Megan Chance Page 8

  The thought renewed his purpose; without hesitation Conor went to one of the trunks against the wall and lifted the heavy curved lid.

  It was filled with books. Conor's heart sank in frustration, but he lifted them quickly, his fingers growing dusty as he flipped through volumes about farming, religion, mythology. How the hell did Sari find so much time to read? He frowned, hastily leafing through each one and dropping it to the side. More important, why had she and Charles hauled so many of them cross-country? Had she expected to spend the rest of her life in well-read isolation?

  The thought depressed him, primarily because he knew it was probably true. Sari was a private person, a woman who preferred her own company. If no one stopped her, Conor knew she would lock herself away from the world, never knowing pain or regret or happiness.

  He jammed shut the lid and turned to the other trunk, not bothering to analyze the anger that assailed him at the thought.

  "Damn!" He swore quietly, fumbling through the layers of wool blankets that filled the second trunk. There were no letters there, and time was passing quickly. She would be back soon, or Charles would—

  The door opened. Conor leaped to his feet, wincing as the trunk lid slammed shut. He grabbed a book from the bookshelf, pretending to study it avidly while he struggled to calm himself. He turned slowly, as if preoccupied with his study, to see Sari close the door with her hip.

  "Oh, hello," she said breathlessly, depositing a pail of fresh milk on the table. "I wondered why I didn't hear you in the barn this morning."

  "I was up early," he explained. "I decided to take a walk."

  She offered him a tentative smile. "I always love the first snow. It makes me feel so—so good. As if all the ugly things in the world are covered up."

  There was something different about her this morning. Her face was red and shiny from the frigid air, her eyes sparkled with good humor. He tried to remember the last time he'd seen the quick spontaneity of her smile, heard her ready laughter. It occurred to him that he'd seen far too little of it. When was the last time he'd seen her happy?

  It was discomforting how much he wanted to keep the expression on her face now. "It just feels cold to me," he said, pushing the book back into place. "When I woke up this morning, my clothes were standing by themselves—hell, my lips were frozen to the blanket. Right now I'm doing everything I can to pretend I'm in Mexico."

  Sari's answering chuckle made him warmer than any fire. She lifted off her bonnet to reveal her mussed chignon and shrugged out of the too-large wool coat. Unconsciously she rubbed the bandage covering her hand.

  "How's your hand?"

  "Better." She shrugged.

  "Better? Who milked the cows this morning? You or Charles?"

  A strange expression lit her deep brown eyes. "I did, of course."

  "You shouldn't have," he scolded, startled at how the thought of her struggling with the injured hand bothered him. "You should have asked me to do it."

  Her eyes lit with surprise—or was it pleasure? "Can you milk a cow?"

  "Of course."

  She laughed. "I'll bet you've never even tried."

  "How hard can it be?"

  "Not hard at all," she teased. "Until Elsa senses you've never touched a cow in your life. Then I'm sure she'll protest."

  "Elsa," he repeated slowly. "I suppose that's the cow's name."

  Her brows rose in mock surprise. "You mean you don't know? After all those nights sleeping with them, you never bothered to learn their names?"

  "I didn't know cows cared if they had names."

  "And I thought you didn't know anything about livestock. Or is that some other secret you've kept from me all this time?" She took a step toward him until they were both standing by the stove. She smelled like cold prairie air and warm milk. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were red, and Conor had a sudden, fierce desire to take her in his arms and kiss away the color.

  "Well?" she prompted, her eyes sparkling.

  "I had to spend the night with a bunch of cows in a boxcar once. Will that do?"

  "You did?"

  "Yeah." He leaned back against the wall, saw the way her breath caught at his movement. That soft catch sank into his stomach. He swallowed. "We were pursuing rustlers at the time."

  "For Pinkerton?"

  He nodded. "We infiltrated the gang—I played cattle rustler for a few months."

  "You must have been a very bad one."

  He laughed. "Very bad."

  The door opened again, bringing a rush of cold wind and Charles. Conor stepped back almost guiltily. He felt a swift disappointment, and his gut clenched when he saw Sari's quick reserve. The joking was over, the brief interlude was ended. He 'was irritated to realize how much he'd wanted it to go on.

  "Guten Tag, Roarke." Charles smiled. "Liebling, the wagon is ready. Are you?"

  Conor frowned. "Wait a minute. The wagon's ready—for what?"

  "We're going into town," Sari said, brushing past him. "I've butter ready to be shipped to Denver. We go in every two weeks to sell it."

  "Butter?" Conor asked, confused. "Why the hell didn't you tell me about this little trip?" He directed his glare at Charles, who frowned.

  "Did you not tell him, Sarilyn?"

  She glanced over her shoulder, reaching again for her wool coat. "I must have forgotten."

  "Surely you can't mean to go without me?" Conor asked.

  "Would you let us?"

  "No."

  "We would not have gone alone," Charles assured him. The old man threw a chastising look at his niece.

  "Of course not," Sari said, opening the door. Her full lips curved in a slight smile. "I go nowhere without my knight in shining armor."

  She disappeared outside, leaving Conor to stare after her. For a moment the morning floated before him like a strange illusion. Things had changed somehow, but it was a welcome change, better than her sadness or her accusations. For a moment she was like the old Sari again, the woman who had laughed and smiled with him, who had welcomed his arms and his kisses, and he found himself wanting to play along. It was a relief to be rid of the tension, he told himself, and that was all he let himself think as he grabbed his coat and followed Charles out of the soddy.

  Sari jumped down from the wagon, her boots exploding the powdery snow into puffy clouds where she walked. She tugged at the deep collar buttoned against her lips. Her breath had frosted the wool, but she ignored the discomfort, too enchanted by the newly white-covered world to care.

  She glanced back at the two men climbing down from the seats; their talk was quiet and deep as they took care of the horses. Conor was hunched against the wind, his hat low over his face, his collar fastened high. As if he felt her scrutiny, he looked up, and though she couldn't see his mouth, she knew he was smiling.

  The thought brought a strange, giddy tingle into her stomach and Sari turned away quickly, feeling the hot flush of awareness creep up her cheeks. She stiffened instinctively, then forced herself to relax. Last night she'd made the decision to be honest about what she felt for him, to put aside her anger long enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Today's snow had made it easy to be benevolent, but Sari wondered how much of that feeling was due to the day—and how much was due to the sheer magnetism of Conor Roarke. God knew it was difficult to keep fighting him. Difficult to continue to ignore the gentleness in the way he handed Charles a cup of coffee after a long day, or in the way he'd doctored her burn and asked after it as though her health were somehow important to him.

  "Where do we go now?" Conor spoke from behind her, and Sari jumped slightly as his voice invaded her thoughts. She turned to see him hefting two trays of molded butter from the wagon bed.

  "To Clancy's," she said, pointing ahead to the row of buildings that made up the tiny town. Their blistered gray sides lined a street that was nothing more than ruts cut into the mud. "Right there."

  He squinted in the direction of her finger. "Clancy's?"
r />   "The store." Charles nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. "There is one, trust me."

  "If you say so."

  Charles laughed at the doubt in Conor's voice. "It does not look like much, but there is a Grange hall as well. It is enough for us."

  "It's nothing like Chicago," Sari teased. "No dance hall girls, no fancy shops—"

  "Why, Sari, I'm surprised you know about dance hall girls," Conor said with a smile.

  She grinned back at him. "I'm a coal miner's wife. I'd have to be blind not to know about them."

  "As you say." He brushed by her, carrying the trays of butter without effort, and his voice was low as he bent close. "But you're not a coal miner's wife. Not anymore."

  He was past her before she had time to react, but his words hovered around her ear; she felt the warmth of his breath against her skin, the heat of his quick annoyance. He'd only gone a few feet when he turned around and stopped, watching her, waiting for her as the wind whipped his duster around his legs.

  Her uncle's chuckle surprised her as he walked to her side. "You had best go after him, Liebling, before he gets lost."

  "As if he could get lost in Woodrow."

  "Go on," he said, giving her a slight push. "I am going to the saloon. Mrs. Landers has some stories to tell me today."

  "But—"

  "I will meet you back here, Liebling."

  He started off, his cheerful whistling piercing the cold air, his breath a frozen cloud. Throwing one last glance at her disappearing uncle, Sari lifted her skirts and hurried toward Conor.

  Woodrow was quiet today; the crunching of a few wagon wheels and cheerful hellos were the only sounds that floated on the dry, frigid air. Sari shielded her eyes, needing more than the protection of her bonnet to keep from squinting. The bright but ineffectual sun glittered on the snow until it sparkled like crushed diamonds.

  "So," he said when she grew nearer. "Where is this 'Clancy's' anyway? And where did Charles go?"

  "He's off to visit his friend Mrs. Landers." Sari fell into step beside him. "Every time we come into town, he has to pay her a visit. She's a terrible gossip.”

  Conor's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know Charles listened to gossip."

  "He says he doesn't." She smiled. "He says he only goes because she's lonely and it makes her happy when he visits." Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "But I think he likes to hear her talk, though he wouldn't be caught dead passing it on. Besides, she sometimes has cherry pie. It's his favorite."

  "Cherry pie," he mused, shuffling the trays in his hands. "I've forgotten what that tastes like. The last time I had it was—" He stopped abruptly.

  Sari felt the wall go up, his expression shuttered. She glanced at him curiously. "The last time you had it—?" she prompted.

  He gave her a smile; it seemed oddly forced. "Your aunt Bernice," he said. "I ate it with her last." But though the words were easy and casual, Sari sensed a lie. She tensed in sudden wariness. It was there again, this hiding, this something he didn't want her to know. What was it?

  Sari turned away. She hurried her step until she reached Clancy's General Store. There, on the torn planking of the narrow porch, she paused. She swiveled on one foot to face Conor. She wanted to forget, she wanted to be able to believe him, to forgive him. "It's such a beautiful day," she said evenly. "Do you think we could be kind to each other?"

  His gaze was inscrutable, his ice-blue eyes nearly froze her with their emptiness. But his voice was warm, vibrating with a tension that pierced her heart. "I want nothing more than to be kind to you, Sari," he said softly. "It's the reason I came here." He stepped onto the porch and walked past her to grab the door. It swung wide, and a string of bells jangled.

  Sari took a deep breath and went through the door. She paused to breathe in the melange of odors—dried fish and smoked meats; the rich, mellow aroma of tobacco and coffee; the dusty smell of spice. Conor went up to the counter and set down her trays of butter. Almost proudly, she thought, the sight dispelling her tension. Almost as if he had a right to be proud.

  Then she noticed the curious glances of the other people in the large room. The three men huddled around the stove in the corner had stopped talking; the women comparing fabric turned to stare. Sari's heart beat rapidly, her pulse fluttered as she dodged the barrels lining the floor and hurried to the counter. She felt Conor's eyes on her as she gripped the edge of the scarred board and leaned over it.

  "Mr. Clancy!" she called, feeling the edge of panic, even though she knew it was absurd. It was too familiar—all these staring eyes. Too much like Tamaqua, though it was innocent curiosity here. Nothing more. Not those rigid, condemning expressions or the stares that called her a traitor—

  Conor's hand curled around hers. The touch was warm and comforting. He squeezed her rigid knuckles gently, and Sari stared up at him.

  "It's all right, love," he whispered, his voice like molasses over her frayed nerves. "Relax."

  He understood. The knowledge was too frightening to believe. Sari tore her hand from his, trying to still the rapid-fire beating of her heart, trying to pretend he hadn't known, that her terror was still her secret. She scanned the room. "Where is Mr. Clancy?"

  "He's around back." One of the women near the bolts of fabric spoke quietly, but her dark eyes were bright with curiosity. Sari's heart fell. Thelma Abbott. The woman was a bigger gossip than Audra Landers.

  Sari couldn't help the thinning of her lips. "Hello, Thelma."

  "It's nice to see you, Sari. You haven't been in town lately." Thelma's nearsighted squint lit on Conor. Sari could almost see the wheels turning in the woman's head.

  She introduced them, then stifled a smile when Conor dropped Thelma's proffered hand as quickly as politely possible.

  "I'd heard there was someone staying at your farm, Sari," Thelma twittered, fidgeting at the wide bow of her sunbonnet. "No one told me it was—are you a relative, Mr. Roarke?"

  "I'm an old friend of the family."

  "Oh?" Thelma's smile was brittle with curiosity. "From—where was it, Sari?—Pennsylvania, wasn't it? I imagine the rest of the family is quite worried about our Sari, out here in the wilderness. I'm not surprised they sent you out to check on her."

  Sari jumped in quickly, before Conor could answer. "Mr. Roarke was out this way, on business."

  Conor went on smoothly. "I thought I'd stop and see how Mrs. Travers and her uncle were getting on.”

  Thelma arched her brows. Already Sari could imagine Thelma's gossipy words. "Sari Travers is keeping company with a man—he's living at her farm. Why, it's hardly proper...." Despite herself Sari's cheeks felt heated.

  "Will you be staying in Woodrow long, Mr. Roarke?"

  Conor was saved from answering by the rustling of the calico curtains behind the counter. A short, balding man with a thick gray beard pushed aside the material. His arms were filled with bolts of cloth.

  "Here you are, Mrs. Abbott," he puffed good-naturedly, plunking the heavy fabrics onto the counter and wiping his shining forehead with the back of his hand. "Like I told you, I've got no yellows in, but I'm expecting a shipment soon from Julesburg. If you find nothing you like today—"

  Thelma sighed dramatically. She wrinkled her nose at the selection before her. "It looks like I'll have to go into Denver after all."

  "Mr. Clancy." Sari interrupted Thelma's posturings impatiently. "When you have a moment..

  Clancy smiled. "I've got a moment right now, Sari." He glanced quickly at Thelma. "Since it looks like Mrs. Abbott's going into Denver."

  Thelma lifted her chin haughtily. "Well, I may not go.”

  "Ah, now, don't let me talk you into doing something you don't want to do," Mr. Clancy said amiably. "I won't have any of my customers saying I forced them into buying something."

  "But I—"

  "Now, now, Mrs. Abbott," Clancy shook his head. "I'll just go ahead and wait on Sari here, and when I'm done, if you're still interested, you just call me over."

 
; Sari looked at the counter, trying to hide her grin as Thelma huffed and flounced off to the stove to corral her husband.

  "Thank the Lord," Clancy murmured. He leaned forward, his beefy hands resting on the rough wood. "You're a pretty sight today, Sari. What can I do for you?"

  Sari smiled. "Mr. Clancy, this is Conor Roarke."

  "I'm a friend of the family," Conor said with an ease that made Sari's heart jump. "Just checking up on Sari."

  "Well, I don't mind telling you it makes me feel better to see another man at that place." Clancy nodded approvingly. "No telling what trouble's way out there." He pulled the trays of butter toward him, lifting the cheesecloth off the firm, molded cakes. "Looks lovely as usual, Sari. I've got some money for you—"

  "Apply it to our account," Sari interrupted. "There are some things I need as well."

  "I don't suppose one of those things would be a new dress, would it?" Clancy asked hopefully.

  She hesitated. "I don't think so."

  Clancy pushed the trays aside and leaned over the counter persuasively. "I'm telling you, girl, I got in some fabric yesterday that made me think of you. I kept it aside just in case you'd be interested. A lovely color, cream with dark green stripes." He pursed his lips appreciatively. "It would look beautiful on you."

  "Stripes?" Sari laughed, trying to hide the fact that she was tempted. It had been a long time since she'd had anything pretty, and the evening she'd spent with Conor poring over the Godey's Lady's Book had only made her wish for things she couldn't have, such as silk gowns and ribbons and a man who wanted to wrap her in them.

  She sighed, trying unsuccessfully to keep wistfulness from her voice. "It sounds far too fancy for me, Mr. Clancy."

  "Now, girl, I know it isn't practical, but Christmas is coming. Thought you might want a nice silk dress."

  "For what? Imagine how silly I'd look parading around the soddy in something like that."

  "Mr. Roarke, help me persuade her," Clancy pleaded, spreading his big hands. "Tell this pretty lady that she needs a fine dress for the Christmas dance this year."