Megan Chance (19 page)

The rope grew taut. Conor tripped to the soddy wall. Carefully he pressed against it, following it around. His fingers dug into the ice-crusted grass brick; he clutched the rope in his hands until he felt the edge of the door, the smooth, cold wood.

He wrenched on the handle and the door slipped open. His feet were like blocks of ice, his breathing harsh as he nearly fell into the warmth of the room.

Sari was beside him, yanking the rope from his hands and shoving the door closed.

"Are you all right?" She asked, peeling away the ice-frosted collar of his duster. "It turned so quickly."

"It's a blizzard, all right." His lips were so stiff, he could barely form the words. Conor staggered to the stove and held his hands over the warmth. The metal was hot from hours of cooking, and yet he could barely feel the heat. "And it looks to me like we're stuck here."

"For a few days probably," Sari agreed. Her brown eyes glinted in the lamplight. "
Onkle
won't be going anywhere till it's over."

"Neither will anyone else," Conor said, turning from the stove. He was surprised at the extent of his relief. "It's just you and me, love. All alone." A slow smile spread.across his warming face. "Think you can bear it?"

C
ould she bear it?
Sari stared at him as he huddled over the stove, rubbing his hands. They were alone. Together. With no escape. The storm would keep them both in the house; she couldn't send him out to the barn in a blizzard. And without Charles there was no buffer between them.

She licked her lips unconsciously and looked at him. His hair fell forward into his reddened face, snow melted from the shoulders of his coat. He looked over his shoulder at her, his face crinkled in a smile.

"What, no answer?"

His grin sent pinpricks of warmth spinning through her heart; it almost knocked her breath away. For a moment he looked so free-spirited, so young and eager. She knew he felt the same freedom she did, and that it was a rare feeling for him and he reveled in it.

She smiled back. "I hope you won't be bored."

"Bored?" He lifted a brow. "Not a chance of that, love."

Sari moved restlessly to the window, staring out at the swirling whiteness. The snow was falling quickly, the flakes so close together that it was one big swirling mass. There was nothing but movement, constant and never slowing.

She glanced back at him. "Have you ever seen such a blizzard?"

He fumbled with the buttons on his coat, slipping them clumsily from their fastenings, shrugging out of it. Melted water shook to the floor and sizzled on the hot surface of the stove. He hung the duster carefully on the peg beside the door.

He moved beside her; she felt his heat, smelled his warm, musky scent.

"It snows in Chicago, you know. There are times when it snows so hard, you can't escape it." The wind shrieked around the house, a sharp, keening wail. "But there isn't this kind of wind in Chicago. There's nothing like this wind."

"When we first came here, I used to wake in the night, sure I heard screaming," Sari remembered. "I've heard of women who went insane because of the sound."

"But you're used to it."

She nodded. "It's strange—I know you'll laugh— but now it comforts me. It's as if there's another person out there, always telling me she's around. I have never felt alone here." She paused. "Though sometimes I've felt lonely."

"Lonely, Sari?" His voice was so low, she barely heard it. "Like you felt in Tamaqua?"

His question tightened her heart. "I've never felt much like I belonged anywhere," Sari said honestly. It was true, and the reasons for it had caused her pain once. But she was older now, no longer a confused little girl or an abandoned wife. "My mother was too drunk to pay much mind to us, and Da— Da hit us when he remembered we were there. When I met Evan ... well, no one had ever paid attention to me like that before—as if I mattered." She inhaled deeply, steadying herself against the pain of memory. It had not dulled. She wondered if it ever would. "But he was just like Da in the end."

Conor regarded her somberly. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" She asked. "It had nothing to do with you. Evan started drinking after I lost our baby. I don't think ... I don't think he loved me at all... after that."

Conor stiffened. A baby. God, he'd never known, never even suspected. A wave of anger swept him, a fierce urge to ruin the man who had blamed her. How she must have hurt at the loss. He ached at the thought of it. Conor could imagine how she'd looked pregnant, how she would have glowed with real serenity, not the false placidness she wore now. She would have been so happy.

He was surprised at how much he wanted to see her that way now. Happy, carefree. Had Sari ever been that way? Or were the burdens she'd carried as a child too fierce to allow her joy?

"Evan was a fool," he said brutally.

"Yes, he was," she said, her voice breathless. "I realize that now, looking back. He would have hated my pity," she smiled. "So I pity him."

Conor's eyes twinkled. "Too bad he doesn't know."

"He does." She brushed past him, moving to the ladder of the loft.

He watched her hips sway beneath the fabric of her skirt as she climbed the ladder, and Conor's body stirred in sudden anticipation. He swallowed, turning away abruptly to watch the snow.

The memory of that kiss against the barn surfaced with painful clarity. Too well he remembered the feel of her, the taste of her. Her scent. He closed his eyes, imagining it again. She had smelled like shoofly pie. Sweet and rich, dark and sulfury. He'd never held a woman who smelled so good.

She was back in moments, climbing down, one hand clasping a bottle filled with dark liquid. Her dark eyes were lit with a touch of mischief.

"Plum wine," she whispered. "Onkle wouldn't touch a drop, but Aunt Bernice put it up without him knowing it. It seemed such a waste to leave it behind."

She went to the shelves above the stove and took down two tin mugs. She handed them to him and twisted the cork in the bottle. There was a slight pop as it pulled free. Conor smelled the heady, summery scent of plums.

He held out the cups and she poured a careless measure into each. Her step seemed almost light, her touch flirtatious as she took her cup from his hand. Her warm fingers touched his, and the shock of her skin on his surprised him with its intensity.

She seemed not to notice. Instead she went to the far side of the room and settled into a chair. She motioned to the one beside her. "Won't you sit down?"

"I don't mind if I do." Conor took a sip of the wine, following her. The drink was potent, burning and sweet as it coursed down his throat. He looked at the cup in amazement. "Bernice made a strong bottle of wine."

"It was her one weakness." Sari's tone was fond. "After I was married, I'd come over to visit in the afternoons sometimes. She'd have a bottle waiting. I'm sure
Onkle
suspected we'd been drinking when he came in for supper, though he never said a word."

She leaned back in the chair. "We had some wonderful times," she murmured. She looked at him suddenly. "Do you ever wish you'd had a family?"

Conor winced. "I guess I have. I don't really remember."

She leaned forward, balancing her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands.

"Liar," she said.

Conor looked at her in surprise. "What?"

"I don't believe you."

He deliberately laced his voice with coolness. "A small boy in a slum orphanage thinks more about staying alive."

"An orphanage?" She frowned. "I didn't know."

"I've never told anyone." His stomach felt tight.

Conor took another sip of the wine. It churned in his gut.

"Tell me," she said softly.

Conor gripped the cup in his fingers. God, she looked so intent, so fragile and childlike. The slender bones of her face looked elfin cupped by her long fingers. Her almond-shaped eyes were innocent and beguiling. But he knew better than that. He knew there was a strength, a worldliness, in Sari that belied her appearance. A strength that could easily best his.

She was so beautiful, and she was burning inside him; he'd spent too many sleepless nights dreaming of her clasped beside him, thinking of the way she sprawled across the bed lost in dreams.

She lowered her eyes and sat back in the chair, pulling her legs up beneath her, smoothing the dark brown skirt of her dress self-consciously. "There were times when I felt like an orphan, even when my parents were alive." She leaned her head on the edge of the chair. "I can imagine what it's like to have no one.”

He couldn't speak. He stared at her, unable to tear his eyes away, feeling his mouth grow dry. Conor inhaled deeply. Her eyes were tempting. He wished he could just fall into them. There was something so soothing, so comforting in her gaze. "You don't know..."

He saw her quick pain, the way she turned her face into her cup and took an anxious sip of wine. It knifed through him, and for the first time in his life he felt selfish for not sharing himself with her. She wanted to know about him, and God knew he'd wanted to tell her for days now. She would understand. She was the only one who would.

The thought of Michael flitted quickly through his mind, and Conor deliberately pushed it away. It didn't matter. Not now. The snow blocked out the world; there was nothing but him and Sari. And for some odd reason he wanted her to know who he was. Who he really was.

"Sari," he said gruffly, "the truth is much more complicated than you know."

"I'll understand if you don't want to tell me."

He smiled. "No, you won't. And I don't blame you." He glanced into the depths of his cup; the dark wine glinted with the lamp's reflection. "The part about the orphanage is true enough, believe me. My mother died when I was very young. I barely remember her. I don't know much about her actually. She was a whore, I do know that. An immigrant. Her name was Bridget. I never knew her last name."

He looked up, into Sari's wide eyes. There was warmth and concern in her face. "Did you ever try to find out?"

He shrugged. "Not really. I wasn't very interested in her, to be honest. I'm less interested now." The truth of his words burned through him. "It doesn't matter, Sari. She doesn't matter."

"She was your mother."

"Is there some law that says you have to care about your mother?"

Sari looked away uncomfortably. "No." She shook her head. "No."

"I spent the next eight years or so in an overcrowded orphanage in the slums of Chicago. There's not much education in those places, not much to eat unless you steal it for yourself. When I was ten or eleven, I left. There was no more room and it was mutually agreed that I could take better care of myself."

"At ten?" Sari's surprise was reflected in her eyes.

Conor grinned. "By then I was pretty proficient at stealing. It was no hardship. In fact I didn't know any other way. And then ... then, I got sick. Some kind of fever, something. They told me afterward that I was wandering the streets in a delirium. All I know is that I was having strange dreams, hallucinations." His hands clenched the cup in painful memory. He remembered those dreams too well, remembered the fear. Even now, at thirty-three, he felt those nightmares with the intensity of a twelve-year- old.

"They told me I almost died."

She was quiet for a long time, her brown eyes hooded, thoughtful. He wondered what she was thinking and was surprised to realize that he hoped she felt for him, that he wanted, yearned for, her concern for a bedraggled little boy whose eyes were bright with fever.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet. "Who are 'they'?"

His throat tightened. "The nuns," he said finally. "I ended up on the doorstep of a rectory."

"Thank God," she breathed.

He smiled at the irony. "Yes. Thank God. When I woke up, days later, well on my way to recovery, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. I guess in a way I had. The priest who ran the parish decided, for whatever reason, that I had some promise, and he took me in. He treated me so much like a son, I even took his name."

"His name?"

"His name was Father Sean Roarke. He became a real father to me." Conor brought his wine to his lips, pausing before he took a sip. "He did everything he could for me. Educated me, fed me. Loved me.”

She frowned. "Loved?" she asked carefully.

"The Mollies bombed my house in July," he said bleakly. "He was sick—I was taking care of him." He paused. "He died before I could get him to a doctor." Conor caught her gaze. He fought to keep the emotion from his voice, but he heard it there, resonating from deep inside him. Anger and sadness and regret. "You said you watched the papers, that you waited to find out who I really was. That you were disappointed the sleepers didn't kill me." He swallowed. "Well, I felt dead, Sari. I felt dead."

"And now?"

He clenched his jaw. "Now I want them all."

The anguish in his eyes was so intense, Sari felt blinded. This was the anger. This was what he'd been hiding from her. He'd lost as much as she had—more, because he loved his father and she had not loved her husband for a long time and had lost her brother years before.

The thought brought a cold lump to her stomach. Even though she hadn't really believed it, she'd hoped he'd been telling the truth when he said he'd come to Colorado because he still cared about her. But now a deeper suspicion lodged in her heart. Sleepers had killed Conor's father, and there were only a few left who would have cared enough to search Conor out.

Her throat felt tight. Michael had cared enough. Michael had the means and the motive for vengeance. He had plenty of enemies, and Conor was one of them.

She remembered the last time she'd seen her brother. It had been just before the hangings, on a heavy night dark with rain.

The street was deserted, and his whispered "Sari!" had seemed to echo through the air as she'd hurried back from trying to see Evan.

He'd pulled her back into the shadows between buildings, and in the dim lamplight his movements had seemed jerky and anxious, his eyes burned with suppressed emotion. Concern, she'd thought then, but now she wondered if maybe it had been excitement instead—or anger.