Megan Chance (2 page)

She walked around the corner.

He did nothing for a moment, though she sensed she'd surprised him. Then he walked toward her, his head down against the wind, hands fisted to protect them from the chill. The cold blew against her, molding her skirt to her legs, spinning tendrils of her hair from her chignon.

His step seemed eager. Sari frowned. He should be hesitating, wary, ready to beg for forgiveness. Dammit, he should be
crawling
.

He stepped up to her, and Sari backed away as he looked at her from the thin opening between his hat and collar.

"Hello, love."

A shiver of shock ran through her at the familiar greeting. The voice was the same. Thin, raspy, quiet. But it was different too. The Irish brogue was gone, another fiction he'd discarded when his "job" was done.

Fury washed over her with such virulence, she was afraid she'd faint. She dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand. "Get the hell off my land."

"Sari—" He moved toward her, pausing when Sari recoiled sharply. "Dammit, Sari—wait—"

"Do you think I'm joking?" she managed. "Do I have to get a rifle to prove I'm not?"

She saw his sudden, whip-taut tension, but before she had the chance to feel any satisfaction, he leaned back on his heels, pushing his hat back on his head to reveal his eyes, to show the slow, charming smile curving his full lips. "It's good to see you haven't lost your spirit."

It was all an act. A horrible one. All the more horrible because, for a split second, she had started to respond to that familiar charm. Sari stiffened. "Get off my land."

"Not just yet." The smile died, she saw a flicker of anger cross his face. "I haven't come all this way just to turn around."

"Oh? Why have you come, then? You should know you're not welcome."

"We have some things to talk about."

"We do?"

"Yes."

She took two short steps to the front door and grasped the handle. "Talk to yourself."

She wasn't quick enough. He was beside her in a moment, slamming his gloved hand against the door so hard it thudded against the sod, sending dirt pebbling from the walls.

Sari turned back to him. "What do you want from me, Jamie? What more could you possibly want?"

"My name's Conor."

"Conor?" She wanted to spit in his face. The name was a reminder of everything about him she wanted to forget. "Oh yes, the notorious Conor Roarke. For now, anyway. Tomorrow it will be a different name." She locked her eyes with his, letting her hatred shine in her glare. "Won't it?"

His jaw tensed. "It might." He bit off the words. "It's my job, Sari."

She crossed her arms over her chest, lifting her chin in challenge. "Every day a different name, a different betrayal. Tell me, how do you sleep at night?"

His eyes were inscrutable. "I don't doubt I deserve some of your anger. But that's not why I'm here. I need to talk to you."

Sari eyed him warily. "Talk, then."

"Not like this." He motioned to the doorway. "Ask me in."

"To ask you in implies that you're welcome here. Nothing could be farther from the truth."

"I won't misinterpret the words, then," he said with a smile. Too charming. Too familiar. Sari opened the door and nodded for him to enter. He ducked his head under the low doorway, stopping just inside, and she saw his surprise in the second before he could hide it.

For a moment she saw the small house as he saw it, and she felt a wave of embarrassment. The sod was all they had for house building on these plains, and she had done the best she could to make the makeshift dwelling a home. The dirt walls were plastered with the pinkish clay from the creek beds, and pages from magazines and newspapers were pasted edge to edge across them in a dismal attempt at wallpaper. The pages curled against the damp of the sod bricks, mold seeped through the words. The ceiling above her loft bedroom was covered with cotton to keep the dirt from falling from the roof, and the well-made, simply decorated pine furniture she'd brought from Tamaqua crowded the room. But none of her efforts disguised what it was. A dirt house, a house for someone who could not afford wood on these plains.

He was as responsible for that as she was. The thought added fuel to her anger. "What is it you want, Co—?" She stopped mid-word, unable to bring herself to say his name, the hard syllables stuck in her throat.

He glanced up at the darkened loft. "Where's Charles?"

"Leave him out of this."

"For Christ's sake, Sari—"

"He's borne enough because of you. I won't have him bothered."

Conor's eyes flashed. "This is important."

"Another matter of life or death?" She jeered. "Another lie? Damn you, I won't have him involved. Not this time."

"This is not a game."

"Oh no, it's never a game with you, is it?" Sari fought to keep her voice even. "It's always important, it never matters who gets—"

"Sari?"

She whipped her head around at the sound of her uncle's voice. Charles stood in the doorway, his gray hair blowing in the wind as he looked at the two of them, one thick brow lifted in surprise.

"Charles," Conor said slowly, as if uncertain of his welcome. "It's good to see you."

"O'Brien?" Charles stepped into the soddy, closing the door firmly behind him. His voice was harsh with a German accent. "It is you?"

"It's not his name anymore," Sari said bitterly.

"No, no, of course." Charles frowned. He extended his hand. "Welcome, Conor Roarke. Or perhaps I should not be so quick to greet you,
ja
?"

Conor threw a glance to Sari. "It seems that's the way of it."

"You must carry some of the blame for that," Charles observed quietly.

Conor said nothing, but his eyes shuttered—the same closing off of emotion Sari had seen the last time they'd spoken to each other. Years ago, it seemed. She took a deep breath. "Perhaps it's time to tell us why you're here."

"We've heard reports you've been blackmarked, Sari." His reply was as blunt as her question.

Sari felt the blood drain from her face. Blackmarked. She'd heard her husband use the word before. It was a term Evan—and the other Molly Maguires—had whispered in low and secret voices. She hadn't heard it in a year, but she wasn't likely to forget it. It meant someone was targeted for assassination. But now Evan was dead, hanged with the eighteen other men the Pinkerton agency—and Conor Roarke—had brought to trial.

"Blackmarked by who?" she asked quietly, bitterly. "Who's left?"

"There are a few," Conor said. "Michael, for one.”

Michael
. Sari swallowed.

He must have seen her shock; he attacked that quickly. "You've talked to him?" Conor asked. "He's contacted you?"

She hesitated. She wanted to laugh in his face, to tell him that her brother would never allow her to be blackmarked, that it was absurd. But she wasn't so confident. "He doesn't have to contact me. He knows where I am," she lied. "And if he didn't, you've undoubtedly led him right to me."

"We had to take some chances." Conor said. "We decided you needed protection. Immediately."

"We? Who is 'we'? Pinkerton?" When he didn't deny the accusation, she went on. "Once again you've pushed in where you don't belong. I don't need your protection. I don't want it."

Charles frowned. "
Liebling
... Perhaps you should listen to him—"

Sari turned to her uncle. "Listen to him? This man's never once told the truth—at least not to me. Why should I listen to him? Why should I believe him?"

"You can't really think I want you in danger." Conor's voice was so quiet, it cut the soul from her anger.

She stared at him. What did she think, really? What did she know of this man? For the first time since he'd arrived, she looked at him. He was Jamie O'Brien and yet he wasn't. The same brown hair curled against his collar, he had the same blue eyes, and in the soft illumination of the oil lamp on the table, Sari was once again struck by how ordinary he looked. Attractive, yes—she knew the shoulders beneath that duster were broad and well defined, knew his strength and the smooth warmth of his skin. But he didn't stand out in a crowd, didn't overwhelm a woman with his looks. He was the perfect man for Pinkerton—quiet, unobtrusive, unnoticeable. A man who could be anyone.

Sari stiffened. "I'm not a fool. What is it you really want? You're not here because you care about me."

"That's where you're wrong, Sari," he said, and the way his tongue eased over her name, the smooth molasses feel of it, brought a lump to her throat. As if he sensed it, he went on, saying it again, warmly. "Sari, it's important to us—to me—to keep you safe."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't want you here. If the sleepers decide to kill me, they will, whether you guard me or not. You know that's true."

"
Liebling
..." Charles pleaded.

Conor cleared his throat. "I'm sorry you're angry. God knows you have reason to be. But I want you to know ... I'm sorry about Evan."

Another lie. She flinched. "I can't imagine why you think I'd want to hear that from you."

He met her gaze evenly. "Nevertheless I
am
sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

The sudden, blank admission startled her, even though she knew it was a lie. Oh, he was good. So good, he could lie and almost believe it himself. Without thinking she stared at him, feeling the full power of his apology. And for a moment his eyes captivated her. If his hair had been a few shades darker, his eyes would have been startling in contrast. As it was, they were just blue. Plain blue. Too well, she could remember how they warmed to tenderness or sparked with teasing. She remembered how they darkened with passion.

And she remembered how expressionless they'd been at Evan's trial. Sari shivered, not wanting to think about any of this and yet unable to stop. It angered her that he could rile her so easily, that he could make her feel anything at all. She looked up at him, steeling herself to look into his eyes. Plain blue, indeed. The bastard, he knew just what to do, how to read her. She threw a pleading glance at her uncle.

Charles nodded. "I think you should leave, Roarke," he said.

Conor frowned. "You'd send me to the prairies in this weather?"

Sari smiled coldly. "I'd send you to hell if I thought you would stay there."

S
ari pulled the quilt up around her shoulders, staring at the sod-and-cotton ceiling, listening to the wind screaming around the sturdy little house. This late at night there was no light in the loft; she could barely make out the bags of dried corn and meal and sacks of flour that lined her walls. The sweet smell of dried cakes of fruit and preserves mixed with the earthy must of dirt and spicy sausage.

Normally the smell of the loft comforted her. Tonight it was almost suffocating. The sound of the wind wouldn't let her sleep. She kept thinking of him, wondering if he was out there.

It didn't matter, she told herself. She didn't care. He could freeze. He could turn into a statue of wind-whipped ice for all she cared.

But there it was. She did care, and that alone bothered her.

She had spent the last months trying to forget him. Trying to forget Jamie O'Brien and his brash self-confidence and too-honest eyes. And now here he was again. The same Jamie, yet... not the same. More a stranger than he should be. She didn't know this man without the Irish brogue. Jamie O'Brien had been always smiling, always talking. Jamie O'Brien she'd trusted, even when it was a mistake to do so. But this man....

Conor Roarke wasn't the man she'd known, but he wasn't that different either. She knew his charm too well, knew how it sneaked up on a woman and worked its magic before she had a chance to combat it

Sari twisted on the bed. The corn-husk mattress whispered beneath her weight.
He's a con man, a liar. You can't forget that.

You must not forgive.

Sari felt the pain again, as real as a fist thudding into her abdomen. She had been in love with him once. She had betrayed her marriage vows and her husband and had succumbed to Jamie O'Brien's flirtatious ways and tender words. They had been a balm to her spirit after so many years of Evan's neglect, and she had basked in it, had imagined shining futures full of hope ...

Then it had all come crashing around her.

At the heart of it she blamed her husband—and her brother. Both had been members of the Molly Maguires—a secret miner's group formed to fight for miners' rights. It had been innocent enough at first— a few meetings and loud talk, nothing more. But then their methods had grown increasingly violent, their fanaticism hard to ignore.

It was after they'd bombed the railroad that the Pinkerton agency came in. Jamie O'Brien had been their spy, and he had infiltrated the group, pretended to be one of them, and brought them down. When his investigation was over, nineteen men were dead—including her husband.

Sari stared up at the darkness, living the nightmare over again in her mind, seeing those nineteen men walk to the gallows.

It was why she couldn't let Conor stay. If he was telling the truth about her being blackmarked, she would have to face her brother and his friends alone. She had always expected retribution for her betrayal—and if God meant for her to die that way, at least it would be quick.

It wouldn't leave her lingering with a heart that beat but didn't feel, a slow anguish that haunted her days and nights. Unlike Conor Roarke, the Mollies would only take her life.

Not her soul.

D
amn, it was cold.

Conor huddled against the trunk of the lone Cottonwood, pulling up the soft leather of his collar and burying his face in it. His horse stood nearby, head lowered, but the gelding was sorry shelter from the merciless buffeting of the wind and the icy fingers that reached into every unprotected slit of his clothing.

Conor eyed the ground, wishing he could burrow into the soil like the prairie dogs whose homes dotted the fields. How warm it would be with the dirt and grass blocking the wind. Like the soddy.