Conor's Way (2 page)

Conor donned his shirt and buttoned it,
grimacing at the pain that shot through his hands. He picked up the
leather pack that contained everything he owned, slung it over one
shoulder, and headed for the exit of the now empty tent.

He didn't make it that far. Three men stepped
through the wide doorway, and Conor watched them move to stand side
by side, blocking his path. The man in the middle spoke. "There's
someone who wants to have a word with you."

"Indeed?" Conor's grip tightened on the strap
of his pack, ready to toss it aside if the need arose, but he kept
his voice casual. "That's a shame, for I'm just leaving."

"I don't think so." The man in the middle
stepped forward, and the other two followed suit, walking toward
him.

Conor could've taken any one of them, or even
two, but with three against him, he knew he didn't have a prayer.
Nonetheless, he couldn't make a run for it, so he dipped one
shoulder, and the pack slid off to land in the dirt beside him. He
kicked it out of the way, clenched his fists, and took a swing at
the closest man, hitting him hard enough to send him sprawling back
into the dust. But before he could make any further moves, the
other two seized him.

He struggled against their hold, but he
couldn't break free. The third man rose and stepped up in front of
him. Conor knew what was coming. He lashed out with one foot,
landing a kick square in the man's groin, but that brief victory
was the last one he got.

The other man straightened, and Conor saw the
fist coming toward his face. He tried to duck and failed. Pain
exploded in a white-hot flash behind his eye just before the punch
to his gut knocked all the wind out of him. The fists pummeled his
face and body until he stopped struggling. When the other two men
let him go, he sank to his knees. A kick in his kidneys sent him
sprawling forward with his face in the dirt. He licked his lips,
tasting blood and dust.

The two men who had been holding him moved to
stand on either side. They began kicking him back and forth between
them like a tin can, and Conor's body jerked in response. It didn't
take long before he heard something crack, and he knew the sound
was his own ribs breaking. He tried to crawl away, cursing his own
stupidity. He should have taken the fall. When was he going to
learn not to piss into the wind?

"Enough."

Conor felt himself rolled onto his back. He
opened one swollen eye to find a lean, auburn-haired man he hadn't
seen before standing over him. The man placed one polished boot on
his throat, pressing down with his weight until Conor couldn't
breathe.

"Let me introduce myself," the man drawled,
speaking around the slender cheroot clamped between his teeth.
"I'm Vernon Tyler. Now, you being a stranger and all, that name
might not mean much to you. So I'd better explain how things are
around here."

Vernon straightened and stepped back. Conor
sucked in a great gulp of air that hurt his ribs as the other man
took a puff on his cheroot and made a sweeping gesture with one
arm. "I own most of this town, and most of the land around it,
which I lease to local tenant farmers. I own the mercantile and the
sawmill. I own the restaurant, the newspaper, and the hotel. What I
don't own, I option. Most everybody around these parts works for
me. I'm the boss, I'm the bank, and I'm the law. You understand me,
boy?"

Conor managed to nod. He understood very
well. The accent might be different, but it wasn't anything he
hadn't heard before.

"Good. You cost me a good chunk of money
tonight, and I don't take kindly to losing money. You ever cross my
path again, boy, I'll snap you into pieces like a dry stick and use
you for firewood." Vernon dropped his cheroot to the ground and
crushed it into the dirt with one heel, then he reached down and
stuck his fingers inside Conor's boot. Pulling out the money, he
turned to the men who stood beside him. "Boys, take this sack o'
shit and dump it in a field where it belongs."

One man grabbed Conor's ankles, another
grabbed his wrists, and he felt his body coming apart like an
overcooked chicken as he was dragged out of the tent to a wagon
nearby and hefted into the back. He gritted his teeth and endured
the pain without a sound. Crying out, showing pain, was the first
step toward giving in.

The wagon lurched and
started forward, heading out of town, every bump in the road an
agonizing reminder of bruised muscles and broken bones. Conor
closed his eyes and began to count backward from one thousand, a
trick he'd learned a long time ago. Focusing on the inane task
sometimes kept the pain at bay.
Nine
hundred ninety-nine, nine hundred ninety-eight...

He was in an open wagon in
the Louisiana countryside, but in his mind, he was back in the
Mountjoy. The summer breeze carried the scent of ripening peaches
and blooming jasmine, but the dank, sour smell of prison
overpowered their sweetness.
Eight hundred
fifty-two, eight hundred fifty-one...

The wagon hit a rut, sending Conor's body a
foot into the air. He landed on his shoulder, hard, and it felt as
if the prison guards had just snapped his arm out of its socket,
then rammed it back into place again. He bit his lip until it bled,
but he still made no sound. Four years and thousands of miles away,
but this time he wouldn't give the bastards the satisfaction of a
scream.

Somewhere in the distance,
he heard the rumble of thunder. He felt a drop of warm summer rain
on his skin, but then it turned cold... the rain again, the damned
Irish rain, carried by the winter wind through the one-foot square
of window above his head. He pulled against the chains that held
him to the wall of his cell, but he couldn't avoid the icicles that
hit the back of his neck like tiny needles.
Seven hundred twenty-six...

The wagon slowed. A push of
somebody's boot, and he rolled off the back, landing on the dirt
road with a thud. A fresh wave of pain shimmered through his body
and he cried out, hating his own weakness, just before the blessed
darkness overtook him.
Seven hundred
twenty-five, seven hun...

When he awoke, he was lying in the middle of
a road in the middle of nowhere. He was alone, and it was morning.
Closing his eyes, he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

***

Olivia Maitland needed a man. It wasn't just
because she wanted to clear the south pastures and plant cotton
next spring. It wasn't just because the fences were falling down
and the back porch sagged. It wasn't just because the peaches would
be ripe in two months and there was nobody to help her pick
them.

No, the fact was, Olivia Maitland needed a
man because the roof leaked like a sieve and she was afraid of
heights.

She snapped the reins, but Cally was a
stubborn old mule who intended to take her to town in his own good
time, and he made no attempt to move faster. The slow pace only
gave her more time to dwell on her problem. Olivia shifted her
weight on the wagon seat and tried not to be impatient.

Maybe when she got to town
she'd find that this time somebody had answered the advertisement.
She'd used her egg money to put a help-wanted advertisement in
the
Jackson Parish
Gazette
, and she'd put up notices all over
town, but that had been over three months ago, and she hadn't had a
single reply. Of course, all she could offer was room and board,
and that didn't make for much of an incentive. What few able-bodied
men there were around Callersville could work at the sawmill for
real wages or tenant farm for themselves.

A drop of rain hit the back of her hand,
darkening the worn brown leather of her glove. Another drop fell,
then another. Olivia glanced up at the heavy, gunmetal gray clouds
overhead, and she wondered if she ought to turn back. It had rained
during the night, and the road was already muddy. She might make it
to town, but if another storm came down now, Cally would never be
able to get her home.

Her trip was probably futile anyway. Stan had
told her last time she was in town that she could no longer buy at
the store on account, and she doubted asking again would accomplish
much.

Olivia caught her lower lip between her teeth
and stared at the rutted, curving road ahead. Times had been hard
ever since the war, but since Nate's death the previous summer,
times had gotten even harder. Nate had been old, cranky, and not
always reliable, but he'd been strong for his age, handy with a
hammer, and staunchly loyal. He'd also been there to help her bring
in the harvest.

She had three girls to raise, hogs and
chickens to tend, peaches to harvest come September, and there
weren't enough hours in the day to manage everything by herself.
Until Nate's death, she hadn't realized how dependent she'd become
on the old farmhand or how much she would miss him.

She thought of her girls and wondered how she
was going to provide for them if she couldn't get her peach crop to
market. Perhaps she should never have taken them in when their
parents died in '65. Perhaps they'd have been better off going to
the orphanage if she couldn't take care of them properly.

All the burdens suddenly seemed so heavy, and
Olivia felt much older than her twenty-nine years. "Lord," she
murmured, "I could really use some help down here."

As if in reply, the rain began to pour down,
and Olivia sighed. "I guess not."

She hunched forward on the seat and pulled
her broad-brimmed straw hat down lower over her eyes. It wasn't
much to ask for, really. Just one man to help, a man who didn't
mind hard work and didn't expect to get paid for it.

Olivia pulled on the reins slightly, guiding
Cally around the sharp bend in the road. As the wagon rounded the
curve, she noticed something lying directly in her path about two
dozen feet ahead. She jerked hard on the reins, bringing Cally to a
stop, and stared between the mule's ears at the man who lay
sprawled in the middle of the road.

She should probably just turn around right
here and head home. There were always nasty characters wandering
the roads these days—had been ever since the war. Olivia toyed with
the reins in her fingers, uncertain what to do. She was alone, and
the man was a stranger.

Still, he didn't look like much of a threat
just lying there like that. Keeping her gaze fixed on him, Olivia
climbed down from the wagon. She hitched her faded brown skirt up
enough to keep the hem out of the mud as she moved closer.

It was kind of hard to tell what he looked
like, but Olivia knew he wasn't from around Callersville. His short
hair was black, but caked with mud. His face was lean and
clean-shaven, but swollen and darkened by purple bruises. There was
a deep gash above his eye, and another on his chin. His clothes
were torn and muddy. He didn't move as she came cautiously closer,
and she wondered if he was dead.

But as she hunkered down beside him, she saw
the rise and fall of his chest. No, he wasn't dead. At least, not
yet.

She stood up and glanced around, but she saw
nothing that might explain what this man was doing out here in
this sorry condition. He was alone and didn't appear to have any
belongings with him.

Suddenly he groaned, and she realized he must
be in a great deal of pain. She couldn't just leave him here. If
she could get him into the wagon somehow, she could take him back
to the house.

Olivia stared down at the unconscious
stranger, and she wondered if he knew how to patch a roof and pick
peaches. Right now, he didn't look capable of much at all. She
sighed and pushed back her hat, glancing at the dark skies above,
blinking at the rain that hit her face. "Lord," she said heavily,
"this isn't exactly what I had in mind."

Conor came awake reluctantly. He knew he was
still lying in the road, and it was raining again. He also knew
that everything hurt. Every part of his body ached, making him
acutely aware that he was awake. He kept his eyes shut, willing
himself back into unconsciousness, but it didn't work.

He heard a voice above him, a woman's voice.
Turning his head sideways, he opened his eyes and found himself
staring at the sodden hem of a dull brown skirt. The image blurred,
and he blinked, trying to focus. After a moment, the image of the
woman standing beside him became clear.

His gaze traveled upward, past the shabby
dress and faded duster that disguised any feminine shape she might
have had, to her face. But she wasn't looking at him. Her face was
tilted skyward, and he heard her breathe a heavy sigh before she
looked down and saw him awake and staring at her.