Megan Chance Page 3

  "Go!" The word forced out in a breath. "You must hide. They want you, not me."

  "I won't leave you—"

  "Go!"

  Sari recoiled, the desperate tone in her uncle's voice unfamiliar and frightening. He was right, she knew it and yet she couldn't move from this spot, couldn't leave him.

  There were footsteps now, and she felt Charles's panic. She felt his push; her own feet seemed numb as she stumbled toward the ladder.

  She pulled herself up without conscious will, scrambling toward the back comer of the loft, behind the sacks of flour. The sound of the front door wrenching open had Sari pulling aside the heavy bags, her fingernails tearing on the burlap as she squeezed between them.

  Her heart was pounding in her chest. Sari curled into a ball, burying her head, willing the intruders downstairs to go away, to leave them in peace.

  Below she heard muffled noises. Sari resisted the urge to pull away from the bags. She knew Michael's friends, knew their desperation. If it was them and they suspected she was in the soddy, they wouldn't rest until they found her.

  All the horrible stories Evan had told her spun through her mind, mixing with one another until they were a single blood-red haze of brutal memory. Beatings, murders, bombings.... She remembered her husband's laughing, almost maniacal, pleasure in relating the events, as if he knew her distaste and reveled in it.

  Thumping, loud and urgent, vibrated up through the floor, the high tension of voices arguing. Then there was sudden, horrible silence. Fear made her mouth dry, her throat tight. Sari strained, trying so hard to listen, she heard the very particles of the air. Nothing. No movement, no sound except for her own harsh breathing.

  She hadn't heard the door close, could she have missed it? Slowly Sari uncurled, horror and tension still throbbing in her ears. She should wait, they couldn't be gone so soon, but the thought of her uncle lying dead or wounded was too much for her to bear.

  She pushed at the flour sack, dislodging it enough to wedge past. The floor squeaked beneath her, and Sari stopped, catching her breath as she waited for the inevitable shout of discovery. None came.

  "They're gone, Liebling." Her uncle's voice came to her in a cracked whisper, and all thoughts of self-preservation fled. She ran across the short loft, flung herself down the ladder.

  Charles lay sprawled on the floor, a lump mottling the darkness. She heard his labored breathing, and Sari moved quickly toward him, stumbling over the furniture.

  "Onkle, Onkle, are you all right?" She knelt beside him, pushing aside the shattered glass and juice of a broken jar of pears. The spicy aroma from the crushed fruit nearly nauseated her. "Onkle, please—"

  "I am ... fine." His voice was weak and strained. He struggled to sit up, falling back helplessly. "Fine."

  "You aren't fine." Sari fought to keep the panic from her words. "What did they do to you? Oh, God—"

  "Ahhh—" Charles rose, grasping her arm tightly. "A .. .few ... bruises," he said as they took a few steps. Then he slumped into a chair, gasping. "It wasn't Michael... but... I think ... his friends."

  Sari fumbled in the darkness, feeling for the base of the lamp. Glass stuck to her hands, needled her fingers as she swept the tabletop. "They hurt you," she said harshly.

  "Don't light it." Charles's voice was suddenly strong. "No light yet. Not until we are sure."

  "Oh Onkle." Sari dropped into the other chair. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  "Not... your ... fault."

  "Yes, it is," she said miserably. "It is. You know it's me they want. I—I thought it would be safe here."

  Charles said nothing. Sari stared at the broken window. The moonlight shone and then disappeared as clouds moved through it. Shards of glass littered the sill, sparkling like gemstones. Cold whistled through the cracks, easing with the wind.

  "I can't stay here with you," she said finally. "They didn't find me tonight, but there's tomorrow and the next night. Eventually they will." She took a deep breath. "I won't be responsible for your death, Onkle."

  "That is my... risk to take."

  His labored breathing made her own chest ache. "No," she protested. "I can't let you do that— please, Onkle. I just can't."

  "Only one ... other thing to do," he wheezed.

  "One other thing?" She knew the answer to her question before she asked, and a strange sense of inevitability swept her, along with a helplessness that frightened and saddened her. Her voice was a mere whisper of sound. "What other thing?"

  Charles raised his head, and even though Sari couldn't see his eyes, she felt his gaze gripping her, squeezing her.

  "You must ask him to stay, Liebling," he said slowly. "I cannot protect you. We need Conor Roarke here." He reached for her hand, tightened his warm fingers around her freezing ones. "We have no other choice."

  The moonlight dappled his skin as he rode, its touch frigid as the night air. Conor rode leisurely, in spite of the cold. There was plenty of time to get to the soddy. Probably morning would be soon enough, though Sari's anger was preferable to spending another night in the freezing, dilapidated stage station.

  There was no reason to hurry. The men he'd hired were good. They were well paid to follow Conor's orders to the letter. He wanted Sari and Charles frightened. Not hurt, just scared enough to welcome him back with open arms. Just enough so that he could ride in a hero.

  Conor set his jaw, banishing his distaste at the whole idea of forcing Sari and her uncle to let him stay on the homestead. It was necessary to frighten them. The end justifies the means. There wasn't any other way Sari would permit his presence, even for a few days—a week at most. The last report on Michael had him heading west, and Conor would bet Sari was Doyle's destination.

  Conor frowned. He would have to guard himself every moment. If she even suspected he was lying in wait for Michael, if she found out he'd set up the raid on the farm ... He didn't want to think about what she would do or how she would feel. He told himself it didn't matter. If Sari got hurt, it was her own fault. Revenge came first. It had to come first.

  The clouds passed over the moon, drenching him in instant darkness, and Conor narrowed his eyes, searching the dark horizon for the soddy's shadow. He was close, he knew it. He smelled the faint traces of smoke in the clear, freezing air. It was too late for welcoming lights. Hoping for a hot cup of coffee probably wasn't a good idea either.

  He saw it suddenly, rising out of the darkness as the moon peeked through again, its light glancing across the grass bricks. Conor urged the horse to a trot. It was then he saw the damage to the window, the wooden door hanging crookedly on its hinge.

  "Sari!" He called, spurring the horse, suddenly panicked as he strained to see some movement in the darkness. Damn, he'd told those thugs to scare them, not damage their property. The men weren't supposed to do more than circle the farm and fire a few shots into the air. Fury and guilt swept through Conor, and he pushed it away. He'd talk to them about it later, when he had time—

  He heard the crack of a bullet before he saw the gun. The gelding reared, its high-pitched whinny deafening, its forelegs pawing the air.

  Conor hit the ground so hard, the breath was knocked from him. Dazedly, relying solely on instinct, he rolled, trying to dodge the dancing hooves of the gelding, frantically fumbling through the twisted folds of his duster for the Colt revolver strapped to his hip.

  Conor grasped the gun, wresting it from the holster, pushing aside his coat. He rolled onto his stomach, inching backward and raising the pistol.

  "Don't move."

  In the same moment he heard the voice he saw the silhouette of boots and skirt. And he felt the long nose of a rifle pressing into his back.

  Relief washed over him. "Sari—"

  The rifle stabbed him. "I said don't move. Drop your gun."

  Conor let the Colt drop. Without lessening the pressure on his back, she kicked the weapon out of reach.

  "Sari—who is it?" Charles called from the doorway of the soddy. "What i
s going on?"

  "Stay there, Onkle,” Sari answered.

  "It's me, Conor Roarke!" Conor said, ignoring the sudden, quick pain of the pressing rifle. "Call her off, will you?"

  "My God, Sari, it is Roarke!"

  "I know who it is," she said calmly.

  Conor heard the ice in her voice. It sent a chill over his skin.

  "And he's finally where he belongs, crawling on his belly through the mud." She poked the rifle into his ribs. "See any other snakes down there, love?"

  Chapter 3

  "Goddammit!" Conor rolled from beneath the rifle and scrambled to his feet. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You could have killed me!"

  "I wasn't sure who it was," Sari returned. "And I'm still not sure shooting you wouldn't be the best idea."

  He shoved the revolver back in its holster. "Then do it now, goddammit." Conor's eyes glinted with anger. "But I thought you were smarter than that. I'm here to protect you, goddammit, not hurt you."

  She regarded him stonily. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be in danger."

  "Sari?" Charles's gruff voice cut the darkness. The old man sagged against the doorway, clutching his stomach. The lamplight shone around him, lighting his thin gray hair and making him seem frailer than ever.

  Conor frowned. "What's wrong with him?"

  "They hurt him," she said harshly, glaring.

  "What do you mean?"

  "What do you think?" She turned on her heel. "They came in, trying to find me, and they found him instead."

  Conor strode toward the soddy, following Sari quickly as she slid Charles's arm over her shoulders and helped him from the doorway into the warmth of the little house.

  Conor shut the door tightly behind them, ignoring Sari's frown. She helped her uncle into a chair, then she straightened, folding her arms over her chest. Conor took in her formidable stance calmly, noting the ragged patches on her faded skirt, the long rip in her coarse linen apron.

  Fighting to keep his guilt under control, he said harshly, "I warned you."

  Charles glanced up. He coughed, his thin shoulders convulsing. Sari knelt beside him immediately.

  "Are you all right?" She asked. "Onkle—"

  The coughing eased, Charles slumped back in the chair, waving her away. His shrewd, pale eyes met Conor's. "Did you see them when you rode in, Roarke? Three men?"

  Conor shook his head slowly. "No." He glanced away, focusing on the burning lamp on the table. "I saw no one."

  "You see what I mean, then, Sari?" Charles insisted. "You are not safe."

  "I'm not worried about my safety," she said. "It's you I'm concerned about."

  Conor snorted. "There's no need to be a martyr, Sari. They'll hurt you, too."

  She didn't look at him. "So what do you suggest I do? Hide forever?"

  "Let me protect you, Sari," he said quietly. "It's why I'm here."

  "Is it?" The cold bitterness in her voice sent chills over his skin. "Or is there another reason? Where did those men come from tonight?"

  Conor kept his gaze steady. "What are you saying?"

  "Only that this attack seems awfully well rimed. It happened right after you left, and now here you are, on the heels of it."

  "Sari," Charles gasped. "Think about what you are saying."

  She threw her uncle a look Conor couldn't interpret. "Believe me, I know exactly what I'm saying."

  Conor spoke carefully. "I had nothing to do with this."

  "Of course not," Charles agreed, frowning at Sari. "Conor is not like Michael. He is not an evil man."

  Evil. The word was unexpectedly brutal. There was too much at stake to let it bother him now. Conor forced a calm, reasonable tone into his voice. "Even if you don't believe me, Sari," he said. "Are you so certain it wasn't Michael's doing that you're willing to bet your life on it? Your uncle's life?"

  They were the right words, he knew it instantly. She paled; her lips set rightly.

  "Sari," he said, "I never took you for a fool."

  "Then perhaps we both made errors in judgment," she said. "Because I never took you for a liar."

  Her words cut straight to the bone; it was all Conor could do to keep from flinching at the pain he heard in them. Remember, he told himself. Remember.

  "I know this is hard for you," he said slowly. "But I'm asking you to trust me."

  She laughed shortly. "That is not a mistake I'll repeat twice."

  The anger in her words was so intense, Conor had to restrain the urge to step back. Pinkerton had been right. There was too much between them. It was going to be next to impossible to fight her anger, to get her to trust him.

  But he couldn't give up. The memory of Sean Roarke's bloody face filled Conor's mind.

  "I have had enough of this," Charles said, rubbing his face with his hands. "Enough of both of you. I am making the decision, Sari. Roarke is staying. To protect you. To protect me, if he can. If Roarke can do that..." He smiled, a weak, tired smile. "Perhaps the two of you will learn to like each other again."

  "You ask too much, Onkle," Sari said, her voice toneless. She turned her eyes to Conor—they were as expressionless as her voice. "Stay if you will, then, but I won't have you in my house." She lifted a wool blanket from a chair and dropped it into Conor'shands. "You can sleep in the barn. If the cows can stand you."

  Conor bent beneath the low ceiling of the barn loft, shuffling through the hay and sweet-smelling alfalfa. He glanced at the tiny, barely inhabitable space and then looked over the side of the unsteady platform.

  And onto the backs of two cows, four oxen, and two horses.

  The animals shifted; their big, wet, snotty noses pushing through the hay in the feed bins; ugly, white-rimmed eyes rolling as one pushed too close to another. Their hooves clomped on the hard-packed earth. Low moos and nickering filled the silence.

  Conor clutched the blanket Sari had given him more tightly against his chest. If the rest of the Chicago office could see him now, the jokes would never cease. Conor Roarke, one of the top Pinkerton agents, was living among cows. Ugly, stupid cows. God, he hated farming.

  At least their bodies kept the damn place warm. It was a good thing, too, since there was no other source of heat in the makeshift sod barn. Conor set the blanket aside on the ground and glanced through the near darkness before he pulled the saddlebags off his shoulder. He wouldn't be staying here long, anyway. With any luck Michael would show up soon, and Conor could get back to Chicago, away from these empty plains that made him feel lost and alone.

  He swallowed, pushing aside the maudlin thought as he knelt on a pile of straw. He was tired. Too tired to unpack. His fingers stumbled over the leather ties of his bags as he unknotted them and rummaged through the contents. Luckily he traveled light—always. A man's wardrobe revealed a great deal about him, and because of that, Conor kept little more than two changes of clothing, both unexceptional. If anyone went through his saddlebags, they would find his shaving kit, another pair of boots, spare bullets, food, and a water bag. All calculated to tell an average man nothing about the owner.

  Conor's lips tightened as he felt the small bulge in an inside pocket. There was only one thing he carried that was strictly against Pinkerton's best advice. A small photograph of Sean Roarke. It was almost the only thing he owned to remind him of his father, something even the threat of death couldn't have forced him to sacrifice.

  He lifted it out, opening the worn leather case to look at it. The photograph had been taken four years ago, before Conor was assigned to the jobs that took him away from Chicago for months on end. In the photograph Sean's green-blue eyes looked pale—almost white—but they twinkled at some private joke that didn't touch his lips. His thinning, flyaway red hair stood out from his skull as though it, too, were laughing.

  Conor's throat tightened; he closed his eyes briefly against the pain squeezing his heart, squeezing him. He could almost hear his father's voice, admonishing him for his curses. "Swearing allows the devil in, lad, don't
forget that. Satan looks for signs of weakness." And Conor remembered how he'd filled the hallways of the rectory with his curses—as if to prove to his father that he was brave enough to take on the devil himself.

  Well, he had, in a way, and tempting Satan had left him with nothing but a burning desire to wipe the earth clean of the Molly Maguires and everything they stood for. Once, he'd understood their motives. Once, he'd felt sympathy for their cause. No more. They'd managed to erase any lingering understanding. There was nothing but hatred left inside him now.

  Conor let the anger boil, closing the small portfolio to hide the suddenly condemning eyes of his father. Sean Roarke would never approve of what he was doing. He'd said more than once that revenge was a petty emotion, that it was the shortest road to hell. But Conor was sure his father had never felt it for himself. How could Sean know the way the need for vengeance ate up everything inside until there was nothing left to do but go after it?

  Conor shoved the portrait back into his saddlebags and pushed them against the wall. He had no time for those memories. There were other things to think about now. Plans to make. Revenge took all his concentration.

  He sat back against the damp sod, resting his arms on his knees, leaning his head back to stare at the makeshift grass ceiling. He thought about Sari. The evening had not gone anything like he'd planned.

  The fact was that he had underestimated her. His memories of Sari in Tamaqua were colored by the reasons he'd been there to begin with. It had been different then. He'd been sent to infiltrate, to become one of them, to form an alliance. Sari had been that alliance. She'd been lonely and unhappy, but when he'd noticed how easily she laughed and talked with him ... Well, it had been easy to start a friendship. To start more than that.

  In spite of that he had underestimated her. Underestimated and forgotten.

  The words she'd thrown at him—"I never took you for a liar"—stayed with him. It was disturbing, how much they stung. Disturbing that when he looked at her, his actions seemed irritatingly profane.

  Conor swore to himself and sat back on his heels. She had been one of them in the end, and he couldn't forget that. At the time, he'd thought she was innocent. He remembered how she'd talked about Michael in Tamaqua. The way she'd spat his name and hated his politics and his friends. She'd talked as if she didn't know Michael's true role with the Mollies—he was their best executioner. But now he wondered—again—if it had all been an act. Was she as good a liar as he was? And if she hadn't been lying, had she realized, when she warned her brother away, that Michael was the man assigned to kill her lover?