Megan Chance Read online

  He glanced out the window. He couldn't see Sari, and that was dangerous. If he couldn't see her, he couldn't tell what she was doing, wouldn't know when she was readying to come inside. Damn, he had so little time. If she caught him up there, it would be impossible to explain, and it would only convince her that her intuition was right, that he was lying about why he came.

  The loft would have to wait for another time. He pushed aside his coffee and got to his feet. Stacks of books were piled on the floor, overflowing two double-and tripled-loaded shelves that were jammed against the wall. It was the most obvious place to start, the best place to hide something was in plain view. He'd been taught that lesson well enough.

  The books were musty from the damp sod, some of them had mold growing along waterlogged pages that had dried curled and warped. All of them had a moldy, dusty smell. Conor wrinkled his nose as his gaze swept over the first layer of books. Nothing. There were anthologies, tomes on farming techniques, novels, Grange journals, and poetry. It was a large and varied collection, but he saw no loose papers. Of course it could be inside, hidden in the pages. With a sigh Conor grabbed a book and riffled through it—

  "What are you doing?"

  Her voice cut through the room in the same moment he heard the door swing open. Conor froze, his hands gripping the binding of a volume.

  Sari closed the door behind her carefully, her expression as stiff as her spine. "What are you looking for?"

  Conor forced himself to turn casually. He turned the book in his hands over as if searching for the title, then lifted his eyes in mock innocence. "You sound angry. I'm sorry, I didn't realize your books were forbidden to me."

  Uncertainty flitted through her eyes. She relaxed marginally, though the fingers that gripped her full apron were white. "They aren't," she said carefully. "Of course they aren't. It's just—it seemed as if you were looking for something in particular."

  "I was." He shoved the book back onto the shelf. "I thought there might be something here about fencing. I'd like to at least try to be of help to your uncle."

  "There isn't much time to read here," she scolded gently. "Onkle will tell you what he needs you to know." Unceremoniously she dumped the potatoes bundled in her apron into a bucket, then reached for the butternut sunbonnet she wore. The yellow was the only color in her otherwise colorless outfit and she lifted it from her head and laid it aside almost reverently. Strands of smooth brown hair strayed across her face, grabbing at the corner of her mouth. Impatiently she swept them away. "Onkle's in his soddy now," she said. "I'm sure he can find something for you to do."

  He heard the spite in her words, and couldn't keep from smiling. "I'll go find him, then, love."

  Her brown eyes were cold. "Stop calling me love."

  "Old habits are hard to break."

  "Not so hard." Her smile was small and icy. "I used to trust you. I unlearned that quickly enough."

  Conor hesitated, tensing with the will to reply in kind. And then he saw her hands when she picked up a potato, saw the way she attacked the brown-gray skin as if she were trying to scrub it off. He watched her thoughtfully: the strands of hair tumbling into her face, the tight line of her lips, the shaking of her fingers.

  He was getting to her. It was more than anger that made her react in such a way, he knew. There was something else in her movements, a nervousness, an uncertainty.

  He spoke carefully. "Sari, we don't need to be such enemies."

  She stopped as if stung. "No?" She asked softly. "What should we be, then?"

  "What if we call a truce? Forget the past?"

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why would I want to do that?"

  He shrugged with deliberate casualness. "Maybe to make things more comfortable. I'll probably be here awhile. There's no point in making it miserable for both of us."

  "Perhaps they should have sent someone else, then."

  "Would you have allowed anyone else to stay?"

  "I'm still not sure having anyone here is necessary."

  "I see," he said stiffly. "You'd rather take the risk."

  She bit her lip, turning to stare out the window. Conor saw the quick worry in her eyes, the flush of memory.

  "I still don't know that they'd harm me," she said finally.

  "You think Michael could prevent it?"

  He saw the harsh, bitter pain in her eyes when she whipped around, the wild uncertainty. It startled him, but not as much as her next words.

  "Don't mention his name to me."

  "Why not? He's your brother. You can't deny blood."

  Her eyes burned. "I will not discuss him. Not with you." She dropped a potato into the bucket with a thud. Her hands shook. "Stop pretending you care— about me or my brother. You would have hung him without a thought, even though he was your friend. Your friend, like Evan was." She took a deep breath, her jaw clenched. "I know you too well. None of us matter to you. You'd do anything to get what you want. I've seen what you'll do. I haven't forgotten what you are. You're lying to me now."

  "Sari—"

  She lifted her chin defiantly. "I don't want you here, and that won't change—believe me. So make it easy on both of us, Jam—Conor." Her voice lowered, he heard the hatred in her tone. "Protect me if you want, but leave me alone. Just leave me alone."

  The memory burned, quick and lethal, piercing the fog of his dream until it became a nightmare. Over and over he saw it, saw the white faces of the men who had become his friends, the disbelief in their eyes when he walked into the eerily silent courtroom and took a seat on the witness stand. The bow tie tightened against his throat, constricting him, but his voice was strong and sure, even when the defense lawyers ripped into him.

  He'd given the information without a pause, had looked into the eyes of his friends and seen their fear.

  He could not forget that. Even though those left had killed his father, Conor could not forget the terrible hopelessness he'd seen on their faces. Could not forget that he had betrayed them.

  The dream gripped him, the bodies of the men he'd sent to the gallows growing formless before his eyes, their mouths dark holes yawning in misty spirits. "I should have let them kill you when I had the chance." Evan Travers's voice was the loudest of all. "I trusted you, Jamie O'Brien. I called you friend."

  Conor sat straight up, his body drenched in sweat. It took him a moment to realize that the rustling of hay and the movements of the animals were not part of his dream. He was not in Pottsville, not in the courthouse. He was in a dark, damp soddy barn, and he could hear the wind shrieking outside.

  He took a deep breath, raking back his hair and staring into the darkness. It had been months since he'd had that dream. With his father's death the memories of his disquieting feelings about the Molly Maguires had faded into the background. He'd thought they'd disappeared forever.

  They should have. God knew, he was about as far from feeling any sympathy for the Mollies as a man could be. There had been days when he'd questioned his involvement, when he'd wondered if the lies and violence that were part of his job were necessary, but he thought he'd long resolved that.

  He'd come to terms with that betrayal, had realized that the two and a half years of living among them, being one of them, had been too long. Hell, he'd almost started to believe he was a Molly. For a while, he'd believed in their causes. That had never happened to him on any other job, never before had he questioned his role as a Pinkerton agent.

  It had only been a temporary feeling. His uncertainties had disappeared when Michael Doyle planted the bomb that destroyed his house and his life. It was absurd that he should be feeling anything like it now.

  But Sari's reaction today had him confused. Conor lay back, crossing his arms beneath his head and staring up at the dirt ceiling. She had been furious when he mentioned Michael to her, and he had not imagined her bitterness or the way her mouth went white with tension. "Don't mention his name to me," she'd said, and then there'd been Charles's words of yesterday: "He is g
one as if he were dead." Conor wondered why. Was it because Michael had done something so brutal, Sari could no longer condone it? Was her anger with her brother real? Or was she lying for Conor's benefit?

  He thought back, remembering Sari's relationship with her brother. She'd never agreed with Michael about anything. They had been as different as a brother and sister could be. Doyle was a fanatic, a man burning with conviction that bordered cm madness. He had been the perfect Molly assassin—a man convinced that murder was acceptable if it gained them an edge. Jack Kehoe, the bodymaster of the Girardville Mollies, and one of the most ruthless men Conor had ever known, had trusted Doyle with their most sensitive assassinations. By the time Conor infiltrated the gang, Michael was one of their most valuable members.

  And Sari was one of their biggest liabilities.

  Conor closed his eyes, remembering Evan's careful warnings about his wife. "She don't like this stuff, my friend. Keep her out of it." It was a vast understatement. Sari had despised her husband's friends, had blamed them for her brother's violence. But in the end she never stopped loving Michael.

  Or so Conor had thought.

  "He is gone as if he were dead." Maybe. Or maybe it was a lie, something calculated to put Conor off Michael's trail. That seemed more likely. Sari had denied Michael, yes, but in almost the same breath she'd accused Conor of betraying him. It made Conor wonder—for the hundredth time since he'd known her—just how far her devotion to her brother went. Was she Michael's enemy or—more likely— his ally?

  There was only one way to find out. When Conor left her before, he'd thought she was innocent, had been consumed with guilt for the way he used her, dismayed and disgusted with himself over the hurt he caused her.

  Those days were long over, and there was no point in thinking about them again. But Sari Travers had reminded him of a lesson learned long before: Misplaced trust was a dangerous thing.

  He knew the hazards now, the sweetness of her body and her warm words, the fire of passion that burned between them. This time he could protect himself from them even as he seduced her into trusting him again, into giving him the only thing he wanted: Michael.

  Conor closed his eyes against the darkness. This time he wouldn't forget. This time there would be no guilt when he walked away. Not this time.

  Chapter 6

  She heard the wagon through the wind. For a moment her heart raced; she remembered the raid of the other night and felt a surge of unrelieved panic. Sari forced herself to turn casually from the potatoes she was digging up, and she saw Conor rushing from the barn. He stood in the doorway, watching the wagon approach, and even from where she was, yards away, Sari saw his alert tension.

  Just then the wagon cleared the barn and came into view, and Sari's panic fled in relief and pure happiness. It wasn't the Mollies, not Michael at all. It was John and Miriam Graham, their closest neighbors. Sari smiled and put aside the trowel, wiping her hands on her apron. It had been a long time since they'd visited, forever since she'd talked with another woman.

  Then she saw Conor again.

  How was she going to explain his presence? The thought brought her panic crashing back. She had the sudden wish that the Grahams would turn their wagon around again, leave without even saying hello. But even as she had the thought, John reined in the horses and Miriam was jumping down from the buckboard, hurrying toward her with an excited smile and bubbling words.

  "We were just heading into town, and we decided to stop and see if you needed anything," Miriam said breathlessly, her blue eyes sparkling. "And I wanted to say hello—Lord, don't you look busy!"

  Sari gave her a smile and got to her feet. "Not that busy," she said. "You and John can stay for some coffee, can't you? And dinner's nearly ready."

  "I don't—" Miriam threw a glance back at her husband, who was talking with Charles, and then she laughed. "Well, yes. I'd love to. It's been so long since we've talked. And I brought those Godey's Lady's Books for you to look at."

  It was hard to be fearful in the light of Miriam's obvious pleasure. Sari's smile broadened. "I'm not sure I even want to look at them," she said. "No doubt I'll see something I want."

  "I know." Miriam nodded. "I've probably earmarked twenty pages for myself—all for the Christmas dance." She chuckled, then stopped short, her expression sharp with curiosity. "Goodness, who's that?"

  Sari's heart dropped in her chest as she followed Miriam's gaze to Conor. He strode over to the wagon with a confidence that made Sari clench her fist. Charles was already at the wagon, talking to John, and Conor hadn't been there more than twenty seconds before the two of them laughed in response to something he'd said.

  Sari frowned. That effortless charm, that facile talk. She knew how easily he could win John over, how quick he would be to feign friendliness. And it was all an act. Just a stupid, meaningless act.

  "Are you all right, Sari?"

  She looked up to see Miriam staring at her. Sari forced a smile. "I'm fine."

  "Who is that?"

  Sari slowed her step. "Conor Roarke," she said evenly. "He's a ... an old friend."

  "An old friend?" Miriam eyed Sari speculatively.

  "He was a friend of Evan's," Sari said forcefully. "I barely know him."

  "You barely know him?" Miriam asked. "And he came out all the way from Pennsylvania?"

  They were nearly to the wagon. Sari shook her head quickly. "I'll tell you everything later," she said in a low voice.

  The promise hushed Miriam's questions, if only for the moment. But Sari would worry about that later. Now it took all her concentration to keep from frowning her disapproval at Conor, to keep from hating his smile and easy manner.

  "Hello, Sari!" John called as they approached. He lifted a bundle of magazines tied with string from the back of the wagon. "Miriam's brought practically her whole collection for you to see."

  "Oh, John." Miriam laughed.

  John grinned at her. He glanced at Conor. "Conor, this is my wife, Miriam. Miriam, this is Conor Roarke."

  "Mr. Roarke," Miriam said prettily. "Sari was just telling me you've come all the way from Pennsylva nia.

  "All the way," he admitted, smiling. He glanced at Sari with a warmth that was horribly disconcerting. "But I think it was worth the trip."

  She wanted to strangle him. Especially when Miriam gave her an oblique glance.

  "You can stay for dinner, ja?" Charles asked. "Or at least coffee?"

  "We're going into town," John said, "but I think we can spare a few minutes."

  "Longer than that, I hope," Charles said, slapping John lightly on the back. "And I would like your advice, John, about the fence."

  They went into the soddy, Miriam chattering the entire time, keeping up a constant dialogue that Sari was too distracted to hear. She was too aware of Conor walking behind her, too dismayed by that warm and far too intimate look in the yard. She would never be able to dissuade Miriam from her suspicions now, and she hated that he'd put her in this position, hated that he was interfering in her life—again.

  She poured coffee and chatted with the others, but Conor's presence agitated her. She was constantly aware of him and the way he stood beside her the entire time, reaching around her for the coffee, keeping Miriam and John laughing as he refilled cups. When he and John and Charles finally went outside to talk about the fence, Sari nearly sagged with relief.

  "Now—" Miriam turned from the stove, her black-and-brown print calico skirt waving around her ankles with her quick, bustling step. Her blue eyes were alight with curiosity, but she sat gracefully and deliberately, pulling her skirts around her, smoothing back tendrils of her pale blond hair. "Now, you did promise to tell me everything."

  "There isn't much to tell."

  "Fiddle!" Miriam leaned over the table and pulled aside the fading blue gingham curtain, and Sari felt a quick stab of relief that Conor had already fixed the shattered glass. That relief faded the minute she saw how Miriam's pretty, fragile features tightened as she scr
utinized Conor, who was standing in the yard with John and Charles. "There's a mysterious man staying with you and your uncle, and you tell me he's not important. I don't believe you." Miriam frowned and let the curtain drop back into place. "And not just any man, Sari. Why, he's so handsome—almost as handsome as my John—and he came all the way to Colorado to check on his friend's wife," Miriam said. She peeked again out the window. "I think he came out here to sweep you off your feet."

  "I don't think so," Sari said drily.

  Miriam's small smile was secretive. "Perhaps he has and you don't know it yet. What did you say he does?"

  Sari's hands tightened around her cup. The smell of coffee made her head ache. There was nothing about Conor that Sari wanted her best friend to know. Colorado was her chance to start over, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to know about her past. She had not told Miriam much about her life, preferring the lie of silence to bald dishonesty, preferring the simple illusion that she was a widow who had been deeply in love with her husband. She wanted people to think she was what she wanted to be.

  Sari let her gaze wander again to the window. Conor and Charles stood in the yard, beneath the flanges of the windmill, deep in conversation with Miriam's husband. Though John Graham was a vibrant, darkly handsome man, Sari was sharply aware of how Conor, though not as tall or as broad as John, seemed to dominate him. Then Conor laughed. Sari's heart tightened at the sight of it, at the way his face crinkled in genuine mirth, at the long creases of dimples forming on either side of his face. He used to laugh often and irresistibly, she remembered, but it seemed as if she hadn't seen that side of him in a very long time.

  She tamped down the longing that welled up at the thought and turned away, forcing herself to remember that he was a brutal, uncompromising man. But there was something about his eyes, something that brought back those vibrant memories, that pulled at her even through her anger.

  "You're too quiet," Miriam said suddenly. "You're trying to decide how much to tell me, I can feel it. Well, it won't work. You must tell me everything."