Conor's Way (13 page)

***

During the days that followed, Olivia avoided
Conor as much as possible. The incident in her kitchen had been
embarrassing and awkward. But it didn't matter that she took such
great pains to avoid him. Her mind insisted upon reliving the
mortifying incident over and over, and every time she thought of
his smoky, half-closed eyes and his low, seductive voice, her knees
went stupidly weak.

It was her own fault. She should not have
touched him in such an intimate fashion. Looking back, she had no
idea what had possessed her, for she had been unable to stop
herself. It was as if Olivia Maitland, plain, God-fearing spinster,
had undergone an extraordinary transformation beneath that intense
blue gaze and become a sort of shameless Delilah.

Every time she thought of it, her acute
embarrassment came flooding back, along with an odd, breathless
excitement that she was certain could not be anything but wicked.
As a result, she kept her demeanor scrupulously stiff and formal
whenever she was around him.

One morning about a week after he'd gotten on
his feet again, Conor woke and went out to the kitchen to find her
and the girls on the back porch, giving Chester a bath. Buried to
the elbows in soap suds and trying to keep Chester from bolting out
of the washtub, she was too busy with her task to be embarrassed by
Conor's presence.

Sopping wet and looking pitiful, the dog
didn't even bother to growl at Conor—and surrounded by four
females, it didn't seem like the poor mutt had any chance for
escape. Conor leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb to watch,
feeling some measure of satisfaction that Chester was so
miserable.

"All right, girls," Olivia said, "let's rinse
him off. He's not going to like it, but we've got to have him nice
and clean in time for the party."

"My birthday party," Miranda added.

Conor watched as Olivia bent down to
Miranda's eye level. "That's right," she said, smiling at the
child. "But you know how Chester hates water. So you hang on to him
good and tight, okay?"

"Okay, Mama." Miranda dug her two small fists
into Chester's wet, soapy coat. "I've got him."

Conor grinned, watching her. Chester was
about twice her size. If he chose to make a run for it, wee Miranda
wouldn't have a prayer.

Olivia straightened and reached for the
bucket of water by her side. "All right, girls. Here we go. Hang on
to him."

Chester didn't give them the chance. As
Olivia raised the bucket over his head, the dog jumped out of the
tub, easily breaking free of the grip the three girls had on him.
In the process, he jostled Olivia's arm and sent a cascade of water
down the front of her dress.

Chester paused long enough to shake, sending
a spray of soap suds in every direction, then he took off, escaping
down the porch steps before anybody could grab him. The girls
immediately went after the dog, Olivia groaned in dismay, and Conor
burst out laughing. It hurt his ribs like hell, but he couldn't
stop it.

Olivia whirled around at the sound of his
laughter and studied him in some surprise. "Well, that's a sound I
never thought to hear," she murmured.

"What?"

"You laughing." She tossed aside the empty
bucket and brushed a wet strand of hair out of her eyes. "I was
beginning to wonder if you knew how."

"I know how." As he spoke, he realized he
couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed—really laughed, not
the cynical, mildly amused kind, but genuine, spontaneous
laughter. He knew it had been a long time ago.

His gaze lowered, and his smile faded. Her
dress, soaking wet, clung to her in a most provocative way, and he
took a moment to appreciate the shapely figure beneath the drab
brown dress, thinking about the way she'd touched him that morning
seven days ago, and wondering how he could get her to do it
again.

He looked into her face, watched her lips
part and her eyes grow wide, and knew she was thinking about that
morning, too. He took a step toward her, and she took a step back.
He saw that wary look come into her eyes again, a look that was
anything but encouraging. He took another step toward her just as a
laughing shriek rang out.

He glanced past her toward the yard, and what
he saw there caused him to grin again, forgetting her apprehension.
"You'd best get some fresh water," he advised. "You'll be needing
it, I'm thinking."

Olivia blinked, staring at him blankly.
"What?"

He pointed to the yard, and Olivia glanced
over her shoulder. Chester, his wet coat now caked with mud from
the dusty yard, had been pinned to the ground by the girls, but in
the process, he'd managed to make them as muddy as he was.

"We got him, Mama!" Miranda cried, releasing
her grip on the dog to wave at her mother with one mud-encrusted
arm. "We got him!"

Olivia groaned again, this time in
defeat.

But she wasn't defeated for long. She sent
the girls to the swimming hole with a basket of sandwiches, an easy
way to get the mud off of them.

As for Chester, she decided that she wasn't
going to let a dog get the better of her. She fetched fresh water
from the well and a length of rope from the barn. With a rope
fastened to his collar, that tethered him to the porch rail, there
was no escape for poor Chester, much to Conor's amusement.

"He doesn't much care for baths, does
he?"

She jumped back as Chester shook himself,
spraying her still-damp dress with another shower of water and
valiantly trying to slip free of the rope around his neck. "No,"
she answered. "He never has liked water. I think some farmer round
here tried to drown him when he was a pup." She glanced over at
Conor. "They do that sometimes, sad to say. When I found him, he
was hurt, and I figured some fox might have taken a nip or two at
him before he got away. I couldn't just leave him hurt like that,
so I brought him home."

That comment did not surprise Conor at all,
and he found that he and the dog had something in common.

When Olivia had finished bathing the dog, she
rubbed his thick wet coat with a towel to absorb most of the water,
but she had no intention of letting him go rolling around in the
dirt until he was completely dry. She untied the rope, grabbed him
firmly by the scruff, and led him into the house, where she finally
let him go. Freed from the torture at last, Chester raced out of
the kitchen.

"I think he's gone off to hide," Conor
commented from the doorway.

"He'll be back when the girls come home,"
Olivia answered, and turned toward the stove. "At least he'll be
out of my way while I bake a cake."

"So, it's wee Miranda's birthday today, is
it?"

Olivia nodded. "She's six today, and she's so
excited about it because this year she gets to go to school with
Becky and Carrie." As she spoke, Olivia opened the stove and began
stoking the coals. "We're giving her a party this afternoon."

Olivia fixed him breakfast, and as he ate, he
watched her mixing ingredients in a pan, reading aloud from the
dog-eared journal beside her. "Place over a low fire and stir until
thick, adding eggs one at a time," she murmured, and took the pot
over to the stove.

After a few moments, she paused in her
stirring and made a sound of vexation. "Would you mind taking a
peek at the recipe there, Mr. Branigan, and tell me how many eggs
I'm supposed to add?"

He didn't answer, and when she glanced over
her shoulder at him, she suddenly realized why. He was staring down
at the open journal on the table.

Olivia lifted the pot from the stove so the
pudding wouldn't burn and carried it with her to the table. He
pushed the journal toward her without looking up, and she glanced
down at the recipe. "Three eggs," she murmured absently, and
looked back at him. He was staring down at the table as if he
found it fascinating. "You can't read, can you?" she said
gently.

He kept his gaze fixed on the blue and white
plaid tablecloth. "No."

"And all this time I was bringing you books,
thinking it'd help pass the time. Why on earth didn't you tell
me?"

He didn't reply to that, but he didn't have
to. She knew the answer by the way he wouldn't look at her. Olivia
stared at his lowered head, and she realized again what a proud man
he was. "I could teach you to read, if you like," she offered,
trying to sound casual.

"No."

"It's not that difficult, really. You
could—"

"No."

"Mr. Branigan, there's no shame in not
knowing how to do something. The shame's in being afraid to
try."

"Afraid?" He lifted his head and his eyes
were suddenly dangerous. "Woman, you have no idea what I'm afraid
of, or what I'm ashamed of. So don't pretend that you do."

He glared at her, trying to stare her down
with all that cold defiance. It was a look she was beginning to
understand, a look meant to intimidate and keep people from getting
too close. She decided to ignore it.

"You know, my roof's in pretty poor shape,"
she said, and resumed stirring the pudding. "Been leaking for nigh
on two years now. A year ago, I sold two hogs and bought all the
materials so that Nate, my farmhand, could fix it for me; but he
died last summer, and the roof never got fixed. Now, I've got pans
and tin cans all over my attic floor to catch the water." She
sighed. "I know I ought to get up there and fix it myself, but I
just can't bring myself to do it. And I feel ashamed of myself for
being a coward."

He stared at her, clearly wondering what she
was rambling on about.

"You see, I'm scared of heights." She lifted
the spoon and watched vanilla pudding dribble slowly from it into
the pan. "Always have been. My mama said it was because my brother
Charles held me out over the rail on the upstairs veranda when I
was three. I don't remember that, but to this day, I can't bring
myself to walk on that veranda. Mama said he was only teasing, like
boys do, and he didn't know I was really scared or that I could've
been hurt. Of course, after my daddy fell off that ladder six years
back, I was even more afraid of heights. So I just can't get up the
nerve to fix that roof."

She dropped the spoon back in the pot and
looked at him. "We all have our fears, Mr. Branigan, and our
weaknesses, and things we're ashamed of."

She turned away, but she added softly, "But
if you ever decide you want to learn to read, you let me know. I'd
be happy to teach you."

"I won't be here that long."

Olivia set the pan on the stove, knowing that
what he said was true. A few weeks from now, he'd be gone. The
thought of his departure should have brought a feeling of relief.
It didn't, and Olivia truly didn't understand that at all.

Conor was not a family man. Birthday parties
for little girls were beyond his experience. When the girls
returned from their swim, and Olivia sent them upstairs to change
into dry clothes for the party, he decided it was a fine afternoon
for a walk, and disappeared out the back door.

Beyond the dusty yard and well-tended garden,
the mule and a very pregnant cow grazed in a pasture surrounded by
a wooden fence. A pitiful excuse for a fence, to be sure. It leaned
drunkenly inward, and a good many of the slats were broken. At the
end of the pasture stood a barn and chicken coop, their weathered
gray wood obvious beneath peeling red paint.

He could see several more outbuildings that
were in no better condition than the barn, flanked by deserted
cabins. Beyond the buildings, he could see an orchard of fruit
trees. With the exception of the garden and the orchard, everything
spoke of neglect.

Conor made it as far as the barn before his
body gave out. Feeling light-headed, he sank down into the
knee-high grass to rest for a moment, and leaned back against the
rough wood of the barn wall.

Weakness. He despised it. He thought of all
the times in his life when he'd been helpless, all the times he'd
vowed never to be helpless again; and yet, here he was, without the
strength to walk more than a few dozen yards. His fault.

The dizziness passed and Conor opened his
eyes, staring across the yard at the back porch of Olivia's house.
From this distance, he could see how it sagged in the middle, as if
ready to collapse. The house wasn't in much better shape, he
realized, his gaze traveling to the roof.

If the roof was leaking so badly that she had
tins all over her attic floor, it had to be fixed soon or the whole
thing was going to rot and cave in. Given Olivia's fear of heights,
he doubted she'd get around to it. People didn't face their fears,
they ran from them. He knew that better than anybody.

He thought of how she'd offered to teach him
to read. A nice, pointless offer. He didn't need words to bring
another man down in the ring. Besides, what he'd told her was true.
He wouldn't be here long enough to learn to read. In a few weeks
he'd be back on the road, free and far away from here.