He couldn't do it. The coin was a sixpence—not enough to buy even one of the gold buttons on the landlord's coat, but enough to feed Conor's family for a week. Survival was more important than pride, and Conor knew he'd been a fool. He thought he'd won, but he had not. There was no way to win.
His fist curled tightly around the precious coin. He offered no thanks. He said no prayers. He did not bless the Englishman for his generosity. He simply walked away without a word. In his mind, he saw his burning home, and in his heart, he damned the man to hell.
5
Prison, Olivia felt sick. She had a criminal staying right here in her house, sleeping under her roof. She closed the door behind her, but she couldn't close her thoughts to the man on the other side. What on earth had she been thinking, plucking a stranger out of the road and bringing him home as if he were harmless as a stray puppy?
Prison. Why? What had he done? Robbery? Murder? She shivered, remembering the cold, defiant blue eyes that had challenged her with that one word. A dangerous man, with eyes that told her he was capable of anything.
I got exactly what I deserved.
Olivia turned away from the door. She walked down the hall and headed for the kitchen, trying to banish her apprehension. Right now, the man couldn't even stand up. Whatever he'd done, he wasn't in any condition to do it now, and by the time he was, she'd make certain he was far away from here.
When she entered the kitchen, Becky was there. She took one look at Olivia's face and walked to her side. "What's wrong, Mama?"
Olivia came out of her reverie with a start. "Nothing," she answered and took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. "Where are the girls?"
"Miranda's in the parlor, playing with her dolls. Chester's with her, of course. Carrie wanted to go see Mr. Branigan, but when I told her she couldn't, she took a book and went down to the orchard in a huff."
She gestured to a tray on the counter and the teapot that rested beside it. "I was just going to take Mr. Branigan some tea and something to eat." She smiled. "He said he wanted real tea, not that awful green stuff."
Olivia did not return her daughter's smile. "Thank you, honey, but I'll take him his meals. I don't want you going in there."
"But why not?"
She looked into Becky's innocent face and could find no way to explain her fear. "I just don't want you around him. Why don't you set the table for dinner? I'll go find Carrie."
"But it's noon. Shouldn't we take Mr. Branigan something to eat?"
"I'll do that when I get back," Olivia answered, and walked out the back door. She walked down the path to the orchard in search of Carrie, but her thoughts were not on her daughter.
She wanted him gone. When she'd found him in the road, she'd been certain God had answered her prayer—sent her someone to help with the harvest, someone who might stick around long enough to repair a few fences or fix her roof, someone strong, steady, and reliable. Instead, He'd sent her Conor Branigan: prizefighter, gambler, sinner. Criminal.
In the lane leading down to the orchard, she stopped and leaned against a huge oak tree. "Why?" she asked aloud. "Why have You sent this man to me?"
She usually found comfort in speaking to God this way. Some people may have thought it odd, even presumptuous, to talk to God as if He were a friend, but Olivia had never thought of God as a gray-bearded wise man floating on a heavenly cloud. She'd always imagined God to be much closer than that.
But He didn't seem close now. Her question hung in the air, unanswered, and Olivia sank down to the soft earth beneath the tree, afraid and bereft.
Even as she wondered what she was going to do with him, Olivia knew there was nothing she could do. The man was seriously injured. Regardless of who he was or what he had done, she couldn't just dump him back in the road.
In her mind, she could still see the scars that marked him. She could not even begin to imagine how or why, but it didn't take imagination to know he was a man who had endured great pain, both of body and spirit. Dear God, what had happened to him in prison?
Olivia wondered why she should care. He was a criminal. He thought prayers were a waste of breath and gambling was something to be proud of. He probably drank, too.
I got exactly what I deserved.
"Why?" she asked again with a touch of desperation. "The man's been in prison. Why did You send him to me?"
It was not God who answered.
"Mr. Conor's been in prison?"
Olivia looked up and found Carrie staring down at her from between the branches of the tree. She should have known. Carrie had a knack for being where she wasn't supposed to be and hearing what she wasn't supposed to hear. "Carrie, for heaven's sake!" she cried. "What are you doing up there?"
Carrie held up the book in her hand as an explanation, but she refused to be diverted from the fascinating news. "Mr. Conor was in prison?" she asked again. "How come?"
Olivia didn't like her daughter's fascination with their dangerous guest. Nor did she like the fact that Carrie climbed trees. "I don't want to talk about it. Please come down from there."
Carrie pulled off her reading spectacles and put them in the pocket of her dress. She then tucked her book under one arm and climbed down from the tree, moving with the agility of long practice. Olivia stood up and watched nervously, but she knew Carrie wasn't nervous. Unlike her mother, the child wasn't afraid of heights. Her blue calico dress went flying up as she jumped to the ground, revealing her white cotton drawers.
Olivia drew a deep breath of relief. "Carrie, if you're going to climb trees, try not to show your drawers," she scolded. "It isn't ladylike."
"I'm not a lady, I'm a little girl," Carrie answered smugly, and brushed bits of bark from the backside of her skirt. "What'd he do?"
"I don't know, and I don't care." Olivia took her daughter's hand in hers, and they started back to the house. "I want you to stay away from him."
"You don't like Mr. Conor, do you. Mama?"
"No."
"Why not? Because he was in prison?"
Because he has the coldest eyes I've ever seen. "Yes."
"But you don't know why he was in prison. Maybe he didn't do anything wrong. Maybe it was all a mistake."
"You're so young," Olivia murmured.
Carrie didn't understand that comment, but it didn't matter. "Maybe he's like that man in the book you read to us. Remember? Edmond Dantes. He got put in prison, and he didn't do anything wrong. He—"
"Carrie, that will be enough!" Olivia said sharply, her patience at an end. She stopped walking. Turning to the child, she said, "That was just a story. In real life, men who have been in prison are not nice men."
"But Mama, you're always saying a good Christian doesn't judge," Carrie replied. "A good Christian always tries to find the good in others."
Olivia didn't like her own lectures thrown back in her face, especially by her nine-year-old daughter. "It's not that simple."
"Why not?" Carrie looked up at her. "Aren't we good Christians, Mama?"
Olivia looked into her daughter's eyes and sighed, not fooled by the deceptive innocence in their depths. Sometimes, Carrie was just too clever for her peace of mind.
Carrie, of course, wasted no time in announcing the news to her sisters the moment she walked into the house, and Olivia found herself inundated with their questions and comments. Was she going to let him stay? Was he really a bad man? Maybe he was a train robber. Did he know Jesse James? Did they let him out of prison, or did he escape? Maybe he was wanted.
Olivia put a halt to their speculations. "He's going to stay until his ribs are healed, then he'll be on his way. Until then, I want all of you to stay away from him." With that, she dished out soup and bread to them, and when they were finished eating, she sent them out to weed the garden.
Olivia dumped out the now cold tea Becky had made and set the kettle of water on the stove to make a fresh pot. Conor Branigan continued to invade her thoughts as she waited for the water to boil, his mo
cking voice and bitter words reminding her that he was not what she'd prayed for.
Carrie was so fascinated by him, and that disturbed her greatly. He wouldn't be in any condition to leave for at least six weeks. She couldn't keep the girls away from him for that long, especially Carrie.
Olivia looked up. Through the window, she could see the girls in the garden. Becky was doing exactly what she'd been asked to do, industriously pulling weeds. She was such a good girl, she tried so hard to help.
Olivia could see Miranda's head over the tops of the tomatoes. She was staring at one of the plants, probably watching some grasshopper devour the crop. She couldn't have killed it—she got upset watching Olivia swat a fly.
As for Carrie . . . Olivia watched her picking strawberries, eating about half of them as she went. She'd try to deny it later—with red juice all over her face. Olivia smiled. Carrie really was the most precocious child.
Aren't we good Christians, Mama?
Her smile faded. She'd always tried to be. She'd always believed herself to be charitable and fair- minded. But now, when her lofty principles were put to the test, she found that it wasn't so easy.
The kettle whistled, and Olivia turned away from the window. Carrie was right. She should find out the whole truth before she started making judgments. She ladled out a bowl of soup and poured a cup of tea, then set both on the tray along with a slab of corn bread, and took the tray to his room.
She found him sleeping peacefully when she entered his room, undisturbed by nightmares. She moved toward him, uncertain how to proceed. Now that she'd decided to confront him, she was loathe to postpone it.
She set the tray on the table and hesitated by the bed, studying him. His cuts were healing and his bruises were fading. He needed a shave, she realized, noting the black shadow across his jaw. It made him look even more disreputable, and yet, sleeping quietly like this, he didn't seem like a criminal. He seemed like a tired man who had traveled far and suffered much and had finally found a place to rest. Suddenly, she wished he could have been the kind of man she needed.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why were you in prison?"
Almost as if he'd heard, his eyes opened, and he saw her standing there.
Flustered, she took a quick step back and gestured to the tray. "I've brought you something to eat."
"If it's that foul green tay you've brought me, take it back," he murmured, his voice sleepy and definitely sulky. "I'll not have it. If you had a bit of whiskey, now, that would be different."
Whiskey. She was right. He drank, too.
"This isn't a hotel, Mr. Branigan," she reminded him tartly as she fetched a pillow from the armoire in the corner. "You take what you get around here. And you'll find no spirits in this house."
"That doesn't surprise me. And you don't have to call me Mr. Branigan, you know. I have a first name."
Olivia had no intention of using it. She came back to the bed. "Can you sit up?"
He did. He gritted his teeth and sweat broke out on his forehead as he pushed himself to a sitting position. She shoved the pillow behind him.
She reached for the cup and pressed it to his lips. "Drink it slow," she ordered. "No sense having it come right back up again."
He flashed her a rebellious glance over the cup, not liking the reminder of yesterday. But he obeyed her, sipping slowly until the tea was gone.
She set aside the cup. Then she picked up the tray and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed to feed him the soup.
Conor hated this. He watched her dip the spoon into the bowl, her other hand cupped beneath it to catch any dribbles as she brought it to his lips. He hated being fed as if he were a helpless baby, but he knew he was too weak even to grab the spoon from her hand. He swallowed the soup, feeling his body respond to the nourishment even as his mind rebelled against his own weakness.
As she continued to spoon soup into his mouth, a long-buried memory suddenly surfaced, and he was back in Derry. He was a boy again, and the Quaker lady from the Religious Society of Friends was feeding him Soyer's Soup, that watery, meatless concoction declared by the British government to be adequate for the starving masses. She'd had brown eyes, too, he remembered, eyes that apologized for the lack of real food, eyes soft with compassion. Pity.
He fought back, struggling against the memory, trying to send Soyer's Soup and that scared, hungry lad back to the past where they belonged.
"I think you and I should have a little talk."
If Olivia had suddenly drenched him with a bucket of water, she couldn't have pulled him out of the past more effectively. Conor eased his aching body back down to a prone position and donned his armor of pretended indifference. "Weather's fine today. A bit hot, I'm thinking, but not too bad."
She set the spoon in the empty bowl and studied him thoughtfully. He knew she was trying to read what was beneath the surface.
"Why were you in prison?" she asked. "What did you do?"
But Conor was very good at hiding what he didn't want people to see. He'd been doing it for so long that sometimes he could even fool himself. He smiled at her. "None of your bloody business," he said politely.
"You're in my house, Mr. Branigan, and that makes it my business."
"Not for long. The minute I'm able to walk out of here, I will."
That did not seem to appease her. She glared at him. "That's at least six weeks away. Until then, you're in my house and in my care. I think I have the right to know what sort of man I've got under my roof."
She'd taken him into her home. She'd nursed him and fed him, and he ought to be grateful. Guilt assailed him and he took refuge. "What do you want me to say—that I was wrongly imprisoned, that I was an innocent man, that I am lily-white and pure?" His voice mocked her, mocked himself.
"Tell me the truth."
He almost laughed. Was she really so naive? He opened his mouth to give her a lie, a lie plausible enough to end her damnable probing into his dark, shadowed corners. The truth wouldn't satisfy her anyway.
"I have three children," she said.
Conor knew a sucker punch when he got one. The lie died on his lips.
Those brown eyes regarded him without blinking, as the eyes of a wild doe might watch a hunter approach, wise and wary, with a hint of fear. Oddly, that bothered him. He'd told her about prison because he'd wanted to shock her, to shatter her self-righteous indignation. He had succeeded, it seemed. She was afraid of him, afraid for her children. "Christ," he muttered.
He looked away, feeling unexpectedly awkward. Staring at the cracks in the white plaster ceiling, he told her part of the truth, the unimportant part. "I was arrested for attempted robbery and treason against the British Crown. I was convicted of the attempted robbery, but not the treason, and I spent fourteen months in a Dublin prison, then I was granted amnesty and released. I'm not going to steal your silver or murder you in your bed, Mrs. Maitland."
He didn't expect that simple statement to satisfy her. He steeled himself for more questions, questions he had no intention of answering.
But she didn't ask them. She rose to her feet and said, "Thank you for telling me. You're welcome to stay until your injuries have healed. However, I'd appreciate it if you would refrain from swearing."
With the tray in her hands, she walked toward the door, but paused in the center of the room to glance at him over one shoulder. "By the way," she added, "ifs Miss Maitland. I'm not married. Never have been."
With that unexpected pronouncement, she turned and walked away.
Vernon was in his office at the sawmill when }immy Johnson brought him the telegram. He tossed the boy a picayune for his trouble, and Jimmy caught the five-cent piece in his hand. "Thanks, Mr. Tyler."
The boy pocketed the coin, then left, whistling, as Vernon unfolded the telegram. He read the short missive, crumpled it in his fist, and shoved it into his pocket. Rising to his feet, he crossed the room and opened the door. Over the roar of saws, he shouted, "Joshua! Get your b
utt in here."
Vernon resumed his seat behind his desk just as his foreman entered his office. "What is it?" Joshua Harlan asked as he shut the door behind him.
"I just got a telegram from New York. My father-in- law wants an immediate report on the situation."
"What do you suppose that means?"
"His investors are probably getting antsy about the railroad, is all. Hell, none of us thought Olivia would be so damned stubborn about this."
"You're sure there's no way to go around her place?"
Vernon yanked open a drawer and retrieved a surveyor's map. He slapped it down on the desk. "If you can find a way to lay track around Peachtree without going straight through Choudrant Bayou or dynamiting through the mountains, would you kindly tell me what the hell it is?"
Joshua didn't bother to look at the map. "Sorry," he muttered, sinking into a chair. "Stupid question."
Vernon jabbed one finger at a point on the map. "Any way you look at it, Peachtree is smack-dab in the way. Olivia's got to sell that land."
"She's already told you flat-out she won't sell. What do we do now?"
Vernon reached into the box on his desk and pulled out a cigar, but he didn't light it. He drummed it against the desk top, thinking of all the work he'd done during the past four years, all the money he had spent, and all the plans he had made. They had to get that railroad built.
When he'd married Alicia Jamison in '63, he'd promised her daddy they could make millions down South after the war. He'd known even then the Confederacy was doomed and there would be plenty of opportunities. He'd come back to his hometown in '67 just the way he'd always known he would, as a wealthy businessman. He'd used Hiram Jamison's money to buy every piece of land and every business that he could get his hands on, taking advantage of the hard times and low land prices. Now, he controlled the lives of the same peo- pie who had once looked down their noses at him. Not a day went by that he didn't savor the satisfaction of that.
But Vernon had bigger ambitions. He and Hiram had purchased all the land for a very good reason. They were going to build their own railroad, with track running all the way from Monroe to Shreveport. Surveyors and engineers had already told him that for geological reasons it wasn't possible to bring the railroad through Callersville, but Vernon didn't care. He planned to build a whole new town. He already had the site picked out, six miles to the north, right at the edge of Olivia Maitland's peach orchard, and right on his proposed railroad line. The only thing that stood in his way was Olivia's stubbornness. Damnation. She could ruin everything.
Conor's Way Page 5
