyes. “Put that way, it sounds wicked indeed,” he said with a sigh as he combed his fingers through his fine silver hair. “I've tried to think of what would save you from heartbreak and disgrace—and your child, who did not ask to come into the world under this stigma. And Amos, too, would be happier if he believed you wed him of your own free will, not because you needed a father for another man's child. I suppose some would call it sophistry, but you need tell no lies—simply omit the truth about who the father is. Certainly, Amos would never think to ask.”
“But...” Her cheeks reddened with mortification. “But the baby will come sooner than the normal time...at least, I think...” She could not look at her father now.
“A couple of months won't make that much difference. It isn't terribly unusual for babies to come sooner—and even when they do, often they can live. What if this whole sad mistake—or what seems a mistake with that Irishman—is really a blessing in disguise? This might be the Lord's own providence to see that you and Amos come together as man and wife.”
“You mean that it was meant to be—that Rory desert me this way?” Her voice almost broke in anguish. “How could a just or merciful God do such a thing?”
“Rebekah.” His voice grew stern and he straightened up, pulling his hand away from hers. “Do not blaspheme.”
