Megan Chance (13 page)

"How long is he planning to stay?"

Miriam frowned. "Heavens, Berthe, you're as bad as Thelma Abbott."

"At least I ask Sari straight out instead of hinting around," Berthe said haughtily. She pulled her scarf from her head, shoving loosened hairpins back into her graying hair. "The whole town was talking about Thelma's nasty suspicions. Can you imagine?" A sharp shriek cut the room, and her gaze automatically followed. "Becky! Samuel! You two children behave!" She turned back to Sari. "You actually talked to her?"

Sari nodded. "She saw us in Clancy's."

"No doubt she was looking for a silk party dress." Berthe's full lips pursed. Another scream, this time from a different corner. Berthe sighed heavily. "Good Lord—excuse me, won't you?"

Sari tried to fight the exhaustion steadily creeping up on her. It would be a long night if she had to fight off questions about Conor for most of it. She sighed, glancing at the groaning sideboard, remembering his promise of protection. She could use his support now; he was so much better at fending off unwelcome questions.

Sari's tension only increased as the night wore on. By the time the potluck dinner had been eaten and the children were cheerfully playing games in the corner, she was ready to scream. She glanced toward Conor, feeling an unfamiliar tightening in her throat as she saw how readily he smiled and teased Isabel— and how easily the woman responded. One would almost think she was a young girl flushed with first love rather than a twenty-five-year old woman with

two young children—and a husband standing less than a. yard away.

For a moment Sari wished heartily that Tom Johnson would develop a sudden jealous fury. She could almost picture the big man striding over, pulling his slender, meekly pretty wife aside and landing a stiff uppercut to Conor's jaw.

Isabel's high-pitched twitter cut the buzz of conversation, and Sari winced. She knew the way his eyes focused on Isabel as though she were the only woman in the room, and Sari knew exactly what kind of effect that look was having. God knew she'd found herself caught in that heady, sensual gaze more than once.

Sari resisted the urge to crush her cup. Conor Roarke could flirt and talk with Isabel Johnson—or any other woman in the room—as long as he wanted. She didn't care.

"Everyone, everyone!" Miriam stood, clapping her hands to gain attention. "Come over here now, it's time to sing! Will, did you bring your fork?"

Will Schmacher nodded, a broad grin spreading across his face. "Why, Miri, it's the whole reason I'm here!"

Everyone laughed, and Miriam placed her hands on her pink-swathed hips. "Now, come on, everyone. Sari—get over here. Help me organize!"

Miriam smiled. "Very well. Now, I'm going to break everyone up into couples, and we'll take turns."

Sari groaned inwardly. Couples. She suddenly knew without a doubt what Miri was planning. She tried to back away, but almost as if she sensed Sari's withdrawal, Miriam reached out and grabbed her hand firmly.

"Now." Miriam was in her element. She waited expectantly until everyone was watching her. "Berthe, since your husband will be leading, you're without a partner. Charles—" Laughter filled the room as Charles started in surprise, slopping coffee on the floor. "Charles, you will partner Berthe."

Charles bowed slightly. "I will be delighted."

"You'd best watch your wife, Will." Tom chuckled.

The naming of partners went on. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly. One by one, they were all paired off. Sari threw an anxious glance at her friend as they began running out of names, but Miriam ignored her.

"And Isabel with John." Miriam put a finger to her chin, her eyes narrowing in thought. "Now, is that everyone? Oh, wait! Conor!" Miriam sighed in mock exasperation. "Oh dear, I'd thought to split you and Sari up, but I guess I forgot." She threw a dimpled glance at Sari, who felt an immediate and overwhelming urge to strangle her friend. "Conor and Sari. Now the fun can begin!"

"Like he wants to—" Miri paused, blushing furiously, then went on eagerly. "Like he wants to drink up your very soul." She sighed. "It's so romantic."

Drink her soul
. Sari smiled grimly. The words were apt—Miriam didn't realize how much so. Conor had never been content with just her body.

Sari looked out the window again, searching for him despite herself. It was becoming easy—too easy—to forget that he was the same man who had used her to gain his own ends.

"What do you keep looking for?" Miriam peered around her. "Is Isabel making a fool of herself again?"

"No. I'm just looking." Sari fidgeted with the pies gathered on the sideboard, pushing a dried apple one here, a custard one there.

"Oh, leave those be. They're fine." Miri edged closer, her blue eyes sparkling. She lowered her voice. "Did I tell you Adelaide Pierce is expecting again? That's why she's not here tonight—she was afraid the drive would hurt the baby, though she's not even due for another seven months. Goodness knows where these city women get their ideas! Why, I'll bet she's lying abed right now, making Edward do all the chores."

Sari laughed. Miriam's chatter was infectious. "The drive
is
long, Miri."

"Long? Why, it's hardly more than ten miles from their place!" Miriam lowered her voice. "Look at Mary Anderson over there—seven months along if she's a day. She was more excited than anyone to get out here."

Sari slanted a glance at the obviously pregnant woman sitting in the rocker. Mary Anderson fanned her flushed face with a magazine, punctuating her conversation with emphatic pulses of the makeshift fan.

Miriam rushed on. "She was dying to see the infamous Conor Roarke."

Sari looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"You're the talk of Woodrow, Sari," Miriam said guilelessly. "Surely you knew that."

Miriam's news sent a shaft of unease through Sari, though it wasn't as if she hadn't expected gossip. She frowned.

"I told you," Miriam said. "Didn't I tell you everyone would be wondering?"

Sari rolled her eyes. "You were the one wondering, Miri."

"And I'm still wondering." She sent a sly glance through the crowded, noisy room. "Where is he, anyway? I thought I saw him when we came in."

"He's probably in the barn, hiding from all this commotion."

"In fact, where's John?"

Berthe Schmacher came through the door just in time to answer. "He's out talking with Mr. Roarke." Her plump face lit. "My, my, he's a handsome one, Sari. Wherever did you find him?"

Sari focused on the sideboard, on the golden crumb topping of what smelled like a shoofly pie. The scent of molasses churned her stomach. "He was a friend of my husband's."

"How long is he planning to stay?"

Miriam frowned. "Heavens, Berthe, you're as bad as Thelma Abbott."

"At least I ask Sari straight out instead of hinting around," Berthe said haughtily. She pulled her scarf from her head, shoving loosened hairpins back into her graying hair. "The whole town was talking about Thelma's nasty suspicions. Can you imagine?" A sharp shriek cut the room, and her gaze automatically followed. "Becky! Samuel! You two children behave!" She turned back to Sari. "You actually talked to her?"

Sari nodded. "She saw us in Clancy's."

"No doubt she was looking for a silk party dress." Berthe's full lips pursed. Another scream, this time from a different corner. Berthe sighed heavily. "Good Lord—excuse me, won't you?"

Sari tried to fight the exhaustion steadily creeping up on her. It would be a long night if she had to fight off questions about Conor for most of it. She sighed, glancing at the groaning sideboard, remembering his promise of protection. She could use his support now; he was so much better at fending off unwelcome questions.

Sari's tension only increased as the night wore on. By the time the potluck dinner had been eaten and the children were cheerfully playing games in the corner, she was ready to scream. She glanced toward Conor, feeling an unfamiliar tightening in her throat as she saw how readily he smiled and teased Isabel— and how easily the woman responded. One would almost think she was a young girl flushed with first love rather than a twenty-five-year old woman with

two young children—and a husband standing less than a. yard away.

For a moment Sari wished heartily that Tom Johnson would develop a sudden jealous fury. She could almost picture the big man striding over, pulling his slender, meekly pretty wife aside and landing a stiff uppercut to Conor's jaw.

Isabel's high-pitched twitter cut the buzz of conversation, and Sari winced. She knew the way his eyes focused on Isabel as though she were the only woman in the room, and Sari knew exactly what kind of effect that look was having. God knew she'd found herself caught in that heady, sensual gaze more than once.

Sari resisted the urge to crush her cup. Conor Roarke could flirt and talk with Isabel Johnson—or any other woman in the room—as long as he wanted. She didn't care.

"Everyone, everyone!" Miriam stood, clapping her hands to gain attention. "Come over here now, it's time to sing! Will, did you bring your fork?"

Will Schmacher nodded, a broad grin spreading across his face. "Why, Miri, it's the whole reason I'm here!"

Everyone laughed, and Miriam placed her hands on her pink-swathed hips. "Now, come on, everyone. Sari—get over here. Help me organize!"

Miriam smiled. "Very well. Now, I'm going to break everyone up into couples, and we'll take turns."

Sari groaned inwardly. Couples. She suddenly knew without a doubt what Miri was planning. She tried to back away, but almost as if she sensed Sari's withdrawal, Miriam reached out and grabbed her hand firmly.

"Now." Miriam was in her element. She waited expectantly until everyone was watching her. "Berthe, since your husband will be leading, you're without a partner. Charles—" Laughter filled the room as Charles started in surprise, slopping coffee on the floor. "Charles, you will partner Berthe."

Charles bowed slightly. "I will be delighted."

"You'd best watch your wife, Will." Tom chuckled.

The naming of partners went on. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly. One by one, they were all paired off. Sari threw an anxious glance at her friend as they began running out of names, but Miriam ignored her.

"And Isabel with John." Miriam put a finger to her chin, her eyes narrowing in thought. "Now, is that everyone? Oh, wait! Conor!" Miriam sighed in mock exasperation. "Oh dear, I'd thought to split you and Sari up, but I guess I forgot." She threw a dimpled glance at Sari, who felt an immediate and overwhelming urge to strangle her friend. "Conor and Sari. Now the fun can begin!"

"R
eady to dance?"

Conor's voice was soft in her ear, and Sari started, surprised to feel his warmth at her side, the sudden, intimate touch of his hand resting lightly against her elbow.

"This is ridiculous," she whispered, shrugging away from both his touch and the evocative sensations it aroused. "It's getting late. Long past time for games."

"Coward."

Sari's chin snapped up. She glared at him challengingly. "I am
not
a coward."

"No? Then what would you call it?" His smile was even and warm. "Why are you so afraid, Sari? Believe me, even I wouldn't ravish you in front of ten other people."

No, not physically
, Sari thought. That at least was true.
But emotionally ...
She took a deep breath. There was no help for it now. The other couples were already shoving back the chairs, making room for the silly dances. Breathless laughter and joking filled the room.

"Shall we sit down?" he murmured. Then, as if she hadn't just pulled away from him, he took her hand, tucking it in the crook of his arm. Sari caught her breath at the contact. His broad fingers were warm; the touch sent tingles through her. He seemed oblivious to her reaction as he led her to a nearby chair. She sat numbly, her heart making a queer little jump when he sat on the arm of the chair and his thigh brushed her arm.

"Okay, okay." Miriam clapped her hands, surveying the seated couples with satisfaction. "Who will start?"

Will hit the tuning fork against his knee. Its pure, clean hum rose above the chatter.

Berthe and Charles stood up. " 'Old Dan Tucker,' please," Berthe requested. She dimpled. "It's the only dance I know, since Will's always sitting out."

The tuning fork rang out again, joining the companionable laughter. Sari leaned forward, smiling at her uncle's obvious delight in the game. Charles had always loved to dance, to laugh. She focused on him, on his lighthearted enjoyment, and tried to forget how close Conor sat.

Old Dan Tucker was a mighty man

Washed his face in a frying pan

Combed his hair with a wagon wheel

Died with a toothache in his heel

The tune was familiar, the singing filled with choking laughter as Berthe and Charles promenaded to the silly words, the strained harmonies. They bowed to each other, hooked arms, and spun around in a caricature of a dance. The sprigged skirt of Berthe's simple wrapper swirled around her legs, and she lifted it with both hands, revealing her lace-edged drawers, sending a sly wink to the crowd.

Sari laughed at Charles's feigned shock. Her uncle had missed his calling. He should have been an actor, the way he postured and gestured like a preacher at a revival show. She clapped her hands in time to the music, stamped her feet on the hard-packed floor along with the others, and raised her voice to belt out the final chorus:

Get out the way for Old Dan Tucker,

He's too late to get his supper

Supper's over and breakfast's cookin'

Old Dan Tucker just stands there lookin
'.

"The two of you should join a troupe!" Tom suggested when the song was over, and Charles and Berthe sank exhausted into their chairs.

"A troupe?" Charles sputtered breathlessly. "
Ach
, Johnson, I am too old for such a thing."