"Not to worry," he answered. "I've no intention of cracking my ribs again." He moved carefully along the sloping roof to the ladder, then he climbed down. Olivia handed him the cup of tea.
"Can I help you fix the roof, Mr. Conor?" Carrie asked.
"Carrie," Olivia said before he could reply, "you're not going up there."
"But, Mama—"
"No."
Conor noticed Carrie's crestfallen expression. He smiled down at her. "I'll be needing some nails. Might you be willin' to find me some?"
"You bet." She started toward the toolshed, but Olivia put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.
"Chores, first," she said firmly.
"But I want to help Mr. Conor. He said I could." She turned to Conor for assistance. "You said I could, didn't you?"
"Later," she said firmly, forestalling any reply Conor might have made. "Those chickens won't feed themselves."
"But I don't want to feed the chickens. I want to help Mr. Conor."
"Now, young lady." She turned Carrie in the direction of the barn. "And don't forget to bring the eggs in so I can make breakfast."
Carrie gave a dejected sigh and looked up at her. "You're no fun, Mama," she said sadly. "You're just no fun."
Olivia wasn't impressed. She pointed to the barn. "March."
Carrie walked away, feet dragging, shoulders slumped.
A low chuckle behind her caused Olivia to turn. "What are you laughing about?" she asked.
"I'm not sure if that lass will grow up to be an actress or a confidence swindler."
Olivia didn't much like either option, but she couldn't help smiling. "I know. I love that child, but she can be quite a trial on occasion."
"I'll bet." He lifted his cup and took a swallow of tea.
She studied the masculine hands wrapped around the delicate porcelain cup, remembering the first nights he'd spent in her home, and how those hands had lashed out in violent dreams, smashing her china shepherdess and punching her pillows. She remembered also the extraordinary feel of those hands in her hair, spanning her waist, touching her lips, and she wondered how a man's hands could be both strong enough to pound another man's body in a boxing ring and yet gentle enough to make her knees go weak when he touched her.
"It's going to take some time for me to fix this roof, I'm thinking."
His voice startled Olivia out of her reverie, and she realized she'd been staring. She lowered her head, glancing at the tools and wood around her feet. "I see you found the shingles."
He nodded and took another swallow of tea. "In that old shed back there," he said, gesturing to the dilapidated shack where Nate had kept all his tools.
Since Nate's death, Olivia hadn't gone poking around in that old toolshed. There were rats in there, that was all she knew, and it was enough to keep her out. "It's very nice of you to do this," she murmured.
"As I said, it gives me something to do." He swallowed the last of the tea and held the cup out to her. "Besides, this will help me get back into fighting condition."
She took the cup from him and turned to walk back into the house, feeling suddenly melancholy. She'd asked God for help, and she had gotten what she'd asked for. Conor was fixing her roof, and he was going to help her with her peach crop. He was going to stay one more month. That ought to be enough.
But now it wasn't. Olivia felt ashamed of herself for wanting more.
Hard work had its rewards. By late afternoon, Conor knew he had to be the most pampered carpenter in Louisiana. Becky brought him cool water from the well at least half a dozen times; Miranda brought him some of Olivia's fresh-baked cookies; Carrie brought him the nails he'd requested and hovered nearby for the rest of the day, fetching any tool he might happen to need, entertaining him with her lively chatter. If Conor had received this much feminine attention back in Ireland, he might have remained a carpenter for the rest of his life.
It was a hot, sultry summer day, and the heavy clouds that began rolling in during the afternoon brought no relief. He glanced up at the clouds, and he wiped another stream of sweat from his brow, stared down the huge section of roof he'd just finished patching, and figured it probably wouldn't be a very good idea to start on another section today.
He glanced down at his pint-sized assistant. Her calico dress stuck to her as if it had been glued on, and her cheeks were flushed bright pink from the heat. He set down his hammer and climbed down from the roof. "Carrie, my darlin', I think it's time for a trip to that swimming hole."
"Yea!" Carrie dropped the can of nails and grabbed his hand. "C'mon!"
"Wait a second, lass." He pointed to the can of nails and its spilled contents. "Is that where those belong?"
She bent down and scooped nails back into the can, then set it on the edge of the porch. "Better?"
"It'll do for now. Let's go find your mother and sisters."
Conor and Carrie found them in the kitchen, and from the look of things, only Miranda would be able to accompany them for a swim. Becky, wearing a blue silk dress, was standing on a chair, and Olivia knelt on the floor beside her, pinning up the hem. Miranda, seated at the kitchen table, was munching cookies as she watched.
"Carrie and I decided it was just too hot to do any more work." He glanced down at the child beside him. "Didn't we, moppet?"
Carrie nodded. "Yep. We're goin' swimming."
"Would you lasses care to come along?" Conor asked.
"I'll go," Miranda said, sliding off her chair; but Becky and Olivia both shook their heads.
"Not today," Becky told them. "Mama's making over a dress for me."
"I see that. And a lovely one it is, too. What's the occasion?"
Olivia pushed in another pin and glanced up at him. "Every September, the town holds a harvest dance. It's been done every year since the end of the war, and it's become something of a tradition."
"Mama's going to wear her red silk, aren't you, Mama?"
"Yes," she answered, and pushed in another pin. "If I can narrow the skirt a bit."
"Red?" Conor imagined seeing her in some color besides the awful browns and grays she usually wore. "I'd like to see that," he murmured softly. "Red's my favorite color."
Olivia did not comment on that. She pushed in the last pin and rose to her feet. "All done, honey."
Becky ran her hands down the sides of the skirt. "Oh, Mama," she breathed. "I love it. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Come down from there, and we'll make sure the hem's straight."
Becky jumped lightly down from the chair and turned a slow pirouette. She came to a halt facing Conor, her blue eyes shining. "What do you think, Mr. Conor?"
He smiled at her. "You look beautiful."
She blushed prettily and ducked her head, smoothing the blue silk. "Really?"
"Really. You'll have lads standing in line, you will, indeed."
"Just one lad, I hope."
He shook his head. "Pity, that," he told her. "My mother once told my sister Brigid that finding a husband was like buying a bonnet."
Becky laughed at that. "A bonnet?"
He nodded. "She said you look around, you try on a few, you don't buy the first one you see." He winked at her. "Take your time, lass. That's a bit of my mother's advice for you."
Olivia shot him a look of gratitude over her sewing basket. "Becky, go on upstairs and change out of the dress so we can get started on it. Mind the pins."
Becky went upstairs, and Conor took Carrie and Miranda down to the swimming hole, leaving Olivia alone in the kitchen. She picked up the tape measure, rolling it around in her hand, and she silently blessed Conor for his bit of Irish wisdom.
Becky was right. She wasn't a little girl, and Olivia knew she couldn't make her daughter's choices for her anymore. All she could do was hope Becky made the right choices for herself.
The pounding of horses' hooves and the rattling sound of a wagon floated through the open windows. Olivia dropped the tape measure into the sewing basket
and left the kitchen. In the parlor, she pulled back a lace curtain at one of the windows to see who was coming up the lane.
It was Oren Johnson in his wagon, driving his team of grays at a speed that told her something was very wrong. She ran to the front door and down the steps as Oren turned the wagon into the gravel drive before the house and brought the team to a stop.
"Olivia, thank the Lord you're here."
"What is it, Oren? What's happened?"
"It's Kate." He pushed back his hat, and she could see the worry in his face. "The baby's coming."
"What? She's not due for a month."
"I know, but it's coming, and she's having a hard time. Doc Morrison's over in Choudrant Parish until Sunday. Measles outbreak over there. Can you come?"
"Of course. Let me get some things and tell Becky. Sit tight for a second. I'll be right back."
Olivia turned and raced back up the steps. "Becky!" she cried, heading for the kitchen. "Becky, come down here, quick!"
She grabbed a basket out of the pantry. Into it, she stuffed a handful of cotton batting, her medicine box, and two towels. Becky came into the kitchen as she was grabbing her hat.
"What is it, Mama? I thought I heard a wagon in the drive."
"Kate (ohnson's having her baby, and Doc Morrison's away. I've got to go over there right now." Olivia jammed her battered old hat on her head as she headed for the door. "I don't know how long it's going to take, honey. Can you take care of getting everybody supper?"
"Of course," Becky answered, following her out the front door. "When will you be back?"
"I don't know. If it gets late, don't worry. Just put the girls to bed for me, all right? And don't wait up for me." She jumped up in the wagon beside Oren, and the wagon lurched forward, moving out of the drive. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Becky stared down at the chessboard, trying to figure out what her next move should be. Conor sat opposite her at the kitchen table, and he could tell from her puzzled frown that she didn't know what to do.
He didn't advise her. He had her trapped, but he had also left her one way out. He wanted to wait and see if she would figure it out for herself.
A roll of thunder sounded outside, and the rain began to pour down. Conor settled back in his chair and listened to the rain drum against the windows as he waited for Becky to make her move.
"Mr. Conor?"
He looked across the table at her. "Hmm?"
"Do you really think finding a husband is like buying a bonnet?"
He grinned. "I don't know, lass. I'm not in the market for either."
She laughed. "All right, switch it around then. Do you think finding a wife is like buying a hat?"
"I suppose it is, in a way. But being that I'm not a marrying man, and I don't wear hats, it's hard to say."
She studied him with her pretty, earnest face. "Don't you ever want to marry? Have a family?"
He was saved from answering by another voice.
"Becky?"
Both of them looked up to find Carrie standing in the doorway, barefoot and in her nightgown.
Becky frowned at her. "Carrie, you're supposed to be in bed. Mama said."
Her sister ignored that. "You better come quick," she advised. "Miranda woke up."
"Oh, no!" Becky groaned, and jumped to her feet. She ran out of the kitchen, leaving Conor staring after her in puzzlement.
Obviously, he'd missed something. "What's wrong with Miranda?"
"She doesn't like thunderstorms," Carrie explained. "She's scared."
Conor rose and followed Becky upstairs, Carrie beside him.
He entered Miranda's bedroom right behind Becky and found Miranda huddled next to Chester on the bed, making odd little hiccuping sounds.
Becky ran to the bed and put an arm around her sister. "It's okay, Mandy," she said with a hug. "It's okay."
Conor could tell that Miranda was terrified. He looked at her, a round little ball of frightened misery. Another crack of thunder sounded, lightning flashed, and she buried her face against Chester's thick fur with a whimper.
Something in that tiny, helpless sound sliced through Conor's layers of protective armor and cynical indifference in an instant. Without thinking, he crossed over to the bed and reached over Becky's lap, plucking the frightened child out of the sheets, oblivious to Chester's protective snarl.
Miranda immediately curled her arms around his neck and heaved a little sob of relief, seeking comfort and needing him to provide it. It had been a long time since anyone had needed Conor Branigan, a long time since anyone had turned to him for comfort. He froze. Now that he was in this situation, he realized how completely inadequate he was to deal with it. He was not a family man.
The thunder came again and Miranda snuggled closer, clinging to him and trembling. He tightened his hold and held her securely with one arm as he lifted his free hand to rub her back in soothing circles.
"Well, now, what's this, mo paiste?" he murmured into her hair. "You're not scared of a wee thunderstorm, are you?"
He heard her mumble something, and he pulled back enough to look into her round, frightened eyes. "It's just a lot of rain, love," he said gently, brushing back the hair from her face. "It likes to put on a big show, that's all, shouting and carrying on. Any time you hear that thunder shout at you, you shout right back."
Some of the fear left her eyes, and she nodded. "That's what you do when you have bad dreams, isn't it?"
Conor's lips twisted wryly. "Something like that," he admitted.
"And then you're not scared?"
"Mr. Conor's not scared of anything!" Carrie told her sister stoutly. She looked up at him, worship clearly shining in her eyes. "Are you?"
He wanted to laugh at the irony. He wondered what Carrie would have said had he told her the truth—that he was very scared of a great many things.
"No, moppet. I'm not scared of anything." He reached down and wrapped an arm around Carrie with a growl, then lifted her like a sack of potatoes. She laughed, grabbing his shirt in her fists to hang on.
He glanced over at Becky and gave her a grin. "If I'm not mistaken, love, there's still a whole plate of pecan butter cookies from yesterday just waiting to be eaten."
She grinned back at him. "Let's go."
Becky led the way downstairs with the lamp, and Conor followed her, carrying his two young charges. Chester walked beside him, and Conor got the feeling he was finally going to be tolerated by the grouchy old mutt.
In the kitchen, he set Carrie on her feet, and she immediately went into the pantry and brought out the plate of cookies.
"Why don't we go into the library?" Becky suggested as she poured apple cider for all of them. "It's much more comfortable in there."
Conor glanced at the straight-backed kitchen chairs, shifted Miranda's weight to one hip, and thought that was probably a good idea. "Come on, then. We might as well be comfortable. Carrie, bring the cookies. Becky, love, bring the lamp."
They settled into the comfortable cushions of the sofa in the library. Miranda curled up on his lap. Carrie snuggled against his side. On his other side, Becky leaned against him with her head on his shoulder. Chester flopped down to the floor at his feet.
"Tell us a story, Mr. Conor," Miranda murmured, snuggling against him to rest her cheek on his chest.
A story. Oh, Christ. He tried to think back to the stories the seanachaie had told when he was a lad, before the famine, before music and laughter and stories around the peat fire had vanished from his life.
"Once upon a time," he began, "there was a young lad by the name of Cuchulain, who lived in the grand court of the king. One night, he heard the baying of a hound, and he knew it was the Hound of Ulster, the great, savage beast that wandered the plains and terrorized all the wee children. All the other children shivered with fright when they heard that sound, but Cuchulain was a brave lad, and he wasn't afraid. The next morning, he went out to have a game of hurling with his friends—"
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"What's hurling?" Carrie interrupted.
"It's an Irish game played with sticks and a leather ball."
"How do you play it?"
Conor started to explain, but Miranda nudged him impatiently with her elbow. "Forget that. What happened next, Mr. Conor?"
"While the children were playing," Conor went on, "the beast came upon them. It was a massive animal with wild green eyes and jaws like the devil. All the other children screamed with fright and started to run, but Cuchulain told them to stop and get behind him, which they did. The beast came straight toward them, running across the field with teeth bared, ready to tear all of them to pieces."
"Wasn't Cuchulain scared at all?" Miranda asked.
"No, lass. He was very brave, and he faced the hound squarely. He took his hurling stick and hit the ball. His aim was true, and the hurling ball struck the beast with such force that it fell, slain upon the field. And that was how Cuchulain killed the Hound of Ulster and saved the children. Cuchulain was so courageous and fair that he went on to become the high king of all Ireland."
"That was a good story, Mr. Conor," Becky said, reaching for a cookie from the plate on the table before them. "Tell us another one."
"'Tis very late. The three of you ought to be in bed, I'm thinking."
A flood of protest was his reply.
"I don't want to go back to bed," Miranda told him.
"Me neither." Carrie added, reaching for another cookie.
"Can't we wait up for Mama?" Becky asked, and her sisters nodded agreement.
Conor glanced from one hopeful face to another. "You girls realize your mother's not going to be happy to come home and find that none of you are in bed?"
All of them nodded again, smiling.
Conor sighed. "Right."
He settled Miranda more comfortably on his lap and started to tell them of "Cuchulain and the Courtship of Emer," but halfway through the tale, he realized that he wasn't getting any questions this time. He glanced down at the girls around him and found that all three of them had fallen asleep.
Conor realized that the story itself didn't matter. It was the closeness they wanted, the sound of a voice to lull them into sleep.
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