by Shirl Henke
“Will you be wantin' a hot bath, ma'am?”
Forcing her thoughts away from the pain of Rory's betrayal, Rebekah smiled at Patsy. “No, I believe the pitcher and basin will do.” Best to get this over with as quickly as possible. She began to slip off her jacket.
Patsy came forward, and her deft fingers set to work on the buttons at the back of Rebekah’s blouse. “I've never had a maid before, Patsy. I suspect it will take some getting used to,” she said as the girl assisted her in sliding off the blouse, then set to work on her heavy skirts.
When she was down to her camisole and pantalets, the maid seemed to sense her modesty and turned toward the luggage the butler had deposited beside the armoire. The two battered old valises looked frayed and pathetic sitting amid such opulence.
“My nightgown is in the smaller one,” Rebekah said. While Patsy unpacked her things and laid out one of her two simple white cotton sleeping gowns, Rebekah quickly performed her ablutions behind the dressing screen. “How long have you been employed by Mr. Wells, Patsy?”
“Nigh onto two years. Since me da passed on 'n me brothers went to Gold Hill to work in the mines.”
“You must've been very young,” Rebekah said sympathetically. The girl looked no more than sixteen now.
“I was fifteen. Old enough, I expect.” Her voice was brittle and guarded. She would not meet her mistress' eyes as Rebekah stepped from behind the screen with her nightgown on. “Here, ma'am, let me brush yer hair.”
Rebekah took a seat in front of the big mahogany dressing table and gazed into the oval mirror at her pale, haunted face. If eyes were windows to the soul, then hers were cursed for all eternity, their hazel-green brightness turned into night-dark pools. She let her lids close, shutting out everything but the gentle, even strokes of the hairbrush.
“Yer hair's beautiful, ma'am,” Patsy whispered. “Like old Spanish coins I seen once, when me family was travelin' west.”
Used to invidious comparisons between her own dark blond hair and her sister's silvery beauty, Rebekah was surprised and almost blurted out that her hair was far too dark a shade for true beauty, but stopped suddenly. “Thank you, Patsy. You're very kind.”
“So are you, ma'am, if I might be so bold as to be sayin' so. If you ever need anything...”
Muffled footfalls echoed down the hall. A sharp rap was immediately followed by the opening of the door. “You are dismissed, Patsy.”
With a look of alarm in her warm brown eyes, the maid put down the hairbrush, giving Rebekah's shoulder a squeeze before she curtsied to Amos and left the room. The silence between husband and wife thickened as he drew nearer, inspecting her. She sat very still, waiting, her fingers clamped to the edges of the satin-covered chair.
Amos' cold gray eyes swept over her sheer, voluminous nightgown, noting the dainty stitches that mended it in several places. “Your wardrobe is sadly deficient, but I'll quickly remedy that once we get to Carson City.” His hand glided over her hair, which hung like a cloud of burnished gold to her waist. “I have a well-trained maid at my city house. She'll know how to fix your hair more becomingly.”
Rebekah could think of nothing to say. She wanted to draw away in revulsion but stifled the impulse, forcing herself to appear calm. Finally, she found her voice. “I'm afraid I'm not used to maids.”
“You'll become accustomed to them,” he replied dryly with an air of superior amusement. The chit was terrified. He debated the wisdom of bedding her. She did have a certain innocent allure that stirred his blood. He could see her potential for great beauty, the sort that made men's heads turn with envy; but cultivating those sophisticated qualities would take time. Still...her body was fresh, her face unmarred by paints. He felt himself growing hard.
“Get in bed,” he rasped harshly and turned to his room. Inside, he ripped off his clothes, throwing them in a pile on the floor. When he reentered her room, she lay beneath the covers like a sacrificial lamb going to slaughter. A sense of power pervaded his body, radiating pleasure and promise.
Rebekah felt his presence even though she refused to look at him. Would he be naked? She could smell his cologne, an expensive, too sweet odor that blended with the Cuban cigars he smoked and the cognac on his breath. Not altogether unpleasant but alien and frightening. Nothing like Rory's scents. I must put that out of my mind. Forever! She heard the rustle of silk as he slipped out of his dressing robe and turned down the wick on the kerosene lamp.
Amos pulled back the covers with a snap, wanting to see if she would flinch, hoping she would. But she did not. She lay rigid, waiting to do her duty, just as Heloise always had. And he hated her for it. ''Take off that shabby nightgown," he commanded, unable to keep the anger from his voice.
Rebekah sat up, scarlet waves of shame washing over her. She struggled with the buttons of the gown, remembering how tenderly Rory had unfastened them. Stop it!
Impatient with her slowness, yet excited by the pain he sensed in her, Amos reached over and seized hold of the gown, ripping the thin old cotton. “There. Let me look at you.” His voice was scratchy, his breathing swift and erratic. He reached out one hand and ran it over the curve of her hip. She huddled with the tatters of her nightgown lying about her, fighting not to cover herself from his lustful gaze. Her body was too slender for his taste, but it was well proportioned. Young. Strong.
Feeling the long-dormant urge rush over him, he quickly shoved her onto her back and covered her, his knee pushing her thighs apart as he fumbled with his shaft, positioning himself to breach her. She lay still, unresisting. Her nether lips were dry; the sheath his fingers found and probed was tight. He felt himself growing soft, shrinking. Frantically, he tried again to penetrate her; but the brief burst of lust that had inflamed him was gone, doused like a sputtering candle in a Washoe zephyr.
Rebekah bit her lips to keep from crying in pain and panic. The degradation of his rough, cold attack was worse than her nightmares. In spite of his soft, well-manicured hands, his touch was hurtful, almost as if he were desperate to get it over with. Well, so was she. But then he began to curse and rolled off her, sitting up at the edge of the bed with his back turned to her.
“Cold and proper as your mother's Sunday corset,” he said scathingly, his voice choked with fury that he masked behind icy disdain. “I shouldn't be surprised that you can't excite a man. But that isn't why I married you. If you do as you're told, learn to dress and act the part of a senator's wife, we'll deal well enough together.” He picked up his robe, slipped it on, then turned and looked down at her. His face was glacially serene, but a cold flame burned in his eyes.
Rebekah sat up and grabbed the sheet, pulling it over herself. Dazed and incredulous, she looked up at him as his words registered. He was not going to consummate the marriage! Perhaps he could not. There would be no way to deceive him about the baby! “I—I'm sorry, Amos. I'll try to please you—if you'll just give me another chance.” She almost choked on the words; but she had spoken her marriage lines, pledging love and devotion—how much worse was this entreaty?
A facade of icy calm hid the burning humiliation he felt. She would pay. Oh, yes, she would. “I think not.” He started to leave the room.
“Wait! Please, Amos...” If he wanted only an ornament, not a wife, then the whole sham had been in vain. She had to tell him about the baby and offer the only honorable recourse. Annulment. Oh, Papa, you were wrong. My innocent baby will pay for my sins!
Wells turned, his bearded face cast in sinister shadows. He stroked his Vandyke as he looked down at her upturned face.
“I've deceived you. I married you to give my baby a name and a father. I'll not contest an annulment,” she blurted out before her courage failed her. She expected him to strike her. To fly into a black, killing rage. Or, enigma that he was, to simply stalk off in icy disdain, saying his attorney would handle matters.
Instead, he laughed. It was low and ugly, a chillingly eerie sound that was far more frightening than if he had yelled and
beat her. “So, the truth is at long last out. Your Irish swain left you saddled with a bastard.”
In the flickering light her face went from fiery red to the color of bleached bone. “How—how did you—”
That awful laugh again. Dry, like crumpling paper. “I suspected you were smitten with the ruffian after the fiasco at the box social. Very unwise, my dear, but then youth and impulsiveness go hand in hand, I suppose. You will not ever let another breath of scandal touch you—not to mention another man, especially trash like Madigan.”
“But surely you can't want me—not now, not after what's happened?’' The taste of bile rose in her throat, choking her.
“Annulments are almost as politically disastrous as divorces. As I said, I don't need or desire you in my bed. The child can be an asset.” It could also provide a way to keep her in line, but he did not mention that. “Yes, indeed. A man of my age is expected to have an heir. I do hope you are not so far along that it will complicate things. No matter. You're not showing yet. I can still whisk you away to Washington where no one will know exactly when we married.”
Rebekah sat stunned, trying to take in what he was saying. “Then...then, you'll raise my child as your own?” Somehow the idea was far less reassuring than it should have been.
His eyes were as cold and gray as hoarfrost. So was his voice. “The child will carry my name, as will you. I shall expect absolute loyalty and obedience from you both.” His hand snaked out and took her wrist in an iron grasp. “Don't ever defy me, Rebekah. If I hear so much as a whisper about your behavior, you'll live to regret it—more than you could possibly imagine.”
Abruptly, he released her and quit the room. When the door closed with a sharp click, Rebekah let out the breath she had been holding. A shiver ran down her spine, leaving her shaken. Make no mistake... Her stomach knotted with fear and suddenly lurched in protest. She jumped from the bed and raced to the basin on the dry sink, where she was violently ill.
* * * *
Wellsville
Rory rode down Bascomb Street, looking ahead to the narrow white steeple in the next block. Her house was next to the church. He resisted the urge to kick Lobsterback into a gallop. The ride from Denver had been taxing enough. After nearly two months of recuperation, he was still as weak as a newborn foal, and his side ached abominably. The fall day was mild and golden, but sweat beaded his brow and he still felt light-headed.
Doc Eisner attributed his symptoms to the massive blood loss that had almost cost him his life. He had lain in bed, restless and miserable for all those weeks, wishing desperately that he had been able to put a return address on his letters to Rebekah so she could answer them. But the Bucket of Blood Saloon was exactly the kind of place in which her family would expect him to reside.
He had stopped at a small hotel on the edge of town late last night to rest up, bathe, and change into the new suit he had bought in Denver. His wedding suit. Dismounting from Lobsterback, he patted the small ring box in his pocket. Most of his winnings were in a Denver bank, but he had splurged on the emerald ring and braided gold band. Rebekah might be a simple rancher's wife, but she would have a proper engagement.
After steeling himself for a tense scene with her parents, Rory was disappointed and somewhat uneasy to find no one at the parsonage or the church. Could there be some emergency out at the Flying W, where Leah and her husband lived?
Rory headed to Jenson's Livery. Beau knew everything that went on in town. As soon as Rory reined in at the central corral behind the big livery barn, the portly owner came striding across the yard, his red jowly face creased by a concerned frown.
“Where in tarnation you been, Madigan? Y'all look worse than you did when Poole got done with you,” he said, inspecting Rory's thin, haggard face.
Rory still had a way to go to regain the weight he had lost while lying bedfast at Blackie's. “It's a long story, Beau, but I did make it back. I'm looking for Rebekah Sinclair. No one's at the parsonage or the church. Where is she?”
Beau's eyes met Rory's, reading youthful excitement and hope. He hated to be the one to dash it to pieces. Of all the fool rotten luck. What had made the boy dawdle so long? What had made the girl run off with a cussed galoot like Wells? His gaze shifted, and he began to wrap the reins of the bridle he had been carrying around one beefy fist. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Rory...”
The hairs on Rory's neck prickled in warning and his gut clenched. “Tell me what, Beau?” he asked guardedly.
Rubbing one big paw across his paunch, Jenson shifted from one foot to the other, then looked up into Madigan's wary face. “Miz Rebekah's gone and got herself hitched. Family's up in Carson right now for a big celebration with the governor 'n all the high muckety-mucks in the legislature.”
“She married Amos Wells.” His voice was tight and cold. “When?”
“Oh, it was a while back....”
“How long a while?”
Beau scratched his gray head until the hair stood out at spiky angles. “‘Bout a month ago, I reckon.”
“That was barely a month after the fight!” Rory's grip on his emotions broke. The pain of betrayal hit him with sledgehammer force. He seized a rough corral post and held tight. He didn't even feel the splinters dig into his hands.
“She come down here the week after I got back from Denver, lookin' to find out about y'all. Seemed real upset. I told her y'all won 'n wuz commin' back—”
“The lady obviously didn't see fit to wait,” Madigan interrupted tersely, then spun on his heel and stalked away.
“Wait, Rory. Don't go doin' nothin' crazy now, hear? Where y'all goin’?”
“To Carson City—to join the celebration.”
Jenson cussed as he watched the young man ride off in a flurry of dust. “What in tarnation happened? That little filly was all teary-eyed 'n faintin', 'n Rory looks so damned skinny he best get out of the bathtub afore pullin' the plug.” Beau swore at the folly of impetuous youth.
* * * *
Carson City
Rebekah stood in front of the mirror while Patsy fussed with her dress, an elaborate concoction of bright fuchsia silk, cunningly cut with a thick fall of delicate black lace across the low bodice. Her breasts, which by now had begun to round out significantly, were enticingly displayed. Her waist was only slightly thickened.
“Hold tight while I hook the last of these buttons, ma'am,” the little maid said, her face screwed up in concentration. After disparaging Leah's vanity for lacing herself while enceinte, now Rebekah was doing the same thing. Amos insisted. Whatever her husband wanted came to pass. She was to look beautiful, smile, and be the gracious hostess for tonight's gala. All the most influential men in the state would be there. Their city house would be lit from the cupolas to the cellars. She could hear the orchestra Amos had hired tuning up their instruments downstairs.
What a consummate actress I've become. Rebekah would do exactly as Amos wished. He had already made it clear that defying him would lead to setbacks in her father's work among the poor Chinese in the mining districts—not to mention an end to any financial support for the church itself. Using her unborn baby as a pawn was a ploy he had not resorted to as yet, but Rebekah had learned that Amos Wells was utterly ruthless and single-minded. He would not hesitate to use a child, even his own, much less the bastard of a worthless Irishman.
“There, ma'am. Yer all ready to go.” Patsy stood back and inspected her handiwork with pride.
Rebekah had grown fond of the quiet little Irish maid and had pleaded with Amos to allow her to travel with them to Carson City. Even though Patsy was not as skilled as the maid at the city house, she was bright and eager to learn. More importantly, she was the one friend Rebekah could rely on in her new life.
Her parents were here for a visit, as was Henry. Leah had stayed home since she was showing too much now to travel or to be seen in public. As far as Rebekah’ s family knew, things were idyllic between Rebekah and her rich, seemingly indulgent hu
sband. Amos had outfitted her with a wardrobe so splendid that even Celia would have been green with envy. Their city house at the edge of Carson was situated on a rise overlooking the broad, verdant Eagle Valley. The three-story brick mansion was filled with elegant Victorian furniture, crystal chandeliers, and Aubusson carpets. Rebekah Wells was the envy of every lady in the capital. And the most miserable.
Pushing all such thoughts aside, Rebekah allowed Patsy to fasten the clasp of her new diamond necklace, a wedding gift from her husband. The heavy three-strand choker, dangling earrings, and matching bracelet were too cold and gaudy for her simple taste; but like everything else in her life, the choice of jewelry was at her husband's discretion.
A light rap sounded at the door, and Henry Snead's voice asked, “Are you ready, Rebekah? Amos is tied up with Governor Blasdel and asked that I escort you downstairs. He'll join you to make your entry into the ballroom.”
Patsy opened the door, and Henry stood silhouetted in the hall, looking handsome but a bit uncomfortable in his tails and starched white shirt. His wavy brown hair had been meticulously barbered, and his mustache waxed to stand out prominently. Tugging at his tight collar, he bowed and grinned broadly.
“You look grand, Rebekah. Amos will be the most envied man in Nevada tonight.”
“That's always been his goal, Henry,” she replied softly, smiling for him as he extended his arm and she took it.
“I've sensed the tension between you and Amos even though you try to hide it. He isn't an easy man. But once he gets to Washington, you'll have a wonderful new life.”
She looked up into his concerned dark eyes. “You're a good man, Henry. And you know why I had no choice but to marry him....” Her cheeks stung, but she met his gaze forthrightly.
A look of alarm washed over his face. “Does he know?”
“I told him.”
“Not an altogether wise decision, do you think?” Henry asked gently.
