Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  "How can you say that?" he demanded, still watch­ing the couple. "She's only fourteen. Perhaps I should have a talk with the lad."

  With a great deal of effort, Olivia smothered her amusement and handed him a glass of lemonade. But Conor was too busy frowning at Becky and Jeremiah to notice the smile that hovered at the corners of her mouth.

  Miranda and Carrie were both fast asleep by the time they arrived home. Becky, still dreamily humming the melody of a waltz, led the way upstairs with the lamp. Olivia followed, carrying Miranda. Conor came last, with Carrie in his arms.

  In the hall, Olivia took the lamp from Becky's hand. "Go on to bed, honey."

  Becky complied, walking to her room as if she were floating on clouds. Conor turned to Olivia, who was watching the girl with a smile. She looked over at him and whispered, "I think she enjoyed herself."

  Conor thought she had enjoyed herself a bit too much for his peace of mind. He'd best be keeping a watchful eye on Jeremiah Miller.

  "Will you put Carrie in bed?" Olivia asked, breaking in on his thoughts.

  He nodded and took Carrie into her room. Guided by the moonlight through the windows, he carried the child over to the bed. Shifting her weight to one arm, he pulled back the covers, then gently laid her in the bed. He pulled the covers over her and moved to go, but her voice stopped him.

  "Daddy?"

  Conor sat down on the edge of the bed. "Hmm?"

  She opened her eyes and blinked up at him sleepily. "When I'm old enough to have a dance card, you'll be the first man on it."

  Conor felt a hard, burning tightness in his chest, a tightness that twisted his heart and left him unable to speak. He watched Carrie's eyes close. Within seconds, her even breathing told him she was asleep again.

  He bent down and kissed her brow. "Good night, mo cailin," he whispered, but he made no move to leave. Instead, he sat there for a bit longer, just watch­ing her sleep.

  He'd build her a tree house in that massive oak down by the orchard, and when she had a dance card, he'd bloody well check the names of all the lads on it. As for Becky and Jeremiah, Conor decided he wasn't going to let her marry the lad until she was at least eighteen. Miranda would probably want a new doll for Christmas and pudding cake again next year on her birthday. He thought of watching them grow up and knew he'd have to keep a firm hand with them, especially Carrie. But he could do that. He thought of the empty fields to the south and wondered how much cotton seed cost.

  He began to build a vision of the future in his mind. He could see himself lying beside Olivia, feel himself falling asleep with her in his arms. He could see them waltzing at every harvest dance that was to come. He could see her playing birthday games in the yard with the girls and the other children they would have. He could hear her laughing with them and singing "Ring- Around-the-Rosy." It was a vision that promised things he hadn't dared to want for a long time.

  The moment he realized it, he began to deny it. Instantly, the impossibility of it all flared up in his face, burning away the mist of what he knew was only a fantasy.

  He remembered himself as a boy, standing outside a Derry bakery with snow falling over him, staring long­ingly through the window at the pastries and confec­tions laid out for the rich Christmas shoppers—how he'd pressed his nose against the glass and felt the hunger gnawing at his insides.

  Now, he felt like that again; he felt a hunger just as strong. He wanted it so badly. The whole future was laid out before him like those pastries in the window, so close, yet out of his reach.

  He shoved away memories of that hungry, lonely child, but could not set aside the realization that, over twenty years later, he was a man just as hungry, just as lonely, just as needy as the boy he'd been.

  Conor rose to his feet and left Carrie's room. He stepped over Chester, who had taken up his sentry post in the center of the hall, and walked toward the stairs. He glanced toward Olivia's room and saw the light that fil­tered out from beneath her closed door. She was still awake.

  What was she doing right now? Sitting at the dressing table, brushing her hair. Or lying in bed, reading a book. Maybe she was waiting for him. He reached for the door handle, then stopped, his hand poised in midair.

  It was only a fantasy.

  He let his hand fall and walked away, closing himself off from what he wanted because he knew he did not deserve it.

  * * *

  The following afternoon after church, Olivia took the girls over to the Johnson farm for a visit. Conor, who wanted to finish the project he was working on, did not go with them.

  Conor was in the shed when he heard the rattle of carriage wheels. He walked outside and watched as a sleek black carriage pulled by a matched pair of Morgans came into the yard followed by Chester, who was barking furiously. The driver brought the carriage to a stop, and a man Conor had never seen before, ele­gantly dressed and obviously wealthy, stepped down. The man started toward the house, but Chester blocked his path, still barking. The man came to a halt.

  Conor brushed the dust from his clothes and crossed the yard. "Chester, be quiet," he commanded. The dog obeyed, but gave a low growl before sitting back on his haunches.

  The man pushed back his hat with the tip of his ebony walking stick and gave Conor a hard perusal. Conor, never one to be intimidated by any man's stare, studied him with equal thoroughness.

  "Conor Branigan?"

  "Aye. And who might you be?"

  "My name is Hiram Jamison." He did not hold out his hand in greeting, but he continued to watch Conor with a slightly arrogant expression.

  Conor raised one brow. "Is that name supposed to mean something to me?"

  The man stiffened. "I am Vernon Tyler's father-in-law."

  Conor suddenly understood. He wondered how much they were going to offer him for the land this time. "How unfortunate for you. My condolences."

  Unexpectedly, the man smiled, but it was a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Vernon was right about you. You are an arrogant bastard."

  "Fancy that. I was thinking the same about you."

  Hiram Jamison glanced around. "I'd like to have a word with you, if you don't mind. Is there someplace we could sit down and talk?"

  Conor gestured to the house, but he didn't take the man inside. That would be a courtesy, and he didn't feel like being that courteous. He put Chester in the house and brought two of Olivia's horribly uncomfortable kitchen chairs out onto the back porch. Both men sat down.

  "Mr. Branigan, I am not a man who likes to waste time, and too much time has been wasted already. I'll come straight to the point. Vernon already offered you three dollars an acre. I'll double it."

  Just for sport, Conor pretended to consider it. Then he shook his head. "No."

  That surprised Hiram. "No?" He leaned forward in the chair. "That's three thousand dollars."

  "Thank you, Mr. Jamison," Conor said dryly, "but I do know how to add."

  The man flushed a dark red. From anger, Conor sus­pected, not embarrassment. "It's the best offer you'll get," Hiram said. "Take it, boy."

  Take it, boy. Conor thought of Eversleigh's words of so long ago and the sixpence he'd wanted to spit on. He remembered all the men he'd known in his life who thought they could buy anything they wanted. But he thought of Olivia, and he knew some things could not be bought or sold at any price. He shook his head. "No."

  Hiram let out an impatient breath between his teeth. "All right then, how much do you want?"

  Conor grinned, knowing he had the upper hand and enjoying it immensely. "You don't have that much money."

  "I assure you, I do. Name your price."

  "I don't have one." Conor rose to his feet. "Mr. Jamison, this land is not for sale. Not at any price. You'll just have to build your railroad somewhere else."

  Hiram stood up, but he made no move to depart. "You obviously don't know who I am. I own three rail­roads, a steamship company, four Pennsylvania coal mines, two linen factories, and half a dozen other busi­nesses. I
have a mansion in New York, another mansion in Newport, and a yacht on Cape Cod."

  He cast a contemptuous glance over Conor, his voice rising along with his temper. "And what are you, boy? Nothing but another ignorant Mick off the potato boat, just like all the ignorant Micks who work for me, who load my ships and dig my coal, who shine my boots and bring me my morning coffee."

  Conor had been waiting patiently for the tirade to end, and when it did, he folded his arms across his chest, met the other man's eyes, and said, "I'll give you exactly ten seconds to get into that fancy carriage of yours and drive away. Because I'm beginning to lose my temper, and as you know, ignorant Micks have violent tempers."

  Hiram whirled around and stalked away, but he halted beside the carriage door and turned. "You will regret this."

  "Of that, I have no doubt," Conor answered, watch­ing Hiram Jamison climb into his carriage, knowing he'd once again defied the powers that be. He just never could seem to learn not to do that.

  Kate poured Olivia a cup of tea. "So, how is married life?" she asked, sitting down across the kitchen table.

  Olivia stared down into her cup, studying her wavy reflection in the black tea, and didn't reply.

  "That good?"

  Olivia bit her lip and shook her head. "It's not bad, really. He's so good with the girls, and they adore him. I just wish—"

  "What?"

  "I wish that he could open up a little." She found herself pouring out the whole story, how she found him, what she knew about him, what had happened in Monroe. Everything. "Now, he's so withdrawn," she finished, staring down into her tea. "He won't sleep with me, Kate. He won't even come near me."

  Kate started laughing.

  Olivia lifted her head. "What are you laughing about?"

  "Most married women have the opposite complaint."

  Olivia did not find that funny.

  Kate sighed, seeing her dismal face. "Honey, married life is never easy. Not for anybody. Every couple has problems, and it takes time to sort them out. Oren and I fought like cats and dogs when we got married. Still do, sometimes."

  "I wish Conor and I fought," Olivia said, slumping forward to rest her chin in her hand. "We don't talk enough to fight. He didn't want to be married. He made no secret of that."

  "Well, like it or not, he's married now."

  "Only because he had no choice."

  "Olivia." Kate set down her teacup and eyed her sternly across the table. "A man who can't afford to foot the bill has no business looking at the menu. Of course, he had a choice. No one forced him to sleep with you."

  Olivia blushed hotly. She could not look up.

  "He's a grown man, Liv, who knew what he was doing. The worst thing you can do is blame yourself."

  "What can I do?"

  "Give the man time. I think he'll come around."

  Olivia looked up. "He doesn't love me."

  "Did he say that?"

  "Not in so many words, but—"

  "You, of course, tell him every day how much you love him."

  Startled, Olivia sat up in her chair. "Well, no, actu­ally, I haven't."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm afraid that'd just make him run for the next stage out of town," she confessed in a small voice.

  "When I got married, my mama gave me some advice I'll never forget. Since your mama never got the chance, I'll tell you what my mama said. She said that the most important thing to a marriage isn't being in love, although that's important. It isn't money, although that would be nice. It isn't even children, although they usually come with the territory. The most important thing is trust."

  She reached across the table and gave Olivia's hand an encouraging squeeze. "I think you picked yourself a good man. Now, you just have to have faith in him. From what you've told me, he's been through some hard times in his life. A man like that won't wear his heart on his sleeve, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have one."

  "Thanks, Kate."

  Kate waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Nothing to thank me for. Besides, next time Oren and I have a fight, I'll come cry on your shoulder."

  In the middle of the night, Carrie had a nightmare. Conor heard her screaming—"Daddy! Daddy!"—and he took the stairs two at a time to reach her. When he got to her room, her sisters and Olivia were already there. Olivia was sitting with her on the bed, rocking her. She looked up as Conor moved into the room, past Becky, Miranda, and the ever-faithful Chester.

  He walked over to the bed and sat down. Olivia relinquished her hold, and Conor pulled the sobbing child into his arms. Her frightened sobs tore at his heart—wee Carrie, who never seemed afraid of any­thing.

  Olivia glanced over at the other two girls. "Everything's all right," she said gently. "Go back to bed."

  The girls departed, taking Chester with them, and Olivia returned her attention to Carrie, watching as Conor held the child and spoke softly to her.

  "Sha sha," he murmured, stroking her hair. "Sha sha. Bermid go maith. Ta me anseo." He repeated the soothing Gaelic words over and over until Carrie's sobs faded to hiccups.

  He pulled back and brushed tears from her cheeks. "Better?"

  She nodded, but when he moved to pull away, she clutched at him. "Don't go, Daddy."

  "I'll not go anywhere, lass." He shifted their posi­tions so that he could lean back against the headboard with her on his lap. She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. He glanced at Olivia, who sat beside him on Carrie's bed, but neither of them spoke. After a few minutes, he tilted his head to look at the child in his arms.

  "Is she asleep?" Olivia asked.

  He nodded. Moving carefully, he eased himself out from beneath her, and settled her back into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. He bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Good night, mo paiste."

  Olivia kissed her sleeping daughter, too, then she and Conor left the room together, closing the door behind them. They paused in the hall.

  "You'll have to teach me some of that Irish," Olivia said. "It seems to work."

  "I've some whiskey left, but I didn't think you'd let me give her that."

  She slanted a prim look at him. "You thought cor­rectly. No whiskey in our house." Then, suddenly, she smiled at him. "Oh, dear. I told myself I wasn't going to do this. Mr. Branigan, I'm afraid your wife is a nag."

  My wife, he thought. My wife.

  He touched her face. His palm grazed her cheek, his thumb brushed across her lashes. His fingers slid through her hair. His other hand glided over her hip, pulling her closer.

  He couldn't fight this, he didn't want to fight it. All he wanted to do was kiss her and touch her and ravish her. He wanted to please her, keep her safe, make her glad that she had married him. His wife.

  "Olivia." He wanted to say more than just her name, but he found he could not. He could not form the words to ask for what he wanted. All he could do was take it.

  He drew his hand from her hair and reached behind him, grasping for the door handle. He pushed the door wide and pulled her into the bedroom they should have been sharing all along. She came without resistance, and once they were inside, he closed the door. He even remembered to lock it.

  In the darkness, he found her lips with his. He kissed her, a long, hard kiss. His hands curved around her waist; his fingers spread across the small of her back to pull her closer. He trailed kisses along her jaw, to the delicate line of her throat, as his hands slid between them and reached for the top button of her nightgown.

  Her arms came around his neck. "Oh, Conor," she whispered against his ear. "Yes. Yes."

  It took every ounce of will he possessed to stop him­self from ripping the gown apart. His hands shook as he fought to keep his desire in check just a little longer. He worked his way down, slipping the pearl buttons free, one at a time, until all twenty-six of them were unfas­tened. He curled his fingers beneath the edges to pull the gown from her shoulders. It slid down her arms and caught at the flare of her hips.

  He left i
t there and slid his hands up her ribs to the long braid of her hair. He pulled the ribbon away and the braid unraveled in his hands. He twined the thick, heavy silk in his fists as he tasted the heated skin of her throat and felt the pulse beneath her jaw beat a frantic rhythm against his tongue.

  He loved her hair, her skin, her breasts, her scent, her heart, all the softness in her that drew him with a power stronger than his will to resist it. It alarmed him, it enthralled him.

  He wished they had light so he could see her, but he found the exquisite shape of her with his hands—her breast, her waist, her hips.

  He gave the gown a tug. It slipped free of her hips and fell to the floor. He slid his hand between her thighs, and he felt her arousal in the silken warmth he found there. He caressed her, savoring the shivers that ran through her as his fingertips glided back and forth.

  Her arms tightened around his neck, and he heard her breathing quicken to tiny gasps as he found the place that pleased her most. Suddenly, her body arched and she cried out, a soft keening wail muffled by his shoulder.

  He couldn't hold back another instant. He withdrew his hand, then he lifted her in his arms and took her to the dim outline of the four-poster bed. He lifted her onto the high mattress, then began tugging at the buttons of his shirt and trousers with impatient movements, mut­tering a curse when he had to stop and pull off his boots. When he was finally out of his clothes, he climbed up beside her, not bothering with the stepstool, which he would only have wasted precious time trying to find in the dark anyway.

  "Jaysus," he muttered, "for a woman who's afraid of heights, you've a bed damned high off the ground, Mrs. Branigan." And he kissed her before she could even think about admonishing him for swearing.

  He covered her body with his own. Her arms encir­cled his neck, welcoming him. Her legs parted, inviting him to come inside. He slid his hands beneath her shoulders, his weight on his forearms, and entered her slowly. He'd hurt her that night in Monroe, and although he felt her yield and stretch to accommodate him, he strove to contain the driving force inside him­self. But when she whispered his name in that shy, drawling, incredibly erotic way of hers, his control snapped and he forgot all his tender intentions.