Conor's Way (37 page)

Ever since this morning, Conor had been
withdrawn and silent. He had not told her exactly when he would be
leaving—she didn't know if it would be tomorrow or the day after or
next week—but it would be soon. Olivia knew that he would probably
not say good-bye; he would just vanish as he had done the last
time, without a word. During the long trip back, she tried to
toughen her heart, but every time she thought of the night before,
of the incredible things he had done to her, of the extraordinary
way she had reacted to his touch, all she wanted to do was fling
her arms around him and hold him tight, as if somehow that would
keep him with her. She knew it would not.

Oren was on the veranda of the house by the
time she pulled into the drive, as if he'd been watching for her
arrival. She brought the wagon to a halt, and Oren came down the
steps to the wagon before she could climb down.

"Kate and your girls are already over at your
place," he told her.

Olivia frowned in bewilderment. "Why? I told
Kate I'd pick them up here. She didn't have to take them home."

He pushed back his hat and heaved a heavy
sigh. "I'm afraid there's been a bit of trouble."

Olivia thought of Vernon and instantly
assumed the worst. "My girls? Are they all right?"

He hastened to reassure her. "They're fine.
It's nothing like that. But you'd better get home quick."

"Why? What's happened?"

Oren eyed her with a grave expression.
"Everybody knows, Liv. About the Irishman who's been staying at
your place."

A sick feeling of dread settled in the pit of
her stomach. "Everybody?"

"Everybody in town," he answered, confirming
the worst. "Including Martha and Emily Chubb."

The sick feeling of dread was like a stone in
her belly. "Oh, heavens."

"It's causing quite a stir. You better get
home and straighten it out."

Olivia nodded and snapped the reins without
another word, sending the team of mules flying back down the lane.
Gravel spun off the wheels as she turned onto the main road and
raced past Conor's wagon. She heard him shout her name, but she did
not pause for explanations.

She couldn't think; she couldn't feel. All
she could do was stare at the moonlit road in front of her, cold
and numb with dread, as she raced the wagon toward home.

When she pulled into the drive of her house,
they were waiting for her, just as Oren had said. The girls were
nowhere to be seen, but Kate was there, along with Reverend Allen
and, of course, the Chubb sisters. Light spilled through the
windows behind them, and she could not see their faces, but she
could imagine the condemnation in their eyes.

She climbed down from the wagon and moved
slowly toward the house, each step a jerky movement that propelled
her forward like a puppet on a string, even as panic made her want
to run, to hide.

They knew. All of them. She could tell by
their silence and their rigid stances and she wondered how she
would ever be able to face them in the light of day. She thought of
the passionate night before, of what she had done, of what she had
let Conor do; and every remembered kiss, every remembered touch
seemed to flay her like the lash of a whip. The shame of it caused
her cheeks to burn, but she kept her head high.

Her mind began to spin crazily with
explanations, excuses, denials. But they would all be lies. She
wished she could just sink into the ground and disappear.

Behind her, she heard the second wagon pull
into the drive and stop, but she didn't turn and look at Conor. She
couldn't. She mounted the steps to the veranda, and the weight of
guilt and shame seemed heavier with each one.

Kate stepped to the front of the veranda. She
grabbed Olivia's gloved hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "I'm
sorry, Liv," she whispered. "They insisted on coming out here. I
couldn't stop them."

Olivia pulled her hand out of Kate's and
looked away from the understanding sympathy in her friend's face.
She couldn't bear it. "Where are my girls?"

"They're in the house having supper. They
don't...understand. Well, Becky might, perhaps, but the little ones
don't."

She was given no chance to reply. Martha
elbowed her way around Kate and studied Olivia with pursed lips and
speculative eyes. "So, you're back, Olivia. I'm surprised you can
show your face after what you've done."

Olivia tried to tell herself that Martha
couldn't possibly know what had actually happened in Monroe, but
it didn't matter. She knew, and she couldn't lie to herself. She
couldn't act nonchalant and innocent, because she wasn't. Her hands
began to shake.

Behind her, she heard the tread of footsteps
and knew it was Conor, but she kept her back to him. Martha glanced
past her and looked him up and down. "You even had the gall to
bring the man back with you," she added. "Have you no shame?"

Conor watched Olivia wilt beneath the
censuring voice of the stout woman in the hideous feathered hat,
and decided he'd had enough. His jaw tightened grimly, and he
started forward to yank her away from that vicious old cat, but he
felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look at the gray-haired
man in black broadcloth and cleric's collar who stood beside
him.

"Walk with me, son."

It was not a request. Conor let out a
frustrated breath and reluctantly followed the elderly man, who
picked up a lamp and led him around the side of the house and down
to the barn.

When they stepped inside, the man closed the
barn door behind them and set the lamp on the floor. "There," he
said, sitting down on a dusty barrel and settling himself as
comfortably as possible. "Now we can talk freely."

Conor eyed him in stony silence. He could not
conjure up the words for polite conversation. All he could think
of was defense.

"I'm Reverend Allen, by the way," the man
continued in his mild, Southern voice. "I'm the minister of the
Baptist church here in Callersville. You, I assume, are Mr.
Conor."

The form of address caught Conor's attention,
and everything fell into place with utter clarity. "The girls," he
said tightly.

Reverend Allen nodded. "The girls, yes."

"What exactly did they say about me?"

"I'm not quite certain. I wasn't there, you
see. But I'm told it was during a sewing party in town this
afternoon. All the ladies were there." He leaned back against the
wall and folded his arms. "The talk now is that you've been living
in this house with Olivia, her husband in all but name."

Conor thought of all the frustrating nights
he'd spent out in this barn trying to blot out erotic fantasies
about her, and wanted to laugh at that notion. If this were
happening to any other man, he would have. "What else?"

"They say that you are a drifter, a
prizefighter by trade, which of course makes her behavior all the
more reprehensible. If you were a local man, it would still be
scandalous, but perhaps not quite so shocking. I'm afraid Olivia's
reputation is in serious jeopardy."

"Mother of God!" Conor scowled at the
minister, despising all men of the cloth. "I was injured, and
Olivia, being a softhearted woman—God bless her— took me into her
home so that I could get well. For an act of kindness, she is
condemned?"

"You don't have to tell me about Olivia,
young man. I've known her since she was a child."

"Then you know damn good and well she has
nothing to be ashamed of." He thought of their night together, and
he hated the way something beautiful could be twisted into
something sordid by those who had nothing better to do with their
time. "Nothing," he repeated.

"Unfortunately, I cannot stop people from
thinking what they will. And Olivia recognized the risk in what she
was doing. Evidently, she took great pains to conceal your
presence here."

"I can bloody well see why!"

The reverend looked at him with patient
understanding, which only fueled Conor's resentment. He swore
under his breath.

"I'm not here to debate the right or wrong of
Olivia's actions," Reverend Allen said quietly. "Or yours."

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm here because I believe I might be of
some assistance in this matter. Believe it or not, I care about
Olivia's welfare. I can only hope that you do, as well."

The reverend leaned forward, rested his
elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers together. "It comes
down to this," he said. "You have two choices. The first is to
leave. You don't have any ties here, I understand, and are free to
go."

Conor thought that sounded like a very good
idea.

"You could simply walk away and abandon
Olivia to face the scandal alone," the reverend went on, in that
same gentle, unassuming tone. "Of course, the girls will be taken
away from her."

Conor's body went rigid, and he felt as if
he'd suddenly been caught by a left hook out of nowhere. "Taken
away?"

"Olivia never legally adopted the Taylor
children. She never thought it necessary. In fact, I doubt the idea
even occurred to her. Martha and Emily have already asked the
sheriff to remove them from this house. Most of the ladies in town
are in agreement with them, I'm afraid."

"I'll leave," he said tightly. "I'll go
tonight. Anything to let Olivia keep those girls."

The reverend shook his head. "It's too late
for that now. The damage has been done."

Conor started to reply, but he couldn't speak
past the stone that seemed lodged in his chest. He closed his eyes,
and in his mind, he saw Olivia in the backyard laughing with her
daughters. He saw her arms open to enfold them, heard her loving,
gentle voice speak to them.

He opened his eyes and ruthlessly shoved the
image away.

The reverend was watching him steadily. "That
needn't be your concern," he said. "They aren't your daughters, so
they aren't your responsibility." He paused and gave a slight
cough. "However, another child might make your choice more
difficult."

Conor stared into the mild blue eyes watching
him and made a sound of denial.

"She might be carrying a baby."

Now was the moment to lie, to say that was
not possible, that their trip had been innocent and nothing had
happened, to absolve himself and make a quick exit out of town, to
be exactly what he knew he was. A coward.

Reverend Allen was watching him expectantly,
waiting for those words of denial. When they did not come, he went
on, "You seem to be a man of the world. I assume you've thought of
that possibility."

He hadn't. Christ, until now it hadn't
occurred to him. And it should have. A babe. He thought of Mary, of
the child that had been his, and something fractured inside him, a
crack in his armor, a weakness to be exposed and exploited.

Reverend Allen seemed to see it, too. "There
is another option," he said carefully.

Conor eyed the other man with caution,
knowing the trap. "I'm listening."

"You could marry her."

The trap closed, and Conor clenched his
fists, struggling against the mindless panic that surged within
him. He could not think; he could not reason. He could only rail
against the inevitable, and curse himself for his own
stupidity.

He turned away. "Marriage is not an option,"
he said through his teeth, barely grinding out the words amid the
rage and the fear and the desperation within himself.

"You're not already married, are you?"

Conor tilted back his head and stared at the
rafters above. He made a harsh sound that might have been a laugh.
"No."

"I could perform the ceremony tomorrow at the
church. If the two of you married, the scandal would quickly die,
Olivia's reputation would be saved, and her girls would not be
taken to the orphanage."

The orphanage.
Oh, Christ
.

Conor turned around, unable to believe that
after all his running, all his struggling to remain free, his life
came to this kind of choice. "You say you care about Olivia. If you
knew anything about me, Reverend, if you knew even half of what
I've done, you would be running me out of town with a shotgun, you
would, indeed, not asking me to marry her."

"I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm
simply telling you what your options are. Now, I'm going to leave
and let you decide which one to take." He gave Conor a benign
smile. "But I'm a meddlesome old man, so I'll give you one small
piece of advice before I go."

He paused, and his smile faded to a serious
and earnest expression. "Do the right thing, son," he said in his
gentle minister's voice. "For once in your life, do the right
thing."

He turned away and departed, closing the barn
door behind him and leaving Conor to make his choice alone.

Conor glanced around at the
walls that surrounded him, hemmed him in, threatened to imprison
him in a life he did not want. He looked down, and his gaze caught
on the flame of the lamp at his feet. He watched it flicker,
trapped in its frosted glass cage like the demons locked inside
himself.
Do the right thing,
son
.

He slammed his hands over his ears to shut
out the words that clanged through his head like the iron bars of
the Mountjoy.

For once in your life, do
the right thing...the right thing...the right thing...for once in
your life
.

He could not do the right thing. Slowly, by
infinitesimal increments, he pulled logic and reason and reality
together, fusing them into the cold, indifferent armor that had
protected him all his life. By sheer force of will, he pushed away
the vision of Olivia's wounded dark eyes that floated at the edge
of his consciousness. He had no intention of doing the right
thing.

***