Megan Chance (24 page)

It wasn't Conor.

It was Michael.

Sari shoved the door closed. "Michael—"

He collapsed on the floor, a lump of ice-covered wool. His breathing was loud and raspy; his whole body shuddered with it.

"Michael." Sari set aside the lamp and went to him. "Oh, Michael."

He looked up at her. His eyes were watery and red, the heat from his skin nearly burned her. "Sari," he whispered, and the rawness of his voice shocked her, the harsh, choking sound of it. "Sari, darlin', I'm afraid ... I need just a bit... of help."

Sari pushed away his hat so hard, it rolled across the floor. Her brother's forehead was hot; sweat matted the dark curls of his hair. She shoved at his coat. "You're burning up. Where's the wound?"

"No ... wound."

"Then, what? What happened?"

"Fever," he said. "Caught it a few days—" He broke off, coughing so hard, he couldn't catch his breath, shaking in her arms. When he recovered, he smiled weakly at her. "I know... I said I would leave you be."

Sari's heart constricted. That smile of his, weak as it was, caught her, just as he had to know it would. It reminded her of other times, childhood times, of the older brother who had been irresponsible and carefree, who had charmed her with his fanciful stories.

"It's all right," she said softly. "I was just... surprised. I didn't expect to see you."

"Came to visit," he said. "Me and Timmy and ... Sean O'Mallory."

Sleepers, every one. Sari frowned. "They just left you here?"

"Didn't think ... you'd care to have 'em stay." He struggled to sit up, the movement had him coughing again, hard enough to bring up phlegm. She grabbed the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth.

"Just stay still," she said.

"I... won't be a bother. Put me in ... the barn, darlin'. I'll be fine."

The barn
. Sari froze. Conor was in the barn. Conor, who was looking for the men who had killed his father. And though he hadn't said it, she suspected—knew—that Michael was one of those men.

"You can't stay here," she said desperately. "Michael, you can't."

Her brother frowned. "Sari, darlin', I've said ... I'm sorry."

"It's not about being sorry." Sari hesitated. She glanced at the door, wondering how much to tell her brother. Whatever Conor felt for her, vengeance meant more to him. She would not be able to keep him from taking it if he knew Michael was here. And as for her brother ...

Sari bit her lip, wishing she knew him better. She had no idea how much vengeance was enough for Michael. Was bombing Conor's house, killing his father, enough? Or did he need Conor's blood as well?

Michael was staring at her, a puzzled look darkening his already dark face, his brown eyes dilated with fever. She looked down at him, studying his features, taking in the dark hair and the handsome face, the mouth she knew could quirk in an endearing smile. He was her brother. Except for Charles, he was the only family she had left, and even though she'd claimed he was dead to her, even though she'd ordered him from her house and her life a year ago, she could not just toss him into the cold.

Her chest felt tight, her heart leaden.
He was her brother
. It was why she'd warned him away from Tamaqua all those months ago. It was why she'd told him her suspicions about Jamie O'Brien. She had not even told her husband those things. And because of it, Evan died.

In spite of everything she still didn't want that fate for Michael.

She touched his hair, wound her fingers through curls damp with sweat, and took a deep breath. "Michael," she said, "promise me that if I tell you something, you won't... tell me you'll understand."

His thick brows came together. "What?"

"Promise me."

"Darlin', I can't..." He started coughing again, shaking in her arms.

Sari held him tight against her. "Please, Michael. Promise me." When he nodded, she hesitated, trying to think of the right words. There were no right words. Nothing but the truth.

"You'll have to stay in
Onkle
's soddy." When he started to protest, she cut him off with a shake of her head. "You don't understand, Michael. There's someone else staying in the barn."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "Someone else? Who?"

"Conor Roarke."

The name was as explosive as she'd known it would be. Michael jerked up so quickly, it set off another round of coughing. When she tried to hold him closer, he fought her arms.

"Damn it, Sari," he managed finally. His eyes were blazing now, as much from fever as anger, and though his voice was hoarse and rasping, it had regained strength. "That traitor's here? Why is that ... little sister? Are you .. . sleepin' with him again?"

Sari jerked away so quickly, he fell back against the floor. "That's none of your business," she said tightly.

"Like hell it's ... not."

"My life is my own," Sari said. "I've told you that before. I'll help you, Michael, but my... relationship ... with Conor is not your concern."

"He ... betrayed us."

"That's all in the past."

"Maybe for you."

She glared at him. "For you too, Michael, or you can go back into the cold."

His face tightened. She saw the exhaustion blanketing his features, the pale draw of it in his face. He leaned back on one elbow; he was so weak, his body shook with the effort. He hesitated, and then he nodded slowly. "All right, lass. For ... now."

Sari rose and held out her hand. He grasped it tightly, and she staggered as he leaned into her, pulling himself to his feet. His legs were unsteady, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, letting him take strength from her, feeling the heat of his body against her cheek.

Together they went to the door. With his weight against her, she could barely manage it, but she pulled the door open; It slammed against the soddy wall with the force of the wind; ice particles swirled in, stinging her face and her hands, burning through the flannel nightgown she wore. She shoved her feet into the boots she kept just inside the door; without her heavy socks they were enormous on her feet, flapping around her ankles, but there was no time to do anything about it.

She glanced outside. The barn was dark and silent; the only sound was the shriek of the wind and Michael's strained breathing in her ear. The thin snow crunched beneath their feet as they struggled around the corner of the soddy, toward the back. With her brother's weight and the wind, it seemed miles instead of only yards, but finally they were there. There was little moonlight, but she saw the shadow of Charles's door—darker against the sod bricks. She knocked once and fell against it. Their bodies thudded against the heavy wood.

"
Onkle
," she whispered. "
Onkle
, it's me."

She didn't know if he could hear her above the wind, but he must have heard something. The door was yanked open. Charles stood behind it; the long nose of the rifle he held gleamed in the scant moonlight.

"It's me, old man." Michael wheezed. "Put the gun ... away."

Charles frowned. "Sari?"

"And Michael," she answered. "
Onkle
, it's Michael. He's sick."

"Michael?" Charles frowned and sighed. There was a split second when Sari thought he might deny them, might order her brother away, but then he leaned the gun against the doorjamb. "Come in, then," he said wearily. He put his arm around Michael's waist, taking some of his weight, and together they got her brother into the room and over to the bed. Michael sagged into it, clutching his chest.

Charles closed the door and lit the lamp. The faint brightness barely filled the shadows of the tiny soddy, but it was enough for Sari to see the disapproval on her uncle's face.

"Michael," he said slowly. "Why did you come to us?"

"I'm .. . ill," Michael said. "Maybe dying."

"Not dying," Charles disagreed. "Though it is what you deserve."

"Please,
Onkle
," Sari said.

Charles turned to her with a frown. "He brings trouble to you whenever he comes," he said. "Does he know Roarke sleeps only a few yards away?"

"As long as he's in the barn," Michael said. "And not... in my sister's bed."

"Michael!"

He gave her that smile again, though it was more strained this time, his breathing harsher. But her uncle ignored him.

"Why are you here, Michael?" he demanded. "And do not tell me you are passing through. Colorado is far from Tamaqua."

"I wanted ... to visit my ... sister."

"I thought she has told you to stay away."

Michael sagged onto the bed, wiping at his forehead. "I missed her."

"
Ja
." Charles snorted. "Like the mouse misses the cat."

"You have ... never ... liked me,
Onkle.
"

"
Ja
." Charles agreed coldly. "Because you are trouble, Michael Doyle. You are like the bad coin."

"Enough," Sari scolded. "Leave him be,
Onkle
. I've told him he can stay a few days—until he's better."

"You're an angel, darlin'."

She threw her brother a warning glance. "If he doesn't keep irritating me." She turned to her uncle. "I'll get him some broth if you'll see he's kept warm. I... I don't want Conor to know he's here." She ignored Charles's questioning glance and glared at her brother. "I want you to stay out of Conor's way, Michael, do you understand me?"

Michael shivered with sudden chills; his smile was weak. "Why is that, Sari... darlin'? Afraid he'll... hurt me?"

"No," she lied.

"Ah, then. Afraid I'll... hurt him?"

"You've already tried it once, haven't you?"

He frowned. "What... do you mean?"

Sari took the few steps toward him. She leaned over him, catching his gaze, holding it. "Tell me something, Michael. Tell me the truth. Did you kill Conor's father?"

She heard Charles's quick indrawn breath behind her, and she motioned for him to be quiet.

Michael looked genuinely confused. "His father? Why the hell would I do that?"

Relief rushed through her, but she'd heard enough of her brother's lies to wonder if this was another one. "You weren't part of it, then?"

"Part of... what?"

"Conor's home was bombed last July. His father was killed—" Sari stopped when she saw the dawning light in her brother's eyes. Her relief died, her chest felt too tight to breathe. "You were part of it."

"We didn't... know his father . .. was there," Michael breathed.

His words brought a strange, tight despair, a faint nausea. Sari drew back, bracing herself against the table, closing her eyes. He had been a part of it. He'd killed Conor's father, and she wished now she didn't know. The uncertainty was better. Suspicion was better. She turned away, catching her uncle's gaze, seeing the sympathy there, and she wondered how she would get through the next days knowing the truth, how she could put on her prettiest dress and dance with Conor at the Christmas dance knowing that her brother had killed the only person Conor had ever loved—and that he wanted to avenge that death with everything inside him. He would never forgive Michael, and she couldn't blame him. She wasn't sure
she
could ever forgive Michael that.

The heaviness of tears started behind her eyes. Sari turned away from Michael abruptly. "I'll get some broth," she said. She pulled open the door and stumbled outside into the dark and icy night.

Charles was right behind her. He said nothing as he followed her to the main soddy, but she heard him there, heard his footsteps and the purpose in them. He waited until they were inside and her coat was hung before he spoke.

"He is trouble, that one," he said quietly.

Sari didn't look at him. "He's family."

"And for that I curse the devil."

"
Onkle
..."

"I cannot pretend I am happy to see him,
Liebling
," he said. "He has caused you pain his whole life, even when he was small. That boy has a thirst for violence; it runs in his veins like blood. You cannot deny that."

"He's my brother."

"That is an accident of birth, no more."

Sari took a deep breath. "I can't turn him away. Not like this."

Charles shook his head sorrowfully. He crossed to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee, but he didn't drink it, and his expression was very sad and very grave. "You cannot keep taking risks for him, Sarilyn," he said. "It is time that boy learned to pay the piper. You cannot forever be saving him."

Her uncle's words fell into her stomach like a stone. "He's sick—"

"There is always a reason."

"You want me to turn him out in this cold?"

"You told him a year ago to stay out of your life. Show him you are serious."

Sari stared at him in disbelief. "I can't believe you mean that."

Charles nodded tersely, his jaw set. "I do. It is long past time."

"But this is only for a few days."

Charles sighed. "It is too long," he insisted. "But if you will not change your mind, at least be wise. Tell Roarke the truth. Tell him Michael is here."

"I can't," Sari said bitterly. "You don't know Conor the way I do. Michael bombed his house. He killed Conor's father. And Conor wants revenge. He wants it more than anything. He would kill Michael if he had the chance."

"Perhaps before Michael kills us."

Sari stared at her uncle in horror. "
Onkle
, you can't mean that. Michael's family. He wouldn't hurt us."

"No?" Charles lifted a brow. "What about the other night? What about the raid?"

Sari's heart fell. She shook her head stubbornly. "We don't know that was him."

"Who was it, then? Roarke said the Mollies have put the blackmark on you, Sarilyn. Do you not believe that is why Michael is here?"

"He's my brother."

"He's a killer." Charles said vehemently. "He stopped being family long ago,
Liebling
. Would you put us all at risk by allowing him to stay?"

Sari looked down at the floor, unable to face her uncle's accusing eyes. "I think you're wrong."

"Are you so sure that you would bet your life on it?"