She watched carefully as he showed her how to load the gun. He pushed fifteen shells through a tubular opening located in front of the trigger beneath the barrel, then handed the rifle to her and moved to stand behind her.
"Hold it with the butt braced against your shoulder," he instructed, bringing his arms up around her and moving the rifle into correct position as he spoke. "That way, you'll have better control. Relax, love," he added. "You're too stiff."
Olivia tried, she really did, but all she could think of was how nice it would be to lean back against him and enjoy the feel of his arms around her. The idea that she might actually do such a thing made her acutely self- conscious.
His hand closed over hers on the underside of the barrel, making her pull down on a lever behind the trigger and push it back into place. "That cocks the gun," he explained, "meaning it puts the first bullet in the chamber and makes the gun ready to fire. You have to cock the gun each time you take a shot."
She wanted to ask him about aiming the gun, but when she turned her head to look up at him, the question she'd intended to ask went right out of her head. He was close enough that if she moved just the slightest bit, their lips would touch. She tensed and ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips, watching his smile fade and his eyes darken to that smoky blue.
She said the first thing that came into her head. "Did you really get that bullet wound because of a child?" she whispered.
"Hell, no," he muttered. "I got shot by a Protestant farmer when I was fifteen. I was trying to obtain one of his sheep at the time."
She choked back a laugh, trying to look disapproving. "Obtain? You mean steal."
He grinned down at her. "Well, I couldn't very well tell them that, could I?" he murmured. "What kind of a lesson would that be for their impressionable young minds?"
That comment reminded her that the three impressionable young minds in question were watching them. He seemed to realize it, too, for he lowered his arms and stepped back from her. Olivia turned toward the fence several dozen yards away and forced her thoughts back to the task at hand.
"I use this to take aim, don't I?" she asked, curving one finger around the rifle to touch the brass flange that jutted above the barrel.
"Aye, that's called a sight. All you do now is pull the trigger, but remember, squeeze it gently, don't jerk. And—"
A loud report interrupted him. The force exerted by the shot rammed the butt of the gun into her shoulder and sent Olivia flying backward. She fell heavily against Conor, who was standing right behind her. He took her weight without moving, almost as if he'd expected this to happen, and wrapped his arms around her.
"And," he finished wryly, "a 44-caliber rifle has quite a kick, so be prepared."
Olivia lowered the rifle. She leaned back against him and rubbed her sore shoulder. "I'll remember that next time," she said ruefully and looked over at the fence. She realized that the tin can she had aimed for now lay on the ground. "At least I made the shot," she said with pride.
Conor gave her a nod of approval. "Not bad," he conceded, "not bad at all. For a lass."
She jabbed him with her elbow for that, then straightened in his arms, cocked the rifle, took aim, and sent another can flying off the fence.
Conor wisely made no more teasing comments about her ability to shoot a gun.
The two weeks that followed were busy ones. After several practice sessions, Olivia put the gun away, placing it on the top shelf of the kitchen pantry, along with two boxes of shells, deciding that would be the handiest place for it. At Conor's suggestion, she removed a second rifle from the trunk and after he had cleaned it, she put that one under her bed and another box of cartridges in the drawer of her bedside table. But thankfully, no incidents arose that required the use of either weapon.
While Conor continued to work on projects around her place, Olivia spent her days getting ready for the harvest. She got out the bushel baskets and brushed off the cobwebs. She hauled out the ladders and checked them carefully to make sure they hadn't rotted since the previous year.
She went into town and made arrangements with Grady McCann to hire two teams of mules and two wagons, with payment to be made after harvest. She'd need the wagons to cart her peaches to Monroe for sale, and Grady owned the livery stable, one of the few businesses in Callersville that Vernon had not been able to buy.
While she was in town, she made a stop at the sawmill to see about getting sawdust and barrels to pack her peaches. Vernon was still away, but Joshua coldly informed her that she could not barter for them. "Vernon's orders," he'd said with a smug smile. So when she sold her calf to Oren Johnson, she used the money to purchase what she needed. She also asked Oren if he would feed her animals while she was gone and keep an eye on her place. Oren promised he would.
While she was at the Johnsons', she cooed over the new baby and visited with Kate, who said that of course the girls could stay at their place again this year while she took her peaches to the cannery in Monroe. When Kate asked her how she was going to get the peaches there by herself, Olivia said she'd found a farmhand to help her during the harvest and left before Kate could ask any more questions.
When she wasn't busy with preparations for her harvest, Olivia spent her time getting the girls ready for school, which would start about the time harvest was over. She let out the seams on all their dresses and added ruffles to the hems for length. She mended all their torn stockings, sold Lila enough jars of spiced peaches from last year to buy new shoes for them, and ironed pinafores and hair ribbons. Vernon might call them orphans and say they had no decent clothes, but Olivia always made sure her girls went to school neat as pins. This year wasn't going to be any different.
She was grateful for the many tasks that kept her busy, because she didn't want to think about the fact that the harvest also meant Conor's departure. The hot, humid days of August slipped inevitably by, and when she walked through her orchard, when she saw how quickly the peaches were ripening, she wished time would slow to a crawl and keep him from going away.
It didn't, of course. The peaches ripened and the day finally came when Olivia knew they had to be picked.
Conor and the girls went out to the orchard with her, carrying baskets and ladders. Chester followed them. When they got to the orchard, the dog settled himself comfortably in the shade of one tree to watch. Becky and Carrie each took a basket and a ladder, chose a row, and immediately set to work, blithely waving aside Olivia's admonitions to be careful.
"Gosh sakes, Mama," Carrie said, pausing on the ladder to frown down at her. "Stop fussing." She looked over at Conor with an expression of long suffering. "We go through this every year," she told him, rolling her eyes.
Conor glanced over at Olivia, but she wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on Carrie, and he saw the concern in her expression. "They'll be fine, Olivia. They're not going to get hurt."
"I know," she answered, but she continued to watch Carrie until the child had planted her basket firmly between the branches of the tree and settled herself comfortably on a limb, before she turned to Conor.
"Have you ever picked peaches before?"
He shook his head.
Miranda tugged at her skirt. "Mama, can I pick, too?"
"Not this year, honey. Next year, maybe."
Miranda's face fell. "What can I do?"
"Well, let's see." Olivia tilted her head to one side. "First, we have to show Mr. Conor how to pick. After that, we can start packing the peaches in the barrels. How about that?"
"Okay."
She took the child by the hand and looked over at Conor. "Ready?"
He nodded. "What happens once we've picked them?" he asked, as he followed her and Miranda to another row, his ladder under one arm and a basket in his hand.
"You and I will haul them to Monroe," she answered. "It's a full day's drive from here. The girls will stay at the Johnsons' while we're gone, since we'll have to stay in Monroe overnight. I'll
pay for your room, of course, and your meals while we're there." Lest he get the wrong idea, she added hastily, "It's the least I can do, since you're helping me and all."
"You don't owe me anything for this, Olivia. I'll pay my own way. But I do think, while we're there, we should go somewhere nice for dinner."
"That isn't necessary."
"We both have to eat." He leaned his ladder against a tree, and rested the basket on his hip. "Now, tell me about peach-picking."
She opened her mouth as if to argue, but closed it again. Instead, she looked away and gestured to the tree beside her. "The first thing to remember is that you must pick peaches only when they're ripe."
She reached up and her fingers curled around a peach. "This one's ripe. You can tell because there's no green. The skin has a yellow background color and a rosy blush to it. You hold it in your fingers like this and pull it from the tree with just a slight twist. If you have to try too hard, it's not ripe enough to pick, and the fruit will bruise."
Conor thought peaches sounded a lot like women. Innocent women, anyway, he amended, watching Olivia pluck the peach from the tree. He hadn't been all that gentle in her kitchen that afternoon when he'd kissed her, and he felt a twinge of regret. Next time, he'd do it differently—but that thought brought him up sharp. Sure, there wasn't going to be a next time.
Something about her, something about the inexperienced but passionate way she'd moved beneath his hands, the soft sounds of surprise she'd made, had stripped away all his barriers and ignited him like a keg of dynamite. And that night in the barn, when she'd seen him practicing. The way she'd looked at him, her gaze pulling him with some undefinable force that was stronger than chains, her touch sending his senses into a spin more effectively than a jug of poteen. He knew he didn't dare touch her again. But he wanted to. He watched her take a bite of the peach and lick the sweet juice from her bottom lip. Desire clutched his insides. Christ, he wanted to.
She looked up to find him watching her, and he knew she was thinking about the same thing. Aye, he thought, watching the rosy blush flood her cheeks, peaches are a lot like women. "A nice restaurant," he said firmly. "And wear that red silk dress of yours. I'd like to see you in something that isn't gray or brown, for a change."
That night, Olivia was awakened by the sound of shattering glass and loud barking from Chester. A terrified shriek followed and she knew instantly it was Miranda. She flung back the sheets and jumped out of bed as the sound of loud whooping and shouting began outside the house. Chester's barks and Miranda's screams grew louder. She raced out into the hall and nearly tripped over the dog. At the same moment, all three girls came running out of their rooms.
Miranda was the first to reach her.
"Mama! Mama!" The child flung herself at Olivia, wrapping her arms around her mother's legs. "Somebody b-broke my w-w-window!" she sobbed. "They threw a rock through my w-window."
Olivia lifted her daughter into her arms. "It's all right, honey," she said, hugging the child fiercely. "It's all right."
"Mama?"
She felt Carrie's arm slide around her, and she stroked the child's hair reassuringly. Outside, the shouting continued, and they could hear the thud of stones hitting the house. Chester, still barking, raced up and down the hall as if unable to decide whether to stay close and protect them or go down and tear the trespassers into pieces.
"Who are they, Mama?" Becky whispered.
Before she could answer, Conor's voice shouted to her up the stairs.
"Olivia!"
With Miranda still in her arms and Chester right behind her, she ran to the stairs and saw Conor coming up, a lamp in his hand. "We're all right," she called down to him as he came to a halt on the landing. "But they broke Miranda's window."
"Keep them up there!" he ordered, and turned to go back down.
"C'mon, girls." She hoisted Miranda higher on her hip, grabbed Carrie's hand, and ran into Becky's room. Chester followed them.
"I'm going to go help Mr. Conor," she told her oldest daughter as she set Miranda down. "I want you to bolt the door behind me. Then, I want all of you to get down on the floor, and stay there until I come for you. And don't go near the windows, understand?"
Becky nodded. "Yes, Mama."
Olivia started for the door.
"Mama?"
She turned at the sound of Miranda's frightened voice and bent down to press her lips to the child's cheek. "Everything's going to be fine, honey. I promise. Now you all stay in here."
She closed the door behind her and ran to her own room. She lit the lamp, then knelt down beside her bed and grabbed the rifle, thankful she had followed Conor's advice and put a second gun upstairs.
Through her open window, she could hear the whooping and hollering of the men outside as they circled the house. She could also hear the rhythm of hoof- beats and knew they were on horseback. She rose to her feet and yanked open the drawer of her bedside table to grab a handful of shells, then sat down on the edge of the bed to load the gun. She tried to hurry, but her hands were shaking so badly that she fumbled awkwardly with the cartridges, and it seemed to take forever.
The loud crack of a gunshot jerked her to her feet. Praying that the shot had come from Conor's rifle, she shoved the last shell into the magazine of her own gun, opened the French doors that led out of her bedroom onto the upstairs veranda, and stepped outside.
The moon came out from behind a cloud to illuminate the darkness just as a trio of riders came around the corner of the house. Too angry to think about what she was doing, Olivia stepped to the edge of the veranda, braced herself against the waist-high rail, and stared down the sight at the riders below. She took a bead just above the head of the lead rider as he lifted his arm and tossed a stone toward the house.
The sound of shattering glass told her they'd broken another window, and Olivia pulled the trigger. The man's hat flew off, and she smiled, thinking she was becoming a mighty fine shot.
"Let's get outta here!" a man shouted, and she'd have sworn on a stack of bibles it was Joshua Harlan's voice. The riders turned toward the dense woods that bordered the house as Olivia lifted her rifle again.
She cocked it and took aim, but the moon had vanished behind a cloud, and the riders had already disappeared from view amid the oaks and darkness. She lowered the gun and slumped against the rail, drawing air into her lungs in rapid, gasping breaths as she listened to the departing hoofbeats fade into silence. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she leaned down, pressing her brow to the cool wrought-iron railing.
"Olivia?"
She straightened and whirled around with her rifle raised. Conor stood in the arch of the open doors, a rifle in his hands, his massive frame a dark silhouette against the lamplight behind him. Breathing a sigh of relief, she lowered her own rifle.
"Are you all right?" he asked, walking toward her.
She nodded. "You?"
"Right as rain." He pulled the gun from her hands and set it down, then reached out to touch her face, running his thumb across her mouth. "You're bleeding."
His hand fell away, and she touched the tip of her finger to her lower lip, realizing she must have bitten it when she was firing the gun. "Ouch," she said, feeling the sting for the first time.
He remembered the day she'd confessed her fear of heights and how she couldn't even bring herself to walk out on the upstairs veranda. "Olivia," he said gently, "do you know where you're standing, love?"
She glanced over the railing behind her and saw the ground far below. "Oh, Lord," she breathed, looking away. She pressed her hand across her mouth and froze as if rooted to the spot, squeezing her eyes shut. "I think I'm going to be sick," she choked.
Conor set down his rifle and lifted her into his arms, cradling her against him. "I've got you," he said against her hair. "I've got you."
He carried her into her bedroom and set her on the edge of the high bedstead, then stood in front of her. "Put your head down between your k
nees," he ordered, "and take deep breaths."
"Where are the girls?"
His hand curved around the back of her neck, and he gently pulled her head toward her lap. "They're all right. A wee bit shaken up, but they're all right. They're still in Becky's room. I told them to stay there."
She pushed against his hand, trying to sit up. "They must be scared to death. I'd better go see."
He kept her head down. "You stay right where you are," he murmured, his fingers lightly caressing the back of her neck.
He let his hand fall and started for the door, but she straightened and reached out impulsively to grab his hand. "Thank you," she whispered. "For being here."
He started to pull away, then stopped and instead wrapped his large hand around her smaller one. He couldn't help wondering if tonight's events had changed her mind about selling her land, but he didn't ask.
Finally, he pulled his hand from hers. "Are you sure you're all right?" When she nodded, he turned away. "I'll go and get the girls."
When he brought the girls and Chester to her room, Olivia held out her arms, and they ran to her. She gathered the girls around her with kisses and hugs. "Are you girls okay?" she asked, not reassured until she'd asked the question at least half a dozen times.
Becky climbed up onto the bed beside her. "Who were they, Mama?"
"What did they want?" Carrie asked.
Miranda tugged on Olivia's nightgown to get her attention. "Why did they break my window?"
Olivia opened her arms, and Miranda climbed up to sit on her lap. "Well," she answered, "there are some men who want me to sell the farm because they want to build a railroad on it. And I don't want to sell, because this is our home. So they're trying to make us leave by throwing rocks and breaking our windows and shouting at us." She looked over at Conor. "Mr. Conor and I scared them, and they ran off, but they may come back."
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