Broken Vows Read online

Rebekah and Celia Hunt, who taught the younger children, chuckled about the fiasco after the snake had been released outdoors. The students calmed down, and the classes were dismissed. The two young women walked down to the shade of the big cedar tree out behind the church to enjoy a few minutes of blessed cool before the regular worship began at eleven o'clock.

  Looking resplendent in her new yellow silk dress, Celia strolled carelessly by a juniper bush, paying no heed when it snagged the hem of her skirt. “There is something I wanted to discuss with you, Rebekah.”

  Rebekah's heart sank. She's heard about Amos Wells asking Papa if he could court me. “Celia, you know we've always been friends—”

  “And all the more reason I should warn you—acting so recklessly as to let gossipy old Tess Conklin see you with that awful Irish boxer. Was he really kissing you right out in public—on the bandstand in the park?” Celia's brown eyes were alight with a mixture of censure and excitement.

  “He only kissed my hand,” Rebekah retorted guiltily. That time. “Look who's being so prim and proper all of a sudden, Celia Hunt. You weren't exactly hanging back when I suggested that walk over to Benton Street, and you were the one who insisted we could see him better from the porch of that old newspaper office.”

  “I didn't even know who he was!” Celia replied indignantly. “Really, Rebekah, he's a nobody—one of those drunken, brawling Irish. Why, he works in Beau Jenson's stable, for pity's sake.”

  “You sound like my mother. Being Irish doesn't automatically make a man drunken.” Even as Rebekah rushed to Rory's defense, she realized that he had not told her about working for Mr. Jenson. But he had said January Jones was his manager. Did that mean he had quit boxing? Was he going to settle down in Wellsville?

  Her jumbled thoughts were interrupted by Celia's insistent voice. “Why, you are positively moony-eyed over that fellow. I will admit he's fine looking, but he's impoverished, Rebekah. I always thought you wanted a man who could provide you with security and comforts, even if you don't favor one as distinguished as Amos Wells.”

  At the mention of Amos Wells, Rebekah’s heart froze for an instant. She had to tell her friend about his suit before Celia learned of it from the town gossips. Swallowing for courage, she said, “There's something I need your help with, Celia...aboutMr.Wells.”

  A wary look came into Celia's normally warm brown eyes. “What about Amos Wells?”

  “He's asked my father's permission to call on me,” Rebekah blurted out, seizing her friend's hands and adding frantically, “It took me completely by surprise. I've certainly never encouraged him, and I won't marry him. I know you think he'd make a splendid catch, and I do so want you to be happy, Celia. Please don't be angry with me,” she pleaded.

  Celia stood rooted to the ground, a small O forming on her lips, making her face seem even rounder than usual. Then, sensing her friend's obvious distress, she hugged Rebekah. “Don't take on so. I know you never set your cap for Amos—even though why you'd prefer that penniless stable hand to him is beyond me,” she added in exasperation.

  Ignoring Celia's denigration of Rory, Rebekah replied, “Maybe there is something we can do to help us both get the men we want. Next Sunday is the box lunch social. I'm certain Mr. Wells will expect to bid on my lunch basket. Now, here's what we could do, if you want to....”

  * * * *

  Rory sat gazing out at the river glittering beneath the brilliant azure sky. He cast the bobber into the water and watched the cork dance on the lazy, rippling current. Would she come? Did he really want her to come? There would be all sorts of complications if they became involved. Until the reckless incident in her garden, he had never realized how volatile the feelings between a man and a woman could be.

  Working his way across the country. he had sampled more than his share of females—eager young slatterns who wanted him to take them away from the grimness of poverty, jaded older women with shady pasts who merely wanted to use his strong body to relieve their boredom. But never had he known a girl like Rebekah—a lady raised in a sheltered provincial environment, a complete innocent.

  He smiled to himself, recalling the fire that burned deeply within her and how startled she had been that he could evoke such wanton responses from her. She was a quick learner, and he was an excellent teacher. But where would this lead them? Her family would scarcely consider him ideal husband material; and involvement with a girl like Rebekah meant marriage, no two ways about that. Well, he had quit boxing and gotten himself a steady job. The money was meager, but it was honest work with an opportunity for advancement. If Rebekah was willing to take a chance on him, they would find some way to appease her family.

  The object of his musings approached the river and stood hidden in the dense stand of willows, watching Rory and working up her courage to approach him. He reclined against a willow log, one long leg bent at the knee and his forearm lying casually across it. A cane pole was propped up on the bank between two rocks. He stared at the river, deep in thought.

  Taking a steadying breath, she stepped from her hiding place and approached him. “You seem a million miles away. The fish could carry off your pole, hook, line and sinker and you'd never know it.”

  He rolled up in one lithe motion and let his eyes sweep appreciatively over her, enjoying the blush that stained her cheeks. The lilac-colored dress accented every sweet, subtle curve yet was curiously demure. “The fish don't matter. I was thinking of you. I like what you did with your hair,” he said, reaching up to touch the soft cluster of curls piled on top of her head. “I was afraid you weren't coming.”

  When he took her hand, it seemed the most natural thing on earth to stroll with him over to the log and sit down on it. “I had a hard time getting away from my family. Leah invited us all over to her house for dinner after church, and I had to invent an excuse not to go.”

  “I’m glad you found one,” he said, smiling at her.

  She chewed her lip for a moment. “I'm afraid I told a lie—or at least an exaggeration. I said the heat was bothering me so much I couldn't bear the long ride to Leah and Henry's place. I pleaded a headache and said I was going upstairs to rest.”

  “Henry Snead's the ramrod at the Flying W. That is a long, dusty ride. You weren't really lying.”

  “I'm not at home in my bed with cool rags on my forehead either.” When she looked into his merry blue eyes, and he smiled that way at her, the little deception no longer seemed to matter. She smiled back.

  “That's better,” he said, touching his fingers to her chin, then brushing her nose with a light kiss. “Since you've given up your family dinner for me, the least I can do is share my lunch with you. It's not very fancy, but it's filling.” He hoisted up a bag from behind the log and withdrew a half loaf of bread, a wedge of yellow cheese, and several peaches. “The bread and cheese are from Strieker's Restaurant. I filched the peaches from that orchard near your house.”

  He did not look at all contrite. “Shame on you,” she said, dimpling.

  “I could go to confession. Such a small thing couldn't cost more than a few Hail Marys,” he replied.

  Her smile faded. “You go to church, don't you?”

  He shrugged uncomfortably. “I haven't been in a long time. In fact, I fear I've been a poor Catholic since my parents died, although Sister Frances Rose did her best to instill a bit of piety in my benighted soul,” he said, chuckling.

  “You sound fond of her. Was she kind to you?” To Rebekah, nuns and penance, everything about the Catholic faith, was shrouded in mystery.

  “Yes, she was. Not that she wasn't hell on a handcar with a hickory cane for your backside when you broke the rules. But she had the most wonderful sense of humor, and she bluffed better at draw poker than anyone I ever played against.”

  Rebekah's eyes widened and she drew herself up in shock. “You—you mean she gambled with her charges?”

  “She played for pennies, and everyone's winnings had to be dropped in the poor box,” he added in defe
nse of the beloved old nun who had been good to him. “She's a remarkable woman. With only a handful of nuns, she keeps a roof over the heads of nearly a hundred orphaned children.”

  “That is a remarkable feat,” Rebekah conceded.

  “Not half as remarkable as her left jab. She was my first boxing coach.”

  Now Rebekah's jaw dropped. “B-boxing. A woman—a nun—taught you to box!”

  “Aye, that she did. She had a brother who was a London prize ring champion in his day.” He offered her a chunk of cheese and a slice of bread, then set to carving up the peaches.

  Rebekah was pole axed by the casualness with which he described such horrendous behavior. Perhaps her parents and Celia had been right. She was mad to be attracted to Rory Madigan. But she was. His religion was too alien and mysterious for her to discuss further, but on the issue of prize-fighting she felt safe testing the water. “Boxing is a dangerous way to earn a living. My friend Celia Hunt told me you were working at Jenson's Livery Stable. Have you given up the fighting life?”

  “For now,” he replied obliquely. “Now that January's gone back to England, I decided to take a steady job. I'm good with horses, and Mr. Jenson seems pleased with my work, although I doubt if breaking mustangs is any safer than the prize ring.”

  “Breaking mustangs! Oh, Rory, you mustn't.” She set her uneaten food on the small cloth he had spread and reached out to clasp his hand.

  “I didn't mean to frighten you, Rebekah. I'm finished with the mustangs. Anyway, I don't ride them down like most bronc busters do. I use other methods. Next week, I'm going to begin working with his racers. In time, I'll get a cut of the gate when the ones I've trained win.” He looked at her, trying to read her expression.

  “I'm glad you're staying in Wellsville, although I'm not certain if my father will approve any sort of gambling—even training racehorses.”

  “And your father's approval means a great deal to you, doesn't it?” His voice was flat. He tried not to care.

  “Yes, it does. My father is a wonderful man. Kind and gentle, a real scholar. He graduated third in his class from Yale Divinity School and gave up an offer from a prosperous congregation in Boston to come west and spread the Gospel. My mother always favored Leah, but Papa—well, he's always been there when I needed him. I don't want to disappoint him. But…”

  When her voice trailed away, he prompted, “But?”

  “Oh, Rory, heaven help me—I don't want to lose you either! I'm a brazen hussy to say that. I shouldn't even be here, alone with you in this secluded place; and I certainly shouldn't have kissed you and done the other things we did in the garden.” She could no longer meet his cool blue eyes but fidgeted with her skirt, smoothing the wrinkled calico nervously as she spoke.

  “You're no brazen hussy. Take that from a man who's known more than his share.” He was pleased with the small flash of feminine jealousy that turned her green eyes cat-gold. He stroked her cheek. “You've never even had a real beau, have you, Rebekah? I know no man ever kissed you before me.”

  She sighed. “Everyone was always more interested in my sister. She's petite with a perfect figure and silver-gilt hair, and she's a proper lady who never misbehaves or does wild, impulsive things.”

  “And you? What about you?” Why should a beauty like his Rebekah play second fiddle to anyone?

  She sighed. “I'm too tall and practically flat chested.” She blushed beet red and hurried on, cataloging her faults. “My hair is brassy and straight. It's so heavy I have to use an iron to get it to curl this way, and as for my behavior—well, most men in Wellsville think I'm a hoyden.”

  “Most men in Wellsville are fools. You're just the right size, and your hair is glorious—rich as Comstock gold. Didn't anyone ever tell you gold is worth more than silver?” he asked with a teasing smile. “And then, there are your eyes with their thick lashes and changeable color. Did you know they turn from green to gold when you get excited?” He stared deeply into them as his mouth drew nearer to hers, but this time he kept a sensible distance between them, allowing only his lips to brush hers, whisper soft. After a few light, sweet kisses, he broke away, afraid of his own passion and her answering response, which flared to life so quickly.

  “When I'm with you, I forget the whole rest of the world,” she confessed breathlessly as he drew slowly away from her and offered her a slice from one of the peaches. It was sweet and juicy on her tongue, mixed now with the spicy taste of Rory's kiss.

  “So do I. I've never met a girl like you before, Rebekah. I can't believe how lucky I am no man's snatched you away before I found you.”

  Amos Wells' face flashed into her mind, ruining the tranquility of the very private moment between them. “You were right that I've never had a beau before, but...”

  “But what?” He could see the shadowed look that had come into her eyes. “Is there someone else, Rebekah? Someone your father approves?” Dread squeezed his heart.

  “Yes.” A shudder rippled delicately across her shoulders. “Amos Wells has asked permission to court me, and my father thinks he'd make a fine husband.”

  “Wells—as in the Wellsville Wells? That old man! How could your father want you to marry him?”

  “He's only forty-three. Everyone says that's a man's prime. And he's rich and socially prominent. He'll be Nevada's next United States Senator.” She sounded just like Celia, but she had to defend her father. “And most important of all, I'm afraid, he's a member of the First Presbyterian Church.”

  “But in spite of his being such a paragon, you don't want him to come calling, do you?” He studied her, confused by her ambivalence.

  “No, but you made it sound as if my father was selling me to some beastly old man. Celia Hunt—you remember, she was with me the day you fought Cy Wharton?”

  “The plump little redhead,” he supplied, impatient for her to explain.

  “Well, she's always been smitten with Mr. Wells. When I told her about his interest in me this morning, I was afraid I'd lose my best friend, but she's loyal and understanding.

  In fact, we've concocted a scheme to give her a chance to catch Mr. Wells's eye at the box lunch social next week.”

  She quickly outlined the deception that she and Celia had devised. “So you see, Mr. Wells will bid on her basket with the pale pink ribbons because I've told him I'll be using pink. Mine will have rose-red ribbon, and after all the sales are made, he'll have to do the gentlemanly thing and eat with Celia.”

  “And who will get your basket?”

  She shrugged. “It really doesn't matter, just so Mr. Wells and Celia end up together.”

  “So, you're really willing to pass up all his money and political aspirations? You could be a senator's wife and travel back east. Live in mansions and wear furs and jewels. I thought all women wanted those things.”

  She flushed beneath his scrutiny, tracing the pattern of the frayed checkered cloth that lay between them. “I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a covetous person. In fact, I suppose if I was a Catholic, I'd have to say a lot of Hail Marys to make up for my sins. I've always been envious of Celia's pretty clothes and the places her family has taken her.”

  “But you wouldn't marry just to get them?” he prompted. When she shook her head, his chest, which had been tight with apprehension, eased; and he took a deep, cleansing breath. They had problems to overcome, but perhaps money would not be one of them. He leaned over to raise her chin for another kiss; but just then, a loud splash interrupted. His pole was bent at a precarious angle, and the cork had vanished beneath the surface. As the rocks holding the pole in place rolled away beneath the pressure, the cane started to slide into the water.

  Rory jumped up and grabbed for it, but missed as it glided just out of his grasp. With an oath, he splashed into the water and promptly slipped on the mossy, slick rocks beneath the shallows. As he tumbled face forward into the river, he seized the pole and yanked hard on it while rolling to sit upright, waist deep in the water.

 
; Droplets splashed everywhere, spraying onto Rebekah, who had also jumped up and run to the edge of the river. She squealed with excitement, then tried to suppress her giggles as he rolled around in the water, soaking his clothes to his skin. A long shock of midnight hair lay plastered to his forehead. He gave her a baleful glare, then turned his attention to the fish.

  “Laugh at me, will you,” he said with mock ferocity as he turned the pole to the shore, dragging a fat, thrashing trout across the top of the water. He flipped the hooked fish neatly at her feet, then rose, pole still in hand, and waded back onto the bank, where he made a courtly bow, using the pole as if it were an overlong gold-handled walking stick.

  Rebekah gave a startled squawk and jumped back, then burst into gales of laughter. “You should’ve seen your face when you tripped on those rocks and fell in headfirst.”

  “You should’ve seen yours when that trout tried to jump up your petticoats...not that it's such a bad idea,” he said in a husky voice as he threw the pole and his catch aside and reached out for her. All laughter died between them.

  She watched the incredible grace with which he moved, unable to turn away or protest—unable even to tear her eyes from his compelling male beauty. His simple white cotton shirt had become almost translucent, revealing the curling black hair on his chest. Every lean, sinuous muscle in his body stood in bold relief beneath the clothes that clung to him so sensuously. The age-softened denims hugged his legs as he stepped up to her and reached out to take her in his arms.

  His hands were cold from his dunking and she gasped in surprise; but as soon as he pulled her against him, the heat of his hard body enveloped her. The pounding of his heart was a dull thud, pillowed against the softness of her breasts as he bent his head to kiss her. Her hands came up, soft palms running along the wet, slick contours of his biceps, then curving around his broad shoulders. His mouth was like his hands, cool at first touch, then meltingly hot as he made contact with her flesh.

  A low, feral groan tore from him as he felt her respond, opening her mouth for the invasion of his tongue. He held her tight, molding her soft curves against his wet body until he had soaked her, put his mark on her. His lips moved from the sweetness of her mouth, across her cheeks, brushing her eyelids, nose, and brows, then moved lower to ravish her slender throat, unfastening the tiny cloth-covered buttons until he could taste the silky skin stretched across her collarbone. His hand cupped her breast, lifting it in his hand as his mouth descended toward it. He was lost, all his good resolutions fled.