Megan Chance Page 7

  "Thank you." It took all her will to force the words out.

  "Does it still hurt?"

  "Yes."

  He leaned closer. "Is there anything I can do to make it feel better?"

  Yes. Oh yes, there was. Sari felt her eyes closing despite herself, felt herself moving forward, caught in that heady spell of desire and yearning. Just one more inch. One inch would be all it would take to send her crashing into his arms—

  She jerked back, her eyes flying open. She dragged her wounded hand back into her lap. "No." She said, stumbling over the word in her haste, getting to her feet. "No."

  She heard the scrape of his chair, his slow, heavy footsteps as he moved across the floor. She'd thought he was heading toward the door, but suddenly there he was, his hands gripping her shoulders gently, turning her around. She stiffened as he drew her close.

  "Trust me, love," he whispered. She felt his light kiss on her forehead, the warm brush of his lips across her cheek. "Sleep well."

  His hands dropped. Sari sagged against the wall. She watched his broad shoulders, the clean, spare movement of his hips as he crossed the floor.

  And she felt the cold rush of air as he disappeared into the prairie night.

  It was working. Conor crossed his arms beneath his head and laid back against his saddlebags, closing his eyes against the darkness and the night rustlings of the animals. He told himself that her responses tonight were exactly what he wanted. He'd seen her hesitation, had seen vulnerability in those dark brown eyes, heard it in her voice. He'd known, at that last moment, that he could have kissed her and she would have let him. She was starting—if not to trust him again, then at least to accept him. Everything was going the way he'd planned.

  He told himself he should be satisfied.

  But there was a churning in his gut and a nagging reminder in his head, the reminder that Sari wasn't the only one affected by tonight. Much as he wanted to, Conor couldn't deny that when she had smiled, he'd felt it clear into his soul, and when he'd seen that hesitant vulnerability in her face, it had done something to his heart he still didn't quite understand.

  Despite himself, those things had brought back memories. Memories of sitting with Sari on her porch swing, talking while her husband and the other boys played cards inside. Memories of teasing her into laughter as they walked down the street, of dancing with her at a miner's dance and seeing the becoming flush in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. Memories of snatched conversations and fumbling, hurried kisses.

  He had missed those things, he realized. In spite of everything, he had missed them. The knowledge made him uncomfortable. He thought he had put all that behind him, thought it had been buried in brick dust and splintered wood. But then, she had been in his life for two years. She had been the only person he trusted. He supposed those things were hard to simply put aside. It was natural to miss her. It was natural to regret those days were gone.

  And now that he'd admitted that, he could get on with his plans.

  Conor winced at the brutality of the thought, but it was true and he couldn't deny it. Missing Sari had nothing to do with now. Wanting her still only made his job easier. He had to keep himself from being drawn in, had to treat her as a means to an end and nothing more. When she looked at him with vulnerability in her eyes, he had to be sure it didn't bring back memories of those days in Tamaqua. When she smiled at him, it would be best to forget those other smiles. He was using her, and he couldn't forget that. Not even for a moment.

  He could not care about her. He didn't want to care. And so he wouldn't. It was that easy.

  That easy.

  He ignored the chill the words cast around his heart.

  Chapter 7

  Sari bent over her mending, concentrating on the flash of her needle in the dim lamplight, her lips pursed as she worked to make the stitches small and neat. It was a difficult thing to achieve tonight, her hands were trembling so.

  '"Alas, they had been friends in youth; but whispering tongues can poison truth.' "

  His voice moved over her skin like honey, the whiskey-rough sound of it shaping Coleridge's words into secret meanings and subtle seductions. Her burned palm throbbed in time to his cadence.

  He should be an actor, she thought, marveling at the ease with which he formed the words and worked the rhythms. But then, he was an actor, she reminded herself. Strangely the grim thought didn't help distance her from his words. It had been a horrible idea to let him read. She blamed her uncle for suggesting it, though she had agreed readily enough. But how could she have known Conor would pick Coleridge—why should she suspect that he would even know the most romantic of the poet's stories?

  Christabel. It had been her favorite as a young, romantic girl. A foolish girl, she amended quickly.

  The thread snagged, and Sari yanked it free impatiently, too preoccupied to care whether she snagged the worn fabric. She stopped for a moment, trying to calm her emotions, but that voice of his wrapped around her nerves. The harder she struggled against him, the harder it was to escape. He tore down all her fences before she even had time to erect them.

  It was becoming harder every day to remind herself of what Conor Roarke had been, what he had done to her. He'd said it was only a job, that it had only been an act. In a way that was what she wanted to hear. She wanted to know that he'd callously set out to break her, to use her.

  Then there was last night.

  The memory rose easily in her mind. Trust me, love. Those words, and his admission of deceit, affected her strangely, filling her with an odd desire to ask him questions, to learn about him all over again, to know what kind of man Conor Roarke was and how he felt. Was it honesty she sensed now, or was it simply that crushed gravel voice that lulled her, that made her yearn to trust him all over again?

  He finished the poem. The sudden silence seemed to fill the very corners of the small room.

  "You read very well." Charles's quiet voice was startling.

  "Thank you." Conor said.

  Sari felt his gaze on her, and reluctantly she met his eyes. "You do read well," she conceded.

  "Sari should know." Charles grinned. "It is her favorite poem."

  "Christabel?"

  Sari nodded. Her throat felt tight and swollen. "I used to love it."

  "Used to?" Conor prompted.

  She glanced away, trying to control the butterflies chasing through her stomach. "There are more important things now than poems that are so—"

  "Romantic?"

  "I wouldn't have used that word."

  "No, of course you wouldn't." He smiled, flipping through the warped, water-stained pages. "Shall I read another?"

  Charles grinned. "No more poetry tonight, ja? Let us just talk. It has been long enough since we have done that."

  "Talk?" Conor closed the book with a mild thump, his eyes shining with challenge.

  "Perhaps that's not stimulating enough for our guest, Onkle," Sari said. "Our company must be dull after the excitement of Chicago."

  "Chicago has a certain drama," Conor agreed, his lips quirking in a half smile. "But I find Colorado stimulating enough."

  Sari swallowed. It was useless. She didn't have the concentration to watch every word she said. She balled the half-mended shirt in her lap and stuffed it back into her sewing bucket.

  She looked to her uncle, but Charles was ignoring them both, either not understanding Conor's double entendre or choosing not to comment on it. Charles rose from his chair; the rocker creaked back and knocked against the wall. He stretched as he went to the window. "It is a cold night out there," Charles mused softly. "It is very different from home."

  Sari caught his wistfulness. "Tamaqua was freezing," she said.

  "Not like here. The wind does not bite in Tamaqua as sharply as it does here."

  "Do you miss it?" Conor's voice was warm.

  Charles glanced over his shoulder. His face seemed more lined than usual, and she saw the memories in his eyes. "Nein." He sighed
. "Nein, I do not miss it. This place has its own beauty. I wish Bernice could see it."

  "She was a fine woman," Conor said softly. "I was sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral."

  "I know, Roarke." Charles focused on the clear, starlit sky beyond the soddy. "The telegram you sent was enough."

  Sari said nothing, too saddened by Charles's memories and her own to trust herself. She was surprised by the genuine grief in Conor's voice. Her aunt Bernice had liked Conor when he was Jamie O'Brien. "He is a good man," she'd said the first time she met him.

  The sadness of loss welled in Sari's heart. A good man. Bernice had never had such kind words for Evan. She had never been comfortable around Sari's husband. But it was different with the Pinkerton spy. Sari remembered her aunt's laughter as she traded sallies with Conor, her flushed face when he told her one of his ribald jokes.

  Yes, her aunt had felt a definite affection for Conor, and it had been easy to see that he returned the sentiment. It was easy to see now.

  "They told me she'd caught a fever."

  "Like the one that killed her sister, Mabel—Sari's mother." Charles sighed. "The family is mostly gone now." He turned, focusing on Conor with bright eyes. "Have you brothers and sisters, Roarke?"

  "No."

  The word speared through Sari, reminding her of last night.

  "You were an only child." Charles nodded thoughtfully. "I have always thought an only child would be lonely."

  "You don't miss what you never had." Conor looked down at the book in his hands.

  His bleakness was like a shield. For a moment Sari felt the palpable cloak of his desolation as intently as anything she'd ever felt. And with it came that longing again, the yearning to know who he was, how he felt.

  "Surely there were other children to play with," she prompted.

  The bleakness was gone—so suddenly, she wondered if she'd imagined it. Conor looked up, his eyes as inscrutable as ever. "My childhood was the same as anyone else's," he said—a well-rehearsed answer, a lie she recognized.

  "I see." She licked her lips. "I think I understand. Does William Pinkerton caution all his operatives against telling their secrets?"

  His glance was guarded. "It's a good habit to get into when you never know who your friends are."

  Sari caught her breath. "At least we know where we stand, then."

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then got to his feet, setting the large book down on a crate table. "I think it's time to say good night," he said heavily, swiping a hand through his hair, spiking it. "It's getting late."

  Sari rose as well, taking a step forward. "I see you're not willing to take your own advice."

  His eyes were sharp. "I don't know what you mean."

  "You wanted me to trust you, you wanted to be friends. But friends don't hide themselves from one another."

  Across the room Charles motioned for her to be silent. "Leave the man be, Liebling. He is tired tonight, and I would welcome a little peace."

  "As you wish, Onkle." Sari stepped back, turning to the stove. "Good night, then."

  "Good night."

  She waited until she heard Conor's footsteps cross the floor, until the door was shoved tight again against the elements, before she turned back to face her uncle.

  "You keep defending him, Onkle," she said softly. "Why is that?"

  Charles shook his head. "You do not understand."

  "No, I don't," she agreed. "I don't understand. You know how I feel about him, you know what he did to me, to Evan. And yet you act as if it doesn't matter to you."

  "That is not true," Charles said wearily. He walked to the table and sagged into a chair. "He is our best hope, Sarilyn. He can protect us against them."

  "So that's it?" Sari asked carefully. "You're afraid of the sleepers? Of Michael?"

  Charles nodded. "Ja."

  She laughed shortly. "Onkle, you are a poor liar. Why don't you just admit that you think I'm wrong? You think I should forgive him, that I should take him back into my life as though he never did anything wrong."

  "Nein, I do not think that!" Charles shook his head vehemently. "Roarke was wrong to hurt you so. I do not deny this. But you are wrong to think he cannot change. You are like—" He struggled for the words."He cannot make you happy because you will not let him."

  "I can't help it, Onkle. I don't trust him."

  "Then let him prove he can be trusted. Do not refuse to let him try." Charles smiled gently. "You loved him once, Liebling. Sometimes love hurts, eh? You do not think your Tante and I did not have bad times?" He shook his head sadly. "There were times when I hurt her as badly as Roarke hurt you. Times I will always regret."

  Sari took a deep breath. "I don't know if I even have it in me to try," she said. "Sometimes the memories are so strong ..."

  "I doubt you are the only one who feels that way."

  "You think he feels sorry?" She asked bitterly. "I don't believe it."

  "And because you will not believe it, you make it so." Charles sighed in exhaustion. "Give him the chance to show you he is not the same man. Show him the woman he fell in love with."

  "Fell in love with? He has never loved me."

  "He did in Tamaqua." Charles disagreed. "He does now."

  "He's told you this?"

  "I am not blind. Not yet."

  "Then your eyesight is fading quickly. Conor Roarke used me. I was a way to avert suspicion."

  "In the beginning, ja."

  "That poem turned your brain to scrapple, Onkle," she shook her head. "If I wasn't listening to you myself, I wouldn't believe you've said these things."

  "The day will come." He waggled a finger at her. "The day will come when you will see I am right."

  "You've missed your calling," she softened. "You'd be better suited as a Wahrsager, telling fortunes for a nickel."

  "You are hard-hearted, Liebling." Charles rose, the smile in his eyes belying his harsh words. "You are little better than a fishwife, but I bless the day you came to us."

  "So do I, Onkle." Sari smiled. "So do I."

  Her uncle's words spun in her mind, a ceaseless rhythm Sari could not ignore or deny. "He cannot make you happy because you will not let him...."

  She no longer knew what to think. What if her uncle was right? She'd been telling herself for months that she wanted an apology, wanted Conor to regret what he'd done—what he'd forced her to do. Well, he'd apologized, and try as she might, she saw no lies in his eyes. What else did she want? Why couldn't she just accept that he was a fallible man who'd been caught in a bad situation? Why couldn't she believe that he'd returned to make amends, to protect her? Why couldn't she let her anger die?

  Because it was safer to keep it alive. Sari stared at the ceiling, at the cotton muslin that swayed in the air wafting beneath the eaves. Forgiving was not the same as forgetting, and she couldn't forget the things she'd done for Jamie O'Brien. The things she hadn't done.

  She knew too well her weaknesses when it came to this one man. In Tamaqua she'd wanted him so badly, she'd deceived herself. She hadn't seen the signs, though they hadn't been hidden. She'd told herself that she and Jamie had a future, that he was simply trying to work out what to do about Evan. She'd even told herself that he loved her, though he'd never said the words, never even alluded to them.

  Everything between them had been a lie. Sari closed her eyes against the sudden onslaught of pain. It had been a lie, and deep inside she'd known it all the time. She'd fought the truth then, had refused to look at herself. She'd just fallen deeper and deeper under his spell.

  Just as she found herself falling now. Little by little he was chipping away at her anger, replacing it with memories of kisses and caresses, of heady passion and unbearable joy.

  She didn't want to feel those things. She wanted to remember the anger, to remember how she'd felt when she realized he was the traitor, when she'd had only days to make a decision that had meant the lives of her husband, her brother, her friends.

  The n
ight was hushed. Even the wind had died away. It was snowing; she could tell by the muffled quiet, the peace that seemed to settle around her. She wondered what Conor was doing. Was he awake, listening as she was? In the dead of night did he ever think about the past? Did he regret anything at all?

  Sari squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could read his mind, needing the reassurance of certainty. She wanted to know if Conor Roarke was a man worth trusting, worth sacrificing for. Jamie O'Brien had not been.

  But Charles seemed to think Conor was. He'd never liked Evan. Her quick-tempered Irish husband had been too arrogant—more like a spoiled child than a man. And if nothing else, Conor was a man. In spite of everything, there was a sense of solidity about him, of security. In the last few days Sari had felt the change in her uncle, a lessening of tension over having another man about to keep the farm— and her—safe.

  She had to admit that she felt more secure as well. For some reason she felt able to depend on Conor, though she had no idea why it might be so. She had more cause to distrust him than to feel safe around him.

  Sari turned her face into the pillow. Maybe her uncle was right. Maybe it was time to stop the torment. She had suffered enough for Evan Travers, for Michael. Surely it was time to pick up the pieces, to start healing. After all, it was why she'd moved to Colorado, why she'd left everything she knew and loved.

  And perhaps, just perhaps, it was time to give Conor Roarke a chance.

  Chapter 8

  Conor sat at the table in the soddy listening to the sounds of morning: the coffee percolating, the crackling spit of the fire. Nothing else, no human sounds. He was alone. Finally.

  He glanced over his shoulder, knowing the moment was too fleeting to last. Sari was milking the cows, and Charles was repairing a harness. Either one could step in at any moment. But still he sat there, thinking of yesterday, of Sari's sad eyes just before he'd stepped out into the cold. Such sad eyes...

  The image made him feel guilty for what he was about to do, and Conor fought the feeling and lumbered to his feet with a sigh. He told himself that Sari's sadness was well deserved. He could not afford to feel compassion. He couldn't afford to feel anything.