Conor's Way (14 page)

A door banged and the sound of laughter
interrupted Conor's thoughts. He glanced at the porch again and saw
the girls come running down the steps, that mangy dog Chester right
behind them.

"C'mon, Mama!" Miranda called impatiently
over her shoulder. "Hurry!"

Olivia emerged from the house, carrying a
handkerchief, and joined the girls in the yard. Conor watched as
she tied the handkerchief over Miranda's eyes, then spun her around
three times.

Blind man’s bluff. His sisters had played
that game many a time. He watched as little Miranda tried to catch
one of the others, but they danced out of reach and her efforts
were in vain, until Olivia stepped into her path. It didn't escape
Conor's notice that she allowed herself to be captured.

"I got you, Mama!" the child cried, tearing
off the handkerchief.

"You sure did," Olivia agreed, accepting the
blindfold from her daughter. She tied it over her eyes, and the
game began again.

As Conor watched Olivia playing games and
laughing with her girls, he felt every single ache and pain in his
body. More than that, he felt old. He wasn't old, he told
himself—he was only thirty-four. No, wait, this was 1871. He was
actually thirty-six. Where had the time gone?

Olivia and the girls had formed a ring of
joined hands and were singing "Ring-Around-The-Rosy," their voices
painfully out of tune. The song ended and they all fell to the
ground, laughing.

Conor felt a sudden longing, a bittersweet
mixture of desire and regret for all he had missed. It was a
sensation so unexpected and so unwanted that it startled him, and
he shoved it away before it could take hold.

What the hell is wrong with
me
? he wondered, watching as they stopped
their game, brushing dust off their skirts as they moved toward the
porch. The last thing he wanted was a family. Prisons didn't have
to have stone walls and iron bars. He rose to his feet, intending
to move farther away, where he couldn't hear their
laughter.

But Carrie caught sight of him standing by
the barn door. "Mr. Conor!" she cried, waving to him from the
porch. "Come and have cake with us."

He turned away as if he hadn't heard, but of
course, that didn't work. Carrie came running, calling his name,
Miranda right behind her—and Conor knew there was no escape. He
sighed and turned back around to face them.

Both girls skidded to a halt in front of him.
"We're going to have cake now," Carrie said and grabbed his hand.
"C'mon."

"It's my birthday cake," Miranda added,
seizing him by the other hand. "Pudding cake. You have to have
some."

He didn't have any idea what pudding cake
was, and he didn't really want to find out. Despite the insistent
tugging of the two girls, he didn't move. Miranda continued to
pull at him, but Carrie did not. Instead, she let go of his hand
and stared up at him. Her lower lip began to tremble. "Don't you
like us?"

Conor knew perfectly well when he was being
manipulated by feminine wiles, and he couldn't help grinning. She
did it rather well, too, considering she was only about nine. Give
her a few years, and this lass was going to be a heartbreaker. He
allowed himself to be led toward the house.

Olivia and Becky were in the kitchen, and
both of them looked up as he was dragged into the room by his
captors.

"I see you've decided to join the party, Mr.
Branigan," Olivia commented, as she looked up from the bowl of
cream she was whipping.

"I didn't have much of a choice in the
matter," he told her ruefully.

"So I see."

He didn't miss the laughter in her eyes or
the tiny smile that curved the corners of her mouth. He suspected
she knew exactly how uncomfortable he felt, but she made no
comment.

She resumed her task, stirring cream rapidly
with a whisk, as Becky dribbled in spoonfuls of sugar. The other
two watched with growing impatience, until finally Olivia set the
whisk aside. She turned to Miranda. "Well, Birthday Girl, do you
want to help me cut the cake?"

Miranda gave her mother a delighted smile and
nodded. She turned toward the ring-shaped yellow cake that stood
on the table. Olivia moved to stand behind her and showed her how
to hold the knife. "Not so big," she admonished, laughing, as
Miranda started to slice the cake. "If you want a second piece, you
can have one after supper."

Her hand over her daughter's, she guided the
child in slicing the first piece. After five wedges had been cut
from the cake, Olivia placed them on plates and slathered on a
generous spoonful of jam, then Becky spooned whipped cream over
them. Miranda took the first plate and brought it over to Conor,
holding it out to him with both hands.

He glanced down at the slice of yellow cake
with its center of vanilla custard and its topping of peach jam and
whipped cream. Now he knew what pudding cake was: trifle without
the brandy. He thought the lack of brandy a shame.

"Thank you," he said as he accepted the
plate, wondering how he was going to eat the confection. She'd
forgotten to bring him a spoon.

"Are we going to play more games, Mama?"
Miranda asked as she walked back over to her mother's side.

"If you like," Olivia replied. "How about
charades?"

This suggestion was greeted with shouts of
enthusiasm.

"You'll play charades with us, won't you, Mr.
Conor?" Carrie asked, her mouth full of cake. "Please?"

Conor glanced out the window and wondered
where he might find a suitable hiding place as the other two girls
joined in, pleading and cajoling.

Conor looked at Olivia, but she proved to be
no help whatsoever. "Charades it is, then," she said as she crossed
the room to hand him a spoon.

He shook his head. "No. Absolutely not."

"You don't have to if you don't feel up to
it." She glanced toward the three girls, and he followed her gaze
across the kitchen to find three pairs of imploring blue eyes fixed
on him.

Conor played charades. He felt like an idiot,
but he did it anyway.

***

Conor Branigan continually surprised her.
Olivia plucked another stocking from the pile of mending she and
Becky were working on and glanced at the man seated across the
library playing checkers with Carrie. Miranda sat beside him on the
sofa, and he repeatedly asked the child for advice on how to move
his pieces, so that she wouldn't feel left out.

Given the way he lived, prizefighting and
moving from town to town, Olivia suspected he wasn't used to being
around children. But he had a way with them nonetheless.

"I win!" Carrie declared, taking Conor's last
checker.

"Now, how'd you manage that?" Conor shook his
head in pretended bewilderment and glanced at the child beside him.
"We had her surrounded."

"That's okay," Miranda told him. "We beat her
twice."

Carrie began rearranging the pieces on the
board. "Let's play again."

"Not tonight," Olivia said firmly. She set
her mending aside and rose from her chair. "It's bedtime."

She ignored the pleas and protests. She
endured one, and only one, round of good-nights to Mr. Conor, then
ushered all three of them upstairs.

"Did you have a fun birthday, honey?" she
asked Miranda, as she knelt down before the child to help her pull
her long white nightgown over her head.

"It was the best one I've ever had,
Mama."

"I'm glad." She hugged the child and stood
up. "Say your prayers."

Miranda did, and when she had finished,
Olivia tucked her into bed. She kissed the child good-night, put
out the lamp, and headed for the door, but Miranda's voice stopped
her. "Mama, do you think Mr. Conor will be here for my next
birthday?"

She didn't know what to say except the truth.
"No, honey."

"Why not?"

"Because Mr. Conor has his own life to go
back to. He can't stay with us forever. Now, go to sleep."

She left Miranda's room. Chester was curled
up in the center of the hall, and Olivia stepped over him to enter
Becky's room.

Becky was sitting at her dressing table,
brushing her hair, and Olivia walked over to stand behind her. "How
about if I do that?" she suggested. "It's been a while since I
brushed your hair for you."

Becky handed over the brush, and Olivia began
pulling it through the girl's long blond hair. She was nearly done
before Becky spoke.

"Mama, do you think I'm pretty?"

The question was so abrupt and anxious that
Olivia paused in her task. She met her daughter's eyes in the
mirror. "I think you're very pretty."

"As pretty as Cara?"

Cara Johnson was Becky's best friend, and
Olivia could still remember what it felt like to be fourteen and
have a beautiful best friend, how gawky and insecure it had made
her feel.

"Yes," she answered. "As pretty as Cara. You
look like your mother."

"I do? I don't really remember what she
looked like."

"She was beautiful. Sometimes, I was so
jealous of her."

"You were? But you were her best friend."

"Just because you're best friends doesn't
mean you don't feel jealous," Olivia answered and resumed her task.
"I've been thinking about the harvest dance. I can't afford to make
you a whole new dress, but I thought maybe we could find one of my
old dresses that could be made over for you to wear."

"Really?" Becky turned her head and looked up
at her. "There's a blue one that's really nice."

Olivia smiled. "There is, hmm?" she teased.
"And how would you know that, miss? Been looking through my chest
and playing dress-up, have you?"

Becky nodded. "I like the blue one a
lot."

"We'll see what we can do."

"What are you going to wear, Mama?"

"Oh, I don't know." The brush hit a knot, and
Olivia worked carefully to untangle it. "My gray one, I
suppose."

"That's nothing special. You wear that one
every Sunday, and you wore it to the dance last year. You should
wear something special. What about that green silk that's in the
chest? You would look beautiful in that, Mama, you really
would."

The green silk. It was deep emerald green,
she remembered, and she'd worn it once, a long time ago. "I'd
forgotten all about that dress," she murmured.

"We could make it over for you," Becky said,
"just like we're going to do with mine."

"We'll see." Olivia ran the brush through
Becky's hair one last time to be sure the knot was gone, then she
set the brush aside and planted a kiss atop her daughter's head.
"There. All done."

"Thank you, Mama."

"You're welcome. Now, say your prayers and
get to sleep."

She left Becky's room, noticing that Chester
was no longer lying in the hallway. She wondered where the dog
might have gone, but when she entered Carrie's room, she knew. The
room was empty. Carrie had probably gone back downstairs, and
Chester had followed her. Olivia let out an aggrieved sigh and
wondered what new excuse Carrie had dreamed up to postpone
bedtime. Probably something to do with Conor Branigan.

She turned around and marched back
downstairs, fully prepared to give Carrie another lecture on
bedtime stalling. But the sight that met her eyes as she entered
the library brought her to an abrupt halt, and she stared in
astonishment.

Conor was sitting in one of the overstuffed
chairs by the fireplace and Carrie was sitting on his lap, dressed
in her nightgown and wearing her reading spectacles. Her bare feet
dangled over the arm of the chair, and her head rested in the dent
of Conor's shoulder. With one arm wrapped around the child, he was
looking down at the open book she held in her hands, listening as
she read aloud. Chester lay sleeping on the floor nearby, oblivious
to the man he'd been growling at for over two weeks.

Olivia blinked, not quite able to assimilate
the sight. This was Conor Branigan, prizefighter and ex-convict,
the same man who a few hours before had to be dragged like a
recalcitrant mule to a little girl's birthday party.

"'...and this time it vanished quite
slowly,'" Carrie read, "'beginning with the end of the tail, and
ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it
had gone.'" She paused to turn the page and caught sight of her
mother standing in the library doorway. "Mama!"

Conor glanced up at her, then immediately
away, but Olivia didn't miss his grimace of pain as Carrie
wriggled on his lap.

The child held up the book. "I'm reading Mr.
Conor a story."

"I see that," Olivia answered, stepping into
the room. "But Mr. Conor happens to have cracked ribs. Sitting on
his lap is not helping them heal."

"Oh!" She immediately slid off of Conor's lap
and gave him an apologetic look. "Was I hurting you? You should've
said something."

"Not to worry,
mó paisté
," Conor told
the child. "I'm all right."

Carrie turned to her mother. "See, Mama? He's
all right." She moved to sit on the arm of the chair with her book,
but Olivia's voice stopped her.

"I seem to remember telling you that it was
bedtime."

"But I'm not sleepy. Why should I have to go
to bed if I'm not sleepy?"

"Upstairs," Olivia ordered, pointing to the
doorway. "Now, young lady."

"But I haven't finished the story. Alice just
met the Cheshire Cat."

Olivia was not impressed. "Caroline Marie, I
mean now."

Conor put a hand on Carrie's shoulder. "You'd
best do as your mother says before we’re both in trouble."

"Okay, Mr. Conor," she immediately agreed,
and so obediently that Olivia nearly groaned. The child held out
her book to him. "You can borrow it as long as you want. That way,
you can finish the story yourself."