Megan Chance Page 2

  "We had to take some chances." Conor said. "We decided you needed protection. Immediately."

  "We? Who is 'we'? Pinkerton?" When he didn't deny the accusation, she went on. "Once again you've pushed in where you don't belong. I don't need your protection. I don't want it."

  Charles frowned. "Liebling... Perhaps you should listen to him—"

  Sari turned to her uncle. "Listen to him? This man's never once told the truth—at least not to me. Why should I listen to him? Why should I believe him?"

  "You can't really think I want you in danger." Conor's voice was so quiet, it cut the soul from her anger.

  She stared at him. What did she think, really? What did she know of this man? For the first time since he'd arrived, she looked at him. He was Jamie O'Brien and yet he wasn't. The same brown hair curled against his collar, he had the same blue eyes, and in the soft illumination of the oil lamp on the table, Sari was once again struck by how ordinary he looked. Attractive, yes—she knew the shoulders beneath that duster were broad and well defined, knew his strength and the smooth warmth of his skin. But he didn't stand out in a crowd, didn't overwhelm a woman with his looks. He was the perfect man for Pinkerton—quiet, unobtrusive, unnoticeable. A man who could be anyone.

  Sari stiffened. "I'm not a fool. What is it you really want? You're not here because you care about me."

  "That's where you're wrong, Sari," he said, and the way his tongue eased over her name, the smooth molasses feel of it, brought a lump to her throat. As if he sensed it, he went on, saying it again, warmly. "Sari, it's important to us—to me—to keep you safe."

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't want you here. If the sleepers decide to kill me, they will, whether you guard me or not. You know that's true."

  "Liebling..." Charles pleaded.

  Conor cleared his throat. "I'm sorry you're angry. God knows you have reason to be. But I want you to know ... I'm sorry about Evan."

  Another lie. She flinched. "I can't imagine why you think I'd want to hear that from you."

  He met her gaze evenly. "Nevertheless I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

  The sudden, blank admission startled her, even though she knew it was a lie. Oh, he was good. So good, he could lie and almost believe it himself. Without thinking she stared at him, feeling the full power of his apology. And for a moment his eyes captivated her. If his hair had been a few shades darker, his eyes would have been startling in contrast. As it was, they were just blue. Plain blue. Too well, she could remember how they warmed to tenderness or sparked with teasing. She remembered how they darkened with passion.

  And she remembered how expressionless they'd been at Evan's trial. Sari shivered, not wanting to think about any of this and yet unable to stop. It angered her that he could rile her so easily, that he could make her feel anything at all. She looked up at him, steeling herself to look into his eyes. Plain blue, indeed. The bastard, he knew just what to do, how to read her. She threw a pleading glance at her uncle.

  Charles nodded. "I think you should leave, Roarke," he said.

  Conor frowned. "You'd send me to the prairies in this weather?"

  Sari smiled coldly. "I'd send you to hell if I thought you would stay there."

  Sari pulled the quilt up around her shoulders, staring at the sod-and-cotton ceiling, listening to the wind screaming around the sturdy little house. This late at night there was no light in the loft; she could barely make out the bags of dried corn and meal and sacks of flour that lined her walls. The sweet smell of dried cakes of fruit and preserves mixed with the earthy must of dirt and spicy sausage.

  Normally the smell of the loft comforted her. Tonight it was almost suffocating. The sound of the wind wouldn't let her sleep. She kept thinking of him, wondering if he was out there.

  It didn't matter, she told herself. She didn't care. He could freeze. He could turn into a statue of wind-whipped ice for all she cared.

  But there it was. She did care, and that alone bothered her.

  She had spent the last months trying to forget him. Trying to forget Jamie O'Brien and his brash self-confidence and too-honest eyes. And now here he was again. The same Jamie, yet... not the same. More a stranger than he should be. She didn't know this man without the Irish brogue. Jamie O'Brien had been always smiling, always talking. Jamie O'Brien she'd trusted, even when it was a mistake to do so. But this man....

  Conor Roarke wasn't the man she'd known, but he wasn't that different either. She knew his charm too well, knew how it sneaked up on a woman and worked its magic before she had a chance to combat it

  Sari twisted on the bed. The corn-husk mattress whispered beneath her weight. He's a con man, a liar. You can't forget that.

  You must not forgive.

  Sari felt the pain again, as real as a fist thudding into her abdomen. She had been in love with him once. She had betrayed her marriage vows and her husband and had succumbed to Jamie O'Brien's flirtatious ways and tender words. They had been a balm to her spirit after so many years of Evan's neglect, and she had basked in it, had imagined shining futures full of hope ...

  Then it had all come crashing around her.

  At the heart of it she blamed her husband—and her brother. Both had been members of the Molly Maguires—a secret miner's group formed to fight for miners' rights. It had been innocent enough at first— a few meetings and loud talk, nothing more. But then their methods had grown increasingly violent, their fanaticism hard to ignore.

  It was after they'd bombed the railroad that the Pinkerton agency came in. Jamie O'Brien had been their spy, and he had infiltrated the group, pretended to be one of them, and brought them down. When his investigation was over, nineteen men were dead—including her husband.

  Sari stared up at the darkness, living the nightmare over again in her mind, seeing those nineteen men walk to the gallows.

  It was why she couldn't let Conor stay. If he was telling the truth about her being blackmarked, she would have to face her brother and his friends alone. She had always expected retribution for her betrayal—and if God meant for her to die that way, at least it would be quick.

  It wouldn't leave her lingering with a heart that beat but didn't feel, a slow anguish that haunted her days and nights. Unlike Conor Roarke, the Mollies would only take her life.

  Not her soul.

  Damn, it was cold.

  Conor huddled against the trunk of the lone Cottonwood, pulling up the soft leather of his collar and burying his face in it. His horse stood nearby, head lowered, but the gelding was sorry shelter from the merciless buffeting of the wind and the icy fingers that reached into every unprotected slit of his clothing.

  Conor eyed the ground, wishing he could burrow into the soil like the prairie dogs whose homes dotted the fields. How warm it would be with the dirt and grass blocking the wind. Like the soddy.

  He cursed, shoving his freezing hands beneath his armpits. Damn her for her stubborn anger. The last thing he'd expected—the very last thing—was to be shoved out into the prairie night like some wandering cow. Hell, even the cows had a barn to protect them against this incessant wind. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the shadow of the soddy in the clear darkness, imagining its warmth.

  He'd made a mess of things. He'd let his emotions get the better of him, which was exactly what William Pinkerton had told him he'd do—and the reason why they'd taken Conor off the Kansas case and ordered him on a forced sabbatical. Conor had thought it would be so easy. He had hoped to simply walk in and charm her again, ask her to take him back, to pretend he wanted to make up for the mess in Tamaqua. She was a woman, after all. And not just any woman either. She'd already shared his bed; they had passion as common ground. She was angry, yes, but anger was easy enough to melt, passion easy enough to incite.

  Or so he'd thought.

  Conor leaned his head back against the tree and stared up at the dark, starlit sky. He hated these plains, their cold loneliness, the way they made him feel small and uni
mportant. The way William Pinkerton's admonitions seemed to echo in the voice of the wind. "Look at yourself, Conor. You're no good to us this way. You can't be objective. What happened to your father was a tragedy ..." A tragedy.

  His father's face hovered before him. Conor's throat closed with tears. After nearly two months he still couldn't believe the man who had changed his life was dead.

  It had been twenty-one years ago that Father Roarke had taken him in, but Conor remembered it clearly. He'd been ill then, existing on the streets as well as a twelve-year-old boy could exist, living from one day to the next. Simply surviving had taken all the energy he had.

  But Sean Roarke had changed everything, had given Conor food, a home, safety. It was more than he had ever expected from life. He owed the man so much, and how had he repaid it?

  Conor thought of the regret etched on William's face, the sad heaviness of his words. "We've traced it back to the Mollies, Conor. The man who set the bomb—we believe it was Michael Doyle. I'm sorry, my boy. So sorry...." As if sorry had been enough. As if anything but Michael Doyle's death would ever be enough.

  Conor remembered how Sari's brother had been the first to line up when violence had been ordered. Doyle had been the triggerman for the Mollies, and the most dangerous of them. But unlike the nineteen Mollies who paid for their crimes with their lives, Michael had escaped punishment. Sari had seen to that.

  Conor clenched his jaw. He remembered the way Doyle's eyes had lit with blood lust and anticipation just before a hit. Had the man had that look in his eyes before he bombed Conor's house? Before he killed Sean Roarke?

  Anger churned in Conor's gut, forcing the guilt he felt over using Sari again below the surface. She didn't matter. She'd made her choice long ago, and so had he. What mattered was paying Michael Doyle and the others back for what they'd done to his father.

  And if that meant he had to lie to her again, well, he was good at lying. He'd spent two and a half years living another identity, living and socializing with people he knew he would eventually have to betray. He remembered Sari's words to him the last time he'd seen her, saw her accusing eyes, heard her voice. "You're a liar and a killer, Jamie O'Brien. That's all you'll ever be."

  She was right. It was what he was. A Pinkerton agent. A man trained to lie and cheat and steal. The end justifies the means. William Pinkerton believed it. Conor himself had always believed it.

  The end justifies the means. There was a price for everything. This time it would be Sari who paid it.

  Conor stared out at the prairie, at the shadows of drifting clouds trailing across the darkened grass. He had come all this way because he needed something from her—she'd been right about that. He needed Michael, and he would not leave this place without him. Conor owed his father that much. Michael would find his way to his sister eventually. He always did.

  Conor's gaze turned hard and cold as the icy air. It was why he'd lied to her about the blackmark. He'd wanted to scare her into letting him stay. He needed to be close enough to know if Michael contacted her by letter or messenger.

  Or in person. Conor had to make her believe his threats, false as they were.

  He got to his feet, slapping his freezing hands on his thighs, startling the gelding. There was a telegraph at Fort Morgan, and a man in Greeley he had to talk to.

  He had no time to lose.

  Chapter 2

  Sari glanced through the tiny window, searching for Charles's familiar form. It was growing dark, but she could still see him beyond the yard, fighting with a bale of barbed wire. She saw his shoulders strain and knot with the effort, the surety of his gloved hands on the tearing fence. He seemed so strong, so vibrant, but Sari knew it was only an illusion, habits born more from routine than from strength. Charles never complained, but she worried about the toll settling this land was taking on him. It was a hard life, and he'd already done his time when he'd settled the farm in Pennsylvania.

  She pushed away the worry, as she did every day, and rose wearily from the table. Neither of them had anyone else, and she'd been glad when Charles had said he needed a new challenge .and insisted on joining her. It had been a kind lie. He'd been worried about her going off into the world alone, she knew, especially now that he was almost the only family she had left. Almost.

  Her brother's face flashed through her mind, and Sari squeezed her eyes tightly, willing it away. But Michael's image was as hard to banish as the man himself. She saw his burning, zealot eyes, heard his impassioned pleas, and once again her words of a year ago came back to haunt her. "This is the last thing I'll ever give you, Michael, do you hear me? You're dead to me now."

  A pot boiled over on the stove. Sari pushed away from the window restlessly and opened the door.

  "Onkle!" The echo of her voice bounced over the windy plains. "Onkle! Supper!"

  By the time Charles trudged through the front door, bringing with him a gust of cold evening air and the smell of leather, a platter of ham and dumplings was steaming in the center of the table. Charles paused in the doorway, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

  "Ah, Liebling." He smiled. "This smells good."

  He pulled off his coat, sinking into a chair at the table. Sari joined him, cradling her chin in her hands. Her worries seemed groundless when she saw him this way. She focused on his strong, unshaking hands, on the smooth confidence of his blunt fingers as he ladled food onto his plate and broke open a biscuit. There was no reason to worry about the Mollies, but if there was, she had every confidence that between the two of them she and Charles could handle any threat.

  Damn Roarke for giving her one more thing to worry about.

  Charles glanced up. "His visit still bothers you?"

  Sari started. "His visit? You—"

  "You are too quiet," he explained. "And it does not take a seer to know what you are thinking about."

  "He was here ages ago, Onkle."

  Charles tried to hide his smile. "Two days. Not long."

  Sari watched as he smeared a biscuit with butter and took a bite. "It's already forgotten," she said irritably. "There's no reason to remember it."

  "Hmmm." Charles nodded sagely. "You do not think he is right about the blackmark?"

  "I don't know." Sari took a deep breath. "Maybe he is, though Michael loves—"

  "Michael loves only himself."

  Sari nodded distractedly. "Perhaps. But he wouldn't hurt me. I know it."

  "There are his friends to worry about. They all believed you betrayed them to Roarke."

  Sari sighed. "Yes. His friends."

  "You think he is strong enough to stop them if they want vengeance?"

  "I don't know."

  "Ja." Charles paused. He stabbed a dumpling with his fork and stared thoughtfully at it. "I know you do not like to hear this, Liebling, but perhaps it is a good thing Roarke came. He can protect us, and you need a man like him. A man to give you back your spirit. You are more like yourself when you speak of him."

  "It's not spirit, Onkle, it's anger."

  "It is something. I have been worried, watching you waste away, never smiling, never eating. It is not good. It is not the Sari I know."

  Sari studied her hands. "Perhaps it's a better one."

  "No." The quietness of his answer underlined his conviction. "I cannot believe that. But I do know God has reasons for everything. Even for Conor Roarke to return."

  Sari met her uncle's eyes. "A reason? Of course there's a reason. He never did anything without one. But protecting me isn't it."

  "Are you sure?" he asked slowly. "Perhaps he tells the truth. I can see he cares for you, Liebling. It is in his eyes."

  Sari turned away. "Eyes lie, Onkle, just as he does. He's not here to protect me from the sleepers. He wants something else."

  "What has he to gain by lying to you about this?" Charles pursed his lips in concern. "I, too, have worried about the sleepers. I would rest easier if you were protected."

  She leaned across the table, covering
his hand with her own. "I am protected, Onkle."

  "I am too old, Sari. I am no match for those men."

  "Don't say that."

  "I am an old man." He patted her hand, smiling wryly. "I wish it was not true, but it is."

  "You're all I need." Sari smiled gently. "Believe me, Onkle, I—"

  The sharp whinnying of a horse cut her words dead. Sari dropped her uncle's hand in confusion. "Is Marta in the barn?"

  "Ja." Charles frowned and turned to the window. "I have ..." He stiffened. "There is something out there. Get—"

  The window cracked. Charles jerked, stumbling backward onto the floor, stopping Sari's scream half in her throat.

  "My God, Onkle,” Sari scrambled to him. "Onkle!"

  "Douse the lamp!" Charles gasped. "Douse it!"

  She reached for it, but in her haste it slipped between her fingers, crashing against the table, spreading oil, fire, and glass over the surface. Sari lunged at the flames, batting at them with her sleeve.

  A bullet sang past her. Sari wrenched back, struggling to see through the darkness. But there was nothing. Only the pounding of hooves.

  "Get down!" Charles yelled.

  She threw herself to the floor beside her uncle.

  "It is the Mollies," he whispered harshly. "Roarke was right."

  "It could be anyone."

  "I feel Michael's hand in this," Charles said.

  "How can you?" Sari asked, but almost in answer she heard the murmured voices outside, the sound of nervous horses. Her uncle was right. This was like Michael. A surprise visit, shots in the dark. But it couldn't be him. It wouldn't be. Surely he wouldn't hurt his own sister....

  But she hadn't thought he would kill a man either, and she'd been wrong about that. So wrong.

  Charles motioned toward the loft, his hand a shadow in the darkness.

  "No," Sari whispered, understanding him. "I won't leave you."