Megan Chance

by A Heart Divided

  "But not today," she said. "There are ... things ... I need to think about."

  "Things?"

  She gave him a small, sad smile. "Just things, Conor," she said gently. "Please."

  He nodded, though her answer took away the lightness he'd been feeling for the past days, added a weight to the hope that had started inside of him. He looked beyond her, to the mildewed newspapers on the walls, the darkness barely held at bay by the lamp, the steam rising from the heavy iron pot full of beans. It felt damp and dark suddenly, and the day seemed to have soured around him.

  "Something's wrong," he said again.

  She shook her head—a little sadly, he thought. "Go back to the fence," she said. Then that odd smile again. "Go be a farmer."

  "A farmer," he repeated. "You think I could be?"

  "I don't know," she said. "Can you?" And then she turned away from him, grabbing her apron from the hook beside the stove and tying it on, leaving him completely even though she didn't quit the room. Leaving him with the question dangling in his ears, and the strange, unfamiliar thought that she didn't care about the answer. That she already knew what it was.

  Chapter 20

  Conor took the bits between his hands, warming them with his breath and his body temperature before he finished harnessing the horses. Tonight was the Christmas dance in town, and they couldn't have picked a more hellish evening for it. The cold lanced through his coat, seeped into his bones. He checked the hot rocks wrapped in straw on the floor beneath the wagon seat, warming his hands before he shoved them back into his pockets. Then he glanced toward the house.

  Almost in answer to his thought, the door opened. Lamplight slanted across the snow, and onto that bright carpet Sari stepped, looking refined and graceful as a princess even though that old wool coat was bundled around her like a blanket, the ubiquitous butternut scarf covered her hair. All he could see of the dress she wore was the hem peeking beneath the coat.

  She caught his gaze and smiled, but it was a subdued smile; Conor caught the edge of tension beneath it. She was nervous, he realized. He remembered the day they'd gone into town, how she'd acted the same way then, how the curiosity of the townspeople seemed to bother her, and he guessed that was where her tension came from now.

  He smiled back at her, as gently and reassuringly as he could. "Don't worry," he said. "I won't leave your side."

  She looked puzzled for a moment, and then she turned away. "Did you remember to put the pies in?"

  "They're in the back," he answered, coming forward to take her hand and help her into the wagon. She settled herself in the middle of the seat just as Charles came out of the soddy, closing the door behind him.

  "You didn't forget the blankets?" Charles asked.

  "It's too damn cold to forget." Conor waited until Sari's uncle climbed into the seat beside her, and then he came aboard himself, taking the reins into his hands. "I hope this dance is worth freezing to death," he teased. "Because it feels like we're going to."

  Sari nodded distractedly. "I've been told it's a fine time."

  The wagon started off, jerking across the snow, the steel-shod wheels crunching on the ice. They fell into silence; it was too cold to talk on this frigid night. The horses puffed in icy little clouds of steam, their hooves slipping even with the wool socks Conor had pulled over their forefeet.

  He felt Sari beside him, sitting stiffly, the warmth of her body radiating through her coat. It was humiliating to admit how much her presence affected him, but the truth was, it did. The last few days he'd thought of nothing but this dance, of holding her again, of leading her across the floor while she leaned into him and laughed. It made him remember other dances, that first dance in Tamaqua, when he'd watched her coming down the stairs clad in blue-striped silk and thought she was the prettiest thing he'd seen in a long while.

  That was the first time he'd met her, and he remembered now how she'd enraptured him from that second, how he'd watched her the rest of the night, had been unable to take his eyes off her even when someone told him she was Evan Travers's wife. He should have seen the trouble starting then, he knew. She affected him too easily; he should have stayed as far from her as he could. It was what a smart operative would do.

  But then, when it came to Sari, Conor was rarely a smart operative.

  He glanced at her, and she stared straight ahead, her expression tight. He thought about their conversation yesterday. He should have told her the truth about why he was here. He should tell her everything: his suspicions about her relationship with Michael, the fact that he was here looking for her brother, the ambivalence he was feeling about vengeance. He should tell her the truth, and discover if she could still love him after. If she loved him now.

  He was almost afraid to know the answer. If she truly loved him, if she trusted him ... That kind of confidence terrified him. He'd gone into the most dangerous situations a man could face. He'd confronted outlaws and criminals, bombs and guns and fires. He'd gone into the blackest depths of the earth and come back alive. But this thing with Sari, this was the biggest risk he'd ever taken. And he felt horribly ill equipped to face it. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could.

  But he was willing to try. If Sari loved him, he would try.

  The well-lit windows of the Grange hall beckoned them as they finally pulled into Woodrow. The building glowed like a beacon from the end of what passed for the main street of town. The yard was covered with wagons and livestock. Hoarse shouts and laughter echoed in the darkening night. Excitement crackled in the air, sparkled on the lamp-lit snow.

  "Oh, it's beautiful," Sari breathed, her voice muffled by the brim of her bonnet. "I didn't realize it would be so grand."

  Grand? Conor looked skeptically at the small building. The gaily decorated hall was not festooned with the tiny glittering lights of chandeliers, nor did its steps sparkle with reflections cast upon hundreds of glittering jewels nor shimmer with the movement of velvet and silk skirts. It wasn't one tenth as opulent as most of the parties he'd seen in Chicago.

  But laughter pealed through the air, followed closely by the squeaking chords of a fiddle. Women picked up their calico skirts and tripped gaily up the steps, their eyes bright with anticipation, their remade gowns as beguiling as rich taffetas. The steps of the men were just as light—perhaps more so—as they gazed into the laughing faces of their women. The air shimmered with intimacy and romance, and despite himself Conor was caught up in it.

  He smiled. He could grow comfortable with this life. Chicago could have its luxurious parties with women who flirted but never laughed, with conversations billowing above the hum of an orchestra and ladies careful not to spill punch on jewel-toned satins. He'd take Woodrow any day, with its fiddler and laughter and women dancing boisterously in blue gingham.

  He looked at Sari sitting beside him, her cheeks red from the wind, her eyes sparkling in the light spilling across the snow, and Conor was caught up in the excitement. He reined in the horses, jumping down to lend Sari a helping hand. Together he and Charles led the animals to the temporary shelter erected behind the building.

  "Charles! Conor!" Will Schmacher came forward, extending his hand. "Good to see you all could make it."

  Charles shook the man's hand firmly. "We would not miss it," he said. "I hope you have not started the party without us."

  "Hardly a chance of that. We all been waitin' for Sari's mince pie."

  "I wouldn't want to disappoint you, Will." Sari said, smiling softly. "Do you think two will be enough to go around?"

  "Not when I can eat one by myself."

  "I think Berthe will probably make you share." She laughed. "It is Christmas, you know."

  She reached into the wagon bed and pulled out the basket that held the pies, swinging it clumsily over the side. Will reached for it, lifting it easily.

  "Let me help you with that, Sari." He offered his arm. "I trust your menfolk won't mind if I take you on inside. It's darn cold out here."

  Conor's
heart squeezed at the thought of her entering the hall alone, without him, and he realized he'd been harboring images of himself as one of those happy men escorting their wives up the icy stairs. Except Sari wasn't his wife, and he didn't have the right to monopolize her.

  He cleared his throat. "See you inside, Sari."

  She nodded, weaving her arm through Will's and swaying into him as they stepped precariously over the ice. Conor watched her dark head lift to Will's as they walked away, and he turned back to the horses, suddenly wanting to be done with the unloading and unharnessing. A shiver of anticipation coursed up his spine when he thought of walking into the decorated hall and taking Sari into his arms for the first dance—

  "Conor Roarke?"

  He looked over his shoulder. The man standing behind him looked vaguely familiar, though Conor couldn't place his pockmarked face or serious expression. "Yes?"

  "I'm John Clancy. I've got a telegram for you."

  Conor hesitated. He dropped his hold on the harness and brushed off his hands. From the corner of his eye he saw Charles stiffen. Trepidation filled him. "A telegram?"

  "It came in yesterday, actually." John Clancy looked sheepish. "But I couldn't get out there, and Pa said you'd no doubt be coming to the dance." He held out the thin, yellow paper. "It's from Denver."

  Denver. Peter Devlin was based in Denver. He was one of Pinkerton's oldest operatives—and the first to recommend Conor be placed on sabbatical. There was no love lost between them. Conor's trepidation turned into foreboding. He took the missive from John's hands. "Thanks."

  "I'm sorry it wasn't sooner—"

  "It's all right. Thank you." Conor dismissed him curtly, turning to see Charles's intent gaze. "Don't wait for me," he said. "Go on in, I'll follow in a minute."

  For an uncomfortable moment Charles looked as if he would protest, but then he nodded and quickly finished loading hay into the feed box. "I will see you inside," he said.

  Conor waited until Charles disappeared around the corner before he leaned against the wall and stared at the envelope in his hand. Other men bustled around him, hurrying to get inside. Their talk floated about his ears, fading into incomprehensible sounds. For a moment Conor stared at the envelope, feeling a surge of dread he couldn't push away. For a moment he wondered if he had to open it. Perhaps he could throw it away, pretend he never got it, pretend Pinkerton didn't exist. But he couldn't and he knew it.

  Clumsily Conor ripped open the envelope and pulled out the thin sheet. The words danced in front of his eyes before he could assign them meaning, and then he drew in his breath harshly.

  Doyle seen stop meet me five sharp tomorrow at Elephant Corral in Denver stop use caution stop.

  Conor stared at the words in shock.

  Michael was here. Here in Colorado. The knowledge put a sick heaviness in Conor's gut; he thought of Sari the last few days, how she'd avoided him, slipped away from his hands. Was it because she wasn't sure how much to trust him, as he'd thought?

  Or was it because she was in contact with her brother?

  The suspicion was nagging and uncomfortable, and Conor forced it from his mind. He made himself think of the blizzard, and Sari's heartfelt words. "I washed my hands of him." She'd meant it, he was sure. He had looked into her eyes and believed her. That was what he had to remember. That was the only important thing.

  He looked at the Grange hall, at the lights sparkling on the snow. He had to decide to trust Sari now—or never trust her. The time had come to make the most important decision of his life. He shoved the telegram into his pocket, sprinting past the horses, the men who stared after him in surprise. He had to find Sari, and when he did, he would ask her how she felt. He would find out now, tonight, if Sari loved him enough to trust him, if she loved him enough to help him find the man he hoped was somewhere inside him. And if she did—oh, God, if she did, he would send a telegram to Denver, tell Devlin to go to hell, that his warning was unnecessary. Because if Conor knew Sari loved him, he would do as his father had asked—as William Pinkerton had asked—and put aside revenge and hatred and anger. For Sari he would forget about finding Michael. He would make vengeance part of his past.

  Sari stood at the edge of the room, her toe tapping to the raunchy chords of the two fiddlers despite the tension that tightened her shoulders and the muscles in her neck. She wanted to relax, to enjoy this night. She'd been looking forward to it for weeks, more so in those days before Michael had come, when she had fantasized about dancing over these floors in Conor's arms, when the vision had brought pleasure instead of a steady sense of dread.

  But things were different now. Now she couldn't stop thinking about Michael. He was better. In the last days the fever had faded. He had promised to be gone tonight, as she'd demanded, and she hoped he was true to his word, but even that thought didn't ease her anxiety. There was too much hatred in Michael's voice when he talked about Conor Roarke. Too much anger. She could not rid herself of the notion that Michael would try something, that he would make another attempt at revenge, in spite of his promise.

  Onkle's words haunted her. "He's a killer," and once again—as she had several times over the last few days—she thought about warning Conor, and dismissed the idea just as quickly. Only now she felt a deep, heavy foreboding, a guilt she couldn't quite ease. It was better this way, she told herself. If Conor found out... if Conor found out, she would not be able to keep either of them from taking their revenge.

  All she could do was hold Michael to his promise and hope he would be gone. She was tired of this; the strain of lying was exhausdng her. She was afraid, every moment she spent with Conor, that he would sense her discomfort, that he would somehow sense Michael was here, within his reach. She thought of the conversation they'd had in the kitchen just a day ago. Conor had known something had changed. He was a Pinkerton agent, skilled at finding out things. When he'd seen the bowl she dropped on the snow, she'd been sure he would figure it out. When he hadn't, when he'd accepted her story about the birds, her relief had been overwhelming. But she wouldn't always be able to come up with a story. And she couldn't keep avoiding him.

  She took a deep breath, forcing a smile at a couple that eased past her, and wished she were like them tonight. Wished she could smile and dance and laugh. She wanted to sway beneath the shimmering tin stars hanging from twisted swaths of red and green bunting, to kiss under the tiny, wilted sprigs of mistletoe hanging in the doorway. She wanted to dance until her cheeks were flushed and perspiration gathered beneath her breasts, to walk out into the freezing air and whisper secrets in a lover's ear. In Conor's ear.

  But her secrets would only tear them apart, and she would not be whispering them to anyone. Sari squeezed her eyes shut. She hoped Michael was gone already. She hoped he stayed gone.

  The door opened behind her; the wind that came in with another couple blew tendrils of hair loose from the coiffure she'd taken such care with. She had styled it special tonight, wrapping the heavy strands in a French twist and tying scraps of lace from her remade gown into it. The dress she wore was her Sunday best—a fine, blue-striped corded silk that had been altered so many times, she wasn't sure when she'd first purchased it or what the style had been. Now it was fairly simple, as befitted life on the plains. It had a small stand-up collar and a slim-fitted bodice, with tiny pleats on either side of the button-down front. The sleeves fitted tightly to her arms all the way to her wrists, and the full skirts that had once seen a bustle were gathered on either side and fastened at the back with a large bow.

  It was pretty enough, and a few days ago she would have been satisfied wearing it to the Christmas dance. But now it only made her think of the green-striped cream silk tucked away in her chest upstairs and the man who had bought it for her. Now all she could think about was the trouble she'd taken with her appearance and what a waste of time it was. Because deep in her heart she'd wanted to be beautiful for Conor, and she knew there was no purpose

  in it. She and Conor had no future
—Michael's visit had only confirmed what she knew in her heart already. And if she'd had a passing fancy that maybe that could change ... well, she knew now that it wouldn't. Michael was her brother, and he would always come between them.

  The image of her brother was so strong in her mind that when the door opened and Conor came rushing inside, she felt a momentary twinge of panic—as if Michael were standing before her. The blood tingled in her fingertips. Her brother was gone, she reminded herself, and then added a prayer: "Please, God, make him be gone."

  "There you are." Conor was at her side, standing close enough to whisper the words in her ear. "Waiting for me?"

  She turned to him, forced a smile, and hoped it was a good one. "You were outside so long, I thought you might have frozen to death."

  "It sure as hell felt like I had," he answered. He smiled, but there was an odd tension in his face; his good humor sounded as forced as hers felt. He took her hand, squeezing it between his fingers, and led her into the hall. The dancing had started. The fiddlers were playing a boisterous tune, and petticoats flew as partners stomped across the floor, raising dust for the boy near the wall to wet down with his sprinkler can.

  "Anyone you'd rather dance with?" Conor asked her. "Or can I claim all your dances now?"

  Sari forced herself to answer in kind, even though her stomach was roiling and her throat was tight with tension. "What would people think if I danced them all with you? You'd ruin my chances of meeting some nice, widowed farmer. I'll let you be my partner for one."

  His face darkened a moment, his fingers tightened around her hand. "There's no farmer here worth your time," he said roughly. "Dance with me."

  He still wore his coat, but he pulled her onto the dance floor anyway, swinging her into his arms and starting the steps. He was good at it, she thought, seeing how easily he moved, how the motions came to him without thought or care. It reminded her of when she'd first met him—that dance in Tamaqua, the one where he'd swept her off her feet with only a few words spoken in a charming brogue, a pair of warm and ready arms. Evan had not danced with her that entire night, but as Jamie O'Brien, Conor had ignored the scandalized looks and partnered her for two.