Megan Chance (28 page)

"So how about making me a cup of coffee? It's a cold day, and I've been working hard."

"Of course." She took a deep breath—so deep, he wondered if the air burned her lungs—and stepped to the door. He followed her inside. The warmth of the soddy felt good, the smells of corn bread baking and beans and ham fragranced the air. He closed the door behind them and leaned against the wall, watching as she laid the bowl aside, and then unwound her scarf from her hair, leaving tendrils loose and dangling against her neck, curling to her shoulders. She took off her coat and hung it on the peg beside the door, and then she went to the stove and picked up the enormous tin pot that always stood at the ready, full of hot coffee.

Conor unbuttoned his duster and took off his hat, feeling warmed by the very sight of her. Such grace she had, the way she poured coffee, with her neck bowed to reveal that soft skin of her nape, the way the muscles in her arm flexed as she set the heavy pot aside. The way she turned....

She met his gaze; her cheeks colored. "You're staring at me," she said.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you're so beautiful." He took the cup from her and set it on the table, and then he curled his arms around her, settling his hands on her waist, pulling her close. He nuzzled her neck; she smelled of icy air and coffee. "I've missed you these last days, love."

Her hands pressed against his chest, a subtle pressure. "I've missed you too," she said, though he heard something else in her voice and felt the tension in her body.

He'd been an operative too long, he thought. He read people too well. There were times, like now, when he wished he didn't, when he would have preferred to live in ignorance about how someone else was feeling, what she was thinking. But now, all he felt was that tension in Sari, that pushing away.

He stepped back and looked into her face. She looked at his chest. Conor cupped his hand beneath her chin, bringing it up, forcing her to look at him.

"What is it, Sari?" he asked softly. "What's bothering you?"

Her eyes widened in feigned innocence. "Nothing."

"Don't lie to me. You haven't looked me straight in the eye for days. What's wrong? Have I done something? Said something?"

She shook her head. "No. You've done nothing."

"Then what is it?"

She pulled away from him. Her hands fluttered in a half-finished gesture as she turned to the stove. "It's just... it's nothing."

He frowned.

"I've been thinking about the Christmas dance," she said. "That's all. I don't... have anything to wear."

He thought of the cloth he'd stolen from her trunk. The cloth that he'd had Charles take into Woodrow with him that night of the blizzard. Mrs. Landers could sew, Sari's uncle had promised him. Mrs. Landers could make the dress Conor envisioned. But it wasn't done yet; it wouldn't be done before the dance tomorrow night.

"You could wear sackcloth and still look fine," he said. "And I don't believe that's what's bothering you."

She looked at him over her shoulder. That faint blush still stained her cheeks; she looked breathless and distracted. "Well, it is," she said defensively, and then she turned all the way around and stepped purposefully toward him. She grabbed his hands in hers and leaned into him, kissing him hard on the lips, molding her mouth to his.

"I've missed you," she whispered again, and there was a power in the words that convinced him.

Conor smiled. He pulled her closer, spoke against her mouth. "You'll be beautiful at the Christmas dance whatever you wear," he said. "You can't tell me there'll be anyone else dressed as fine."

She laughed. "Calico and gingham most likely."

"Well, at least I have fancy teacakes to look forward to," he teased. "And lemon punch."

"Stack cakes and cider," she teased back, kissing him again. "And a fiddler playing ‘Turkey in the Straw.'"

"No waltzes?"

"I believe the preacher is still calling it the devil's invention," she said. "He's only about fifty years behind the times."

"Well, for innocent girls I can see how it could lead to a life of sin. All that... touching." Conor shuddered in mock horror.

Sari laughed out loud. The sound of it jangled like bells through his soul. "I believe all those years in a Catholic parish have surely left their scar upon your spirit. No doubt you'll go to heaven after all."

"And after all the time I've spent trying to prevent it."

She tapped his mouth lightly with her finger. "Well, you've failed miserably, I'm afraid."

"I'm too much of a worldly soul," he said. "Because all I can think is that heaven is right here— where you are."

He was half teasing, half serious, but the words changed her. He saw it immediately; the way she tightened up again, the stone-solid set of her shoulders. She pulled away, looked away, and there was such seriousness in her face, along with a desolation that flitted through her eyes so quickly, he was left wondering if he'd seen it at all.

He reached for her, feeling that desperation inside of him, the fear that she would retreat too far, that he wouldn't be able to find her. His hand closed around her wrist, tightened around those fine, slender bones. Her gaze snapped to his.

"Sari," he said, and he heard that desperation in his words, that strange breathlessness. "Sari, love, we have to talk."

He thought for a moment that she would deny the truth of it, that she would pull away and go back to the stove and tell him no, but she didn't. She looked at him for a long moment, and then she said, "I know." She disentangled herself from him, wrapped her arms around her chest, and he saw something that looked like fear—or, not fear, but a loss of hope, a loneliness, that made his heart feel swollen and sad.

"But not today," she said. "There are ... things ... I need to think about."

"Things?"

She gave him a small, sad smile. "Just things, Conor," she said gently. "Please."

He nodded, though her answer took away the lightness he'd been feeling for the past days, added a weight to the hope that had started inside of him. He looked beyond her, to the mildewed newspapers on the walls, the darkness barely held at bay by the lamp, the steam rising from the heavy iron pot full of beans. It felt damp and dark suddenly, and the day seemed to have soured around him.

"Something's wrong," he said again.

She shook her head—a little sadly, he thought. "Go back to the fence," she said. Then that odd smile again. "Go be a farmer."

"A farmer," he repeated. "You think I could be?"

"I don't know," she said. "Can you?" And then she turned away from him, grabbing her apron from the hook beside the stove and tying it on, leaving him completely even though she didn't quit the room. Leaving him with the question dangling in his ears, and the strange, unfamiliar thought that she didn't care about the answer. That she already knew what it was.

C
onor took the bits between his hands, warming them with his breath and his body temperature before he finished harnessing the horses. Tonight was the Christmas dance in town, and they couldn't have picked a more hellish evening for it. The cold lanced through his coat, seeped into his bones. He checked the hot rocks wrapped in straw on the floor beneath the wagon seat, warming his hands before he shoved them back into his pockets. Then he glanced toward the house.

Almost in answer to his thought, the door opened. Lamplight slanted across the snow, and onto that bright carpet Sari stepped, looking refined and graceful as a princess even though that old wool coat was bundled around her like a blanket, the ubiquitous butternut scarf covered her hair. All he could see of the dress she wore was the hem peeking beneath the coat.

She caught his gaze and smiled, but it was a subdued smile; Conor caught the edge of tension beneath it. She was nervous, he realized. He remembered the day they'd gone into town, how she'd acted the same way then, how the curiosity of the townspeople seemed to bother her, and he guessed that was where her tension came from now.

He smiled back at her, as gently and reassuringly as he could. "Don't worry," he said. "I won't leave your side."

She looked puzzled for a moment, and then she turned away. "Did you remember to put the pies in?"

"They're in the back," he answered, coming forward to take her hand and help her into the wagon. She settled herself in the middle of the seat just as Charles came out of the soddy, closing the door behind him.

"You didn't forget the blankets?" Charles asked.

"It's too damn cold to forget." Conor waited until Sari's uncle climbed into the seat beside her, and then he came aboard himself, taking the reins into his hands. "I hope this dance is worth freezing to death," he teased. "Because it feels like we're going to."

Sari nodded distractedly. "I've been told it's a fine time."

The wagon started off, jerking across the snow, the steel-shod wheels crunching on the ice. They fell into silence; it was too cold to talk on this frigid night. The horses puffed in icy little clouds of steam, their hooves slipping even with the wool socks Conor had pulled over their forefeet.

He felt Sari beside him, sitting stiffly, the warmth of her body radiating through her coat. It was humiliating to admit how much her presence affected him, but the truth was, it did. The last few days he'd thought of nothing but this dance, of holding her again, of leading her across the floor while she leaned into him and laughed. It made him remember other dances, that first dance in Tamaqua, when he'd watched her coming down the stairs clad in blue-striped silk and thought she was the prettiest thing he'd seen in a long while.

That was the first time he'd met her, and he remembered now how she'd enraptured him from that second, how he'd watched her the rest of the night, had been unable to take his eyes off her even when someone told him she was Evan Travers's wife. He should have seen the trouble starting then, he knew. She affected him too easily; he should have stayed as far from her as he could. It was what a smart operative would do.

But then, when it came to Sari, Conor was rarely a smart operative.

He glanced at her, and she stared straight ahead, her expression tight. He thought about their conversation yesterday. He should have told her the truth about why he was here. He should tell her everything: his suspicions about her relationship with Michael, the fact that he was here looking for her brother, the ambivalence he was feeling about vengeance. He should tell her the truth, and discover if she could still love him after. If she loved him now.

He was almost afraid to know the answer. If she truly loved him, if she trusted him ... That kind of confidence terrified him. He'd gone into the most dangerous situations a man could face. He'd confronted outlaws and criminals, bombs and guns and fires. He'd gone into the blackest depths of the earth and come back alive. But this thing with Sari, this was the biggest risk he'd ever taken. And he felt horribly ill equipped to face it. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could.

But he was willing to try. If Sari loved him, he would try.

The well-lit windows of the Grange hall beckoned them as they finally pulled into Woodrow. The building glowed like a beacon from the end of what passed for the main street of town. The yard was covered with wagons and livestock. Hoarse shouts and laughter echoed in the darkening night. Excitement crackled in the air, sparkled on the lamp-lit snow.

"Oh, it's beautiful," Sari breathed, her voice muffled by the brim of her bonnet. "I didn't realize it would be so grand."

Grand?
Conor looked skeptically at the small building. The gaily decorated hall was not festooned with the tiny glittering lights of chandeliers, nor did its steps sparkle with reflections cast upon hundreds of glittering jewels nor shimmer with the movement of velvet and silk skirts. It wasn't one tenth as opulent as most of the parties he'd seen in Chicago.

But laughter pealed through the air, followed closely by the squeaking chords of a fiddle. Women picked up their calico skirts and tripped gaily up the steps, their eyes bright with anticipation, their remade gowns as beguiling as rich taffetas. The steps of the men were just as light—perhaps more so—as they gazed into the laughing faces of their women. The air shimmered with intimacy and romance, and despite himself Conor was caught up in it.

He smiled. He could grow comfortable with this life. Chicago could have its luxurious parties with women who flirted but never laughed, with conversations billowing above the hum of an orchestra and ladies careful not to spill punch on jewel-toned satins. He'd take Woodrow any day, with its fiddler and laughter and women dancing boisterously in blue gingham.

He looked at Sari sitting beside him, her cheeks red from the wind, her eyes sparkling in the light spilling across the snow, and Conor was caught up in the excitement. He reined in the horses, jumping down to lend Sari a helping hand. Together he and Charles led the animals to the temporary shelter erected behind the building.

"Charles! Conor!" Will Schmacher came forward, extending his hand. "Good to see you all could make it."

Charles shook the man's hand firmly. "We would not miss it," he said. "I hope you have not started the party without us."

"Hardly a chance of that. We all been waitin' for Sari's mince pie."

"I wouldn't want to disappoint you, Will." Sari said, smiling softly. "Do you think two will be enough to go around?"

"Not when I can eat one by myself."

"I think Berthe will probably make you share." She laughed. "It is Christmas, you know."

She reached into the wagon bed and pulled out the basket that held the pies, swinging it clumsily over the side. Will reached for it, lifting it easily.

"Let me help you with that, Sari." He offered his arm. "I trust your menfolk won't mind if I take you on inside. It's darn cold out here."

Conor's heart squeezed at the thought of her entering the hall alone, without him, and he realized he'd been harboring images of himself as one of those happy men escorting their wives up the icy stairs. Except Sari wasn't his wife, and he didn't have the right to monopolize her.