The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  Backing away from the fireplace he dropped wearily into an armchair and reached for the teapot, still hot under its leaf-patterned cozy. He drank off two cups and tried to ignore the craving for a smoke—a habit recently surrendered—then leaned back against the chair and promptly fell asleep.

  It begins with a boy offering flowers, and he's always a stranger.

  When he's awake he wonders why he doesn't recognize him, why his sleeping mind can't retain the knowledge of who he is and how the scene ends—but he never remembers. He greets the boy as though seeing him for the first time. A Hindu child. Thin, stunted, dressed raggedly, smiling up at him with a flash of white teeth, cupping a cluster of marigolds in two small hands.

  Don't take the flowers, dammit.

  Why not?

  You know why . . .

  In a featureless void, the boy beams at him. He smiles in return, reaches to pick out one of the dark orange blossoms . . .

  Now the child disappears, and he is standing in a darkened flat. The one he rented in Dublin. The one Thomas helped him move into on a Saturday afternoon, when everything on the truck was wrapped in plastic because of the bucketing rain. His brother is gone. The flat is empty.

  He stands in the living room holding a Walther semiautomatic pistol in one hand. He's sweating, shivering, and somebody is pounding on the door.

  "Conor, open the door, now. There's someone wants to see you."

  "Is it Frank? Tell him I won't go."

  "God love you, it isn't Frank."

  The door swings open and his mother stands there with the boy, her hand on his shoulder.

  The small, cupped hands are lifting again and he finally recognizes him—but too late. The snow-covered pine trees in the background come into focus, the forest explodes, and the gun grows hot in his hand.

  Conor bolted to his feet, heart rate still accelerating as he forced himself down to the edge of the chair, sweeping the room with a disoriented stare. He hadn't yelled this time. At least, he didn't think so. Holding his breath he listened, and exhaled. No, he probably hadn't yelled. He looked over at the clock on the bedside table and groaned. Wide-awake and wired like a watch spring at two in the morning. He rubbed a hand over his chin and squeezed his eyes shut. God, he wanted a cigarette.

  3

  Morning arrived with a freshly washed quality; the dew could almost be wrung from the air and sipped. Vaporous bundles of fog crouched on the pastures, and a breeze stirring the curtains of Kate's bedroom brought in the loamy smell of softening earth and everything that had crumbled into it the previous fall. She breathed in the aroma with a shiver of pleasure. Spring's grip was established and strengthening daily.

  She went to the hallway of the guest bedroom and stopped short as she rounded the corner. Empty. No tea tray left outside for her. Annoyed, Kate considered giving a sharp, housekeeper's rap on Conor's door before shrugging off the irritation and heading downstairs. An aroma of coffee and warm cinnamon wafted up the staircase along with the sound of voices from the kitchen.

  "Careful now, don't drip on the edges. It bakes on like concrete. Nice and—whoa! Too full."

  "Are you sure you want me doing this?"

  "You're managing fine, and if a little work scares you, stay in the dining room and don't be poking around back here."

  "I'll try to remember that."

  Kate swung through the door to find Conor standing at the stainless steel prep counter, pouring batter into muffin tins. A completed batch sat in a basket on the marble-topped island in the center of the kitchen, and with a pinch of remorse she noted the teapot and mug she'd delivered to his room were drying in the dish drainer.

  "New trend, Abigail? Make the guests cook their own breakfast?"

  As the clatter of the tea tray had startled Conor the previous evening, her abrupt entrance prompted a nervous, involuntary jerk in his shoulders, sending a splash of batter across the counter. Abigail spun to face Kate, smirking.

  "Fine, very funny, but you should have warned him. Anyone lurking in my kitchen is fair game. I found him prowling around the cupboards when I got here this morning."

  "Prowling." A muscle moved in Conor's jaw, but his face was unreadable. "I was only looking for the dish soap."

  As he wiped up the spill Kate tried to judge the effect of this first, unfiltered dose of Abigail Perini. People exhibited varying reactions to her theatrical chef. Correctly anticipating when to laugh and when to apologize was a skill she'd sharpened out of vital necessity. "I hope you at least got some breakfast before she put you to work?"

  "Breakfast!" Abigail bellowed cheerfully. "I should say he's had breakfast! Sausage, eggs, three rounds of toast and a big pot of tea. We'll go broke trying to keep this one fed."

  "Abigail," Kate pleaded.

  "I'll admit he needed some persuasion to get beyond the tea, but eventually he found his appetite."

  "I don't think I'd much of a choice." Head lowered, Conor was again focused on the flow of batter into the muffin tins. Kate raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Abigail, who responded with a wink.

  "I'm going down to inspect what's left of the pickles. You're in charge." The kitchen door swung on its hinges as she exited and Conor gave a low whistle.

  "Here endeth the lesson."

  Kate tossed up her hands. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. She came with the place when I bought it."

  "Like a poltergeist?"

  "Exactly." She was relieved to see a grin steal over his face. "Actually, I wish I had half as much energy as she does. We have a sous-chef who covers breakfast when the inn is open, a young Somalian man who just graduated from the culinary school, but most mornings Abigail shows up anyway. Her husband, Dominic, is our dining room manager. He'd never get a hot meal if he didn't work here. She's right, I should have warned you, and honestly Conor, you don't have to finish those."

  He was lifting the muffin tins with careful concentration. "Oh, I think I do. It's as much as my life is worth getting off on the right foot with that one."

  Maneuvering around the prep counter he darted a wary glance at the rack hanging above him. Like a deranged wind chime it was ornamented with whisks, ladles and other obscure tools Kate couldn't even identify. This was the central hub of Abigail's kitchen and she suffered few amateurs in her domain. Kate had to smile, watching Conor gingerly slide the tins into the oven. He clearly was off on the right foot already.

  When he returned, he slid the basket of muffins in front of her and pulled forward a stool, inviting her to sit. "Cinnamon chip. She says they're your favorite."

  "You could have a future in this business. You've got a flair for hospitality."

  "It's genetic. Now . . . coffee?"

  "Oh all right, cut it out. This is my job. Here, sit down."

  She went for the coffee pot and Conor sat on the stool, his reserve softened by a hint of laughter. Kate glanced at his profile as she poured. If anything, he was even better looking in the full light of day. His dark eyes were gleaming but still shadowed in fatigue. She took a seat across from him.

  "I guess you didn't sleep well?" He shot her an alert questioning glance and Kate shrugged. "Seems like you'd been up for a while when Abigail discovered you 'prowling.' Jet lag?"

  He plucked a muffin from the basket. "Maybe, but I'm quite an early riser, anyway. I've been a farmer most of my life."

  "And a good one, I hear." Kate watched him over the rim of her mug. "I hesitate to say so, but Phillip told me as much."

  Conor winced, lowering the muffin from his mouth. "Sorry. I was too knackered last night to be sensible. You've a right to expect some details about me."

  "So, you're going to share a few?"

  "Fire away. What do you want to know?"

  "That's up to you." Kate pushed back, feeling his eyes follow her as she went to the refrigerator and returned with a ceramic jar of fresh butter. "Listen, respect for privacy is the hallmark of a good Vermonter and a good host." She took a knife from a drawer under the co
unter. "I try to be both, even though I'll never be recognized as a 'real' Vermonter. I'm a city transplant."

  "Which city?" Conor asked.

  "New York, born and raised, mostly by my grandmother. My mother died when I was six months old and my father traveled a lot. And married a lot," Kate added with a wry smile.

  "Big family?"

  She nodded. "Four brothers, one sister. I'm the baby and they find me hopelessly bohemian. Compared to them, I guess I am. I see what you did there, by the way. Are we back to me, now?"

  Smiling, he dropped his gaze and studied his hands. "You're good at this. Okay, then. Dingle Peninsula, born and raised. Do you know it?"

  Kate shook her head, taking her seat again.

  "Well, some say the map of Ireland looks like a sleeping bear cub, its back toward England and its paws facing the Atlantic. The Dingle peninsula is the little claw on its right foot, on the southwest coast. Our dairy farm sits above Ventry Bay, which is shaped a bit like your lake here but a lot bigger, and with the open ocean at one end."

  For several minutes Conor seemed to lose himself in the description of his home and its surroundings—its geography, the views from the upper pastures, the day-to-day operations and the layout of the farm. Captivated by the poetic lilt of his words Kate could have listened for hours, and was disappointed when he stopped with a self-conscious frown.

  "More than you wanted to know, I suppose."

  "Not true. It sounds beautiful."

  "It was. Well, still is, sure. Anyway, that's where I grew up."

  "You're going to miss it," Kate said gently.

  Conor gave a humorless laugh. "I do already. Funny, since at one time I wanted nothing to do with the place. I never wanted to be a farmer. I went off to the Dublin Conservatory of Music when I was seventeen and left my brother Thomas to run the farm, but I ended up back home in the end."

  "And was your family a big one?"

  "No, not big at all and I'm the last. I had just the one brother. He's dead."

  Conor took a long sip from his mug, giving her a weary look of appeal. Kate swallowed the reflexive follow-up question and reached for a muffin.

  "I made the butter myself. What do you think?"

  Since Conor had already explored the public rooms on his own—the gift shop near the front door; the living room with its fireplace, Persian rugs and baby grand piano; and the narrow, book-lined library next to the dining room—they began Kate's promised tour with a walk around the grounds. From the screened porch they went out through the perennial garden and down a staircase of widely spaced rocks in the hillside. The stairs ended in a wide grassy plateau running next to the brook, about forty feet below the house. On the opposite bank a tree-covered hill rose from the water line, and further upstream the opening between the two banks narrowed, creating a rock-strewn gorge which could be seen to spectacular effect from above.

  "The last farm manager I had started this project," Kate said as they descended to the brook. "He left, so I tackled the job myself."

  "Did you?" Conor surveyed the line of boulders embedded in the hill and Kate followed his gaze.

  "They don't match, do they? I dragged them over here in a cart and I couldn't manage anything bigger."

  The wind picked up as they walked along the bank downstream and crossed back over the meadow toward the road.

  "This will need to be mowed soon." She gestured at the grass while trying to grab at the ribbons of hair whipping around her face. "I should get the tractor ready."

  Fishing in her pockets she brought out a barrette that sprang open and flew from her fingers, landing next to Conor's boot. He picked it up and brushed away a piece of grass before handing it back. His face was so expressionless Kate wondered if she was tiring him out, or maybe boring him.

  "You do the mowing as well? With a tractor?" Not waiting for a reply, Conor squatted down to insert a jackknife into the dirt and she bit at the inside of her lip, her concern erased by irritation. Whenever she hinted at any skill with some piece of machinery the skepticism she encountered aggravated her to the point of belligerence.

  "I'm actually pretty good with the tractor." Kate heard the sharp edge in her voice, but he was rubbing a bit of soil between his fingers, oblivious. "I'm good with a tedder, too. I've even taken a few turns with a gas-powered posthole digger. I suppose you find that hard to believe? Everyone does, until they see me doing it."

  "I find it hard to believe you're not dead on your feet," Conor said absently, then squinted up at her. "That was meant as a compliment. How do you stay busy when you're not making butter, hauling rocks and mowing fields? Oh, right. You manage an inn with a five-star restaurant. It's brilliant, the way you keep everything going. I can't imagine the effort."

  "Oh. Well . . . thanks." In confusion, Kate fiddled with the buttons of her coat. "How did you know it was a five-star restaurant?"

  "I read the brochure in my room." Conor pocketed the jackknife as he rose. His face remained bland, but a tremor shivered along his cheek. "Will we have a peek at your cows, now?"

  They crossed the road and climbed up to the barn. The enormous structure, built in the early 1900s, featured a stately ventilator cupola topped by an antique weathervane. A guest had once informed Kate the artifact might be worth more than the barn, the land it sat on, and the cows inside.

  They picked their way through the softening mud to the barn's sliding door and Kate's spirits abruptly sank. She'd hoped this quiet stranger would be the answer to a prayer but as she heaved on the door and heard it squeal along its rusty track she realized how unappealing the entire operation probably appeared to him.

  On the strength of Abigail's reputation in culinary circles the inn and restaurant had turned a profit for the last three years, but the dairy business was a perennial money pit. The farm survived on her regular personal investments and the sporadic contributions of managers who never lasted more than a season. She couldn't rely on Jared Percy much longer, and doubted a man who'd already told her he didn't want to be a farmer would find anything in the barn to entice him. She followed Conor inside, where he'd pulled up short.

  "Huh. Wasn't expecting that." Arms crossed, he stared at the large corral on their left. Its design was "bedded pack," a gated rectangular space that allowed the cows to roam freely rather than being confined to stalls. "What's under the sawdust?"

  "About eighteen inches of dirt on top of concrete," Kate said.

  He released a low hiss. "Bloody hell. That was a job for somebody. Is this all of them?"

  "The whole gang. We're milking sixteen right now, and two are getting ready to calve."

  "No bulls?"

  "Only the kind in a syringe." Kate's smile faltered. "And no milking parlor. They go through the gate into the tie stall section to be milked."

  Conor was a step ahead of her, heading for the tie-stall area. He peered up at the ceiling and down the aisle at a small tank at the end. "A dumping station? I haven't seen one in years. You've no central milk line either, then?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  The rudimentary methods in place at her farm were only a few steps beyond milking by hand. Heavy portable bucket milkers were emptied into a "dumping station," a cylinder on wheels with a long hose attached to vacuum the milk into a cooling tank. Kate was no expert, but it didn't take a genius to see this was one of the reasons she had such trouble holding on to farm managers.

  "It's not very efficient I guess, and a lot more work."

  "A little harder on the knees and the back I suppose." Conor strolled down the aisle, giving her a reassuring wink. "But, sure it's only sixteen cows."

  "How many cows did you milk?" she asked.

  "About seventy-five."

  Gently nudging a cow from the gate, he slipped into the pack area. Watching him, Kate felt a twinge of renewed hope. For the first time his guarded diffidence had dropped away and Conor seemed at ease, almost lighthearted. He approached one of the cows and gave her a scratch behind the ears, then
crouched beside her. With a light groan, Kate saw this was the cow that had kicked her the previous summer. He probed an area around the front leg.

  "Is she hurt?" She reluctantly moved closer.

  "A cut just above her shank, not too bad. Have you got some disinfectant?"

  She found the medical kit in the milk room but stopped outside the gate, fumbling awkwardly in trying to hand it over to him. Without comment, Conor came to take the box from her. He cleaned and bandaged the wound and then slowly circled the animal, looking for further signs of injury. Finally, he stopped with his arms resting on the cow's back and looked at Kate.

  "Are you frightened of them?"

  An unexpected emotion shuddered through her, dreary resignation tinged with shame. "Not really—at least, I didn't used to be. I'm not sure what happened. All of a sudden I seemed to make them nervous, and this one broke my arm with one good kick. I'm afraid they don't like me."

  "That's hard to believe." Conor smiled. "But maybe they're afraid you don't like them."

  "Oh, well." Kate gave a shaky laugh. "I never wanted to be a farmer either, you know. That was Michael's department."

  He nodded, serious again. "Your husband."

  "Yes. He died almost six years ago."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Yes."

  With a startled horror, Kate realized she was going to cry.

  4

  It happened so quickly Conor had to stare to make sure he wasn't mistaken. One minute she'd been laughing and the next she was in tears. He swatted the pockets of his jeans uselessly. His old-fashioned brother would never have been caught without a handkerchief. Thomas had always insisted they served as an invaluable crutch when faced with weeping women, while Conor needled that since he wasn't in the habit of making women cry he didn't need them.

  "Fuck." The oath slipped out on an exhaled sigh. "Kate, are you all right, there? Should we . . . would you like to get some fresh air? Maybe?"

  They emerged from the dimness of the barn into bright sunshine, and he followed her to a picnic bench placed along a tree line separating the pasture from an adjoining hay field. Kate sat down heavily. Loose in every joint, the seat skewed dangerously sideways and he braced a hand on the edge before lowering himself with more caution.