Conor's Way (47 page)

"Conor, I want you to listen to me. If you
were a coward, you would not even be here. A coward would have
killed himself long ago."

He wasn't looking at her. He sat with his
head hung low, staring at the floor. She didn't even know if he
heard her, but she went on. "I'm not sure I know what true courage
is," she said as she continued to approach him. "But I think it
must be the ability to endure. Perhaps it's selfish of me to be
glad those men did not kill you or put you out of your pain, but I
am. I'm glad you had the courage to endure. So very, very glad."
She came to a halt in front of him. "I love you."

He stiffened and sat up in his chair. He
still would not look at her. "Just as well to love a shell then,
lass," he said, his voice weary. "'Tis empty I am. I have no
purpose, no ideals, no honor. It’s all gone, and ‘tis a shell of a
man I am. I have nothing left to believe in. I have no honor to
hold on to."

She reached out to touch him, tentatively
laying her hand against his cheek. He flinched, but he did not pull
away, and that gave her hope. Slowly, with infinite care, she
wedged herself between his knees and moved closer still. "Hold on
to me, then," she whispered. "Even if you can't believe in
yourself, I'll believe in you. I'll be your anchor. Hold on to
me."

He took a choked, panicky breath, turning his
face away from her touch, and she thought he was going to push her
away again, retreat again into his self-made prison. But suddenly
his arms came up around her naked hips, and he pulled her toward
him. He buried his face against her and held her fast, as if she
were a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea.

She felt his massive frame shudder, and his
cry of rage and pain nearly broke her heart. She cradled his head
and she stroked his hair, as all the anguish of a lifetime poured
out of him, and she sought to replace it with all the love she had
to give. She prayed it would be enough.

Conor knew by the rhythm of her breathing
that Olivia was asleep. He listened to the soft, even cadence of
each breath and told himself it was impossible. She could not love
him. But she did.

She loved him. It was hard to believe it,
harder still to trust it.

He had never told anyone about Mountjoy
before. By telling her, he'd thought to drive her away, make her
see what he was. But he hadn't driven her away. She had seen what
he was and she didn't care. She had told him to hold on to her and
he had. Then she had led him back to bed and curled up beside
him.

He looked down at the small hand spread
across his chest in a gesture of complete trust.

She trusted him. After she'd seen him in the
throes of his nightmares, he could not imagine how.

She loved him. After what he had told her, he
could not imagine why.

He looked at the face so close to his own. By
the moonlight through the window, he could see the dark lashes that
swept her cheeks, the creamy skin that was so soft to touch, the
silken strands of her hair that spread across the pillow, and felt
a kind of peace he'd never known before.

When he'd said that confession was good for
the soul, he had said it with mockery, but perhaps there was truth
in it, as well. The shame was still with him, the guilt still
haunted him, but they seemed lighter burdens now, they seemed
easier to bear than they ever had before.

He touched her face, ran
one finger down her cheek to her lips, soft and warm and slightly
parted in sleep.
My
wife
, he thought.

He wanted it. God, he wanted it all. He
wanted tree houses and picnics and butter-pecan cookies; he wanted
a home and land to call his own. He wanted to tell bedtime stories
to the girls—his girls—and he wanted to watch them grow up. He
wanted Olivia; he wanted the warmth and softness of her to soothe
away all the cynical hardness within himself. He wanted to wake
every morning to that radiant smile, that felt like sunlight when
it touched him, and let it banish all his dark dreams. He wanted
her by his side all the days and nights of his life.

For the first time, the future beckoned to
him, a future beyond the next town, the next fight, the next bad
dream. A future that had what he'd never thought to find again:
love. He wanted that future. He didn't give a damn if he deserved
it. He wanted it, and he was going to take it, hang on to it, make
it his own.

Conor eased out of the bed, careful not to
wake her, and went out onto the veranda. Moonlight sifted between
the branches of the oak trees and cast twisted shadows across the
gravel of the drive below. He'd prune those trees come spring and
those boxwood hedges, too.

He thrust his hands in the pockets of his
trousers and walked down the veranda, making plans. The house would
need a coat of paint before next winter. The gardens and flower
beds needed to be completely redone.

He turned the corner and walked along the
side of the house. The gazebo wasn't worth saving, he decided,
staring down at the dilapidated structure. The hopeless tangle of
roses that climbed up the sides were the only thing that kept the
structure from falling down. He'd tear it down and build Olivia a
new gazebo, with the honeysuckle she loved so much planted all
around it.

He came to the end of the veranda and leaned
against the rail, looking out over the backyard. If they tore down
the deserted cabins, they could plant an orchard of pears in that
spot. The old stable and the barn were all right, but—

A flicker of light caught his attention.
Conor frowned, staring at the outline of the barn, and he saw
movement in the shadows. He got a brief glimpse of a man running
for the woods, then the tiny flicker of light suddenly burst into
flame.

Bloody
hell
. Conor turned around and raced back
the way he'd come. "Olivia!" he shouted, as he entered the
bedroom. "Olivia, the barn's on fire!"

She flung aside the covers and jumped out of
bed, fumbling for her clothes in the dark. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he answered, as he grabbed
his boots and yanked them on. "Bring as many buckets as you can.
Shovels, too, if you can find any."

He pulled the sheet off the bed and ran out
the door. Within seconds, he had descended the stairs and left the
house, his only thought to get the animals out of the barn.

The barn was filled with smoke when Conor
opened the door, and a wall of heat hit him. Coughing, he jumped
back, took three deep breaths, and entered the bam.

He could hear Cally and Princess making the
wild neighs of panic and kicking at the sides of their stalls,
trying desperately to escape. Orange flames licked the walls at the
other end, feeding on the dry wood with crackling intensity.

Coughing, Conor grabbed the coil of rope that
lay in one corner and made for the first stall. He got in with the
mule, careful to avoid the animal's kicking hooves, and wrapped the
sheet around its head. After looping the rope around its neck, he
led the frightened mule out of the barn, as Olivia came running
with a bucket of water from the pump, the girls right behind
her.

"Grab the mule!" he told her, as he pulled
the sheet and the rope away from Cally's head, and ran back to the
barn. He could hear Olivia calling after him, but he did not
stop.

Smoke stung his eyes as Conor made for the
second stall and began to guide Princess out of the barn. The heat
seared his skin, and the flames were a roar in his ears. He held
his breath against the thick smoke. He got Princess out just as the
roof fell in.

Olivia dropped the empty bucket and ran to
him with a cry of relief. He let go of the cow and wrapped his arms
around her, sucking in great gasps of air. He held her tight
against him, thinking he'd never let her go as long as he lived,
when suddenly she yanked out of his hold and glared up at him.

"Going back in there for a cow!" she shouted
furiously. "Are you out of your mind? You could have been killed.
Don't you ever do that to me again—do you hear me, Conor
Branigan?"

She loved him. He grabbed her and kissed her,
hard, before she could say another word.

***

The sun had lifted well above the trees by
the time the fire was out. Conor, Olivia, and the girls, along with
neighbors and friends who had seen the blaze and come running to
assist, continued to throw buckets of water and shovels of dirt
over the charred remains, and the flames had finally been
extinguished.

It was Oren who found the can of kerosene. He
brought it to Conor and said, "I reckon you all must've turned down
their last offer."

Conor set aside his shovel and took the tin
can. He stared down at it for a moment, then he lifted his head and
took a long, hard look at the smoldering remains of the barn. He
thought about another fire and a cottage in Derry twenty-five years
ago. He thought about Hiram Jamison and Vernon Tyler, Lord
Eversleigh and Arthur Delemere, and all the other men who thought
everything in the world was theirs to take, theirs to destroy.

He looked up and met Oren's somber gaze.
"Would you happen to know where Vernon Tyler lives?"

The other man studied him for a moment, then
he said, "About a mile this side of town. Go west on the main road.
When you cross the Sugar Creek bridge, it's the first lane to the
left."

Conor nodded. "I'm after borrowing your
horse, if you don't mind?"

"Sure. I can ride home with Kate in the
wagon. Unless you want some company?"

"No. I'd rather do this myself."

"Sure thing." Oren shoved his hands in his
pockets and added, "Be careful."

Conor walked away without replying. He knew
what he had to do, and being careful had nothing to do with it.

***

When Conor arrived at Vernon Tyler's estate,
he didn't bother to give his name. He pushed his way past the black
gentleman who had just informed him the family was at breakfast,
and entered the house.

"Suh!" the man cried as he was shoved aside.
"You can't come in here. I told you—"

Conor ignored him. He crossed the foyer, and
began searching for the dining room. The butler followed him,
protesting loudly.

When he located the dining room, he found
Hiram, Vernon, and a beautiful blond woman who must be Vernon's
wife, seated at a table laid with gleaming china, crystal, and
covered silver dishes.

All of them stared at him in astonishment as
he entered the room. Conor glanced down at his soot-covered clothes
and the stains of charcoal and mud that his boots had made on the
plush white rug. "Top of the mornin' to you," he said, and walked
to the table.

He faced Hiram Jamison and slammed the can of
kerosene down on the table. "Mr. Jamison, I'll make this quite
simple for you. The answer is still no, it will always be no, and
there is nothing you can do to change my mind. You can threaten me,
you can burn down my barn again and again and again, but I'm not
selling my land to you. Is that clear?"

"What is he talking about?" The blond woman
turned to Hiram with a troubled look on her face. "Papa, you didn't
do anything to this man's bam, did you?"

"Of course not, my dear. He is obviously
deranged." He gestured to the doorway. "Abraham, remove this man
from my house."

Conor turned to glare at the butler, who was
coming toward him. "Back off, lad," he said quietly.

The man hesitated, glanced at Hiram, then
back at Conor again. Something of his seething rage must have shown
in his face, for the man stepped back, shaking his head. Conor
returned his attention to the man across the table, hoping to hell
he could pull this off.

He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down
without waiting for an invitation, unmindful of the black soot on
his clothes that stained the ivory velvet upholstery. "Mr.
Jamison, let's not waste time dancing around the issue. You want to
build a railroad, but I can tell you right now, even if you manage
to steal my land, you'll not build that railroad of yours on it. I
can promise you that."

Vernon made a sound of contempt and threw
down his napkin. "Who the hell do you think you are, boy, coming in
here and making threats? You can't stop us."

"No?" Conor turned to look at Vernon. "Who do
you think lays down railroad track, boyo?" he asked, his voice
deceptively soft. "Many a mile of track across this great country
has been laid with the blood and sweat of thousands of Irishmen.
When the Irishmen you hire to lay track find out that you
threatened one of their own to get his land, you'll not sink one
spike or lay one tie on that land."

Appearing completely at ease, Conor leaned
back in his chair. Returning his attention to Hiram, he said,
"Trust me, Mr. Jamison, if you force me off my land, you'll never
build a railroad on it."