Broken Vows (10 page)

      
Celia's pink-ribboned basket came up before Rebekah's. Old Will Wright, the auctioneer, started the bidding at the usual half dollar. Rebekah and Celia stood, primly chatting with Maude Priddy, neither giving an indication that they knew whose it was. Amos Wells waited until a yellow-haired cowboy and a gangly young drummer had bid it up to a quarter eagle. He raised his hand and said in the stentorian voice of a practiced politician, “A gold eagle.”

      
A surprised murmuring spread through the crowd; then a buzzing began to hum around the park. No one had expected Amos Wells to participate in the bidding, certainly not to pay the unheard-of sum of ten dollars for some young lady's basket! The older men spat lobs of tobacco and jested about Wells needing a wife to take with him to Washington, and the married women's eyes glittered as they gossiped among themselves about who the lucky girl might be.

      
“I shall simply die if he's angry, Rebekah.” Celia's normally pink complexion had grown pale as she watched the crowd's reaction.

      
“Would you rather switch baskets and eat with Rory Madigan?” Rebekah was not certain if she made the offer because she feared offending Amos or if spending the afternoon with Rory frightened her more.

      
“You actually think he'll dare participate in the bidding?”

      
“I know he will. He wouldn't be here unless he had a reason.”

      
The deacon then held up the rose-ribboned basket and said, “Opening bid is half a dollar, just like the rest, fellers. If’n it goes for half as much as the last one, both churches will have pretty near enough to build on extra steeples!”

      
Several bids had brought the price up to a quarter eagle when Rory Madigan's clear, deep voice cut through the murmuring of the crowd. “A double eagle.” He held up the twenty dollar gold piece, letting the sunlight glint off its brilliantly polished surface. No one bid against him.

Chapter Five

      
If a mildly surprised murmur spread through the crowd when Amos Wells made his bid, it was nothing like the reaction Madigan's bid elicited. A stunned silence followed him as he made his way forward to deposit the money with Deacon Wright. The crowd parted in gape-jawed amazement, staring at the stranger.

      
“Who is he?” a clerk from Elkhorn's General Store asked.

      
“Thet there's thet boxer feller whut beat tarnation out of Cy Wharton—some mickey name or other,” a Flying W wrangler replied.

      
“The Kilkenny Kid. Yeah, I bet on him,” another younger cowhand said, then turned beet-red when he realized his mistake, surrounded as he was by Wellsville citizenry who did not take kindly to outsiders, least of all foreigners, coming in to defeat their local sons.

      
Rory ignored them as he picked up Rebekah's basket. His eyes swept the tittering, whispering crowd of young women until he found her, standing frozen beside an equally pale and uncertain-looking Celia Hunt. He raised the basket in a mock salute to her, then sauntered off as the next box lunch was bid upon.

      
Ernestine Carpenter, thin and hatchet-faced, the worst gossip in the county, elbowed her way up to Rebekah and whispered in a hiss that could be heard across Lake Tahoe, “He's that Irish fellow who came to town as a box fighter. Works for Beau Jenson now. Yer pa sure won't like him courtin' you.”

      
“If he's Irish, then he must be Catholic,” Maude Priddy squeaked, fanning herself with a soggy lace handkerchief.

      
“Rebekah didn't know he was going to bid on her basket,” Celia said in her friend's defense. At least that much was true, strictly speaking. Rebekah stood silent, letting the other girls exchange gossip.

      
“How'd he know it was hers, Celia? Yer pa carried both yer baskets up to the bandstand,” Ernestine said, as logically tenacious as a Philadelphia lawyer.

      
Celia ignored Ernestine's question. The box lunches were all sold now, and the men holding their trophies approached the women, waiting for them to come forward. Amos Wells was less reticent than the rest, bearing down on Rebekah. Celia felt Rebekah’s hands against her back, shoving her forward with a whispered, “Go get him, and don't forget to smile.”

      
“Why, Mr. Wells, you surprised me. I'm really flattered that you paid so much for my basket, but it is for Christian charity, isn't it?” Celia was babbling, something her mother told her she did altogether too often.

      
Amos looked at Celia's plump, possessive hand on the pink-ribboned basket he held, then moved his gaze to her companion. Rebekah imagined she saw a flash of furious anger in his cool, slate-colored eyes before he looked away. She shivered, then decided it was just fanciful imaginings because of her own guilty conscience when Amos tipped his hat gallantly to Celia and offered his arm.

      
Rory took his time approaching Rebekah in the crowd, knowing the townsfolk were dying to know whom he would claim—and if he had known in advance. He waited, giving Rebekah the chance to save face by coming forward to claim her basket as Celia had done. She did so, walking slowly and steadily toward him, looking neither left nor right, ignoring the scandalized whispers surrounding them. She reached for the basket, saying in her husky contralto, “I believe you've overpaid for some fried chicken and devil's food cake.”

      
“Devil's food from the preacher's daughter?” he asked, removing his hat with a flourish.

      
She fought the urge to kick him in the shins. Bad enough to plan the switch with Celia, but to have Rory show up and purchase her basket, not to mention paying a king's ransom for it! Why had she told him about the scheme?
Maybe you wanted him to do it,
an inner voice taunted.

      
He offered his arm, daring her to refuse it. She gritted her teeth and took it. They walked through the crowd of curious onlookers, all the girls paired off now with the men fortunate enough to have snared a picnic partner. The rest stood around, some wistful, other jealous, all no doubt dying to know what was going on between Rebekah Sinclair and the stranger.

      
As soon as they were out of earshot of the nearest people, Rebekah whispered, “Everyone will be talking about that outrageous bid. A gold double eagle! What did you do, rob a bank?”

      
He chuckled. “It was part of my last fight purse. Honestly won—and it was given for Christian charity, as your friend told Wells. Somehow, I don't think it consoled him much,” he added dryly, guiding her toward a copse of pines at the eastern corner of the large park, well away from the crowd.

      
“We shouldn't go off alone. People will talk,” she said, tugging at his arm to slow down his long-legged stride.

      
Rory held her hand firmly on his arm and continued on his course. “Don't be silly. All the young couples have gone off to feast in private. Except for Wells and your friend. Seems he's more interested in talking to the voters than he is in talking with his companion.”

      
Rebekah felt a flash of pity for Celia. “Surely Amos wouldn't be cruel to her, would he? I really know so little about him...” Her voice trailed off as she turned and glanced back at the picnic tables where the town's leading citizens were congregated with Amos and Celia in their midst.

      
“Yet your da wants you to marry him. I bet Amos Wells will do whatever he has to, to get what he wants, and the devil take those who get in his way.”

      
Recalling that flash of icy fury she thought she had seen in his eyes, Rebekah was afraid Rory might be right about the older man. “Surely not. My father is a fine judge of character.”

      
“And Wells is a pillar of his church. Probably a big contributor, too.” The minute he said it, Rory felt her pull away with a fierce yank of her wrist. She spun, intending to run off, but he caught her hand and pulled her into the concealment of the trees, drawing her resistingly into his arms. “I'm sorry. That was unkind and ill-spoken of me. I don't even know your father. I'm just jealous because he favors Wells. And I want you for myself.” He stared down at her, willing her eyes to meet his.

      
Rebekah could feel his hard, strong body pressed against her softness, his heart pounding fiercely in rhythm with her own. She was compelled to raise her eyes to his, and was lost when she did so. She shook her head, trying to break the spell. “This is all wrong. We can't—I can't—my parents are going to be furious when they hear what you've done. They won't let you call on me, Rory.”

      
“Because I'm lowly Irish scum?” His voice was soft, but his eyes glittered cold, dark blue, just as they had when she first saw him fighting Cy Wharton.

      
“Don't make it sound so awful. It isn't that you're Irish.” That was not strictly true. Her mother detested all foreigners, and then there was her father's intense antipathy for the Irish. “It's your religion.” She seized on the one thing he should understand. “You're a Catholic and I'm a Presbyterian, a minister's daughter. Surely, you see I couldn't desert my faith and my family.”

      
“And you think I'd ask that of you?” Her head flew up and her eyes widened in shocked disbelief as he grazed her cheek with his knuckles. She looked so startled and confused. He bent down and lightly kissed her nose. Then, he placed the picnic basket on the grass, sat down, and patted the space beside him.

      
Warily she took a seat, arranging her skirts primly, too nervous to meet his gaze. “You—you mean you wouldn't ask me to—”
He hasn't proposed to you yet, you ninny!
She had about said, You mean you wouldn't ask me to be married in your church?

      
“I've always been an indifferent Catholic at best—at least since I lost my family.” He shrugged. “I don't know, I guess it's always been a part of my identity—a tie to the old country and to my mother and father, my dead brothers. But since I left the orphanage and came west, I haven't seen the inside of a church. If it means that much to you...we could talk about it.” He placed his hand over hers as she fidgeted with the ruffled edge of her blue gingham skirts. “There's more, isn't there? It's the money. Your family wants a rich man for you, like Wells.”

      
She looked up then, unable to bear the hurt in his voice. He had been willing to meet her more than halfway. “If only I wasn't so selfish and insecure,” she said passionately. “My family has always been poor, Rory. My mother and father only want something better for Leah and me. We always had to wear cast-off clothes and help Mama cook and clean, while all the other ladies and their daughters had fine new fashions and servants to do the work for them.”

      
“Then why don't you marry Amos Wells and be done with it? He could give you everything you want,” he said angrily.

      
“I could never love Amos Wells.” Her voice broke, and she bit down on her knuckle until she drew blood, trying to hold the confused, miserable tears at bay.

      
“Could you love me if I was rich, Rebekah? I could quit my job with Jenson and go back to fighting.” His voice was detached, flat.

      
Was he mocking her or was he so angry that he dared not let it show? She had hurt him, and suddenly Rebekah realized that hurting Rory Madigan upset her more than hurting anyone else in the world. “No! I don't ever want you to box again! You could be injured, even killed!” She threw her arms around his neck and held on to him, burying her head against his shoulder.

      
“I could make a lot of money boxing. I have before, only I had no reason to hang on to it then.” He stroked her silken hair and pulled her onto his lap. “After a few big fights, I'd have enough of a stake to come back and ask your da to let me court you properly.”

      
“No, Rory, please.” She sat back with her palms pressed against his chest. “I don't want to lose you. Those awful men who tried to drug you—there are others like that, aren't there? You might never come back.”

      
“But if I'm just a stable hand, your family will never accept me. Boxing is all I know—that and horses.”

      
“Surely in time Mr. Jenson will give you a better job. You said he was letting you work with his racers.” Her voice was hopeful now.

      
He scoffed. “Time is right. It could take years—and I'd still be Irish, a foreigner with no social standing, no family.”

      
“I'll wait for you, Rory. I'll wait forever before I marry anyone but—” She stopped abruptly. Her cheeks crimsoned, and her hand flew to her lips in embarrassment.

      
A crooked grin slashed across his face; and he winked at her, his earlier somber mood broken. She loved him, and she would have no other! It would all work out. “You'll not marry anyone but me.” He thumped his chest in boyish arrogance and pulled her into his arms. “And I'll not marry anyone but you—somehow I'll figure a way for us to wed, Rebekah.”

      
“But no boxing. Please promise me, Rory?” Her eyes were a fathomless dark green now.

      
He sighed in capitulation. “No boxing. And now, if you don't want me to ruin what's left of your reputation, we'd best eat this lunch before another hunger wins out, and my baser nature takes over.”

      
Rebekah scrambled off his lap, realizing that anyone could stroll by and catch them in such a compromising position. Opening the basket, she took out a cloth and spread it on the grass, then lifted out a covered dish filled with fried chicken, a jar of her mother's special pickles, and a bowl of Boston baked beans.