Megan Chance (11 page)

"But—"

"I will meet you back here,
Liebling
."

He started off, his cheerful whistling piercing the cold air, his breath a frozen cloud. Throwing one last glance at her disappearing uncle, Sari lifted her skirts and hurried toward Conor.

Woodrow was quiet today; the crunching of a few wagon wheels and cheerful hellos were the only sounds that floated on the dry, frigid air. Sari shielded her eyes, needing more than the protection of her bonnet to keep from squinting. The bright but ineffectual sun glittered on the snow until it sparkled like crushed diamonds.

"So," he said when she grew nearer. "Where is this 'Clancy's' anyway? And where did Charles go?"

"He's off to visit his friend Mrs. Landers." Sari fell into step beside him. "Every time we come into town, he has to pay her a visit. She's a terrible gossip.”

Conor's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know Charles listened to gossip."

"He says he doesn't." She smiled. "He says he only goes because she's lonely and it makes her happy when he visits." Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "But I think he likes to hear her talk, though he wouldn't be caught dead passing it on. Besides, she sometimes has cherry pie. It's his favorite."

"Cherry pie," he mused, shuffling the trays in his hands. "I've forgotten what that tastes like. The last time I had it was—" He stopped abruptly.

Sari felt the wall go up, his expression shuttered. She glanced at him curiously. "The last time you had it—?" she prompted.

He gave her a smile; it seemed oddly forced. "Your aunt Bernice," he said. "I ate it with her last." But though the words were easy and casual, Sari sensed a lie. She tensed in sudden wariness. It was there again, this hiding, this something he didn't want her to know. What was it?

Sari turned away. She hurried her step until she reached Clancy's General Store. There, on the torn planking of the narrow porch, she paused. She swiveled on one foot to face Conor. She wanted to forget, she wanted to be able to believe him, to forgive him. "It's such a beautiful day," she said evenly. "Do you think we could be kind to each other?"

His gaze was inscrutable, his ice-blue eyes nearly froze her with their emptiness. But his voice was warm, vibrating with a tension that pierced her heart. "I want nothing more than to be kind to you, Sari," he said softly. "It's the reason I came here." He stepped onto the porch and walked past her to grab the door. It swung wide, and a string of bells jangled.

Sari took a deep breath and went through the door. She paused to breathe in the melange of odors—dried fish and smoked meats; the rich, mellow aroma of tobacco and coffee; the dusty smell of spice. Conor went up to the counter and set down her trays of butter. Almost proudly, she thought, the sight dispelling her tension. Almost as if he had a right to be proud.

Then she noticed the curious glances of the other people in the large room. The three men huddled around the stove in the corner had stopped talking; the women comparing fabric turned to stare. Sari's heart beat rapidly, her pulse fluttered as she dodged the barrels lining the floor and hurried to the counter. She felt Conor's eyes on her as she gripped the edge of the scarred board and leaned over it.

"Mr. Clancy!" she called, feeling the edge of panic, even though she knew it was absurd. It was too familiar—all these staring eyes. Too much like Tamaqua, though it was innocent curiosity here. Nothing more. Not those rigid, condemning expressions or the stares that called her a traitor—

Conor's hand curled around hers. The touch was warm and comforting. He squeezed her rigid knuckles gently, and Sari stared up at him.

"It's all right, love," he whispered, his voice like molasses over her frayed nerves. "Relax."

He understood. The knowledge was too frightening to believe. Sari tore her hand from his, trying to still the rapid-fire beating of her heart, trying to pretend he hadn't known, that her terror was still her secret. She scanned the room. "Where is Mr. Clancy?"

"He's around back." One of the women near the bolts of fabric spoke quietly, but her dark eyes were bright with curiosity. Sari's heart fell. Thelma Abbott. The woman was a bigger gossip than Audra Landers.

Sari couldn't help the thinning of her lips. "Hello, Thelma."

"It's nice to see you, Sari. You haven't been in town lately." Thelma's nearsighted squint lit on Conor. Sari could almost see the wheels turning in the woman's head.

She introduced them, then stifled a smile when Conor dropped Thelma's proffered hand as quickly as politely possible.

"I'd heard there was someone staying at your farm, Sari," Thelma twittered, fidgeting at the wide bow of her sunbonnet. "No one told me it was—are you a relative, Mr. Roarke?"

"I'm an old friend of the family."

"Oh?" Thelma's smile was brittle with curiosity. "From—where was it, Sari?—Pennsylvania, wasn't it? I imagine the rest of the family is quite worried about our Sari, out here in the wilderness. I'm not surprised they sent you out to check on her."

Sari jumped in quickly, before Conor could answer. "Mr. Roarke was out this way, on business."

Conor went on smoothly. "I thought I'd stop and see how Mrs. Travers and her uncle were getting on.”

Thelma arched her brows. Already Sari could imagine Thelma's gossipy words. "Sari Travers is keeping company with a man—he's living at her farm. Why, it's hardly proper...." Despite herself Sari's cheeks felt heated.

"Will you be staying in Woodrow long, Mr. Roarke?"

Conor was saved from answering by the rustling of the calico curtains behind the counter. A short, balding man with a thick gray beard pushed aside the material. His arms were filled with bolts of cloth.

"Here you are, Mrs. Abbott," he puffed good-naturedly, plunking the heavy fabrics onto the counter and wiping his shining forehead with the back of his hand. "Like I told you, I've got no yellows in, but I'm expecting a shipment soon from Julesburg. If you find nothing you like today—"

Thelma sighed dramatically. She wrinkled her nose at the selection before her. "It looks like I'll have to go into Denver after all."

"Mr. Clancy." Sari interrupted Thelma's posturings impatiently. "When you have a moment..

Clancy smiled. "I've got a moment right now, Sari." He glanced quickly at Thelma. "Since it looks like Mrs. Abbott's going into Denver."

Thelma lifted her chin haughtily. "Well, I may not go.”

"Ah, now, don't let me talk you into doing something you don't want to do," Mr. Clancy said amiably. "I won't have any of my customers saying I forced them into buying something."

"But I—"

"Now, now, Mrs. Abbott," Clancy shook his head. "I'll just go ahead and wait on Sari here, and when I'm done, if you're still interested, you just call me over."

Sari looked at the counter, trying to hide her grin as Thelma huffed and flounced off to the stove to corral her husband.

"Thank the Lord," Clancy murmured. He leaned forward, his beefy hands resting on the rough wood. "You're a pretty sight today, Sari. What can I do for you?"

Sari smiled. "Mr. Clancy, this is Conor Roarke."

"I'm a friend of the family," Conor said with an ease that made Sari's heart jump. "Just checking up on Sari."

"Well, I don't mind telling you it makes me feel better to see another man at that place." Clancy nodded approvingly. "No telling what trouble's way out there." He pulled the trays of butter toward him, lifting the cheesecloth off the firm, molded cakes. "Looks lovely as usual, Sari. I've got some money for you—"

"Apply it to our account," Sari interrupted. "There are some things I need as well."

"I don't suppose one of those things would be a new dress, would it?" Clancy asked hopefully.

She hesitated. "I don't think so."

Clancy pushed the trays aside and leaned over the counter persuasively. "I'm telling you, girl, I got in some fabric yesterday that made me think of you. I kept it aside just in case you'd be interested. A lovely color, cream with dark green stripes." He pursed his lips appreciatively. "It would look beautiful on you."

"Stripes?" Sari laughed, trying to hide the fact that she was tempted. It had been a long time since she'd had anything pretty, and the evening she'd spent with Conor poring over the
Godey's Lady's Book
had only made her wish for things she couldn't have, such as silk gowns and ribbons and a man who wanted to wrap her in them.

She sighed, trying unsuccessfully to keep wistfulness from her voice. "It sounds far too fancy for me, Mr. Clancy."

"Now, girl, I know it isn't practical, but Christmas is coming. Thought you might want a nice silk dress."

"For what? Imagine how silly I'd look parading around the soddy in something like that."

"Mr. Roarke, help me persuade her," Clancy pleaded, spreading his big hands. "Tell this pretty lady that she needs a fine dress for the Christmas dance this year."

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.

C
onor 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.