Megan Chance (32 page)

He'd wondered for a long time if he was capable of love. He was too used to lies and betrayal, to not trusting what he saw or what he felt. Love was a fickle emotion; easily changeable, easily damaged by even a single lie. Or at least it was proving to be that way for him. He knew some couples, some people, whose love for each other seemed solid as the earth itself, still holding together through even the worst of tragedies, through white lies and blacker ones. He had always envied them, had always hoped to find that for himself. Unconditional love.

He laughed softly to himself. Was there even such a thing?

Not for him, he decided. Sari's face floated before him, her dark hair, her shining eyes, and pain gripped his heart so hard, he could scarcely breathe. But then he thought of Michael, standing there, laughing, and the pain faded away.

No, it wasn't love. Just infatuation. Just an illusion brought on by the cold Colorado prairies and the warmth he'd glimpsed in that little town's heart.

He told himself he felt relief at the thought.

But all he really felt was empty.

C
onor walked slowly, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, head buried against the stinking, icy wind. The loud voices of men coming from the clubs and restaurants he passed blended with the din of barking dogs and the rattling suck of carriages speeding down the muddy streets, splashing muck and sewage.

He ignored it all, barely looking up, uninterested in the rubble of razed buildings or the shadows lurking in corners untouched by the soft yellow glow of gaslights. Once, the noise and commotion of Denver would have soothed him. It was familiar to him, the way towns were always familiar. They all held the same restaurants and saloons and whorehouses. They all held the same comforting press of strangers—people who cared nothing for you. People easy to get lost among.

But tonight... tonight Conor found himself wishing for the quiet of the prairie, the whistling wind that wasn't littered with the sound of dogs barking and horsecarts clattering. The cold darkness that allowed a man to really see the stars.

The thought surprised him, and Conor frowned and forced himself to concentrate on the bright lights of the gambling hells on Blake Street. The building he was looking for was just ahead. The sprawling, ungainly club took up most of a block, the sign that hung from its arched stone doorways had a crude elephant drawn on it, with the word
Corral
below. The Elephant Corral was one of Denver's most famous gambling dens. No doubt Devlin had placed the meeting there knowing that the two of them would be unobtrusive in its crowds.

Quickly Conor went inside. Noise and smoke assailed him immediately, making his head ache. He pushed past tables of men playing faro until he saw Devlin seated at a small table in a corner. Purposefully Conor strode toward him.

"Roarke." Peter Devlin nodded his graying head in greeting as Conor took a seat. "Care for a drink?"

"Not really," Conor said. He glanced away from the agent's shrewd green gaze, eyeing the exits.

"I appreciate the fact that you decided to come." Devlin snorted. He took a sip of his drink, his bloodshot eyes focusing on Conor. "No one had heard from you."

"I'm on sabbatical," Conor said.

Devlin smiled tightly. "You've been part of the agency too long. William asked us to ... keep an eye on you. He was worried."

"Everything's fine."

"Is it?" Devlin's bushy brows rose. He leaned forward. "We knew you were in Colorado. We've had our men tracking Doyle since he showed up in Saint Louis. William thought there might be trouble."

"Don't worry about it," Conor said brusquely. "The agency needn't get its hands dirty."

"Look, Roarke. You and I have our differences, but I've always admired the way you work. This is a filthy business all around. Don't let yourself get mired in it, for Christ's sake. Doyle belongs in prison. Let us find a way to put him there. This vengeance ..." Devlin laughed harshly. "Well, we're not a bunch of ignorant immigrants, if you know what I mean."

"Careful, Devlin. Your narrow-mindedness is showing."

Devlin flushed. "You know what I mean. We're sworn to uphold justice. Leave things to us. Go on and court your pretty little Irish lass, and—"

"Leave Sari out of this."

"All right. All right." Devlin raised his palms in surrender. He sat back in exasperation. "Well, I tried anyway."

"You can tell William you did a fine job," Conor said. He started to rise. "Now, if you'll—"

"Sit down, Roarke," Devlin said quietly. "I told you. Doyle's been seen in Denver...."

"I saw him. He's with Timmy Boyd and Sean O'Mallory," Conor said shortly.

"You've seen them?"

"In Woodrow."

"Christ." Devlin's hand curled around his drink.

He took two quick gulps, draining it. "Damn it. We're too late."

"Too late?" Conor frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You should have telegraphed me, Roarke," Devlin said. "You should have told me you saw them before you came here."

"What difference does it make?"

"A lot of difference." Devlin licked his lips. "A hell of a lot of difference. Jesus, Roarke ... I got a telegram from William yesterday. There was a message that went out from Timmy Boyd two days ago, back to Tamaqua."

Conor's chest tightened. Dread settled in his mouth like lead. "To Tamaqua?"

Devlin nodded shortly. "It was short. All it said was:
We'll take care of it
.”

"Take care of what?"

"We think it was a response to the telegram sent out to them about a week ago." Devlin took a deep breath, and in his eyes was a sympathy Conor had never expected to see. "They followed you from Chicago, Conor. They followed you to Sari Travers. She's been blackmarked."

Conor felt the blood drain from his face. Blackmarked. It was what he'd told Sari all those days ago, when he'd first needed a reason to stay on the farm. But it had been a lie, a fiction he'd created to frighten her. In the light of it, Michael's words from the other night took on a frightening meaning.
"And he wants her, Roarke. He wants her dead. ..."

It was no longer the simple anger of one man, or the hatred of another. It was orders for assassination.

"Christ." Conor got to his feet. "I'm going back," he said shortly. He leaned over the table, so close to Devlin that the man sat back in his chair. "Wire William. Tell him to send someone else out here. Tonight. I want help, goddammit, and it'd better come quick."

"Conor—"

"Just do it." Conor waited for Devlin's nod, and then he turned on his heel, pushing out through the crowd and back into the littered, stinking streets of Denver. Sari was in danger. He should have known it, should have realized there was a reason for Michael and the others to be in Colorado. He should have put it together; why the hell hadn't he put it together?

He knew the answer almost the moment he asked the question. He hadn't put it together because he'd been so torn apart by Sari's lack of trust in him that he hadn't looked beyond it. That lack of trust had wounded him simply because it was so well deserved. She had lied to him about Michael, but he had lied to her first. In Tamaqua he'd lied for two years. Two years of going to her bed and making love to her and pretending to be someone he was not. Two years of loving her without intending to stay. No wonder she hadn't trusted him.

The realization flooded him, chilling him. He had never been anything more than a liar and a cheat. And Pinkerton had put those skills to good use.
The end justifies the means
. He'd believed the words once. But now ... now he thought of a woman with melting brown eyes, and he was no longer so certain. No longer certain of anything.

Except that he could not let her die.

Beyond him he heard the train whistle. Conor set off at a dead run.

S
ari lifted the pail of milk, feeling the strain in her arms and her back as she walked from the barn into the cold morning air. She glanced up at the heavy clouds forming overhead. There would be more snow tonight. More snow to gather in an icy layer on the ground, more snow to trudge through tomorrow and the next day. The thought made her tired. But then everything today made her tired. She hadn't slept well last night; she'd been awake when dawn started over the horizon, awake to hear the rattle of harness and the lone hoofbeats crunching over the prairie. Conor, riding away from here. Away from her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing away tears. She didn't know whom to blame for that, herself or Conor. She should have told him the truth last night, as he'd done. She should have trusted him. But then again she wondered if it would have made any difference, if his leaving was simply inevitable.

Conor had asked her during the blizzard what she planned, whether she wanted a family, whether she wanted children. She would have been lying if she'd said no. It was what she wanted. A husband who loved her, children playing in the yard—the sound of their voices blending with the chirp of crickets and the stomping of corralled cattle. She could see it so clearly in her mind; she could almost smell the coffee on the stove and hear the giggles of children trying to sleep, the soft rasp of her husband's voice warning them to be quiet.

Conor's voice.

But the things she wanted were not things Conor could give her, and he wasn't worth her tears. Love meant nothing to him. She didn't think he even knew what the word really meant. For him it was an emotion easily roused, as equally dismissed when it no longer served his purposes. He'd said he loved her, but she'd seen his eyes last night, and she knew the truth. He would never trust anyone enough to love them.

She felt sorry for him, but mostly she was sorry for herself. Because she loved him, and it hurt that he hadn't trusted her—and that she hadn't had the strength to trust him in return.

Across the field she saw her uncle. He walked slowly, his hand pressed to his back, and Sari felt a flash of anger that Conor wasn't here to help him anymore. Charles was long past the age where he should be working so hard. He'd already spent his youth and his strength toiling in Pennsylvania, and without the help of a younger, stronger man she feared her uncle would never be able to break this hard, unforgiving sod.

Quickly, she hurried to him, splashing the warm milk against her skirt, where it turned cold instantly. He met her halfway across the yard.

"Are you all right?" she breathed, reaching him.

Charles smiled slightly and nodded, “
Ja, Nichte
, do not worry so."

"I can't help but worry." She took his arm. "Come inside. Let me fix you a poultice. There's no need to work any more today."

He pulled away gently. "There is always need to work,
Liebling
. Look at those clouds. I cannot finish the fencing in the snow."

"Maybe we should hire someone to help you, then."

"We cannot afford hired help."

"Perhaps John Graham—"

"Ah, Sarilyn, the man has his own work to do." Charles patted her arm reassuringly. "I am fine, I promise you. But I could use some dinner. It is growing late."

Sari colored. "I'm sorry. I—I haven't been myself today."

"So I see." Charles smiled.

"It's just that—"

"Roarke is gone," he said. Her uncle sighed. "I had hoped things would end differently. I have not been to a wedding in some time."

The words made her sad. "There won't be a wedding,
Onkle
," she said gently.

He nodded. "I know." He took her arm, and together they started back to the soddy. "But he will regret this,
Liebling,
I promise you that. It takes more effort to fight what a man really wants. Roarke does not yet understand how much he loves you, but he will. He will."

"That's small comfort."

Charles chuckled. "
Ja
, it is that. But for now we have each other."

Sari smiled, though her heart was heavy. "Yes, we have that."

They were nearly to the soddy when she heard the sound of hoofbeats. For a moment her heart jumped. For a moment she thought maybe it was Conor. But when she turned around, she saw three horses making their way over the prairie, and the disappointment that crashed over her nearly made her sag against the house.

"Who could that be?" Charles asked, turning around. "You were expecting someone?"

"No." Sari shook her head. She set down the pail of milk and started toward the horses. She had only taken a few steps when she recognized them. Timmy Doyle and Sean O'Mallory. And behind them was her brother.

Sari froze. "You'd best go inside,
Onkle
," she said.

He came up beside her, peering into the distance. "Who is it?"

"Michael."

Her uncle's expression hardened. "I thought you told him to go."

"I did."

The horses were in the yard now. The riders reined them to a stop and dismounted, and Sari caught the look on her brother's face. Too serious, too strained. The promise he'd made to Conor last night came rushing back to her.
"We'll meet again, you and I. And then we'll finish it."

She knew by Michael's expression that the time was now.

"Hello, lassie," he said, and though his tone was friendly enough, he didn't look at her. His eyes roamed the yard, stared at the barn as if he could see through the walls. "Hello,
Onkle
."

Charles spat. "Not your
Onkle
," he said. "You ceased being
mein Neffe
many years ago."

Michael laughed. "Still don't like me, do you, old man?"

She hated that laugh of his. That cold, nasty laugh. Sari touched her uncle's arm, murmuring a warning. "Don't cross him. Not today."

Her uncle pulled away, ignoring her. "You are no longer part of this family," he said, straightening proudly. "Sari has told you that. I have told you. We have come a long way to be free of your kind. You are not welcome here. You will please leave."

Sean O'Mallory came forward, a smile on his ruddy face. " 'You will please leave,' " he mocked. "Aye, we'll leave, old man. Once you tell us where Roarke is."