Broken Vows Read online

  Rebekah's mood had lightened at once. Bother the silly old hats she could not afford! A chuckle bubbled up inside her. “No, I don't think that muddy old pond would be so alluring now as it was when we were nine years old. Why not take a stroll up to Benton Street?”

  Celia's big brown eyes had almost popped from their sockets! “Benton Street! Where all the saloons and fallen women are? Ooh, how absolutely delicious!”

  “Well, we wouldn't have to go that far down the street—just sort of walk along the edge of the glitter district where no one would accost us.” Rebekah could see her mad impulse had taken hold of Celia, who clapped her hands in glee.

  The two young women had walked well past the park, up Elm Street to where it intersected with Benton, when they saw the crowd. Then, Celia had suggested they view the fight from the balcony of the abandoned newspaper office…

  Returning to the present, Rebekah looked around the deserted park and shook her head. Of all her escapades, this was indeed the most dangerous—and exciting! Would he come?

  As he headed to the park, Rory reread the note again, wondering if he was a fool to venture out on such a wild goose chase.

  “Mr. Kilkenny,” it had begun. He chuckled at the salutation once more, then continued to scan the page. Someone was going to drug his water bucket during the fight tonight.

  If he wanted to know who, he should come to the bandstand in the town park at noon. Even before he rounded the thick copse of cedars at the edge of the park, he knew it was her. His blonde. She was wearing another simple dress, a demure pastel blue with a frilly high lace collar that looked like a recent addition. As the product of an orphanage himself, he recognized made-over clothing when he saw it.

  He came up behind her silently as she paced. “Are you my golden guardian angel—or are you trying to make up for nearly getting my head knocked off yesterday?”

  Rebekah whirled around with a sharp intake of breath. The bluest eyes she had ever seen stared out of that arrestingly beautiful, albeit a bit battered, face. He wore a blue shirt, open at the collar and unbuttoned indecently low to reveal a tuft of black chest hair. The soft fabric clung to his broad shoulders, and his denims hugged his long legs. He was grinning now and looked much younger than he had during the fight. She judged him to be no more than a year or two older than she. “You startled me, Mr. Kilkenny.”

  “It's Madigan. Rory Madigan. The Kilkenny Kid is only a ring name,” he said, taking the bandstand's six steps in swift, long-legged strides.

  When he stood before her, he looked much larger than he had from her vantage point on the porch the day before. He was at least six feet, probably a bit more, compared to her five-foot-five. In high-heeled shoes, Rebekah seldom had to crane her neck to meet a man face-to-face. She fought to regain control of her scattered wits. “I'm Rebekah Sinclair, Mr. Madigan, and I—”

  Before she could go any further, he raised her hand and saluted it with a soft kiss. “Charmed, Miss Sinclair,” he murmured, delighted by the blush staining her cheeks. “You're the very loveliest fight fan I've ever seen,” he said, turning on what Sister Frances Rose O'Hanlon had always called his “gift of the blarney.”

  She withdrew her hand swiftly. “I detest violence, Mr. Madigan. It's unchristian.” Lord, she had been crazy to come here! If her parents ever found out that she'd been seen with a common saloon brawler, the consequences did not even bear thinking on.

  “Then, you must be my guardian angel. What's this about someone trying to rig the fight so I lose?” She was frightened to death, perhaps not just of his overtures.

  She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and swallowed. “I overheard Whitey Folson and Cal Slocum's brother Bart discussing it in the alley behind the Self-Cocker office when my friend and I were leaving after the fight.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and stroked his chin consideringly. “The Slocums I've met. Describe Folson to me.”

  “Small and wiry with thinning sandy hair. He has a rather prominent nose that's been broken and a scar here.” She made a motion across her left cheek.

  “Umm. Think I remember one such. I'm much obliged to you, Miss Sinclair. They didn't see you, did they?” Was she afraid of the bounders?

  “Heavens, I hope no one there at that spectacle saw us!” Rebekah's voice nearly broke.

  Rory threw back his head and laughed. “Whatever possessed a fine lady such as yourself to come to that part of town, much less to climb up and watch a fight when you purport to be such a foe of violence?”

  “It was just a girlish lark—a very foolish mistake that I don't dare repeat.”

  He looked at her face, now pale. Her green eyes were enormous, swimming with golden flecks. He reached out and touched her arm in reassurance. “I'll see no one hurts you, Miss Sinclair. Don't worry about Folson and Slocum.”

  “It's not them...” She looked nervously around the deserted park.

  His expression hardened. “Afraid of being seen with a dirty mickey, is that it, now?”

  She looked up into his face, startled by his swift anger. Anger that masked hurt, she was suddenly certain. “No, no, that isn't it at all. No matter if you were the Prince of Wales, it isn't proper for me to be here unchaperoned. We've not even been properly introduced. My parents are very insistent on such things.” She sighed in frustration as his cool blue eyes studied her disbelievingly. “I'm afraid I've always been a grave disappointment to them. Nothing like my sister Leah.”

  “Leah must be a paragon,” he said, a touch of the former amusement returning to his voice. “How old are you, Rebekah?” He liked the sound of her name on his tongue.

  “I'll soon be eighteen, and I've not given you leave to use my Christian name.” But she loved the sound of it on his tongue. An unwilling smile curved her lips.

  “I'll give you leave to call me Rory. It's only fair to reciprocate. I'll soon be twenty-one,” he added, answering her unspoken question.

  “Why do you fight? It's so dangerous. And your face Her fingertips lightly grazed his bruised cheek before she could stop herself. Whatever had come over her? She was bewitched!

  Rory clasped her hand before she could completely withdraw it. “He wouldn't have landed that punch if I hadn't been looking up at a golden-haired angel.”

  “I'm hardly an angel,” she scoffed. “I do foolish, impetuous things. I'm reckless and selfish, and my mother tells me I'm altogether too forward for a minister's daughter.”

  “Not like your sister Leah,” he said, nodding gravely. Then he winked. “Thank the saints above.”

  A small frown marred her forehead. “You're Catholic, aren't you?” It sounded dreadfully accusatory.

  “And you're a preacher's daughter.”

  Somehow, his tone didn't sound nearly as serious as hers, the rogue. Rebekah had no experience with beaus other than the young men from church. Staid, proper, in awe of her father and perfectly boring. Rory was neither staid nor proper, and she very much doubted if he would be tongue-tied in front of Ephraim Sinclair. And he most certainly was not boring. But he was Catholic, she reminded herself. “My father is the Presbyterian minister for Wellsville and the whole valley. He even preaches and tends to his flock in the Comstock towns.”

  “A bold man of faith indeed to venture into the Comstock in search of souls to save.”

  She felt his hand pressing hers, his surprisingly long, slender fingers laced between her own. “I really must go. We shouldn't see each other again, Rory.” She had not meant to use his given name. It tumbled off her tongue altogether too smoothly in spite of its foreign lilt.

  “Oh, I think we will see each other again, Rebekah.” He raised her fingertips to his lips and kissed them one by one, a trick a scarlet poppy back in New York had taught him when he was sixteen. It seemed an eternity ago, hazy and unreal. But the girl who withdrew her hand and fled like a frightened fawn was all too real.

  “She's not for the likes of you, boyo,” he muttered to himself as he turned and he
aded back to the squalid whiskey row where his “likes” were always consigned to live. But he knew that he'd seek her out anyway. How difficult could it be to find the Reverend Sinclair's beautiful blond daughter in a town the size of Wellsville?

  Chapter Two

  As Rebekah hurried home, she could not stop thinking of Rory Madigan. Her first real beau. Or was he? She recalled her conversation with Celia last week. Most likely, the Irishman's charm was not to be trusted. Although she and her best friend were both seventeen, Celia possessed a far more jaded view of life. They had been discussing Celia's latest beau, Newt Baker.

  “Newt's probably a fortune hunter. His father's blacksmith shop is about out of business and he has no prospects—unless he can marry a rich girl.” Celia had sighed disconsolately. “I know you'd like to have my money, but I'd like to have your looks even more. When a man comes to call on you, you know his affection is genuine.”

  Startled, Rebekah had looked at her friend, amazed at the sudden flash of insight the irrepressible, spoiled, yet plump and plain Celia had given her. “I suppose I never thought about money having anything to do with courting—but you're foolish to think men would only court you because of it. Why, you have a fine figure and beautiful russet hair. I'm just a pale, skinny stick by comparison,” she added earnestly.

  “Don't start that nonsense about Leah being the family beauty with her silver-blond hair and china-blue eyes, or I swear I shall expire from pure exasperation. Rebekah, she's as plump as I am and will go to fat by the time she's had her first baby. I'll never understand how you feel inferior to that prim and proper, holier-than-thou sister of yours. Why, she settled for Henry Snead, for land's sakes.”

  “Henry is a fine figure of a man!” Rebekah always defended her brother-in-law. Big, brawny Henry with his waxed handlebar mustache and wavy light brown hair was indeed quite a catch—or at least Rebekah had always thought so. “He's ever so kind and has a very responsible position with a promising future.”

  “He's full of himself; and if Amos Wells hadn't hired him to run the Flying W, he'd be no more than a common cowhand,” Celia said with a sniff.

  “You wouldn't be saying that because Henry chose my sister over you—and me,” she hastily added.

  “That just goes to show what sense he has. He's a nobody. I intend to marry a man with breeding, a man with a real future, who'll take me away from this dusty, boring old town.”

  “A man like Amos Wells?” The minute she said the words, Rebekah could have bitten her tongue; for Mr. Wells had never expressed the slightest interest in Celia, in spite of her friend's best efforts to attract the eligible widower's attention.

  “He's only been out of mourning for his dead wife for a few months. I expect there's time enough,” Celia replied huffily.

  “Time enough if he doesn't pass on of old age. Honestly, Celia, he's positively ancient.”

  “He's only forty-three, in the prime of manhood. And he's rich and distinguished, from a fine old New England family. Soon, he'll be Nevada's next United States Senator. My father said so. Imagine going to Carson City to have tea with the governor's wife and living in Washington, D.C.”

  “Well, as much as I would love the opportunity to travel east, I won't ever marry any man unless I love him—and he loves me,” she had retorted to Celia that day last week.

  As she turned onto Bascomb Street, a sudden thought struck Rebekah. Could I fall in love with a man like Rory Madigan? The very idea rocked her. Shaking it off, she forced herself to consider more sensible things. “What will you tell Mama if she asks where you've been?” she murmured, praying she would not be late for the midday meal. If questioned, what could she say without lying? She had taken a stroll to the park and forgot the time? Rory Madigan probably made all the girls he charmed forget the day of the week, much less the hour! I can't lie to Papa and Mama.

  Perhaps, she would make it in time and her earlier absence would not be noted; although since Leah was married and gone, her mother expected Rebekah to help with all the food preparations. She had pared carrots and turnips, braised the rump of beef, and set it all to boil before she left. Hopefully, her mother would consider that a sufficient contribution. It seemed that no matter what she did, it was never equal to Leah's superior culinary skills, the loss of which their mother continually lamented.

  Rebekah was deep in thought over her intense and confusing feelings about the handsome young Irishman when she neared her father's stately white-frame church and the adjacent modest parsonage. She circled around toward the back porch, hoping to slip in unobserved, when she heard a sharp exchange that stopped her in midstride. Inside the sitting room, which her father used as his study, Dorcas Sinclair was dressing down poor Zack Springer.

  “You explain yourself, young man, this very instant!”

  “Now, Dorcas, you're frightening the lad,” Ephraim said in his rich, melodious voice. “What were you doing over in that terrible part of town?” he asked the boy gently.

  Leah Snead's voice was smug with accusation as she held Zack by his left ear. “I heard you boasting about delivering a message last night to some despicable saloon brawler.”

  Rebekah wished for the earth to open up and swallow her as she made her way into the house, knowing the whole horrid escapade must now be confessed. Poor Zack. No doubt Leah had dragged the unfortunate boy to her parents' home because she already knew her scapegrace sister was involved. She had not intended to get him in trouble. If only he had not felt compelled to boast about his errand. Like a convicted felon heading to the gallows, Rebekah opened the door of the study and confronted her family.

  “Zack was only delivering a note for me. He's not a habitué of saloons and the like. Please excuse him, and I'll explain everything.”

  Dorcas Sinclair's round, florid face grew even redder as she regarded her younger daughter with furious anger. A heavyset woman with faded gray hair pulled severely back in a tight bun, she had always had plain, homely features and a doughy, shapeless figure. Everyone back in Boston had remarked that it was a marvel she had snared a fine figure of a man like Ephraim. The girls took their blond good looks from their father. “This is a very serious matter, Rebekah. It's not bad enough that you act the hoyden, associating with riffraff, but you've dragged down an innocent child with your irresponsible actions!”

  “Zack, perhaps it would be best if you ran along home,” Ephraim said, gently disengaging the boy from Leah's grasp. Then, he turned his sternest clergyman's demeanor on the lad. “Do confess what you've done to your father when he returns from work this evening. I'll expect to see you Sunday morning.”

  ''Y-yes, sir, Reverend Sinclair. I will,” the youth said to the tall, silver-haired man whose stooped shoulders and gaunt frame still commanded immense respect. With a quick look of apology at Rebekah, Zack fled.

  “You have some explanation for all of this, I'm sure,” Leah said, her pale blue eyes snapping with a self-satisfied pleasure that her calm voice belied. She was shorter than Rebekah but possessed of an hourglass figure of legendary voluptuousness and pale silver-gilt ringlets demurely held back in a pale gray snood that matched her elegant new day dress of extra-fine poplin. Henry had become a very indulgent husband, buying her all sorts of things she could not afford as a poor preacher's daughter.

  Leah stared at her younger sister, tapping her toe impatiently, still jealous and angry with her sibling in spite of her own rise in fortune the past year. “You wouldn't want to bring disgrace to the family name, surely?” she asked sweetly, enjoying witnessing the glib, clever Rebekah at a loss for words this time.

  “Of course not, but I felt it my Christian duty to warn Mr. Madigan about a grave danger that could cost him his life.” Rebekah stopped her headlong plunge to glance from Leah's dainty face to her mother's beefy one, then to her father's sad, patient hazel-green eyes.

  “Mr. Madigan? Would that be the Irish prizefighter who is touring the Comstock?” Ephraim asked worriedly.

  Dorcas
and Leah both gasped in outrage. “You've become involved with a common brawler—and a foreign papist in the bargain?” Dorcas thundered.

  “Perhaps you'd best start at the beginning, Rebekah,” her father said, sinking down into the large, battered chair behind his modest desk and motioning for his family to be seated.

  Dorcas and Leah took the shabby two-chair-back settee, leaving Rebekah with only a straight-backed chair facing her father's desk. Well, she preferred to tell her tale to his more sympathetic ears anyway. Quickly, lest she lose her nerve and fumble with words, Rebekah outlined the lark, omitting any mention of her friend Celia in her narration about being drawn by the crowd in glitter town and witnessing the boxing contest with its frightening aftermath.

  “So, you see, when I overheard them planning to drug Mr. Madigan, I had to warn him,” she concluded.

  “You should never have been in such a heinous place, witnessing the barbarity of half-clothed men battering each other—you, an unmarried girl,” Dorcas said, fanning herself.

  “You're never likely to be married if you continue behaving the way you have,” Leah interjected snidely.

  “Be that as it may, why did you compound the folly by meeting this rascal instead of simply warning him of the plot in your note?” Ephraim asked.

  Leave it to her father's Yale-trained intellect to cut to the heart of the matter, Rebekah thought in misery. I wanted to meet him in person. Lord, she couldn't say that! “Er, well, I had to explain who the men were and describe them. I didn't think a note sufficient.”

  “You didn't think at all. You never do, else you'd not be courting the ruin of your reputation this way. Of all your disgraceful escapades, this tops the list! An assignation with an Irish saloon ruffian!” Dorcas wrung her pudgy, reddened hands in agitation.