Conor's Way (4 page)

"Mornin'."

He turned his head at the sound. Seated in
the chair near his bed was a little girl of about nine, her short
legs dangling over the edge of the seat. She kicked them idly back
and forth as her blue eyes watched him.

Conor licked his dry lips, a movement that
made his jaw throb. "Hullo," he answered, his voice cracking on the
word. God, he was thirsty.

The girl continued to study him as if he were
some strange and curious insect. "Why do you shout so much?"

"Shout?" Dazed and groggy, he tried to
understand what she was talking about.

"All the time. We can hear you through the
windows." She frowned accusingly. "You keep us awake at
night."

Conor suddenly realized what she meant. He
was dismayed that this little girl had overheard him in the throes
of his nightmares. God only knew what he'd been saying. "I must
have been dreaming."

Her frown disappeared, and she nodded with
understanding. "Nightmares. I have those, too. Don't worry. Mama
says you don't have to be scared of nightmares 'cause they aren't
real."

The girl's mama didn't know what she was
talking about. His nightmares were very real indeed. "How long have
I been here?" he asked.

"About three days, I reckon."

"Three days?" He stared at her in
astonishment, unable to remember anything about the past three
days.

The girl tilted her head thoughtfully.
"What's 'wanker' mean?"

"What?" Startled by the question, he wondered
what other choice epithets he'd blistered this wee one's ears with.
"A lass your age shouldn't know such words as that, I'm
thinking."

"It's a bad word, isn't it?" She was
obviously delighted. "I've never heard that one before."

The comment was so outrageous, he couldn't
help grinning, but acute pain shot along his jaw, and his grin
disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"I'm Carrie," she went on. "Who are you?"

"Conor."

"Who were you shouting at in your dreams?"
she asked.

He turned his head and stared at the ceiling.
He closed his eyes and thought briefly of prison guards and British
landlords. "No one important."

"You called them all sorts of names."

He tried to deny it. "I never did."

"Yessir. You said they were bloody bas—"

"Carrie!" A female voice caused Conor to lift
his head, more slowly this time, and he recognized the woman with
the wagon. "That will be quite enough," she told the child. "You
know I told you not to come in here."

"But I wanted to see him, Mama."

"Breakfast is ready. Go on out to the
kitchen."

"But—"

"Out," the woman ordered, pointing to the
open doorway behind her.

Carrie gave an aggrieved sigh. "Yes, ma'am."
She slid off the chair. "Good-bye, Mr. Conor."

Giving him a wave of farewell, she walked to
the door. "I just wanted to have a look," she added in an injured
tone, and left the room.

The woman began walking toward him, and Conor
studied her as she approached. The first thing that struck him was
her drabness. Her dress was brown, the color of muddy water, and
buttoned up to her chin. Her hair was brown and curled in a simple
bun at the base of her neck. She reminded him of a plain brown
moth.

But when she halted beside the bed and he got
a good look at her face, he found himself revising his opinion. Her
eyes were brown, too, so dark and soft, they reminded him of
chocolate, and were surrounded by thick, absurdly long lashes. She
had fine-textured skin the color of fresh cream. And there were
tiny lines at the corners of her eyes that told him she was a woman
who smiled often. But she did not smile at him.

"I'm Olivia Maitland," she said.

"Conor Branigan," he returned, wishing she'd
give him something to drink. He was so thirsty.

"Well, Mr. Branigan, you've caused quite a
stir round here." A slight frown marred her forehead. "I hope your
vocabulary isn't quite so colorful when you're awake."

The prim disapproval in her voice was
tempered by her soft, drawling accent. Nonetheless, it grated on
him, making him feel defensive. He put on his mask and smiled at
her, even though that smile made his jaw hurt like hell. "’Tis
indeed," he said with practiced carelessness. "I curse and shout
all the time, don't you know."

She looked as if she believed him. "I won't
have such language in front of my girls," she said, leaning closer
to press a hand to his forehead.

Her skin felt deliciously cool against his.
He caught the scent of vanilla and cloves on her hand, and he felt
the sharp pang of hunger again. "Remind me of that next time I'm
asleep, and I'll try to restrain myself."

She had the grace to blush, an action which
softened the sternness of her frown and quite spoiled the effect.
"You still have a fever," she said and drew her hand away. "You
also have several cracked ribs and some severe bruises. Whoever
beat you up did a mighty fine job of it." She gazed at him
steadily, as if expecting an explanation.

He had no intention of giving her one. "Where
are my clothes?"

"In my rag bag. What's left of them,
anyway."

She saw his puzzled frown, and her blush
deepened. "I had to cut them off of you," she said and turned to
the table beside his bed. "I couldn't get them off any other
way."

This woman had undressed him. An interesting
notion, he thought, his gaze skimming the profile of her body,
pausing for a thorough study of each feminine curve along the way.
Not that there was much to see. The high collar and long sleeves of
her dress revealed little, but he noticed a small waist and
generous hips, and he felt a pang of regret. Too bad he'd been
unconscious at the time.

She lifted a rag out of the bucket of water
on the table and wrung it out, then turned back around and dabbed
his cheeks with it. He licked his dry lips, savoring the feel of
the cool water on his face. "What about my pack?"

She paused. "I didn't find anything with you.
Except some money." She waved the rag toward the washstand across
the room. "I put it over there."

He'd left his pack in the tent, he
remembered. Damn. There was a bottle of good Irish whiskey in
there, and he could have used it now. He glanced up at the woman
and wondered if she might have a wee drop in the house, but he
instantly rejected that idea. Women like her didn't drink, or if
they did, they didn't admit it.

The woman leaned over the bed again and
pressed the wet rag to his forehead. "I've wrapped your ribs," she
said. "But it will take about six weeks for them to heal. I think
you might also have some internal bleeding. Do you have any family
I should notify about your injuries?"

He closed his eyes. "No," he said flatly. "No
family at all."

She straightened and dropped the rag back in
the bucket. "I'll bring you some tea for the fever."

Tea sounded ... acceptable. He watched her
remove the bucket from the table and set it on the floor. Then she
left the room, returning several moments later carrying a tray. On
the tray were a chipped china teapot that had obviously seen better
days, a matching cup, and a flat tin pan. She set the tray on the
table, then picked up the pan and set it on the floor beside his
bed. "If you need to relieve yourself," she explained.

She picked up the cup and stepped closer to
the bed. Blowing into the cup to cool the tea, she stared down at
him over the rim, her eyes studying him without revealing her
conclusions.

After a moment, she tested the temperature
with the tip of her finger, nodded as if satisfied, and bent over
him. "Drink as much as you can."

He lifted his head slowly, gritting his teeth
against the pain, and her free hand curved behind his neck to
provide additional support as she pressed the cup to his lips. He
inhaled and felt his insides twist at the noxious smell. He pulled
back slightly. "Jaysus, what sort o'tay is this?"

"Please, don't swear, Mr. Branigan. It's
willow bark tea, and you've had plenty of it over the last few
days. It's for the fever."

"Hell with the fever," he muttered, staring
with distaste at the cup beneath his nose and the pale green
liquid within. "This stuff will kill me."

"I know it smells bad. It tastes worse. But
it helps with the pain and keeps your fever down."

He shot her a doubtful
glance, but he allowed her to tip some of the tea into his mouth.
He swallowed until nearly half the foul stuff was gone. She was
right, it tasted even worse than it smelled. But the simple act of
swallowing also hurt his ribs, and keeping his head up made him
dizzy. His head began to throb and his stomach clenched. He was
going to throw up.
Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph
.

He gagged, and the tea came right back up,
all over her hand, the cup, and himself. Almost violently, he
pushed her hand away, then sank back into the pillows and wiped one
hand across his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed his
stomach to stop retching. God, he hated this—the weakness, the
humiliation, the utter helplessness of it. "Told you so," he
croaked.

He felt the woman slide her other hand from
behind his head to smooth back the hair from his forehead. "You're
not going to die, Mr. Branigan," she said in the gentlest tone he'd
heard her use. "You're too ornery for that."

Conor Branigan's fever broke late that night,
a fact for which Olivia said a grateful prayer. He fell into a
dreamless slumber, and she was able to catch a few hours of
uninterrupted sleep herself before dawn.

She rose at sunrise, washed and dressed, then
started breakfast. When she looked in on him again, he was still
sleeping peacefully. After waking the girls, she left Becky in
charge of getting the younger ones up, then went out to do the
morning chores.

When Olivia returned to the kitchen, the
girls were already there. Becky had finished making breakfast for
her, and all three girls were seated at the table. Chester lay on
the floor, waiting for any stray scraps one of them might sneak to
him under the table. Olivia set the pail of eggs she'd gathered
from the henhouse on the wooden counter and washed her hands, then
ladled a bowl of cornmeal mush from the pot on the stove.

"How is Mr. Branigan, Mama?" Becky asked.

"He's much better," she answered and sat down
at the table. "His fever's broken."

"Is he the one who's goin' to stay and help
us like Nate used to?" Miranda asked.

"No." Olivia was dismayed by the very
thought. "He certainly is not."

"Where do you suppose he got all those
scars?" Becky asked.

"I don't know," Olivia answered, and wasn't
sure she wanted to find out.

"Well, I like him," Carrie said. "It's fun to
watch him while he's asleep. Can I go see him after breakfast,
Mama?"

"No," she answered sharply. "I've told you
not to go into his room."

"Why not?"

"Because he has a filthy tongue and a vile
temperament. I want you to stay away from him." She glanced at
Miranda. "You, too. Is that clear?"

They nodded and fell silent. Olivia returned
her attention to her breakfast, relieved to let the subject of
Conor Branigan drop. She stared down at her bowl, thinking about
the day ahead. Now that the man was doing better, Olivia knew she
had to make another trip into town.

She had chickens and hogs, so she never
lacked for meat, and her own garden provided more than enough
vegetables; but there were many necessities she just couldn't get
anywhere but the mercantile. She was nearly out of flour and
cornmeal, and molasses was running low.

This time, she would take with her all the
fresh eggs and three dozen jars of the spiced peaches she'd put up
last fall. If Stan Miller would no longer let her buy on credit,
she might be able to barter for what she needed to see them through
until harvest.

Olivia felt a sudden burst of anger. Vernon
owned the store, and she knew Stan was following his orders. It was
standard practice to give credit until the harvest, and she knew
what Vernon was doing. Just one more way to make things harder, one
more way to break her down and persuade her to sell her land.
Olivia set her jaw stubbornly. It wasn't going to work.

"Can I go out and play, Mama?"

Miranda's voice broke into her thoughts, and
Olivia looked up. She glanced at the child's bowl. "You haven't
finished your mush."

The girl made a face that clearly said why.
Olivia couldn't help smiling at the sight of Miranda's round face
scrunched into a ridiculous expression of distaste.

Olivia glanced at Becky and Carrie and
noticed their bowls were also half full. Her smile faded. She
wanted to give her girls so much more than mush for breakfast and
made-over dresses and hard work. She thought of her own childhood,
of all the things taken for granted, of the security that came with
money. It was a life her girls had never known, and probably never
would. But love counted for a lot, and no one could love these
girls more than she did.