Megan Chance Page 9

  One corner of Conor's mouth lifted. "Sari's not much for fripperies," he said. His eyes twinkled, and Sari was struck with the brief, insane wish that he might care whether she wore silks and satins, that it might matter to him how she looked.

  "It would be nice to touch the smoothness of silk again, eh?" Clancy pushed away from the counter. "Wait here, wait here. Let me show it to you, you won't be able to resist it."

  He disappeared behind the curtains, and Sari bit her lip, staring at the counter. "A silk dress," she said quietly. "It's such a luxury."

  "He's right, you know, you deserve it." Conor's voice was soft, caressing.

  "In the middle of the plains?"

  "There's that Christmas dance to consider."

  "It's so impractical."

  "It would add some color," he teased. "Something besides brown."

  His finger touched her sleeve. Even through the thick wool of her coat, she felt the heat of it, the sure, gentle pressure as he ran his finger down her arm to her elbow. She swallowed, unable to look at him.

  "You'd look beautiful in it, Sari," he whispered. "Let me see you in silk."

  Please, she thought, don't be so kind. She couldn't bear such tender kindness. She pulled away, leaned back just enough so that his hand fell from her sleeve. It was too much like her dreams, the dreams she had once before—first with Evan and then with Conor—and she knew how they ended. They never came true. "I can't buy such a thing."

  "Can't?" he murmured, his eyes hooded. "Or won't? Why are you so afraid of being pretty, Sari?"

  "I'm not afraid," she lied. Her heart felt heavy—lonely and yearning suddenly. She wished she could see the expression in his eyes.

  His jaw tightened, he looked away. "Christ, I could have killed Evan for what he did to you."

  "It wasn't just Evan," she said slowly. The words felt wrenched from her heart, her fingers curled inside the warmth of her gloves. "It wasn't just Evan."

  Her words fell on silence so big, she couldn't breathe for the tension of it.

  "Here we go." Clancy's voice was loud and startling as he returned, his arms filled with a bolt of rich cream fabric shot with gold thread. The green stripes shone nearly black and lustrous in the light. He laid it on the counter proudly. "What did I tell you, Sari? Beautiful, eh?"

  Sari tried to blink away the glaze of tears covering her eyes, tried to garner a weak smile. "Yes," she said dully, not even able to touch the soft, shimmering fabric, hating the sight of it because of what it meant. Because of what she would never have. "But someone else will have to buy it, Mr. Clancy. I can't."

  "But I can."

  Unbelievingly she heard Conor's voice. She looked at him, stiffening, unable to speak or stop him as he laid his money on the counter. It was too calculated, and his smile was too stiff. Instead of gratitude or happiness, she felt a dull disbelief, a painful swelling around her heart. Because she knew why he was buying it, and it had nothing to do with caring about her or wanting her to have fine things. It was blood money, payment for services rendered, a way of assuaging his guilt.

  And she wanted no part of it.

  Sari moved away, walking to the door of the general store with her tears forming a lump in her throat, suddenly knowing that the past was too strong to fight, that she would never be able to forget what he'd done to her—and wishing with all her heart that it was different.

  Chapter 9

  Conor cursed as the trap's sliding door collapsed once again beneath his fingers. He glanced up at the gray snow clouds racing across the sky, covering the sun. Not that the sun would help the cold, he thought drily. He doubted there was a warmth strong enough to ease the wind that beat at his back, stinging through the leather of his coat, dragging at the brim of his hat. It carried ice particles that burned his cheeks whenever he turned his head. His knee was soaking wet where he knelt in the snow.

  He switched knees and tried the trap once again. This time it took only seconds to tangle into a useless mess. Conor's fingers caught in the wooden sticks rigging the sliding door. Angrily he tossed them aside. Damn the stupid trap. What the hell had he been doing, promising to catch a rabbit this week for dinner?

  He got to his feet, shoving back his hat. He'd promised because the suggestion had made her smile. And he'd felt the need to atone after bungling their foray into town so badly.

  He winced at the thought of it. He'd been so caught up in her laughter and teasing that it had been easy to stick to his plan, to seduce her into a false sense of trust, to make her believe in him. It had been too easy. He had forgotten how much he'd truly enjoyed her company in Tamaqua, how the friendship between them—a friendship that had its genesis in lies—had become something more. It was so easy to be with her, so tempting to sit back and tease her, to watch her eyes light in laughter and trust.

  That was what had made him buy the silk—the stupid need to see her smile at him. It had been a huge mistake, he'd known it almost instantly. The act was too intimate, too selfish and shortsighted. But he couldn't seem to think straight around her. The sight of her wide eyes, dark with a sad longing for something as meaningless as a bolt of cloth, had moved him.

  Damn, he wished he hadn't seen the loneliness in her eyes. For a second he understood her, knew why she had betrayed him to save her brother. In the store he'd seen a hint of what life had been like for her in Tamaqua, the life he'd left her with, and he'd been ashamed.

  Now he knew why she'd run away as far as she could. The hell of it was, he didn't want to understand. It was easier just to see her as the enemy, to manipulate her without worrying about her feelings. She was a means to an end, why couldn't he remember that?

  Conor grimaced. He knew why. It was the constant exposure to those deep brown eyes, that winsome smile, the swaying grace of her slender body. He was more affected by his seduction than Sari was. Yes, it was deliberate. Yes, he wanted her to trust him. But he was tormented by his own manipulations. And what made it worse were his memories— memories of the way it felt to make love to her, the way she twisted beneath him and whispered his name in that deep, honeyed voice.

  He closed his eyes briefly, for a moment letting the fire burn painfully inside him. She was only a woman. A woman he'd needed to do a job. He was not alone in that. She had betrayed him as well. They had used each other. It would be best if he remembered that.

  Conor took a deep, calming breath. He glanced back at the mess of a rabbit trap lying on the thin cover of snow. At least there was one thing he could count on. There'd be no rabbit tomorrow—or any other day this week. At least not due to his efforts. He picked up the loose strings and sticks, shoving them into the deep pockets of his duster, and lodged the box under his arm.

  From this short distance the house looked friendly and comfortable. Smoke rose from the stovepipe poking through the gently sloping roof. Late afternoon shadows slanted against the walls, blending Charles's smaller soddy into the darkening grass bricks, making the blades of the windmill rising behind seem stern and forbidding.

  This was a bleak place. Conor glanced at the purplish-gray mountains edging the horizon like a huge wall. He felt tired and depressed; even anger and revenge seemed an effort. The cold wind tore at him, flapping his coat at his knees, biting the exposed parts of his face. Conor speeded his step; his boots crunched and slid on the quickly evaporating layer of snow. Frozen buffalo grass already peeked through the ice; lumpy hillocks had been exposed since yesterday. As he rounded the corner of the soddy, he saw the lamplight slanting from the window.

  He walked past quickly, not daring to look inside, knowing that he'd see Sari and Charles talking animatedly, without the tension that constrained them when he was around. It was a homey, warm place, and the thought filled him with a sudden wistfulness, the quick and unfamiliar wish that he were simply a normal man with a normal life—and not a man ruled by lies and roles. What would it be like to have a job that didn't require hurting innocent people?

  Or watching loved ones die?<
br />
  The thought startled him. He was what he was, and he'd known for a long time that the Pinkerton agency suited him well. He had relatively few talents, but one of them was his ability to mimic accents, to absorb a personality. His childhood had taught him quick thinking and stealthy movement—one did not survive as an orphan on the streets of Chicago without those talents. Violence and lying had been a part of him since he was a child, and he'd never lived without them. Even under Sean Roarke's tender ministrations, Conor had always felt unworthy of the priest's affections, had always known that deep inside he was too filled with demons to let heaven in.

  For a while with his adoptive father Conor had allowed himself to envision a different life. For a time he'd wondered if he was capable of honesty and peace. But those speculations had been short-lived. When he met William Pinkerton, he realized he was born to be a Pinkerton agent. And if there were times now when he wondered if there was something else worth doing, well, they were few and far between. All he had to do was remember his ceiling crashing in around him, the ash floating over his father. That was why he was here, that was reason enough to go on. And as for living a normal life ...

  That was for other people, not for him. It would never be for him.

  Sari squinted out the window, trying to focus on the figures moving over the hill to the farm. She wiped her hands on her apron, frowning when she realized what she was looking at.

  "My God," she said slowly. "Onkle, look who's come."

  Charles glanced up. "Michael?"

  Sari shook her head impatiently as he moved beside her. "No. The neighbors. Oh, Lord, Miri's done it. She's brought them all."

  "A party?" Charles smiled. "Do not worry, Liebling, it is only for fun. You could use such a thing."

  "A party." Sari repeated the words, her heart sinking. What had Miriam been thinking? The last thing Sari wanted was a group of neighbors congregating at their house for two days, asking questions, drawing conclusions. "I can't allow it. I can't. There will be so much talk."

  "You cannot send them away. And you worry too much. There is nothing to fear. You think Roarke will reveal something? He has as much to lose as you."

  He was right, she knew. Conor would say nothing. Hadn't he proven that with Miriam? He wouldn't mention Michael or the Mollies, would mention Evan only in passing. She could trust him that far.

  The thought was comforting even as it frightened her. She had made the decision to trust him, to let him prove to her that he was worth trusting. It was absurd that she was afraid of the speed with which he was proving it.

  She took a deep breath, braving a weak smile. "Well, then," she said briskly. "They'll be here shortly. Where is he?"

  "Roarke? He is in the barn."

  "The barn." Sari threw another glance to the line of wagons moving slowly into view. "Will you get him, Onkle? There's a lot to do."

  She waited until Charles had left the soddy before she scurried around, looking with quiet desperation at the cluttered house. The books that usually comforted her with their closeness now looked dusty, ill kept, crowded. The lovingly made pine rocking chair took up too much room. How was she going to make the space for a party?

  She rushed around, pushing piles of books onto the shelves, trying to shove chairs against the walls. Their legs dragged on the cowhide covering the floor and caught, and Sari was suddenly filled with frustration and depression so strong, she couldn't fight it. Images of other parties filled her mind, parties with dancing and laughter and silly games. Stories and glowing fires and warmth that fought the wet chill of the Tamaqua winters. Then, there'd been no reason to pretend. Nothing to hide. She'd laughed and talked, happy for company. The tables had groaned under the weight of all the food.

  Sari froze. Food. Oh, God, was there enough food? Her uncle's Dutch custom was always to be sure to have seven sweets and seven sours on the table. Less than that was bad luck. Just what she needed. More bad luck. Sari knelt at the pie safe, searching the rows of canned goods on the bottom shelf. Was there any rhubarb jam left? Cherry relish? Had Charles eaten the few jars of pickles she'd brought?

  The door opened. Sari twisted to see Charles and Conor come inside, rubbing their gloved hands against the cold.

  "What are you doing?" Conor asked.

  Sari looked at her uncle. "There isn't enough, Onkle. Not for seven of each."

  Charles grinned. "I think we do not need to worry about that tonight."

  Conor frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  His bewilderment made her smile, and Sari sat back on her heels, relaxing. "Seven sweets and seven sours," she explained. "For company. Or it's bad luck."

  He threw a glance at Charles. "Undoubtedly some strange German custom," he said. "I don't think they'll care. Or even notice. Besides, I'm here to keep bad luck away."

  Sari got to her feet, closing the sideboard doors just as she heard the creaking stop of wagon wheels in the front yard.

  "Then I'll let that be your job," she said. "But I warn you, the curses of my family are nothing to ignore."

  His brows lifted. "I'm familiar with them, believe me.”

  There was no time to wonder about his words.

  "Help me! Help me!" The shrieks of ten-year old Becky Schmacher played havoc with Sari's already frayed nerves. The little girl scrambled across the floor, dodging between Sari and Miriam.

  Miriam frowned. "Whatever—"

  "Aaaaah! I don't have it!" Becky nearly knocked Miriam over in her efforts to elude her pursuing brother. She twisted around Sari, grabbing her skirts to hide behind. "I don't have it!"

  Samuel Schmacher skidded to a halt just before he crashed into Miriam. "You do too! Give it back!"

  "I don't!" Becky buried her face in Sari's hip.

  "Tell him to go away and leave me alone, Mizz Travers!"

  "Becky! Samuel!" Miriam scolded. She stepped back, grasping Samuel's arm to keep him from flailing upon his sister. "Goodness, you two are causing a ruckus." She knelt down until she was at Samuel's level. "What does she have, Samuel?"

  "I don't have it!" Becky objected. Her fingers dug into Sari's hip, her wide eyes peaked from the edge of the fabric.

  Miriam threw her a quick look. "Now, Becky, it's not nice to tease your brother. Where's your ma?"

  "In the barn."

  "Why don't you go and get her, Samuel? Perhaps she can help Becky find what you're looking for."

  Becky dropped Sari's skirts. "No—don't tell Ma." She held out her hand, uncoiling chubby fingers to reveal a well-worn stone. She turned earnest eyes to Sari. "It's Sammy's lucky rock."

  Miriam checked Samuel's hasty grab. "Take it nicely, Samuel. There, that's right. Now, do I have your promise there'll be no more of this screaming?"

  Samuel eyed the ground reluctantly. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Becky?"

  "I didn't—"

  "Becky."

  "Yes, ma'am. Me too."

  "Good." Miriam stood, Sari could almost see her wipe her hands of the Schmacher children. "Go off and play now. Mrs. Travers and I are talking."

  Samuel threw a scathing glance at his sister before he ran back to the other children. Becky came from behind Sari's skirts reluctantly.

  "Do I have to go?"

  The little girl's plaintive tone tugged at Sari's heart. She laid a hand on Becky's light brown curls, smoothing them back. "Why don't you want to go back, Becky?"

  "Sammy'll be mad."

  "You gave back his rock."

  "He'll still be mad. I'd rather stay with you."

  Sari smiled gently. "Mrs. Graham and I will be talking about boring things, Becky. I'll tell you what: Go and play with the others. If Samuel's still mad, you can come back and sit with us for a while. All right?"

  Becky hesitated. "Well—all right."

  Sari watched as the little girl weaved reluctantly across the floor. Within moments she was happily chatting with the other children. Sari glanced up to see a smile caressing Miriam's mouth.

&n
bsp; "You'll be a good mother, Sari."

  Sari frowned slightly. "Maybe. I expect I'll never know."

  "Never know?" Miriam looked scandalized. "Surely you aren't intending to hide away forever? Why, I thought you and Conor—"

  "Miri." Sari warned.

  "Well, I can't help it. He's perfect! And I haven't missed the way he looks at you."

  Sari couldn't help asking. "What way is that?"

  "Like he wants to—" Miri paused, blushing furiously, then went on eagerly. "Like he wants to drink up your very soul." She sighed. "It's so romantic."

  Drink her soul. Sari smiled grimly. The words were apt—Miriam didn't realize how much so. Conor had never been content with just her body.

  Sari looked out the window again, searching for him despite herself. It was becoming easy—too easy—to forget that he was the same man who had used her to gain his own ends.

  "What do you keep looking for?" Miriam peered around her. "Is Isabel making a fool of herself again?"

  "No. I'm just looking." Sari fidgeted with the pies gathered on the sideboard, pushing a dried apple one here, a custard one there.

  "Oh, leave those be. They're fine." Miri edged closer, her blue eyes sparkling. She lowered her voice. "Did I tell you Adelaide Pierce is expecting again? That's why she's not here tonight—she was afraid the drive would hurt the baby, though she's not even due for another seven months. Goodness knows where these city women get their ideas! Why, I'll bet she's lying abed right now, making Edward do all the chores."

  Sari laughed. Miriam's chatter was infectious. "The drive is long, Miri."

  "Long? Why, it's hardly more than ten miles from their place!" Miriam lowered her voice. "Look at Mary Anderson over there—seven months along if she's a day. She was more excited than anyone to get out here."

  Sari slanted a glance at the obviously pregnant woman sitting in the rocker. Mary Anderson fanned her flushed face with a magazine, punctuating her conversation with emphatic pulses of the makeshift fan.