Broken Vows Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought of a sexual liaison with her was even more repugnant to Rory, than bedding the drunken gold-camp denizens was to the whores.
           He scooted the blonde from his lap and stood up, deciding on a breath of fresh air to clear his head. Elbowing his way through the press of sweaty, cursing men garbed in flannel and denim, he walked into the darkness of the street via a side door. Leaning against the brick wall, which was still warm from the day's blistering heat, he lit a cigar in the chill night air. Smoking was a rare and expensive extravagance he allowed himself only after winning a big purse.
           Taking a long drag on the pungent tobacco, he wondered idly how it might be to always have the best, to sleep on clean sheets every night and wake up with a beautiful, golden-haired lady at his side every morning. To make love to a woman he had not bought for the night.
           The rematch last night with Wharton must have addled his brains, even if the clumsy oaf had scarcely landed a punch. He chuckled to himself, recalling the surprised look on his opponent's face when January “accidentally” kicked over the water bucket just as the first round ended, then ran to refill it while the two men again toed the mark and continued to box. He had taken the Wellsville Wonder in only sixteen rounds this time.
           The purse was the biggest he had ever won, a thousand dollars. And he owed it all to Rebekah Sinclair. Rebekah, who was a minister's daughter, a lady as far above him as the stars. But that did not stop him from dreaming—or squandering his cut of the take on cheap women, whiskey, and cards. Spending money was easy to do at gold-camp prices. Such had become the cycle of his life since he had come west five years ago in search of his brother. Better I don’t think of that. Better I don’t think of Rebekah Sinclair either.
           But he could not stop himself. Ever since he had kissed her soft fingertips and looked into her green eyes with the gold specks floating in them, the memory of her had tormented him. With a muttered oath, he flicked away the last of the cigar and returned to the bright lights and noise inside the saloon.
     
    * * * *
     
           “Rory, mate, wake up. Bloody ‘ell, it's gonna take me a bleedin' month ta get you in shape again.” January's scarred, strong little fingers dug into the big Irishman's scalp, lifting his face from the pillow. “Wake up, bucko. It's past noon ‘n the lydies ”—he emphasized the word mockingly— “wants us out of 'ere.”
           Rory mumbled something unintelligible and rolled onto his back with one arm flung across his eyes to hold back the agonizing rays of brilliant sunlight pouring into the dingy little room. Not even the sooty window could sufficiently filter the glare to his bloodshot eyes. Lord, his head pounded worse than the base drum in a Salvation Army marching band.
           “I'm up, I'm up.” He rolled to the side of the bed and cradled his head in both hands as the wizened little black man scooped up his clothes and shoved them at him.
           “You 'ardly got any money left. Blimey, Madigan, ain't you ever gonna learn? Them blacklegs 'n whiskey morts pick you clean every time you win a purse,” the Cockney scolded.
           “What else is there for a fine Irish bucko like meself to be doin', January?” Rory's brogue returned only when he was drunk or angry. At the moment he hated the world, but most of all, he hated himself.
           “You could be puttin' a bit 'o yer stash away, like I'm doin'. Got me enough ta go back 'ome 'n start a fight club outside London, I does.”
           “Then why don't you be off, you little bugger?” Rory cocked one eyebrow, then winced at the stab of pain that lanced through his skull.
           January winked his good right eye. The other was glass. He had lost it in a boxing match against a man twice his size in