Megan Chance Page 4

  Undoubtedly she had. Conor closed his eyes. He suspected she had guessed he was the traitor long before the others did. It had been his biggest miscalculation. He'd thought she was loyal to him. He'd thought—he would have sworn—she was in love with him.

  Conor snorted softly. What did he know of love anyway? Except for his father, he had no experience with it.

  But he knew about wooing. He knew how to kiss a woman and seduce her with words. He knew the touches that made a body burn. The touches that had made Sari burn. And if he had to utilize them again, so be it....

  Conor smiled. He would find Michael Doyle this time. He would bring him to justice—his justice. No matter what it took.

  Chapter 4

  It was dinnertime, and Sari hummed as she took the lid off the pot of boiling potatoes and sniffed their earthy, mealy scent. They were almost ready. Sari lifted the bowl beside her and quickly mixed the crumbly dough of the noodlelike rivels, dropping the tiny pellets into the boiling water to cook along with the potatoes.

  Wiping her floury fingers on her apron, Sari glanced at her uncle, huddled in a chair by the bookshelves. He was sound asleep, the knitted afghan falling from around his shoulders, his head angled back against the seat. His soft snores filled the soddy, and Sari felt a quick wave of relief. Sleep was what he needed now, and she hoped he was having pleasant dreams.

  Which was more than she'd had herself. Sari frowned, remembering last night. Remembering Conor's easy assumption that he belonged here.

  Irritation stabbed her, along with a twinge of fear.

  She had spent the morning trying to reconcile herself to the fact that he was staying, but she still didn't believe that protecting her was the only reason he was in Beaver Creek. He had walked away from her more than a year ago, had disappeared without a word. She had been convinced then that he would come back, sure that he was just hiding from the assassins. After all, she had been the one who told him the other Mollies suspected him of betrayal. She had been the one to warn him.

  Sari clenched the fabric of her apron, letting anger bury the anguish that was as real today as it had ever been. Had she known then what she knew now, she would have let Michael and his men have Conor Roarke.

  But she hadn't known. Instead she'd waited for him, anxiously checking the mails, living for a message that never came. It wasn't until just before Evan was arrested that she knew for certain what she had suspected for some time. Jamie O'Brien was the traitor. It was then she realized that he was never coming back.

  Sari took a deep breath. There was no reason to think he was any different now. But at least Conor had taught her something. Now she expected treachery. He hadn't changed, she knew. He was already lying to her. Why would he want to protect her from the Mollies? He'd shown no such compulsion back in Pennsylvania, when she'd been in much greater danger. Her betrayal of Evan was common knowledge. There was more reason to kill her then, and more opportunity. Perhaps Conor was here to make sure they did get her. Sari smiled thinly at the thought. Now, that made sense.

  She glanced out the window, catching sight of him as he crossed the yard to the house. The cotton shirt he wore stretched across his shoulders, the tails of a dark bandanna flapped against his throat. He wore no hat and no coat, though she knew the day was cold, and the wind fluttered back his brown hair.

  The sight sent a wave through her of almost forgotten longing. She spun away quickly, suppressing it. Her hands shook as she lifted the lid on the pot of soup again, and clanked it back down when the steam scalded her face.

  The leather hinges of the door creaked open; cold air cut the warmth of the room as Conor walked in.

  Sari turned, catching his glance. The unexpected touch of his blue eyes threw her. But only for a moment. "You missed breakfast," she said coldly. "I was hoping you planned to keep your own company."

  Conor lifted a brow. "Sorry to disappoint you. I think it's best if I stay around the house as much as possible."

  She pulled open the iron door of the stove and took a handful of flat, dry buffalo chips from the fuelbox beside it. "How conscientious of you." She threw them in and wiped her hands on her apron. "What kept you from your duties this morning?"

  "Sleep." Conor smiled as Charles yawned and stretched awake. "I'm not used to farmers' hours, I'm afraid."

  "You will learn." Charles's voice was hoarse, but amusement touched it even just out of sleep. "It will not take long, I promise you. A few mornings of listening to the cows ..." He shrugged, smiling. "We will make a farmer of you yet."

  "No threats, please," Conor said. He went to the stove and grabbed the pot of coffee simmering there, bending close to Sari. She smelled the astringent scent of bay rum, the faint, musty odor of straw. It was absurd, how seductive the scents seemed, how alluring.

  Sari backed into the corner, trying not to touch him as he took two cups from the shelf and poured coffee into each. He crossed the room, handing a cup to Charles before he sat at the kitchen table.

  Nervously Sari grabbed thick pottery bowls from the shelf above the stove and piled crumbly corn bread onto a plate. Her hands trembled as she ladled soup into the bowls, the pottery clattered as she set them on the table. Soup sloshed onto the stained oilcloth. She glanced carefully at Conor. "What's Pinkerton's opinion on how long you'll be here? Will this go on as long as your last investigation did? Do I have to house you for two years?"

  That wounded him, she noted with satisfaction. His eyes hardened, she caught the tensing of his jaw.

  "I'm here to do a job, Sari," he said quietly, his raspy voice grating against her nerves. "When it's over, I'll leave."

  "Just like last time," she said bitterly. "And in the meantime?"

  "In the meantime we'll both have to make the best of things."

  She lifted her brows in mock admiration. "How noble you are for making such a sacrifice. It's horrible that you had to put your own life aside to travel here—to protect me, no less. How painful that must be."

  "Sari—" Charles warned.

  Sari ignored him. "Or wait—I forget. How could there be pain when you never cared in the first place?"

  Conor looked away. "You don't know anything about it."

  "Obviously."

  "I can't help the past. It was a job—"

  "And I was part of it. I know. I was there." She turned to her uncle, who seemed to sink into the chair under the heat of her stare. "Tell him, Onkle, tell him what happened when he left." When Charles didn't respond, she swiveled to Conor. "Tell him how they all looked at me as if they couldn't bear the sight of me. As if I were responsible."

  Conor straightened. "I never meant for that to happen."

  "Didn't you?" She laughed shortly. "What did you think would happen? Did you expect them to excuse me? They knew. They knew about us, they suspected I'd given you information. Evan knew I'd warned you."

  "I couldn't help that," Conor said quietly, just as emotionless as he'd been since he'd walked into the soddy this morning. "Life isn't fair, Sari."

  "Fair? Is that what you call it? Well, then, it doesn't seem fair to me, Jamie—" she caught her

  breath as the name slipped out. "It doesn't seem fair that you caused it all, and yet I don't see any guilt in your eyes. There's nothing for me to do except think that you don't feel any. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you feel guilty for everything you did."

  He hesitated, and when he looked away again, Sari felt a sinking inside that had nothing to do with anger. "You don't," she whispered. "You don't feel guilty at all, do you?"

  She heard the barest pause before he answered. "I'm sorry for what I put you through," he said, his voice so soft, she had to strain to hear it. "But guilt is a luxury I can't afford right now."

  Sari squeezed her eyes right, willing him away. She couldn't stand this, not the torture of seeing him every day nor the constant reminder of her own guilt and humiliation. "How wonderful for you that you can dismiss it so easily."

  "You're wrong," he said softly, d
angerously so. "You're wrong. I don't dismiss it. But I can't think about it. The sleepers could be outside right now, watching the house, waiting for you to step outside. Waiting for me. I can't afford distractions."

  She stared at him—at the tightness of his face, the hardness of his eyes. He was a stranger this way, a man she didn't understand, a man she didn't know. And she felt the aura of danger hovering around him. It seemed to fill the air between them.

  Charles cleared his throat, the chair creaked as he rose. He walked slowly to the table, rubbing the back of his neck. "The two of you are enough to make me lose my appetite," he said lightly. "Come, Roarke, sit down. Let us eat, and then you can come with me to the fields. I would like your opinion on something."

  Conor nodded, not taking his eyes off Sari, who stood motionless by the stove. "Can I see the soddy from there?" he asked.

  "Ja." Charles nodded. "It is not far. Sari will be safe enough."

  Conor hesitated. "I'm not sure how much I can help you," he said finally, moving to take his place at the table. He sat heavily in the chair, picking up the spoon and drawing it through the soup. The earthy, buttery smell of potatoes wafted hot and aromatic in the air, but his appetite was gone.

  He barely heard Charles as the old man began talking, outlining plans for the rest of the afternoon. Conor watched Sari from the corner of his eye, noting how stiffly she stood, how jerky her movements were. She seemed oblivious to them both, but he knew that was only a facade. The tension stretched between them until he felt as if a thin, taut wire held them together. One false move, and they would both snap.

  She took a pie from the sideboard and set it on the table with such force, the top of the smooth custard cracked. Charles jumped.

  Conor glanced at it doubtfully. "What's that?"

  "Sugar pie." Sari slid the knife through the custard as if it were his heart she were slitting instead. She lifted out a piece and set it, quivering and collapsing slightly, on a plate. She shoved it in front of him.

  "Sugar pie." Conor eyed the dark cream souping delicately in a golden crust. The smell of molasses greeted his nose. "I don't think I like sugar pie, thank you anyway."

  "G'schenkte gaul, gook net ins maul."

  You don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Conor recognized the phrase, he'd heard her say it a hundred times before. She spoke the archaic German with gentle gutturals and softly rounded vowels, the way she'd learned it from her uncle. The husky burr struck him in the stomach with force, and with it came the memory, quick and burning, of the German love words she'd whispered in his ear, the way her warm, moist breath shivered at the hair curling at his neck. The way her silky tresses had swept his chest, and her slender fingers had stroked him.

  He swallowed quickly, then saw by the quick flush staining her cheeks that she was remembering it too. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but she turned away.

  "You'd best eat, Onkle," she said softly, "before it gets cold."

  "What do you think?" Charles straightened, his gaze sweeping the land before him with pleasure and pride.

  Conor took in the view, the purple-hued mountains that broke the prairie, the snowy rock face of Pike's Peak rising jagged against the rest. And below it the plains covered with brown and withered buffalo grass and sage—even the few cottonwoods lining the banks of Beaver Creek looked beaten and gnarled, punished by the harsh wind.

  He chose his words carefully. "I think there is a lot to do."

  Charles smiled. "Ja. There is much work." He pointed to the long brown scar of a half-dug ditch. "The canal is the most of it. The ground is frozen now, but in the spring we will dig again."

  "For water." Conor eyed it skeptically. "Enough to water crops?"

  "Enough." Charles nodded. "I have seen the canals they dig in Greeley. Enough to water fifty farms." A small grin curved his lips. "Ours will not be that big. Can you see it?"

  Conor buried his chin in his upright collar, wishing like hell that Charles had let him sit by the fire in peace. He looked longingly back to the soddy, where smoke rose from the stovepipe chimney poking through the roof. "I'm no farmer, Charles."

  Charles eyed him soberly. "No, you are not."

  Conor turned away from Charles's suddenly harsh eyes, not for the first time feeling pressured and tense. The icy wind cut through his clothes; his hands were so cold, he couldn't feel his fingers. Damn, it was desolate here. In more ways than one. He hated the brown, empty land that matched the hollowness inside him; he hated Charles's kindness because it was so undeserved. But mostly he hated the rage that blew through him whenever he looked at Sari, and the way her lonely, hurting eyes made him want to forget that rage.

  Revenge. It was all that was important. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to remember that Sari was as much an enemy as her brother had been.

  "This is not why I have asked you to walk with me.” Charles's strong, clear voice pierced Conor's thoughts.

  He looked at the old man curiously. "No?"

  "I am wanting to talk to you about Sari." Charles walked slowly, looking straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back. He lapsed into silence for a moment, as if weighing his words, and Conor followed, saying nothing. Charles finally stopped, staring distractedly into the distance. His heavy gray brows furrowed together.

  "I do not approve of what you did to her," he said finally, rubbing his jaw.

  Conor took a deep breath. "No, I didn't imagine you would."

  "Did you not wonder why I took your side?"

  Conor shrugged. "I supposed you understood that she needed to be protected."

  "Ja," Charles nodded. "It was that, and more than that. Sarilyn has not been herself."

  "I'm not surprised." Conor tried to keep his voice even. "It must have been hard for her when Evan was arrested."

  Charles threw him a sideways glance. "Perhaps in ways you do not know, mein Freund."

  They were even, then, Conor thought bitterly. And then, because he couldn't help it, he said the words he'd been aching to say. "And Michael? What of him?"

  "It was hard for her, losing a brother and a husband at the same time," Charles answered obliquely. "And in such a way."

  Conor was startled. "In what way? Michael's still alive, isn't he?"

  "Ja. Ja, he is alive. But he is gone as if he were dead."

  But not dead. Not yet, anyway. Conor took a deep breath. "I did what I was supposed to do, Charles. I can't make excuses for it. I'm a Pinkerton agent. It's my job."

  "And it is you who must live with that." The old man shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. "It is not my place to help you do that, Roarke. My only concern is for Sari."

  "I'm here to protect her," Conor said gruffly, speaking the lie easily. "You can rest assured I'll do my best."

  "She has lived with fear and anger for months." Charles went on as if Conor hadn't spoken. "I would have it end. I would have her happy."

  Conor said nothing. The request was too big. It wasn't something he could do for Sari, not even something he wanted to do. Her happiness was not important, not in light of what he needed.

  "She was happy with you once."

  "It was all a lie then, Charles."

  "Was it?" A tiny half smile curved Charles's lips. "Are you so sure of that?"

  Was he so sure? Conor tried to think, to remember the emotions that had chased through him when he'd kissed her, when he'd held her. She had been a friend when he needed one, and at the time, he'd thought maybe he even loved her. But today he couldn't remember how that love had felt, how true it had been. It was in the past, a role he'd played, and if it had been more than acting—well, it was over now. It wasn't real and never had been. It was just a job.

  The thought was unsettling. Until he remembered the ceiling crashing in around him, the clouds of dust and cracked timber, the acrid scent of burning oil and his father's cry.

  That was real, he reminded himself bitterly. And nothing else meant a damn.

 
Chapter 5

  Charles's words filled Conor with a sense of urgency. He had intended to wait a day or two, to see if he could find out with judicious questions what Sari knew about her brother's whereabouts. But she was too angry and too suspicious. It would be better to start searching the soddy for letters or pictures—something to tell him where Michael was now, or when he might show up here.

  The next morning Conor was up early, but not early enough. Sari and Charles were already in the soddy, eating breakfast. It wasn't until after the noon meal that he had the chance to search. When Sari went out to dig potatoes and Charles announced he was going to take a short nap, Conor nearly leaped from his chair with anticipation. It was all he could do to wait until they both left the room.

  It was his chance, and Conor forced himself to go slowly, to utilize his training. He surveyed the room first, looking for clues, for good places to hide a receipt or a letter.

  There were too many possibilities. Three trunks were pushed against the newspaper-covered walls, their curved lids firmly shut against the dampness. Shelves laden with books and papers held places of honor next to two threadbare chairs, and a stack of boxes in the corner hid who knew what. Clutter filled every corner of the room. The thought of pawing through it all exhausted him.

  Conor shifted in his chair, knocking his leg against a long, low trunk shoved beneath the table. It would take him forever just to search the main room—and that was if he could get Sari to disappear long enough for him to look. His eyes strayed to the ladder leading to the loft. Sari's bedroom.