"That is not an excuse," Charles said harshly. "When I was mining in Lancaster—years ago—we were poor and starving, too. Even then you did not find good Deutschmen killing one another."
"There were different reasons," Conor insisted. He remembered when he was playing at being a Molly, how easily that desperation crawled inside him—even when he knew he didn't have to endure it, even when he knew he wasn't going to stay.
"You are defending them?" Charles's eyes narrowed.
Conor took an uneasy breath. "No," he shook his head. "No." But he knew it wasn't as simple as that. They weren't all like Michael Doyle, like Evan Travers. Many of the Mollies had been decent, hardworking men who'd tried the only way they knew to change things; that it had been a bloody and violent way may have been inevitable. Once, Conor had viewed that way as evil—as something that needed to be stopped. But after two years in the coalfields he only knew that he didn't know anything. Morality was as accommodating as an innkeeper, it all depended on who was paying for the room.
"Evan," Charles began slowly, puffing on the pipe, "Evan was not a man who cared for compromise. Violence would always have been his way, and that of his friends."
Conor remembered the man he'd once called a friend. "Evan knew what he wanted."
"And he took it." The bitterness in Charles's voice was startling. Conor glanced at him in surprise. The old man's thin lips were pulled into a frown.
"Some would call that decisive."
"Some did not have their daughter as the prize." Charles shook his head, handing over the pipe. "Oh, I know Sari is not my daughter, though she came to us when she was just a child and I have always loved her as if she were my own. She was a good child, with a quiet strength." He smiled. "Bernice used to say that Sari was as strong as a bull, with the gentleness of a lamb."
Conor liked the whimsy. It fit her.
"But even as a child she was sad," Charles continued. "Bernice and I worked to make her happy, to be her parents. When she began to smile again—that was a fine, fine thing." He sighed. "Evan was all bluster and no substance, but he caught our Sari. She was a child, she could not know what Evan was. She married him, and every day I saw her become again the child her mother failed. Her joy was gone, she was not my Sari."
The pain in Charles's voice tore at Conor. He recalled the way Evan had treated his wife, the way he barely spoke to her, always ignored her. The one rime Conor had seen Evan touch Sari, she appeared so surprised, Conor had been sure it was his imagination. He almost wished Evan were still alive so that he could kill him with his bare hands. He wanted to watch the blood drain from Evan's face, slowly and torturously, to kill him the way Evan had killed Sari.
Or tried to. She was so much stronger than any of them realized.
Charles was still talking. "... and I do not wish it to happen again."
Conor blinked, wondering if he missed something important. The tobacco made his head fuzzy. He said the first words that came into his head. "I understand how you feel."
"Good." Charles nodded satisfactorily. "Then you will understand when I ask what your intentions are."
Conor stared at him blankly. "My intentions?"
"Toward meine Nichte.”
Conor swallowed, unable to answer. He was still wondering himself. He wanted to be so careful this time, not to lead her to believe he could give her what he still wasn't sure he could. "I—I don't know."
"I see." Charles took a slow drag off the pipe. "I am not blind. You were alone during the blizzard, when 1 was in Woodrow. I can only guess what happened, but I cannot be far from wrong."
"No." Conor said roughly. "You're not wrong."
"It is for Sari to decide what she wants, but I would have her get the choice. You will ask her to marry you? I thought you might have done it in Pennsylvania, if Evan was gone."
"I was doing a job in Pennsylvania."
"So you say."
Conor's voice was harsh. "I'm a Pinkerton operative, Charles. I'm not sure I can stop being that."
"You are telling me you care nothing for her?"
"No," Conor shook his head. "I'm telling you nothing of the kind."
"Then?"
"I can't tell the future, Charles. I don't know what's going to happen." He took a deep breath. "I'm trying to take things a step at a time. I don't want to hurt her."
"You will stay with Pinkerton, then?" Charles asked.
"I don't know." Conor spoke slowly, trying to think, grabbing answers from thin air. "I'm riot sure I can be anything else. Sari doesn't deserve that. No one deserves it."
"What about love?"
"What about it?" Conor looked away. "Does a man have to learn how to love, Charles? Or does it just come naturally? I don't know the answers. I don't know if I can love Sari." He shook his head, and the sadness of his own words made his chest ache. "I don't know if I can leave behind years of lying."
"Have you tried?"
"What do you think I'm doing? I don't have any experience with this."
"I think you have more experience than you know," Charles said quietly. "I have faith in you, Conor Roarke. Now you must have faith in yourself."
Chapter 18
Charles's words haunted Conor—he thought of them during the short, freezing walk to the barn, and later, when he lay curled in his bedroll, listening to the frigid winds whip around the building and the soft snorting of the animals below. "Now you must have faith in yourself " Such easy words. Sentiments he'd heard before, echoed in his father's gentle voice. "You must believe in yourself, Conor." At twelve Conor had scoffed at them, believing the old priest had no concept of the life Conor lived, that those words had no bearing on any reality he had ever known.
And now he was still scoffing.
Conor folded his arms beneath his head, staring up at the darkness. He had always thought he wasn't the kind of man who would ever have a family. The job took everything he had. The best Pinkerton operatives were single men, men who had no connections, hardly any family. Men willing to take risks because they had so little to lose.
He thought he'd been a man like that. He'd taken the risks and thought he was invulnerable. And then his world had crashed in on him in a hail of plaster and wood and ash, and he'd realized just how vulnerable he'd been.
Conor squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the tears start behind them—still tears, even after so many months. He didn't want to lose that again. He didn't want to love someone enough to hurt.
But he wondered if he even had a choice anymore. He wondered if maybe Charles was right, if Conor could be the man Sari wanted, if he could love her enough to change. It meant being something he wasn't sure he could be, becoming the kind of man who could take satisfaction in working the land, in the warm security of a family, of children.
It meant giving up vengeance.
He thought of Sean Roarke's face, of those kindly eyes, the wizened features, and waited for the anger to come. And though it was there, though he felt it growing in his heart, the regret was stronger now, a sadness that tightened his throat and burned his eyes. Sadness now, more than anger, and Conor realized that his anger had been lessening bit by bit— since he'd arrived at this farm, since he'd looked into Sari's eyes and seen a forgiveness he hadn't wanted, a trust he didn't deserve. She had reason enough for distrusting him, and yet she didn't. She had opened herself to him again, had trusted that he was telling her the truth.
And he paid her back by deceiving her.
He thought about those days during the blizzard, the things he'd learned about her, about Evan, and realized nothing was black and white. Conor no longer believed Sari had deliberately betrayed him. She had told Evan nothing, and if she had warned Michael away, well, he was her brother. He was her only family. Conor would have done the same.
He believed her when she said she'd washed her hands of Michael, that she hadn't seen or heard from him in a year. She had never believed in their cause; she had despised the violence of their ways. He had heard he
r speak harshly of her brother in Tamaqua, and Conor had no reason to think she was lying now. No reason except for his own foul—and foolish— suspicions.
He'd been a Pinkerton agent too long. Had grown used to distrusting people, to attributing motives to those who had none. He'd grown used to lying and pretending, had given so much to the job that honor and love were emotions he'd forgotten how to have.
Or had he?
The wind was screaming. He heard the whisper of icy snow blowing against the door. It was a cold, cold night. But his heart... his heart felt warm again. For the first time in a very long while.
At first the knock blended with the howl of the wind and the hiss of snow—a soft tap, a muffled scrape. But then it grew in intensity, and Sari sat up in bed, fumbling with the lamp. Conor, she thought, and her heart leaped at the hope that he'd come to her.
Hastily she grabbed the lamp and hurried from bed, nearly stumbling down the ladder in her excitement. It had been so long—three days now—and the thought of touching him again, of feeling his warmth against her, made her almost giddy.
She fumbled with the door, a greeting ready on her lips, and pulled it open. It was barely cracked when he pushed through it, bringing snow and wind with him, shoving her back before he collapsed against the rocking chair.
It wasn't Conor.
It was Michael.
Sari shoved the door closed. "Michael—"
He collapsed on the floor, a lump of ice-covered wool. His breathing was loud and raspy; his whole body shuddered with it.
"Michael." Sari set aside the lamp and went to him. "Oh, Michael."
He looked up at her. His eyes were watery and red, the heat from his skin nearly burned her. "Sari," he whispered, and the rawness of his voice shocked her, the harsh, choking sound of it. "Sari, darlin', I'm afraid ... I need just a bit... of help."
Sari pushed away his hat so hard, it rolled across the floor. Her brother's forehead was hot; sweat matted the dark curls of his hair. She shoved at his coat. "You're burning up. Where's the wound?"
"No ... wound."
"Then, what? What happened?"
"Fever," he said. "Caught it a few days—" He broke off, coughing so hard, he couldn't catch his breath, shaking in her arms. When he recovered, he smiled weakly at her. "I know... I said I would leave you be."
Sari's heart constricted. That smile of his, weak as it was, caught her, just as he had to know it would. It reminded her of other times, childhood times, of the older brother who had been irresponsible and carefree, who had charmed her with his fanciful stories.
"It's all right," she said softly. "I was just... surprised. I didn't expect to see you."
"Came to visit," he said. "Me and Timmy and ... Sean O'Mallory."
Sleepers, every one. Sari frowned. "They just left you here?"
"Didn't think ... you'd care to have 'em stay." He struggled to sit up, the movement had him coughing again, hard enough to bring up phlegm. She grabbed the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth.
"Just stay still," she said.
"I... won't be a bother. Put me in ... the barn, darlin'. I'll be fine."
The barn. Sari froze. Conor was in the barn. Conor, who was looking for the men who had killed his father. And though he hadn't said it, she suspected—knew—that Michael was one of those men.
"You can't stay here," she said desperately. "Michael, you can't."
Her brother frowned. "Sari, darlin', I've said ... I'm sorry."
"It's not about being sorry." Sari hesitated. She glanced at the door, wondering how much to tell her brother. Whatever Conor felt for her, vengeance meant more to him. She would not be able to keep him from taking it if he knew Michael was here. And as for her brother ...
Sari bit her lip, wishing she knew him better. She had no idea how much vengeance was enough for Michael. Was bombing Conor's house, killing his father, enough? Or did he need Conor's blood as well?
Michael was staring at her, a puzzled look darkening his already dark face, his brown eyes dilated with fever. She looked down at him, studying his features, taking in the dark hair and the handsome face, the mouth she knew could quirk in an endearing smile. He was her brother. Except for Charles, he was the only family she had left, and even though she'd claimed he was dead to her, even though she'd ordered him from her house and her life a year ago, she could not just toss him into the cold.
Her chest felt tight, her heart leaden. He was her brother. It was why she'd warned him away from Tamaqua all those months ago. It was why she'd told him her suspicions about Jamie O'Brien. She had not even told her husband those things. And because of it, Evan died.
In spite of everything she still didn't want that fate for Michael.
She touched his hair, wound her fingers through curls damp with sweat, and took a deep breath. "Michael," she said, "promise me that if I tell you something, you won't... tell me you'll understand."
His thick brows came together. "What?"
"Promise me."
"Darlin', I can't..." He started coughing again, shaking in her arms.
Sari held him tight against her. "Please, Michael. Promise me." When he nodded, she hesitated, trying to think of the right words. There were no right words. Nothing but the truth.
"You'll have to stay in Onkle's soddy." When he started to protest, she cut him off with a shake of her head. "You don't understand, Michael. There's someone else staying in the barn."
Michael's eyes narrowed. "Someone else? Who?"
"Conor Roarke."
The name was as explosive as she'd known it would be. Michael jerked up so quickly, it set off another round of coughing. When she tried to hold him closer, he fought her arms.
"Damn it, Sari," he managed finally. His eyes were blazing now, as much from fever as anger, and though his voice was hoarse and rasping, it had regained strength. "That traitor's here? Why is that ... little sister? Are you .. . sleepin' with him again?"
Sari jerked away so quickly, he fell back against the floor. "That's none of your business," she said tightly.
"Like hell it's ... not."
"My life is my own," Sari said. "I've told you that before. I'll help you, Michael, but my... relationship ... with Conor is not your concern."
"He ... betrayed us."
"That's all in the past."
"Maybe for you."
She glared at him. "For you too, Michael, or you can go back into the cold."
His face tightened. She saw the exhaustion blanketing his features, the pale draw of it in his face. He leaned back on one elbow; he was so weak, his body shook with the effort. He hesitated, and then he nodded slowly. "All right, lass. For ... now."
Sari rose and held out her hand. He grasped it tightly, and she staggered as he leaned into her, pulling himself to his feet. His legs were unsteady, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, letting him take strength from her, feeling the heat of his body against her cheek.
Together they went to the door. With his weight against her, she could barely manage it, but she pulled the door open; It slammed against the soddy wall with the force of the wind; ice particles swirled in, stinging her face and her hands, burning through the flannel nightgown she wore. She shoved her feet into the boots she kept just inside the door; without her heavy socks they were enormous on her feet, flapping around her ankles, but there was no time to do anything about it.
She glanced outside. The barn was dark and silent; the only sound was the shriek of the wind and Michael's strained breathing in her ear. The thin snow crunched beneath their feet as they struggled around the corner of the soddy, toward the back. With her brother's weight and the wind, it seemed miles instead of only yards, but finally they were there. There was little moonlight, but she saw the shadow of Charles's door—darker against the sod bricks. She knocked once and fell against it. Their bodies thudded against the heavy wood.
"Onkle," she whispered. "Onkle, it's me."
She didn't know if he could hear her
above the wind, but he must have heard something. The door was yanked open. Charles stood behind it; the long nose of the rifle he held gleamed in the scant moonlight.
"It's me, old man." Michael wheezed. "Put the gun ... away."
Charles frowned. "Sari?"
"And Michael," she answered. "Onkle, it's Michael. He's sick."
"Michael?" Charles frowned and sighed. There was a split second when Sari thought he might deny them, might order her brother away, but then he leaned the gun against the doorjamb. "Come in, then," he said wearily. He put his arm around Michael's waist, taking some of his weight, and together they got her brother into the room and over to the bed. Michael sagged into it, clutching his chest.
Charles closed the door and lit the lamp. The faint brightness barely filled the shadows of the tiny soddy, but it was enough for Sari to see the disapproval on her uncle's face.
"Michael," he said slowly. "Why did you come to us?"
"I'm .. . ill," Michael said. "Maybe dying."
"Not dying," Charles disagreed. "Though it is what you deserve."
"Please, Onkle," Sari said.
Charles turned to her with a frown. "He brings trouble to you whenever he comes," he said. "Does he know Roarke sleeps only a few yards away?"
"As long as he's in the barn," Michael said. "And not... in my sister's bed."
"Michael!"
He gave her that smile again, though it was more strained this time, his breathing harsher. But her uncle ignored him.
"Why are you here, Michael?" he demanded. "And do not tell me you are passing through. Colorado is far from Tamaqua."
"I wanted ... to visit my ... sister."
"I thought she has told you to stay away."
Michael sagged onto the bed, wiping at his forehead. "I missed her."
"Ja." Charles snorted. "Like the mouse misses the cat."
"You have ... never ... liked me, Onkle."
"Ja." Charles agreed coldly. "Because you are trouble, Michael Doyle. You are like the bad coin."
"Enough," Sari scolded. "Leave him be, Onkle. I've told him he can stay a few days—until he's better."
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