Conor's Way (16 page)

In her agitation, she wiped her hands on her
skirt instead of her apron. "I've tried three times. It's too
big."

Conor heard the desperation in her voice and
the hint of panic. He began rolling up his sleeves, glad that for
once he could make himself useful. He entered the stall and knelt
down beside her. "Move over," he ordered. "You're not strong
enough, lass. Let me do it."

She eyed him dubiously. "Do you know anything
about cattle?"

"Olivia, Irish butter is known to be the best
in the world. Where do you think we get it from? Chickens? I grew
up on a farm. Move over." He patted her hip, and she hastily
scooted sideways, almost as if his touch burned her. Another time,
he might have a go at finding out if it really did.

He glanced up at the girls, who stood
watching silently outside the stall, their expressions fearful.
"Becky, take the girls up to the house," he instructed. "Then bring
me some soap, water, and clean towels."

"Is Princess's baby going to die?" Miranda
asked.

"Not if I can help
it,
mó cailín
. Go
with Becky, now."

Becky took the other girls out of the barn.
Conor glanced at the calf's feet which were once again protruding
from the womb, due to the insistent pushing of its mother. "It's
breech, all right. And it's a big one. I'll have to turn it around.
Let's just hope it doesn't get stuck coming out."

"I've never birthed a cow before. Babies,
yes. Hogs, puppies, but this is my first time with a cow. What do
we do if it gets stuck?"

"I'll have to pull it out," he answered.

Becky returned with a crock of soap, a bucket
of hot water, and an armful of clean towels. "How is she?" the girl
asked as Olivia rose to take the items from her.

Conor looked up. "We're going to be out here
awhile, I'm thinking."

"You'll save the calf, Mr. Conor," Becky
said. "I know you will."

"I'll do my best."

Becky left the barn again, casting one last
glance over her shoulder before she departed. Olivia sank down into
the straw beside Conor, who was inside the cow up to his elbows.
"How can I help?" she asked.

He shook his head. "You can't, love."

The minutes went by. Olivia watched as Conor
worked to turn the calf around. He wasn't doing his cracked ribs
any good, and she knew he must be in pain, but he did not show
it.

By sheer strength, infinite patience, and
only one or two curses, Conor finally got the calf in the correct
position. With some strong tugging on his part, the newborn was
pulled from its mother's body and jumped to its feet.

Olivia looked at Conor with relief and
gratitude. "Thank you."

She leaned back against the side of the stall
and watched the calf take a step toward Conor to butt his head
against the man's hand with a soft moo.

"A hero," she murmured. "Who would have
thought?"

He shot her a wry glance. Pushing the calf
toward its mother, he fell back against the side of the stall
beside her. "Don't let it get around. I have my reputation as a
wicked sinner and prize bastard to think of."

She heard the defensiveness in those words.
She studied his hard profile for a moment. "I don't think you're
half as wicked as you pretend to be," she said softly.

"Aye, well, that's the thing about
pretending." Pushing himself to his knees, he reached for the
bucket of water then plunged in his arms elbow-deep to rinse off
the blood. "If you do it long enough, you make it the truth."

***

Olivia's words turned out to be prophetic.
Conor became a hero.

The girls were absolutely delighted by the
calf, but it was Conor who received their devoted attention for the
rest of the day. After a late breakfast, they insisted on taking
him all around the place. They showed him everything, from the
privy, which he'd already discovered on his own, to the swimming
hole, which he hadn't. They dragged him through the orchard, they
showed him how to slide down the haystack behind the barn. It felt
good to be on his feet, but by the time Olivia rang the dinner
bell, he was exhausted.

Olivia must have sensed it. After dinner, she
sent the girls out to clean the henhouse. "It'll keep them busy
until sundown."

"I'm glad to hear it." He eased back in his
chair. "They're lovely girls, all of them. But they're wearin' me
out."

She laughed as she set a basket of mending on
the kitchen table and sat down. "Already? It's only been half a
day."

"'Tis an injured man I am," he reminded her.
"I'm not up to this yet."

"Mmm." She threaded a needle and pulled a
skirt out of the basket, a skirt of faded gray. "I have a feeling
that won't make any difference."

"Probably not," he agreed. "They'll probably
have me climbing trees before the day's out."

She lifted her head and frowned at him. "You
do, and I'll have your hide. I didn't spend four days and nights
putting you back together so you could fall out of a tree a few
weeks later and crack your ribs all over again."

"Worried about me?"

She sniffed. "Not at all. I'm just tired of
trays and bedpans is all."

That was probably the truth. Now that he was
up and around, he could see how much work she had to do each and
every day, and he knew he'd only added to her burden. "I never have
said thank-you for what you did for me."

She began pulling the needle back and forth
through the fabric. "No need. Most folks would have done the
same."

Conor doubted it. Most people would have just
ridden on. But he was beginning to realize that Olivia's cloak of
propriety protected a very soft heart. He wasn't used to it, that
softness, he didn't trust it. The world was so full of hard knocks
and jagged edges.

He studied her with her head bent over her
sewing. Her hair was braided today, rolled at the back of her head,
and secured with a bow of green ribbon. He was glad she had taken
his words to heart and changed the way she wore her hair. The light
from the kitchen window behind her shot glimmers of red through
the delicate tendrils at her neck. Her hair fascinated him because
it looked so soft, as soft and thick and luxurious as sable.

"Why aren't you married?" he asked, then
wished he hadn't.

She paused in her sewing. "Didn't have much
of a chance," she answered without looking up. "My mama died when I
was fourteen, and it hit my daddy pretty hard. My brothers, too.
There..." She hesitated, then went on, "There wasn't time for
barbecues and parties and the like."

Conor got the feeling that she'd originally
started to say something else, but had changed her mind. He
wondered what.

"The war came when I was nineteen, and of
course, all the local boys joined up to fight," she went on.
"Nowadays, there aren't many men left round here. We lost so many,
and the ones that came home who didn't have wives already took a
look around, and decided things had to be better out West."

He could understand that. It sounded a lot
like Ireland after the famine. "Don't you ever think that,
Olivia?"

She looked up. "What? That things might be
better someplace else?" She shook her head. "No, never. This is my
home." She tilted her head to one side and her eyes softened
dreamily. "There's nothing prettier than the hills all green in the
spring, and nothing smells sweeter than wild honeysuckle in the
summertime. Besides, most folks who think things are better
someplace else are just running away from something, and they
usually find that whatever they're running from is still with 'em
when they get there."

Her words hit him like a punch. "You're a
wise woman, Olivia."

"No, Mr. Branigan. That's not wisdom. Just
common sense."

He studied her face, seeing the contentment
of her expression. 'Twas a rare gift indeed that she had. The
ability to be happy. He envied her that. God, how he envied her.
"Somehow, I don't think there's anything common about you," he
murmured.

"You must feel that way, too. I know you miss
Ireland, I can hear it in every word you speak. Don't you ever want
to go home?"

Want it
? Conor closed his eyes. He could see the mist rising over
Derry fields, every shade of gray and green. He could hear the
mournful melody of Irish whistles and
Uilleann
pipes. "Tis not a question
of wanting," he said dully, opening his eyes. "I can't go home." He
shook his head and looked down, frowning at his hands. "I can't
ever go home again."

***

That afternoon, Vernon received another
telegram from New York, this one far less patient and far more
demanding than its predecessor. He smothered a curse and glanced at
his wife, who sat in the chair beside him.

The shafts of sunlight through the lattice
wall of the gazebo formed a crisscross pattern on her apple-green
dress, but a frothy lace parasol shielded her face from the rays,
while the fan in one hand and the glass of cool lemonade by her
side helped her deal with the stifling heat she hated so much.
"Well?" Alicia asked. "What does it say?"

He forced himself to smile. "I think your
father misses you. He's insisting that we not postpone our annual
visit."

"How delightful. No doubt he wants to know
how this railroad you two dreamed up is coming along," she
answered, slanting him an innocent look.

"If that's the case," Vernon answered,
careful to keep his irritation from showing, "I don't see why he's
insisting on having me go all the way up there. He wants me to meet
with the investors, he says. It's such a waste of time, nothing but
shaking hands and making small talk. I can't afford to be away just
now."

"Well, I shall be grateful for the change of
scene. It's bad enough to be stuck here in this dull little
backwater, but to be forced to endure this heat passes all bounds.
I don't see why we can't live in New York anyway. At least then we
could go to Newport in the summer."

"You know why. Alicia, this isn't going to be
a backwater forever. I'm going to build a new Atlanta right here.
You just have to be patient."

He could tell she was not pacified by that
promise. His wife might look as luscious as a spoonful of whipped
cream, but Vernon knew she possessed the same iron will as her
father when it came to getting her own way. "It seems to me we've
had this talk before," she said. "Several times now."

The reminder that this railroad scheme was
already four years in the making made Vernon want to grind his
teeth. But he did not. Alicia was watching him, clearly expecting a
reply. "I know how much our annual trip to New York means to you,
and I know how much you miss your father," he said. "We'll go if
you want it so badly."

She smiled. "Thank you, darling. And I'll try
to be more patient."

He took her hand in his. "You've been
wonderful. I don't how you manage to put up with me."

"Because you are my husband, and I love you,"
she answered, a touch of warmth creeping into her voice. "We'll
leave in the morning."

She rose and left the gazebo. Vernon watched
her cross the expansive green lawn toward the antebellum mansion
her daddy's Yankee money had paid for, and he couldn't help
wondering what his wife really felt about him. It only mattered
because Hiram worshiped the ground his daughter walked on, and
Vernon knew if he didn't keep her happy, he'd be in a heap of
trouble.

He leaned back in his chair and stared down
at the telegram. Alicia was getting more impatient with each month
that passed. More important, so was her father. He knew this
waiting game with Olivia had to end soon.

An image of Olivia as a child flashed through
his mind. She'd always been a shy girl, and there had been times
when he'd actually felt sorry for her. He remembered the time her
cat had been caught in a fox trap, and how he'd helped her get it
out, and how she had looked up at him with worshipful gratitude in
her brown eyes.

He'd watched her grow up, and for a while,
he'd thought that maybe he'd marry her. She came from one of
Louisiana's oldest families; she could have given him the
respectability he craved. Samuel Maitland's money had made it all
even more appealing.

He'd wanted to court her; he'd offered to
marry her. And Samuel Maitland had laughed at him. Laughed. A
corrosive anger rose within him at the galling memory, burning away
any notions of being softhearted about Olivia.

Vernon scowled and crushed the telegram in
his hands into a ball. He now had all the wealth, respectability,
and power he'd ever wanted, and nothing was going to take those
things away from him, especially not memories of a time when he'd
had a stupid hankering for Samuel Maitland's daughter. That was all
in the past, he told himself firmly. Once he got back from New
York, he would do whatever he had to do to force her out.

***

While Conor spent the afternoon taking a
much-needed nap, and the girls cleaned the chicken coop, Olivia
took a walk through her orchard. She cleared away the fallen leaves
and rotting fruit from the half-dozen trees that were dying; but as
she worked, her mind was not on Vernon and his petty, obvious
schemes to intimidate her. Instead, another man, a man more
complicated and far more compelling, dominated her thoughts.

During their reading lesson that evening,
Olivia watched him out of the corner of her eye as she poured tea
for both of them. He was seated at the kitchen table, bent over the
slate, frowning with intense concentration. Dissatisfied with his
first awkward attempts at writing, he'd been practicing on that
slate for several hours, writing the alphabet over and over.

Olivia was surprised to discover that,
beneath his surface impudence, Conor was extremely disciplined, and
even was a perfectionist.