Free Broken Vows by Shirl Henke Page A

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 defense 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