Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  "I can't," Carrie whispered back. "My foot's asleep."

  Olivia sighed. Giving up, she turned her attention back to the sermon, but the reverend went on talking about Eve and the serpent in one long, unbroken sen­tence, and she soon found her mind wandering to something much more interesting and much less pious than the sermon.

  Conor Branigan. She could see him as clearly as if he were sitting before her now, handsome as the devil, stubborn as a mule. She could see the exhaustion in his face and the determination in his eyes as he'd tried to shave. She could hear the low, almost seductive pitch of his Irish voice and smell the clean, pungent fragrance of shaving soap. She could still feel the heat of his skin against her fingers.

  For heaven's sake, she was in church. Olivia felt her­self blushing with shame as she remembered that fact, and she quickly lowered her head, hoping no one was watching her. He must be the devil, to make her think such things, especially in church. She closed her eyes, but instantly she pictured him again, leaning against the bed­post, and she quickly opened her eyes. She glanced around, desperate for something to occupy her attention.

  To her left, Miranda was asleep, her head resting against Becky's shoulder. Becky was listening to the ser­mon, or at least trying very hard to do so. Jeremiah Miller sat beside her, as he always did.

  Olivia glanced to her right and noticed that Carrie was still fidgeting, tapping her feet together.

  Across the aisle, Jimmy Johnson and Bobby McCann were playing the rock and scissors game, much to the chagrin of Bobby's mother. They were obviously no more interested in the sermon than she was. Jimmy's mother was absent, of course, confined by pregnancy to her home and garden, a custom Olivia privately thought was rather silly. Since the Lord had designed women to have babies, she doubted a pregnant woman in church would have offended Him much.

  Olivia watched the two boys, and she supposed the rock and scissors game was better than saltwater taffy in the pews. They wouldn't dare, not with the Chubb sisters right in front of them.

  The Chubb sisters were the moral backbone of

  Callersville, spinster ladies who knew the proper eti­quette for every situation, who still believed that unmarried women under thirty-five never went about unchaperoned, and who staunchly refused to acknowl­edge that the war had ended their way of life.

  Olivia knew she didn't rate very high in their estima­tion. She went about unchaperoned all the time. They had strongly advised her against adopting the Taylor girls, as she was an unmarried woman and such a course of action would not be proper. Olivia had ignored their advice, and had endured their looks of censure and sighs of disappointment ever since.

  She had shamelessly advertised for an overseer, a breach of propriety that had been the talk of quilting parties for weeks. Ladies, Martha Chubb had informed her, did not advertise for farmhands. Of course not, Olivia thought acidly. Ladies wore gloves to protect their white hands, and ate tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and never bothered about how the fences got fixed or the crops got harvested. "What would your mother say about this, Olivia?" was their favorite phrase, a phrase that always made her squirm.

  She looked at the Chubb sisters, thought of Conor Branigan, and shifted guiltily in her seat. Not wanting to think about it, she turned her gaze toward the front of the church. Vernon Tyler sat in his usual place, the very front pew, his Yankee wife beside him. Olivia forced herself not to grind her teeth. The hypocrite. Everybody knew he ran the cockfights out of an aban­doned barn down Longstraw way and the prizefights out of a tent in Jackson Field. He made a hefty profit on the betting, but a chunk of that money ended up in Reverend Allen's collection plate every Sunday, so there were very few sermons on the evils of gambling.

  She was a fine one to talk. She had a man staying in her house who made his living off gambling. A sinful occupation, prizefighting. His image flashed through her mind again, the flex and play of sculptured muscles in the morning sunlight. He was probably very good at it.

  People suddenly began standing up, and Olivia real­ized they were standing for the final hymn. Hastily, she got to her feet and opened her hymnal, holding it low enough for Carrie to see it, too.

  "Mama," Carrie whispered as people began to sing, "you're on the wrong page. It's hymn eighty-nine."

  Olivia turned to the proper page without replying. She sang along with the rest of the congregation, she bowed her head for the benediction, but all the while, the only thing she heard was Conor's voice murmuring, I don't suppose you'd care to help me get dressed, love?—and she knew why Eve had listened to the serpent.

  7

  After church, Olivia headed straight for the wagon, her girls in tow. She smiled and nodded to acquaintances as she passed, but didn't stop to chat with friends as she usually did. Flustered and embar­rassed, she felt people only had to look at her to know the shameful thoughts she'd had in church.

  "Olivia!"

  She halted, wincing at the sound of Martha Chubb's voice. Knowing she couldn't escape, she turned around, pasting a smile on her face. "Good morning, Martha." She nodded to the other woman. "Emily."

  "It's good to see you back in church, Olivia," Martha said. "Missed you last Sunday. We were a bit worried about you, dear. Everything all right at Peachtree?"

  Olivia stared at Martha Chubb, Callersville's great­est gossip, and the ramifications of having Conor Branigan in her home suddenly hit her. She had a man—a stranger, a prizefighter—staying in her house. It was one thing to advertise around town for a farm­hand to work her place—not approved of, but toler­ated. Farmhands lived in separate quarters. She couldn't very well make a man with cracked ribs sleep in the barn, but what would people say if they knew he was sleeping in her house?

  "Nothing to worry about," Olivia answered Martha's question, striving to sound casual as she invented a lie that might satisfy the other woman's curiosity. "Carrie was feeling a bit poorly, I'm afraid. Nothing serious—" "But, Mama," Carrie interrupted, looking up at her in confusion. "I'm not the one who's been sick. It's—"

  "Oh, there's Lila Miller!" Olivia interrupted before Carrie could say another word. "I need to speak with her. Come along girls." She gave the Chubb sisters a nod of farewell and ushered Carrie and Miranda toward the mercantile, where Lila had just gone inside. A glance over one shoulder told her Becky was following.

  "Mama, you lied," Carrie said in amazement as they crossed the dusty street. "You lied to the Chubb sisters."

  Olivia stepped onto the wooden sidewalk and came to a halt. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was within earshot, she leaned down. "We'll talk about it some other time," she said in a low voice. "Now, you girls mind me. Not a word about Mr. Conor to anyone. Understand?"

  They all heard the hard edge in her voice. "Yes, ma'am," they murmured in perfect harmony.

  "Good." She turned to her oldest daughter. "Becky, I've got to talk with Lila for a minute. I want you to take the girls to the wagon and wait for me there. And remember, not a word."

  Becky nodded and took the two other girls to the wagon. Olivia turned and walked in the opposite direc­tion. She paused at the open door of the mercantile and knocked on the jamb. Lila was behind the counter, her back to the door as she pushed a bolt of brightly col­ored calico into place on one of the shelves. She turned at the sound of the knock. "Afternoon, Olivia. You know the store's closed Sundays."

  "I know," Olivia replied as she walked to the counter, "but I saw you head over this way, and I was hoping you'd let me look at those new dress patterns you offered to show me the other day. I want to get some ideas."

  "Going to make yourself a new dress?" Lila asked, bending down to retrieve a wooden box from beneath the counter.

  "It's not for me," Olivia answered, sorting through the box of Butterick patterns until she found some appropriate for young girls. "I want to make Becky a dress for the harvest dance."

  Lila smiled with understanding. "That's right, she's fourteen now. She'll be needing a long d
ress." Her smile faded, and she sighed. "Of course, it's not any­thing like it was before the war, when we were debu­tantes." Realizing what she'd said, a contrite expression crossed her face. "Liv, I'm sorry."

  "Don't fret about it." Olivia stared down at the pat­tern in her hand, remembering the lavish balls of her girlhood, trying not to care how few of them she had attended, trying not to care that she'd never had a coming-out ball. "Besides, you're right. Things aren't like they used to be."

  Glancing up, her gaze scanned the bolts of fabric lin­ing the shelves. "Could I see that blue muslin up there?" She pointed to the shelf just above Lila's head, with no idea of where she'd get the money to buy the fabric.

  "It's a fine one," Lila said, pushing aside the patterns to unroll a length of fabric across the counter. "Very pretty."

  "Blue is Becky's favorite color," Olivia said, her fin­gers rubbing the sky-blue fabric wistfully. "She would look lovely in this."

  "If you're goin' to buy that, I hope you have the cash to pay for it."

  Olivia heard Vernon's voice, and she knew there would be no sky-blue muslin dress for Becky.

  She turned, shoulders square as she faced him. He was still an incredibly handsome man, whipcord lean with thick chestnut hair. She could recall how fine he'd sat a horse in the days when he'd been overseer at Peachtree. Many a time, she'd sat at her window, a painfully shy girl, withdrawn and plain, spinning secret romantic daydreams as she'd watched him ride through the orchards and cotton fields.

  But the handsomeness that had fired her romantic imagination as a girl no longer held any appeal. Olivia silently blessed her daddy for refusing to allow Vernon to court her so long ago, even though she knew that slight had wounded Vernon deeply and still hurt him to this day. "Good morning, Vernon."

  The man glanced past her as he stepped through the doorway and entered the store. "Lila, the store's closed today. You shouldn't be in here working. Why don't you go on back to the church and visit with your friends?"

  Lila didn't need to be told twice. Taking her cue, she started for the door, giving Olivia an apologetic glance as she passed.

  "And close the door behind you," he added.

  The bell over the door jangled as Lila departed.

  Vernon crossed the room to stop a few feet in front of Olivia. "Saw you come in here. I just thought I'd see if you might've reconsidered my offer."

  "No, Vernon. I haven't."

  He stepped closer. "Now, Olivia," he said in a smooth, persuasive voice, "you know Peachtree's too big for you to manage by yourself."

  "I don't know. I'm managing just fine," she lied.

  "Really? Finally found some man to run it for you?"

  She thought of Conor Branigan. "No," she admitted.

  "Well, now, that's a surprise, with the generous salary you're willing to pay. Three meals a day and room and board to boot." He laughed softly. "Why a man'd have to be out of his mind not to accept an offer like that."

  Olivia stepped back, hitting the counter behind her. She lifted her chin. "I'm not selling my land. Not to you or your Yankee friends."

  "Maybe you ought to reconsider. There'll come a time when you won't be able to pay your taxes, and I'll pick up Peachtree real cheap. I'll get that land sooner or later."

  Olivia knew he was probably right. All he had to do was wait for one bad year, one year when her peach crop failed. She wouldn't be able to pay the outrageous Yankee taxes, and Peachtree would be put up for auc­tion. But, until then, she was going to fight him tooth and nail. "Well, Vernon, I reckon it'll have to be later."

  "Be reasonable, Olivia. I've been more than fair. A dollar an acre is a right generous offer." He patted his breast pocket. "I've got a quitclaim deed and a bill of sale all written up. You'd just have to sign it."

  "How convenient," she murmured. "But I'm not signing anything."

  "Five hundred dollars is a lot of money. You could move into town, get yourself a nice little house, and still have enough left to buy them orphans of yours some decent clothes. You could have a much easier life, Olivia."

  "How nice for me. And what about the town? Nothing kills a town faster than a railroad built six miles away. You build that railroad and Callersville dries up."

  "If I could bring it through the town, I would. But the surveyors have told me that won't work. Besides, what do you care? If you sold your land to me, you and your girls would be taken care of."

  "What about my peaches? You want to put that rail­road of yours right through my orchard."

  "Don't you understand? I've made you a good offer. You'll have enough money that you won't need that orchard. They're just a bunch of trees."

  "No, Vernon, you're the one who doesn't under­stand. You never have. Peachtree is my home."

  "I want that land." His voice hardened. "I always get what I want."

  "Not always, Vernon," she answered gently, meeting his narrowed gaze with a look of pity. "Not always."

  That reference to her father's refusal of his marriage suit so long ago and the pity he saw in her eyes brought a proud and angry flush to his face. "Your daddy," he said contemptuously, "was nothing but a worthless drunk."

  "He was not worthless. He was a good man."

  "Olivia, honey, your daddy was a drunk, and every­body knew it. His brain was so pickled with bourbon, he would have run Peachtree into the ground long before the war if it hadn't been for me."

  "That's not true."

  Vernon leaned closer to her. "He may've thought I was just poor white trash, but he was no better—afraid of his own wife, trying to hide his bourbon from her, too drunk to know what he was doing and too stubborn to let his sons or his overseer handle things. Well, your daddy died a drunk, your brothers are gone, I'm the one who's got money now, and all the pride in the world won't feed them girls of yours. You might as well accept my offer now." He paused a moment, then added softly, "I can make things easy for you, Olivia. Or I can make them a whole lot harder. It's your choice."

  Olivia wasn't going to let him bully her. "Do what­ever you like. But you'll never get Peachtree."

  The door of the store opened, causing the bell to jin­gle. Vernon stepped back from her as an elegantly dressed woman entered the store.

  "Vernon?" Alicia Tyler came toward them. She laid a proprietary hand on her husband's arm.

  He glanced at his wife. "I told you to wait in the car­riage."

  A slight frown marred the woman's lovely forehead. "I don't appreciate waiting when I'm forced to sit out in the hot sun," she answered, and glanced at Olivia. "Have you finished your business here?" she asked.

  The question was directed at Vernon, but it was Olivia who answered. "Yes, quite finished." Her gaze left the woman and returned to the woman's husband. "Not in a million years, Vernon."

  She stepped around the couple and walked toward the door, her shoulders rigid, her back straight. Drunkard or not, Daddy would have been proud.

  Despite his intention not to spend any more time lying in bed, Conor's first effort to remedy the situation had exhausted him, and he slept most of the day. It wasn't until sundown that he regained the strength to get up again.

  Dressing was a slow and difficult process, but Conor managed it by sheer determination. He put on the clothes Olivia had brought him, then left the room where he'd spent the past nine days. A dim hallway led him into a foyer of high, coved ceilings, a foyer wide enough for two Derry cottages to fit within it.

  Just walking the short distance down the hallway left him weak and a bit woozy, so he paused in the foyer for a moment to catch his breath. As he did so, he studied his surroundings. He stared at the curving staircase that led to the upper floors and realized that Olivia Maitland's home must have been quite beautiful once. But the ecru wallpaper was peeling, the blue staircar- pets were worn to threadbare patches, and the parquet floor was scratched and dull. When he gripped the newel of the staircase to steady himself, the ornamental wooden ball that capped it came off in his hand.


  He thought of Olivia's drab dresses and chipped teapot, her dilapidated wagon and her sorry-looking mule, and he realized that the war must have taken just about everything she had. But he also knew the wealth that had once been here had been built on the backs of slaves.

  He couldn't help comparing it to Ireland; he couldn't help remembering all the blood and sweat his own peo­ple had spilled so that rich British landlords could have velvet carpets and curving staircases. He found it hard to mourn the loss, but he understood how difficult it must have been for Olivia to watch her way of life dis­integrate around her.

  But his way of life had disintegrated long ago, and Conor forced away his memories of home. Let it alone, he thought, and carefully put the wooden ball back in its place.

  In the distance, he could hear voices, and he fol­lowed the sound to the back of the house. Olivia and the girls were in the kitchen, seated around a table, hav­ing their evening meal. Chester lay in a nearby corner, obviously waiting for his share.

  "Are you going to make me a cake for my birthday, Mama?" Miranda asked, as Conor paused in the door­way to the kitchen, inhaling the delicious scent of fresh bread and fried chicken.

  His gaze caught on Olivia and lingered there, watch­ing as she reached out to brush back a lock of Miranda's hair with a soft and loving gesture. "Of course I am, sweetie."

  They were a family. Something stirred inside him, something long-buried and half-forgotten that con­stricted his throat and twisted his guts. Instinctively, he moved as if to turn away.

  Chester lifted his head and let out a low growl. The talking suddenly stopped and all of them looked up to find him in the doorway.

  "Mr. Branigan, you're on your feet again." Olivia rose from her place at the head of the table and ges­tured to the food. "We were just sitting down to sup­per. I was going to take you in a tray, but since you're up, maybe you'd like to join us?"