Megan Chance (36 page)

"It's not Jamie anymore, Doyle. You know that. And I thought you said to come alone."

Michael's smile widened. "Well, now, laddie, they won't leave me be. Nothing I could do about it."

"I thought you were a man of your word."

Michael's face darkened. "There comes a time when the only honor a man has is to take care of his enemies—any way he can." He spat into the snow. "And it's a fine thing for you to talk about honor, after what you did to the men you called friends, what you did to my sister. There're no words for a man like you, Roarke. No curse strong enough."

"You called me a Molly once," Conor reminded him. "Think that's enough to get me into hell?"

Behind Michael, Timmy cursed and stepped to the door. The gun in his hand gleamed in the snowlight.

Michael pushed him back. "It's my fight, Tim," he said angrily. "My fight." He stepped from the doorway, and it was then that Conor saw the knife glinting in his hand. "You won't be around long enough to blaspheme them further. I'll see you join them all—in heaven or hell."

Conor had no time to react as Michael lunged. He slammed into Conor, and the breath whooshed from Conor's lungs, his fingers loosened. The revolver slipped from his grasp, falling beyond his reach, disappearing in a puff of snow. Michael was on top of him in an instant, slamming him into the ground.

"I promised them I'd see you pay in blood," Michael sneered, his face inches from Conor's. "And now it's time."

From the corner of his eye Conor saw the knife poised above him. He reacted with pure instinct, reflex born of years of practice. Conor thrust forward, smashing his knee into Michael's groin, his fist into Michael's wounded arm. The man snarled in pain, rolling sideways while the knife fell harmlessly into the snow.

Conor scrambled away. "You bastard," he rasped. "What did you expect? You'll die, just like they all did. Like my father, and your uncle. Tell me something, Doyle, did you feel anything when you put a bullet through him? Your own uncle?"

Michael staggered to his feet. His expression darkened. "You don't know anything about it."

"What must it feel like, to know you're going to die with that on your conscience?"

Michael scowled. "If I die, you'll be going with me." He fell to one knee, pulling something from the snow. The gun. It flashed in the light as Doyle lifted it. Christ, his own gun. Time slowed; Conor dove to the ground, but he couldn't move fast enough. The explosion crashed through the air, the noise bursting in his brain. Conor twisted sideways, but it was too late. The bullet slammed into his shoulder. The impact sent him sprawling to the snow, the pain brought tears to his eyes.

He struggled to his feet, staggering back as Michael came relentlessly forward. Conor felt the warm, wet heat of blood, the burning, searing pain. The world tilted before him, and he fought it, forcing himself to face Michael, to concentrate. But there was no sound suddenly; Conor couldn't hear anything—not his own choking gasps nor the rush of blood through his veins. He couldn't even hear the wind. He couldn't hear, his body was numb, and he had the quick, unwelcome thought that he was dying. Ah, hell, he was dying, and he never had the chance to tell her what he really wanted, would never be able to tell her about the future he had planned—

"Time to die, my friend," Michael gasped, his face twisted as he moved closer. His finger tightened on the trigger. "Time to die."

Not dying. Not yet. Conor nodded toward the gun. "Try it," he taunted. He couldn't run, there was no way to escape. His vision blurred—there was a haze over everything. He tried to focus, watching Michael warily. "Pull the trigger, Michael, if that's what you want. Go ahead, kill me—I'm half there already."

It was all the urging Michael needed. He aimed the gun, his finger tensed on the trigger—

Conor dove. He aimed for Michael's knees, skidded across the snow into the bigger man's body. Pain exploded in his shoulder, taking his breath away. Michael gasped and went down, the gun flying through the air, skidding across the snow.

From the corner of his eye Conor saw the others— Timmy and Sean—bursting from the cabin. He had moments, if that. Timmy was waving that blasted rifle. Just moments. Conor's head was spinning, his shoulder was going numb. It took nearly all his strength to roll away from Michael's grasp, but he did it. He did it and lunged across the snow for the gun, wrapping his hand around the hilt. He was belly-down in the ice and looking up just as Timmy Boyd yelled out his curses.

Conor aimed instinctively, pulled the trigger almost before he knew it. He heard the crack of gunfire, saw the smoke, and then Timmy's face crumpled before him, just crumpled in an expression of surprise and pain, and Conor saw the blood spurt from his chest as he went down, dead before he hit the snow.

"You bastard—" Sean O'Mallory skidded to a stop. "You've killed him."

"And I'll... kill you ... too." The pain in Conor's shoulder was blinding. He fought the urge to close his eyes, to give in to it.

Sean smiled meanly. He lifted his rifle, trained it on Conor. "Let's see who's the quicker shot, laddie, shall we?"

"No!" Michael screamed.

Conor pulled the trigger. Sean dropped the rifle, his expression confused, and then he pitched forward, falling onto Timmy's body with a sickening thud. Conor rolled to his side. Blood was dripping from his shoulder, forming dark red-brown ice where it hit the snow. He looked up to see Michael squatting by the bodies, his face distorted by anger and pain. He looked at Conor, his eyes dark with hatred as he reached into Timmy Doyle's belt and pulled out a knife.

"You going to shoot me, Roarke?" he asked. "Or will you fight like a man?"

Conor laughed. The motion sent pain radiating into his chest. "I doubt you'd be saying that if you were the one holding the gun." He tightened his hand around the hilt, got slowly to his feet. The ground wavered before him; he staggered as it seemed to tilt beneath his feet.

Michael laughed. His white teeth flashed in the darkness of his beard. He rose slowly, twisting the knife in his hand, never taking his gaze from Conor. "I've killed lesser men than you," he said quietly.

"And better ones too," Conor said steadily. He blinked, trying to right the crazy spinning of the snow before his eyes. He motioned with the gun. "Give it up, Michael. You can't win this time."

Michael lifted a brow. "Can't I?"

The earth lurched beneath Conor's feet. He staggered, trying to regain his balance, but it was too late. Michael attacked. Conor heard a scream—his own—and the gun went flying. He saw the knife— a flash of reflection, a sharp light—coming toward him. Reflexively he jerked, bringing his knee up into Michael's chest. He heard Michael's whoosh of breath, saw him fall back.

It was the opportunity Conor needed. He lunged up, twisting around, groaning with the effort it took. Michael fell to the ground, and Conor was on top of him in a moment, bringing his boot down on Michael's arm, grinding his foot into the flesh. Bones cracked, splintered. Michael's scream of pain pierced the air. The knife fell from his nerveless fingers.

Frantically Conor reached for it. He couldn't feel the handle when his fingers gripped it, was surprised when he drew it from the snow. He looked at Michael, was stunned by the degree of hatred he saw in the man's eyes.

"Kill me, then," Doyle gasped. "Kill me, like you did the others." He laughed—the obscene sound rang in Conor's ears. "Twenty of us for one preacher. Which is the better deal?" His laughter split the air, the high, tinny sound was almost painful. "Which is the better deal?"

Conor stopped.
"The better deal."
One for twenty. And it would just keep going. Over and over, never stopping until everyone was dead. Never stopping.

Sean Roarke would never have wanted it this way, and now Conor knew why.

Conor backed away, clutching the knife in his fist. He stumbled away from Michael's convulsing body, feeling sick at heart and tired. And hurt. God, he hurt. "You're not worth killing, Doyle," he said softly. "You're not worth one tenth of him, and I won't dirty my hands with you."

He turned away, and as he did so, he heard hoofbeats, muffled in the snow. Two men were riding in at a fast pace. Conor recognized Peter Devlin instantly and felt a rush of relief so intense, it made him dizzy. He staggered, nearly falling to his knees.

Then everything seemed to happen in the same moment. Conor heard the cocking of a gun, Michael's scream: "You coward, Roarke! You were always a coward! Well, you won't run this time. Not this time!" From his horse Devlin reached for his rifle, and Conor twisted around in time to see Michael aiming the revolver that had been lost in the snow, laughing as he pointed it at Conor, his white teeth flashing. Conor threw himself to the ground— too late. The gun fired; he heard the rush of the bullet, waited to feel the pain.

And instead saw Michael Doyle lurch back, clutching his chest. The revolver fell from his hand. He collapsed onto the snow and laid there, unmoving.

Then there was no sound but the wind.

Clumsily, painfully, Conor got to his feet.

"You all right, Roarke?" Devlin's voice was eerily muffled by the wind and snow. He lowered his rifle.

"I'm fine," Conor said, and then wondered if Devlin even heard the quiet words.

He saw Devlin's nod. Saw the other man urge his horse across the snow, past Conor, to Michael's still body. Conor brushed the snow from his coat and dropped the knife he still held, watched it fall into the snow. It disappeared from sight. Disappeared as thoroughly as his hatred had done. Conor stumbled to his horse. Awkwardly he mounted; the pain of the motion nauseated him.

"He's dead!" The man called back. Conor looked over his shoulder to see him leaning over Michael. "Good work, Devlin!"

Good work.

Conor's shoulders sagged; he urged the gelding forward. It was over, he thought, falling over the animal's neck. He could go home. Sari was waiting.

Blackness engulfed him.

T
he snow was coming down faster now. Sari stared out the soddy window, staring at the near twilight. John and Miriam had left over an hour ago, and she had urged them to go, telling them she wanted to be alone.

But she had not imagined this kind of alone.

The house was so quiet—even the howl of the wind didn't ease the stillness of it, and the snow muffled every other outside noise. She had put the coffee on to boil simply because she wanted the sound to keep her company, but she had long since ceased to hear it. The silence inside her was too loud.

The snow swirled around the window, creating shifting shadows, soft light. She stared out at it. Her uncle had once told her that no two snowflakes were alike, and she wondered if that was true, wished there was someone here to ask. In her mind she imagined it. Imagined turning to someone—a man— who sat in the rocker by the stove. Imagined asking the question
"Did you know every snowflake is different?"
and having him smile and rise and take her hand.
"Let's test that theory, shall we?"

The scene was so real it made her smile and then her smile faded just as quickly when she realized she was here, and she was alone, and there was no man sitting by the fire. There would never be a man sitting by the fire.

This was what made women mad, she thought. Listening for voices in the wind. Hearing them.

Sari turned from the window. The gown, the cream silk, lay spread across a chair, its stripes and gold thread glittering in the lamplight. On the table beside it lay a book, its place marked with a piece of buffalo grass. Marked at
Christabel
, she knew, and the words came into her mind, sharp and poignant with meaning.
"They parted—ne'er to meet again! But never either found another to free the hollow heart from paining—"

The memory came back to her, flooding over her with painful intensity. Conor, bent over the book, his raspy voice never faltering as he read the words, his low whispers caressing, his glances full of meaning and promise. Conor, smiling at something her uncle said, throwing her such a beguiling grin, she couldn't help but smile in response.

The thought hurt her heart. She wondered if she'd ever see that beguiling grin again. There were so many mistakes between them, so many lies. She had accused Conor of being unable to love, unable to trust, but she herself was just as guilty of that. She had not trusted him with her own heart. She had not loved him enough to be honest with him.

Sari looked again at the cream silk, and she wanted to cry for her own stupidity, her own blindness. For her willingness to sacrifice everything for a brother who cared for nothing and no one. She had lost everything because of it. Her uncle, her lover.

Her brother too.

The thought made her feel tight and sad. Because she couldn't grieve over losing Michael—at least not the Michael of today. But for the little boy she'd loved, the boy who had cared for her once, loved her once—yes, she could grieve for him, she
would
grieve for him. That little boy had been dead to her for a long time. He'd been killed in the mines with their father, buried with their mother. The Michael Doyle who existed now was not the brother she had known. She had just never said good-bye.

But she was saying good-bye now. She had come to Colorado to heal, and it was time now to do that. It was time to put all the past hurts behind her, to go forward without anger. To farm this land the way Charles would have wanted it farmed. To live her life without fear.

And without love too. Unless ...

Sari looked back at the window, at the growing darkness, and wondered where Conor was, wondered if the Pinkerton men had found him, and if they'd given him her message.
"Ask him to come back. There's something I have to tell him."

Something, yes. So many things. She wanted to apologize, she wanted to tell him she understood. She wanted to start over, and she hoped—she prayed—he could forget her last words. They had been said in anger and in grief, and always ...