Megan Chance

by A Heart Divided

  "Oh, I could just sit here all night." Mary Anderson said with a tired sigh. "It's so nice to be around other people. Sometimes the cows seem to be the only friends I have."

  "I know what you mean." Berthe smiled and tapped her husband's hand. "Just the cows and Will here."

  "You calling me no better than a cow?"

  "You're almost beginning to look like one," Berthe teased. "Not like Mr. Roarke over there. I declare, you're a sight for sore eyes, Conor. You haven't got that beaten look about you. Not yet."

  Conor smiled slightly. The expression caused butterflies to dance in Sari's stomach. "You don't strike me as 'beaten.'"

  Berthe chuckled. "You must have been a regular flatterer in the big city."

  "Yeah, be quiet, Roarke." John Graham leaned back in his chair, putting an arm around a sleepy Miriam and pulling her close. "You're making us all look bad."

  "It's good for you," Miriam provided softly.

  John smiled down at her. "I suppose it is."

  Sari felt strangled by their intimacy. Hastily she rose. "Would anyone like coffee?"

  There was a murmur of refusal. Sari went to the stove. "I'll start some anyway. Maybe later—"

  "Sit down, Sari," Conor said gently. His voice was like warm oil sliding down her spine. "The night's about drawn out."

  She looked over her shoulder, catching his gaze despite herself. He was staring at her as if he could devour her face; his eyes almost burned her with their intensity.

  She turned away again, remembering not their kiss but the quiet walk back to the soddy. She remembered how he paused at the door, buttoning her coat with sure fingers, gathering the loose strands of her hair into a chignon and anchoring it with the few hairpins they'd been able to find. She'd been nervous and edgy; his quick squeeze of her hand had been warm and reassuring.

  "You are beautiful, Sari," he'd whispered, his breath stroking her jaw. "Don't let anyone make you forget that."

  For those few moments after she stepped through the door to face her friends' welcoming glances, she'd felt that way. Beautiful, cherished.

  But it had vanished as soon as she'd seen her uncle's gaze. He knew, and embarrassment enveloped Sari when she remembered her adamant denials of the other night. It was humiliating to have to admit that her uncle was right, that her hatred for Conor had been a lie. Her protests had been a shell of a defense. How could she explain that she had no control when it came to Conor? How could she explain what she didn't even understand herself?

  Her pleas for more time tonight—those had been the words of a frightened girl, a girl afraid of her own emotions, of what one man did to them. More time, she'd asked for, but there would never be enough time.. She had never had any control when it came to Conor, and it was useless to pretend otherwise.

  "Look at the children," Miriam said softly. "Peter's asleep already."

  Sari glanced at the six children huddled around the kitchen table. Their voices had become whispers, and then faded altogether in the last half hour.

  "Well, well," Berthe was on her feet instantly. "Up with you now—all of you. Out to the barn."

  "But Mama—" Becky Schmacher was instantly wide awake. "But Mama, we don't wanta go to sleep!"

  Everyone was rising, readying to go to bed. Conor rose with them, and when Sari caught his thoughtful gaze, her heart dropped. He would want to talk about tonight, and she wasn't ready. Nervously she stepped forward.

  "Perhaps Mr. Roarke will tell you a story once you're ready for bed," she said hesitantly.

  "Me?" Conor asked, surprise coloring his voice. "Why me?"

  "The children are staying in the barn tonight," shesaid. "Since that's where you sleep, it seemed only natural that you should look after them."

  His hand dragged through his hair. "But—"

  "If it's too much trouble, Roarke..." Will Schmacher got to his feet.

  "I'm sure it's no trouble at all," Sari interrupted before Conor could say a word. "Mr. Roarke loves children. He's told me so often."

  Conor smiled wryly. "Of course. I'd forgotten."

  "If you're sure—"

  Conor shrugged. "How much trouble can they be?"

  "Obviously you haven't spent much time with children." Miriam giggled.

  Conor stood. He tossed a mock-threatening look to the children. "But these are such well-behaved ones." He held out his arms for the blankets Berthe and Mary handed him. He walked to the door, throwing Samuel Schmacher a blanket and shoving the rest under his arm. He grabbed Becky's little hand in his big one.

  "But I don't wanna go out there!" Becky wailed.

  Conor paused. The smile that lit his face when he spoke to Becky made Sari melt inside. "Why, you should be feeling sorry for your poor mama, Becky, since she has to stay in here."

  Becky looked at him uncertainly.

  His smile broadened. "We'll be having so much fun in the barn, she'll be sorry to miss it. But if you'd rather stay here and take care of her ..."

  Becky tightened her fingers around his. "I'd rather go with you."

  The cold winter air rushed into the room as the group went outside, Conor flanked by Samuel and Becky, Peter Johnson stumbling sleepily beside. The other three children ran after them, suddenly revitalized by the excitement of their new adventure and the man who was there to lead them.

  Conor walked toward the barn, one hand wrapped around Becky's, the blankets held loosely in the other. The sight made Sari's insides tighten; she couldn't look away. He walked slowly, matching his steps to the little girl's, now and then cocking his head to listen to her nonstop chatter. The other children trailed behind him as though he were some latter-day Pied Piper leading them to some precious storybook land.

  Chapter 12

  Conor's thoughts were jumbled as he herded the children to the barn. He tried not to think of how uncertain Sari had looked when he left the house, as if she couldn't decide whether she wanted him to stay or go. He tried not to remember the way she'd twisted her hands together or the way she'd leaped at the chance to banish him to the barn.

  He wasn't sure what it was he'd wanted to see in her eyes. Longing, maybe? Desire? Devotion? Or maybe just simple need. God knew, he felt it. The need for her was burning him up inside; the hasty interlude against the barn wall had only left him aching for more. He wanted to spend the night in her bed, with her warm body pressed against his, his hands in her hair.

  "I can't get it open, Mr. Roarke!" Samuel Schmacher's voice carried, thin and reedy, over the wind. The boy pulled at the barn door.

  "Push it." Conor struggled to shove away the image of Sari. If he had to spend the night with a bunch of children, he was damn sure not going to be thinking about her.

  He pulled Becky along beside him and quickened his step. Samuel was slamming his narrow shoulders against the unrelenting door while Ida and John Johnson looked on. Conor dropped Becky's hand and pushed above Samuel's tousled red head. The door opened; Samuel went tumbling to the floor.

  Becky burst into peals of laughter. She was still laughing when Samuel climbed to his feet, brushing bits of straw from his clothing.

  "Stop it, Becky!" he demanded crossly. He advanced, small fists clenched at his sides. "I said stop it!"

  "You—you looked so silly," she said, giggling. "Fallin' on the floor like that—"

  "Stop it!"

  "Ah, it's okay, Sammy." John brushed by his friend, shrugging. "She's just a dumb girl."

  "I am not a dumb girl!" Becky's laughter abruptly turned to indignation. "You take that back right now, Johnny. Sammy's the dumb one. He's the one who fell."

  Conor only half heard the exchange as he went farther into the barn. He looked around wearily. How much comfort did six small children need, anyway? Was the floor soft enough? He glanced up to the loft, his bastion of quiet. Would he have to bring them up there? The question brought a quick frown. He couldn't watch them all the time; who knew what kind of mischief they'd get into with all his possessions shoved haphazardly agains
t the wall—

  "Aaaaaaaah!" Becky's drawn-out scream split his skull.

  Conor spun on his heel, dropping the blankets where he stood. The children were gathered in a circle, avidly watching as Samuel pummeled his little sister.

  Conor surged forward. "Stop!" Then, as his cry went unheeded, he pushed through Peter and Ida. "Dammit, I said stop." He grabbed Samuel's collar, hauling him off the sobbing girl. The boy's feet slid out from underneath him and he plopped to the ground with a whoosh of air.

  Conor paid little heed to Samuel as he knelt beside Becky and helped her to her feet. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Tears streamed over her cheeks to mix with her runny, snuffling nose. She wiped a pudgy hand across her face. "He—he hit me."

  Conor looked over his shoulder to Samuel. "There's no excuse for hitting a girl. Especially your sister. Even if she did deserve it."

  "She was laughing at me." Samuel said sullenly.

  "Better get used to it." Conor got to his feet and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He wiped at Becky's face with unthinking roughness before she grabbed the cloth away from him.

  John spoke up, his freckled face wrinkled in confusion. "Why should we get used to it?"

  "Because boys are silly, that's why," Ida said haughtily.

  Conor sighed. Ida Johnson was going to be a tough one when she grew up. She was already tossing those brown curls like a debutante. "I'm afraid Ida's right," he informed the boys dourly.

  "Silly?" Samuel sputtered. "We are not! Girls are the silly ones. They—"

  "Sammy," Conor said patiently. "What has your mother taught you about girls?"

  "Uh—mostly not to hit 'em. But then Becky sticks out her tongue—"

  "That's the whole problem," Conor said drily. "Girls have tongues. And they know how to use them. As long as they can speak, you'll never win."

  "But that's not fair!" Little Peter pulled his thumb from his mouth long enough to complain.

  "It is too fair," Ida said.

  "So what does a guy do, then, Mr. Roarke?" John wondered.

  Conor leaned close. "Learn how to lose gracefully, Johnny. It's an old trick. Works every time."

  "I don't get it."

  "You will someday." Conor raked his hand through his hair. "Sammy, Johnny, why don't you two help me lay out the blankets?"

  "Do we hafta sleep with the cows?" Becky eyed the animals skeptically, still wiping at her runny nose with his handkerchief.

  Conor sighed. He looked up at the loft. His private sanctuary was about to be invaded.

  "We'll all sleep up there," he said. "Can everyone climb the ladder?"

  Before they could answer, Conor grabbed the blankets and stepped up the ladder, motioning for the others to follow him. When they were secure in the loft, he busied the boys with laying out the makeshift beds while he tried his best to push his belongings into dark corners.

  It didn't take long to get the children settled. The excitement of the day was wearing off, and the cold night made them grateful to climb beneath the heavy wool blankets. Conor felt as if every muscle in his body was stretched to the limit as he crawled between his own covers. Sleep would come easily to him tonight.

  But it didn't. It eluded him nimbly, and he lay there listening to the soft breathing of the children as he stared at the ceiling only a few feet above his head.

  His muscles ached, but there was a subtle energy sneaking along his spine, a feeling that things weren't quite finished. He couldn't chase the images of Sari from his mind. Over and over again he saw the eerily blue-white coloring of her skin in the moonlight, the almost black passion in her eyes, her lips swollen from his rough kiss.

  Sari Travers was no ordinary woman. She was an addiction. His addiction. How had he ever thought he could get her out of his blood?

  For a moment he toyed with the idea of sneaking from the loft to the soddy. The women would be sleeping on the floor—all the men were with Charles. He could sneak around them, silently climb the ladder to where she was sleeping. She always slept as though someone had thrown her onto the bed, with one arm crooked on the pillow, fingers tangled in her own hair, her body twisted, open, ready for the taking.

  Conor tightened his hand into a fist, struggling for control, remembering her words. More time, she'd said. How much more? A week? A day? An hour?

  "Stop it!" The loud whisper startled him. It was almost an answer to his thoughts.

  "Don't!" came the voice again. "You're taking up too much room!"

  Conor sighed. "Becky, go to sleep."

  "I'm trying. Samuel keeps pushing me."

  "I do not."

  "Yes, you do, you—"

  "Shut up, Becky!" John grumbled.

  Conor rose to one elbow wearily. "What's wrong?"

  "I can't sleep," Becky said plaintively. "I want to go to Mama."

  "Baby," Samuel commented acidly.

  "I'm not!"

  "Are too."

  "Am not—"

  "All right, all right." Conor sat up, rubbing his face. "What would help you go to sleep, Becky?"

  "Well—"

  "Mizz Travers said you'd tell us a story," Ida offered helpfully.

  "A story." Conor took a deep breath. "Would that help, Becky?"

  "It might." Her voice was tiny in the darkness.

  A story. Conor closed his eyes, mentally flipping through his inventory of tales. As Jamie O'Brien he'd been known as a master storyteller, but those adventures were too ribald for the children. He thought back to his childhood. There had been no stories then, of that he was sure. The dragons he'd been fighting had been all too real, and there were no white knights to find him shelter at night or something to eat.

  "Something with soldiers," John suggested.

  Ida sounded disgusted. "Not soldiers. I want to hear about princesses and fairies."

  Princesses. Fairies. The words struck a chord in Conor and brought to mind the only story he could remember.

  "All right." His words silenced them. Six pairs of eyes glimmered in the darkness. "I've got a story."

  She couldn't help herself.

  Sari stepped outside, drawing her coat more tightly about her, closing the door quietly so as not to wake the women sleeping on the floor inside. The frigid night air cut through the thin flannel of her nightgown, freezing her legs. She curled her fingers into the thick wool of her coat in an attempt to keep them warm.

  This was ridiculous. She knew it, yet she couldn't help it. For an hour she'd lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the fading gossip of her guests as they fell asleep. She'd relived the evening in her mind, remembering the way Conor had looked in the moonlight, fighting the restless desire that gnawed at her even as she warned herself that it was better to stay away.

  But she couldn't forget the way he'd looked at her. She couldn't forget the painful desire she'd seen in his eyes or his tenderness when he touched her hair. She wanted to know—had to know—what it meant. All she had to do was see him, or hear his voice. Then she would know if he was as affected as she was, or if their kisses mattered to him at all.

  The barn loomed in the darkness. Sari took a deep breath, pressing back against the closed door. Earlier she'd sent him there, thinking that she needed time to think. But once she reached her bed, she realized it was the last thing she wanted to do. Thinking would come soon enough. Now all she wanted was reassurance. All she wanted were the dreams that had seemed plausible in the cold, blue moonlight.

  Just his voice, she told herself. Once she heard it, she would have the strength to go back to bed, to banish her thoughts and sleep.

  Before she lost her courage, she hurried across the expanse of field that stretched between the barn and the house. Her hair blew into her face, hard little pellets of ice stung her cheeks. She stumbled against a clump of icy grass near the side of the barn, catching herself just before she fell into the wall.

  She pushed away, moved along the barn to the door. She stopped there, her heart pounding. This ha
d been foolish. What was she doing out here on this cold night? What did she expect? Conor was in the barn with six children, and they were probably all asleep by now. What had she been thinking—that she would sneak up into the loft and somehow wake him?

  She closed her eyes. She was an idiot. If she'd waited a few moments longer, probably the longing to see him would have waned. She'd be warm and comfortable in bed instead of huddled against the barn wall in the chilling prairie night, feeling foolish and naive—

  "All right. I've got a story."

  Sari froze. His voice was muffled through the door, rough with weariness and quiet, but she heard him. The sound of it sent relief speeding through her.

  "Does it have soldiers?"

  "No soldiers, Johnny, but plenty of magic."

  "But I want—"

  "Shut up and let him talk!" Becky's shrill voice cut the darkness. "Okay, Mr. Roarke, you can tell us now."

  Sari smiled. She could imagine Conor's face, his expression a mix of resignation and kindness. She wished she could see him.

  She pressed farther along the door, resting her hands and cheek on the wood, now oblivious of the cold. What story would he tell? He was a wonderful storyteller, she remembered. Or at least he had been when he was Jamie O'Brien.

  "It was the middle of a cold night. The moon was big and bright in the sky, and it lit the way for the girl who left her father's castle to walk in the woods."

  "A princess?"

  "Yes, she was a princess, Becky. Princess Christabel."

  Christabel. Sari inhaled sharply. It felt as if something had fallen on her heart. Her favorite poem.

  "She sounds pretty."

  "She was. Very pretty. She had long thick hair the color of chocolate, and her eyes were big and brown—like maple syrup. Her laugh sounded as if the finest musicians in the world had gathered to play."

  "She sounds like Mizz Travers," Samuel noted matter-of-factly.

  She waited for Conor's response, wondering if the description had been deliberate, wondering if he truly saw her that way or if it was a convenient fancy for the children.