Conor's Way (24 page)

Olivia smiled up at him. "I appreciate it.
Thank you." She held up the cup in her hand. "I'll make breakfast
in a bit, but I thought you might want a cup of tea."

He set down the hammer and rose to his feet,
hunched over to keep his balance.

"Be careful," Olivia admonished.

"Not to worry," he answered. "I've no
intention of cracking my ribs again." He moved carefully along the
sloping roof to the ladder, then he climbed down. Olivia handed him
the cup of tea.

"Can I help you fix the roof, Mr. Conor?"
Carrie asked.

"Carrie," Olivia said before he could reply,
"you're not going up there."

"But, Mama—"

"No."

Conor noticed Carrie's crestfallen
expression. He smiled down at her. "I'll be needing some nails.
Might you be willin' to find me some?"

"You bet." She started toward the toolshed,
but Olivia put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

"Chores, first," she said firmly.

"But I want to help Mr. Conor. He said I
could." She turned to Conor for assistance. "You said I could,
didn't you?"

"Later," she said firmly, forestalling any
reply Conor might have made. "Those chickens won't feed
themselves."

"But I don't want to feed the chickens. I
want to help Mr. Conor."

"Now, young lady." She turned Carrie in the
direction of the barn. "And don't forget to bring the eggs in so I
can make breakfast."

Carrie gave a dejected sigh and looked up at
her. "You're no fun, Mama," she said sadly. "You're just no
fun."

Olivia wasn't impressed. She pointed to the
barn. "March."

Carrie walked away, feet dragging, shoulders
slumped.

A low chuckle behind her caused Olivia to
turn. "What are you laughing about?" she asked.

"I'm not sure if that lass will grow up to be
an actress or a confidence swindler."

Olivia didn't much like either option, but
she couldn't help smiling. "I know. I love that child, but she can
be quite a trial on occasion."

"I'll bet." He lifted his cup and took a
swallow of tea.

She studied the masculine hands wrapped
around the delicate porcelain cup, remembering the first nights
he'd spent in her home, and how those hands had lashed out in
violent dreams, smashing her china shepherdess and punching her
pillows. She remembered also the extraordinary feel of those hands
in her hair, spanning her waist, touching her lips, and she
wondered how a man's hands could be both strong enough to pound
another man's body in a boxing ring and yet gentle enough to make
her knees go weak when he touched her.

"It's going to take some time for me to fix
this roof, I'm thinking."

His voice startled Olivia out of her reverie,
and she realized she'd been staring. She lowered her head, glancing
at the tools and wood around her feet. "I see you found the
shingles."

He nodded and took another swallow of tea.
"In that old shed back there," he said, gesturing to the
dilapidated shack where Nate had kept all his tools.

Since Nate's death, Olivia hadn't gone poking
around in that old toolshed. There were rats in there, that was all
she knew, and it was enough to keep her out. "It's very nice of you
to do this," she murmured.

"As I said, it gives me something to do." He
swallowed the last of the tea and held the cup out to her.
"Besides, this will help me get back into fighting condition."

She took the cup from him and turned to walk
back into the house, feeling suddenly melancholy. She'd asked God
for help, and she had gotten what she'd asked for. Conor was fixing
her roof, and he was going to help her with her peach crop. He was
going to stay one more month. That ought to be enough.

But now it wasn't. Olivia felt ashamed of
herself for wanting more.

***

Hard work had its rewards. By late afternoon,
Conor knew he had to be the most pampered carpenter in Louisiana.
Becky brought him cool water from the well at least half a dozen
times; Miranda brought him some of Olivia's fresh-baked cookies;
Carrie brought him the nails he'd requested and hovered nearby for
the rest of the day, fetching any tool he might happen to need,
entertaining him with her lively chatter. If Conor had received
this much feminine attention back in Ireland, he might have
remained a carpenter for the rest of his life.

It was a hot, sultry summer day, and the
heavy clouds that began rolling in during the afternoon brought no
relief. He glanced up at the clouds, and he wiped another stream of
sweat from his brow, stared down the huge section of roof he'd just
finished patching, and figured it probably wouldn't be a very good
idea to start on another section today.

He glanced down at his pint-sized assistant.
Her calico dress stuck to her as if it had been glued on, and her
cheeks were flushed bright pink from the heat. He set down his
hammer and climbed down from the roof. "Carrie, my darlin', I think
it's time for a trip to that swimming hole."

"Yea!" Carrie dropped the can of nails and
grabbed his hand. "C'mon!"

"Wait a second, lass." He pointed to the can
of nails and its spilled contents. "Is that where those
belong?"

She bent down and scooped nails back into the
can, then set it on the edge of the porch. "Better?"

"It'll do for now. Let's go find your mother
and sisters."

Conor and Carrie found them in the kitchen,
and from the look of things, only Miranda would be able to
accompany them for a swim. Becky, wearing a blue silk dress, was
standing on a chair, and Olivia knelt on the floor beside her,
pinning up the hem. Miranda, seated at the kitchen table, was
munching cookies as she watched.

"Carrie and I decided it was just too hot to
do any more work." He glanced down at the child beside him. "Didn't
we, moppet?"

Carrie nodded. "Yep. We're goin'
swimming."

"Would you lasses care to come along?" Conor
asked.

"I'll go," Miranda said, sliding off her
chair; but Becky and Olivia both shook their heads.

"Not today," Becky told them. "Mama's making
over a dress for me."

"I see that. And a lovely one it is, too.
What's the occasion?"

Olivia pushed in another pin and glanced up
at him. "Every September, the town holds a harvest dance. It's been
done every year since the end of the war, and it's become something
of a tradition."

"Mama's going to wear her emerald-green silk,
aren't you, Mama?"

"Yes," she answered, and pushed in another
pin. "If I can narrow the skirt a bit."

"Emerald green?" Conor imagined seeing her in
some color besides the awful browns and grays she usually wore.
"I'd like to see that," he murmured softly. "That’s my favorite
color.”

“I suspect it’s every Irishman’s favorite
color,” Olivia countered with a touch of humor as she pushed in the
last pin and rose to her feet, giving Becky a pat on the shoulder.
"All done, honey," she told the girl.

Becky ran her hands down the sides of the
skirt. "Oh, Mama," she breathed. "I love it. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Come down from there, and
we'll make sure the hem's straight."

Becky jumped lightly down from the chair and
turned a slow pirouette. She came to a halt facing Conor, her blue
eyes shining.

"What do you think, Mr. Conor?"

He smiled at her. "You look beautiful."

She blushed prettily and ducked her head,
smoothing the blue silk. "Really?"

"Really. You'll have lads standing in line,
you will, indeed."

"Just one lad, I hope."

He shook his head. "Pity, that," he told her.
"My mother once told my sister Brigid that finding a husband was
like buying a bonnet."

Becky laughed at that. "A bonnet?"

He nodded. "She said you look around, you try
on a few, you don't buy the first one you see." He winked at her.
"Take your time, lass. That's a bit of my mother's advice for
you."

Olivia shot him a look of gratitude over her
sewing basket. "Becky, go on upstairs and change out of the dress
so we can get started on it. Mind the pins."

Becky went upstairs, and Conor took Carrie
and Miranda down to the swimming hole, leaving Olivia alone in the
kitchen. She picked up the tape measure, rolling it around in her
hand, and she silently blessed Conor for his bit of Irish
wisdom.

Becky was right. She wasn't a little girl,
and Olivia knew she couldn't make her daughter's choices for her
anymore. All she could do was hope Becky made the right choices for
herself.

The pounding of horses' hooves and the
rattling sound of a wagon floated through the open windows. Olivia
dropped the tape measure into the sewing basket and left the
kitchen. In the parlor, she pulled back a lace curtain at one of
the windows to see who was coming up the lane.

It was Oren Johnson in his wagon, driving his
team of grays at a speed that told her something was very wrong.
She ran to the front door and down the steps as Oren turned the
wagon into the gravel drive before the house and brought the team
to a stop.

"Olivia, thank the Lord you're here."

"What is it, Oren? What's happened?"

"It's Kate." He pushed back his hat, and she
could see the worry in his face. "The baby's coming."

"What? She's not due for a month."

"I know, but it's coming, and she's having a
hard time. Doc Morrison's over in Choudrant Parish until Sunday.
Measles outbreak over there. Can you come?"

"Of course. Let me get some things and tell
Becky. Sit tight for a second. I'll be right back."

Olivia turned and raced back up the steps.
"Becky!" she cried, heading for the kitchen. "Becky, come down
here, quick!"

She grabbed a basket out of the pantry. Into
it, she stuffed a handful of cotton batting, her medicine box, and
two towels. Becky came into the kitchen as she was grabbing her
hat.

"What is it, Mama? I thought I heard a wagon
in the drive."

"Kate Johnson's having her baby, and Doc
Morrison's away. I've got to go over there right now." Olivia
jammed her battered old hat on her head as she headed for the door.
"I don't know how long it's going to take, honey. Can you take care
of getting everybody supper?"

"Of course," Becky answered, following her
out the front door. "When will you be back?"

"I don't know. If it gets late, don't worry.
Just put the girls to bed for me, all right? And don't wait up for
me." She jumped up in the wagon beside Oren, and the wagon lurched
forward, moving out of the drive. "I'll be back as soon as I
can."

***

Becky stared down at the chessboard, trying
to figure out what her next move should be. Conor sat opposite her
at the kitchen table, and he could tell from her puzzled frown
that she didn't know what to do.

He didn't advise her. He had her trapped, but
he had also left her one way out. He wanted to wait and see if she
would figure it out for herself.

A roll of thunder sounded outside, and the
rain began to pour down. Conor settled back in his chair and
listened to the rain drum against the windows as he waited for
Becky to make her move.

"Mr. Conor?"

He looked across the table at her. "Hmm?"

"Do you really think finding a husband is
like buying a bonnet?"

He grinned. "I don't know, lass. I'm not in
the market for either."

She laughed. "All right, switch it around
then. Do you think finding a wife is like buying a hat?"

"I suppose it is, in a way. But being that
I'm not a marrying man, and I don't wear hats, it's hard to
say."

She studied him with her pretty, earnest
face. "Don't you ever want to marry? Have a family?"

He was saved from answering by another
voice.

"Becky?"

Both of them looked up to find Carrie
standing in the doorway, barefoot and in her nightgown.

Becky frowned at her. "Carrie, you're
supposed to be in bed. Mama said."

Her sister ignored that. "You better come
quick," she advised. "Miranda woke up."

"Oh, no!" Becky groaned, and jumped to her
feet. She ran out of the kitchen, leaving Conor staring after her
in puzzlement.

Obviously, he'd missed something. "What's
wrong with Miranda?"

"She doesn't like thunderstorms," Carrie
explained. "She's scared."

Conor rose and followed Becky upstairs,
Carrie beside him. He entered Miranda's bedroom right behind Becky
and found Miranda huddled next to Chester on the bed, making odd
little hiccupping sounds.

Becky ran to the bed and put an arm around
her sister. "It's okay, Mandy," she said with a hug. "It's
okay."

Conor could tell that Miranda was terrified.
He looked at her, a round little ball of frightened misery. Another
crack of thunder sounded, lightning flashed, and she buried her
face against Chester's thick fur with a whimper.

Something in that tiny, helpless sound sliced
through Conor's layers of protective armor and cynical
indifference in an instant. Without thinking, he crossed over to
the bed and reached over Becky's lap, plucking the frightened child
out of the sheets, oblivious to Chester's protective snarl.

Miranda immediately curled her arms around
his neck and heaved a little sob of relief, seeking comfort and
needing him to provide it. It had been a long time since anyone had
needed Conor Branigan, a long time since anyone had turned to him
for comfort. He froze. Now that he was in this situation, he
realized how completely inadequate he was to deal with it. He was
not a family man.

The thunder came again and Miranda snuggled
closer, clinging to him and trembling. He tightened his hold and
held her securely with one arm as he lifted his free hand to rub
her back in soothing circles.

"Well, now, what's this, mó paisté?" he
murmured into her hair. "You're not scared of a wee thunderstorm,
are you?"