Conor's Way (17 page)

She thought about his comment that afternoon
that he couldn't go home, and she wondered what he had meant by
that. He obviously missed his homeland a great deal. She also
wondered why a man who could be both gentle and patient when
dealing with her pesky nine-year-old daughter's stalling tactics at
bedtime would choose to make his living hitting other men in a
boxing ring.

She brought the two cups of tea to the table
and set one before him.

He glanced up briefly. "Thanks."

She took a seat across the
table, watching as he wrote on the slate, and she smiled when he
made an exclamation of frustration and rubbed out the line
of
G
s he had just
written.

"You know," she murmured, "sometimes it's
possible to try too hard."

He looked at her across the table and saw her
smile. He tossed down the slate pencil with a sigh. "You're right.
It's time for a break."

She shook her head and pulled the slate away
from him. "No, it's time to stop for this evening. You've done
enough for one night. Drink your tea."

Deprived of the slate, he had no choice. He
leaned back in his chair, taking a swallow of the tea she had made.
It was hot and strong and sweet, just the way he liked it. "This is
very good tay, by the way."

"Thank you. My aunt Ella sends it to me. She
knows I'm fond of it."

"Sends it? Where does she live?"

"Boston. My uncle Jarrod has a position there
in a bank. They moved there from Alabama after the war."

He took another sip of tea. "Boston was where
I landed when I came to America." He smiled. "Fresh off the boat, I
was, so poor I didn't even have lint in my pockets."

Olivia laughed, and he gave her a frown of
mock censure. "Don't you be laughing, lass. 'Tis no less than the
truth."

"Of course," she said gravely, trying to
assume a serious expression.

"So, there I was," he continued, "standing on
the docks with my pack over my shoulder, when this grizzled old
Donegal man came up to me. His name was Dan Sweeney. He said I
looked a strong, strapping lad, and he asked if I wanted a job. I
said I did, and he took

me to this pub in Boston's Irish district.
When we got inside, he pointed to this hulking brute and said,
'He's the champion, undefeated for a hundred and twenty fights
running. Think you can send him down to the floor?' I said that
would be no problem at all. Everyone in the pub laughed at that.
They thought I was crazy."

Conor paused and grinned at her across the
table. "They all bet against me. Ten minutes later, they weren't
laughing anymore, and I had five dollars in my pocket. Only in
America an hour, and I decided this was a fine country, indeed. A
few months later, Dan and I started touring the boxing
circuit."

"You've seen a great deal of the country, I
imagine."

"I like to roam."

Olivia tried to understand how that might
appeal. "I guess it must be exciting, in a way, traveling from
place to place," she said. "But doesn't it become a bit tiresome
after a while?"

"No. Dan and I travel the circuit five months
a year. The rest of the time, I'm on my own. I'm free to go where I
want, when I want."

"It sounds like a lonely life," she said
softly.

His lips tightened, and he looked away.
"Sometimes," he admitted.

Olivia studied his hard profile, thinking
about what he had told her about his brother and sisters, and her
heart went out to him.

When she'd first seen Conor lying in the
road, he had seemed like the answer to her prayer. But his
appalling language and frank confession about prison had convinced
her she'd been mistaken. The past two days had given her reason to
think again, and Olivia suddenly found herself in a quandary.

What if she asked him to stay on?

He was not what she would have chosen for a
hired hand. He was irreverent and caustic, cynical and sinful. He
cursed, he drank, he was a hard man.

Yet, she was coming to realize that he might
be what she needed. He seemed to have no obligations that would
force him to leave. The way he'd handled the birth of the calf told
her he knew about farm animals. He was strong, he was capable of
hard work. Maybe he'd be willing to stay.

Her decision made, Olivia broke the silence
that had fallen between them. "Mr. Branigan, I've been thinking
about what you did with Princess and her calf, and I thought...that
is, I was wondering if you might consider staying on after your
ribs have healed."

"What?" He seemed startled. "Stay here?"

"Yes." She took a deep breath. "I could use
some help around here, and you said yourself that you don't have a
home of your own to go back to."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Are you
offering me a job?"

"I've been wanting to hire someone to work on
my place for months now," she went on in a rush, "but I haven't
been able to find anybody. I'll need help bringing in my peach
crop come September. I want to plow the south pastures and plant
cotton in the spring. If I had two cash crops, there would be less
risk. And someday, I'll put in another orchard. Pears, maybe."

"I make twenty-five dollars for every fight I
win, and I usually win. What are you offering?"

Dismay clouded her face. "I can't afford to
pay wages. My peaches bring in enough to pay the taxes on my farm,
with only a bit left over for living on. But I can give you room
and board. I know it's not much to offer, but at least you'd have a
home, a place to hang your hat."

Conor didn't tell her a home was the last
thing he wanted. A place to hang his hat meant facing the past,
looking to the future. He couldn't do it. All he knew how to do was
get through the days, one by one.

"The fact is, Mr. Branigan, that I can't run
this farm by myself. I need someone to help me."

She looked up, staring at him with those soft
brown eyes. She needed him, she was asking for his help. It was the
kind of look that was both imploring and proud, the kind of look
that could stir a man's conscience, provided he had one. Conor
didn't, of course. He slowly shook his head. "No. Thank you for the
offer, but I can't stay."

She bit her lip and looked down at the table.
The silence lengthened as he stared at her lowered head, and he
suddenly felt like a bastard. His defenses came up.

"I like my freedom," he said. "I like to be
able to pick up and move on when I choose."

"It wouldn't have to be permanent," she said
without looking up. "You would be free to leave whenever you wanted
to, of course."

"Right. What if I felt like leaving the week
before your harvest? Or in the spring, just before you wanted to
plant that cotton of yours? Do you think I wouldn't feel obligated
to stay?"

She didn't answer.

Irritated with her for needing his help, and
angry with himself for feeling guilty about refusing to give it, he
shoved back his chair and rose.

"I won't be tied down. I'm no good at
commitments, I'm not dependable, and I'm not staying here. I can't.
I'm sorry."

He strode across the kitchen to the back door
without a backward glance, but he could feel her gaze follow
him.

"I understand," she murmured as he walked out
the door, but he knew she didn't understand at all.

Belfast, Ireland, 1862

Conor leaned sideways, and the light brush of
air against his cheek was the only part of the punch that touched
him. He responded with a hard-knuckled right that sent Angus
O'Farrell stumbling backward into the tables and chairs of the
pub.

Laughing, the onlookers pushed Angus back
into the open space that served as a boxing ring, hoping for a bit
more sport than that, but Conor wasn't going to give it to them.
Not tonight. Mary was waiting.

He could see her lovely face peeking through
the doorway of McGrath's, and he decided it was time to stop
tormenting poor O'Farrell. He evaded Angus's last swing, and hit
him again, sending the fighter from Carrickfergus to the
floorboards. The crowd gave a groan of disappointment that it was
over so quickly. Conor made his way to the bar amid approving pats
on the back, and grabbed his shirt, yanking it on but not bothering
to button it.

He leaned against the bar, blood pumping
through him like the pistons of a steam engine. He felt alive in
every part of himself and genuinely happy for the first time in
years.

He accepted a shot of paddy and a pint of ale
from Colm McGrath, who looked even more grim than usual. Colm was
sweet on Mary and knew that Mary was outside waiting for Conor. But
Colm also knew that Conor's boxing brought people into the pub and
made him money. The two men had been friends almost from the day
Conor had arrived in Belfast seven years before, but Mary had
changed that.

Conor downed the paddy and slammed the glass
on the bar. He chased it with a long draught of the ale, but didn't
finish the pint. No drink was worth keeping an angel waiting.

He made his way toward the door, pausing to
shake hands with poor O'Farrell, who was slumped over a pint and
looking a wee bit dazed still. Conor waved good-night to the lads
and stepped out into the street.

She was right beside the door, and he pulled
her into his arms for a quick, hard kiss, then glanced around for
someplace more private. "Come on."

He put her arm through his and led her around
the corner, down the side street, and into the alley behind
McGrath's.

They turned to each other. He cupped her face
in his hands, pulled her close, kissed her. The touch of her lips
sent waves of pleasure through him, and he could tell by her
response that she felt it, too. But it wasn't enough. He slid his
hands down to her waist and pulled her closer; he opened her mouth
with his and deepened the kiss.

Mary was a good Catholic girl, but Conor had
already made her forget everything the priests said. More than
once. They played a dangerous game, and the fires of passion had
gotten out of control. More than once. But neither of them could
stop it. He broke the kiss with a groan and a desperate gasp for
air. "We can go to my flat," he said raggedly. "My mate's gone to
England. Football tour."

"I can't." Her hands closed over his
forearms, and for the first time ever, she pushed him away. "Not
tonight."

Something in her voice caught him, tugged at
his heart. Dread seeped into him like the chill of a damp Belfast
winter. "Mary? What's wrong?"

She shook her head and drew a deep, steadying
breath. "Nothing," she said and gave him a reassuring smile. "I
just can't tonight. That's all. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, lass. I'll survive the night
without you. If I get drunk enough."

He took her hand in his, and they leaned back
against the brick wall of a tenement dingy from years of
accumulated coal dust. Silence fell between them as they both tried
to bank the fires inside themselves.

"I watched you fight," she said. "You're very
good at it, you know."

He shrugged. "It's a job. That's all."

"You already have a job. Boxing is much more
than that."

He did not reply, and both of them were
silent again. In the distance, drunken laughter floated to them
from McGrath's, mingling with the hacking cough of a flax mill
worker from the broken window above their heads. Mary was right.
Being a carpenter was his job, but boxing was something else. "Tis
the challenge of it, I suppose. The competition."

"That's not it," she murmured with a shake of
her head. "There are things inside you, Conor, feelings that rage
and seethe and strive to get out, passions that drive you that I
don't understand, that I can't reach. You're seeking something, and
I don't know what it is. Sometimes, you frighten me."

Startled, he looked at her, and he saw the
apprehension in her face. He turned and reached out to touch her
cheek, pale and translucent in the moonlight. "Christ, Mary, what
does that mean? You afraid of me? I love you, lass. I'd never hurt
you."

He brushed his thumb across her lips, felt
her tremble. "No, it's yourself you hurt," she said against his
hand. "I heard about the meeting."

Conor lowered his hand and looked down at the
ground between them. "It was all just talk. You know how it is. A
few pints and all the lads get worked up, start singing about dear
Ireland with tears in their eyes and start talking freedom. It's
harmless enough."

"The Brotherhood isn't harmless, and you know
it. If you follow the Fenians, they'll destroy you."

"You've been listening to Father Keenan
again."

"Irish Republican Brotherhood." Her voice
rose, suddenly filled with an anger so unlike her. "It sounds sane
enough, but it's not."