Megan Chance Read online

  Eighteen pounds of meat a week Whiskey here to sell—

  Sari put her hand in his, curtsying in response to his bow. His fingers curled around hers, holding tightly. She felt the heat of his gaze brushing over her flushed face.

  The singing was off-key, discordant, but it rang with humor. Whistles and shouts emphasized the silly words. She tried to concentrate on the steps, tried not to think about how broad and strong Conor's shoulders were when she do-si-do'd past him and their bodies brushed. She tried not to see how tousled and vulnerable he looked with his brown hair falling into his eyes.

  How can the boys stay at home

  When the girls all look so well—

  When the girls all look so well.

  Sari stood back as Conor did the intricate steps of the first lines, laughing in spite of herself.

  "How's this?" He shouted above the singing, looking at Miriam. "This is what you get for that crack about Chicago."

  Miriam laughed and shook her head, continuing her light soprano. Conor turned back to Sari, motioning for her to join him again, and she tiptoed in, swinging her brown calico skirts. The room was warm, and thin trickles of perspiration gathered between her breasts. Her hair loosened, trailing across her cheeks, and Sari brushed it aside, ignoring it for the moment while she joined Conor's antics.

  "Oh, Conor, no!"

  "That's it, Sari, you tell him!"

  Amid the cheers and the jests, she pointed her toe, dragging up her skirt to show off her calves clad in black stockings, smiling with mock coquettishness at Conor, then pretending horror at the words.

  If I had a scolding wife

  I'd whip her sure as she's born—

  Sari stumbled backward, shaking with laughter at Conor's wagging finger. It felt good to laugh, good to feel the sweet enjoyment of simple fun. How long it had been.

  She had to admit it had been Conor who brought it to her. The last man in the world she could have believed could make her smile. Until the last few days, until this minute, she would have denied he any longer had the power to make her feel so good.

  She twined her arm in Conor's, swirling around him, her skirt catching on her legs. Her chignon slid to the side. He caught her at her waist, swinging her around in the dance. The touch of his hands on her body made her giddy.

  He leaned close. "I'd forgotten this."

  His whisper trembled through her, his breath fanned the loose tendrils of hair at her throat. Sari raised her head, staring at him, seeing the passion in his blue eyes. His hand curled at her waist, the touch shockingly intimate even though there was nothing overtly seductive in it, and in his eyes she saw a memory. The memory of that dance so long ago, when they'd first met. There had been desire then, before they'd even talked to each other. Yes, there had always been desire.

  The song ended, wild clapping followed. Conor's eyes and mouth crinkled in a smile, he made an exaggerated bow. "Thank you, thank you. But don't waste all your applause on me." He grabbed Sari's hand, pulling her against his side. "Don't forget to cheer my partner. She doesn't contribute much, I know—"

  Sari pulled away, playfully slapping his chest. Her hair was falling into her face and she wiped it away, along with the fine film of perspiration on her forehead.

  "You don't even look out of breath, Roarke!"

  Conor shrugged. "Charles's been making sure I'm not lazy."

  He grasped Sari's hand, linking his fingers through hers, and led her back to the chair as if nothing had happened.

  But she knew it had. As the other couples danced, Sari was overwhelmingly aware of how close Conor sat to her. She tried to ignore him, but the air between them was charged and heavy.

  She knew she was as guilty as he for letting it happen. God help her, but she wanted him badly. Even though she told herself she shouldn't, even as she tried to warn herself to beware, the sheer headiness of his presence made those warnings impossible to heed.

  She refused to look at him, even when he tapped her on the shoulder or tried to get her attendon with a slight press of his leg. She kept her eyes firmly trained on the party in front of her, singing as loudly as she could—as though sheer volume could make the longing go away.

  But by the time Miriam and Tom Johnson collapsed in a giggling heap on the floor, Sari was a bundle of nerves. The moment the singing stopped, she was on her feet, moving to the still uneaten pies on the sideboard.

  She pulled plates down from the shelf above the stove, busying herself with starting a pot of coffee and cutting wedges of pie. The children huddled around the table. Their high, tuneful voices were comforting—an oasis of innocence that helped ease the confusion of Conor's sexual aura. The voices of the other adults rose and fell behind her.

  "I haven't heard singing like that since I left Ohio," Tom Johnson joked. "Haven't missed it either."

  "Ohio?" Charles's voice was sharp with interest. "You are from there, then?"

  Sari turned in time to see Tom sit back in the rocking chair and light his pipe. "Sure am," he nodded. "From Youngstown."

  "Youngstown?" Charles leaned forward. Sari heard the interest in his voice with a touch of foreboding. "Sarilyn and I come from Pennsylvania."

  "Really?" Isabel's winged brows rose delightedly. "Why, then, we were practically neighbors. Where in Pennsylvania? I've been to Pittsburgh a few times."

  Sari's tension increased. She threw a glance at her uncle, silently begging him not to say anything, vainly telling herself there was nothing to fear. Perhaps the Molly Maguires weren't news outside of Pennsylvania. But if they were ... She didn't want to take the chance. Please, Onkle, she pleaded silently. Please say Philadelphia—

  "From the Blue Mountains," Charles said vaguely. "Near Reading."

  "Really?" Tom puffed, a cloud of smoke rose around his head. "Not the mining country?"

  Sari's heart fell. She felt her uncle's trepidation as clearly as her own. She could not bring herself to look at Conor.

  Charles nodded slowly, "Ja."

  "Oh, my goodness," Isabel put a hand to her mouth in mock concern. "Don't tell me you were there during that awful railroad scandal! Weren't they killing railroad men?" She frowned, looking to her husband. "What was the name of that group, Tom? The Milly something—"

  "The Molly Maguires." Tom filled in easily. His brown eyes lit with curiosity. "I suppose, coming from there, you knew all about it?"

  "Such a terrible job, working in a dark mine all day," Isabel commented quickly, rearranging her skirts as if she hadn't a care in the world. Her gaze was sharp with interest as she met Sari's eyes. "Didn't someone say your husband was a miner, Sari?"

  "He—he was—" Sari cleared her throat, but her voice still sounded stiff and harsh.

  "Oh, that's right!" Miriam piped up. "You worked for the railroads in Pennsylvania, didn't you, Conor? Why, you must have all kinds of stories to tell."

  Sari froze. She couldn't breathe, couldn't bear to glance to Charles or Conor. Here it was. All her careful lies were about to be revealed, and it was so easy. Just one innocent question, and the life she'd worked so hard to build was going to fall apart.

  "I'm afraid that all happened long after I left."

  His voice, sure and deep, surprised her. Sari's gaze jerked to his. His eyes swept her face; she saw soft reassurance, soothing comfort. Her fear eased, the constriction in her chest loosened.

  "You missed the most exciting time, then," John smiled. "What about you, Charles? Did you see any of it? Was your whole family there?"

  "Ja." Charles said gently. "Ja, we were there. It was a terrible time. A time I do not like to remember."

  Sari felt her uncle's sadness, mixing with her own bleak memories. But still there was relief—so intense, it made her breathing harsh. It was only a brief respite, she knew. The questions never ended. Someone would get too close, and the speculation would begin again. Sooner or later someone would find out the truth.

  And she would see those condemning eyes again.

  She cl
osed her eyes, turning her back to the crowd. Conor could so easily have told them. The horror of that realization made her swallow hard. He could make her life a living hell if he wanted to. A few choice words, and her newfound friends would ostracize her as surely as they had in Tamaqua.

  And yet he hadn't done it. Why hadn't he done it?

  The questions bombarded her, dizzying in their intensity. She'd told herself she'd try to trust him. But she knew that deep inside, she still expected his betrayal. She had not expected this support from him, this subtle care.

  She felt suffocated suddenly. The voices were too loud, crowding her, the laughter and shouting of the children pounded in her head. She had to get out, had to breathe, had to think.

  She glanced at her neighbors. They were talking animatedly. No one would notice if she slipped out for just a moment. There were blankets in Miriam's wagon, and they'd need them soon. She could go out just long enough to get them, long enough to get a breath of fresh air, to clear her mind.

  Sari eased to the door, grabbing her coat from the peg. Quickly she slid out into the frigid night air.

  She closed the door behind her and leaned against the sod wall, breathing deeply of the darkness. It felt so good here. Quiet and cold—a chill that seared her lungs and froze her nose. She tilted her head to stare at the sky. Here on the prairie, on the edge of the world, the night seemed close enough to touch. Sari felt as if she could reach up and snag one of the millions of stars that littered the dark sapphire blue like glitterdust—so thickly it was as if a fine film of

  them covered the sky. There were no snow clouds tonight. Only clouds of stars.

  Sari smiled slightly, but the beauty of the night was painful somehow. It tore at her heart, pulling at a void inside her. Even filling the emptiness with stars didn't ease that loneliness.

  She pulled her collar more closely about her. The feeling had been with her most of her life. She should be used to it by now. She was used to it. It was just that Conor's unexpected support had startled her. Now, suddenly, she was beginning to want things again. Things that only Conor had ever been able to give her. Laughter, friendship, desire ...

  But she remembered how quick he'd been to take them away before.

  Sari blinked back tears as she made her way to the Grahams' wagon. Her boots clomped on the frozen ground, alerting the animals corralled against the wall of the barn. There was no room inside for them, but their closeness would help keep them warm through the cold night. Two horses raised their heads to nicker a soft greeting as she approached.

  "Hello, boys," she murmured. She pressed against the buckboard, fumbling inside for the blankets. Their ears pricked as they watched her. "How're you doing? It's a pretty night, isn't it?" She felt for the blankets and found them, pulling them out, clutching them to her chest. "Yes, a pretty night," she breathed, turning back to the house.

  Crashing right into Conor's chest.

  His arms went around her, his fingers tightened on her forearms. "You're right, it is a pretty night," he said softly, his eyes glittering like the stars in the darkness. "How do you think we should celebrate it?"

  Chapter 11

  Sari's heart thundered in her ears. "What—what are you doing out here?"

  "I saw you leave," he said. "I didn't want you out here alone."

  Sari pulled away, her arms tightening around the blankets as if they were armor. His arms fell limply to his sides. "I imagine I'm safer alone than with you."

  "Probably."

  Sari swallowed. "I suppose I should thank you for what you did inside—for not telling them the truth."

  His slight smile was lit by the moonlight. "You're welcome."

  Sari licked her lips nervously. His stillness made her anxious. "I'm not sure why you did it, but I— I'm grateful to you."

  "You didn't answer my question," he said.

  Sari frowned in confusion. "Question?"

  He gestured to the sky. "How should we celebrate?"

  "I've nothing to celebrate," she said brusquely, stepping around him. "I should go back inside before they wonder what happened to me." She began walking, unexpectedly frightened of herself. Of him. Of what it meant to be alone with him in the frigid, beautiful night.

  He caught up to her easily, and she stopped. There was nowhere to run, nowhere she wanted to go. And suddenly she knew this moment was inevitable, as certain as day and night.

  Slowly she turned to face him, fighting the urge to shiver as she met his eyes. They were shadowed and dark in the moonlight, his face cast in planes of light and darkness. The breeze ruffled through his hair, pulling it back from his face to sculpt his jaw, the line of his nose, the full lower lip. He'd stepped after her so quickly, he'd left his coat behind. The wind billowed under the edge of his collarless shirt; she saw the shadowed darkness of the hair that began just above his collar bones.

  "Don't do this to me," she whispered.

  He said nothing. Simply reached out and took the hairpins from her chignon. Her hair fell in heavy strands, tumbling over her shoulders.

  "Sari," he said slowly. "My name is Conor Roarke. I'm not Jamie O'Brien, I'm not a cattle rustler. I'm not a Pinkerton man." He took a deep breath. "I'm just a man. A man who wants to kiss you."

  She stared at him, unable to move, unable to say anything. The raspiness of his voice made her feel like liquid inside. Sari was suddenly sure that her knees would not be able to hold her another second. She fought for enough breath to speak.

  "I—there's too much—" She couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't even finish it in her mind. Because when she looked at him, she no longer saw Jamie O'Brien. She no longer saw pain and blood and sacrifice. She saw a different man, a man who cared enough to reassure her on a bitter winter's night. She could no longer even think of him as Jamie O'Brien, and the longing she felt had nothing to do with the past, but only with the man who stood waiting in front of her. Only with Conor Roarke.

  Sari retreated, but two steps brought her up against the wall of the barn. Her breath caught in her throat.

  He stepped toward her, stopping only when his hips were pressed against hers, through her heavy coat. Slowly, carefully, he pried her fingers loose from the blankets and let them fall in a soft rumple of sound to their feet. One by one he unfastened the buttons of her coat, and when they were all unfastened, his hands slipped inside, curving around her waist, pulling her closer still.

  "I hate you," she said quietly, but the words were more for herself than for him, a final warning, a useless reminder.

  He lowered his head, his lips nearly brushing hers. She couldn't see his eyes, only the soft, short lashes resting on his cheeks.

  "Ah, love," he whispered, and she heard the softness of self-mockery tainting his words. "I hate you too."

  She told herself to struggle. Just a little bit. But she couldn't. Her bones were without strength as she melted against him. His leg pressed between hers and she felt his hipbone against her stomach; his strong hands sent shivers of pleasure over her skin. She had no power to resist him, there was nothing else but the feel of his body, the warm, compelling need.

  Sari was lost, falling into the chasm of Conor's eyes and mouth, giving way to his hands. Oh, she had been right to be afraid. Because now she knew there was nothing she wouldn't give him, nothing that wasn't his for the asking.

  The stars were blanketing them. Sari imagined she saw them touching his hair, lighting his cheeks. Her skin felt raw, her breath rasped in her throat. There was nothing but the feel of him, the press of his body against hers, the taste of him, of coffee and salt, the bay-rum taste of his lips.

  He pressed her farther into the sod bricks of the barn. His heartbeat pounded against her breasts, his hands tightened on her waist. She felt the press of his tongue against her lips, urging them farther apart, stealing inside, stroking, caressing as his hands moved up her body, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings of her bodice—

  She twisted away, her hands came up against his
shoulders. "No," she breathed. "Conor .. . no."

  He stiffened against her. She felt his withdrawal even though he didn't move away, caught the glitter of his eyes in the starlight.

  "Sari—" he said.

  "I... can't do this," she said, looking away, past him. "Not yet. Not... now."

  He sighed. His hands left her, he stepped back. Her body, the air around her, was suddenly freezing.

  "Is it Jamie?" he asked in a low voice. "Has he come between us?"

  She laughed sadly. "He's always been between us." She hugged herself tightly. "But that's not it. Not tonight. I just... I want to trust you, Conor. I do. I'm trying. I just need ... more time."

  "More time," he repeated thoughtfully. Then he nodded. "All right,” he said. He looked at her, and she saw something in the darkness of his eyes—concern, caring, a tenderness that made her warm again, that filled the hollow places in her heart.

  "I've missed you, love," he whispered.

  Sari touched his cheek. "I've missed you too."

  Sari tried not to look at him for the rest of the evening, but it was impossible. He was everywhere—his voice, his laughter, his smell. Oh, especially his smell. She was sure everyone knew that she and Conor had been kissing. Her skin smelled of his inimitable scent of bay rum and musk, she felt burned on her throat where his stubbly jaw had scraped her. How could they not know?

  But they didn't seem to. Her guests laughed and talked and played a game of charades that kept getting interrupted by arguments and jokes. It was almost as if her and Conor's absence hadn't even been noticed. Except by Charles. Sari avoided her uncle's thoughtful gaze almost as studiously as she avoided Conor's.

  Sari shifted in her seat. It was all she could do to keep from climbing to the loft and burying herself beneath a mound of quilts and darkness. She needed time to be alone, to think. Her mind whirled with images, with feelings she couldn't separate long enough to identify.