Megan Chance

by A Heart Divided

"You've seen them?"

  "In Woodrow."

  "Christ." Devlin's hand curled around his drink.

  He took two quick gulps, draining it. "Damn it. We're too late."

  "Too late?" Conor frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "You should have telegraphed me, Roarke," Devlin said. "You should have told me you saw them before you came here."

  "What difference does it make?"

  "A lot of difference." Devlin licked his lips. "A hell of a lot of difference. Jesus, Roarke ... I got a telegram from William yesterday. There was a message that went out from Timmy Boyd two days ago, back to Tamaqua."

  Conor's chest tightened. Dread settled in his mouth like lead. "To Tamaqua?"

  Devlin nodded shortly. "It was short. All it said was: We'll take care of it.”

  "Take care of what?"

  "We think it was a response to the telegram sent out to them about a week ago." Devlin took a deep breath, and in his eyes was a sympathy Conor had never expected to see. "They followed you from Chicago, Conor. They followed you to Sari Travers. She's been blackmarked."

  Conor felt the blood drain from his face. Blackmarked. It was what he'd told Sari all those days ago, when he'd first needed a reason to stay on the farm. But it had been a lie, a fiction he'd created to frighten her. In the light of it, Michael's words from the other night took on a frightening meaning. "And he wants her, Roarke. He wants her dead. ..."

  It was no longer the simple anger of one man, or the hatred of another. It was orders for assassination.

  "Christ." Conor got to his feet. "I'm going back," he said shortly. He leaned over the table, so close to Devlin that the man sat back in his chair. "Wire William. Tell him to send someone else out here. Tonight. I want help, goddammit, and it'd better come quick."

  "Conor—"

  "Just do it." Conor waited for Devlin's nod, and then he turned on his heel, pushing out through the crowd and back into the littered, stinking streets of Denver. Sari was in danger. He should have known it, should have realized there was a reason for Michael and the others to be in Colorado. He should have put it together; why the hell hadn't he put it together?

  He knew the answer almost the moment he asked the question. He hadn't put it together because he'd been so torn apart by Sari's lack of trust in him that he hadn't looked beyond it. That lack of trust had wounded him simply because it was so well deserved. She had lied to him about Michael, but he had lied to her first. In Tamaqua he'd lied for two years. Two years of going to her bed and making love to her and pretending to be someone he was not. Two years of loving her without intending to stay. No wonder she hadn't trusted him.

  The realization flooded him, chilling him. He had never been anything more than a liar and a cheat. And Pinkerton had put those skills to good use. The end justifies the means. He'd believed the words once. But now ... now he thought of a woman with melting brown eyes, and he was no longer so certain. No longer certain of anything.

  Except that he could not let her die.

  Beyond him he heard the train whistle. Conor set off at a dead run.

  Sari lifted the pail of milk, feeling the strain in her arms and her back as she walked from the barn into the cold morning air. She glanced up at the heavy clouds forming overhead. There would be more snow tonight. More snow to gather in an icy layer on the ground, more snow to trudge through tomorrow and the next day. The thought made her tired. But then everything today made her tired. She hadn't slept well last night; she'd been awake when dawn started over the horizon, awake to hear the rattle of harness and the lone hoofbeats crunching over the prairie. Conor, riding away from here. Away from her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing away tears. She didn't know whom to blame for that, herself or Conor. She should have told him the truth last night, as he'd done. She should have trusted him. But then again she wondered if it would have made any difference, if his leaving was simply inevitable.

  Conor had asked her during the blizzard what she planned, whether she wanted a family, whether she wanted children. She would have been lying if she'd said no. It was what she wanted. A husband who loved her, children playing in the yard—the sound of their voices blending with the chirp of crickets and the stomping of corralled cattle. She could see it so clearly in her mind; she could almost smell the coffee on the stove and hear the giggles of children trying to sleep, the soft rasp of her husband's voice warning them to be quiet.

  Conor's voice.

  But the things she wanted were not things Conor could give her, and he wasn't worth her tears. Love meant nothing to him. She didn't think he even knew what the word really meant. For him it was an emotion easily roused, as equally dismissed when it no longer served his purposes. He'd said he loved her, but she'd seen his eyes last night, and she knew the truth. He would never trust anyone enough to love them.

  She felt sorry for him, but mostly she was sorry for herself. Because she loved him, and it hurt that he hadn't trusted her—and that she hadn't had the strength to trust him in return.

  Across the field she saw her uncle. He walked slowly, his hand pressed to his back, and Sari felt a flash of anger that Conor wasn't here to help him anymore. Charles was long past the age where he should be working so hard. He'd already spent his youth and his strength toiling in Pennsylvania, and without the help of a younger, stronger man she feared her uncle would never be able to break this hard, unforgiving sod.

  Quickly, she hurried to him, splashing the warm milk against her skirt, where it turned cold instantly. He met her halfway across the yard.

  "Are you all right?" she breathed, reaching him.

  Charles smiled slightly and nodded, “Ja, Nichte, do not worry so."

  "I can't help but worry." She took his arm. "Come inside. Let me fix you a poultice. There's no need to work any more today."

  He pulled away gently. "There is always need to work, Liebling. Look at those clouds. I cannot finish the fencing in the snow."

  "Maybe we should hire someone to help you, then."

  "We cannot afford hired help."

  "Perhaps John Graham—"

  "Ah, Sarilyn, the man has his own work to do." Charles patted her arm reassuringly. "I am fine, I promise you. But I could use some dinner. It is growing late."

  Sari colored. "I'm sorry. I—I haven't been myself today."

  "So I see." Charles smiled.

  "It's just that—"

  "Roarke is gone," he said. Her uncle sighed. "I had hoped things would end differently. I have not been to a wedding in some time."

  The words made her sad. "There won't be a wedding, Onkle," she said gently.

  He nodded. "I know." He took her arm, and together they started back to the soddy. "But he will regret this, Liebling, I promise you that. It takes more effort to fight what a man really wants. Roarke does not yet understand how much he loves you, but he will. He will."

  "That's small comfort."

  Charles chuckled. "Ja, it is that. But for now we have each other."

  Sari smiled, though her heart was heavy. "Yes, we have that."

  They were nearly to the soddy when she heard the sound of hoofbeats. For a moment her heart jumped. For a moment she thought maybe it was Conor. But when she turned around, she saw three horses making their way over the prairie, and the disappointment that crashed over her nearly made her sag against the house.

  "Who could that be?" Charles asked, turning around. "You were expecting someone?"

  "No." Sari shook her head. She set down the pail of milk and started toward the horses. She had only taken a few steps when she recognized them. Timmy Doyle and Sean O'Mallory. And behind them was her brother.

  Sari froze. "You'd best go inside, Onkle," she said.

  He came up beside her, peering into the distance. "Who is it?"

  "Michael."

  Her uncle's expression hardened. "I thought you told him to go."

  "I did."

  The horses were in the yard now. The riders
reined them to a stop and dismounted, and Sari caught the look on her brother's face. Too serious, too strained. The promise he'd made to Conor last night came rushing back to her. "We'll meet again, you and I. And then we'll finish it."

  She knew by Michael's expression that the time was now.

  "Hello, lassie," he said, and though his tone was friendly enough, he didn't look at her. His eyes roamed the yard, stared at the barn as if he could see through the walls. "Hello, Onkle."

  Charles spat. "Not your Onkle," he said. "You ceased being mein Neffe many years ago."

  Michael laughed. "Still don't like me, do you, old man?"

  She hated that laugh of his. That cold, nasty laugh. Sari touched her uncle's arm, murmuring a warning. "Don't cross him. Not today."

  Her uncle pulled away, ignoring her. "You are no longer part of this family," he said, straightening proudly. "Sari has told you that. I have told you. We have come a long way to be free of your kind. You are not welcome here. You will please leave."

  Sean O'Mallory came forward, a smile on his ruddy face. " 'You will please leave,' " he mocked. "Aye, we'll leave, old man. Once you tell us where Roarke is."

  "He's gone," Sari said. "He left this morning."

  Michael sighed. "Sari, darlin', please don't lie to me. I've got Timmy on a thin enough leash as it is."

  Sari glanced at Timmy Boyd. He was staring at her as if he could melt her flesh from her bones with his eyes. She shuddered and turned away, but it was too late to keep the fear from starting deep inside her. She struggled to stay calm. "It's not a lie," she said. "He went to Denver."

  Timmy stepped forward; his thin face sharpened with a nasty grin. "If you don't mind, we'll just be havin' us a look around."

  Charles stepped in front of her. "I want you off my land."

  "Just a look around, old man," Michael wheedled. "If we don't find him, we'll be off. It's simple as that."

  "Get off my land," Charles demanded again. "You do not belong here."

  "Onkle," Sari warned. "Let them look. We have nothing to hide."

  "They do not belong here," he insisted stubbornly.

  Timmy's grin widened. "I think we belong anywhere we want, you old fool," he said. "And I'm not leavin' till we have, a look around. Of course, you have another choice." He reached inside his coat, drawing out a revolver and pointing it at Charles's chest. "We could always leave a dead man."

  Sari grabbed her uncle's arm and squeezed hard, pulling him back. "Go on," she said to Timmy. "Have your look around. Then leave us be." She flashed an angry look at Michael. "As you promised."

  He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, but his expression never changed. He reached for his own gun and leveled it at them, though she knew it was just for show, so that these friends of his would know they could count on him. "Come on, laddies," he said to the others. "Let's get to work. And you two"—he looked at Sari—"go on inside."

  "Keep an eye on 'em, Mick," Sean said.

  "I will. Don't you be worrying about that." Michael motioned with his gun.

  "You think you are such a big man," Charles said. "But you are nothing, Michael Doyle. I am ashamed to call you kin."

  Michael's face hardened. He gestured again with the gun, and Sari tightened her fingers on her uncle's arm, pulling him with her as they went to the house. Sean kicked the door open, even though it was unlocked, nearly breaking it from its weak leather hinges.

  "Light the lamp," Timmy demanded when they were inside, and Sari did it quickly. He grabbed it, holding it aloft and peering into the corners where sunlight from the window and the open door didn't reach.

  Michael jerked his head to the table. "Sit down," he said. "This may take a while."

  Charles balked, and Sari felt the tug of fear. "Come on, Onkle," she said in a low voice. "Let's not cause trouble. They'll be gone soon enough."

  "Not soon enough," Charles said.

  Michael glared at him. "Sit down, old man."

  Charles sat, and Sari set the pail of milk on the table and took the seat beside him. Sean tromped through the house, kicking at trunks and pulling aside chairs as if he expected to see Conor cowering behind them. Timmy was in the loft. Sari heard him yank open the lid of her trunk, heard it thud against the wall. She winced, thinking of him up there. Picturing him looking under the bed, pushing aside the hanging hams to see into the corners, pawing through her personal things, defiling every one.

  The thought made her feel sick. She closed her eyes, tightening her fingers on the edge of the table. She wanted them gone, wanted Michael to take his friends and go far, far away.

  "What's this?" Timmy said, coming to the edge of the loft. He was holding one of her nightgowns— a fine batiste, lavishly embroidered. It was one of the gowns she'd brought on her honeymoon, one she rarely wore now. "Ain't this a pretty thing," he minced, holding it up before him.

  Michael glanced up. "Put it away, Timmy," he said. "We're looking for Roarke, remember?"

  "Aye, I remember." Timmy grinned, and then his face changed; he leered at her. "You wear this for Roarke, Sari?"

  Sari felt herself flush, and she felt Charles tense beside her.

  "It's all right," she whispered. "Let him—"

  "Leave her be, Tim," Michael warned.

  "Come on, Sari," Timmy continued, ignoring Michael. "Did you wear this when you fucked—"

  She felt Charles's move before she saw it, a sudden lurch to the side, a quick reach to the rifle angled in the corner by the window. He had it up against his shoulder before she could say a word, was cocking the lever and aiming at Timmy.

  She could never say afterward exactly what happened. From the corner of her eye she saw Michael whip around, saw the sunlight glint off the cold metal of his gun. She heard Sean's scream and then her own, and then she heard the crack of gunfire, saw the flash of powder.

  Charles spun, and there was another shot. Then the rifle was falling and so was he, collapsing on the table, upsetting the pail of milk so that it splashed across the surface—

  "He shot me! Christ in hell, he shot me!" Michael was shouting, clutching his arm. Blood seeped through his fingers. "The bastard shot me!"

  Sari jumped from her seat. "Onkle!" she shouted. She grabbed at him, but he was limp and heavy. The milk was spreading, pooling and spilling onto the floor, stained with pink that was rapidly growing redder and redder.

  "My God, my God." She grabbed at him, pressing her ear to his back, listening for breathing, feeling for movement. "Onkle. Onkle, please ..."

  He was breathing, but it was shallow and strained.

  Sean was leaning over Michael. Timmy stumbled down the loft ladder.

  "He shot me," Michael moaned. "He shot me!"

  "You shot him!" Sari lifted her head and screamed the words. When Michael looked at her, his eyes dark in the paleness of his face, she turned back to her uncle. With effort she pulled him from the table, nearly fell with him to the floor. The men on the other side of the room made no move to help her, and she wasn't sure she would have let them touch him. She knelt beside him, seeing the hole in his chest, blackened around the edges, the seeping blood. His eyes were closed, his face drained of color except for the thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  "Oh, my God," she whispered, leaning close. She lifted his head, cradling it in her arms. She looked at the three men standing there, stunned. "Somebody get a doctor!" she screamed at them. "Get him a doctor, damn you!"

  "Sarilyn—" Her uncle's whisper was strained. "Lieb... ling, it is ... too late."

  "No." Tears blurred her vision, fell onto her lips. The fear grew so big in her soul, she could taste it mixing with the weak salt of her tears. "Onkle, no, it's not. It's not too late. Just hold on. Hold on." She looked at her brother, who just sat there in silent shock. "Get a doctor!"

  Michael's lips moved, though Sari heard no sound.

  "Calm down, lass," Sean said.

  "He's dying, damn you!"

  Her unc
le shuddered in her arms. "I... love ..."

  Desperation surged through her. She offered a prayer to every deity she could think of. Don't let him die. Please, don't let him die.

  But it was too late. She knew it by the hoarse clattering of his breath, and then by the way he went limp in her arms. She thought she heard the breathing of a word. "Bernice ..."

  And then he was gone.

  Sari stared down at the lifeless body in her arms. "No," she whispered. Then, louder, "No."

  Too late. She laid him on the ground, buried her face in her hands, unable to look at the face she'd loved so well, not wanting to believe. He was gone.

  He was gone and she had nothing left, nothing of him but this still-warm, empty body that suddenly wasn't him at all.

  "I'm sorry, darlin'," Michael said softly. "I didn't mean to shoot him."

  She didn't look at him. "Then you shouldn't have pulled your gun."

  "It was an accident."

  She turned to face him. "You are no longer my brother," she said, marshalling her anger, her grief, into quiet, too-calm words. "I want you out of my house. I don't want to see your face again."

  "Sari—"

  "Get out."

  It was all she could say. She looked back at her uncle, at his silent body, and she felt the tears running down her face, over her cheeks and her jaw, and she didn't move. She heard them behind her, their quiet shuffling out of the soddy. Heard Michael pause at the door. But he didn't say anything, and finally he, too, was gone, and she was left alone with the cold, keening wind and the dull sunlight, and hands that were sticky with her uncle's blood.

  Chapter 23

  Conor rode up to the soddy drenched in sweat, panic still racing through his veins. He'd made the trip as quickly as he could, and when he saw the stillness of the little farm, he was sure he hadn't come quickly enough. He dismounted and left his horse standing there in the yard, and took the few steps to the front door of the house at a dead run, nearly falling through the door that hung loosely—too loosely—on its hinges.

  "Sari!" Her name burst from his lungs; he skidded to a stop when he saw her. She was standing just inside, staring into space, her hands curled around a cup of coffee. His first emotion was relief; he'd come in time. Then he saw her expression. That dead-eyed, empty expression.