Conor's Way (10 page)

She was a fine one to talk. She had a man
staying in her house who made his living off gambling. A sinful
occupation, prizefighting. His image flashed through her mind
again, the flex and play of sculptured muscles in the morning
sunlight. He was probably very good at it.

People suddenly began standing up, and Olivia
realized they were standing for the final hymn. Hastily, she got
to her feet and opened her hymnal, holding it low enough for Carrie
to see it, too.

"Mama," Carrie whispered as people began to
sing, "you're on the wrong page. It's hymn eighty-nine."

Olivia turned to the proper
page without replying. She sang along with the rest of the
congregation, she bowed her head for the benediction, but all the
while, the only thing she heard was Conor's voice murmuring,
I don't suppose you'd care to help me get
dressed, love
?—and she knew why Eve had
listened to the serpent.

After church, Olivia headed straight for the
wagon, her girls in tow. She smiled and nodded to acquaintances as
she passed, but didn't stop to chat with friends as she usually
did. Flustered and embarrassed, she felt people only had to look
at her to know the shameful thoughts she'd had in church.

"Olivia!"

She halted, wincing at the sound of Martha
Chubb's voice. Knowing she couldn't escape, she turned around,
pasting a smile on her face. "Good morning, Martha." She nodded to
the other woman. "Emily."

"It's good to see you back in church,
Olivia," Martha said. "Missed you last Sunday. We were a bit
worried about you, dear. Everything all right at Peachtree?"

Olivia stared at Martha Chubb, Callersville's
greatest gossip, and the ramifications of having Conor Branigan in
her home suddenly hit her. She had a man—a stranger, a
prizefighter—staying in her house. It was one thing to advertise
around town for a farm-hand to work her place—not approved of, but
tolerated. Farmhands lived in separate quarters. She couldn't very
well make a man with cracked ribs sleep in the barn, but what would
people say if they knew he was sleeping in her house?

"Nothing to worry about," Olivia answered
Martha's question, striving to sound casual as she invented a lie
that might satisfy the other woman's curiosity. "Carrie was feeling
a bit poorly, I'm afraid. Nothing serious—" "But, Mama," Carrie
interrupted, looking up at her in confusion. "I'm not the one who's
been sick. It's—"

"Oh, there's Lila Miller!" Olivia interrupted
before Carrie could say another word. "I need to speak with her.
Come along girls." She gave the Chubb sisters a nod of farewell and
ushered Carrie and Miranda toward the mercantile, where Lila had
just gone inside. A glance over one shoulder told her Becky was
following.

"Mama, you lied," Carrie said in amazement as
they crossed the dusty street. "You lied to the Chubb sisters."

Olivia stepped onto the wooden sidewalk and
came to a halt. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was
within earshot, she leaned down. "We'll talk about it some other
time," she said in a low voice. "Now, you girls mind me. Not a word
about Mr. Conor to anyone. Understand?"

They all heard the hard edge in her voice.
"Yes, ma'am," they murmured in perfect harmony.

"Good." She turned to her oldest daughter.
"Becky, I've got to talk with Lila for a minute. I want you to take
the girls to the wagon and wait for me there. And remember, not a
word."

Becky nodded and took the two other girls to
the wagon. Olivia turned and walked in the opposite direction. She
paused at the open door of the mercantile and knocked on the jamb.
Lila was behind the counter, her back to the door as she pushed a
bolt of brightly colored calico into place on one of the shelves.
She turned at the sound of the knock. "Afternoon, Olivia. You know
the store's closed Sundays."

"I know," Olivia replied as she walked to the
counter, "but I saw you head over this way, and I was hoping you'd
let me look at those new dress patterns you offered to show me the
other day. I want to get some ideas."

"Going to make yourself a new dress?" Lila
asked, bending down to retrieve a wooden box from beneath the
counter.

"It's not for me," Olivia answered, sorting
through the box of Butterick patterns until she found some
appropriate for young girls. "I want to make Becky a dress for the
harvest dance."

Lila smiled with understanding. "That's
right, she's fourteen now. She'll be needing a long dress." Her
smile faded, and she sighed. "Of course, it's not anything like it
was before the war, when we were debutantes." Realizing what she'd
said, a contrite expression crossed her face. "Liv, I'm sorry."

"Don't fret about it." Olivia stared down at
the pattern in her hand, remembering the lavish balls of her
girlhood, trying not to care how few of them she had attended,
trying not to care that she'd never had a coming-out ball.
"Besides, you're right. Things aren't like they used to be."

Glancing up, her gaze scanned the bolts of
fabric lining the shelves. "Could I see that blue muslin up
there?" She pointed to the shelf just above Lila's head, with no
idea of where she'd get the money to buy the fabric.

"It's a fine one," Lila said, pushing aside
the patterns to unroll a length of fabric across the counter. "Very
pretty."

"Blue is Becky's favorite color," Olivia
said, her fingers rubbing the sky-blue fabric wistfully. "She
would look lovely in this."

"If you're goin' to buy that, I hope you have
the cash to pay for it."

Olivia heard Vernon's voice, and she knew
there would be no sky-blue muslin dress for Becky.

She turned, shoulders square as she faced
him. He was still an incredibly handsome man, whipcord lean with
thick chestnut hair. She could recall how fine he'd sat a horse in
the days when he'd been overseer at Peachtree. Many a time, she'd
sat at her window, a painfully shy girl, withdrawn and plain,
spinning secret romantic daydreams as she'd watched him ride
through the orchards and cotton fields.

But the handsomeness that had fired her
romantic imagination as a girl no longer held any appeal. Olivia
silently blessed her daddy for refusing to allow Vernon to court
her so long ago, even though she knew that slight had wounded
Vernon deeply and still hurt him to this day. "Good morning,
Vernon."

The man glanced past her as he stepped
through the doorway and entered the store. "Lila, the store's
closed today. You shouldn't be in here working. Why don't you go on
back to the church and visit with your friends?"

Lila didn't need to be told twice. Taking her
cue, she started for the door, giving Olivia an apologetic glance
as she passed.

"And close the door behind you," he
added.

The bell over the door jangled as Lila
departed.

Vernon crossed the room to stop a few feet in
front of Olivia. "Saw you come in here. I just thought I'd see if
you might've reconsidered my offer."

"No, Vernon. I haven't."

He stepped closer. "Now, Olivia," he said in
a smooth, persuasive voice, "you know Peachtree's too big for you
to manage by yourself."

"I don't know. I'm managing just fine," she
lied.

"Really? Finally found some man to run it for
you?"

She thought of Conor Branigan. "No," she
admitted.

"Well, now, that's a surprise, with the
generous salary you're willing to pay. Three meals a day and room
and board to boot." He laughed softly. "Why a man'd have to be out
of his mind not to accept an offer like that."

Olivia stepped back, hitting the counter
behind her. She lifted her chin. "I'm not selling my land. Not to
you or your Yankee friends."

"Maybe you ought to reconsider. There'll come
a time when you won't be able to pay your taxes, and I'll pick up
Peachtree real cheap. I'll get that land sooner or later."

Olivia knew he was probably right. All he had
to do was wait for one bad year, one year when her peach crop
failed. She wouldn't be able to pay the outrageous Yankee taxes,
and Peachtree would be put up for auction. But, until then, she
was going to fight him tooth and nail. "Well, Vernon, I reckon
it'll have to be later."

"Be reasonable, Olivia. I've been more than
fair. A dollar an acre is a right generous offer." He patted his
breast pocket. "I've got a quitclaim deed and a bill of sale all
written up. You'd just have to sign it."

"How convenient," she murmured. "But I'm not
signing anything."

"Five hundred dollars is a lot of money. You
could move into town, get yourself a nice little house, and still
have enough left to buy them orphans of yours some decent clothes.
You could have a much easier life, Olivia."

"How nice for me. And what about the town?
Nothing kills a town faster than a railroad built six miles away.
You build that railroad and Callersville dries up."

"If I could bring it through the town, I
would. But the surveyors have told me that won't work. Besides,
what do you care? If you sold your land to me, you and your girls
would be taken care of."

"What about my peaches? You want to put that
railroad of yours right through my orchard."

"Don't you understand? I've made you a good
offer. You'll have enough money that you won't need that orchard.
They're just a bunch of trees."

"No, Vernon, you're the one who doesn't
understand. You never have. Peachtree is my home."

"I want that land." His voice hardened. "I
always get what I want."

"Not always, Vernon," she answered gently,
meeting his narrowed gaze with a look of pity. "Not always."

That reference to her father's refusal of his
marriage suit so long ago and the pity he saw in her eyes brought a
proud and angry flush to his face. "Your daddy," he said
contemptuously, "was nothing but a worthless drunk."

"He was not worthless. He was a good
man."

"Olivia, honey, your daddy was a drunk, and
everybody knew it. His brain was so pickled with bourbon, he would
have run Peachtree into the ground long before the war if it hadn't
been for me."

"That's not true."

Vernon leaned closer to her. "He may've
thought I was just poor white trash, but he was no better—afraid of
his own wife, trying to hide his bourbon from her, too drunk to
know what he was doing and too stubborn to let his sons or his
overseer handle things. Well, your daddy died a drunk, your
brothers are gone, I'm the one who's got money now, and all the
pride in the world won't feed them girls of yours. You might as
well accept my offer now." He paused a moment, then added softly,
"I can make things easy for you, Olivia. Or I can make them a whole
lot harder. It's your choice."

Olivia wasn't going to let him bully her. "Do
whatever you like. But you'll never get Peachtree."

The door of the store opened, causing the
bell to jingle. Vernon stepped back from her as an elegantly
dressed woman entered the store.

"Vernon?" Alicia Tyler came toward them. She
laid a proprietary hand on her husband's arm.

He glanced at his wife. "I told you to wait
in the carriage."

A slight frown marred the woman's lovely
forehead. "I don't appreciate waiting when I'm forced to sit out in
the hot sun," she answered, and glanced at Olivia. "Have you
finished your business here?" she asked.

The question was directed at Vernon, but it
was Olivia who answered. "Yes, quite finished." Her gaze left the
woman and returned to the woman's husband. "Not in a million years,
Vernon."

She stepped around the couple and walked
toward the door, her shoulders rigid, her back straight. Drunkard
or not, Daddy would have been proud.

***

Despite his intention not to spend any more
time lying in bed, Conor's first effort to remedy the situation had
exhausted him, and he slept most of the day. It wasn't until
sundown that he regained the strength to get up again.

Dressing was a slow and difficult process,
but Conor

managed it by sheer determination. He put on
the clothes Olivia had brought him, then left the room where he'd
spent the past nine days. A dim hallway led him into a foyer of
high, coved ceilings, a foyer wide enough for two Derry cottages to
fit within it.

Just walking the short distance down the
hallway left him weak and a bit woozy, so he paused in the foyer
for a moment to catch his breath. As he did so, he studied his
surroundings. He stared at the curving staircase that led to the
upper floors and realized that Olivia Maitland's home must have
been quite beautiful once. But the ecru wallpaper was peeling, the
blue stair carpets were worn to threadbare patches, and the parquet
floor was scratched and dull. When he gripped the newel of the
staircase to steady himself, the ornamental wooden ball that capped
it came off in his hand.