Megan Chance (34 page)

It was time to find Michael.

Time for it all to end, one way or another.

"I'll bury him," he said shortly. "And then I'll leave. But not for good, Sari. Not for good. I promise you that."

"Don't promise," she said. "Don't promise me anything."

She walked away.

I
t took him a day to dig the hole deep enough. The shovel rang against the frozen ground, he chipped at it little by little until it gave way. Rivulets of sweat rolled from Conor's temple down his cheeks, but he didn't pause. The grave had to be deep enough to keep Charles's body from the scavengers, and Conor would at least protect Charles more in death than he had in life.

He was constantly aware of the way she stood behind him. Standing, never sitting, never varying her posture or saying a word as she watched him dig. Now and then he would turn to look at her, and meet her blank eyes, see the way the wind whipped her hair. But she never batted it away, never moved.

By the time he finished, the sun was setting. Sari had washed her uncle's body and changed his clothes. The old man looked peaceful in death, and Conor remembered that he'd seen that peaceful, contented look on Charles's face before, many times. Charles Donaldson had been a man happy with his life. He'd known love as well as pain, happiness perhaps more than sorrow. Conor envied him that. It was probably a fallacy to believe that Charles's life hadn't held the torment his own had, but Conor wanted to believe it. It was suddenly terribly important that there be something redeemable about being alive, something that meant more than guilt and uncertainty.

He watched Sari as she knelt by the grave, one hand pressed against the soil. Her dark hair blew about her head, obscuring her face, but he saw the way her fingers clenched in grief and anger. He wished he could comfort her, but he could think of no gesture she would accept from him.

His heart felt heavy. Somehow, somehow he had to earn her forgiveness. God knew he couldn't walk away from her—not this time. He hadn't known much real happiness in his life, but what he had known had been with Sari, and now he prayed he hadn't destroyed it forever.

He cleared his throat and looked over at Sari. Her face was devoid of tears. Conor felt a swift stab of unbearable sadness. This was the Sari he knew, the one he remembered. She was so strong, and yet he knew she was strong from necessity, not from desire. No, there were no tears, but he knew she held a pool of them deep inside.

She turned back to the grave. Conor closed his eyes at her whispered "I love you. Rest in peace."

The words carried on the wind. Then Sari rose to face him. Her face was shuttered, her eyes empty.

"Thank you for burying him," she said quietly. "I couldn't have done it."

Conor followed her as she turned and went back to the house. He watched her careful step, the skirts that blew against her legs. "I'm going to go now," he said heavily. "You won't have to worry about protection. Michael won't be bothering you again."

"Why? Because you'll kill him?" she sneered. "You're such a hero. Get off my land."

Conor leaned the shovel against the wall. "I'm going to find him," he agreed. "Because it's time to resolve things, Sari. It's long past time. Not just for me, but for you too."

"I don't want you to do it for me," she said. "I don't want your kind of vengeance. Do it for yourself, if you want, but don't lie about it. At least don't lie. It's not for me, and it's not for the best, and you're as bad as he is. You and your 'eye for an eye.' " She laughed shortly, mirthlessly. "Get off my land."

"That's not what this is, not anymore."

She was silent, and he didn't wait, knowing she was too deep in her anger to care about what he said, knowing that she was looking for a chance to hurt him as badly as she hurt. But still there was something inside him that waited for her to stop him, to call him back as he made his way to his horse.

He stepped up to his horse, mounted slowly, and then couldn't keep himself from looking back at her. She stood quietly, waiting.

"I love you, Sari," he whispered. "I'll be back, whether you want me back or not."

His answer was the quiet sigh of the wind.

S
ari buried her face against the cow's side, pressing her eyes and her lips against the warmth to keep the tears from coming, taking some small comfort in the familiar routine. The farm didn't stop just because
Onkle
had died; time didn't stand still. The animals still needed to be fed and the cows milked. And as long as she did those things, she didn't have to think too hard. She didn't have to remember the sharp crack of Michael's gun or the sadness in his eyes afterward. She didn't have to remember her uncle's lifeless face or Conor's
"I love you."
They were things she didn't want to have to come to terms with, things she didn't want to understand.

She kept expecting to wake up and find this was all a dream. Any moment she expected to hear her uncle's footsteps, to hear the thick, guttural edge of his German-accented words.

Her heart ached. Sari longed to cover her ears, to muffle the ceaseless screaming of the wind. She imagined she heard her own sorrow in its keening cry. Her peace was gone. She was alone, with only the wind and the cows for company.

And it was all because of Conor. All because of Michael. All because of their blind, stupid hatred for each other, the vengeance neither of them could relinquish.

Elsa snorted and shifted, and Sari looked down into a full bucket of milk. The scent nauseated her, forcibly bringing back the memory of the milk pooling around her uncle, the thin red trail of blood....

Sari pushed back the stool and straightened, setting the milk aside. She stared up at the loft, at the makeshift room that had been Conor's home for the last few weeks, and rage swept through her. This time she embraced it. Sari snatched up her wool skirts and climbed the ladder.

She smelled his scent first. The musky, fresh-air- and-leather smell drifted to her subtly, twisting her heart and bringing tears again to her eyes. Sari dashed away the tears with the back of her hand. Damned if she would hurt over him now. Damned if she would remember the way he touched her, the gentleness of his words. Her foot snagged in the blankets of his makeshift bed, and she fell hard, landing facedown in the harsh, scratchy wool. Once again his scent filled her nostrils.

"Goddamn him!" She pushed herself up, shoving the blankets aside, kicking them over the edge of the loft to land with soft thumps on the floor below. He said he was coming back. If he did, she'd show him just how much he was welcome. She'd burn every damn thing he owned. She'd set a bonfire people would see in Julesburg. And when all his belongings had turned to ash, there would be nothing left in her heart either.

Sari sent the last of the blankets over the edge, then crawled to his saddlebags, huddled in the corner. The leather was supple with use, and heavy. She yanked them loose and shoved them across the floor.

She watched them fall with almost insane pleasure, heard the muffled shattering of glass when they hit the ground. Something had been inside them. She hoped it was something precious, something he treasured. Something that would help make up for the way he'd hurt her, for the way he'd left her life in ruins.

But the thought didn't have the power she wanted it to have, and there was nothing left to throw but straw. Sari stood on the edge of the loft, staring down at his crumpled bags, at the small mound of clothes, the scattered blankets, and waited to feel relief and satisfaction.

All she felt was lonely.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds of the barn and her own heavy breathing, and then she laughed bitterly to herself and went down the ladder. Conor's things were scattered over the dirt floor: a few shirts and a pair of pants, a razor and a leather strop. A bottle of bay rum lay broken, the scent reminded her so forcibly of him that Sari caught her breath. She bent down, gathering up the things in a pile, shoving them back into the saddlebags. Her fingers brushed something hard—a small leather folder—and she frowned and pulled it loose. Slowly, feeling a dread she didn't want to feel, she opened the portfolio.

It was a photograph, a portrait of a man. His face was thin and angular, and his sparse hair flew out around his head in defiance of gravity. There was a small smile on his face, as if he were trying very hard to be serious, but the laughter in his eyes belied any illusion of sobriety. He was clad in black, with a small white collar. A priest's collar.

Sari stared at the picture. It was Conor's father, Sean Roarke, and when she looked at that kindly face, those laughing eyes, she felt a wave of sadness, a crushing regret that he was dead, that his life had been taken in an act as meaningless as her uncle's death.

And she felt a sorrow for Conor that overshadowed her anger. She remembered asking Conor questions about his past, remembered the sweep of pain in his eyes when he mentioned his childhood. What had he said then?
"You don't miss what you never had."

But that had been a lie. He
had
missed things. Conor had no home, no family—nothing but the street, nothing but hunger and privation. She remembered how he'd told her his story, the steady, unemotional way he'd talked about his prostitute mother and the orphanage. So cold, so untouched.

And then she remembered the softness that had come over his face when he spoke of Sean Roarke. She'd seen something of the child he'd been then— a lonely child, lost and starving, too ill to steal, too alone to turn to anyone for help. Had he looked into other people's windows, as she had, wishing he belonged to the families that laughed and talked inside? Wishing the love shining from their eyes was shining on him?

The image was too real, too affecting. Sari swallowed back the tears welling in her throat. She knew what it felt like to be that alone, to lock up your heart and guard the key so zealously, you forgot to take it out now and again. She had never had to steal or starve, but there was a different kind of starvation, and until her parents had died, and she'd gone to live with her aunt and uncle, she'd known that deprivation. But then her life had changed.

Just as Conor's must have.

Sari started; the realization flooded over her. She knew what it felt like to be alone and then be wrapped in love so strong, you couldn't believe your good fortune. Hadn't she had that with Aunt Bernice and
Onkle
? She knew—too well she knew—how Conor must have felt when Sean Roarke took him in and gave him food for his body and his soul. The priest had given Conor his gentleness, had given him honor. Had given him love. Just as Charles and Bernice had done for her.

And now, at last, she understood Conor's need for revenge. When someone you loved was gone, and it was so stupid, so meaningless ... Sometimes all that was left was anger. It was a way of grieving, a way of never saying good-bye. As long as she held on to that anger, a part of Charles was still with her. The need for vengeance was only another name for it.

They were just alike, she and Conor. Both grabbing on to things so tightly, they couldn't let them go. Both letting anger take over because they were afraid of grief, of the permanence of letting go. Both terrified of being alone again.

And in spite of that, both alone—

The sound of wheels crunching on the icy ground startled her. For a moment she thought he was back, but then she heard a soft shout, a high-pitched "Yoo hoo! Sari! Charles! Are you home?"

It was Miriam. Sari brushed the tears from the corners of her eyes and shoved the framed photograph back into the saddlebags. She pushed them out of the way, beneath the ladder, and hurried out of the barn.

She met Miriam coming across the yard. Her friend held a large, bulging box, hastily tied together with string. Her cheeks and her nose were rosy from the cold. Behind her, John was climbing down from the buckboard.

"You are here!" Miriam rushed. Her skirts flapped around her legs; loose hair flew into her face as she hurried over. "I thought you'd be staying in town for a day or so after the dance, but Audra Landers said you all came rushing on home."

Sari smiled weakly. "Yes. Well... we should have stayed."

"Of course you should have. It's too long a drive to make so late at night."

"Miriam—" -

"And so cold. Why, a blizzard could have come right up and swallowed you all." She handed the box to Sari. "Audra sent this on over. She says she's sorry she didn't have it done before the dance."

"Miri—"

John Graham came striding up, rubbing his gloved hands together. "Where's Conor?"

Sari shifted the box to her hip. "He's gone," she said shortly.

"Gone?" Miriam frowned. "Into town, you mean?"

"I don't know," Sari said slowly. She took a deep breath. "We—we had an ... accident here."

Miriam went very still. John frowned. "An accident?" he asked carefully.

"
Onkle
is dead," Sari said. The words came out short and harsh and much too real.

The aftermath of her words was silence. Miriam paled; John stared at her in shock.

"Dead?" Miriam gasped finally. "But... but I just saw him. At the dance. He was smiling, and laughing."

"It was yesterday," Sari said. "He was ... cleaning his gun and... it went off." She swallowed at the heaviness of the lie and looked down at her feet. "We buried him this morning."

John swallowed. "Oh, good Lord."

"You aren't joking, are you?"

Sari shook her head. "I wish I were."

"Oh, my God. Oh, God." Miriam began to cry. She turned her face into John's chest. Her husband's expression was bleak, his eyes pooled with unshed tears. He wrapped his arms around his wife, holding her close, and the gesture sent a shaft of pain deep inside Sari; she felt a loneliness that seemed as big as the sky, as far-reaching as the plains.

"I am so sorry," John said. "I—I don't know what to say. He was a good man."

"Oh, yes." Miriam sobbed. "He was a wonderful man."

Sari motioned to the grave in the distance, the mound of rocks. "He's over there. If you'd like to pay your respects to him."