Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Oren was on the veranda of the house by the time she pulled into the drive, as if he'd been watching for her arrival. She brought the wagon to a halt, and Oren came down the steps to the wagon before she could climb down.

  "Kate and your girls are already over at your place," he told her.

  Olivia frowned in bewilderment. "Why? I told Kate I'd pick them up here. She didn't have to take them home."

  He pushed back his hat and heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid there's been a bit of trouble."

  Olivia thought of Vernon and instantly assumed the worst. "My girls? Are they all right?"

  He hastened to reassure her. "They're fine. It's noth­ing like that. But you'd better get home quick."

  "Why? What's happened?"

  Oren eyed her with a grave expression. "Everybody knows, Liv. About the Irishman who's been staying at your place."

  A sick feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stom­ach. "Everybody?"

  "Everybody in town," he answered, confirming the worst. "Including Martha and Emily Chubb."

  The sick feeling of dread was like a stone in her belly. "Oh, heavens."

  "It's causing quite a stir. You better get home and straighten it out."

  Olivia nodded and snapped the reins without another word, sending the team of mules flying back down the lane. Gravel spun off the wheels as she turned onto the main road and raced past Conor's wagon. She heard him shout her name, but she did not pause for explanations.

  She couldn't think; she couldn't feel. All she could do was stare at the moonlit road in front of her, cold and numb with dread, as she raced the wagon toward home.

  When she pulled into the drive of her house, they were waiting for her, just as Oren had said. The girls were nowhere to be seen, but Kate was there, along with Reverend Allen and, of course, the Chubb sisters. Light spilled through the windows behind them, and she could not see their faces, but she could imagine the condemnation in their eyes.

  She climbed down from the wagon and moved slowly toward the house, each step a jerky movement that propelled her forward like a puppet on a string, even as panic made her want to run, to hide.

  They knew. All of them. She could tell by their silence and their rigid stances and she wondered how she would ever be able to face them in the light of day. She thought of the passionate night before, of what she had done, of what she had let Conor do; and every remembered kiss, every remembered touch seemed to flay her like the lash of a whip. The shame of it caused her cheeks to burn, but she kept her head high.

  Her mind began to spin crazily with explanations, excuses, denials. But they would all be lies. She wished she could just sink into the ground and disappear.

  Behind her, she heard the second wagon pull into the drive and stop, but she didn't turn and look at Conor. She couldn't. She mounted the steps to the veranda, and the weight of guilt and shame seemed heavier with each one.

  Kate stepped to the front of the veranda. She grabbed Olivia's gloved hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "I'm sorry, Liv," she whispered. "They insisted on coming out here. I couldn't stop them."

  Olivia pulled her hand out of Kate's and looked away from the understanding sympathy in her friend's face. She couldn't bear it. "Where are my girls?"

  "They're in the house having supper. They don't. . . understand. Well, Becky might, perhaps, but the little ones don't."

  She was given no chance to reply. Martha elbowed her way around Kate and studied Olivia with pursed lips and speculative eyes. "So, you're back, Olivia. I'm sur­prised you can show your face after what you've done."

  Olivia tried to tell herself that Martha couldn't possi­bly know what had actually happened in Monroe, but it didn't matter. She knew, and she couldn't lie to herself. She couldn't act nonchalant and innocent, because she wasn't. Her hands began to shake.

  Behind her, she heard the tread of footsteps and knew it was Conor, but she kept her back to him. Martha glanced past her and looked him up and down. "You even had the gall to bring the man back with you," she added. "Have you no shame?"

  Conor watched Olivia wilt beneath the censuring voice of the stout woman in the hideous feathered hat, and decided he'd had enough. His jaw tightened grimly, and he started forward to yank her away from that vicious old cat, but he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look at the gray-haired man in black broad­cloth and cleric's collar who stood beside him.

  "Walk with me, son."

  It was not a request. Conor let out a frustrated breath and reluctantly followed the elderly man, who picked up a lamp and led him around the side of the house and down to the barn.

  When they stepped inside, the man closed the barn door behind them and set the lamp on the floor. "There," he said, sitting down on a dusty barrel and settling him­self as comfortably as possible. "Now we can talk freely."

  Conor eyed him in stony silence. He could not con­jure up the words for polite conversation. All he could think of was defense.

  "I'm Reverend Allen, by the way," the man continued in his mild, Southern voice. "I'm the minister of the Baptist church here in Callersville. You, I assume, are Mr. Conor."

  The form of address caught Conor's attention, and everything fell into place with utter clarity. "The girls," he said tightly.

  Reverend Allen nodded. "The girls, yes."

  "What exactly did they say about me?"

  "I'm not quite certain. I wasn't there, you see. But I'm told it was during a sewing party in town this afternoon. All the ladies were there." He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. "The talk now is that you've been living in this house with Olivia, her husband in all but name."

  Conor thought of all the frustrating nights he'd spent out in this barn trying to blot out erotic fantasies about her, and wanted to laugh at that notion. If this were hap­pening to any other man, he would have. "What else?"

  "They say that you are a drifter, a prizefighter by trade, which of course makes her behavior all the more reprehensible. If you were a local man, it would still be scandalous, but perhaps not quite so shocking. I'm afraid Olivia's reputation is in serious jeopardy."

  "Mother of God!" Conor scowled at the minister, despising all men of the cloth. "I was injured, and Olivia, being a softhearted woman—God bless her— took me into her home so that I could get well. For an act of kindness, she is condemned?"

  "You don't have to tell me about Olivia, young man. I've known her since she was a child."

  "Then you know damn good and well she has nothing to be ashamed of." He thought of their night together, and he hated the way something beautiful could be twisted into something sordid by those who had nothing better to do with their time. "Nothing," he repeated.

  "Unfortunately, I cannot stop people from thinking what they will. And Olivia recognized the risk in what she was doing. Evidently, she took great pains to con­ceal your presence here."

  "I can bloody well see why!"

  The reverend looked at him with patient understand­ing, which only fueled Conor's resentment. He swore under his breath.

  "I'm not here to debate the right or wrong of Olivia's actions," Reverend Allen said quietly. "Or yours."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "I'm here because I believe I might be of some assis­tance in this matter. Believe it or not, I care about Olivia's welfare. I can only hope that you do, as well."

  The reverend leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers together. "It comes down to this," he said. "You have two choices. The first is to leave. You don't have any ties here, I understand, and are free to go."

  Conor thought that sounded like a very good idea.

  "You could simply walk away and abandon Olivia to face the scandal alone," the reverend went on, in that same gentle, unassuming tone. "Of course, the girls will be taken away from her."

  Conor's body went rigid, and he felt as if he'd suddenly been caught by a left hook out of nowhere. "Taken away?"

  "Olivia never legally ado
pted the Taylor children. She never thought it necessary. In fact, I doubt the idea even occurred to her. Martha and Emily have already asked the sheriff to remove them from this house. Most of the ladies in town are in agreement with them, I'm afraid."

  "I'll leave," he said tightly. "I'll go tonight. Anything to let Olivia keep those girls."

  The reverend shook his head. "It's too late for that now. The damage has been done."

  Conor started to reply, but he couldn't speak past the stone that seemed lodged in his chest. He closed his eyes, and in his mind, he saw Olivia in the backyard laughing with her daughters. He saw her arms open to enfold them, heard her loving, gentle voice speak to them.

  He opened his eyes and ruthlessly shoved the image away.

  The reverend was watching him steadily. "That needn't be your concern," he said. "They aren't your daughters, so they aren't your responsibility." He paused and gave a slight cough. "However, another child might make your choice more difficult."

  Conor stared into the mild blue eyes watching him and made a sound of denial.

  "She might be carrying a baby."

  Now was the moment to lie, to say that was not pos­sible, that their trip had been innocent and nothing had happened, to absolve himself and make a quick exit out of town, to be exactly what he knew he was. A coward.

  Reverend Allen was watching him expectantly, wait­ing for those words of denial. When they did not come, he went on, "You seem to be a man of the world. I assume you've thought of that possibility."

  He hadn't. Christ, until now it hadn't occurred to him. And it should have. A babe. He thought of Mary, of the child that had been his, and something fractured inside him, a crack in his armor, a weakness to be exposed and exploited.

  Reverend Allen seemed to see it, too. "There is another option," he said carefully.

  Conor eyed the other man with caution, knowing the trap. "I'm listening."

  "You could marry her."

  The trap closed, and Conor clenched his fists, struggling against the mindless panic that surged within him. He could not think; he could not reason. He could only rail against the inevitable, and curse himself for his own stupidity.

  He turned away. "Marriage is not an option," he said through his teeth, barely grinding out the words amid the rage and the fear and the desperation within himself.

  "You're not already married, are you?"

  Conor tilted back his head and stared at the rafters above. He made a harsh sound that might have been a laugh. "No."

  "I could perform the ceremony tomorrow at the church. If the two of you married, the scandal would quickly die, Olivia's reputation would be saved, and her girls would not be taken to the orphanage."

  The orphanage. Oh, Christ.

  Conor turned around, unable to believe that after all his running, all his struggling to remain free, his life came to this kind of choice. "You say you care about Olivia. If you knew anything about me, Reverend, if you knew even half of what I've done, you would be running me out of town with a shotgun, you would, indeed, not asking me to marry her."

  "I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm simply telling you what your options are. Now, I'm going to leave and let you decide which one to take." He gave Conor a benign smile. "But I'm a meddlesome old man, so I'll give you one small piece of advice before I go."

  He paused, and his smile faded to a serious and earnest expression. "Do the right thing, son," he said in his gentle minister's voice. "For once in your life, do the right thing."

  He turned away and departed, closing the barn door behind him and leaving Conor to make his choice alone.

  Conor glanced around at the walls that surrounded him, hemmed him in, threatened to imprison him in a life he did not want. He looked down, and his gaze caught on the flame of the lamp at his feet. He watched it flicker, trapped in its frosted glass cage like the demons locked inside himself. Do the right thing, son.

  He slammed his hands over his ears to shut out the words that clanged through his head like the iron bars of the Mountjoy.

  For once in your life, do the right thing. . . the right thing. . . the right thing. . . for once in your life.

  He could not do the right thing. Slowly, by infinitesi­mal increments, he pulled logic and reason and reality together, fusing them into the cold, indifferent armor that had protected him all his life. By sheer force of will, he pushed away the vision of Olivia's wounded dark eyes that floated at the edge of his consciousness. He had no intention of doing the right thing.

  Olivia watched the vicar's carriage drive away with the Chubb sisters inside. Kate's wagon followed, with her girls in the back. They looked back at her as the wagon bumped down the lane, taking them away. Becky, anguished and silent, Carrie voicing indignant wails of protest, and Miranda sobbing for her mama.

  Olivia listened to her youngest daughter's sobs, and they threatened to rip her apart. She bit down on her trembling lip, and a tear rolled down her cheek as she watched the wagon disappear into the night. She wrapped her arms tightly around one of the columns of the veranda to keep herself from chasing after the wagon.

  She tried to tell herself it was only temporary. She had agreed to the compromise suggested by Reverend Allen—that the girls would stay at the Johnson farm until things were worked out—only because Martha had threatened to bring the sheriff out here to take them away and transport them immediately to the orphanage in Monroe.

  She did not know how long she stood there, but she could not seem to find the will to move, to force herself to turn away and go back into her empty house. Moving meant thinking, deciding, finding a way to go on, and she could not. She remained standing on the veranda, staring down the lane long after the wagon had disappeared into the night, and Miranda's sobs echoed only in her mind.

  In any tragedy of her life, she had always turned to her faith; she talked to God and got the answers she needed. But the only prayer she made now was that He would do to her what He had done to Lot's sinful wife—-she wanted to be turned to a pillar of salt right here on her own front porch, and cease to exist.

  She heard a sound behind her, the opening and clos­ing of her front door and a squeaking step on the plank floor of the veranda. She let go her death grip on the column and turned around. "That spot always did squeak," she said, staring down at Conor's boots. "I always meant to do something about it, but I—"

  She faltered, unable to remember what she was say­ing. She lifted her face and stared at his chest as if she were staring through him to the doorway beyond.

  "They've taken my girls," she whispered, looking like a bewildered, lost child. "They've taken my girls away."

  Conor sucked in his breath, then lashed out at her with deliberate cruelty, desperate to hide the panic and guilt that churned beneath. "I can't stay here. I can't marry you."

  She didn't seem to hear him. Dazed, she continued to stare straight through him as if he weren't there.

  "I can't do it, Olivia. Be a husband, a father . . . Christ, I can't." He held out his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists in front of her. "This is what I am! This is what I'm good at!"

  He slammed his fist into his palm with a savagery that made her flinch. "I told you I'll not be tied down to a piece of land or a way of life or a woman. I've been to prison. I won't go back into one. I have to be free, damn it. Free. Do you understand?"

  She didn't answer. She didn't look at him. She simply stared at his hands. A tear rolled down her cheek. He hated her for that suddenly; he hated him­self more. He grabbed her shoulders as if to shake her, as if she were to blame for all the self-loathing that darkened his soul. "Do you?"

  "Yes," she choked. "I understand."

  She lifted her face, and he saw those dark eyes glazed with pain and tears, her long lashes spiky and clinging together. His carefully welded indifference crumbled into pieces. He was like a china cup that had been broken, glued back together, and shattered again with the slightest pressure.

  "Olivia. Oh, Christ
, don't look at me like that. Damn you."

  He let go of her as if she burned him. He felt the chains of her anguish wrapping around him, binding him to her with inexorable force, growing stronger with each step he took away from her. His back hit the door.

  He wanted to crush something, strike out at the fate that had brought him to this. But her tears defeated him, they brought him to his knees, a mightier oppo­nent than any he had ever faced before, and he knew he could not leave her. He straightened with an abrupt move and walked past her, down the steps, and across the weedy, graveled drive. His voice resonated back to her as he disappeared into the darkness. "You win. We'll go into town tomorrow and get married."

  Olivia watched him go. She heard his words. But she also heard the lifetime of bitterness carried with them on the still night air, and she knew she'd won nothing at all.

  It rained on her wedding day. Olivia followed Conor into the church just as the storm broke, and she won­dered gloomily if the hard summer rain that pelted the roof was some sort of omen. She withdrew to the small alcove beside the door, dismally watching Conor's rigid back as he left her there to go in search of Reverend Allen. He disappeared through the archway that led into the church without a word, and she decided the rain was appropriate to the occasion.

  He hadn't spoken to her at all this morning, and his silence told her more clearly than any words how he felt. He was being trapped into marriage, trapped into fatherhood, and she found herself dreading all the days of cold silence that would follow this one. Even if he did not blame her, she would blame herself.

  She turned to the mirror. Many Callersville brides had smiled joyfully into their reflections here. As a young girl fdled with romantic daydreams, she had once hoped to do the same.

  Tears threatened, the tears she had been keeping back through a long, sleepless night, and Olivia closed her eyes to prevent them from falling now. She feared, if she started to cry, she would not be able to stop.