Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Conor grinned and gestured to the two dazed Harlan brothers. "You can do me a favor and dump these two miserable excuses for men in the road on your way home."

  As Oren prodded the two Harlan boys to their feet with the muzzle of his rifle, Conor glanced at Olivia and saw the pistol still in her hand. He took it from her, opened the cylinder, and dumped out the bullets. Then he hauled the other man to his feet and gave him a shove toward the waiting carriage. "Get off my land," he said, and tossed the empty weapon at Vernon's feet.

  Vernon pressed a hand to his bleeding nose and bent to pick up the gun. Behind him, the door of the carriage opened and Alicia Tyler stepped down. She walked to her husband's side. After removing a delicate linen handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed it to his nose and spoke to him gently. "I'm leaving, Vernon. The stage departs for Monroe this afternoon, and Papa and I will be on it. You can remain here in Callersville, of course, but you'll have to find a place to live because we will be putting the house up for sale. You'll also have to find a job because we'll be selling the sawmill and the mercantile and all the rest."

  "Alicia, you can't—"

  "If you wish to come with us," she interrupted, "Papa will make a place for you in one of his compa­nies. You'll have to start at the bottom, of course. A clerk, perhaps. But I'm sure you'll be able to work your way up in no time. Papa will help you."

  She let him hold the handkerchief to his nose while she brushed the dust from his torn clothes and straight­ened his tie as if he were a child. Then she put her arm through his and led him toward the carriage. Before she stepped inside, she paused and turned to look at Conor and Olivia. "I hope the two of you will be happy here. I never was."

  She stepped into the carriage, and Vernon followed her inside without a backward glance. The carriage turned around and rolled away, pausing by the porch long enough for the driver to jump down and tie Vernon's horse to the back, then pulled away, going around the side of the house and disappearing from view.

  Oren pulled his wagon up beside Conor and Olivia, his bay gelding tied to the back. Keeping his rifle pointed at the Harlans, he watched them mount their horses, to follow Vernon's carriage, and he chuckled. "They both look a bit cross-eyed. Never knew any man could land a punch like you, Conor. I'll bet they never knew what hit 'em."

  "I hope they did," Conor answered. "And I hope they'll be remembering it for a long time to come."

  "By the way," Oren said, lowering his rifle now that the Harlans had disappeared, "Kate said to tell you that you're welcome to stay for supper when you come pick up the girls."

  "Thanks. We'll be along shortly," Conor told him. Oren nodded and snapped the reins. The wagon lurched forward out of the yard.

  Olivia looked at her husband, studying his hard pro­file as he watched the wagon disappear from sight. To Vernon, he had claimed what was his—the land around them, the girls, and her. But she wanted him to claim the most important thing of all: Her heart. "Do you love me?"

  The abrupt question caught him off guard. He stiff­ened. Without looking at her, he said, "You've lost your last chance to be rid of me. I'm staying, with all my bad moods and all my bad habits. I'm not leaving."

  "That's not what I asked you."

  "I'll try not to swear in front of the girls, but I might slip up. You'll just have to get used to it. And if I have any more nightmares, don't try to wake me. Just promise me you'll keep out of the way until it's over."

  "Yes, of course, but—"

  "Furthermore," he interrupted, and turned to her, looking almost defiant, "I'm not going to church, so don't be getting any ideas about it."

  "I never said you had to go to church, but Conor—"

  "I'll smoke my cigars if I want to, and I'll not give up my whiskey. If I want a wee drop now and again, I'll be having it. And there'll be no lectures about it the next morn—"

  "Conor!" she interrupted, exasperated, impatient, hopeful, terrified. "Do you love me?"

  He opened his mouth as if to answer her, but closed it again. A shadow crossed his face, a shadow of some­thing she could not define, something hungry and fierce. It might have been fear. It might have been love. Perhaps it was both.

  Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed her hand.

  "I want to show you something," he said, and pulled her across the yard, past the charred remains of the barn, past the stable and the cabins, to Nate's old toolshed.

  He halted by the door, and let go of her hand. "There's something in there," he said, and looked sud­denly uncertain. He began backing away. "I . . . um . . . I made it for you."

  She watched him, puzzled by his sudden reticence. "What is it?" she asked; but he didn't answer. She turned to the door and pushed it open.

  Sunlight fell through the doorway, casting her shadow across the wooden bench that stood in the cen­ter of the shed. It was painted white, and there were chains attached to the sides as if it were meant to be hung. It was a porch swing.

  Olivia stared at it, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears. She walked over to it slowly, and ran her hand along the smooth white surface. "You made this for me?" She turned to look at him, but the sun behind him made his expression unreadable. "Why?"

  He lowered his head, staring down at the ground. A long silence passed, then he spoke, slowly, as if thinking out each word. "Olivia, I've spent a long time running away from a lot of things. Love, most of all. I convinced myself that I didn't need it, that I didn't want it, even that I couldn't feel it anymore. But the truth is, I was afraid of it. I've lost everything I ever loved, and I never wanted to love anyone or anything again. I never wanted to risk feeling that kind of pain again."

  Olivia listened, and with every stilted word, her hope burned brighter. When he fell silent, she took a tenta­tive step closer to him. "And now?"

  She held her breath, waiting.

  He lifted his head. "Now, I've come to realize that there are some things worth the risk, some things that are too powerful to walk away from, and too valuable to lose. You taught me that. This porch swing is my wedding gift to you, and I want to sit in it with you all the evenings of my life. I love you, a mhuirnin."

  Words failed her. She wanted to tell him how much his gift meant to her, how much she needed him, how afraid she'd been that he would leave her, how much she loved him. But she could not find words.

  So, she ran to him, flinging herself into his embrace with a sob of relief and joy that told him more than any words could have done.

  Each of the girls had an opinion about Olivia's gift.

  "I think it's wonderful, Daddy," Becky said, as she kissed him good-night. "Jeremiah and I can sit in it next time he comes to Sunday dinner."

  "Over my dead body," Conor muttered under his breath, as she walked down the hall to her room.

  Olivia made a choked sound that sounded highly suspicious. He frowned at her, wondering if she were laughing about something, but she had already stepped over Chester and crossed the hall to Carrie's room, so he couldn't be certain.

  Carrie wasn't as enthusiastic about the porch swing as her sister. "It's okay," she said, yawning. "But, Daddy, couldn't you have made something fun, like a tree house?"

  He leaned down and kissed her. "That's next, mo cailin. I promise. Go to sleep."

  Olivia kissed her daughter. "Good night, sweetie. Sleep tight."

  They moved on to Miranda's room, and together, they tucked their youngest daughter into bed.

  As they pulled the covers up to her chin, she asked, "Daddy, since you made Mama a swing, can you make me a dollhouse?"

  His throat tightened, and he brushed his lips against her cheek. "I can do that, love."

  "Good," she said, closing her eyes. "Now my dolls can have a home."

  Conor met Olivia's eyes over the bed. "Everybody ought to have one of those," he murmured, and watched his wife smile. He vowed that, every day of his life, he was going to find a way to make her smile. He was going to do everything in his power to see that she was saf
e and happy. And loved. Always.

  She kissed Miranda good-night and turned out the lamp. Then she took Conor's hand, and together they left Miranda's room. As they went downstairs, he said, "I never thought I needed a home and children to com­plete my life. Now, I couldn't imagine living my life without them. But sometimes, Olivia, it's damned frightening."

  Olivia's hand tightened in his. "You'll do fine," she told him. "The thing about being a good parent is not to think about it too much."

  The words were familiar. He thought of that day in her kitchen when he'd kissed her for the first time, and he gave her a smile that was deliberately wicked. "Let's go sit in that porch swing."

  When they stepped outside, Conor felt the slight chill in the air and recognized the first sign of autumn. He thought of all the things that needed doing before spring, but instead of suffocating him, those things made him realize how much he had to look forward to.

  He sat down and pulled Olivia onto his lap, a move that set the swing rocking. "So, Mrs. Branigan," he murmured in her ear, "tell me again what your mama and daddy used to do in this porch swing."

  She leaned closer until her lips were an inch from his. "I'll show you," she whispered, her arms tightening around his neck.

  When she kissed him, Conor spent a long time enjoying the real reason husbands sat in porch swings with their wives after the children were in bed. In his opinion, it was a fine way to spend an evening. But it wasn't what he had in mind just now.

  He broke the kiss and stood up with her in his arms, a move that surprised her.

  "I thought you wanted to sit in the porch swing."

  "I changed my mind," he murmured hoarsely, trail­ing kisses along her throat as he started for the back door. "We'll sit in it tomorrow."

  He carried her across the threshold and back into the house, up the stairs and into their bedroom. He kicked the door shut. As it closed behind them and the latch clicked into place, Conor Branigan kissed his wife again and knew that he had finally come home.

  Glossary of Gaelic Terms

  Author's note Gaelic does not always translate with literal accu­racy to English. These translations are given to pro­vide a general meaning, not a literal translation.

  admhaim: confession

  a mhuirnin: "my love," a term of endearment

  bermid go maith: "all is well"

  Clan na Gael: a secret society formed in America dur­ing the nineteenth century and composed of Irish immigrants dedicated to the liberation of Ireland from British rule

  clochan: a storage shed for crops

  craythur: an affectionate term for Irish whiskey fiabhras dubh: "black fever" or typhus

  fuathaim: hate

  gaol: prison

  luiochan: ambush

  mo cailin: my girl, a term of endearment

  mo paiste: my child, a term of endearment

  Neamh: heaven

  seanachaie: storyteller

  sha sha: "there, there," a phrase to soothe or comfort

  slainte: a toast meaning good health

  ta me anseo: "I'm here."

  ta ocras orm: "I'm hungry," or "The hunger is upon me."

  Uilleann pipes: Irish bagpipes

  Author's Note

  On August 31, 1994, the Irish Republican Army declared a full cease-fire, and Protestant paramilitary groups quickly followed suit. Talks have begun so that a peaceful solution to "The Troubles" of Northern Ireland can be found. During much of the writing of this book, the streets of Northern Ireland have been quiet. Let us all hope and pray that peace has finally come to that lovely, tragic land and its warm, generous people.