Megan Chance (18 page)

He stared at the young man who stood, shining with pride, beside her. It could have been him standing there. It could have been him seeing that love in her eyes, who took her home that night and every night. It could have been him, laughing with her, touching her, watching her struggle awake in the morning and hearing her husky hello.

For a moment Conor imagined everything he'd dreamed of, all the bittersweet everythings he'd never had. Evan had been a fool to throw it all away. He had taken a young, sensitive girl and stripped her of her joy, her life. It was a crime Conor longed to avenge.

But it wasn't just Evan, he knew. Evan had started the process, but it had been Conor who had finished it, embellished it. She had trusted him once, and he'd not known what a treasure that trust was until it was gone. No wonder she watched him with such trepidation, as if she was waiting for him to make a mistake, to show her that he truly was the bastard he'd taught her he was.

Conor wrapped the picture again, clumsily retying the knot in his haste. Guilt filled his mouth with its sour taste. He hated this, hated it more than he ever imagined he would. There was something so obscene about pawing through her things, about wondering why she kept a dried rose in a satin-lined box and why the soft mohair scarf was stuffed away in cedar. They were her secrets, and he preferred letting her keep them. Someday someone would watch her pull them out one by one, someone would hear her whispered confessions in the dark.

It would not be him, and Conor regretted only that he would miss the chance. He would miss it because revenge came first. She would never tell him her secrets, and she would go on and find someone else. Someone to make her happy. He would go back to Chicago and think of her with regret, and sadness, but his need for vengeance would finally be appeased, and he would be satisfied.

Conor shoved the blanket back on top and slammed the trunk's lid down so hard, the floor jiggled.
Satisfied
. The word sounded so hollow; it held all the emptiness of promises kept because of obligation, not feeling. But promises were all he had now. Promises made to the living and the dead. They had taken on a life of their own, corrupting his, leading him until he felt he had no will, nothing left but obligation.

Thankfully, fulfilling obligations was something he did extraordinarily well.

S
ari's muscles ached as she struggled with the heavy Dutch oven. She was sore from this morning's washing, her arms felt ready to collapse, and the thin handle burned through the towel she'd wrapped around it.

Then suddenly Conor's hands were on the handle, lifting it away from her, swinging it with strong-shouldered ease onto the kitchen table. He glanced at her, his blue eyes dark and warm. She felt his tenderness sweeping over her. Sari couldn't help her smile.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded toward the table. "Sit down," he said gently, waiting until she slid into a chair before he took his own. "It smells good."

"
Ja
, it does,
Liebling
." Charles smiled.

Sari lifted the lid from the iron pot. The savory aroma of chicken soup floated in the air, the steam clouded the small window.

"Shall we read tonight?" Conor asked.

Sari's stomach clenched when she remembered the last time they'd read.

"No poetry for me." Charles shook his head. He took the bowl she handed him. "I meant to tell you, Roarke, you will have to fence without me this afternoon." His grizzled face broke into a wide grin. "Mrs. Landers has asked me to dinner tonight."

Sari's head jerked up. "Tonight? Why?"

"Perhaps she wants Charles to try a new cherry pie recipe," Conor teased, his eyes twinkling.

Charles nodded. "
Ja
, she did say something about pie."

"But,
Onkle
, you've said nothing of this before."

He shrugged. "You were not listening,
Liebling."

"But—" Sari swallowed her words. Conor was watching her speculatively, and she looked away, afraid that he would see the fear in her eyes. She didn't want to be alone with him. Not now. Not when she was feeling so weak. "Look at those clouds,
Onkle.
It looks like snow tonight."

Charles sipped his coffee. His gaze was teasing. "Sari does not like to be alone, Roarke. She is afraid."

Conor's smile was soft. "I'll be here to protect you, love."

Sari ignored Conor's comment, preferring to glare at her uncle. "Can you make it to Woodrow before the snow starts?"

"You'd better leave now," Conor noted.

Charles nodded. He finished the last of his soup and rose slowly from his chair. His pale blue eyes bored into Conor's, his bushy gray eyebrows came together in a single line. "I am entrusting you with her, Roarke," he said. "You will protect her?"

Conor nodded. "You've nothing to worry about." He got to his feet. "Let me help you harness the horses."

Charles leaned forward, kissing Sari gently on the forehead. "Do not worry,
Liebling
. Trust me when I say there is nothing to fear."

Nothing to fear
. Sari lowered her eyes, staring into her soup. How wonderful it would be if her uncle was right. To have nothing to fear—the idea was almost heady. Perhaps it could be true.

She looked up, meeting Conor's gaze. His eyes were dark with promise, his face taut with tension. Her ill-conceived hope died abruptly. She suppressed a strangled laugh. How little Charles knew about Conor Roarke, and protection, and unquenchable longing.

But she knew.

That night's supper was tense and silent, the clang of forks on tin plates obscenely loud. Sari tried to scoop up green beans, and potatoes as quietly as possible. But then all she heard were the sounds of her own swallowing, the grinding of her own teeth.

Unable to bear it another second, she set down her fork and picked up a piece of corn bread. The golden bread crumbled in her fingers and dropped onto her plate.

Conor looked up from his own meal. "Something bothering you, Sari?"

"If I told you what it was, would you help?"

"I don't know." His voice was soft. "Probably I couldn't."

Sari looked out the window wistfully, brushing off her fingers. She felt pensive and unsettled. Her fear was still with her, growing with Conor's every glance and movement, but now she knew she was more afraid of herself than she was of Conor. She was lying to herself if she thought she could control her feelings for him. In only a day those feelings had grown beyond good sense, beyond control. She'd wanted to shield herself from hurt, to take things slowly, but now even her memories weren't enough to protect her. If Conor left tomorrow, the pain would still be there—as devastating as it had been a year ago. It was long past time to resolve the anguish of the past, even if she refused to admit that she longed for a future.

She sighed. "I've been thinking about things."

He tensed. "Sari—"

"No," she said brusquely. "I want to tell you this." She took a deep breath. "Before—in Tamaqua—after Evan was arrested and I knew I'd have to leave, I thought about death. About Evan's death. About my own. About yours." She met his gaze steadily. "I was angry and hurt. I watched the papers every day, waiting for word. Waiting to find out who you really were. And then, when I did find out your name, I was sorry the sleepers hadn't gotten you." She looked away, staring into space, frowning as she remembered. "I hated you for fooling me, for taking advantage of my loneliness. Because you'd made me feel like I belonged, finally. To someone." A self-deprecating smile touched her lips. "Aunt and
Onkle
had been the only people in my life who loved me. Then suddenly there was you. But when I found out it had all been a lie ... well, then, I hated myself. For being stupid enough to fall for your tricks, for being naive enough to believe a man like you could care for me."

She didn't look at him, but she heard his half protest, the start of sound, and she rushed on, not wanting him to interrupt before she was finished. "And at that time I wanted to die, I wanted the sleepers to find me. I couldn't bear the thought that 1 had caused my husband's death. Oh, not just as if I'd stood back and watched it, though I did that too. But the thought that I made it happen, that I'd set the wheels in motion—"

"My God." Conor's voice was harsh. "Sari, we knew of Evan's involvement before we knew anything at all about you. You weren't to blame. You couldn't have stopped it."

"You don't know that."

"Bloody hell I don't know that." Conor said. "Evan was into the Mollies so deep, nothing could have saved him. Nothing you could have done would have changed that."

"I betrayed him."

"He betrayed himself." Conor's jaw was tight. "If it wasn't you, Sari, there would have been something else, someone else."

She looked at him warily, wanting to believe his words, not quite believing them. "You don't understand."

Conor leaned forward. His voice was icy. "If you say those words to me one more time, love, I will wring your pretty neck. If you need so badly to assign blame, assign it to me. I'm the one who betrayed them. You were only a tool I used."

She winced. The truth of the words hit her like a blow. "Just a tool?"

He regarded her carefully. His face softened, his eyes lost their icy edge. "No," he murmured. "God, no."

"Why should I believe you?"

The pain in her voice was almost more than he could bear. Conor closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, she was staring at him with no screens behind her eyes. And what he saw there frightened him.

His voice was raw as he spoke the lie. "You can trust me."

"I would like for that to be true," she said simply. She rose, stacking dishes and taking them to the washpan that filled the surface of the sideboard. "I want to trust you."

And in spite of the fact that those were the words he wanted, the ones he'd waited for, half of him felt sheer panic. He wanted to scream at her, to demand that she hold back, that she treat him with caution.

But the other half of him wanted her trust so badly it shocked him.

"I wanted to tell you—" Her back was to him now. "The point of my story was not that I wanted absolution. I wanted you to know how I felt when they attacked the farm. In spite of everything, I never really believed Michael would let them harm me. But I guess ..." She took a deep, sorrowful breath. "I guess I was right about my brother all along. I don't really know him at all."

Conor waited. For a moment he wondered if he was going to ask the question. "About Michael..."

"Michael has nothing to do with this, Conor," she said quickly. "I washed my hands of him a year ago, and I haven't seen him since." She turned to face him, lifting her chin in challenge. "I want to go on with my life. I want the past to stay the past."

She regarded him steadily, and Conor had the uncomfortable feeling that she was holding something back, that the emotions below those coffee-brown depths were emotions he wasn't ready for.

He looked out the window. "It's starting to snow."

Worry touched her voice. "I hope
Onkle
's made it into town by now."

"I'm sure he has. It's been hours since he left."

Their worry translated to silence. He heard the dry sifting of ice against the wooden door as the tiny flakes of snow drove against the soddy in the wind.

Conor pushed back his chair. "I'd better take care of the animals."

He slipped into his duster and stepped outside. He was immediately blanketed in the sharp shrieking of the wind. The windmill creaked and thumped at the assault. The clouds above were billowing and dark, and fine, hard-frozen crystals of ice pummeled his face, cutting his skin. Conor threw his arm over his face, grasping onto the rope tied to the corner of the house. Blizzards blew up suddenly in these parts, and it was wise to be careful even though he could still see. He looped it around his waist and tied it securely, and then went to herd the animals.

They were huddled outside the door to the barn, waiting patiently for someone to let them in. Conor's fingers were nearly frozen as he fumbled with the handle. He glanced over his shoulder at the house, wondering if Sari was watching him, wondering what she was thinking. Her revelations had startled him, and he found himself wanting to believe her. Hell, not just
wanting
to believe her. Believing her. She was being honest about Michael, he knew it, and while the thought filled him with dread and frustration, it also filled him with a strange sort of joy.

He remembered when he met her—how eagerly she'd grasped at his friendship, how shyly she'd pursued him. Suddenly Conor badly wanted to get back to the soddy, to find out more about her.

He fed and watered the animals quickly, but in those few minutes the storm had turned into a full-scale blizzard. He hoped Charles had made it, though he couldn't imagine Sari's uncle hadn't. Town was about two hours away, and the start of snow in these parts urged caution. No doubt Charles was waiting it out at Landers's cafe.

Conor drew back into the barn, pulling his collar more tightly about his throat before he curled his fingers around the rope and stepped back into the wind.

Thousands of tiny ice particles blasted his face. He closed his eyes against them and his eyelashes immediately froze together. He was blind; the piercing cold numbed his hands and feet immediately, the wind buffeted him as if he were weightless.

Conor pulled up the rope foot by painful foot, hardly able to breathe against the pressure of the wind. He reached up to peel open one eye, and the wind caught him off balance. He stumbled to his knees. He barely felt the rope in his hands as he pulled on it in an effort to right himself.

There was nothing but whiteness around him. His lungs were burning, his face was numb. Without the rope he would have been blown completely off course, lost and wandering on the prairie. He'd heard people talk about the blizzards, about how it was like walking in an eerie, blank void, but he'd never believed the tales before.