by Shirl Henke
She pulled away. “He won't ever get the chance to strike me again. I grabbed a poker and ran him off last night. I can take care of myself—and Michael.”
“You're both leaving with me.”
“No. There'll be enough scandal as it is. I'll not have Michael hurt any more than he already is.”
“You don't trust me, do you, Rebekah?” he asked gently, forcing himself to be calm.
“Why should I? You deserted us eight years ago without so much as a word—”
“I wrote you.”
“And sent it by carrier pigeon, no doubt. Did you give any reason for your delay?” she asked sarcastically. “Beau Jenson tried to cover for you, but he let slip that you were staying with a sterling character named Drago. Blackie Drago, isn't it? In a saloon and fancy house.”
He ignored her tone. “Two men jumped me in my room at Blackie's place the night after the fight. I nearly bled to death from a knife wound, but as soon as I could hold a pen, I wrote and explained what had happened. It took me nearly two months to heal enough to return to Nevada. But I wrote three times, Rebekah. One of those letters had to have reached you.”
“I received nothing,” she said flatly, but a doubt began to niggle at the back of her mind.
“Then your parents must have intercepted them. The envelopes would’ve been stamped from Denver. Your mother or father—”
“No!” She turned away from his matter-of-fact accusation against her family. If true, it had cost them eight years of their lives.
He watched her struggle with doubts, her whole body trembling. “Your mother hated me with a passion, Rebekah. You said so yourself.”
It was Papa who always went for the mail. She refused to consider it. The betrayal was simply too painful to contemplate. “I don't believe you. You deserted me like another in your long string of conquests and left me to live a life of hell with Amos—and believe me, Rory, it has been hell.”
She was rewarded by the look of stricken anguish in his eyes.
“I'm sorry, Rebekah. I had no idea—”
“What you really mean is you had no idea about Michael. About how much he would resemble you. Now you want him. Well, it's too late. You can't have him. He's mine. Once Amos is in prison, I'll be free and my son will be safe. If you really care about us, see that Amos is arrested.”
He took her shoulders in his hands and held her, fighting to keep his patience. “I know you're bitter. I guess you have every right to be—but so do I. I came back to Wellsville and learned you were married. I even went flying after you. I stood outside the ballroom doors on the patio and watched you dancing in his arms, dressed in fuchsia silk and diamonds.”
She felt her heart skip a beat. “You...you were there the day of the governor's ball?” She had worn a fuchsia gown and that garish choker. She hated the dress and wore the diamonds as seldom as possible. Looking up into his face, Rebekah read stark pain. “You must have despised me then,” she said softly and read the truth in his eyes. “Is this all part of your revenge, Rory?”
Unable to stop himself, he gathered her in his arms. She did not resist as he held her, stroking her hair. He tipped her chin up and kissed her softly. “It's over and done. Neither of us was to blame for what happened then. Wells was—and your family.”
“No! You have no proof—”
As she pushed angrily out of his arms, a sharp rapping on the door interrupted.
“Sheriff Sears, Mrs. Wells. Your houseboy said you was in here. This is official business.”
Rebekah gave Rory a horrified look, her eyes flashing around the small sitting room. There was no place he could hide even if he were so inclined, and she was certain he was not. The issue was quickly resolved as August Sears opened the door and stepped inside. He was a tall, thin man, gone to paunch around the midsection, giving him the unfortunate appearance of a candy apple on a stick.
He doffed his hat and nodded nervously at Rebekah, then looked past her at Rory Madigan. His pale eyes widened in recognition, but he quickly turned his attention back to the woman. “I don't know no way to do this 'cept to get on with it, ma'am. I come to arrest you for the murder of yer husband.”
Rebekah felt the breath leave her body. “Murder! Amos is dead? How? When?”
“What's going on here, Sears?” Rory asked, moving beside Rebekah and helping her to a chair. Explain what happened to Wells.”
Sears looked from the powerful former Congressman to the widow. This was developing into one hell of a pickle. “Wells was shot late last night in his office across from the capitol. The Mexican woman who cleans the building come to work early. She found his body 'n come running to get me.”
“Why on earth do you think Mrs. Wells had anything to do with it?” Rory asked.
The sheriff pulled a small .32 caliber Colt pistol from his coat pocket. “The gun is yers, ain't it?” He already had verified that it was.
Rory looked at Rebekah’ s chalky face as she nodded woodenly. “Yes, it's mine. My husband bought it for me several years ago, when he was traveling a great deal and I was alone in a big house in Washington. I haven't seen it in months.”
“Is this the gun that killed Wells?” Madigan asked.
“Shot him clean in the heart, from the doorway by the look of it.”
“There was no struggle.” The sheriff shook his head. Rory could believe Rebekah guilty if Amos had struck her again, tried to attack her; but this was cold-blooded murder. “Was anything missing from his office?”
Sears shrugged. “Can't rightly say, but I found this here laying next to the body.” He pulled a dainty white kid glove with pearl buttons from his pocket. “I can ask your maid if it's yours.”
“I'll save you the trouble. It is, but I didn't know it was missing,” Rebekah replied quietly.
“Doesn't this all seem a bit pat, Sheriff? Mrs. Wells had no reason to kill her husband. Someone has rigged this evidence,” Rory said with a dismissive gesture.
Sears ignored Madigan and narrowed his gaze on Rebekah. “You 'n the mister had you a real bad fight last night, didn't you? Looks like he must've hit you.” His gaze fastened on her swollen cheek. “That makes a pretty good reason for me. I been checkin'. Thet chink downstairs and yer greaser stable boy both say you went out last night—for a midnight ride.” He waited expectantly, uncomfortable but dogged in his determination to close what appeared to be a straightforward case.
Rebekah started to reply, but Rory cut her off. “Yes, she did—with me. We spent the night together. I brought her back just a little while ago.”
Sears' eyes widened in shock, then flashed from the man to the woman. She gasped and looked up at Madigan with horror in her expression. “He's just tryin' to get you off the hook, ma'am, but I know you done it,” he said stubbornly.
“I did not kill Amos, although God knows, he gave me reason enough,” Rebekah replied, meeting the sheriffs pale eyes steadily.
“You have no real proof, Sears. Just her gun and a simple piece of apparel, either of which the killer could have stolen from this house. You can't arrest her with no more to go on. I'll have my attorneys at the courthouse before you can escort her there.”
Sears's bony shoulders slumped in defeat. “Yer a rich, powerful man, Mr. Madigan. I know there was bad blood between you 'n Amos Wells, too. I'll leave it be fer now, but this ain't over.” He nodded to Rebekah, then turned and stalked out of the room.
“Michael is in my room. He'll be frightened being left alone so long.” Rebekah started for the door, but Rory placed his hand on her arm, detaining her.
He looked at the sensible twill suit she wore. “You were running away, weren't you?”
“I told you, Amos planned to send us to the Flying W. I couldn't allow it. Why did you lie for me, Rory?”
He tried to read the expression in her fathomless green eyes. Dark and bewildered, they swam with gold flecks. She looked so vulnerable that it squeezed his heart. Masking all emotion, he replied, “Simple. I'm your a
libi. In return, you'll bring Michael and stay safely at my ranch until this whole mess is cleared up.”
“The scandal is bad enough now—Amos murdered, the sheriff thinking I shot him in cold blood. Even if I didn't care about my own reputation, I won't have my son subjected to the ugly things that people would say if I moved in with you as your mistress.”
“They'll figure out soon enough he's my son. As to your reputation, it'll be as secure as I can make it—with the protection of my name. You'll be Mrs. Rory Madigan.”
Rebekah flung his hand away and stepped back, struggling to suppress the hurt surging through her. “How convenient. One might even be tempted to think you killed Amos. This is a very tidy way to get legal control of Michael, isn't it?”
“If I said I wanted to marry you because I still loved you, you wouldn't believe me,” he replied in a weary voice.
“No, I wouldn't. Your original offer to make me your mistress rang a lot truer,” she snapped bitterly.
“A lot has happened since then to change my mind.”
“Michael has happened! He's all you want, and you can't have him.” Her voice had a ragged edge to it. She needed time to think. Amos is dead! You 're free! You could marry Rory! Thoughts tumbled about in her mind.
“Yes, I want Michael—and you. And I'll have you. I'm the only thing standing between you and the Ormsby County Jail right now. Frankly, Rebekah, you don't have any choice.”
“You miserable, manipulative—”
“Now, darlin', you don't want to say things to your prospective husband that you might one day regret.” A hint of humor glinted in his eyes. Her burst of temper was far easier to handle than that look of dazed hurt and accusation.
“What if I refuse to marry you?” she shot back furiously.
“Auggie Sears isn't very bright, but he's real stubborn. Without my vouching for your whereabouts, he'll be on you like a cougar on a lame doe. What would happen to Michael if his mother were in jail? I know you care too much for him to allow that.”
Rebekah stared at him. “You're as ruthless and cold as Amos. And you're using Michael just like he did.”
Rory gritted his teeth at her stubbornness. “That isn't true, but we don't have time to argue it now. I want you and Michael safely out of Carson City.”
As he opened the door and escorted her down the hall, Rebekah said tightly, “You seem to have everything figured out. What kind of an explanation will you make to a seven-year-old boy? I won't let you frighten him with all that's happened, Rory.”
“We'll just say that we're going on a trip. I suspect you've already prepared him for that.” He watched the color stain her cheeks as she looked away. “I gathered as much,” he said dryly.
“Just so you don't tell him his father is dead—”
“Wells is not his father,” Rory snapped, then took a calming breath and added, “We won't mention it now. In a few days, when other matters are sorted out, we'll explain to him.”
She stopped in the middle of the hall and faced him belligerently. “Explain what? That Amos was not his real father? That you are? Do you have any idea how shattering such a revelation would be to a small child? His whole world is being turned upside down.”
Rory ran his fingers through his hair and stared up at the ceiling, trying to gather his thoughts. “All right. We won't tell him anything until we can agree how to do it.”
“Including the fact that I'm marrying you the day after my husband's death?”
“Including that,” he conceded.
“Let me take him to my father in Wellsville.” She saw the dark flash of anger in his eyes before he masked it. “He's devoted to his grandson. Now that Amos can't come after us, Michael will be safe there—and I can tell Father about Amos' death...” She paused and wet her lips nervously. “And that we're getting married. Please, Rory, I don't want him to hear it from strangers. He'd be devastated.”
“I suspect he'll be beside himself anyway when you tell him, but it won't change our agreement, Rebekah,” he warned. “I suppose he could keep Michael overnight while we go to Virginia City to be married,” he added grudgingly.
On the ride to Wellsville, Michael chattered excitedly, delighted that his new friend was coming with them and that he and Patsy Mulcahey were going to spend the night at his grandpa's house. As Michael plied Rory with the hundreds of curious questions seven-year-olds seemed to always have on their minds, Patsy watched them with genuine fondness. She easily joined in their laughter, as if seeing the two of them together was the most normal thing in the world. Rebekah wished she could take everything in stride half so well as her maid.
But her own thoughts were fixed on facing Ephraim. The closer they came to town, the greater her panic grew. Only by watching the warm exchange between father and son was she able to gain some consolation. Rory did seem to genuinely love Michael.
How could he not love his younger self? How alike they were. The physical resemblance was augmented by their quick laughter and bright, incisive minds. Once word of her appallingly hasty remarriage got out, no one would doubt for an instant whose son Michael truly was. I'll be branded a shameless adulteress. What would Ephraim say about such public disgrace? How could she face her father?
All too soon, Rory's fancy open carriage pulled up in front of the small white house on Bascomb Street, and Ephraim Sinclair's tall, stoop-shouldered silhouette appeared in the front door. When he saw Madigan with them, his expression grew troubled and his face pale.
The old man walked across the yard, and Michael went barreling into his arms. “Grandpa! You'll never guess what! I'm here to spend the night, me and—that is, Patsy and I,” he corrected himself, “are going to spend the night. Mama has to go somewhere with Mr. Madigan. Have you met him? He brought me the keenest white pony and took me for a ride. He says I'll get to ride it again at his ranch!”
As the boy chattered on, Ephraim's troubled hazel-green eyes rose to meet his daughter's. Something was badly amiss; he could read it in her face.
“Father, why don't you show Patsy and Michael where you keep those cookies the guild ladies bring you every few days? When the two of them get settled inside, I have to talk with you.”
Rory did not touch her, but as he stood by her side, his very presence was proprietary. He knew Sinclair sensed it and felt the old man's animosity. He nodded coolly. The sooner Rebekah faced her father and laid this out in the open, the better. He did not expect it would be a pretty scene.
“I know where the cookies and milk are, Grandpa. I can show Patsy,” Michael crowed.
“I'll be takin' him inside, if that's all right with you, Reverend, sir,” Patsy said uneasily, eager to get the boy away from the storm she could sense brewing.
Ephraim nodded. As soon as the maid and her charge disappeared inside the house, he turned to Rebekah. “Perhaps, it would be best if we went inside the church.”
“Yes...I suppose,” she said. Guilt and sadness mingled as she remembered that it was in that very building where she had made her vows to Amos. And in the orchard beyond it where she had earlier made heartfelt ones to Rory. Her whole body trembled, and she found breathing difficult.
Once they reached the narthex of the small frame church, Rory quickly outlined what was going on, beginning with Amos' involvement in illegal mining practices and imminent arrest prior to his mysterious murder and the fact that the sheriff had come to arrest Rebekah.
When Rory had finished explaining everything, Ephraim glared at Madigan. His own guilt was swept aside for the moment. “You're blackmailing my daughter into marriage.”
“You're a fine one to accuse me of that,” Rory replied with cold contempt. The barb struck home.
The old man crumpled as he turned to his daughter. “I'm sorry, Rebekah. So very sorry.”
She could see the tears gathering and hated Rory Madigan for this final assault on her father's already shredded dignity. She hugged him. “Don't—don't blame yourself. Everything will be all right. R
ory and his brother have agents gathering evidence against Amos' associates. They'll find out who killed him and it will all end. Michael...Michael was never close to Amos. In time, he'll accept Rory.”
“He's my son, Sinclair. Don't you think I have the right to give him a father's love—the love Wells never did?” His jaw clenched and his eyes bored into those of the old man, daring him to protest. You destroyed those letters, you old son-of-a-bitch! He ached to accuse Sinclair, but Rebekah was so emotionally overwrought that he knew it would be folly to open that Pandora's box now. Someday, Sinclair…, his eyes promised.
Ephraim's expression made it clear that he understood the unspoken threat, but he ignored Madigan’s bitter question. Turning to his daughter, he said, “We could get a lawyer, Rebekah. We could fight this if you don't want to marry him. I don't want you forced into a second marriage against your will.”
She patted his hand, then squeezed his gnarled fingers as if they were a lifeline. “No, Papa. Michael would find out that I was accused of killing Amos. I'd have to go to jail. It would be awful. It's better for him this way.”
“What about you, girl? You know what folks will say—marrying your husband's enemy the day after his death.”
“Those kind of people don't matter. I'll take care of Rebekah.”
“You'd better, Madigan, or you'll have me to answer to. I've made mistakes, but I'm through seeing my children pay for them.” There was a ring of the old authority in Reverend Sinclair's voice as he faced his tall young nemesis.
“Come on, Rebekah. We have a long drive to Virginia City.”
The first time she wed, her father had blessed the union. Now, he was to be denied even that opportunity. She knew how painful it was for him to think of a Roman priest performing the ceremony. She refused to consider Rory's hateful accusations against him. Wordlessly, she hugged Ephraim and let Rory guide her from the cool interior of the church back into the bright sunlight.
After swift good-byes to Michael, with promises to return the following day, the bridal couple set out for Virginia City. Rebekah endured Rory's preoccupied silence for miles, but the turmoil of her own thoughts was too disturbing. She needed distraction from considering the possibility that he was right about her father. Had Ephraim destroyed his letters? Her father had seemed more shaken and guilty than he had angry, almost as if he were defeated by Rory Madigan in some sort of turnabout justice.
