Broken Vows Read online

  BROKEN VOWS

  BY

  SHIRL HENKE

  Previously published by Leisure Books

  Copyright 1995 by Shirl Henke

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means without the written permission of the publisher.

  * * * *

  Other electronic works by Shirl Henke:

  * * * *

  A FIRE IN THE BLOOD

  * * * *

  “Billie Jo and the Valentine Crow”

  * * * *

  The Blackthorne Trilogy:

  LOVE A REBEL…LOVE A ROGUE

  WICKED ANGEL

  WANTON ANGEL

  * * * *

  House of Torres Books:

  PARADISE & MORE

  RETURN TO PARADISE

  * * * *

  The Cheyenne Books:

  SUNDANCER

  THE ENDLESS SKY

  CAPTURE THE SUN

  * * * *

  The Texas Trilogy:

  CACTUS FLOWER

  MOON FLOWER

  NIGHT FLOWER

  * * * *

  MC CRORY’S LADY

  * * * *

  “Surprise Package”

  PART 1

  COVENANT

  My beloved is mine and I am his…until the day break and the shadows flee away…

  Song of Solomon 2:16-17

  Chapter One

  Rebekah Sinclair heard the solid thump of a fist striking flesh followed by a rapid series of sharper raps before the roar of the crowd drowned out the conflict. Unable to resist, she slipped onto the porch and stood at the railing beside her companion. Below them, the open space in the center of the crowd revealed two men engaged in a brutal bare-knuckle fight. She recognized one of the men at once—Cyrus Wharton, a smithy's apprentice and a hulking brute of a man known in town as a brawler. The other, who had just landed a series of punches, was a stranger to her. Not that she was familiar with denizens on the wrong side of the track, but she would never have forgotten him if she had ever seen him before.

  He was stripped to the waist and sweating. A thin trickle of blood trailed from his left eye, and his jaw was set in a grimace of determination, bringing out the fierce predatory beauty of his features in spite of the battering he had taken. His face was angular, with a finely chiseled nose and strongly arched eyebrows. Although bruised, his cheekbones were high and well molded, as was his forehead; but his eyes were what held Rebekah mesmerized. Narrowed in concentration on his foe, they seemed to blaze like frozen flames. Cold. Blue. Ruthless.

  She stared in rapt fascination.

  Rory Madigan had taken the punch to his midsection with teeth clenched, expecting the low, clumsy blow that opened up his larger and slower opponent to several swift left jabs to the jaw and eyes, dazing the brute and staggering him back. Off balance with his arms lowered, he was wide open for Rory's hard right punch that sent him toppling into the dust. He landed flat on the seat of his pants. At once his seconds hauled him up by yanking on his arms, dragged him to his corner, then splashed his face with water from the bucket until he shook his head like an enraged bulldog, sending droplets flying in every direction. His swollen eyes fastened on the tall, slim Irishman with the mocking expression on his pretty face; and Cy Wharton waded back into the fray, fists flying.

  Unable to tear her eyes away from the carnage below, Rebekah watched the calm, skillful arrogance with which the smaller man bested his far larger, heavier opponent. The young stranger's body was whipcord lean yet sinewy with sleek muscles that glided like satin beneath his sweat-sheened skin. She could see the pattern of hair on his chest vanish tantalizingly beneath his belt. His complexion was swarthy, and his inky black hair hung shaggily at his nape. Yet he was not Mexican or Indian, but sun-bronzed, probably from being stripped half-naked for numerous such fights.

  “Ugh! They're both bloody and sweaty. Let's go, Rebekah,” her companion said with disgust, pressing a scented lace handkerchief to her nose. Celia Hunt was regretting her suggestion that they climb onto the porch of the old deserted newspaper office to watch this fighting display. The crowd below was made up largely of rough-looking miners, mule-skinners, and cowhands, along with a sprinkling of women—the most disreputable sort, with gaudy clothes and painted faces. They were a crude and dangerous lot.

  “I think this was a mistake, Rebekah. Let's go,” Celia repeated nervously.

  “No. I want to see who wins,” Rebekah replied quietly, her eyes never leaving the Irishman. She could hear the jibes from the crowd as they cheered for Cy Wharton.

  “He's only an ignorant mickey, Cy.”

  “Pound that paddy into pus, Wharton!”

  “You can take thet skinny ferriner. Shit! He ain't much bigger 'n a Chinee.”

  But in spite of the encouragement, it was increasingly clear even to Rebekah's untutored eye that the Irishman was winning. He dodged, bobbed, and weaved gracefully away from most of Wharton’s powerful swings and deflected those that he could not slip completely. His own fists shot out with lightning speed and accuracy, continually jolting the big man off balance. With each blow it seemed as if the power traveled up his whole body from his legs through his torso and into his arm, culminating in the turn of his fist, palm down, connecting squarely with its target.

  “There's almost a rhythm to it, like watching a ballet—if you don't look at the blood,” Rebekah whispered, more to herself than to Celia, who gasped in shock.

  Rory watched the townie go down again and stood by the mark, waiting for the seconds to rally the poor sod. He felt an itch on the back of his neck, as if someone was staring at him. He was used to that after earning his living the past several years traveling across this vast country fighting for prizes. But it wasn't the milling, cursing men in the angry crowd or their cheap, blowsy women. Someone else...

  Then his eyes were drawn up to the dilapidated old shanty across the street. He saw the two women, a plump, homely little redhead and a blonde. Mary, Mother of God, what a blonde—slender and delicate with hair the deep gold of a desert sunset. Her thick lashes shaded wide-set eyes of some mysterious color, staring at him in rapt fascination.

  Rebekah felt his eyes travel up her body in a frank male appraisal that almost undressed her. She fought the desire to step back from the railing and wrap her arms around herself in protection. Then, their eyes met...and held. She was unable to look away as a strange heat gathered deep inside her, causing her heart to hammer in her breast and her whole body to thrum with life. She felt a heady warmth that owed nothing to the sun and all to the tall, blood-smeared man staring up at her.

  She wanted to reach out and touch his face, brush the lock of black hair back from his forehead. The spell was broken as a small bandy-legged black man in the Irishman's corner yelled a warning.

  “Rory, 'e's comin' atcha!”

  Wharton had lurched to his feet after being doused with another bucket of cool water. He came toward Rory fast and low, raising his right hand like a lumberjack swinging a broadax to fell an oak. When it connected, Rebekah screamed, but her cries were drowned out by the roar of the crowd, now ecstatic that the local champion had reentered the fray.

  Rory was felled by the unexpected blow, which opened up a cut across his left cheek that bled profusely. Instantly, January Jones, his manager and promoter, was at his side, propping him up and sponging him with water. “What th' bleedin' 'ell were ya doin'? Gapin' at th' bloody view?” the little black man squawked in a thick Cockney accent.

  Rory muttered something unintelligible as he shook his head and struggled to his feet, pushing January away from him. She had cried out a warning when he was hit—as if she wanted him to win. Well, if true, she was the only resident of this godforsaken t
own who did. His speed was giving out. He had to end the contest quickly. The girl could wait till later.

  Gritting his teeth, he slipped under a high roundhouse swing, then swiftly countered with a right uppercut to Wharton's exposed solar plexus, followed by a sharp left hook to the blacksmith's right cheek. As soon as Cy stumbled back gasping for breath and dropping his hands, Rory moved in, throwing a hard overhand right with his full weight behind it. The blow connected solidly with Wharton's jaw, sending him to the ground. This time even two buckets of cool water could not revive him.

  As the crowd booed and groaned, hurling epithets such as “nigger” and “mick,” January held up Rory's bloodied fist in victory. “Not a bad purse, ‘specially considerin' 'ow ya near mucked it up,” the little black man whispered.

  “The winner is the Kilkenny Kid. I'll settle up, gents.” The impresario was Cal Slocum, owner of the Thunder Gulch Saloon.

  As the tall Irishman held a wet cloth to his bleeding face, his companion, the wizened little black man, collected their earnings. Rebekah watched the Irishman adjust the compress and studied his battered face. What a pity to mar such a strikingly handsome countenance. But Cy Wharton's beefy features had fared far worse, being beaten almost beyond recognition. Thinking that the same might have happened to the Kilkenny Kid made her shudder. Just then he looked up, and their eyes locked again.

  “He is a bold one,” Celia whispered, her tone indicating that she was uncertain whether she was more shocked by the Irishman's blatant appraisal or Rebekah's equally blatant return of it. “We have to get out of here before anyone else sees us. That mob could get ugly.”

  “They already are. They expected Cy to win,” Rebekah replied as her friend tried to pull her away from the railing. Just then, the Irishman arched one of those expressively elegant eyebrows and winked at her. Rebekah felt the heat fly to her cheeks and gave in to Celia's urging.

  Rory watched the women—girls really—turn tail and dash from the porch. A good thing, before any of the drunken louts in this rough crowd got the wrong idea. They were obviously not scarlet poppies from the deadfall side of town. He decided to find out who the blonde was—after a decent interval of celebration and some time for his cuts and bruises to heal a bit. The greatest drawback to boxing was the wear and tear on his face, but he planned to quit someday, when something better came along. January's words brought him back from the reverie inspired by the fetching golden-haired girl.

  “These ‘ere blokes wants a rematch. Ya feel up ta goin' a few rounds tomorra' night in Virginia City? Th' purse’ll be a thousand dollars!”

  While Rory and January discussed the next fight, Rebekah and Celia crept down the rickety stairs to the first floor and headed to the side door. The overflowing crowd had dispersed, but a number of men were still milling around it. In a panic, Celia whispered, “How can we get out?”

  Rebekah scanned the dusty office and saw a rear window partially obscured by the remains of a wall. “We can climb out that,” she replied, making her way to the window. As she reached down to yank the partially open sash higher, a voice coming from the alley froze her.

  “I'll drug his drinkin' water before that little limey nigger gets hold of the bucket. Once he takes a swallow, the mick'll be a goner.”

  “Yew shore this here stuff’ll work quick enough?” his coconspirator asked dubiously.

  Shushing Celia, Rebekah crouched down beside the window glass, which fortunately had been rendered opaque by encrusted filth. The girls listened to the plan unfold. The conspirators were Whitey Folson and Cal's brother Bart Slocum, two mean street toughs from the Comstock mining district. She had to warn the Irishman!

  After a few heart-stopping minutes, the men shook hands on their shady deal and departed. Weak-kneed, Rebekah cautiously opened the window and checked the deserted alley, then motioned for Celia to follow her and hoisted up her skirts to climb out.

  “I'll ruin my gown,” Celia said in dismay, holding back.

  “Better the gown than you if those men catch us,” Rebekah replied tartly.

  That moved her friend to hasty action. “Oh well, I shall just have to buy a new one if this gets torn, but how ever shall I explain to Mama about getting so mussed up?”

  “You'll think of something. You always do,” Rebekah said, her thoughts already racing ahead, imagining and discarding plans to get a message to the Kilkenny Kid.

  * * * *

  In the arid isolation of western Nevada, whiskey cost more than water and only one death in a dozen was from natural causes. But in the river valleys of the Truckee, the Carson, and the Walker, the alkali wilderness bloomed. Amid the pungent tang of sage and spruce, the bawls of fat cattle were heard. Orchards lay heavy with pears and apples while patient farmers tilled the earth, harvesting wheat and corn, peas and potatoes. This verdancy of the western valleys owed less to the industry of agriculture than it did to the mining boom that created the demand for its produce, for between the Truckee and the Walker lay the richest cache of gold and silver ever known to man, the Comstock Lode, whose brief yet brilliant magnetism created the state of Nevada.

  The glitter of the gold and silver camps was miles removed from the prosperous little cow town of Wellsville, north of the bustling railhead of Reno in the Truckee River Valley. Life moved at a more prosaic pace for a citizenry relatively untouched by the lure of overnight riches. The community had been built on the solid values of frugality and hard work, reinforced with rock-hard religious piety.

  Rebekah did not feel the least bit pious while she waited for an assignation with a forbidden man. As she paced nervously across the bandstand in the park, she was not certain if she was afraid he would not come or that he would. It was nearly noon, the time she had set for the rendezvous in her note to him. She had bribed Zack Springer, a neighbor's boy from her Sunday school class, to deliver the message to the Irish fighter. Word had quickly spread about how the Kilkenny Kid had defeated Cy Wharton, and Zack's eyes had nearly popped from their sockets when she had made her request to the boy.

  “You know the Kilkenny Kid? Wow!”

  “No! That is, we've never met—been introduced.” Her fumbling explanations had gone downhill from there. She had simply thrust the note and a coin in the lad's grubby hand and sent him to the den of iniquity where the Irishman was staying.

  Now, as she waited to see if the Kilkenny Kid would answer her summons, she marveled at the impulsive folly that had led her to this pass. Was it only yesterday morning that she and her best friend Celia Hunt had been shopping for hats? Well, Celia had been shopping. As usual, Rebekah had only been along to watch enviously.

  “I still think I should take the pink. It would contrast with my hair,” Celia had said, smoothing a small, slightly plump hand over her auburn curls as she preened before a large mirror in the millinery shop, admiring the smart straw bonnet perched atop her head.

  “It is lovely, but perhaps the yellow would be better,” Rebekah had replied, dubious about the combination of pink bonnet and red hair, even though her companion seemed oblivious of the clashing colors.

  Shrugging her shoulders, Celia said, ‘‘Well, I shall solve the matter quite simply and take them both. Unless you would like the pink? You did seem taken with it.”

  Rebekah shook her head. “No, really, you take it and the yellow, Celia.” She turned away and walked across the small, crowded shop. Honestly, there were times when it seemed her friend was as dense as the pines around Lake Tahoe. Rebekah’s father, Ephraim Sinclair, was the local Presbyterian minister, while Celia's father, Tyler Hunt, owned the town's largest mercantile. Celia's wardrobe contained all the latest fashions. Rebekah had to be content with plain, inexpensive clothes, often castoffs from her older sister Leah.

  Celia was dressed in a beautiful blue silk suit with a smart bustle and fitted jacket. Rebekah wore an old green sprigged-muslin frock with a childishly rounded neckline and gathered skirt. How nice it would be to have beautiful things. And how selfish of yo
u to think only of yourself. It seemed she was constantly upbraiding herself for the sins of covetousness and vanity. Her mother was right. She was indeed an iniquitous sinner.

  There were so many less fortunate than she in the mining camps, not to mention right here in Wellsville. Why the poor Chinese who worked in town had only tents to live in and were humiliated and threatened every waking hour. Of course, her mother said that was their own fault for being heathens and rejecting God's word, but she couldn't feel that the Lord wanted anyone to live so meanly or to be treated in such an unchristian manner. Her father—gentle, scholarly Ephraim, impractical and unworldly—was the soul of kindness and was chiefly responsible for his younger daughter's concern for others, much as his wife Dorcas was responsible for Rebekah's overwrought sense of guilt.

  Yet Rebekah occasionally had shocked both her parents; for beneath the layers of propriety beat the heart of a free spirit who secretly read her father's Greek mythologies, scandalous stuff to assault the eyes of a proper young lady, or indeed even the eyes of the bold adventuress who had slipped off with Celia when they were in pigtails to swim naked in the pond behind the Hunts' summer house. Her childish pranks and escapades had always met with stern retribution, sometimes in the form of Dorcas's canings and even more devastatingly when her beloved father admonished her with stricken bewilderment in his hazel-green eyes. In all of nearly eighteen years, Rebekah had felt like an outcast and never understood why.

  “Oh, fiddle, Rebekah Beatrice Sinclair, you look as hangdog and pious as your sister Leah. Whatever has come over you? It must be the heat. I allow this is one of the hottest summers we've had since that day when we slipped out of old Miss Framinghan's Sunday school class and went skinny dipping.” Celia's round, cheerful face had split with a fond grin of remembrance as she clasped her friend's arm with genuine affection. “I suppose we're too old to do that again…”