Conor's Way (48 page)

"That's nothing to worry about," Vernon said.
"We'll just hire workers who aren't Irish."

Conor smiled. He addressed his reply to
Vernon, but his gaze never left the gray-haired man across the
table. "Ah, but Mr. Jamison here isn't thinking about this
penny-ante little railroad in Louisiana, now. He's thinking about
those steamships of his, and all the Irish longshoremen who load
his cargo, and all the Irish navvies who run the engines. He's
thinking what a shame it would be if some dynamite happened to find
its way onto some of those ships once they're fully loaded with
cargo and ready to move out." Conor tilted his head thoughtfully to
one side. "A few accidents like that could ruin a shipping company,
wouldn't you say?"

Conor did not wait for a reply. He shook his
head and went on, "No, Vernon, your man here's thinking about those
mines of his in Pennsylvania, and all the Irishmen who go down
there every day to haul out that coal, and all the accidents and
wildcat strikes that might suddenly start happening. He's thinking
about the Irish lasses who put together shirts in his linen mills,
and the Irishman who drives his carriage. He's thinking about the
wee Irish maid who brings his coffee in the mornings, and he's
wondering if he'll notice when it starts to have a bitter
taste."

The other man smiled, leaning back in his
chair. "You're bluffing. You don't have that kind of
influence."

"Don't I?" Conor countered swiftly. "I
suppose that if I were just another Mick off the potato boat—I do
believe that was how you put it, wasn't it?—I wouldn't be able to
rally my fellow Irishmen around me."

He paused, then gave the other man an
insolent grin. "But, you see, I don't happen to be just any
Irishman. Go into any Irish pub along the New York docks, and talk
to your longshoremen about Conor Branigan, and listen to what
they'll tell you. Or, ask those men who go down into those coal
mines of yours. Or, ask the men who lay your railroad track. Or,
ask the Irish lasses who make shirts in your factories or bring
your coffee."

Conor straightened in his chair and the grin
vanished. "They'll tell you how I spent two years running guns from
New York to Belfast, smuggling them in right under the noses of
British customs. They'll tell you how I was arrested and tried for
treason, how I was subjected to the cruelest tortures imaginable
when I served time in a British prison, of how it was the protests
and marches of their sisters and brothers back in Ireland that
forced Prime Minister Gladstone to free me."

Conor grabbed the edges of his shirt and tore
the linen apart. The woman gave a sharp little gasp. "These are my
badges of valor, Mr. Jamison, and with every lash and every burn
and every bullet, I earned the respect of another Irish heart.
There are men who sit in pubs in New York and lift their glasses in
songs about me. There are wee girls skipping rope in Boston and
Belfast to songs about me. And there are Irish people who would
risk their lives for me if I asked them to. To them, I represent
hope and freedom. To them, I'm a hero."

He waited for his words to
sink in, then Conor played his last card. "All I have to do is send
one telegram to New York, to a gentleman by the name of Hugh
O'Donnell. He's the head of
Clan na
Gael
, which is the American counterpart to
my own Irish Republican Brotherhood. I smuggled many of Hugh's guns
into Belfast, and he owes me more than a few favors. If Hugh puts
out the word that you're trying to steal Conor Branigan's land,
just the way the British back home have stolen Irish land for the
last three hundred years, you won't lay one foot of railroad
track, here or anywhere else. You'll have so many problems, you
won't know which way to turn. I'll cost you so much money, those
investors backing this railroad of yours will start asking
questions and demanding explanations. You'll be looking over your
shoulder and jumping out of your skin at every Irish voice you
hear. Your life will be hell for as long as it lasts, and it won't
last long."

He stared at the man across the table, and he
didn't know if Jamison believed him or not. It was such an
outrageous load of shit. He had no idea if Hugh would really do
anything to help him, after he'd refused to raise money for the
cause when he'd come to America. But bluffing was something Conor
knew he did very well, and as long as Jamison believed him, the
truth didn't really matter.

The woman laid a hand on Hiram's arm.
"Papa?"

Vernon shoved back his chair and stood up,
ready to throw Conor out himself, but Jamison lifted a hand in
warning, and Vernon sank slowly back into his chair. "Hiram, you're
not going to let him get away with this, are you?" he demanded
incredulously.

Hiram said nothing. He kept his assessing
gaze fixed on Conor, trying to sift through the blarney and find
the truth.

Conor gave it to him. "Bigger bastards than
you have tried to break me, Mr. Jamison. They're dead now."

"Papa," the woman said in a shaking voice,
clearly upset by the threats, "it's not worth it. I couldn't bear
it if anything happened to you. Please, abandon this before—"

"Alicia, shut up!" Vernon snapped. He turned
to his father-in-law. "We can't let him destroy everything we've
worked for down here, everything we've built. We can handle any of
his friends who might cause trouble."

"Papa, give this up," Alicia implored,
ignoring her husband. "It's not worth it. These people could kill
you."

Conor heard the tearful, frightened note in
her voice, and he took full advantage of it. "Your daughter is
lovely, Mr. Jamison, but no woman looks beautiful in mourning
cloth."

"Papa!" Alicia cried fearfully and grabbed
his sleeve. "Please, give this up. Do it for me."

Conor saw a glimmer of fear in the other
man's face, and he began to think this was actually going to work.
He waited, his face impassive, his gaze locked with that of the man
across the table.

Hiram was the one who looked away; he took
his daughter's hand. "What do you want, Branigan?"

"Give up this idea of putting a railroad
across my land. Stop threatening my family. Take your daughter and
your son-in-law, and go back to New York."

"No!" Vernon shouted, slamming his fist on
the table and rattling the breakfast dishes. "We can't stop
now!"

"Be quiet, Vernon." Hiram considered the
situation for a moment, then rose to his feet. "Very well," he
said, and his daughter gave a sob of relief. "For my daughter's
sake, I agree to your terms. You have my word."

"I'm glad we could come to an understanding."
Conor stood up and turned to leave, but in the doorway, he
paused.

"By the way," he added, "I've already sent a
telegram to Hugh O'Donnell. It's not that I don't trust your word,
Mr. Jamison, but I've learned the hard way that it's always best to
take precautions. If anything happens to me or my wife or my
daughters, Hugh knows what to do." He nodded to the woman. "Mrs.
Tyler."

He didn't bother to acknowledge Vernon. He
walked out without another word, mounted his borrowed horse, and
rode away. At the main road, he didn't turn the horse toward
Peachtree, but set off in the opposite direction, Figuring he'd
better go into town and send

that telegram to Hugh, just in case Jamison
decided to verify that part of his claim. Hell, if nothing else,
Hugh would enjoy the story.

Conor rather enjoyed it, too, but for a
different reason. He'd always appreciated irony. He'd spent the
past three years avoiding the heroic reputation that was such a
sham, and now he was using it to gain the love he'd never wanted
and become the hero he'd never been in the first place. He might
even succeed. Conor threw back his head and laughed in utter
disbelief.

***

Silence fell in the dining room after Conor
Branigan's departure, and both men turned to Alicia. She took the
hint and rose to her feet. "I'm sure you two will want to discuss
business," she murmured, and left the room.

Vernon spoke the moment Alicia was gone.
"I'll go see Olivia. After this business with the barn, I'm sure
she'll be much more willing to talk about selling. If I can get her
to agree, Branigan will go along with her."

"No."

"What?" Vernon stared at the other man in
astonishment. "You're not really going to agree to his
demands?"

Hiram did not answer that question. Instead,
he leaned forward in his chair and gave Vernon a hard stare across
the table. "You had Joshua set fire to their barn, didn't you?"

Vernon opened his mouth to deny it, but
Hiram's face told him a denial would be futile. "We talked about
this," he said instead, "and you said more pressure might be
required."

Hiram shook his head, frowning with
displeasure. "Don't try to justify your actions by laying the blame
on me. What you have done is appalling, not to mention stupid.
Branigan isn't the kind of man to be intimidated. I tried that in
my one conversation with him. It didn't work." Hiram stood up.
"Tomorrow, you will begin making arrangements to sell our holdings
here, so that the investors can be repaid. We are abandoning this
venture."

"Hiram, you can't be serious."

"But I am. We'll sell what land and business
we have down here. The land ought to bring a decent profit, since
prices are rising, and I'm sure we'll be able to sell the
businesses, as well, without too much trouble. We won't lose
money."

"We've come so close. You can't do this."

The moment he said it, he knew he'd made a
mistake. Hiram didn't like being told what to do.

"This has always been your little project,
Vernon," Hiram replied coldly, "not mine. I never wanted you to
take Alicia so far away from home in the first place. But you
wanted the chance to prove yourself, and I have given you four
years to do it. That's long enough. You have failed, and I won't
back a failure."

Failure
. The word cut deep. "What he said was just a lot of big
talk, Hiram. You know it was."

"Some of it, I agree, but
perhaps not all of it." The other man set aside his napkin and
rose. "Branigan might have enough friends in New York to do some
serious damage. I've heard of
Clan na
Gael
, and I know they could cause trouble
if they wanted to. Many Irish people work for me. I can't fire them
all. I won't put my other business ventures at risk for this
railroad scheme of yours. And I have no intention of ending up dead
with an Irish knife in my belly. As Alicia said, it's not worth
it."

He walked out of the dining room, leaving
Vernon staring after him in shock and fury.

He couldn't believe that everything he wanted
was slipping out of his grasp because of that Irish prizefighter.
A hero? Vernon didn't believe that cock-and-bull story for a
second.

A sound from the doorway caused Vernon to
turn. Alicia stood there, watching him with a somber expression.
He knew perfectly well she'd heard every word, and he could almost
feel her disapproval. His anger rose to the surface, and he scowled
at her. "What were you thinking," he demanded, "pushing your father
to abandon this project when you know damn good and well how much
it means to me?"

She brushed at an imaginary speck of lint on
her skirt and did not meet his gaze. "You heard that man, the
threats he made. I was frightened."

"Bull." He shoved back his chair and stood
up. "You've never wanted me to succeed."

She lifted her head. "That's not true. I've
always supported you."

"Only when it suited you." He stalked out of
the dining room, and Alicia followed him as he crossed the foyer.
When he reached his study, he entered the room and slammed the door
between them, shutting her out.

I won't back a
failure
. Hiram's words rang in his ears,
and his rage escalated. Hiram thought he was a failure. Alicia,
too. He saw it in her eyes.

The empire he'd built so carefully was about
to fall down around him, and he wasn't going to let that happen.
Branigan was to blame for this. If it hadn't been for him, Olivia
would have sold the land eventually. If it hadn't been for him,
Hiram would not be running like a scared rabbit.

Vernon walked to his desk and opened the top
drawer. He pulled out the deed and bill of sale he'd drawn up four
years ago and his Colt pistol. He shoved the deed into one pocket
of his jacket and the gun in the other. Then he shut the drawer and
left the study.

Alicia was still standing outside the door,
waiting for him. "Vernon," she began, "I'm sorry if—"

"Save it," he said, and walked past her.

"Where are you going?" she cried, as he
headed for the front door.

"I'm not letting that cocky Irish bastard
ruin everything I've worked for," he shot back furiously. "I'll
get that land, one way or the other."

He walked out of the house, and slammed the
door behind him hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. Alicia and
her father thought he was a failure. Well, Vernon was about to
prove them wrong.