Megan Chance (29 page)

He cleared his throat. "See you inside, Sari."

She nodded, weaving her arm through Will's and swaying into him as they stepped precariously over the ice. Conor watched her dark head lift to Will's as they walked away, and he turned back to the horses, suddenly wanting to be done with the unloading and unharnessing. A shiver of anticipation coursed up his spine when he thought of walking into the decorated hall and taking Sari into his arms for the first dance—

"Conor Roarke?"

He looked over his shoulder. The man standing behind him looked vaguely familiar, though Conor couldn't place his pockmarked face or serious expression. "Yes?"

"I'm John Clancy. I've got a telegram for you."

Conor hesitated. He dropped his hold on the harness and brushed off his hands. From the corner of his eye he saw Charles stiffen. Trepidation filled him. "A telegram?"

"It came in yesterday, actually." John Clancy looked sheepish. "But I couldn't get out there, and Pa said you'd no doubt be coming to the dance." He held out the thin, yellow paper. "It's from Denver."

Denver. Peter Devlin was based in Denver. He was one of Pinkerton's oldest operatives—and the first to recommend Conor be placed on sabbatical. There was no love lost between them. Conor's trepidation turned into foreboding. He took the missive from John's hands. "Thanks."

"I'm sorry it wasn't sooner—"

"It's all right. Thank you." Conor dismissed him curtly, turning to see Charles's intent gaze. "Don't wait for me," he said. "Go on in, I'll follow in a minute."

For an uncomfortable moment Charles looked as if he would protest, but then he nodded and quickly finished loading hay into the feed box. "I will see you inside," he said.

Conor waited until Charles disappeared around the corner before he leaned against the wall and stared at the envelope in his hand. Other men bustled around him, hurrying to get inside. Their talk floated about his ears, fading into incomprehensible sounds. For a moment Conor stared at the envelope, feeling a surge of dread he couldn't push away. For a moment he wondered if he had to open it. Perhaps he could throw it away, pretend he never got it, pretend Pinkerton didn't exist. But he couldn't and he knew it.

Clumsily Conor ripped open the envelope and pulled out the thin sheet. The words danced in front of his eyes before he could assign them meaning, and then he drew in his breath harshly.

Doyle seen stop meet me five sharp tomorrow at Elephant Corral in Denver stop use caution stop.

Conor stared at the words in shock.

Michael was here. Here in Colorado. The knowledge put a sick heaviness in Conor's gut; he thought of Sari the last few days, how she'd avoided him, slipped away from his hands. Was it because she wasn't sure how much to trust him, as he'd thought?

Or was it because she was in contact with her brother?

The suspicion was nagging and uncomfortable, and Conor forced it from his mind. He made himself think of the blizzard, and Sari's heartfelt words.
"I washed my hands of him."
She'd meant it, he was sure. He had looked into her eyes and believed her. That was what he had to remember. That was the only important thing.

He looked at the Grange hall, at the lights sparkling on the snow. He had to decide to trust Sari now—or never trust her. The time had come to make the most important decision of his life. He shoved the telegram into his pocket, sprinting past the horses, the men who stared after him in surprise. He had to find Sari, and when he did, he would ask her how she felt. He would find out now, tonight, if Sari loved him enough to trust him, if she loved him enough to help him find the man he hoped was somewhere inside him. And if she did—oh, God, if she did, he would send a telegram to Denver, tell Devlin to go to hell, that his warning was unnecessary. Because if Conor knew Sari loved him, he would do as his father had asked—as William Pinkerton had asked—and put aside revenge and hatred and anger. For Sari he would forget about finding Michael. He would make vengeance part of his past.

S
ari stood at the edge of the room, her toe tapping to the raunchy chords of the two fiddlers despite the tension that tightened her shoulders and the muscles in her neck. She wanted to relax, to enjoy this night. She'd been looking forward to it for weeks, more so in those days before Michael had come, when she had fantasized about dancing over these floors in Conor's arms, when the vision had brought pleasure instead of a steady sense of dread.

But things were different now. Now she couldn't stop thinking about Michael. He was better. In the last days the fever had faded. He had promised to be gone tonight, as she'd demanded, and she hoped he was true to his word, but even that thought didn't ease her anxiety. There was too much hatred in Michael's voice when he talked about Conor Roarke. Too much anger. She could not rid herself of the notion that Michael would try something, that he would make another attempt at revenge, in spite of his promise.

Onkle
's words haunted her.
"He's a killer,"
and once again—as she had several times over the last few days—she thought about warning Conor, and dismissed the idea just as quickly. Only now she felt a deep, heavy foreboding, a guilt she couldn't quite ease.
It was better this way
, she told herself. If Conor found out... if Conor found out, she would not be able to keep either of them from taking their revenge.

All she could do was hold Michael to his promise and hope he would be gone. She was tired of this; the strain of lying was exhausdng her. She was afraid, every moment she spent with Conor, that he would sense her discomfort, that he would somehow sense Michael was here, within his reach. She thought of the conversation they'd had in the kitchen just a day ago. Conor had known something had changed. He was a Pinkerton agent, skilled at finding out things. When he'd seen the bowl she dropped on the snow, she'd been sure he would figure it out. When he hadn't, when he'd accepted her story about the birds, her relief had been overwhelming. But she wouldn't always be able to come up with a story. And she couldn't keep avoiding him.

She took a deep breath, forcing a smile at a couple that eased past her, and wished she were like them tonight. Wished she could smile and dance and laugh. She wanted to sway beneath the shimmering tin stars hanging from twisted swaths of red and green bunting, to kiss under the tiny, wilted sprigs of mistletoe hanging in the doorway. She wanted to dance until her cheeks were flushed and perspiration gathered beneath her breasts, to walk out into the freezing air and whisper secrets in a lover's ear. In Conor's ear.

But her secrets would only tear them apart, and she would not be whispering them to anyone. Sari squeezed her eyes shut. She hoped Michael was gone already. She hoped he stayed gone.

The door opened behind her; the wind that came in with another couple blew tendrils of hair loose from the coiffure she'd taken such care with. She had styled it special tonight, wrapping the heavy strands in a French twist and tying scraps of lace from her remade gown into it. The dress she wore was her Sunday best—a fine, blue-striped corded silk that had been altered so many times, she wasn't sure when she'd first purchased it or what the style had been. Now it was fairly simple, as befitted life on the plains. It had a small stand-up collar and a slim-fitted bodice, with tiny pleats on either side of the button-down front. The sleeves fitted tightly to her arms all the way to her wrists, and the full skirts that had once seen a bustle were gathered on either side and fastened at the back with a large bow.

It was pretty enough, and a few days ago she would have been satisfied wearing it to the Christmas dance. But now it only made her think of the green-striped cream silk tucked away in her chest upstairs and the man who had bought it for her. Now all she could think about was the trouble she'd taken with her appearance and what a waste of time it was. Because deep in her heart she'd wanted to be beautiful for Conor, and she knew there was no purpose

in it. She and Conor had no future—Michael's visit had only confirmed what she knew in her heart already. And if she'd had a passing fancy that maybe that could change ... well, she knew now that it wouldn't. Michael was her brother, and he would always come between them.

The image of her brother was so strong in her mind that when the door opened and Conor came rushing inside, she felt a momentary twinge of panic—as if Michael were standing before her. The blood tingled in her fingertips. Her brother was gone, she reminded herself, and then added a prayer:
"Please, God, make him be gone."

"There you are." Conor was at her side, standing close enough to whisper the words in her ear. "Waiting for me?"

She turned to him, forced a smile, and hoped it was a good one. "You were outside so long, I thought you might have frozen to death."

"It sure as hell felt like I had," he answered. He smiled, but there was an odd tension in his face; his good humor sounded as forced as hers felt. He took her hand, squeezing it between his fingers, and led her into the hall. The dancing had started. The fiddlers were playing a boisterous tune, and petticoats flew as partners stomped across the floor, raising dust for the boy near the wall to wet down with his sprinkler can.

"Anyone you'd rather dance with?" Conor asked her. "Or can I claim all your dances now?"

Sari forced herself to answer in kind, even though her stomach was roiling and her throat was tight with tension. "What would people think if I danced them all with you? You'd ruin my chances of meeting some nice, widowed farmer. I'll let you be my partner for one."

His face darkened a moment, his fingers tightened around her hand. "There's no farmer here worth your time," he said roughly. "Dance with me."

He still wore his coat, but he pulled her onto the dance floor anyway, swinging her into his arms and starting the steps. He was good at it, she thought, seeing how easily he moved, how the motions came to him without thought or care. It reminded her of when she'd first met him—that dance in Tamaqua, the one where he'd swept her off her feet with only a few words spoken in a charming brogue, a pair of warm and ready arms. Evan had not danced with her that entire night, but as Jamie O'Brien, Conor had ignored the scandalized looks and partnered her for two.

The memory was one of the good ones, one not tarnished by what happened later, and it eased her tension now, brought her swinging back into his arms with a smile. She was wrong to worry so about Michael, she decided, lifting her skirts and moving into the reel. He'd promised to be gone; surely he would leave. There was no sense in letting him ruin her pleasure in tonight.

So when the fiddlers began a slower dance, Sari responded to the light pull of Conor's hands, moved into his arms with little resistance. There was no future in their relationship, but there was tonight. There was now.

His hand nestled in the small of her back, keeping her close. She felt the movement of his hip against the fabric of her dress, the press of his leg against hers. She looked up and found he was staring down at her, his blue eyes dark and intense, his expression serious.

"What's wrong?" she asked, laughing. "Did I step on your foot?"

He frowned. "No. Why?"

"You're frowning quite fiercely."

His expression relaxed. "Sorry. I seem to have lost my charming touch this evening." His hand tightened against her, pulling her closer. She smelled bay rum and the lingering freshness of cold air and the warm, wet wool of his coat.

"I suppose I'll forgive you," she said, "if you tell me what's bothering you."

That look in his eyes sharpened. "Do you really want to know, Sari?"

It was the way he said it, that too-serious, too-intent way, that made her think he knew about Michael. Sari's stomach dropped, her heartrate sped. He knew. They hadn't been careful enough. All those treks across the frozen yard with plates of food—she should have known Conor would catch on. He was a Pinkerton agent. Of course he would discover it

She was so lost in her thoughts, it took her a moment to realize he was dancing her across the floor to the back door. There were people standing there, eadng plates of dried-corn casserole and chicken and coconut cake, talking and laughing, and she saw the surprise on their faces as he danced her right through them, stopping only because the door loomed in front.

Sari was breathless when he pushed it open; she gave a fleeting smile to Will Schmacher as Conor dragged her out into the cold air, feeling a moment of panic when she thought of how quickly the word would make the rounds. Before the night was over, the entire town would know that Conor had whisked her away outside, where her neighbors and their prying eyes could only guess at what was going on. Unfortunately their imaginations were far too vigorous for her comfort.

But before she had time to think any more about it, Conor pressed her against the wall of the Grange, shielding her from the cold wind with his body. There was little moon tonight, it was mostly covered by clouds, and a light, whirling snow hovered around his shoulders, danced in his hair. His hands were at her waist; his breath was warm and moist against her face.

"Sari," he breathed, and then he choked a little— a half laugh—and turned away for a moment. When he looked back again, there was a determination in him she hadn't sensed before. "Sari. I've been thinking about us."

It was foolish, how easily the words made her heart jump, how she felt that silly little rush of joy even though she knew there was no point. She worked to keep her voice steady. "And what have you decided?"

"I've decided I—Christ." The words came out on hard rushes of air, as if he had to say them quickly before they were gone. Sari waited. He leaned his forehead against hers, tightened his hands on her waist. "I've decided I need to tell you the truth," he said.

The words were so raw, so edged in pain, that Sari stiffened. The dread she'd fought all night settled in her chest, harsh and heavy.

"The truth," she repeated dully.