Megan Chance (35 page)

John nodded. Sari led them over to the grave, lifting leaden feet over rocks and hard hillocks of grass, nearly stumbling in the force of the wind. She hated looking at it, hated seeing that mound of stone and dirt and knowing her uncle's body was beneath it, that she would never look into his face again or hear the affection in his voice when he called her
Liebling
. She hated feeling that helpless, furious anger.

But this time, as the three of them stood on the edge of the grave and Sari heard John's muttered prayer and the soft whisper of Miriam's hymn, the anger was gone. The rocks were just rocks. The ground was simply ground.

And her uncle wasn't really there at all.

"I wonder," she said softly, "if there really is a heaven."

Miriam squeezed her hand. "If there is, Sari," she said kindly, "then Charles is there. He's in the arms of those who love him."

"In the arms of those who love him."
Not here. Not in this cold, unforgiving ground with the lonely wind howling all around. She hoped he was with Bernice. Heaven wouldn't matter to him without her. Not the downy clouds nor golden light nor harps nor angel wings. Her uncle would have been happy in hell if Bernice was waiting for him there.

Sari liked the thought. It made things better somehow, more bearable.

She turned to her friends. "Do you suppose ... would you mind ... ?"

"Of course we'll stay," Miriam said impulsively. "As long as you'd like us to."

"I'll admit I'd like the company for a few hours or so. Can I get the two of you some coffee?"

"I'll get you some coffee," Miriam said, hugging her fiercely, crushing the box Sari held on her hip. "Oh... the box."

Sari glanced down at it. She'd forgotten she even held it. "Audra probably sent it out for
Onkle
," she said. "You know how the two of them liked each other."

John smiled sadly. "Charles used to say that Landers's cafe had the best cherry pie in the country."

Sari returned his smile. "He used to say that about mine too."

She led them into the soddy. She set the box on the table. It felt good to have them there, as if there was life in the tiny house again, and the warmth and friendship she felt from the two of them filled her heart.

Miriam hung her coat and hurried to the stove. She poured coffee for each of them, and then she began lifting pans from their hooks on the wall.

"What are you doing?" Sari asked.

"Making you some dinner, of course," Miriam replied. "Now you just sit down and relax with John. And open up that box."

Sari sat at the table. She pulled the box toward her. The knots of the string were right, and she fumbled with them until John drew out his knife and slit them neatly. Sari pushed the string aside and carefully lifted the lid off the box.

It was the silk Conor had bought her. It glistened in the lamplight, the dark green stripes looked deep and rich, and the gold threads woven through the cloth glinted in the weak sunlight slanting through the window. At first she thought it was just the cloth, and it confused her, because the cloth was in her trunk upstairs. But then she noticed the fine stitching, the edge of a seam. A dress. It had been made into a dress.

She gasped and lifted it from the box. It felt smooth and cool, but the delicate silk caught on her roughened hands.

"Oh my," Miriam said breathlessly. "Oh, my Lord. It's beautiful."

She was right, it
was
beautiful. Sari stared at it, stunned both by its elaborateness and by the fact that she recognized it. Not the dress itself but the pattern. It was the same one she'd worn to that dance in Tamaqua, the dance where she'd met Conor for the first time, but it was adorned with touches she had not been able to afford then. The short sleeves were puffed and off the shoulder, trimmed in the same lace that edged the simple neckline. Silk flowers decorated each sleeve, with thin dark ribbons dangling from them. The polonaise skirt was decorated in lace, drawn up by a large green silk bow at the hip. It was beautiful. It was extravagant.

And it was from Conor.

He was the only one who could have known.

Sari's heart stopped, her breath caught in her throat. She'd hidden the silk away because she couldn't look at it without seeing the guilt on his face when he bought it, without wishing that the words he'd said were true.
"Something pretty. A frippery."
She'd thought the words were lies then, but now she wondered if they were. Now she wondered if it had really been guilt she'd seen, or if it had been something else. Regret perhaps.

She thought of the other things in her trunk, things he would have looked at, touched. The Christmas ornaments she'd been too busy to pull out, the soft mohair scarf—a rare gift from her mother—the red rose Conor had given her back in Tamaqua, when she was falling in love with him. She remembered the way he'd handed it to her, with a mock bow and teasing words. And then he'd kissed her so softly, so tenderly. ...

She wondered if he'd laughed when he saw she'd saved it, and then realized with a start that he wouldn't have. That he wasn't like that. She knew it deep inside her, in the heart that had known him well for a long time.

In the heart that still loved him.

She let the dress fall to her lap and looked at Miriam. Her friend smiled, and in her eyes was a reassurance that warmed Sari to her very core.

"He'll be back," Miriam said. "Don't worry, Sari. He'll come back for you."

Outside came the sound of hoofbeats. John got to his feet.

"Two men," he said briefly, looking out the window. He grabbed the rifle leaning by the door, the same one Charles had held only two days before. "Looks like we've got company, ladies."

"N
ow, who could that be?" Miriam peered past her husband. "I don't recognize them, do you, John?"

He shook his head. "Strangers," he said tersely.

Sari's heart raced. Two men. Mollies. The word rushed into her mind. Timmy Boyd's face wavered before her. Michael was shot. They could have left him behind. They could be coming for her... .

She rose from her chair, edging past Miriam, pushing past John. "It's all right," she said, though her heart was in her throat. "Please, John. Put the rifle down. It's all right."

He hesitated only a moment before he lowered the gun and stood back. "Are you sure, Sari?" he asked in a low voice. "Do you know these men?"

They weren't close enough for her to tell, but Sari nodded, afraid that if she didn't, John would try to protect her, remembering what had happened when
Onkle
tried.

"Wait here," she said, going out the door. "Please just wait here."

Sari tried to ignore the rapid beating of her heart. She waited as they came closer, and she felt a rush of relief when she realized it wasn't Timmy. It wasn't Sean.

But that relief was short-lived. There were other sleepers she didn't know, men in other towns... .

Slowly she walked up to the men, waiting while they dismounted.

"Are ye Sari Travers?" one of them asked.

Sari lifted her chin. "Who wants to know?"

"It's Mizz Travers, Roberts." The other man spoke quickly, coming forward. He lifted his hat, sweeping it from his head and bringing his face out of shadow. "Ma'am, I'm Peter Devlin. I believe we've met before."

She squinted at him. He looked vaguely familiar, with his badly cut gray-black hair and a round face that showed signs of dissolution. "Have we? I don't remember."

"In Pennsylvania."

Her panic came racing back. "You'll have to forgive me. I don't remember all... of Michael's ... friends."

The other man laughed and threw an amused glance at an obviously disgruntled Peter Devlin. "Aye, lass, an' there's no reason to remember us, either. We're no Molly Maguires." He pushed back his hat to reveal a lined face and twinkling eyes set deep above a hawklike nose. "I'm Paddy Roberts, from the Pinkerton agency in Chicago. Mr. Devlin, here, he's been workin' in Denver."

Pinkerton men. Sari felt relief tinged with wariness. "Pinkerton men," she said slowly. "What do you want with me?"

"We're looking for Roarke," Devlin said roughly. "Is he here?"

She shook her head. "No."

Devlin looked surprised. "But I assumed he'd be here."

"Well, he's not." Sari motioned toward the house. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have company—"

Devlin pressed forward. "Mrs. Travers, it's important that we know where he is. It's imperative that we find him."

"You're asking the wrong person," Sari said. "He left several hours ago. I don't know where he went."

"Then do ye ..." The other man, the Irishman, paused. He flashed a look at Devlin and then he continued. "Do ye know where yer brother might be, then?"

Sari snorted. "In hell, perhaps," she said.

"Mrs. Travers—"

Sari matched Peter Devlin's gaze. "I don't know where my brother is, Mr. Devlin."

"Ye've got no reason to help us, lass, that's for sure."

Sari turned her gaze to the Irishman, suddenly feeling pity for him and his obvious discomfort. "I've got no reason not to help you," she said. "My brother and I are ... estranged. He was here two days ago, but now he's gone. I would be surprised if I ever saw him again."

"And Conor?"

"He left this morning. I don't know where he went. Into Woodrow maybe. It's the closest town."

Paddy Roberts inclined his head. "Thank ye, Mrs. Travers. You've been a great help to us."

Sari gave him a weak smile. "I haven't been any help at all, Mr. Roberts," she said. "But I—I would like you to do one thing for me, if you would."

Peter Devlin nodded. "Of course. Whatever we can.”

Sari took a deep breath. She looked past them, into the long and far-reaching plains. "When you find Conor Roarke, would you ... would you ask him to come back? There's ... something ... I have to tell him."

Paddy Roberts raised a brow. "Aye, lass," he said kindly. "We'll make sure he knows that."

Sari smiled her thanks. She started to turn away.

"Wait, lass." Roberts touched her shoulder gently. "If there's anything we can do ..."

"There's nothing else, Mr. Roberts," she assured him. "Nothing else at all."

T
he gelding's breath was ragged, its sides heaving with exertion as Conor urged it to greater effort. He bent low over the horse's back, feeling the smooth, strong muscles lunge, watching its hooves kick up puffs of snow. He was almost there, and he didn't care if Doyle and his cohorts heard him coming. It was finally time for retribution.

Desperation had clouded his thinking when he left the soddy earlier that day, but now his mind was clear with purpose. He'd gone directly into Woodrow, had asked questions until he had the right answers. Doyle had left a clear trail—a path laid for Conor's benefit, he was sure. The Molly knew as well as he did that the time had come to bring the battle to a close. One of them would die today. Conor didn't intend for it to be him.

The snow had begun to fall a few hours ago, and now it was coming down steadily and hard, freezing Conor's face and hands, stinging his eyes. It didn't matter that he could barely see; he knew where Doyle was. He knew also that Doyle was waiting for him there. During Conor's quick visit to the general store, Clancy had nervously informed Conor that Michael had left a message.

"He's waitin'. for you at a place near Kiowa Creek," Clancy had mumbled. "He says it's time for a meeting. Just the two of you. Remember that, he says to me—just the two of you."

Conor smiled grimly. It wouldn't matter if Doyle was lying and the whole gang met him there. He had waited for this day for a long time, and he had more than the death of his father to punish Doyle for. More than Charles's death to avenge.

The past had held on too long, and unless he got rid of it, he and Sari had no future. He no longer wanted to live in fear—for her or for himself. He wanted a life. A family. He wanted dark-haired little girls with their mother's face, and little boys who would never know the fear and loneliness of living on the streets trying to survive. But most of all, he wanted the woman who had haunted his days and nights since he'd first seen her three years ago, at a Christmas dance.

Conor closed his eyes briefly, feeling the pounding of the horse's hooves vibrating through his body, the ice particles of snow biting into his skin. If he had to settle down on this godforsaken land and learn how to be a farmer, he'd do it and be glad. But then he remembered Sari standing against the sky, staring out at the prairie while the wind whipped her dark hair around her waist and he realized God hadn't forsaken Colorado. In fact heaven was right there, on the plains Conor had hated so much three months ago. The plains he was now beginning to love.

He glanced up, slowing the gelding at the ice-covered banks of Kiowa Creek. According to Clancy, the soddy was near here—less than half a mile away. The familiar tension of danger and wariness spread through him, and Conor pushed aside his duster to grasp the handle of the Colt. The gun fit easily, intimately in his hand. Its weight was reassuring. Tapping his heels against the gelding's sides, he urged the horse through the thin layer of ice and across the shallow creek.

The tiny lean-to came into sight within minutes, its shadow a dark, misty shape through the falling snow. He smelled the smoke drifting from the makeshift chimney, and Conor reined in his horse, pausing before he led the animal closer, tense with anticipation and fear. Michael Doyle might be Sari's brother, but he was a killer, and Conor couldn't af

ford to forget it. Slowly he dismounted, walking the few feet to the front door of the house.

The door opened before he got to it. Conor stopped, his hand tightening on his gun, his stance ready as Michael Doyle filled the doorway. There was a thick bandage around his upper arm, but no sling. Behind him Conor heard voices, saw movement. Timmy and Sean. Michael wasn't alone after all, and Conor cursed under his breath.

"Well, well," Doyle said with a smile. He drew deeply on the cigar between his teeth before he tossed it into the snow. "So you've come to get me, Jamie. I've been waiting for you."