As Conor watched Olivia playing games and laughing with her girls, he felt every single ache and pain in his body. More than that, he felt old. He wasn't old, he told himself—he was only thirty-four. No, wait, this was 1871. He was actually thirty-six. Where had the time gone?
Olivia and the girls had formed a ring of joined hands and were singing "Ring-Around-The-Rosy," their voices painfully out of tune. The song ended and they all fell to the ground, laughing.
Conor felt a sudden longing, a bittersweet mixture of desire and regret for all he had missed. It was a sensation so unexpected and so unwanted that it startled him, and he shoved it away before it could take hold.
What the hell is wrong with me? he wondered, watching as they stopped their game, brushing dust off their skirts as they moved toward the porch. The last thing he wanted was a family. Prisons didn't have to have stone walls and iron bars. He rose to his feet, intending to move farther away, where he couldn't hear their laughter.
But Carrie caught sight of him standing by the barn door. "Mr. Conor!" she cried, waving to him from the porch. "Come and have cake with us."
He turned away as if he hadn't heard, but of course, that didn't work. Carrie came running, calling his name, Miranda right behind her—and Conor knew there was no escape. He sighed and turned back around to face them.
Both girls skidded to a halt in front of him. "We're going to have cake now," Carrie said and grabbed his hand. "C'mon."
"It's my birthday cake," Miranda added, seizing him by the other hand. "Pudding cake. You have to have some."
He didn't have any idea what pudding cake was, and he didn't really want to find out. Despite the insistent tugging of the two girls, he didn't move. Miranda continued to pull at him, but Carrie did not. Instead, she let go of his hand and stared up at him. Her lower lip began to tremble. "Don't you like us?"
Conor knew perfectly well when he was being manipulated by feminine wiles, and he couldn't help grinning. She did it rather well, too, considering she was only about nine. Give her a few years, and this lass was going to be a heartbreaker. He allowed himself to be led toward the house.
Olivia and Becky were in the kitchen, and both of them looked up as he was dragged into the room by his captors.
"I see you've decided to join the party, Mr. Branigan," Olivia commented, as she looked up from the bowl of cream she was whipping.
"I didn't have much of a choice in the matter," he told her ruefully.
"So I see."
He didn't miss the laughter in her eyes or the tiny smile that curved the corners of her mouth. He suspected she knew exactly how uncomfortable he felt, but she made no comment.
She resumed her task, stirring cream rapidly with a whisk, as Becky dribbled in spoonfuls of sugar. The other two watched with growing impatience, until finally Olivia set the whisk aside. She turned to Miranda. "Well, Birthday Girl, do you want to help me cut the cake?"
Miranda gave her mother a delighted smile and nodded. She turned toward the ring-shaped yellow cake that stood on the table. Olivia moved to stand behind her and showed her how to hold the knife. "Not so big," she admonished, laughing, as Miranda started to slice the cake. "If you want a second piece, you can have one after supper."
Her hand over her daughter's, she guided the child in slicing the first piece. After five wedges had been cut from the cake, Olivia placed them on plates and slathered on a generous spoonful of jam, then Becky spooned whipped cream over them. Miranda took the first plate and brought it over to Conor, holding it out to him with both hands.
He glanced down at the slice of yellow cake with its center of vanilla custard and its topping of peach jam and whipped cream. Now he knew what pudding cake was: trifle without the rum. He thought the lack of rum a shame.
"Thank you," he said as he accepted the plate, wondering how he was going to eat the confection. She'd forgotten to bring him a spoon.
"Are we going to play more games, Mama?" Miranda asked as she walked back over to her mother's side.
"If you like," Olivia replied. "How about charades?"
This suggestion was greeted with shouts of enthusiasm.
"You'll play charades with us, won't you, Mr. Conor?" Carrie asked, her mouth full of cake. "Please?"
Conor glanced out the window and wondered where he might find a suitable hiding place as the other two girls joined in, pleading and cajoling.
Conor looked at Olivia, but she proved to be no help whatsoever. "Charades it is, then," she said as she crossed the room to hand him a spoon.
He shook his head. "No. Absolutely not."
"You don't have to if you don't feel up to it." She glanced toward the three girls, and he followed her gaze across the kitchen to find three pairs of imploring blue eyes fixed on him.
Conor played charades. He felt like an idiot, but he did it anyway.
Conor Branigan continually surprised her. Olivia plucked another stocking from the pile of mending she and Becky were working on and glanced at the man seated across the library playing checkers with Carrie. Miranda sat beside him on the sofa, and he repeatedly asked the child for advice on how to move his pieces, so that she wouldn't feel left out.
Given the way he lived, prizefighting and moving from town to town, Olivia suspected he wasn't used to being around children. But he had a way with them nonetheless.
"I win!" Carrie declared, taking Conor's last checker.
"Now, how'd you manage that?" Conor shook his head in pretended bewilderment and glanced at the child beside him. "We had her surrounded."
"That's okay," Miranda told him. "We beat her twice."
Carrie began rearranging the pieces on the board. "Let's play again."
"Not tonight," Olivia said firmly. She set her mending aside and rose from her chair. "It's bedtime."
She ignored the pleas and protests. She endured one, and only one, round of good-nights to Mr. Conor, then ushered all three of them upstairs.
"Did you have a fun birthday, honey?" she asked Miranda, as she knelt down before the child to help her pull her long white nightgown over her head.
"It was the best one I've ever had, Mama."
"I'm glad." She hugged the child and stood up. "Say your prayers."
Miranda did, and when she had finished, Olivia tucked her into bed. She kissed the child good-night, put out the lamp, and headed for the door, but Miranda's voice stopped her. "Mama, do you think Mr. Conor will be here for my next birthday?"
She didn't know what to say except the truth. "No, honey."
"Why not?"
"Because Mr. Conor has his own life to go back to. He can't stay with us forever. Now, go to sleep."
She left Miranda's room. Chester was curled up in the center of the hall, and Olivia stepped over him to enter Becky's room.
Becky was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair, and Olivia walked over to stand behind her. "How about if I do that?" she suggested. "It's been a while since I brushed your hair for you."
Becky handed over the brush, and Olivia began pulling it through the girl's long blond hair. She was nearly done before Becky spoke.
"Mama, do you think I'm pretty?"
The question was so abrupt and anxious that Olivia paused in her task. She met her daughter's eyes in the mirror. "I think you're very pretty."
"As pretty as Cara?"
Cara Johnson was Becky's best friend, and Olivia could still remember what it felt like to be fourteen and have a beautiful best friend, how gawky and insecure it had made her feel.
"Yes," she answered. "As pretty as Cara. You look like your mother."
"I do? I don't really remember what she looked like."
"She was beautiful. Sometimes, I was so jealous of her."
"You were? But you were her best friend."
"Just because you're best friends doesn't mean you don't feel jealous," Olivia answered and resumed her task. "I've been thinking about the harvest dance. I can't afford to make you a whole new dress
, but I thought maybe we could find one of my old dresses that could be made over for you to wear."
"Really?" Becky turned her head and looked up at her. "There's a blue one that's really nice."
Olivia smiled. "There is, hmm?" she teased. "And how would you know that, miss? Been looking through my chest and playing dress-up, have you?"
Becky nodded. "I like the blue one a lot."
"We'll see what we can do."
"What are you going to wear, Mama?"
"Oh, I don't know." The brush hit a knot, and Olivia worked carefully to untangle it. "My gray one, I suppose."
"That's nothing special. You wear that one every Sunday, and you wore it to the dance last year. You should wear something special. What about that red silk that's in the chest? You would look beautiful in that, Mama, you really would."
The red silk. It was dark claret red, she remembered, and she'd worn it once, a long time ago. "I'd forgotten all about that dress," she murmured.
"We could make it over for you," Becky said, "just like we're going to do with mine."
"We'll see." Olivia ran the brush through Becky's hair one last time to be sure the knot was gone, then she set the brush aside and planted a kiss atop her daughter's head. "There. All done."
"Thank you, Mama."
"You're welcome. Now, say your prayers and get to sleep."
She left Becky's room, noticing that Chester was no longer lying in the hallway. She wondered where the dog might have gone, but when she entered Carrie's room, she knew. The room was empty. Carrie had probably gone back downstairs, and Chester had followed her. Olivia let out an aggrieved sigh and wondered what new excuse Carrie had dreamed up to postpone bedtime. Probably something to do with Conor Branigan.
She turned around and marched back downstairs, fully prepared to give Carrie another lecture on bedtime stalling. But the sight that met her eyes as she entered the library brought her to an abrupt halt, and she stared in astonishment.
Conor was sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace and Carrie was sitting on his lap, dressed in her nightgown and wearing her reading spectacles. Her bare feet dangled over the arm of the chair, and her head rested in the dent of Conor's shoulder. With one arm wrapped around the child, he was looking down at the open book she held in her hands, listening as she read aloud. Chester lay sleeping on the floor nearby, oblivious to the man he'd been growling at for over two weeks.
Olivia blinked, not quite able to assimilate the sight. This was Conor Branigan, prizefighter and ex-convict, the same man who a few hours before had to be dragged like a recalcitrant mule to a little girl's birthday party.
"'. . . and this time it vanished quite slowly,'" Carrie read, "'beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.'" She paused to turn the page and caught sight of her mother standing in the library doorway. "Mama!"
Conor glanced up at her, then immediately away, but Olivia didn't miss his grimace of pain as Carrie wriggled on his lap.
The child held up the book. "I'm reading Mr. Conor a story."
"I see that," Olivia answered, stepping into the room. "But Mr. Conor happens to have cracked ribs. Sitting on his lap is not helping them heal."
"Oh!" She immediately slid off of Conor's lap and gave him an apologetic look. "Was I hurting you? You should've said something."
"Not to worry, mo paiste," Conor told the child. "I'm all right."
Carrie turned to her mother. "See, Mama? He's all right." She moved to sit on the arm of the chair with her book, but Olivia's voice stopped her.
"I seem to remember telling you that it was bedtime."
"But I'm not sleepy. Why should I have to go to bed if I'm not sleepy?"
"Upstairs," Olivia ordered, pointing to the doorway. "Now, young lady."
"But I haven't finished the story. Alice just met the Cheshire Cat."
Olivia was not impressed. "Caroline Marie, I mean now."
Conor put a hand on Carrie's shoulder. "You'd best do as your mother says before both of us get into trouble."
"Okay, Mr. Conor," she immediately agreed, and so obediently that Olivia nearly groaned. The child held out her book to him. "You can borrow it as long as you want. That way, you can finish the story yourself."
"Thank you."
"The best part's when Alice meets the Queen of—"
"Carrie!" Olivia started forward threateningly, and this time, Carrie obeyed.
Olivia led her daughter up the stairs, and Chester followed them. The dog resumed his post in the center of the hall, and Carrie paused to give him a good-night pat before entering her bedroom with her mother. "Mama, after today, does this mean we don't have to stay away from Mr. Conor anymore?"
Olivia wondered when she'd lost the battle. But she was forced to admit that Carrie had understood instinctively what she had not: Conor Branigan was no dangerous criminal. He was a hard man, true, and he'd lived a hard life. She'd heard him use language vile enough to peel paint off walls. But he hadn't uttered a single foul word in front of the girls all day. Not one. He'd played charades, he'd played checkers, he'd let Carrie read him stories.
She knelt down in front of her daughter. "Only if you promise not to hurt his ribs by jumping up and down on his lap like you did."
Carrie nodded earnestly. "I promise."
"And," Olivia added, "if you promise not to sneak downstairs after your bedtime."
"I won't."
"Good." Olivia straightened. "Now, I want you to say your prayers and get into bed."
The child made no move to comply, and Olivia wondered if she was again trying to postpone bedtime.
"Mama, does God always answer prayers?" Carrie asked as she looked up at her mother.
There was an earnest sincerity about her expression that told Olivia the question wasn't just another stalling tactic. "Always," she answered. "Why?"
"If you ask God for something, and you pray really, really hard, will God give it to you?"
Olivia suspected the child's questions were leading somewhere, and with Carrie, that could mean trouble. "Not necessarily," she answered cautiously.
Carrie pondered that for a moment, then she said, "Even if you're good? Even if you eat all your greens at supper, and say your prayers every single night, and go to bed when you're supposed to?"
Olivia would never use the Lord as a way to make Carrie eat her vegetables or go to bed on time. But just now it was very tempting. "Even then. God may not think what you're asking for is right for you."
"But it doesn't hurt to ask, does it?"
"No, sweetie, I suppose it doesn't hurt to ask."
Carrie pressed her palms together and closed her eyes, frowning with earnest concentration. But Olivia noticed that the child didn't say her prayers aloud as she usually did, and she wondered what Carrie was up to.
"Why all these questions about God anyway?" she asked when the child opened her eyes. "Is this about that pony you've been wanting all year?"
Carrie shook her head. "Oh, no, Mama, I don't want a pony anymore."
Olivia pulled back the sheet, and Carrie jumped into bed. "What is it, then?" she asked, pulling the spectacles gently from Carrie's face to lay them on the bedside table.
Carrie didn't answer, and it was obvious that she didn't want to tell. "I was just wonderin' about God, is all," she said so innocently that Olivia's suspicions heightened.
"I see." She decided to let the matter drop, knowing the child would eventually blurt out what she wanted so badly that she'd promise to eat all her collard greens to get it. "Why don't you wonder about God tomorrow?" she suggested. "It's time to get some sleep."
She kissed the child good-night, turned out the lamp, and left the room.
Conor was still in the library when she returned downstairs, standing by the bookshelf with Carrie's book open in his hands. He was staring down at the page, frowning with such fierce concentration that he didn't notice Oliv
ia until she moved to stand by his side.
He slammed the book shut and shoved it between two others on the shelf. "She asked me to read her a story. What was I supposed to say? I told her it would be better if she read the story to me. I felt like an idiot."
She laid a hand on his arm. "No reason to feel that way. Carrie had the opportunity to learn to read. You didn't. That's all."
Conor stiffened beneath her touch and pulled away. He crossed the room and turned his back to her as he studied the faded cabbage-rose wallpaper surrounding the fireplace. Olivia watched him in uncertainty, not quite knowing if she had said the wrong thing. He was such a solitary man, complicated and inscrutable. She wished she understood him a little better.
"Does that offer still stand?"
The unexpected question startled her. The rigid set of his wide shoulders told her how it had cost his pride to ask. "Of course."
Bending down, she pulled Becky's slate and slate pencil from the lowest shelf, then walked to his side. He turned as she approached.
She wrote on the slate, then held it up so he could see what she'd written. "A," she said. "That's the letter A."
"A." He stared at it for a moment, then the corners of his mouth lifted in a wry smile as he looked at her. "Like 'Alice.'"
She smiled back at him. It wasn't much of a basis for understanding, but it was a start.
Later that night, while everyone else slept, Olivia took a lamp and went up to the attic. She opened the cedar- lined chest that contained all her old clothes, the silk and muslin dresses, the hoop skirts, the lacy undergarments, and delicate slippers of the days before the war, when she'd never dreamed of slopping pigs and mucking out chicken coops.
She pulled out the blue silk gown Becky had mentioned and examined it. It had a neckline modest enough for a young girl, and would do very well if she took up the hem a bit. It had a musty, cedar smell, but soaking it in potato water would take care of that. She set the blue silk aside.
The red silk evening dress lay beneath it. She unfolded it and walked to the dust-covered cheval glass that stood in one corner. She held the dress against herself, smiling at the outrageously full skirt, trying to remember how she'd ever been able to get through a doorway wearing this dress. But then, she'd only worn it once, to a ball at Taylor Hill. Daddy had been drinking all day, she remembered, and he'd been particularly obnoxious that night. He'd brought their evening to an abrupt end by tossing a glass of bourbon into Jacob
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