Wedding night. He said the words with such loathing, she tightened her grip on the collar of her wrap and wondered about all the other nights like this that were to come.
He lifted the bottle in a toast. "Slainte," he said, and downed another swallow of whiskey.
Her father's ghost rattled dangerously again. Olivia stiffened her spine. "I won't have spirits in my house," she said quietly.
He threw her a sharp glance. "Don't you mean our house, Mrs. Branigan?"
His voice was as cool and lethal as a knife blade. She swallowed hard and stood her ground. "I will not have spirits in our house."
"But I'm not in the house. I'm outside." He grinned at her, but she sensed the dark undercurrents hidden by the impudent surface.
"That's splitting hairs, Conor. What if the girls saw you this way? What would they think?"
Something in him seemed to change at the mention of the girls. The grin faded, and his head fell back as if he were suddenly weary. "Maybe they'll stop looking at me as if I'm some kind of hero," he said, and shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Hero! God, if they only knew."
Olivia watched him, feeling as if she were missing a very important piece of a very complex puzzle. She felt his pain, she felt his rage, but she saw all the hate he turned inward, and what she knew could not explain that.
I got exactly what I deserved.
He began to hum under his breath a tune she did not recognize.
"That's a song called 'The Bold Fenian Man."' He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. "Do you know what a Fenian is, Olivia?"
"No," she whispered.
He began to sing very softly. '"We may have good men, but we'll never have better. Glory-o, glory-o, to the bold Fenian man.'"
He laughed, and took another swallow of whiskey.
"I was a hero once," he said. "The lads thought because I was a guest of the Crown, because I had the scars of a British whip on my back, because the bastards made me get down on my hands and knees to eat, as if I were a dog—I was a hero. The bold Fenian man. What a joke I was."
She pressed a clenched fist to her mouth at the contempt she heard in his voice. She didn't know if marrying her was what had brought it to the surface now, but it frightened her. "Don't," she whispered. "Please don't do this."
"Don't what? Get drunk? Too late, I'm afraid. I'm three-parts pissed, love."
"Don't torture yourself."
"Not to worry. That's already been done. By experts."
"So, you must continue where they left off? Why?"
He didn't answer her question. Instead, he lifted his bottle in another salute. "'Glory-o,'" he sneered, his voice filled with self-mockery, '"to the bold Fenian man.'"
Olivia couldn't bear it any longer. She turned and left him with his Irish whiskey and his bitter memories.
In her room, Olivia lay in bed with her arms wrapped around her pillow and wondered about the man she had married today. She'd thought she understood, at least a little, what sort of man he was. Now, she knew that she'd barely scratched the surface.
She thought of all the times she had hoped her father would rise above the pit of dark and self-destructive apathy into which he had fallen; but time had proved her hope to be both naive and futile. The idea that her love could somehow heal him had been nothing more than vanity and wishful thinking.
Now, here she was again, in the same situation, stubbornly pinning the same foolish hopes on a different man. Her husband.
The logical part of her knew she did not have the power to heal Conor's wounds. A loving touch and three hot meals a day could not wash away a lifetime of pain and guilt and torment.
But somehow, her heart refused to listen to her head, refused to believe that there was no hope that Conor Branigan would heal. Her heart ached to help him; her arms longed to hold him; her hands wanted to soothe him. She loved him. So, Olivia lay in her bed, awake and alone, silently waiting, foolishly hoping. Of course, he did not come.
The following morning, the congregation of the Callersville Baptist Church was all agog over the news of Olivia's wedding. By the time Olivia arrived, everyone had been informed of her hasty marriage. Even Vernon, who was never the recipient of any local gossip, had been told. He and his Yankee wife had arrived back in town the evening before, Kate informed Olivia on the church steps, and the moment Olivia walked inside, she knew that he had been told of her marriage. He watched her walk up the aisle, and she returned his hard stare with a sweet smile. His thunderous frown was his reply.
She thought of how Vernon had ordered Conor beaten for his refusal to cheat during that boxing match, and she was very proud of her husband.
Her husband.
Olivia's step faltered a moment. She could hear the talk buzzing around her; she could feel the curious stares. Matrons who two days before had condemned her as a jezebel were smiling at her and nodding to each other, clearly pleased that the man had made an honest woman of her, and all was well. Those less forgiving were studying her with speculation, and it was obvious what they were thinking. She knew they had noticed that her husband was not with her in church this morning and were wondering how long marriage to an Irish prizefighter—a Catholic, no less—could possibly last.
Olivia wondered, too. She couldn't help it after what had happened last night. Perhaps someday Conor could come to love her. Given time, he might be able to accept the responsibilities and joys of being a husband and father. But Olivia knew time was not on her side. She could go home today and find him gone, and she wondered how long she could live with that uncertainty.
She paused beside an empty pew and ushered her girls in before her. Her cheeks burned at the whispers around her, but she kept her head high as she took her seat. Yesterday, she had pledged love, honor, and obedience. She was going to do her best to live up to that pledge— well, at least the part about love and honor. She could only hope that Conor would try to do the same.
While Reverend Allen was asking his congregation to contemplate the blessed teachings of Jesus to turn the other cheek and forgive thy neighbor, Vernon was contemplating how he could get rid of Conor Branigan. Permanently.
He fumed with impotent fury as he thought about it. He'd never been good enough for Olivia to marry; but she'd been willing to marry that Irishman. Four years of trying, and he'd never been able to get his hands on Olivia's land, but Conor Branigan had managed it in scarcely two months. He should have killed the cocky son of a bitch when he had the chance.
He should have come back the minute he'd gotten Joshua's telegram about Branigan being at Olivia's place. Damn Alicia and her social whirl for keeping him away so long; damn Hiram for being led around by his own daughter. Vernon knew if he had been here instead of shaking Yankee hands and attending the symphony, none of this would have happened. Olivia's peach crop was in, which meant she had the money to pay her spring taxes. And Branigan had control of her land. It beat all, it truly did.
Until he'd gotten Joshua's telegram, he'd forgotten all about the prizefighter who had defied him. He'd seen a problem that needed solving, and he thought he'd solved it. It had been surprising enough that Olivia had found the man and taken him in, hired him on, but who the hell would've thought she'd marry him? A boxer, for Chrissake. Vernon couldn't believe it. Olivia hated gambling. Always had.
His anger simmered as Reverend Allen droned on and on, and he couldn't take it anymore. He stood up in the middle of the sermon, ignoring Alicia's surprised glance. He walked out of the church, fully aware that he was scandalizing the town. Too damn bad. It was his town, wasn't it?
He was going to take care of that prizefighter here and now. After their last encounter, he'd doubted he'd have much trouble; but he decided to stop at the Harlan place on his way. Elroy and his boys loved a good fight.
When Conor awoke, the sun streaming through the window of his room hit his eyes, piercing his skull like white-hot needles. He groaned and pulled the pillow over his head to shut out th
e light, but it was too late. The pain began to pound mercilessly in his head.
It was the whiskey. Christ, he hadn't felt like this the morning after a drinking bout since he was seventeen. He tried to go back to sleep, but that proved futile. Giving in to the inevitable, Conor slid to the edge of the bed and rose to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his head. Moving with great care, he walked to the door of his room and opened it, but the water Olivia usually set out for him to bathe and shave was not there.
She was angry with him. He remembered the way she had looked at him last night, and the things he had said, and he felt a twinge of guilt. Even though the marriage was a farce, it wasn't her fault. It was his. Well, he was being punished for it now, he thought, and pressed his hands to his aching head.
Aye, she was probably furious with him, but she was so softhearted that when she saw how miserable he was this morn, she'd forget about being angry. She'd fuss over him, of course, but he thought of the gentle touch of her hands and decided he could tolerate a bit of fussing. He was starving, and he knew that even if she was angry, she'd have a hot breakfast waiting for him. She'd insist on making him some of that awful green tea. If it would get rid of the pain in his head, he might even drink it.
Conor dressed and went out to the kitchen and discovered that Chester was the only one there. The dog greeted him with a loud bark that sent a fierce stab of pain through his skull. There was no hot breakfast, no girls, no Olivia. Bewildered and somewhat aggrieved, he looked out the kitchen windows, but he saw no one. He left the kitchen and went into the foyer.
"Olivia!" he called, thinking she and the girls might be upstairs, but his only reply was his own voice echoing through the house.
Then he remembered that today was Sunday, and he felt rather let down by the idea that he was alone, and hungry, and hung over, and clearly wasn't going to get any hot breakfast or fussing.
He went back into the kitchen and took a pail from its hook on the wall. He left the dog inside and went out to the well, then filled the pail at the pump and bent to pour the cool water over his head.
God, it felt good. He straightened to refill the pail for another go, but the sound of wheels grinding on gravel had him glancing up as a wagon came round the side of the house. Holy Mother, he thought, tossing aside the bucket and raking a hand through his wet hair, why this morning?
He tensed, watching as the wagon came to a halt in the yard, and Vernon Tyler stepped down, followed by Elroy Harlan, Joshua Harlan, and the three men who had turned his body into mush two months ago. Maybe they wouldn't beat him up this time. Maybe they'd just kill him and put him out of his misery.
Conor remembered the first lesson he'd ever learned in life. No matter what happens, act like you don't give a damn. He gave them a smile. "Good day, lads. 'Tis a bit early yet for a Sunday call, isn't it?"
No one replied. Vernon paused several feet away and pulled a cheroot out of his jacket pocket. He lit the cigar as his companions surrounded Conor and made it very clear just how outnumbered he was.
"I heard you got married," Vernon said, taking a puff on his cheroot. "I came to offer my congratulations."
Conor thought of the cigar burns the Mountjoy guards had put beneath his right shoulder blade, and wondered if Vernon planned to put a matching set on the opposite side of his back. He thought about that farmer and his wagon of turnips with profound regret. "I appreciate that, Mr. Tyler, I do, indeed."
Vernon studied the lit end of his cigar for a moment, then he looked Conor in the eye, obviously deciding it was time to get to the point. "Seems to me, I told you to get out of my town, boy."
Boy. God, he hated that word. He'd been hearing it all his life. Anger flickered dangerously in his belly. He gritted his teeth, freezing his smile in place. "Yes, I believe you did. But, you see, your lads here did such a fine job waltzing across me ribs that getting out of town wasn't possible."
"I don't take kindly to being crossed." Vernon took a puff on his cheroot. "It took Olivia a long time to get herself married. It'd be a shame if she became a widow. You understand me, boy?"
Steady, he reminded himself. Anger would get him nothing except more cracked ribs. He swallowed the anger down, the way he'd swallowed so many things so many times before, telling himself that was the sensible thing to do. Besides the fact that he had a hellbanger of a headache, he was outnumbered and didn't relish another round of being kicked like a tin can. He met Vernon's eyes. "Aye," he said steadily. "I understand you."
"Good. Now that we've got that straight, I'll move on to what I really want to talk about. You've married Olivia; you've got control of her land; and you're going to sell it to me."
Conor didn't know if he'd heard correctly. He was in control of Olivia's land now, and Vernon wanted to buy it from him? He wished he could think clearly, but there were hammers pounding his skull from the inside out. "Am I? Well, I'm thinking that depends on what you're offering."
"I'm offering not to kill you."
Conor's false smile widened. "I appreciate that, but if you were to kill me, Olivia would have the land again, and you'd be right back where you started. So, I'll be asking again, what are you offering?"
Vernon clamped his cigar between his teeth. "Peachtree is five hundred acres. I'll give you three dollars an acre."
Fifteen hundred dollars. Christ, that was a fortune. If it were truly his land, Conor would take the money in a heartbeat. But it wasn't. His name might be on it now—Vernon would probably know better than he— but it wasn't his land. The question was, how did he get out of this with his ribs intact? Stalling was definitely in order. "'Tis a fine and generous offer you've made, it is, indeed. I'll have to be talking with my wife about it."
To his surprise, Vernon laughed. "Talk? Boy, I don't know how they do things in Ireland, but here, we tell our women what to do, and they do it."
Right. Clearly, stalling wasn't going to work. He couldn't make a run for the house and that fine Henry rifle. Conor glanced at the men who surrounded him, and he braced himself for another round of trays and bedpans. He looked Vernon in the eye and hoped to hell he'd come out of this with all his teeth. "Sod off," he said pleasantly.
The men moved to seize him, but the sound of another wagon rounding the house stopped them. Olivia drove the wagon right into their midst, forcing Vernon to jump out of the way or get run over.
"Hello, boys," she greeted them as the girls jumped down from the wagon and ran to Conor. "Mighty fine day, isn't it?"
The girls surrounded Conor, and he figured it was the first time in his life he'd been rescued by a woman and three girls.
The other men looked over at Vernon, who shook his head and turned to Olivia, tipping his hat. "We just came by to offer our congratulations."
Olivia braked the wagon and smiled. "Why, Vernon, that's right nice of you. I'd ask you stay to Sunday dinner, but I'm sure you all would rather go home to your own families."
Vernon looked back over at Conor. "You think about what I said," he told him, then turned and walked to his own wagon, Elroy and the lads right behind him.
Conor waited until they had driven away, then he said, "Becky, take the wagon into the barn and unhitch the mule, then get him water. Carrie, you and Miranda help your sister. Your mother and I are going for a walk."
He held up his hand to Olivia. She hesitated a moment, then took his hand and allowed him to help her down. Keeping a firm grip on her wrist, he led her through the garden. It wasn't until they were in the dilapidated gazebo that he let her go.
"It's time to give this up, Olivia."
She folded her arms across her breasts. "Seems we've had this discussion before."
"Aye, for all the good it did," he shot back, his voice rising.
"You seem quite out of temper today. Must be all that whiskey you drank last night."
"Whiskey has nothing to do with it," he shouted. "I'm always out of temper when men come to beat me up. And don't you be changin' the subject."
<
br /> "Then don't tell me what to do with my land."
Exasperated, he glared at her. "Damn it, woman, don't you understand? You can't win."
She glared right back at him. "And don't swear at me. I am winning. We've been fighting this battle for four years, and Vernon still doesn't have my land. I am winning."
He rolled his eyes. "You've won nothing but a wee bit of time. They can wait you out."
Olivia shook her head. "But they can't. Oren told me Vernon's been getting some pressure from his father-in- law, who's one of the major investors in this railroad deal. That means they're running out of time."
"Perhaps, but that only means that Vernon is going to increase the pressure on you."
She started to turn away, but he grabbed her shoulders and kept her there, forcing her to face him, forcing her to face the unpleasant truth. "Listen to me. You can't fight them. If they've bought up enough land to build this railroad, they have a lot invested in it and they stand to make a lot of money once it's built. Do you really think they're going to let one woman get in their way?"
"They'll have to," she said, and jerked free. "I'm not selling."
"Even if they threaten you and the girls? Are you ready to risk the girls' getting hurt?"
"I told you, Vernon wouldn't hurt my girls. Or me."
"What makes you so sure of that?"
"Because he's in love with me," she said simply. "Always has been."
"What?" Her words stunned him, but the violent jolt of jealousy that shot through him stunned him more. It also made him angrier than before. "That piss-poor excuse for a man?"
She frowned. "Don't swear, if you please."
"'Conor, don't swear. Conor, don't drink,'" he mimicked her, scowling. "I'll do what I like, woman. You're the one who promised obedience in that church of yours, not me."
She scowled back at him. "Now, who's changing the subject?"
Conor tried to remember having been more furious in his life than he was right now, and he failed. "Vernon's in love with you," he said again, and the ramifications of such a situation hit him. "Brilliant. This is just brilliant. One more reason for him to hate my guts. One more reason for him to use me as a punching bag."
Conor's Way Page 28
