Megan Chance (10 page)

"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."

H
er 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 night 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.

C
onor 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.

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.

S
ari 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?"

"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."