Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

Carrie stood up and patted her mother's shoulder. "Don't worry, Mama," she said, and walked over to where Conor stood in the doorway, an expression of adoration and absolute trust on her pixie face as she looked up at him. She slipped her hand into his and turned to smile at her mother. "Everything's going to be just fine, you'll see. Mr. Conor won't let anything hap­pen to us."

  Conor couldn't breathe. The room felt suffocatingly hot, and he had to get away. "It's late," he managed. "You'd best get some sleep."

  He pulled his hand out of the child's, and his chest tightened painfully. He turned on his heel and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him.

  He started down the stairs, but on the landing he stopped. He looked down into the darkness of the foyer below, the darkness all around him. He didn't want anyone to rely on him, need him, look at him with trust. He could never live up to it. He didn't deserve it. Conor lowered his head into his hands with a feeling of dread.

  20

  LUIOCHAN

  Lurgangreen, Ireland, 1867

  The train was late.

  Conor moved through the dense cover of under­brush near the railroad tracks until he was at Adam McMahon's side. "Donnelley's ready with the wagon," he said softly, crouching low.

  "Lovely," Adam responded. "So where's the bloody train? It's freezing out here."

  Conor cupped his hands and blew on his frozen fin­gers as he glanced up at the sky, grateful for the moon­less January night. It would take a good two hours to remove the guns from the false-bottomed hiding place of the train car, load them on the wagon, and get them to Dooley's farm—longer if anything went wrong. Christ, if the train didn't get here soon, they'd be haul­ing a wagon-load of rifles across County Louth by the light of day.

  This was the tenth shipment, the tenth midnight ren­dezvous. The transfers had been meticulously planned in the tiny room above McGrath's, and what was even more astonishing, those plans had been carried off nine times in two years without a hitch. Conor hoped their luck would hold just a wee bit longer.

  Nine hundred of Sean's American rifles—God bless the generosity of their kinsmen across the water for providing them—were safely tucked away in various hiding places all over Ireland. Only Conor, Sean, and Adam knew the exact locations of all the weapons and the exact manner by which they ended up there.

  Conor knew the Council was planning something big, perhaps the rising itself, but he had not yet been told what it was. But Conor also knew that one thou­sand rifles did not make a war, and he was afraid the Council was moving too fast. Training camps had been set up so that Irish farm lads could be taught how to use a weapon they'd never had the opportunity to touch before, but shooting tins off a stone wall was a far cry from staring down the muzzle of a British army rifle.

  He'd tried to tell Sean it was too soon, but only two weeks before, nine comrades had been arrested in Belfast, causing Irish patriotic fervor to run high in Ulster—where Fenianism was weakest—and the Council probably wanted to take advantage of it before the incident became only another tragic song and another lost dream. No word yet from O'Bourne on who had informed, but Conor vowed he'd break the bastard's neck with his bare hands when he found out.

  Far down the line, Conor saw a flash of light. Finally, he thought, moving closer to the tracks at the signal from Dooley's lantern. Adam followed him. Still con­cealed by the thick underbrush, the two men waited as the freight train braked, pulling into the tiny wayside station that was nothing more than a bench and a wooden overhang.

  Both men ran to the train as it inched to a stop. Conor pulled a wrench out of his pocket, slipped between the train wheels, and began undoing the bolts that fastened the panel of the false bottom in place, as Adam walked to the front of the train to have a word with the driver.

  His scream of warning hit the cold air like an icy wind. "Luiochan!"

  Conor turned his head and saw two pairs of polished British army boots hit the dirt beside him.

  "Luiochan! Ambush, Conor! Run!" Adam screamed again, this time in pain. "Oh, Christ!"

  Conor tried to slide out from under the car on the opposite side, but the cold steel of a pistol muzzle pressed against the back of his head and froze him in place.

  "Don't make a move, Paddy," a low voice ordered. "Unless you want your brains splattered all over the tracks."

  Conor let out his breath in a slow hiss. Their luck had just run out.

  21

  For the next seven days, Conor picked peaches from dawn to twilight. He was glad of the long hours he spent at the task. During the day, he wasn't close enough to Olivia to touch her, and during the night, he was too exhausted to get himself all desperate thinking about touching her. He went to bed every night right after supper and fell immediately asleep. No nightmares about the Mountjoy, guilt over his pending departure, or erotic dreams about Olivia tormented him in his sleep. He was just too tired.

  The work was also making him stronger. He knew, when the time came, he'd go back into the ring in prime shape. When he thought about leaving, guilt and relief flooded through him in equal amounts, battling for con­trol with equal force; so he didn't think about leaving. He got through the days like he always had, one at a time. It was his way, the only way he knew.

  When all the peaches had been picked and packed in barrels of sawdust, he loaded them onto the two wag­ons Olivia brought out from town. He had to pile them high in the wagons to fit them all in, and he tied them down securely with ropes. The next morning at sunrise, Olivia took the girls over to the Johnson farm, where they would spend the next two days. When she returned, she went into the house and fetched a small carpetbag, and they started for Monroe, each driving a wagon.

  Conor was glad of the arrangement, preferring the comfortable distance that separate wagons put between them. But since she led the way, he spent the entire morning watching her, and by midday, he suspected that about fifty more miles of distance would probably be required before he could truly feel comfortable again.

  When she took off her bonnet, the sun shot red lights through her brown hair and made him remember the feel of it in his fingers. When she let go of the reins to raise her arms overhead and arch her back in a lan­guorous stretch, he envisioned her naked amid a tangle of sheets and pillows. When they stopped to eat the din­ner of sandwiches she'd packed, sitting in the cool shade of a grove of pine trees, he watched her undo the top two buttons of her dress, with a comment about the heat, and he felt himself coming apart.

  He wished now he hadn't offered to take her to din­ner in Monroe. That had been a stupid idea, indeed: To sit across from her, wanting her like crazy, and not being able to have her because he seemed to have devel­oped some ridiculous notion of propriety where she was concerned.

  Just a few more days, he told himself, as he snapped the reins and started the wagon moving again; it was just a few more days. Then he'd be quit of this place for good. He'd head for New Orleans first, he decided.

  He'd go down to the Irish district and take on all com­ers at Shaugnessey's. With his winnings, he'd go on a binge of whiskey, cigars, women, and card-playing that would shake off any thoughts of Olivia Maitland, and reassure him that he hadn't picked up a permanent case of scruples from her.

  He watched her reach back to rub the stiffness from her neck with one hand, and he imagined doing that for her, starting at her neck and working his way down. He imagined it over and over.

  It was a very long trip.

  They pulled into Monroe late that afternoon. After Olivia had haggled with Silas Shaw, the owner of the cannery, over an acceptable price for her peaches, the wagons were unloaded, and she tucked the precious cash that would see her through another year securely in the top of her high button shoe. Conor drove the wagons to the livery stable across from the Whitmore Hotel and left them to be boarded, then went to the hotel to get them rooms for the night. Olivia went to Danby's Mercantile and bought eight panes of window glass to be delivered to the Whitmore in the morning, then went to
the hotel to meet Conor.

  She found him in the lobby waiting for her. When she signed the register, Olivia did not miss the specula­tive look the clerk gave her at the realization that they were obviously not married, but apparently together, a notion Conor did not dispel when he asked where they might dine. Heat flamed her cheeks, and he responded to her reproving glance with a grin. She snatched her key from the clerk without a word, and followed the bellboy who carried her carpetbag upstairs.

  Half an hour later, Olivia slid gratefully into the full- size bathtub brought up to her by the maids, who then filled it with water cool enough to refresh her after the heat of the day, and warm enough to wash away the travel dust and sweat. She indulged in a long soak, then washed her hair, wrapped a towel around it, and stepped from the tub.

  She rubbed her body dry with the towel, then pulled on the lacy petticoat and chemise, fastened the hooks of the corset, and slipped the dark red silk dress over her head.

  She sat down at the dressing table and brushed out her hair, which was still slightly damp and starting to curl, then she put it up in a loose twist at the back of her head, that left several tendrils loose to curl around her face. Conor had told her he liked her hair that way the Sunday she had given him a shave. She secured the style in place with two combs, and she thought of how he'd taken her hair down that day in the kitchen. The memory still made her tingle.

  Olivia smoothed down the folds of the dark red silk, glad that she'd brought it. She tried to remember the last time she'd worn a lovely dress or felt the delicious swish of delicate, lacy undergarments beneath, and she could not remember. It had been too long ago. Far too long.

  She rose and took several steps back to get a good look. She studied her reflection in the mirror, and she was surprised. She did not look at all like herself. She looked rather pretty.

  She stood there, staring at her reflection. Conor had insisted on taking her out to supper, and she decided that tonight she was not going to sit on the shelf. Tonight, she was not going to be drab Olivia Maitland. She stared at the bodice that skimmed her shoulders and dipped into a vee above her breasts. While still more modest than most, it was rather daring for her, but she didn't care. For once in her life, she wanted to be daring, perhaps even a bit shocking. Just this once, she wanted romance, and this might be her only chance. She thought of Conor's smoky blue eyes, and that tingle ran through her again, Just this once, she thought, hugging herself. Just this once. She'd have the rest of her life to regret it.

  When Olivia opened the door of her room, Conor's throat went dry and he was suddenly seized with the overpower­ing need for a shot of whiskey. His gaze ran down the line of her body, coming to an abrupt halt at the shadow of cleavage above the dark red silk bodice of her dress. Perhaps two shots. How the hell was he going to get through an entire evening of small talk with her when the only thing he could think of was kissing her soft skin?

  "Is something wrong?" she asked.

  "Wrong?" He shook his head. "I'm stunned," he said with a laugh, trying to be glib about it. "You're so beau­tiful, every man downstairs is going to envy me."

  He could tell by her pink cheeks and hesitant smile that she didn't really believe him. "It's the dress," she murmured.

  "No, it's not." He cast another glance over the red silk. "Although, the dress is a definite improvement, I must say."

  "You look very nice, too," she said almost shyly, ges­turing to the new suit he wore.

  He ran a hand over the charcoal-gray waistcoat. After paying for his room, a haircut, and a bath, he'd laid out three dollars for the clothes. "At least they fit. And I think I still have enough left over to buy you a meal."

  "You don't have to," she said. "I can pay my own."

  "Perhaps you can, lass, but you won't." He offered her his arm. "Shall we, Miss Maitland?"

  She slipped her arm through his and they went downstairs to the hotel restaurant. They dined on clear soup, salmon with dill sauce, asparagus, and peach russe. It was delicious, and perhaps a bit more luxuri­ous than the fare from Olivia's kitchen, but Conor decided it wasn't better.

  After their meal, the waiter returned to ask if the lady would care for coffee, adding that perhaps the gen­tleman would require a drink and a cigar. Conor replied without a moment's hesitation. "Irish whiskey, if you please, and a Havana cigar."

  "Very good, sir." The waiter departed with a nod, and Conor watched Olivia bite her lip and look down.

  "It bothers you," he said.

  "It doesn't."

  "Olivia, it's written all over your face. I forgot that you don't approve of whiskey. I'll send it back."

  "No, don't. Please." She looked up at him earnestly. "Please feel free to drink your whiskey and smoke your cigar, if you like."

  Despite her words, he knew she was uncomfortable. "Why does it bother you?"

  She hesitated, then looked down at her plate. Her fingers toyed with the napkin across her lap. "My father drank whiskey," she said in a small voice. "Bourbon. Quite a lot of bourbon, actually. He did not handle it well."

  She was twisting her napkin into knots, and she seemed to realize it, for she stopped and smoothed the linen across her lap. "When I was a little girl," she went on, "it wasn't so bad. Mama didn't approve of spirits, so he didn't drink in front of her. He had a special hid­ing place for his bourbon. She knew, of course. Everybody did. But he kept it under control for her sake. After she died, he didn't bother with a hiding place anymore. He drank openly, and as often as possi­ble. It could be rather . . . embarrassing."

  Conor suddenly understood a great deal. "That's why there were no balls and parties."

  "Yes. My brothers were away at university most of the time, and of course, I couldn't go to any social gath­ering without an escort. So, I didn't go very often, and when I did, it was usually with my father. After several embarrassing incidents, we stopped being invited." She paused, then added, "My father had a very difficult time dealing with my mother's death. He felt lost without her, and he became very dependent upon me in some ways, almost possessive. Men who approached my father about courting me were turned away."

  "Did you ever resent it?"

  "Yes," she admitted. "But he was my father."

  The waiter reappeared. He set a cup of coffee before Olivia and a tumbler of whiskey before Conor, along with a small silver tray that contained a cigar and a pair of cigar clips. Conor took a sip of the Irish, but some­how it had lost its appeal. He set the glass down.

  She took a sip of coffee, then began running the tip of her finger around and around the rim of her cup. "Then the war came, and all the boys went to fight. Many of them didn't come back. The slaves all left, of course, and the plantation went to rack and ruin because there was no one to work it but me. Then we got word that both my brothers had died at Gettysburg."

  Her hand stilled, and she lifted her chin to look at Conor across the table. "That, I think, was the final blow for Daddy. I watched my father deteriorate from a vigorous, strong-willed figure to a bewildered shell of a man, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I tried to take care of him, I tried to help him, but I couldn't. That's why he fell off that ladder and broke his back. He was drunk, and I think he wanted to die."

  There was no disapproval in her voice, no anger or resentment. Just tired resignation and an aching hint of something that tore at Conor because he understood it well. Loneliness. With their disparate lives, their oppos­ing values, their completely different experiences, they had something in common. He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers in a comforting gesture that surprised him. It surprised her, too. She looked down at their hands and, slowly, she turned hers over to entwine their fingers. "Thank you," she said.

  "For what?"

  "For listening. I've never talked to anyone about this before."

  She smiled at him, and his desire to comfort her changed instantly to desire of a different kind. Something of what he was feeling must have shown in his face, fo
r her smile faded and she stared at him with sudden intensity. "Do you really think I'm beautiful?" she asked.

  He froze, staring into her wide eyes, feeling as if he were drowning in sweet, melting chocolate.

  "I think we'd better call it a night." He slowly, reluc­tantly pulled his hand away. "'Tis a long trip back tomorrow, and you'll be needing some sleep."

  Sleep was the last thing she needed. Olivia didn't know what to do. She stared at her closed door, confused and frustrated. Her romantic evening had been cut short before it had truly begun.

  How it had happened, she still wasn't sure. One minute, they were holding hands in a moment of shared intimacy, and the next minute, she was being shep­herded to her room and offered a rather terse good­night.

  She'd asked him if he really thought her beautiful. A gauche question, and one she wished she could take back now. But he had looked at her as if she was, and he'd already told her she was, so maybe that wasn't what had brought their evening to such an abrupt end.

  Perhaps she shouldn't have talked so much about her father; it wasn't exactly a romantic topic of conver­sation. But she had no notion of what topics might be considered romantic.

  Or perhaps it had been her reaction when he'd ordered a drink. Goodness, the man had the right to have a drink after supper, of whatever he liked. It was only one drink, and she shouldn't have been so silly about it. She wanted to kick herself.

  Olivia sighed and turned away from the door to toss her reticule and gloves on the bed. Whatever it was she'd done, it was too late to remedy it now. She was in her room, Conor was in his, and their evening together had come to an end. Clearly, she wasn't suited to seduc­tion. But then, she'd always known that.

  He would leave. She had no illusions about that. Her life would go back to the way it had been before, but tonight she wanted so badly for it to be different. From the moment they'd met, she had sensed what he could give her, and that day in the kitchen, he had given her a taste of all that she had missed. She wanted another taste. Could she just reach out and take it? And could she live with the pain afterward, loving him and watch­ing him walk away?