Megan Chance (6 page)

"For water." Conor eyed it skeptically. "Enough to water crops?"

"Enough." Charles nodded. "I have seen the canals they dig in Greeley. Enough to water fifty farms." A small grin curved his lips. "Ours will not be that big. Can you see it?"

Conor buried his chin in his upright collar, wishing like hell that Charles had let him sit by the fire in peace. He looked longingly back to the soddy, where smoke rose from the stovepipe chimney poking through the roof. "I'm no farmer, Charles."

Charles eyed him soberly. "No, you are not."

Conor turned away from Charles's suddenly harsh eyes, not for the first time feeling pressured and tense. The icy wind cut through his clothes; his hands were so cold, he couldn't feel his fingers. Damn, it was desolate here. In more ways than one. He hated the brown, empty land that matched the hollowness inside him; he hated Charles's kindness because it was so undeserved. But mostly he hated the rage that blew through him whenever he looked at Sari, and the way her lonely, hurting eyes made him want to forget that rage.

Revenge. It was all that was important. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to remember that Sari was as much an enemy as her brother had been.

"This is not why I have asked you to walk with me.” Charles's strong, clear voice pierced Conor's thoughts.

He looked at the old man curiously. "No?"

"I am wanting to talk to you about Sari." Charles walked slowly, looking straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back. He lapsed into silence for a moment, as if weighing his words, and Conor followed, saying nothing. Charles finally stopped, staring distractedly into the distance. His heavy gray brows furrowed together.

"I do not approve of what you did to her," he said finally, rubbing his jaw.

Conor took a deep breath. "No, I didn't imagine you would."

"Did you not wonder why I took your side?"

Conor shrugged. "I supposed you understood that she needed to be protected."

"
Ja
," Charles nodded. "It was that, and more than that. Sarilyn has not been herself."

"I'm not surprised." Conor tried to keep his voice even. "It must have been hard for her when Evan was arrested."

Charles threw him a sideways glance. "Perhaps in ways you do not know,
mein Freund
."

They were even, then, Conor thought bitterly. And then, because he couldn't help it, he said the words he'd been aching to say. "And Michael? What of him?"

"It was hard for her, losing a brother and a husband at the same time," Charles answered obliquely. "And in such a way."

Conor was startled. "In what way? Michael's still alive, isn't he?"

"
Ja. Ja
, he is alive. But he is gone as if he were dead."

But not dead. Not yet, anyway. Conor took a deep breath. "I did what I was supposed to do, Charles. I can't make excuses for it. I'm a Pinkerton agent. It's my job."

"And it is you who must live with that." The old man shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. "It is not my place to help you do that, Roarke. My only concern is for Sari."

"I'm here to protect her," Conor said gruffly, speaking the lie easily. "You can rest assured I'll do my best."

"She has lived with fear and anger for months." Charles went on as if Conor hadn't spoken. "I would have it end. I would have her happy."

Conor said nothing. The request was too big. It wasn't something he could do for Sari, not even something he wanted to do. Her happiness was not important, not in light of what he needed.

"She was happy with you once."

"It was all a lie then, Charles."

"Was it?" A tiny half smile curved Charles's lips. "Are you so sure of that?"

Was he so sure? Conor tried to think, to remember the emotions that had chased through him when he'd kissed her, when he'd held her. She had been a friend when he needed one, and at the time, he'd thought maybe he even loved her. But today he couldn't remember how that love had felt, how true it had been. It was in the past, a role he'd played, and if it had been more than acting—well, it was over now. It wasn't real and never had been. It was just a job.

The thought was unsettling. Until he remembered the ceiling crashing in around him, the clouds of dust and cracked timber, the acrid scent of burning oil and his father's cry.

That was real, he reminded himself bitterly. And nothing else meant a damn.

C
harles's words filled Conor with a sense of urgency. He had intended to wait a day or two, to see if he could find out with judicious questions what Sari knew about her brother's whereabouts. But she was too angry and too suspicious. It would be better to start searching the soddy for letters or pictures—something to tell him where Michael was now, or when he might show up here.

The next morning Conor was up early, but not early enough. Sari and Charles were already in the soddy, eating breakfast. It wasn't until after the noon meal that he had the chance to search. When Sari went out to dig potatoes and Charles announced he was going to take a short nap, Conor nearly leaped from his chair with anticipation. It was all he could do to wait until they both left the room.

It was his chance, and Conor forced himself to go slowly, to utilize his training. He surveyed the room first, looking for clues, for good places to hide a receipt or a letter.

There were too many possibilities. Three trunks were pushed against the newspaper-covered walls, their curved lids firmly shut against the dampness. Shelves laden with books and papers held places of honor next to two threadbare chairs, and a stack of boxes in the corner hid who knew what. Clutter filled every corner of the room. The thought of pawing through it all exhausted him.

Conor shifted in his chair, knocking his leg against a long, low trunk shoved beneath the table. It would take him forever just to search the main room—and that was if he could get Sari to disappear long enough for him to look. His eyes strayed to the ladder leading to the loft. Sari's bedroom.

He glanced out the window. He couldn't see Sari, and that was dangerous. If he couldn't see her, he couldn't tell what she was doing, wouldn't know when she was readying to come inside. Damn, he had so little time. If she caught him up there, it would be impossible to explain, and it would only convince her that her intuition was right, that he was lying about why he came.

The loft would have to wait for another time. He pushed aside his coffee and got to his feet. Stacks of books were piled on the floor, overflowing two double-and tripled-loaded shelves that were jammed against the wall. It was the most obvious place to start, the best place to hide something was in plain view. He'd been taught that lesson well enough.

The books were musty from the damp sod, some of them had mold growing along waterlogged pages that had dried curled and warped. All of them had a moldy, dusty smell. Conor wrinkled his nose as his gaze swept over the first layer of books. Nothing. There were anthologies, tomes on farming techniques, novels, Grange journals, and poetry. It was a large and varied collection, but he saw no loose papers. Of course it could be inside, hidden in the pages. With a sigh Conor grabbed a book and riffled through it—

"What are you doing?"

Her voice cut through the room in the same moment he heard the door swing open. Conor froze, his hands gripping the binding of a volume.

Sari closed the door behind her carefully, her expression as stiff as her spine. "What are you looking for?"

Conor forced himself to turn casually. He turned the book in his hands over as if searching for the title, then lifted his eyes in mock innocence. "You sound angry. I'm sorry, I didn't realize your books were forbidden to me."

Uncertainty flitted through her eyes. She relaxed marginally, though the fingers that gripped her full apron were white. "They aren't," she said carefully. "Of course they aren't. It's just—it seemed as if you were looking for something in particular."

"I was." He shoved the book back onto the shelf. "I thought there might be something here about fencing. I'd like to at least try to be of help to your uncle."

"There isn't much time to read here," she scolded gently. "
Onkle
will tell you what he needs you to know." Unceremoniously she dumped the potatoes bundled in her apron into a bucket, then reached for the butternut sunbonnet she wore. The yellow was the only color in her otherwise colorless outfit and she lifted it from her head and laid it aside almost reverently. Strands of smooth brown hair strayed across her face, grabbing at the corner of her mouth. Impatiently she swept them away. "
Onkle
's in his soddy now," she said. "I'm sure he can find something for you to do."

He heard the spite in her words, and couldn't keep from smiling. "I'll go find him, then, love."

Her brown eyes were cold. "Stop calling me love."

"Old habits are hard to break."

"Not so hard." Her smile was small and icy. "I used to trust you. I unlearned that quickly enough."

Conor hesitated, tensing with the will to reply in kind. And then he saw her hands when she picked up a potato, saw the way she attacked the brown-gray skin as if she were trying to scrub it off. He watched her thoughtfully: the strands of hair tumbling into her face, the tight line of her lips, the shaking of her fingers.

He was getting to her. It was more than anger that made her react in such a way, he knew. There was something else in her movements, a nervousness, an uncertainty.

He spoke carefully. "Sari, we don't need to be such enemies."

She stopped as if stung. "No?" She asked softly. "What should we be, then?"

"What if we call a truce? Forget the past?"

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why would I want to do that?"

He shrugged with deliberate casualness. "Maybe to make things more comfortable. I'll probably be here awhile. There's no point in making it miserable for both of us."

"Perhaps they should have sent someone else, then."

"Would you have allowed anyone else to stay?"

"I'm still not sure having anyone here is necessary."

"I see," he said stiffly. "You'd rather take the risk."

She bit her lip, turning to stare out the window. Conor saw the quick worry in her eyes, the flush of memory.

"I still don't know that they'd harm me," she said finally.

"You think Michael could prevent it?"

He saw the harsh, bitter pain in her eyes when she whipped around, the wild uncertainty. It startled him, but not as much as her next words.

"Don't mention his name to me."

"Why not? He's your brother. You can't deny blood."

Her eyes burned. "I will not discuss him. Not with you." She dropped a potato into the bucket with a thud. Her hands shook. "Stop pretending you care— about me or my brother. You would have hung him without a thought, even though he was your friend. Your
friend
, like Evan was." She took a deep breath, her jaw clenched. "I know you too well. None of us matter to you. You'd do anything to get what you want. I've seen what you'll do. I haven't forgotten what you are. You're lying to me now."

"Sari—"

She lifted her chin defiantly. "I don't want you here, and that won't change—believe me. So make it easy on both of us, Jam—Conor." Her voice lowered, he heard the hatred in her tone. "Protect me if you want, but leave me alone. Just leave me alone."

T
he memory burned, quick and lethal, piercing the fog of his dream until it became a nightmare. Over and over he saw it, saw the white faces of the men who had become his friends, the disbelief in their eyes when he walked into the eerily silent courtroom and took a seat on the witness stand. The bow tie tightened against his throat, constricting him, but his voice was strong and sure, even when the defense lawyers ripped into him.

He'd given the information without a pause, had looked into the eyes of his friends and seen their fear.

He could not forget that. Even though those left had killed his father, Conor could not forget the terrible hopelessness he'd seen on their faces. Could not forget that he had betrayed them.

The dream gripped him, the bodies of the men he'd sent to the gallows growing formless before his eyes, their mouths dark holes yawning in misty spirits.
"I should have let them kill you when I had the chance."
Evan Travers's voice was the loudest of all.
"I trusted you, Jamie O'Brien. I called you friend."

Conor sat straight up, his body drenched in sweat. It took him a moment to realize that the rustling of hay and the movements of the animals were not part of his dream. He was not in Pottsville, not in the courthouse. He was in a dark, damp soddy barn, and he could hear the wind shrieking outside.

He took a deep breath, raking back his hair and staring into the darkness. It had been months since he'd had that dream. With his father's death the memories of his disquieting feelings about the Molly Maguires had faded into the background. He'd thought they'd disappeared forever.

They should have. God knew, he was about as far from feeling any sympathy for the Mollies as a man could be. There had been days when he'd questioned his involvement, when he'd wondered if the lies and violence that were part of his job were necessary, but he thought he'd long resolved that.

He'd come to terms with that betrayal, had realized that the two and a half years of living among them, being one of them, had been too long. Hell, he'd almost started to believe he was a Molly. For a while, he'd believed in their causes. That had never happened to him on any other job, never before had he questioned his role as a Pinkerton agent.

It had only been a temporary feeling. His uncertainties had disappeared when Michael Doyle planted the bomb that destroyed his house and his life. It was absurd that he should be feeling anything like it now.

But Sari's reaction today had him confused. Conor lay back, crossing his arms beneath his head and staring up at the dirt ceiling. She had been furious when he mentioned Michael to her, and he had not imagined her bitterness or the way her mouth went white with tension.
"Don't mention his name to me,"
she'd said, and then there'd been Charles's words of yesterday:
"He is gone as if he were dead."
Conor wondered why. Was it because Michael had done something so brutal, Sari could no longer condone it? Was her anger with her brother real? Or was she lying for Conor's benefit?