She set the box and the roll of linen on the table beside her. When she turned toward him, Conor shook his head. "There's no need to make a fuss. I told you, I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're a man with cracked ribs, and I know they're causing you pain. So kindly remove your shirt, and don't argue with me."
She was certain he was going to refuse, but in the end, he didn't. "Too bad they don't allow women in the military," he muttered as he unbuttoned his shirt. "With you on their side, the Confederacy might have won the war."
She shot him a wry glance as he tossed the shirt aside. She opened her box and removed a bottle of liniment, then she turned to him and laid one hand against his ribs, pushing gently with her fingers.
"Ouch!" he cried, leaning away from her. "Jaysus, stop poking me!"
"Don't swear at me, if you please." She moved her hand and pressed again, feeling him wince. "They seem to be coming along well enough, although I think it'll be several more weeks before they're completely healed."
She unfastened the pins and began rolling the long swath of linen that supported his injured ribs away from his body. The task forced her to slip her arms around his waist, and the intimate contact made her acutely aware of him, aware of sinew and muscle and solid masculinity. It was an unexpected feeling that robbed her of the ability to breathe, and brought back the memory of him standing naked by the bed. Something warm and aching spread through her limbs, making her want to lean into him. Her hands fumbled and she dropped the binding. It unrolled as it fell to the floor.
"Oh, dear." She retrieved the swath of fabric from the floor and set it on the table, then reached for the bottle of liniment. She pulled out the cork, poured some of the liniment into the palm of her hand, and began rubbing the pungent oil gently into the bare skin of his torso.
She heard his sharp intake of breath, and she paused to glance up at him. "Did I hurt you?"
"No," he answered, but his voice sounded strained, his breathing slightly uneven. A tiny muscle worked at the corner of his jaw. "No. You didn't. . . hurt me."
She tried to finish her task quickly. Though she kept her gaze fixed on her hands, they refused to work properly, and her movements were hopelessly awkward. She finally managed to pin the fresh binding in place.
"All done," she said, but instead of stepping back as she knew she ought, she remained where she was. Her hand flattened against his side, and she could feel the heat of his skin through the linen. "Does that feel all right?"
He didn't answer, and she looked up into his face.
His eyes were smoky blue, almost tender against the harsh planes of his face. His lips curved slightly, the corners touched with amusement. She lowered her hand, flustered, and stepped back.
He caught her wrist. "Don't stop now, love," he murmured, his thumb brushing back and forth across her palm in a slow caress. "Sure, I was beginning to enjoy it."
He smiled at her, a heated, knowing smile. She jerked her hand away and ducked her head, her gaze skimming his body as she looked down, catching at the buttoned flap of his trousers. She stared, realization washing over her in a hot flood, and she felt herself blushing with mortification. She backed away from him, then turned and fled.
Conor watched with both amusement and chagrin as Olivia retreated out the back door, his body still tingling with arousal. Christ, what did she expect when she touched him like that? He might not be in the best of shape, but he wasn't dead.
He recognized innocence when he saw it, but he also recognized desire. And curiosity. It was rather a revelation to discover that underneath Olivia Maitland's prim and starchy exterior, there was a real woman. "I'll be damned," he murmured.
He donned his shirt, took a pull from his cup of cold coffee, and left the house. He didn't know where he was going, but it didn't matter. There really wasn't anywhere to go.
Olivia was on her knees in the garden. She did not look at him as he passed, but kept her eyes on the cucumbers she was picking as if it were a fascinating task. Her cheeks were still burning.
One more second, and he would have taken her up on what she hadn't even known she'd been offering. One more second of her hands on him with her face lifted unknowingly for a kiss, and his cracked ribs and her fluttering innocence be damned. It was obvious that she had no idea of the game she was playing, no knowledge of the stakes.
Conor remembered Carrie's words, and he reminded himself that the stakes were bloody well too high. But he could still feel the touch of Olivia's hands, a touch that soothed and aroused at once, a touch that was both innocent and provocative. He knew that if she touched him like that again, he was going to make it clear what kind of fire she was playing with, and he'd enjoy every minute of it.
During the days that followed, Olivia avoided Conor as much as possible. The incident in her kitchen had been embarrassing and awkward. But it didn't matter that she took such great pains to avoid him. Her mind insisted upon reliving the mortifying incident over and over, and every time she thought of his smoky, half- closed eyes and his low, seductive voice, her knees went stupidly weak.
It was her own fault. She should not have touched him in such an intimate fashion. Looking back, she had no idea what had possessed her, for she had been unable to stop herself. It was as if Olivia Maitland, plain, God-fearing spinster, had undergone an extraordinary transformation beneath that intense blue gaze and become a sort of shameless Delilah.
Every time she thought of it, her acute embarrassment came Hooding back, along with an odd, breathless excitement that she was certain could not be anything but wicked. As a result, she kept her demeanor scrupulously stiff and formal whenever she was around him.
One morning about a week after he'd gotten on his feet again, Conor woke and went out to the kitchen to find her and the girls on the back porch, giving Chester a bath. Buried to the elbows in soap suds and trying to keep Chester from bolting out of the washtub, she was too busy with her task to be embarrassed by Conor's presence.
Sopping wet and looking pitiful, the dog didn't even bother to growl at Conor—and surrounded by four females, it didn't seem like the poor mutt had any chance for escape. Conor leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb to watch, feeling some measure of satisfaction that Chester was so miserable.
"All right, girls," Olivia said, "let's rinse him off. He's not going to like it, but we've got to have him nice and clean in time for the party."
"My birthday party," Miranda added.
Conor watched as Olivia bent down to Miranda's eye level. "That's right," she said, smiling at the child. "But you know how Chester hates water. So you hang on to him good and tight, okay?"
"Okay, Mama." Miranda dug her two small fists into Chester's wet, soapy coat. "I've got him."
Conor grinned, watching her. Chester was about twice her size. If he chose to make a run for it, wee Miranda wouldn't have a prayer.
Olivia straightened and reached for the bucket of water by her side. "All right, girls. Here we go. Hang on to him."
Chester didn't give them the chance. As Olivia raised the bucket over his head, the dog jumped out of the tub, easily breaking free of the grip the three girls had on him. In the process, he jostled Olivia's arm and sent a cascade of water down the front of her dress.
Chester paused long enough to shake, sending a spray of soap suds in every direction, then he took off, escaping down the porch steps before anybody could grab him. The girls immediately went after the dog, Olivia groaned in dismay, and Conor burst out laughing. It hurt his ribs like hell, but he couldn't stop it.
Olivia whirled around at the sound of his laughter and studied him in some surprise. "Well, that's a sound I never thought to hear," she murmured.
"What?"
"You laughing." She tossed aside the empty bucket and brushed a wet strand of hair out of her eyes. "I was beginning to wonder if you knew how."
"I know how." As he spoke, he realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed—really lau
ghed, not the cynical, mildly amused kind, but genuine, spontaneous laughter. He knew it had been a long time ago.
His gaze lowered, and his smile faded. Her dress, soaking wet, clung to her in a most provocative way, and he took a moment to appreciate the shapely figure beneath the drab brown dress, thinking about the way she'd touched him that morning seven days ago, and wondering how he could get her to do it again.
He looked into her face, watched her lips part and her eyes grow wide, and knew she was thinking about that morning, too. He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. He saw that wary look come into her eyes again, a look that was anything but encouraging. He took another step toward her just as a laughing shriek rang out.
He glanced past her toward the yard, and what he saw there caused him to grin again, forgetting her apprehension. "You'd best get some fresh water," he advised. "You'll be needing it, I'm thinking."
Olivia blinked, staring at him blankly. "What?"
He pointed to the yard, and Olivia glanced over her shoulder. Chester, his wet coat now caked with mud from the dusty yard, had been pinned to the ground by the girls, but in the process, he'd managed to make them as muddy as he was.
"We got him, Mama!" Miranda cried, releasing her grip on the dog to wave at her mother with one mud- encrusted arm. "We got him!"
Olivia groaned again, this time in defeat.
But she wasn't defeated for long. She sent the girls to the swimming hole with a basket of sandwiches, an easy way to get the mud off of them.
As for Chester, she decided that she wasn't going to let a dog get the better of her. She fetched fresh water from the well and a length of rope from the barn. With a rope fastened to his collar, that tethered him to the porch rail, there was no escape for poor Chester, much to Conor's amusement.
"He doesn't much care for baths, does he?"
She jumped back as Chester shook himself, spraying her still-damp dress with another shower of water and valiantly trying to slip free of the rope around his neck. "No," she answered. "He never has liked water. I think some farmer round here tried to drown him when he was a pup." She glanced over at Conor. "They do that sometimes, sad to say. When I found him, he was hurt, and I figured some fox might have taken a nip or two at him before he got away. I couldn't just leave him hurt like that, so I brought him home."
That comment did not surprise Conor at all, and he found that he and the dog had something in common.
When Olivia had finished bathing the dog, she rubbed his thick wet coat with a towel to absorb most of the water, but she had no intention of letting him go rolling around in the dirt until he was completely dry. She untied the rope, grabbed him fimily by the scruff, and led him into the house, where she finally let him go. Freed from the torture at last, Chester raced out of the kitchen.
"I think he's gone off to hide," Conor commented from the doorway.
"He'll be back when the girls come home," Olivia answered, and turned toward the stove. "At least he'll be out of my way while I bake a cake."
"So, it's wee Miranda's birthday today, is it?"
Olivia nodded. "She's six today, and she's so excited about it because this year she gets to go to school with Becky and Carrie." As she spoke, Olivia opened the stove and began stoking the coals. "We're giving her a party this afternoon."
Olivia fixed him breakfast, and as he ate, he watched her mixing ingredients in a pan, reading aloud from the dog-eared journal beside her. "Place over a low fire and stir until thick, adding eggs one at a time," she murmured, and took the pot over to the stove.
After a few moments, she paused in her stirring and made a sound of vexation. "Would you mind taking a peek at the recipe there, Mr. Branigan, and tell me how many eggs I'm supposed to add?"
He didn't answer, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, she suddenly realized why. He was staring down at the open journal on the table.
Olivia lifted the pot from the stove so the pudding wouldn't burn and carried it with her to the table. He pushed the journal toward her without looking up, and she glanced down at the recipe. "Three eggs," she murmured absently, and looked back at him. He was staring down at the table as if he found it fascinating. "You can't read, can you?" she said gently.
He kept his gaze fixed on the blue and white plaid tablecloth. "No."
"And all this time I was bringing you books, thinking it'd help pass the time. Why on earth didn't you tell me?"
He didn't reply to that, but he didn't have to. She knew the answer by the way he wouldn't look at her. Olivia stared at his lowered head, and she realized again what a proud man he was. "I could teach you to read, if you like," she offered, trying to sound casual.
"No."
"It's not that difficult, really. You could—"
"No."
"Mr. Branigan, there's no shame in not knowing how to do something. The shame's in being afraid to try."
"Afraid?" He lifted his head and his eyes were suddenly dangerous. "Woman, you have no idea what I'm afraid of, or what I'm ashamed of. So don't pretend that you do."
He glared at her, trying to stare her down with all that cold defiance. It was a look she was beginning to understand, a look meant to intimidate and keep people from getting too close. She decided to ignore it.
"You know, my roof's in pretty poor shape," she said, and resumed stirring the pudding. "Been leaking for nigh on two years now. A year ago, I sold two hogs and bought all the materials so that Nate, my farmhand, could fix it for me; but he died last summer, and the roof never got fixed. Now, I've got pans and tin cans all over my attic floor to catch the water." She sighed. "I know I ought to get up there and fix it myself, but I just can't bring myself to do it. And I feel ashamed of myself for being a coward."
He stared at her, clearly wondering what she was rambling on about.
"You see, I'm scared of heights." She lifted the spoon and watched vanilla pudding dribble slowly from it into the pan. "Always have been. My mama said it was because my brother Charles held me out over the rail on the upstairs veranda when I was three. I don't remember that, but to this day, I can't bring myself to walk on that veranda. Mama said he was only teasing, like boys do, and he didn't know I was really scared or that I could've been hurt. Of course, after my daddy fell off that ladder six years back, I was even more afraid of heights. So I just can't get up the nerve to fix that roof."
She dropped the spoon back in the pot and looked at him. "We all have our fears, Mr. Branigan, and our weaknesses, and things we're ashamed of."
She turned away, but she added softly, "But if you ever decide you want to learn to read, you let me know. I'd be happy to teach you."
"I won't be here that long."
Olivia set the pan on the stove, knowing that what he said was true. A few weeks from now, he'd be gone. The thought of his departure should have brought a feeling of relief. It didn't, and Olivia truly didn't understand that at all.
10
Conor was not a family man. Birthday parties for little girls were beyond his experience. When the girls returned from their swim, and Olivia sent them upstairs to change into dry clothes for the party, he decided it was a fine afternoon for a walk, and disappeared out the back door.
Beyond the dusty yard and well-tended garden, the mule and a very pregnant cow grazed in a pasture surrounded by a wooden fence. A pitiful excuse for a fence, to be sure. It leaned drunkenly inward, and a good many of the slats were broken. At the end of the pasture stood a barn and chicken coop, their weathered gray wood obvious beneath peeling red paint.
He could see several more outbuildings that were in no better condition than the barn, flanked by deserted cabins. Beyond the buildings, he could see an orchard of fruit trees. With the exception of the garden and the orchard, everything spoke of neglect.
Conor made it as far as the barn before his body gave out. Feeling light-headed, he sank down into the knee-high grass to rest for a moment, and leaned back against the rough wood of the
barn wall.
Weakness. He despised it. He thought of all the times in his life when he'd been helpless, all the times he'd vowed never to be helpless again; and yet, here he was, without the strength to walk more than a few dozen yards. His fault.
The dizziness passed and Conor opened his eyes, staring across the yard at the back porch of Olivia's house. From this distance, he could see how it sagged in the middle, as if ready to collapse. The house wasn't in much better shape, he realized, his gaze traveling to the roof.
If the roof was leaking so badly that she had tins all over her attic floor, it had to be fixed soon or the whole thing was going to rot and cave in. Given Olivia's fear of heights, he doubted she'd get around to it. People didn't face their fears, they ran from them. He knew that better than anybody.
He thought of how she'd offered to teach him to read. A nice, pointless offer. He didn't need words to bring another man down in the ring. Besides, what he'd told her was true. He wouldn't be here long enough to learn to read. In a few weeks he'd be back on the road, free and far away from here.
A door banged and the sound of laughter interrupted Conor's thoughts. He glanced at the porch again and saw the girls come running down the steps, that mangy dog Chester right behind them.
"C'mon, Mama!" Miranda called impatiently over her shoulder. "Hurry!"
Olivia emerged from the house, carrying a handkerchief, and joined the girls in the yard. Conor watched as she tied the handkerchief over Miranda's eyes, then spun her around three times.
Blindman's bluff. His sisters had played that game many a time. He watched as little Miranda tried to catch one of the others, but they danced out of reach and her efforts were in vain, until Olivia stepped into her path. It didn't escape Conor's notice that she allowed herself to be captured.
"I got you, Mama!" the child cried, tearing off the handkerchief.
"You sure did," Olivia agreed, accepting the blindfold from her daughter. She tied it over her eyes, and the game began again.
Conor's Way Page 9
