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During the next few days, Olivia said nothing more about her offer of a job or Conor's refusal. She continued teaching him to read, and he made rapid progress. He also grew stronger with each passing day. He began taking walks every morning, each one longer than the last. The girls sometimes accompanied him, but often he went alone.
The girls' worship of Conor did not lessen as the days passed, but only seemed to strengthen with time, forging a bond that worried Olivia. She knew the closer they got to him, the harder it was going to be when he left. Yet, without a father, the girls had missed so much, and when she watched them together, she just couldn't bring herself to put a stop to the friendship.
She was fiercely protective of her girls, but she knew she couldn't always protect them from heartaches. They would be disappointed when he left, but they would get over it. And she'd find someone else to help her, someone steady and stable, someone God-fearing and hardworking who didn't swear, didn't drink, and didn't have smoky blue eyes that made her weak in the knees.
Olivia lifted the ax in her hands and brought it down toward the log on the stump in a clumsy swing. The blade sank into the wood far enough to get stuck, but not far enough to split the log. It didn't matter that she chopped wood nearly every day, she never got any better at it.
Asking him to stay was a stupid idea anyway, she thought as she began working the blade free. It was for the best that he was leaving soon. She and the girls didn't need his help. They were managing just fine. Olivia reached for the wedge, jammed it into the crack she'd made in the log, then straightened and glanced up at the sky overhead. "Just fine," she repeated aloud. "We don't need him."
She pushed back her broad-brimmed hat and glanced around, her gaze lingering on the dilapidated barn, the crooked fences, and weathered outbuildings. Even in the soft light of dawn, they looked old and tired.
Her shoulders slumped. Suddenly, she felt as worn and weary as her surroundings. It didn't make any difference what she wanted. Conor was leaving. That choice was not hers to make.
She had made her choice a long time ago. She looked at the garden surrounding her, seeing the overgrown rose arbors, misshapen boxwood hedges, and battered gazebo for what they were: the pathetic vestiges of what had once been a beautiful and gracious plantation.
She could remember her mother giving cotillions in this garden—a graceful figure moving amid the crowd in a cloud of apricot silk. Olivia looked down at the dull gray skirt and the heavy leather work gloves she wore, and she sighed. What would her mother say if she could see Oli via now?
She'd he scandalized to see her daughter wearing a man's gloves and chopping wood, when she had been born and bred to play the piano and host garden parties. But after her mother's death, there had been no music, there had been no parties in this garden.
She could remember when all the slaves had departed in '63. Only Nate had stayed on—dear, dependable Nate. She'd given him twenty acres of prime land for his own farm, but she knew he hadn't stayed because of that. Twenty-one then, she had watched the other slaves go, and she had realized the truth she'd been shielded from all her life—that slaves weren't happy being slaves, that up-country white folks didn't care what happened to the plantations, and that the beauty and grace of her childhood had been a false and fragile existence all along.
She could remember the anguish that had etched deeper into her father's face with each passing year—-a man lost without his wife, bereft without his sons, bewildered without his way of life, trying to drown the pain in Kentucky bourbon, and later, cheap moonshine.
Olivia could picture him on the day they'd heard Lee had surrendered at Appomattox—high on a ladder only a few feet from where she was now, waving a bottle and singing "Look Away, Dixieland," at the top of his lungs, before he came crashing down amid the camellias, his back as broken as his spirits.
She and Nate had tended him for those six agonizing weeks, watching his life ebb slowly, relentlessly away as he refused to eat, refused to bathe or shave himself, wanting only to die, and hating her and Nate for keeping him alive. They had buried him in the family plot beside her mother, beside the wooden markers Nate had made for her brothers' graves.
She had wandered through her empty house and her empty days, aimless and lost, clinging to the remnants of her faith and trying to find a purpose to her life. Her family was gone, and she had no one. Nate was a staunch and loyal friend, but he could not replace the family she had lost. Then, that summer, the girls had come to live with her, and she had found the purpose she'd been seeking. Now, she had a new life, made from the ashes of the old.
Conor's words came back to her like an echo. I like my freedom.
Well, soon he would have all the freedom he wanted, and she would go on as she always had. If she didn't find anyone to help her, she'd carry on without help.
Peachtree might not be a gracious plantation anymore, but it was hers. She was going to hang on to it, even though that meant she'd have to fix her own roof and pick her own peaches. When the time came, she prayed she'd find the courage to do both. Olivia lifted the ax and went back to work.
There were a few things Conor just couldn't tolerate, and watching a task being done wrong was one of them.
He stared out the kitchen window that looked out on the side of the house, watching Olivia's pathetic attempts at log-splitting, and he felt that irritating and inconvenient prick of conscience. He knew how hard she worked; he knew how difficult things were for her. He couldn't stay, but hell, he was healthy enough now to split a few logs. It was the least he could do.
He went outside and rounded the corner of the house to the woodpile.
Olivia looked up as he approached. "Mornin'. You're up early."
He studied her as she clumsily swung the ax again, missing the log altogether, and he shook his head. It was a wonder, indeed, that she didn't chop her foot off. He walked to her side.
"What are you doing?" she asked as he took the ax from her hand.
"I can't stand it." He gently pushed her a safe distance away. "I just can't stand it. The way you chop wood is a disgrace, it is, indeed."
"What are you talking about?" Olivia asked, watching as he walked back over to the stump.
He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled, an instant of dark blue eyes and wicked humor, then turned and swung the ax, hitting the log dead center. Two more quick blows of the ax, and the log split, falling away from the stump as two pieces of firewood. He looked over at her again, his features as seriously innocent as a schoolboy's.
"Show-off," she accused; but she smiled as she pulled several pieces of wood and kindling from the small stack she'd already chopped, and walked away.
The girls weren't up yet, and the house was quiet, except for the steady, measured sound of the ax. Olivia pulled off her gloves and started a fire in the stove with the wood she'd brought in, but as she made breakfast, she couldn't help watching him through the open window.
His profile to her, he worked at a steady pace, without wasted effort. She thought of her own clumsy attempts, of how long it took her every morning to do what he did so effortlessly.
He paused and set down the ax. Unbuttoning his shirt, he pulled it off then tossed it aside. He wiped the sweat from his brow with one forearm, balanced another log on the stump, and resumed his task. Olivia noticed the flex and play of his muscles as he worked, fascinated by the chiseled contours of his broad back and shoulders, and the strength in his arms as he swung the ax. He moved with a masculine grace and strength that were fascinating to watch. That warm aching feeling returned, and she leaned against the counter, breakfast forgotten.
A sound above her head startled Olivia out of her reverie. She glanced up at the ceiling and heard the sound of footsteps. The girls were up.
Olivia shook her head, chiding herself. She didn't have time for idle daydreaming. She turned away and began to set the table, forcing herself to concentrate on that rather than
the intriguing view out of her window.
Carrie was the first one down the stairs. "Mornin', Mama," she said, and immediately caught sight of Conor through the window. She ran to the counter and hoisted herself up, her feet dangling in the air. "Mornin', Mr. Conor!"
"For heaven's sake, Carrie, don't shout," Olivia remonstrated. She watched as Conor laid down the ax and walked to the window.
"Good morning, mo cailin," he said to the child, and rested his forearms on the sill. "Why don't you come on out here and help me stack this wood for your mother?"
Carrie glanced at Olivia over one shoulder. "Can I, Mama?"
Olivia nodded, and Carrie slid down from the counter. She raced out the back door, and within moments she and Conor were stacking wood, side by side. Olivia watched them together and again felt a pang of uncertainty. Perhaps she should put a stop to things now and send Conor Branigan on his way.
When Becky came down with Miranda a few minutes later, she sent them out to feed the chickens and bring in the eggs, then she made a pan of corn bread, listening to the conversation going on outside.
". . . and Bobby McCann said I couldn't go fishing with them 'cause I'm a girl." Carrie's voice rose indignantly. "I don't know what that's got to do with it. I've caught bigger fish than Bobby plenty of times."
"You know how to fish?" Conor asked.
"'Course I do. Nate taught me."
"Nate? Your mother's farmhand, wasn't he?"
"He lived down by the creek, and we used to go fishing all the time. But he died last summer."
Olivia heard her daughter's heavy sigh, and she knew what was coming. She walked over to the window and watched as Carrie hung her head.
"And now I don't have anybody to go fishing with," she ended, so forlornly that Olivia felt a pang of guilt. Second to climbing trees, fishing was the child's favorite pastime, and there had been little time for Olivia to take her.
Conor knelt down to Carrie's eye level. "We'll have to go sometime," he said.
Carrie's sad expression immediately vanished. "Really? When? Can we go today?" Her voice rose eagerly with each question.
"We'll ask your mother. She and your sisters may want to come along."
"Becky and Miranda don't know how to fish."
"Well, then I guess we'll have to teach them, won't we? Besides, we're bound to get hungry, and I'll bet your mother would bring along a fine picnic basket." His voice rose slightly. "Maybe some of that fried chicken of hers, and that blackberry pie she makes that's so good."
He looked over his shoulder at Olivia and grinned, making it plain he knew she had been listening to every word.
"I'll think on it," she called back, and turned away from the window.
In offering to take Carrie and her sisters fishing, Conor got more than he bargained for. Miranda couldn't bear the thought of drowning those poor little worms, and refused to fish until he had convinced her that they didn't feel a thing and were very happy living inside of catfish. Becky couldn't seem to keep her line from tangling in every tree in the vicinity or getting it wrapped around every log and rock in the water. Carrie just wanted his attention. Between the three of them, he was quite busy.
Olivia sat on the grass in the shade, and she couldn't help laughing as she watched him race back and forth along the bank of Sugar Creek, moving from one girl to another, with Chester constantly getting in the way. Just as he'd toss out his own line and get comfortably settled, one of them would need help. He baited their hooks, disentangled their lines, replaced their lost sinkers; and he never got the chance to catch a single fish of his own.
After about two hours of this, he called a halt. He walked over to Olivia's side and sank down beside her, leaving the girls to fend for themselves. But they didn't want to continue fishing without him, and after pleading and cajoling failed to move him, they wandered off, taking Chester with them, giving Conor at least a few moments of peace and quiet.
"Bobby McCann must be a smart young lad," he mumbled, falling back into the soft grass with a groan.
Olivia laughed. "Don't tell me that Conor Branigan, prizefighter, is worn out by three girls—again?"
He turned his head and looked up at her. "I told you before, Olivia, I'm an injured man."
"Un-uh," she said, with a shake of her head that told him she didn't accept that excuse. "That was a week ago. Besides, I saw you chop all that wood this morning. You'll have to come up with something better than that."
"All right." He sat up and reached for the picnic basket. "I'm weak from lack of food," he said, flipping back the lid.
He began rummaging in the basket. "Fried chicken. Brilliant idea, that. Blackberry pie. Another brilliant idea." He lifted a loaf of bread and inhaled the fresh, mouth-watering scent of it, then he glanced at her.
"When I was in prison, this is what I missed the most."
Olivia stared at him. "Bread?"
He nodded and closed his eyes, savoring again the scent of the loaf in his hand. "Fresh bread and butter," he said dreamily. "And hot water. I missed that almost as much."
He reached into the basket for a knife and the lump of butter she'd brought, then unwrapped it from its covering of damp cloth. He tore a piece of bread from the loaf and spread a thick coating of butter over it. "When I was in prison, we got bread, but—" He stopped abruptly, not wanting Olivia to know about the bread, not wanting her to know that they'd told him to beg like a dog to get it, and he had.
"What?" she prompted. "You got bread, but. . . ?"
"But it wasn't like this," he said instead. "It was dark and coarse and stale. That first morning I woke up here, the smell of fresh bread was the first thing I noticed, and I thought for a second the angels had made a mistake." He looked up and gave her an impudent smile. "Sent me the wrong direction, you know."
"Is that what you think heaven smells like?" she asked, leaning back with her weight on her arms. "Fresh bread?"
He took a hefty bite from the piece in his hand. "Absolutely," he answered, his mouth full of bread. "I'm convinced of it."
"I guess everybody has their favorites."
He leaned closer to her. "What's your favorite, Olivia?" he asked teasingly.
She thought about that for a moment. "Well, I'm rather partial to pralines, myself. I know there just have to be pralines in heaven."
"What are pralines?"
"A sort of candy."
He watched as she closed her eyes and licked her lips as if savoring the remembered taste. He could not move, he could only stare at the upward curve of her mouth and the exposed, creamy skin of her throat, his body taut.
"Pecans," she drawled in that languid voice that sent a jolt of pure lust through him. "Butter, brown sugar."
She opened her eyes. He felt certain his thoughts must be written on his face, but she only smiled at him, seemingly unaware. He struggled for something to say. "You'll have to make them."
"Oh, the girls will love that. I haven't made pralines for quite a while."
The girls. A nice, safe topic. He asked the first question that came into his head. "How did they end up living with you?"
Olivia sat up and turned to look out at the creek. "Their mother, Sarah, was my best friend. She died in '65, and I took the girls in."
"What about their father?" Conor asked. "Did he die in the war?"
"Yes." She sighed, looking out at the creek. "His brother couldn't pay the taxes on their place, so he put it up for auction and went out West." She looked over at Conor, her eyes dark and sad and hauntingly lovely. "He didn't want the girls. He didn't want the responsibility."
Conor understood what made a man shy away from responsibility. He'd struggled through madness and desperation; he'd experienced hopelessness and grief; he understood those demons well. But to let them take hold when there was family who needed you was unforgivable. If the demons ever got him, Conor wanted no one left behind who cared enough for him to suffer for it.
"If I hadn't taken
the girls in," Olivia went on, "they'd have been sent to the orphanage, since there was no kin who wanted them. I couldn't bear the thought of Sarah's girls in an orphanage. I had this big house. It just seemed like the right thing to do."
"You've a soft heart, Olivia."
She shook her head. "I needed those girls as much as they needed me," she said, a catch in her voice. "I was alone, I had no family left, and I was so lonely. I love those girls, Mr. Branigan. They're my girls, now."
He looked into her eyes, as soft and dark as melted chocolate, and he wondered what his life might have been like if somebody, anybody, had done that for him when he was a lad. Maybe he'd have found the contentment he saw in Olivia, maybe he'd have found peace, maybe he wouldn't have betrayed everything he valued. Maybe.
Conor knew it was futile to think of what might have been. He'd made his choices, and he had to live with them now. It was too late for anything else. It was just too late.
* * *
They had their picnic and did some more fishing, then Conor took a nap while Olivia and the girls played tag with Chester.
By the time they packed up the gear and walked back toward the house, the sun was just beginning to set. It was a glorious summer evening, with a slight breeze that kept the heat from being unbearable.
Olivia walked in front along the well-trodden path, the picnic basket hooked over one arm, picking wild- flowers for the supper table with Miranda and Becky. Carrie and Conor followed, Carrie proudly clutching the string of catfish, most of which were hers.
When they reached the orchard, Olivia paused. "I'm going to stop a minute and have a look at the peaches," she told her daughters. "You girls go on up to the house and get cleaned up for supper."
Conor's Way Page 13