Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He remembered the woman. She had found him in the road, and he'd gotten into her wagon. He must be in her house. He lifted his head and caught a glimpse of a plain and colorless room, but then everything began to spin. His head fell back against the pillows.

  "Mornin'."

  He turned his head at the sound. Seated in the chair near his bed was a little girl of about nine, her short legs dangling over the edge of the seat. She kicked them idly back and forth as her blue eyes watched him.

  Conor licked his dry lips, a movement that made his jaw throb. "Hullo," he answered, his voice cracking on the word. God, he was thirsty.

  The girl continued to study him as if he were some strange and curious insect. "Why do you shout so much?"

  "Shout?" Dazed and groggy, he tried to understand what she was talking about.

  "All the time. We can hear you through the win­dows." She frowned accusingly. "You keep us awake at night."

  Conor suddenly realized what she meant. He was dismayed that this little girl had overheard him in the throes of his nightmares. God only knew what he'd been saying. "I must have been dreaming."

  Her frown disappeared, and she nodded with under­standing. "Nightmares. I have those, too. Don't worry. Mama says you don't have to be scared of nightmares 'cause they aren't real."

  The girl's mama didn't know what she was talking about. His nightmares were very real indeed. "How long have I been here?" he asked.

  "About three days, I reckon."

  "Three days?" He stared at her in astonishment, unable to remember anything about the past three days.

  The girl tilted her head thoughtfully. "What's 'wanker' mean?"

  "What?" Startled by the question, he wondered what other choice epithets he'd blistered this wee one's ears with. "A lass your age shouldn't know such words as that, I'm thinking."

  "It's a bad word, isn't it?" She was obviously de­lighted. "I've never heard that one before."

  The comment was so outrageous, he couldn't help grinning, but acute pain shot along his jaw, and his grin disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  "I'm Carrie," she went on. "Who are you?"

  "Conor."

  "Who were you shouting at in your dreams?" she asked.

  He turned his head and stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and thought briefly of prison guards and British landlords. "No one important."

  "You called them all sorts of names."

  He tried to deny it. "I never did."

  "Yessir. You said they were bloody bas—"

  "Carrie!" A female voice caused Conor to lift his head, more slowly this time, and he recognized the woman with the wagon. "That will be quite enough," she told the child. "You know I told you not to come in here."

  "But I wanted to see him, Mama."

  "Breakfast is ready. Go on out to the kitchen."

  "But—"

  "Out," the woman ordered, pointing to the open doorway behind her.

  Carrie gave an aggrieved sigh. "Yes, ma'am." She slid off the chair. "Good-bye, Mr. Conor."

  Giving him a wave of farewell, she walked to the door. "I just wanted to have a look," she added in an injured tone, and left the room.

  The woman began walking toward him, and Conor studied her as she approached. The first thing that struck him was her drabness. Her dress was brown, the color of muddy water, and buttoned up to her chin. Her hair was brown and curled in a simple bun at the base of her neck. She reminded him of a plain brown moth.

  But when she halted beside the bed and he got a good look at her face, he found himself revising his opinion. Her eyes were brown, too, so dark and soft, they reminded him of chocolate, and were surrounded by thick, absurdly long lashes. She had fine-textured skin the color of fresh cream. And there were tiny lines at the corners of her eyes that told him she was a woman who smiled often. But she did not smile at him.

  "I'm Olivia Maitland," she said.

  "Conor Branigan," he returned, wishing she'd give him something to drink. He was so thirsty.

  "Well, Mr. Branigan, you've caused quite a stir round here." A slight frown marred her forehead. "I hope your vocabulary isn't quite so colorful when you're awake."

  The prim disapproval in her voice was tempered by her soft, drawling accent. Nonetheless, it grated on him, making him feel defensive. He put on his mask and smiled at her, even though that smile made his jaw hurt like hell. "'Tis indeed," he said with practiced careless­ness. "I curse and shout all the time, don't you know."

  She looked as if she believed him. "I won't have such language in front of my girls," she said, leaning closer to press a hand to his forehead.

  Her skin felt deliciously cool against his. He caught the scent of vanilla and cloves on her hand, and he felt the sharp pang of hunger again. "Remind me of that next time I'm asleep, and I'll try to restrain myself."

  She had the grace to blush, an action which softened the sternness of her frown and quite spoiled the effect. "You still have a fever," she said and drew her hand away. "You also have several cracked ribs and some severe bruises. Whoever beat you up did a mighty fine job of it." She gazed at him steadily, as if expecting an explanation.

  He had no intention of giving her one. "Where are my clothes?"

  "In my rag bag. What's left of them, anyway."

  She saw his puzzled frown, and her blush deepened. "I had to cut them off of you," she said and turned to the table beside his bed. "I couldn't get them off any other way."

  This woman had undressed him. An interesting notion, he thought, his gaze skimming the profile of her body, pausing for a thorough study of each feminine curve along the way. Not that there was much to see. The high collar and long sleeves of her dress revealed little, but he noticed a small waist and generous hips, and he felt a pang of regret. Too bad he'd been uncon­scious at the time.

  She lifted a rag out of the bucket of water on the table and wrung it out, then turned back around and dabbed his cheeks with it. He licked his dry lips, savor­ing the feel of the cool water on his face. "What about my pack?"

  She paused. "I didn't find anything with you. Except some money." She waved the rag toward the washstand across the room. "I put it over there."

  He'd left his pack in the tent, he remembered. Damn. There was a bottle of good Irish whiskey in there, and he could have used it now. He glanced up at the woman and wondered if she might have a wee drop in the house, but he instantly rejected that idea. Women like her didn't drink, or if they did, they didn't admit it.

  The woman leaned over the bed again and pressed the wet rag to his forehead. "I've wrapped your ribs," she said. "But it will take about six weeks for them to heal. I think you might also have some internal bleed­ing. Do you have any family I should notify about your injuries?"

  He closed his eyes. "No," he said flatly. "No family at all."

  She straightened and dropped the rag back in the bucket. "I'll bring you some tea for the fever."

  Tea sounded . . . acceptable. He watched her remove the bucket from the table and set it on the floor. Then she left the room, returning several moments later car­rying a tray. On the tray were a chipped china teapot that had obviously seen better days, a matching cup, and a flat tin pan. She set the tray on the table, then picked up the pan and set it on the floor beside his bed. "If you need to relieve yourself," she explained.

  She picked up the cup and stepped closer to the bed. Blowing into the cup to cool the tea, she stared down at him over the rim, her eyes studying him without reveal­ing her conclusions.

  After a moment, she tested the temperature with the tip of her finger, nodded as if satisfied, and bent over him. "Drink as much as you can."

  He lifted his head slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain, and her free hand curved behind his neck to provide additional support as she pressed the cup to his lips. He inhaled and felt his insides twist at the noxious smell. He pulled back slightly. "Jaysus, what sort o'tay is this?"

  "Please, don't swear, Mr. Branigan. It
's willowbark tea, and you've had plenty of it over the last few days. It's for the fever."

  "Hell with the fever," he muttered, staring with dis­taste at the cup beneath his nose and the pale green liq­uid within. "This stuff will kill me."

  "I know it smells bad. It tastes worse. But it helps with the pain and keeps your fever down."

  He shot her a doubtful glance, but he allowed her to tip some of the tea into his mouth. He swallowed until nearly half the foul stuff was gone. She was right, it tasted even worse than it smelled. But the simple act of swallowing also hurt his ribs, and keeping his head up made him dizzy. His head began to throb and his stom­ach clenched. He was going to throw up. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  He gagged, and the tea came right back up, all over her hand, the cup, and himself. Almost violently, he pushed her hand away, then sank back into the pillows and wiped one hand across his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed his stomach to stop retching. God, he hated this—the weakness, the humiliation, the utter helplessness of it. "Told you so," he croaked.

  He felt the woman slide her other hand from behind his head to smooth back the hair from his forehead. "You're not going to die, Mr. Branigan," she said in the gentlest tone he'd heard her use. "You're too ornery for that."

  3

  Conor Branigan's fever broke late that night, a fact for which Olivia said a grateful prayer. He fell into a dreamless slumber, and she was able to catch a few hours of uninterrupted sleep herself before dawn.

  She rose at sunrise, washed and dressed, then started breakfast. When she looked in on him again, he was still sleeping peacefully. After waking the girls, she left Becky in charge of getting the younger ones up, then went out to do the morning chores.

  When Olivia returned to the kitchen, the girls were already there. Becky had finished making breakfast for her, and all three girls were seated at the table. Chester lay on the floor, waiting for any stray scraps one of them might sneak to him under the table. Olivia set the pail of eggs she'd gathered from the henhouse on the wooden counter and washed her hands, then ladled a bowl of cornmeal mush from the pot on the stove.

  "How is Mr. Branigan, Mama?" Becky asked.

  "He's much better," she answered and sat down at the table. "His fever's broken."

  "Is he the one who's goin' to stay and help us like Nate used to?" Miranda asked.

  "No." Olivia was dismayed by the very thought. "He certainly is not."

  "Where do you suppose he got all those scars?" Becky asked.

  "I don't know," Olivia answered, and wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

  "Well, I like him," Carrie said. "It's fun to watch him while he's asleep. Can I go see him after breakfast, Mama?"

  "No," she answered sharply. "I've told you not to go into his room."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he has a filthy tongue and a vile tempera­ment. I want you to stay away from him." She glanced at Miranda. "You, too. Is that clear?"

  They nodded and fell silent. Olivia returned her attention to her breakfast, relieved to let the subject of Conor Branigan drop. She stared down at her bowl, thinking about the day ahead. Now that the man was doing better, Olivia knew she had to make another trip into town.

  She had chickens and hogs, so she never lacked for meat, and her own garden provided more than enough vegetables; but there were many necessities she just couldn't get anywhere but the mercantile. She was nearly out of flour and cornmeal, and molasses was running low.

  This time, she would take with her all the fresh eggs and three dozen jars of the spiced peaches she'd put up last fall. If Stan Miller would no longer let her buy on credit, she might be able to barter for what she needed to see them through until harvest.

  Olivia felt a sudden burst of anger. Vernon owned the store, and she knew Stan was following his orders. It was standard practice to give credit until the harvest, and she knew what Vernon was doing. Just one more way to make things harder, one more way to break her down and persuade her to sell her land. Olivia set her jaw stubbornly. It wasn't going to work.

  "Can I go out and play, Mama?"

  Miranda's voice broke into her thoughts, and Olivia looked up. She glanced at the child's bowl. "You haven't finished your mush."

  The girl made a face that clearly said why. Olivia couldn't help smiling at the sight of Miranda's round face scrunched into a ridiculous expression of distaste.

  Olivia glanced at Becky and Carrie and noticed their bowls were also half full. Her smile faded. She wanted to give her girls so much more than mush for breakfast and made-over dresses and hard work. She thought of her own childhood, of ail the things taken for granted, of the security that came with money. It was a life her girls had never known, and probably never would. But love counted for a lot, and no one could love these girls more than she did.

  Olivia rose to her feet, pushing back her chair. "Tell you what. If I'm not mistaken, there's a tin of maple syrup in the pantry. How about I pour some of that on your mush along with some butter?"

  Her suggestion was rewarded with shouts of enthusi­asm. Olivia went to the pantry and brought out the can she'd been saving. Maple syrup was one of their favorite things, and she'd intended to keep it for a spe­cial occasion, but she supposed that special things didn't always have to be saved for special occasions.

  She added a spoonful of syrup and a dollop of butter to each bowl, and the girls finished their mush without further complaint. As Olivia watched them, she wished she could solve all their problems so easily.

  An hour later, Olivia hitched Cally to the wagon for another journey into town. She climbed into the wagon, giving Becky instructions. "Be sure to look in on Mr. Branigan every half hour or so. He'll be asleep most of the time, but if he wakes up, try to get some more of that willowbark tea into him, or if he won't drink it, at least plenty of water. And some of that broth I've got simmerin' on the stove would be good, too."

  Becky nodded, and her pretty face took on a serious expression at the responsibility of being in charge. "All right, Mama."

  "I'll be back before noon." Olivia snapped the reins and Cally moved out of the yard. "And keep the girls out of his room," she shouted over her shoulder before the wagon rounded the side of the house and started down the oak-lined lane that led to the main road.

  Callersville was a small slip of a town on the road from Monroe to Shreveport, a place where people sometimes passed through but seldom stayed, where porches sagged and dogs slept in the shade, where old men whittled and young widows quilted and honey­suckle bloomed. Olivia had been to New Orleans and Baton Rouge a few times. One summer, her father had taken the whole family to Mobile to visit her aunt Ella and uncle Jarrod. But most of her life had been spent right here in Callersville. Olivia gazed at the yellow jas­mine and blue lupines that grew wild along the road, and knew she wouldn't have it any other way.

  She passed Tyler's Sawmill and Lumberyard, turned at the Baptist church, and pulled into the center of town. She came to a halt in front of Tyler's Mercantile, which was situated between Tyler's Restaurant and Tyler's Barber Shop. The man just had to have his name on everything, Olivia thought, jumping down from the wagon. As if everybody round here didn't already know he owned just about every building in town.

  She picked up her basket of eggs from the wagon seat and mounted the steps to the mercantile. She nod­ded to Jimmy Johnson and Bobby McCann, who sat on the bench by the open door pulling a hefty chunk of saltwater taffy between them, and she was surprised to note that for once they didn't seem to be up to any mis­chief. Maybe it was just the heat.

  She entered the store, relieved to discover that it was Lila Miller who stood behind the counter today. "Mornin', Lila," she greeted, setting the basket on the wooden counter and pushing back her hat.

  The woman gave her a smile. "Olivia! Missed you in church Sunday."

  "I had some things come up at home and couldn't get into town," she answered. "How are you?"

  "I'd be fine, if it weren't
for this heat." Lila tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind one ear, propped her elbows on the counter, and fanned herself with a copy of Godey's Lady's Book.

  Olivia glanced around, but Lila's husband was nowhere in sight. The only other person in the store was their fifteen-year-old son, Jeremiah, who was stock­ing shelves with cans of Borden's Condensed Milk.

  The boy nodded to her. "Mornin', Miss Olivia. How's Becky?"

  She smiled back at him. Jeremiah and Becky were friends, and she knew there would come a day when they would probably be more than that. Becky was too young yet for courting, but when the time came, Jeremiah would make a fine husband. "She's fine, Jeremiah. I'll tell her you asked about her."

  The boy grinned with obvious pleasure, and Olivia turned back to Lila. "Stan gone this mornin'?"

  Lila nodded. "Went to Monroe. Did you need to see him?"

  "Not really," Olivia answered and gestured to the basket of eggs. "I need supplies, and I was hoping I could barter for what I need. I've got some of my spiced peaches out in the wagon, too."

  The eyes of the two women met across the counter, and Olivia knew that Lila was thinking about the day the lists came in from Gettysburg and how they'd cried together. Olivia for her two brothers and Lila for her eldest son. Things like that counted for more than Vernon would ever understand.

  Lila straightened and set aside her magazine. "Now, I was here when Vernon went over the books with Stan, and I heard him say no more credit for you. But," she added, her blue eyes innocently wide, "I don't recall him sayin' a word about not taking goods in trade."

  Olivia returned the conspiratorial smile Lila gave her. "Thank you. I've got three dozen jars of peaches and two dozen eggs."

  Lila made a sound of appreciation. "Heavenly, your peaches. We'll have no problem selling them."

  "I need flour, rice, cornmeal, and molasses. Is this enough to trade?"

  The two women negotiated the barter, quickly agree­ing on how much Olivia could get for her eggs and her peaches.

  "Wagon's out front," Olivia said.