Conor's Way (44 page)

Saturday night was the harvest dance, and
that morning, Becky tried on her blue silk dress at least five
times, asked Olivia if it looked all right at least a dozen times,
and acted so jumpy that her mother finally lost patience with
her.

"For heaven's sake, Rebecca Ann, find
something to do," she exclaimed in vexation when Becky started to
ask her yet another question. "You're making me crazy."

"But, Mama, I just realized something."

Olivia sighed and looked up from the butter
churn, exasperated. "Conor took your sisters fishing down by the
creek. Why don't you join them?"

"But, Mama—"

"Out." Olivia pointed to the door.

Becky whirled around and left the kitchen,
but she slammed the door behind her, making it clear that she
thought her mother a most insensitive person for not listening to
her. Olivia didn't care. She was too relieved.

But an hour later when she went out to the
barn, Olivia found that Conor and the girls were not fishing. She
heard voices from inside the barn as she approached.

"One-two-three...one-two-three..."

What on
earth
? She stepped inside the barn and
came to an abrupt halt, staring in astonishment at the sight that
met her eyes. Conor was leading Becky across the dusty floor in a
waltz, while Miranda and Carrie sat atop the two dusty barrels in
the corner and watched.

Dancing. Dumbfounded, Olivia realized that
Becky had never learned how to waltz because she had never taught
her, and she wondered how she could have neglected something so
obvious. Becky had evidently not realized it either, until this
morning.

Conor brought the girl to a swirling halt.
"Perfect," he told her. "Just count in your head, lass, and after a
while, it'll just come naturally. And remember, that lad of
yours'll probably be counting, too."

"Thank you, Daddy," she whispered, and
wrapped her arms around his neck in a smothering hug. "Thank
you."

Conor caught sight of Olivia standing in the
doorway. "The lass is going to do well, don't you think?" he said,
sounding quite pleased.

Olivia smiled at her daughter. "Yes, I
do."

But that night, when they stood beside the
refreshment table in the Callersville town hall and watched
Jeremiah lead Becky toward the dance floor for yet another waltz,
Olivia found Conor wasn't quite so pleased any longer.

"That's four waltzes now," he commented with
a frown.

Olivia didn't realize he'd been counting.
"Well, she did put his name down for all the waltzes on her dance
card."

Conor's frown deepened as he watched them.
"They're dancing rather close together, aren't they?"

She caught the disapproval in his voice, and
she glanced at Becky and Jeremiah, who were just far enough apart
for it to remain respectable. She slanted a speculative, sidelong
look at her husband from beneath her lashes. He was positively
scowling.

She turned away, choking back her laughter,
and ladled glasses of lemonade for Miranda and Carrie, who stood
beside her. He really was the most unpredictable man. "Oh, I don't
think it's anything to worry about," she murmured, although
secretly she was delighted by Conor's disapproval, which was so
obviously paternal.

"How can you say that?" he demanded, still
watching the couple. "She's only fourteen. Perhaps I should have a
talk with the lad."

With a great deal of effort, Olivia smothered
her amusement and handed him a glass of lemonade. But Conor was too
busy frowning at Becky and Jeremiah to notice the smile that
hovered at the corners of her mouth.

***

Miranda and Carrie were both fast asleep by
the time they arrived home. Becky, still dreamily humming the
melody of a waltz, led the way upstairs with the lamp. Olivia
followed, carrying Miranda. Conor came last, with Carrie in his
arms.

In the hall, Olivia took the lamp from
Becky's hand. "Go on to bed, honey."

Becky complied, walking to her room as if she
were floating on clouds. Conor turned to Olivia, who was watching
the girl with a smile. She looked over at him and whispered, "I
think she enjoyed herself."

Conor thought she had enjoyed herself a bit
too much for his peace of mind. He'd best be keeping a watchful eye
on Jeremiah Miller.

"Will you put Carrie in bed?" Olivia asked,
breaking in on his thoughts.

He nodded and took Carrie into her room.
Guided by the moonlight through the windows, he carried the child
over to the bed. Shifting her weight to one arm, he pulled back the
covers, then gently laid her in the bed. He pulled the covers over
her and moved to go, but her voice stopped him.

"Daddy?"

Conor sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Hmm?"

She opened her eyes and blinked up at him
sleepily. "When I'm old enough to have a dance card, you'll be the
first man on it."

Conor felt a hard, burning tightness in his
chest, a tightness that twisted his heart and left him unable to
speak. He watched Carrie's eyes close. Within seconds, her even
breathing told him she was asleep again.

He bent down and kissed her
brow. "Good night,
mó
cailín
," he whispered, but he made no move
to leave. Instead, he sat there for a bit longer, just watching
her sleep.

He'd build her a tree house in that massive
oak down by the orchard, and when she had a dance card, he'd bloody
well check the names of all the lads on it. As for Becky and
Jeremiah, Conor decided he wasn't going to let her marry the lad
until she was at least eighteen. Miranda would probably want a new
doll for Christmas and pudding cake again next year on her
birthday. He thought of watching them grow up and knew he'd have to
keep a firm hand with them, especially Carrie. But he could do
that. He thought of the empty fields to the south and wondered how
much cotton seed cost.

He began to build a vision of the future in
his mind. He could see himself lying beside Olivia, feel himself
falling asleep with her in his arms. He could see them waltzing at
every harvest dance that was to come. He could see her playing
birthday games in the yard with

the girls and the other children they would
have. He could hear her laughing with them and singing
"Ring-Around-the-Rosy." It was a vision that promised things he
hadn't dared to want for a long time.

The moment he realized it, he began to deny
it. Instantly, the impossibility of it all flared up in his face,
burning away the mist of what he knew was only a fantasy.

He remembered himself as a boy, standing
outside a Derry bakery with snow falling over him, staring
longingly through the window at the pastries and confections laid
out for the rich Christmas shoppers—how he'd pressed his nose
against the glass and felt the hunger gnawing at his insides.

Now, he felt like that again; he felt a
hunger just as strong. He wanted it so badly. The whole future was
laid out before him like those pastries in the window, so close,
yet out of his reach.

He shoved away memories of that hungry,
lonely child, but could not set aside the realization that, over
twenty years later, he was a man just as hungry, just as lonely,
just as needy as the boy he'd been.

Conor rose to his feet and left Carrie's
room. He stepped over Chester, who had taken up his sentry post in
the center of the hall, and walked toward the stairs. He glanced
toward Olivia's room and saw the light that filtered out from
beneath her closed door. She was still awake.

What was she doing right now? Sitting at the
dressing table, brushing her hair. Or lying in bed, reading a book.
Maybe she was waiting for him. He reached for the door handle, then
stopped, his hand poised in midair.

It was only a fantasy.

He let his hand fall and walked away, closing
himself off from what he wanted because he knew he did not deserve
it.

***

The following afternoon after church, Olivia
took the girls over to the Johnson farm for a visit. Conor, who
wanted to finish the project he was working on, did not go with
them.

Conor was in the shed when he heard the
rattle of carriage wheels. He walked outside and watched as a sleek
black carriage pulled by a matched pair of Morgans came into the
yard followed by Chester, who was barking furiously. The driver
brought the carriage to a stop, and a man Conor had never seen
before, elegantly dressed and obviously wealthy, stepped down. The
man started toward the house, but Chester blocked his path, still
barking. The man came to a halt.

Conor brushed the dust from his clothes and
crossed the yard. "Chester, be quiet," he commanded. The dog
obeyed, but gave a low growl before sitting back on his
haunches.

The man pushed back his hat with the tip of
his ebony walking stick and gave Conor a hard perusal. Conor, never
one to be intimidated by any man's stare, studied him with equal
thoroughness.

"Conor Branigan?"

"Aye. And who might you be?"

"My name is Hiram Jamison." He did not hold
out his hand in greeting, but he continued to watch Conor with a
slightly arrogant expression.

Conor raised one brow. "Is that name supposed
to mean something to me?"

The man stiffened. "I am Vernon Tyler's
father-in-law."

Conor suddenly understood. He wondered how
much they were going to offer him for the land this time. "How
unfortunate for you. My condolences."

Unexpectedly, the man smiled, but it was a
smile that did not reach his eyes. "Vernon was right about you. You
are an arrogant bastard."

"Fancy that. I was thinking the same about
you."

Hiram Jamison glanced around. "I'd like to
have a word with you, if you don't mind. Is there someplace we
could sit down and talk?"

Conor gestured to the house, but he didn't
take the man inside. That would be a courtesy, and he didn't feel
like being that courteous. He put Chester in the house and brought
two of Olivia's horribly uncomfortable kitchen chairs out onto the
back porch. Both men sat down.

"Mr. Branigan, I am not a man who likes to
waste time, and too much time has been wasted already. I'll come
straight to the point. Vernon already offered you three dollars an
acre. I'll double it."

Just for sport, Conor pretended to consider
it. Then he shook his head. "No."

That surprised Hiram. "No?" He leaned forward
in the chair. "That's three thousand dollars."

"Thank you, Mr. Jamison," Conor said dryly,
"but I do know how to add."

The man flushed a dark red. From anger, Conor
suspected, not embarrassment. "It's the best offer you'll get,"
Hiram said. "Take it, boy."

Take it,
boy
. Conor thought of Eversleigh's words
of so long ago and the sixpence he'd wanted to spit on. He
remembered all the men he'd known in his life who thought they
could buy anything they wanted. But he thought of Olivia, and he
knew some things could not be bought or sold at any price. He shook
his head. "No."

Hiram let out an impatient breath between his
teeth. "All right then, how much do you want?"

Conor grinned, knowing he had the upper hand
and enjoying it immensely. "You don't have that much money."

"I assure you, I do. Name your price."

"I don't have one." Conor rose to his feet.
"Mr. Jamison, this land is not for sale. Not at any price. You'll
just have to build your railroad somewhere else."

Hiram stood up, but he made no move to
depart. "You obviously don't know who I am. I own three railroads,
a steamship company, four Pennsylvania coal mines, two linen
factories, and half a dozen other businesses. I have a mansion in
New York, another mansion in Newport, and a yacht on Cape Cod."

He cast a contemptuous glance over Conor, his
voice rising along with his temper. "And what are you, boy? Nothing
but another ignorant Mick off the potato boat, just like all the
ignorant Micks who work for me, who load my ships and dig my coal,
who shine my boots and bring me my morning coffee."

Conor had been waiting patiently for the
tirade to end, and when it did, he folded his arms across his
chest, met the other man's eyes, and said, "I'll give you exactly
ten seconds to get into that fancy carriage of yours and drive
away. Because I'm beginning to lose my temper, and as you know,
ignorant Micks have violent tempers."

Hiram whirled around and stalked away, but he
halted beside the carriage door and turned. "You will regret
this."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Conor answered,
watching Hiram Jamison climb into his carriage, knowing he'd once
again defied the powers that be. He just never could seem to learn
not to do that.

***

Kate poured Olivia a cup of tea. "So, how is
married life?" she asked, sitting down across the kitchen
table.

Olivia stared down into her cup, studying her
wavy reflection in the black tea, and didn't reply.

"That good?"

Olivia bit her lip and shook her head. "It's
not bad, really. He's so good with the girls, and they adore him. I
just wish—"

"What?"

"I wish that he could open up a little." She
found herself pouring out the whole story, how she found him, what
she knew about him, what had happened in Monroe. Everything. "Now,
he's so withdrawn," she finished, staring down into her tea. "He
won't sleep with me, Kate. He won't even come near me."

Kate started laughing.

Olivia lifted her head. "What are you
laughing about?"

"Most married women have the opposite
complaint."

Olivia did not find that funny.

Kate sighed, seeing her dismal face. "Honey,
married life is never easy. Not for anybody. Every couple has
problems, and it takes time to sort them out. Oren and I fought
like cats and dogs when we got married. Still do, sometimes."