Megan Chance (7 page)

He thought back, remembering Sari's relationship with her brother. She'd never agreed with Michael about anything. They had been as different as a brother and sister could be. Doyle was a fanatic, a man burning with conviction that bordered cm madness. He had been the perfect Molly assassin—a man convinced that murder was acceptable if it gained them an edge. Jack Kehoe, the bodymaster of the Girardville Mollies, and one of the most ruthless men Conor had ever known, had trusted Doyle with their most sensitive assassinations. By the time Conor infiltrated the gang, Michael was one of their most valuable members.

And Sari was one of their biggest liabilities.

Conor closed his eyes, remembering Evan's careful warnings about his wife.
"She don't like this stuff, my friend. Keep her out of it."
It was a vast understatement. Sari had despised her husband's friends, had blamed them for her brother's violence. But in the end she never stopped loving Michael.

Or so Conor had thought.

"He is gone as if he were dead."
Maybe. Or maybe it was a lie, something calculated to put Conor off Michael's trail. That seemed more likely. Sari had denied Michael, yes, but in almost the same breath she'd accused Conor of betraying him. It made Conor wonder—for the hundredth time since he'd known her—just how far her devotion to her brother went. Was she Michael's enemy or—more likely— his ally?

There was only one way to find out. When Conor left her before, he'd thought she was innocent, had been consumed with guilt for the way he used her, dismayed and disgusted with himself over the hurt he caused her.

Those days were long over, and there was no point in thinking about them again. But Sari Travers had reminded him of a lesson learned long before: Misplaced trust was a dangerous thing.

He knew the hazards now, the sweetness of her body and her warm words, the fire of passion that burned between them. This time he could protect himself from them even as he seduced her into trusting him again, into giving him the only thing he wanted: Michael.

Conor closed his eyes against the darkness. This time he wouldn't forget. This time there would be no guilt when he walked away. Not this time.

S
he heard the wagon through the wind. For a moment her heart raced; she remembered the raid of the other night and felt a surge of unrelieved panic. Sari forced herself to turn casually from the potatoes she was digging up, and she saw Conor rushing from the barn. He stood in the doorway, watching the wagon approach, and even from where she was, yards away, Sari saw his alert tension.

Just then the wagon cleared the barn and came into view, and Sari's panic fled in relief and pure happiness. It wasn't the Mollies, not Michael at all. It was John and Miriam Graham, their closest neighbors. Sari smiled and put aside the trowel, wiping her hands on her apron. It had been a long time since they'd visited, forever since she'd talked with another woman.

Then she saw Conor again.

How was she going to explain his presence? The thought brought her panic crashing back. She had the sudden wish that the Grahams would turn their wagon around again, leave without even saying hello. But even as she had the thought, John reined in the horses and Miriam was jumping down from the buckboard, hurrying toward her with an excited smile and bubbling words.

"We were just heading into town, and we decided to stop and see if you needed anything," Miriam said breathlessly, her blue eyes sparkling. "And I wanted to say hello—Lord, don't you look busy!"

Sari gave her a smile and got to her feet. "Not that busy," she said. "You and John can stay for some coffee, can't you? And dinner's nearly ready."

"I don't—" Miriam threw a glance back at her husband, who was talking with Charles, and then she laughed. "Well, yes. I'd love to. It's been so long since we've talked. And I brought those
Godey's Lady's Books
for you to look at."

It was hard to be fearful in the light of Miriam's obvious pleasure. Sari's smile broadened. "I'm not sure I even want to look at them," she said. "No doubt I'll see something I want."

"I know." Miriam nodded. "I've probably earmarked twenty pages for myself—all for the Christmas dance." She chuckled, then stopped short, her expression sharp with curiosity. "Goodness, who's that?"

Sari's heart dropped in her chest as she followed Miriam's gaze to Conor. He strode over to the wagon with a confidence that made Sari clench her fist. Charles was already at the wagon, talking to John, and Conor hadn't been there more than twenty seconds before the two of them laughed in response to something he'd said.

Sari frowned. That effortless charm, that facile talk. She knew how easily he could win John over, how quick he would be to feign friendliness. And it was all an act. Just a stupid, meaningless act.

"Are you all right, Sari?"

She looked up to see Miriam staring at her. Sari forced a smile. "I'm fine."

"Who is that?"

Sari slowed her step. "Conor Roarke," she said evenly. "He's a ... an old friend."

"An old friend?" Miriam eyed Sari speculatively.

"He was a friend of Evan's," Sari said forcefully. "I barely know him."

"You barely know him?" Miriam asked. "And he came out all the way from Pennsylvania?"

They were nearly to the wagon. Sari shook her head quickly. "I'll tell you everything later," she said in a low voice.

The promise hushed Miriam's questions, if only for the moment. But Sari would worry about that later. Now it took all her concentration to keep from frowning her disapproval at Conor, to keep from hating his smile and easy manner.

"Hello, Sari!" John called as they approached. He lifted a bundle of magazines tied with string from the back of the wagon. "Miriam's brought practically her whole collection for you to see."

"Oh, John." Miriam laughed.

John grinned at her. He glanced at Conor. "Conor, this is my wife, Miriam. Miriam, this is Conor Roarke."

"Mr. Roarke," Miriam said prettily. "Sari was just telling me you've come all the way from Pennsylva nia.

"All the way," he admitted, smiling. He glanced at Sari with a warmth that was horribly disconcerting. "But I think it was worth the trip."

She wanted to strangle him. Especially when Miriam gave her an oblique glance.

"You can stay for dinner,
ja
?" Charles asked. "Or at least coffee?"

"We're going into town," John said, "but I think we can spare a few minutes."

"Longer than that, I hope," Charles said, slapping John lightly on the back. "And I would like your advice, John, about the fence."

They went into the soddy, Miriam chattering the entire time, keeping up a constant dialogue that Sari was too distracted to hear. She was too aware of Conor walking behind her, too dismayed by that warm and far too intimate look in the yard. She would never be able to dissuade Miriam from her suspicions now, and she hated that he'd put her in this position, hated that he was interfering in her life—again.

She poured coffee and chatted with the others, but Conor's presence agitated her. She was constantly aware of him and the way he stood beside her the entire time, reaching around her for the coffee, keeping Miriam and John laughing as he refilled cups. When he and John and Charles finally went outside to talk about the fence, Sari nearly sagged with relief.

"Now—" Miriam turned from the stove, her black-and-brown print calico skirt waving around her ankles with her quick, bustling step. Her blue eyes were alight with curiosity, but she sat gracefully and deliberately, pulling her skirts around her, smoothing back tendrils of her pale blond hair. "Now, you did promise to tell me everything."

"There isn't much to tell."

"Fiddle!" Miriam leaned over the table and pulled aside the fading blue gingham curtain, and Sari felt a quick stab of relief that Conor had already fixed the shattered glass. That relief faded the minute she saw how Miriam's pretty, fragile features tightened as she scrutinized Conor, who was standing in the yard with John and Charles. "There's a mysterious man staying with you and your uncle, and you tell me he's not important. I don't believe you." Miriam frowned and let the curtain drop back into place. "And not just any man, Sari. Why, he's so handsome—almost as handsome as my John—and he came all the way to Colorado to check on his friend's wife," Miriam said. She peeked again out the window. "I think he came out here to sweep you off your feet."

"I don't think so," Sari said drily.

Miriam's small smile was secretive. "Perhaps he has and you don't know it yet. What did you say he does?"

Sari's hands tightened around her cup. The smell of coffee made her head ache. There was nothing about Conor that Sari wanted her best friend to know. Colorado was her chance to start over, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to know about her past. She had not told Miriam much about her life, preferring the lie of silence to bald dishonesty, preferring the simple illusion that she was a widow who had been deeply in love with her husband. She wanted people to think she was what she wanted to be.

Sari let her gaze wander again to the window. Conor and Charles stood in the yard, beneath the flanges of the windmill, deep in conversation with Miriam's husband. Though John Graham was a vibrant, darkly handsome man, Sari was sharply aware of how Conor, though not as tall or as broad as John, seemed to dominate him. Then Conor laughed. Sari's heart tightened at the sight of it, at the way his face crinkled in genuine mirth, at the long creases of dimples forming on either side of his face. He used to laugh often and irresistibly, she remembered, but it seemed as if she hadn't seen that side of him in a very long time.

She tamped down the longing that welled up at the thought and turned away, forcing herself to remember that he was a brutal, uncompromising man. But there was something about his eyes, something that brought back those vibrant memories, that pulled at her even through her anger.

"You're too quiet," Miriam said suddenly. "You're trying to decide how much to tell me, I can feel it. Well, it won't work. You must tell me everything."

Sari forced a smile. "I have told you everything, Miri. He used to work for the railroads, that's all I know." That at least wasn't a lie. After all, it had been the president of the Reading Railroad who'd hired Pinkerton to quash the Mollies. "I told you he and Evan were friends."

Miriam looked down at the table; Sari watched suspiciously as her friend traced the patterns of the stains marring the tablecloth with a slender, callused finger. "How long is he staying?"

Sari sighed. "Not long, Miri. Don't get any ideas— I can see you matchmaking already."

Miriam's head flew up. "Well, of course I am! You've been here nearly a year, and you haven't shown the slightest interest in anyone. I can't believe you mean to stay alone. Why, without John, I'd surely die of loneliness."

"I've got
Onkle
." Sari protested. "I'm not alone."

"That's not what I mean and you know it," Miriam persisted. "You wouldn't look twice at Michael Dunn at the Grange harvest festival. Sari, you wouldn't even dance with anyone but John and old Will Schmacher. Two married men—"

"I prefer things the way they are."

"That's nonsense," Miriam said sharply.

Sari closed her eyes briefly. "I had a husband, Miri. I don't want another one." .

There was a long silence. Sari squirmed beneath Miriam's thoughtful glance. "Because you're still grieving?" she asked.

The question surprised Sari. Grieving was so far from her mind, she'd forgotten it was a normal way of feeling. Grief over Evan—the idea was ludicrous. But she bent her head and lowered her eyes in what she hoped was an expression of quiet agreement.

Miriam sighed. "Oh dear. I'm sorry. How insensitive of me to mention it. You must have loved him very much. As much as I love John, probably. I would be devastated if something happened to him."

Sari winced. She felt like the worst hypocrite. She wanted to tell Miriam that Evan's death left guilt and sorrow, but no grief. She wanted to pour out the entire story to a sympathetic ear. But she knew that if she did, Miriam's understanding would turn to revulsion. Sari didn't want to see that look in another person's eyes, couldn't stand seeing it. God knew, she'd had her fill of it the last year.

So she let Miriam think what she would, and hated herself for it.

"I'm sorry," Miri said again, covering Sari's hand with her own. "I didn't mean to remind you."

"Stop, please, it's not important." Sari pulled her hand away, biting her lip. "I've grown used to it."

The soddy door swung open. John stuck his curly head into the opening. "Sari," he said breathlessly, "is there any more coffee?"

"Of course." Sari nodded. "And dinner is almost ready."

"We'll be in shortly." John grinned and blew Miriam a quick kiss, pulling the door shut behind him.

It sent a stab of envy through Sari. What would it be like, she wondered for the hundredth time, to have a man love you like that? She thought she'd known once.

She swallowed as Conor turned slightly toward the window, and followed the line of his jaw with her gaze, the slightly bumpy nose. Not handsome, she reminded herself, staring at him. Not unlike a hundred other men ...

His eyes caught and held hers for just a moment, and Sari felt her heart jump, her pulse race. Then he smiled that slow, easy smile that transformed his face.

She felt her own lips curve in involuntary response, and Sari looked down quickly, embarrassed and humiliated that he had caught her staring at him. She hated him, she told herself. He would not get the best of her. He would not.

She reminded herself of it all the way through dinner.

T
he smells of supper still lingered in the kitchen as Sari washed the last dish and wiped her hands on a cotton towel. It was so quiet tonight, so peaceful. Charles had gone to his own soddy for the night, and thankfully Conor was seeing to the animals. She had a few blissful moments all to herself.

Sari sank into a chair at the table, throwing the towel to the side. The day had been long, and fighting Miriam's questions along with her own anxiety over what Conor would do or say next had been wearying. Dinner had been interminable; she was on edge and too anxious to eat.