Conor's Way (50 page)

Conor pushed him back down with his boot.
"Good. You've threatened my family, and I don't like that at all.
You ever set foot on my land again, you so much as look at my wife,
or come within a mile of my daughters, you miserable bastard, and
I'll do more than use you for firewood. I'll kill you."

Olivia lowered the pistol in her hand and
walked down the steps as she listened to Conor claim what she had
thought he would never want. She heard the fierce possessiveness in
his voice as he said "my wife" and "my family"—and every word gave
her hope. She came to a halt a few feet away and waited, as a wagon
came into the yard and pulled up behind the carriage.

"Your girls said there was trouble," Oren
said, jumping down from the wagon, rifle in hand. He looked at the
three men lying on the ground, including the one pinned beneath
Conor's boot. "But I see you've handled it."

Conor grinned and gestured to the two dazed
Harlan brothers. "You can do me a favor and dump these two
miserable excuses for men in the road on your way home."

As Oren prodded the two Harlan boys to their
feet with the muzzle of his rifle, Conor glanced at Olivia and saw
the pistol still in her hand. He took it from her, opened the
cylinder, and dumped out the bullets. Then he hauled the other man
to his feet and gave him a shove toward the waiting carriage. "Get
off my land," he said, and tossed the empty weapon at Vernon's
feet.

Vernon pressed a hand to his bleeding nose
and bent to pick up the gun. Behind him, the door of the carriage
opened and Alicia Tyler stepped down. She walked to her husband's
side. After removing a delicate linen handkerchief from her pocket,
she dabbed it to his nose and spoke to him gently. "I'm leaving,
Vernon. The stage departs for Monroe this afternoon, and Papa and I
will be on it. You can remain here in Callersville, of course, but
you'll have to find a place to live because we will be putting the
house up for sale. You'll also have to find a job because we'll be
selling the sawmill and the mercantile and all the rest."

"Alicia, you can't—"

"If you wish to come with us," she
interrupted, "Papa will make a place for you in one of his
companies. You'll have to start at the bottom, of course. A clerk,
perhaps. But I'm sure you'll be able to work your way up in no
time. Papa will help you."

She let him hold the handkerchief to his nose
while she brushed the dust from his torn clothes and straightened
his tie as if he were a child. Then she put her arm through his and
led him toward the carriage. Before she stepped inside, she paused
and turned to look at Conor and Olivia. "I hope the two of you will
be happy here. I never was."

She stepped into the carriage, and Vernon
followed her inside without a backward glance. The carriage turned
around and rolled away, pausing by the porch long enough for the
driver to jump down and tie Vernon's horse to the back, then pulled
away, going around the side of the house and disappearing from
view.

Oren pulled his wagon up beside Conor and
Olivia, his bay gelding tied to the back. Keeping his rifle pointed
at the Harlans, he watched them mount their horses, to follow
Vernon's carriage, and he chuckled. "They both look a bit
cross-eyed. Never knew any man could land a punch like you, Conor.
I'll bet they never knew what hit 'em."

"I hope they did," Conor answered. "And I
hope they'll be remembering it for a long time to come."

"By the way," Oren said, lowering his rifle
now that the Harlans had disappeared, "Kate said to tell you that
you're welcome to stay for supper when you come pick up the
girls."

"Thanks. We'll be along shortly," Conor told
him. Oren nodded and snapped the reins. The wagon lurched forward
out of the yard.

Olivia looked at her husband, studying his
hard profile as he watched the wagon disappear from sight. To
Vernon, he had claimed what was his—the land around them, the
girls, and her. But she wanted him to claim the most important
thing of all: Her heart. "Do you love me?"

The abrupt question caught him off guard. He
stiffened. Without looking at her, he said, "You've lost your last
chance to be rid of me. I'm staying, with all my bad moods and all
my bad habits. I'm not leaving."

"That's not what I asked you."

"I'll try not to swear in front of the girls,
but I might slip up. You'll just have to get used to it. And if I
have any more nightmares, don't try to wake me. Just promise me
you'll keep out of the way until it's over."

"Yes, of course, but—"

"Furthermore," he interrupted, and turned to
her, looking almost defiant, "I'm not going to church, so don't be
getting any ideas about it."

"I never said you had to go to church, but
Conor—"

"I'll smoke my cigars if I want to, and I'll
not give up my whiskey. If I want a wee drop now and again, I'll be
having it. And there'll be no lectures about it the next morn—"

"Conor!" she interrupted, exasperated,
impatient, hopeful, terrified. "Do you love me?"

He opened his mouth as if to answer her, but
closed it again. A shadow crossed his face, a shadow of something
she could not define, something hungry and fierce. It might have
been fear. It might have been love. Perhaps it was both.

Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed her
hand.

"I want to show you something," he said, and
pulled her across the yard, past the charred remains of the barn,
past the stable and the cabins, to Nate's old toolshed.

He halted by the door, and let go of her
hand. "There's something in there," he said, and looked suddenly
uncertain. He began backing away. "I...um...I made it for you."

She watched him, puzzled by his sudden
reticence. "What is it?" she asked; but he didn't answer. She
turned to the door and pushed it open.

Sunlight fell through the doorway, casting
her shadow across the wooden bench that stood in the center of the
shed. It was painted white, and there were chains attached to the
sides as if it were meant to be hung. It was a porch swing.

Olivia stared at it, blinking back a sudden
onslaught of tears. She walked over to it slowly, and ran her hand
along the smooth white surface. "You made this for me?" She turned
to look at him, but the sun behind him made his expression
unreadable. "Why?"

He lowered his head, staring down at the
ground. A long silence passed, then he spoke, slowly, as if
thinking out each word. "Olivia, I've spent a long time running
away from a lot of things. Love, most of all. I convinced myself
that I didn't need it, that I didn't want it, even that I couldn't
feel it anymore. But the truth is, I was afraid of it. I've lost
everything I ever loved, and I never wanted to love anyone or
anything again. I never wanted to risk feeling that kind of pain
again."

Olivia listened, and with every stilted word,
her hope burned brighter. When he fell silent, she took a
tentative step closer to him. "And now?"

She held her breath, waiting.

He lifted his head. "Now,
I've come to realize that there are some things worth the risk,
some things that are too powerful to walk away from, and too
valuable to lose. You taught me that. This porch swing is my
wedding gift to you, and I want to sit in it with you all the
evenings of my life. I love you,
á
mhúirnín
."

Words failed her. She wanted to tell him how
much his gift meant to her, how much she needed him, how afraid
she'd been that he would leave her, how much she loved him. But she
could not find words.

So, she ran to him, flinging herself into his
embrace with a sob of relief and joy that told him more than any
words could have done.

***

Each of the girls had an opinion about
Olivia's gift.

"I think it's wonderful, Daddy," Becky said,
as she kissed him good-night. "Jeremiah and I can sit in it next
time he comes to Sunday dinner."

"Over my dead body," Conor muttered under his
breath, as she walked down the hall to her room.

Olivia made a choked sound that sounded
highly suspicious. He frowned at her, wondering if she were
laughing about something, but she had already stepped over Chester
and crossed the hall to Carrie's room, so he couldn't be
certain.

Carrie wasn't as enthusiastic about the porch
swing as her sister. "It's okay," she said, yawning. "But, Daddy,
couldn't you have made something fun, like a tree house?"

He leaned down and kissed
her. "That's next,
mó
cailín
. I promise. Go to
sleep."

Olivia kissed her daughter. "Good night,
sweetie. Sleep tight."

They moved on to Miranda's room, and
together, they tucked their youngest daughter into bed.

As they pulled the covers up to her chin, she
asked, "Daddy, since you made Mama a swing, can you make me a
dollhouse?"

His throat tightened, and he brushed his lips
against her cheek. "I can do that, love."

"Good," she said, closing her eyes. "Now my
dolls can have a home."

Conor met Olivia's eyes over the bed.
"Everybody ought to have one of those," he murmured, and watched
his wife smile. He vowed that, every day of his life, he was going
to find a way to make her smile. He was going to do everything in
his power to see that she was safe and happy. And loved.
Always.

She kissed Miranda good-night and turned out
the lamp. Then she took Conor's hand, and together they left
Miranda's room. As they went downstairs, he said, "I never thought
I needed a home and children to complete my life. Now, I couldn't
imagine living my life without them. But sometimes, Olivia, it's
damned frightening."

Olivia's hand tightened in his. "You'll do
fine," she told him. "The thing about being a good parent is not to
think about it too much."

The words were familiar. He thought of that
day in her kitchen when he'd kissed her for the first time, and he
gave her a smile that was deliberately wicked. "Let's go sit in
that porch swing."

When they stepped outside, Conor felt the
slight chill in the air and recognized the first sign of autumn. He
thought of all the things that needed doing before spring, but
instead of suffocating him, those things made him realize how much
he had to look forward to.

He sat down and pulled Olivia onto his lap, a
move that set the swing rocking. "So, Mrs. Branigan," he murmured
in her ear, "tell me again what your mama and daddy used to do in
this porch swing."

She leaned closer until her lips were an inch
from his. "I'll show you," she whispered, her arms tightening
around his neck.

When she kissed him, Conor spent a long time
enjoying the real reason husbands sat in porch swings with their
wives after the children were in bed. In his opinion, it was a fine
way to spend an evening. But it wasn't what he had in mind just
now.

He broke the kiss and stood up with her in
his arms, a move that surprised her.

"I thought you wanted to sit in the porch
swing."

"I changed my mind," he murmured hoarsely,
trailing kisses along her throat as he started for the back door.
"We'll sit in it tomorrow."

He carried her across the threshold and back
into the house, up the stairs and into their bedroom. He kicked the
door shut. As it closed behind them and the latch clicked into
place, Conor Branigan kissed his wife again and knew that he had
finally come home.

THE END

Author's note: Gaelic does not always
translate with literal accuracy to English. These translations are
given to provide a general meaning, not a literal translation.

admhaím
: confession

á
mhúirnín
: "my love," a term of
endearment

bermíd go
maith
: "all is well"

Clan na
Gael
: a secret society formed in America
during the nineteenth century and composed of Irish immigrants
dedicated to the liberation of Ireland from British rule

clochan
: a storage shed for crops

craythur
: an affectionate term for Irish whiskey

fiabhras
dubh
: "black fever" or typhus

fuathaím
: hate

gaol
: prison

luíochán
: ambush

mó
cailín
: my girl, a term of
endearment

mó
paisté
: my child, a term of
endearment

Neamh
: heaven

seanachaie
: storyteller

sha sha
: "there, there," a phrase to soothe or comfort

slainté
: a toast meaning good health

tá mé
anseo
: "I'm here."

tá ocrás
orm
: "I'm hungry," or "The hunger is upon
me."

Uilleann
pipes
: Irish bagpipes

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Chapter
One

Whitechapel 1889

Nathaniel Chase heard the loud, rather
insistent knock on the open door and the irate voice calling his
name, but being rather preoccupied, he did not look up from his
task. "Yes, Mrs. O'Brien, what is it?"