Megan Chance (30 page)

He nodded and took a deep breath. "You were right when you accused me of not coming back because of you," he said slowly. "Protecting you was a convenient lie."

"But the raid ..." She spoke the words carefully, remembering Michael's disclaimer, her own suspicions. "There was the raid."

"It was set up."

She could barely breathe, could hardly talk. "You mean you—"

He nodded. "I hired men to come out. I wanted to frighten you so that you'd let me stay." His hands tightened on her as if he was afraid she'd run if he loosened his hold at all. "They went a little too far. I never meant for them to hurt anyone."

"Well, they did hurt someone. They hurt
Onkle
."

"I'm sorry for that. You don't know how sorry."

She felt as if she were falling into darkness, into a fear that was fed from deep inside her. Sari tried to find his eyes in the night. His face was shadowed, but she heard the desperation in his voice as he rushed on.

"I came back for Michael, Sari. I thought he would search you out, and I wanted to be on the farm in case he contacted you in any way. We—the agency— heard he was on his way here. I figured maybe I could find a letter or something to tell me when he might show up."

She clenched her fists. "Did you find anything?"

His breath came out in a long, slow whoosh of air. "No."

"So you thought I was hiding something. You thought I was lying to you—"

"Yes." He cut her off with the wicked brutality of that one word. "Listen to me, Sari. How well did I know you a month ago? I don't know, I really don't. Sometimes these things just run together in my mind. I wasn't sure if what I felt for you in Tamaqua, what I knew of you, was something I had imagined, something that made it easier to act the part—or if the feelings were real. God, sometimes ..." he paused; she sensed him struggling for the right words. "Sometimes you get so that you don't trust what you think is real. There are so many damn lies."

"I didn't lie to you," she said slowly.

"I didn't know that for sure. You'd warned Michael in Tamaqua, and I couldn't forget that."

"Because he killed your father?"

"Yes."

"And that's why Pinkerton sent you? Because of your father?"

He took a deep breath. "Pinkerton didn't send me.

She stared at him in stunned amazement. "The agency didn't—"

He shook his head. "I'm on sabbatical, Sari. The agency has a policy against vendettas, and William knew how I felt about Michael. They didn't want any part of it. He warned me not to come, and I ignored him." He rushed on, as if expecting her to interrupt. "I couldn't let it alone. Michael killed my father, Sari, you have to understand. I figured he would make his way to you. I thought you might be helping him. So I thought, if I could get you to trust me again ..."

"You came here intending to use me," she said, each word an effort. It was what she'd suspected when he first came, and now the thought that she'd been right, that he had used her again, was like a stone in her heart. It was exactly as it had been a year ago, when he'd left, and she'd waited, knowing he couldn't have meant to go, waiting for him to come back. It had been months before she could believe he had used her, months before she could start to hate him.

"I'm sorry." His harsh whisper broke into her thoughts. "I can't tell you how sorry I am. I was wrong. I love you. I'll become a farmer on these blasted plains if that's what you want. I'll leave Pinkerton for good. Just tell me you love me. Just tell me if—after all this—you still can."

"I was wrong. I love you."
Sari stared at him, hearing the words she'd always wanted to hear, but they were false somehow. He had just told her the truth, and she heard in his voice the hope that she might forgive him, that she would choose to love him beyond his lies. In his words she heard a future.

She looked into his face, into the shadows. She felt his breathing as if it were her own. "Conor," she said slowly. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, so hard it seemed to blot out all other sounds. "What about Michael?"

He stiffened, and she knew the truth in that moment, even if he didn't say the words. He paused for a long moment. "What about him?"

She pulled away from him, pried his fingers from her waist, and stepped from the circle of his arms,' and she wasn't sure whether it was just her skin that was cold or whether it was her blood that ran chill and freezing through her veins, wrapping her heart in desolation and a loneliness she knew too well.

"What if he showed up again. Would you go after him?"

He paused. The uncertainty in his eyes was blinding. "Not... not if you don't want me to. Not if you tell me you can ... love me."

She looked back at him, heard his desperation and his pain, and she felt sorry. "That's the condition, then?" she asked. "If I love you, you'll leave my brother alone?"

He frowned; she saw the confusion in his expression. "Yes," he said.

"And then what, Conor? What if I decide to love you and Michael happens by? Do I have to worry that you'll kill him?"

He leaned into her, cupped her cheek in his rough palm. "Sari, love, it doesn't matter. Michael doesn't matter to me anymore—"

"He killed your father, Conor. How can he not matter?"

She saw the truth of her question in the way he closed his eyes, the slight catch in his breath. And she thought of the price of loving him. Thought of Michael huddled in the bed in her uncle's soddy, his face flushed with fever, and knew that if he came to her again like that, she would not turn him away.

"Tell me something," she said slowly. "If I say no, if I tell you I can't love you, will my brother's life be in danger?"

"Sari—"

"Just tell me." Her chest felt so tight and swollen, she couldn't breathe. "Tell me."

She felt the nearly imperceptible tightening of his hand against her face, heard him swallow.

"It's as you say," he said carefully—too carefully. "He killed my father."

"And you can't forgive him that."

He dropped his hand. "No," he said. "God, no, I can't forgive it. But I'll try to forget it, Sari. I'll... I'll put it behind me—"

"It will never be behind you, Conor," she said sadly. "You'll think of it all the time. Until you've reconciled it in your own soul, you'll never be at peace with it." She looked away, into the swirling, dark snow. "And that will always be between us."

His hold tightened—so hard, she felt his fingers press into the soft skin of her arm. "Sari, please. Try to understand. I'm trying the best I can. But Michael's a murderer, for Christ's sake—"

"He's my brother," she said. She pulled back from him, gently, sadly. And then she walked away.

T
he ride back to the farm was quiet, the squeak of the wheels and the clip-clop of the horses punctuated the silence. Several families had asked them to stay on in town, but Sari had refused. She didn't want the soft companionship of friends, the too-intimate comfort. She was nervous and tense. All she could think about was Michael and his promise. All she could think about was Conor.

She stole a look at him, sitting stern and silent beside her. She felt his tension hovering in the air between them. Where his sleeve brushed her, his arm was solid and strained; there was a chill in the set of his jaw and a distance in his expression that brought regret and sadness settling into her heart.

He hadn't searched her out again. When she left him, she'd gone back inside, found Miriam, and tried to lose herself in her friend's excited chatter. But she watched for him. It was a long time before he came back inside, and—except for one quick glance to locate her in the crowd—he didn't look her way again. When the dance ended, he was waiting by the wagon, his eyes burning in the dim light from the lamp resting on the snow. He had not said a word to her, merely helped her into the wagon and climbed aboard himself, and in the long ride since he had not uttered a single syllable, not even when Charles asked him if he'd enjoyed the dance. He'd nodded, a short, terse nod, and his unspoken words fell into an uncomfortable silence.

When they reached the farm, it was past midnight. The shadows of the house rose out of the darkness of the prairie—a darker black against the black. There were no lights anywhere that she could see, no sign of life, and Sari breathed a sigh of relief. Michael must be gone. She waited until Conor left them off at the door and took the horses and wagon to the barn, and then she turned to her uncle.

"I hope to God he's gone," she said.

Charles's face grew thoughtful. "
Ja
." he said slowly. His eyes followed Conor to the barn. Together they watched as he climbed down and opened the barn doors. "Did you and Conor fight,
Liebling
? He seems sad tonight."

Sari turned away. "It's nothing," she said, though the words formed a lump of regret in her throat. "I'll go see if Michael's left."

She left her uncle standing by the soddy door, heard his murmur of protest die in the dry ice of the air. She hurried around the corner to the smaller soddy, clutching the loosened tails of her scarf to her mouth as an endless prayer ran in her head.
Please let him be gone. Please let him be gone.

The soddy door was slightly ajar. Beyond it she saw nothing but darkness. Sari closed her eyes briefly, feeling a rush of relief so strong, it nearly made her faint. She pushed the door open wider. "Michael?" she asked. "Michael?"

There was no answer. She stepped inside. It was so dark, she could see nothing; not even shadows. But she heard nothing either. No harsh breathing, no talk, no movement.

"Michael?" she said again. The name thudded into the darkness.

He was gone.

"Thank God," she whispered.

"Ah, now. You'll hurt my feelin's, talking like that."

Sari froze. She whipped around, nearly falling into her brother's chest. "Michael! You're supposed to be gone. Damn you, you promised to be gone."

"And I'm going, lass," he assured her. "You just came back a little sooner than I expected. Timmy and Sean just got here."

She looked past him. She saw them in the dim moonlight, in the shadows they left on the snow. Two men leading three horses, standing warily near the soddy.

"Get out of here," she said. "Conor's in the barn—"

"We saw him." Michael said tersely. His jaw tightened. "That bastard—"

"You promised to leave." Sari pushed at him. "Now, go. Please."

He nodded. Then, surprisingly, he leaned close. Close enough that she felt the coarse wiriness of his beard against her temple. "I'm ..." He cleared his throat as if it embarrassed him to speak. "I'm going," he said. "But not without telling you something, lass. Timmy and Sean—they're saying the word's come down. They got a telegram in Denver. Roarke's after me, and the other sleepers— Timmy and Sean and the others—they want you. I've warned 'em off, but it'd be best if you picked up a gun and learned to use it."

She worked to keep her expression even. The shadows of the other two men shifted in the darkness. "I know how to use a gun," she said quietly.

"Good." He took a deep breath and backed away. "I'll do what I can, Sari. I love you, darlin'. I won't see you dead."

She nodded. It felt as if the blood had left her fingers, drained from her face. "I know you'll try."

"Yeah. I'll try."

She felt his kiss on the top of her head, the warmth of his lips pressed against her hair. Then he turned and motioned to the men waiting for him. They started toward him, their footsteps and their horses' hooves sounding too loud in the night. She glanced toward the barn. There was no movement there.

Michael walked across the snow to the others. She heard his quiet laugh, heard his whispered "Let's go then, laddies," as loudly as if he stood right beside her. Sound carried so well on the plains, and the wind ... the wind seemed to bring the meanness of Timmy's stare right to her; the evilness of it raised gooseflesh on her arms.

"Get out of here," she whispered. "Ride away."

And then she heard it. The quiet cocking of a gun that echoed in the keening of the wind. And she felt him behind her, felt his fingers as he grabbed hold of her arm, holding her in place. He stepped up beside her.

"Well met, Michael Doyle." His voice took on the false Irish brogue he'd had in Tamaqua, the voice he'd worn as Jamie O'Brien. The barrel of his gun aimed steadily at her brother. "It's been a long time. Too long. Care to chat awhile?"

C
onor felt Sari stiffen beside him. He tightened his fingers on her arm, not caring if he hurt her, not caring about anything except for the fact that she'd lied to him. She'd lied to him about her brother, and he'd been foolish enough to believe her. The thought made him crazy.

He tightened his finger on the trigger of the Colt and waited for Doyle to turn around, and when the man did, Conor felt a jolt of hatred so intense, his hand shook on the hilt of his gun.

"Well, well," Michael said slowly. His voice was rough and lazy and completely unsurprised. "So glad you could join us, Roarke. Have you come to join my little sister in saying good-bye?"

"You and I have some unfinished business."

"Aye, that we do," Michael said. "And we will talk." He motioned the others forward.

Conor recognized Timmy Boyd and Sean O'Mallory. He released his hold on Sari's arm, gave her a little push. "Go inside," he said roughly.

She turned to him. He was gratified to see fear in her eyes, and something else—regret, maybe. "Conor," she said in a low, urgent voice. "Conor, there's something you don't understand—"

"Undoubtedly that's true," he said. "Now, get inside."

She looked desperately at her brother. "Michael—"

"Do as the man says, lass," Michael said. "It's not safe for you out here."

"I'm not going anywhere." She crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin—Sari's signs of battle. Then she stepped away from him, from her brother, until her back was against the wall of her uncle's soddy. "The two of you can say what you have to, but I'm not leaving."