Conor's Way (40 page)

His voice was as cool and lethal as a knife
blade. She swallowed hard and stood her ground. "I will not have
spirits in our house."

"But I'm not in the house. I'm outside." He
grinned at her, but she sensed the dark undercurrents hidden by the
impudent surface.

"That's splitting hairs, Conor. What if the
girls saw you this way? What would they think?"

Something in him seemed to change at the
mention of the girls. The grin faded, and his head fell back as if
he were suddenly weary. "Maybe they'll stop looking at me as if I'm
some kind of hero," he said, and shook his head, squeezing his eyes
shut. "Hero! God, if they only knew."

Olivia watched him, feeling as if she were
missing a very important piece of a very complex puzzle. She felt
his pain, she felt his rage, but she saw all the hate he turned
inward, and what she knew could not explain that.

I got exactly what I
deserved
.

He began to hum under his breath a tune she
did not recognize.

"That's a song called 'The Bold Fenian Man.'"
He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. "Do you know
what a Fenian is, Olivia?"

"No," she whispered.

He began to sing very softly. "'We may have
good men, but we'll never have better. Glory-o, glory-o, to the
bold Fenian man.'"

He laughed, and took another swallow of
whiskey.

"I was a hero once," he said. "The lads
thought because I was a guest of the Crown, because I had the scars
of a British whip on my back, because the bastards made me get down
on my hands and knees to eat, as if I were a dog—I was a hero. The
bold Fenian man. What a joke I was."

She pressed a clenched fist to her mouth at
the contempt she heard in his voice. She didn't know if marrying
her was what had brought it to the surface now, but it frightened
her. "Don't," she whispered. "Please don't do this."

"Don't what? Get drunk? Too late, I'm afraid.
I'm three-parts pissed, love."

"Don't torture yourself."

"Not to worry. That's already been done. By
experts."

"So, you must continue where they left off?
Why?"

He didn't answer her question. Instead, he
lifted his bottle in another salute. "'Glory-o,'" he sneered, his
voice filled with self-mockery, "'to the bold Fenian man."

Olivia couldn't bear it any longer. She
turned and left him with his Irish whiskey and his bitter
memories.

In her room, Olivia lay in bed with her arms
wrapped around her pillow and wondered about the man she had
married today. She'd thought she understood, at least a little,
what sort of man he was. Now, she knew that she'd barely scratched
the surface.

She thought of all the times she had hoped
her father would rise above the pit of dark and self-destructive
apathy into which he had fallen; but time had proved her hope to be
both naive and futile. The idea that her love could somehow heal
him had been nothing more than vanity and wishful thinking.

Now, here she was again, in the same
situation, stubbornly pinning the same foolish hopes on a
different man. Her husband.

The logical part of her knew she did not have
the power to heal Conor's wounds. A loving touch and three hot
meals a day could not wash away a lifetime of pain and guilt and
torment.

But somehow, her heart refused to listen to
her head, refused to believe that there was no hope that Conor
Branigan would heal. Her heart ached to help him; her arms longed
to hold him; her hands wanted to soothe him. She loved him. So,
Olivia lay in her bed, awake and alone, silently waiting, foolishly
hoping. Of course, he did not come.

***

The following morning, the congregation of
the Callersville Baptist Church was all agog over the news of
Olivia's wedding. By the time Olivia arrived, everyone had been
informed of her hasty marriage. Even Vernon, who was never the
recipient of any local gossip, had been told. He and his Yankee
wife had arrived back in town the evening before, Kate informed
Olivia on the church steps, and the moment Olivia walked inside,
she knew that he had been told of her marriage. He watched her walk
up the aisle, and she returned his hard stare with a sweet smile.
His thunderous frown was his reply.

She thought of how Vernon had ordered Conor
beaten for his refusal to cheat during that boxing match, and she
was very proud of her husband.

Her
husband
.

Olivia's step faltered a moment. She could
hear the talk buzzing around her; she could feel the curious
stares. Matrons who two days before had condemned her as a jezebel
were smiling at her and nodding to each other, clearly pleased that
the man had made an honest woman of her, and all was well. Those
less forgiving were studying her with speculation, and it was
obvious what they were thinking. She knew they had noticed that her
husband was not with her in church this morning and were wondering
how long marriage to an Irish prizefighter—a Catholic, no
less—could possibly last.

Olivia wondered, too. She couldn't help it
after what had happened last night. Perhaps someday Conor could
come to love her. Given time, he might be able to accept the
responsibilities and joys of being a husband and father. But Olivia
knew time was not on her side. She could go home today and find him
gone, and she wondered how long she could live with that
uncertainty.

She paused beside an empty pew and ushered
her girls in before her. Her cheeks burned at the whispers around
her, but she kept her head high as she took her seat. Yesterday,
she had pledged love, honor, and obedience. She was going to do her
best to live up to that pledge— well, at least the part about love
and honor. She could only hope that Conor would try to do the
same.

***

While Reverend Allen was asking his
congregation to contemplate the blessed teachings of Jesus to turn
the other cheek and forgive thy neighbor, Vernon was contemplating
how he could get rid of Conor Branigan. Permanently.

He fumed with impotent fury as he thought
about it. He'd never been good enough for Olivia to marry; but
she'd been willing to marry that Irishman. Four years of trying,
and he'd never been able to get his hands on Olivia's land, but
Conor Branigan had managed it in scarcely two months. He should
have killed the cocky son of a bitch when he had the chance.

He should have come back the minute he'd
gotten Joshua's telegram about Branigan being at Olivia's place.
Damn Alicia and her social whirl for keeping him away so long; damn
Hiram for being led around by his own daughter. Vernon knew if he
had been here instead of shaking Yankee hands and attending the
symphony, none of this would have happened. Olivia's peach crop was
in, which meant she had the money to pay her spring taxes. And
Branigan had control of her land. It beat all, it truly did.

Until he'd gotten Joshua's
telegram, he'd forgotten all about the prizefighter who had defied
him. He'd seen a problem that needed solving, and he thought he'd
solved it. It had been surprising enough that Olivia had found the
man and taken him in, hired him on, but who the hell would've
thought she'd
marry
him? A boxer, for Chrissake. Vernon couldn't believe it.
Olivia hated gambling. Always had.

His anger simmered as Reverend Allen droned
on and on, and he couldn't take it anymore. He stood up in the
middle of the sermon, ignoring Alicia's surprised glance. He walked
out of the church, fully aware that he was scandalizing the town.
Too damn bad. It was his town, wasn't it?

He was going to take care of that
prizefighter here and now. After their last encounter, he'd doubted
he'd have much trouble; but he decided to stop at the Harlan place
on his way. Elroy and his boys loved a good fight.

***

When Conor awoke, the sun streaming through
the window of his room hit his eyes, piercing his skull like
white-hot needles. He groaned and pulled the pillow over his head
to shut out the light, but it was too late. The pain began to pound
mercilessly in his head.

It was the whiskey. Christ, he hadn't felt
like this the morning after a drinking bout since he was seventeen.
He tried to go back to sleep, but that proved futile. Giving in to
the inevitable, Conor slid to the edge of the bed and rose to his
feet, grimacing at the pain in his skull. Moving with great care,
he walked to the door of his room and opened it, but the water
Olivia usually set out for him to bathe and shave was not
there.

She was angry with him. He remembered the way
she had looked at him last night, and the things he had said, and
he felt a twinge of guilt. Even though the marriage was a farce,
it wasn't her fault. It was his. Well, he was being punished for it
now, he thought, and pressed his hands to his aching head.

Aye, she was probably furious with him, but
she was so softhearted that when she saw how miserable he was this
morn, she'd forget about being angry. She'd fuss over him, of
course, but he thought of the gentle touch of her hands and decided
he could tolerate a bit of fussing. He was starving, and he knew
that even if she was angry, she'd have a hot breakfast waiting for
him. She'd insist on making him some of that awful green tea. If it
would get rid of the pain in his head, he might even drink it.

Conor dressed and went out to the kitchen and
discovered that Chester was the only one there. The dog greeted
him with a loud bark that sent a fierce stab of pain through his
skull. There was no hot breakfast, no girls, no Olivia. Bewildered
and somewhat aggrieved, he looked out the kitchen windows, but he
saw no one. He left the kitchen and went into the foyer.

"Olivia!" he called, thinking she and the
girls might be upstairs, but his only reply was his own voice
echoing through the house.

Then he remembered that today was Sunday, and
he felt rather let down by the idea that he was alone, and hungry,
and hung over, and clearly wasn't going to get any hot breakfast or
fussing.

He went back into the kitchen and took a pail
from its hook on the wall. He left the dog inside and went out to
the well, then filled the pail at the pump and bent to pour the
cool water over his head.

God, it felt good. He
straightened to refill the pail for another go, but the sound of
wheels grinding on gravel had him glancing up as a wagon came round
the side of the house.
Holy
Mother
, he thought, tossing aside the
bucket and raking a hand through his wet hair,
why this morning
?

He tensed, watching as the wagon came to a
halt in the yard, and Vernon Tyler stepped down, followed by Elroy
Harlan, Joshua Harlan, and the three men who had turned his body
into mush two months ago. Maybe they wouldn't beat him up this
time. Maybe they'd just kill him and put him out of his misery.

Conor remembered the first
lesson he'd ever learned in life.
No
matter what happens, act like you don't give a
damn
. He gave them a smile. "Good day,
lads. ‘Tis a bit early yet for a Sunday call, isn't it?"

No one replied. Vernon paused several feet
away and pulled a cheroot out of his jacket pocket. He lit the
cigar as his companions surrounded Conor and made it very clear
just how outnumbered he was.

"I heard you got married," Vernon said,
taking a puff on his cheroot. "I came to offer my
congratulations."

Conor thought of the cigar burns the Mountjoy
guards had put beneath his right shoulder blade, and wondered if
Vernon planned to put a matching set on the opposite side of his
back. He thought about that farmer and his wagon of turnips with
profound regret. "I appreciate that, Mr. Tyler, I do, indeed."

Vernon studied the lit end of his cigar for a
moment, then he looked Conor in the eye, obviously deciding it was
time to get to the point. "Seems to me, I told you to get out of my
town, boy."

Boy
. God, he hated that word. He'd been hearing it all his life.
Anger flickered dangerously in his belly. He gritted his teeth,
freezing his smile in place. "Yes, I believe you did. But, you see,
your lads here did such a fine job waltzing across me ribs that
getting out of town wasn't possible."

"I don't take kindly to being crossed."
Vernon took a puff on his cheroot. "It took Olivia a long time to
get herself married. It'd be a shame if she became a widow. You
understand me, boy?"

Steady
, he reminded himself. Anger would get him nothing except
more cracked ribs. He swallowed the anger down, the way he'd
swallowed so many things so many times before, telling himself that
was the sensible thing to do. Besides the fact that he had a
hellbanger of a headache, he was outnumbered and didn't relish
another round of being kicked like a tin can. He met Vernon's eyes.
"Aye," he said steadily. "I understand you."

"Good. Now that we've got that straight, I'll
move on to what I really want to talk about. You've married Olivia;
you've got control of her land; and you're going to sell it to
me."

Conor didn't know if he'd heard correctly. He
was in control of Olivia's land now, and Vernon wanted to buy it
from him? He wished he could think clearly, but there were hammers
pounding his skull from the inside out. "Am I? Well, I'm thinking
that depends on what you're offering."

"I'm offering not to kill you."

Conor's false smile widened. "I appreciate
that, but if you were to kill me, Olivia would have the land again,
and you'd be right back where you started. So, I'll be asking
again, what are you offering?"