with deliberate casualness. "Maybe to make things more comfortable. I'll probably be here awhile. There's no point in making it miserable for both of us."
"Perhaps they should have sent someone else, then."
"Would you have allowed anyone else to stay?"
"I'm still not sure having anyone here is necessary."
"I see," he said stiffly. "You'd rather take the risk."
She bit her lip, turning to stare out the window. Conor saw the quick worry in her eyes, the flush of memory.
"I still don't know that they'd harm me," she said finally.
"You think Michael could prevent it?"
He saw the harsh, bitter pain in her eyes when she whipped around, the wild uncertainty. It startled him, but not as much as her next words.
"Don't mention his name to me."
"Why not? He's your brother. You can't deny blood."
Her eyes burned. "I will not discuss him. Not with you." She dropped a potato into the bucket with a thud. Her hands shook. "Stop pretending you care— about me or my brother. You would have hung him without a thought, even though he was your friend. Your friend , like Evan was." She took a deep breath, her jaw clenched. "I know you too well. None of us matter to you. You'd do anything to get what you want. I've seen what you'll do. I haven't forgotten what you are. You're lying to me now."
"Sari—"
She lifted her chin defiantly. "I don't want you here, and that won't change—believe me. So make it easy on both of us, Jam—Conor." Her voice lowered, he heard the hatred in her tone. "Protect me if you want, but leave me alone. Just leave me alone."
T he memory burned, quick and lethal, piercing the fog of his dream until it became a nightmare. Over and over he saw it, saw the white faces of the men who had become his friends, the disbelief in their eyes when he walked into the eerily silent courtroom and took a seat on the witness stand. The bow tie tightened against his throat, constricting him, but his voice was strong and sure, even when the defense lawyers ripped into him.
He'd given the information without a pause, had looked into the eyes of his friends and seen their fear.
He could not forget that. Even though those left had killed his father, Conor could not forget the terrible hopelessness he'd seen on their faces. Could not forget that he had betrayed them.
The dream gripped him, the bodies of the men he'd sent to the gallows growing formless before his eyes, their mouths dark holes yawning in misty spirits. "I should have let them kill you when I had the chance." Evan Travers's voice was the loudest of all. "I trusted you, Jamie O'Brien. I called you friend."
Conor sat straight up, his body drenched in sweat. It took him a moment to realize that the rustling of hay and the movements of the animals were not part of his dream. He was not in Pottsville, not in the courthouse. He was in a dark, damp soddy barn, and he could hear the wind shrieking outside.
He took a deep breath, raking back his hair and staring into the darkness. It had been months since he'd had that dream. With his father's death the memories of his disquieting feelings about the Molly Maguires had faded into the background. He'd thought they'd disappeared forever.
They should have. God knew, he was about as far from feeling any sympathy for the Mollies as a man could be. There had been days when he'd questioned his involvement, when he'd wondered if the lies and violence that were part of his job were necessary, but he thought he'd long resolved that.
He'd come to terms with that betrayal, had realized that the two and a half years of living among them, being one of them, had been too long. Hell, he'd almost started to believe he was a Molly. For a while, he'd believed in their causes. That had never happened to him on any other job, never before had he questioned his role as a Pinkerton agent.
It had only been a temporary feeling. His uncertainties had disappeared when Michael Doyle planted the bomb that destroyed his house and his life. It
"Perhaps they should have sent someone else, then."
"Would you have allowed anyone else to stay?"
"I'm still not sure having anyone here is necessary."
"I see," he said stiffly. "You'd rather take the risk."
She bit her lip, turning to stare out the window. Conor saw the quick worry in her eyes, the flush of memory.
"I still don't know that they'd harm me," she said finally.
"You think Michael could prevent it?"
He saw the harsh, bitter pain in her eyes when she whipped around, the wild uncertainty. It startled him, but not as much as her next words.
"Don't mention his name to me."
"Why not? He's your brother. You can't deny blood."
Her eyes burned. "I will not discuss him. Not with you." She dropped a potato into the bucket with a thud. Her hands shook. "Stop pretending you care— about me or my brother. You would have hung him without a thought, even though he was your friend. Your friend , like Evan was." She took a deep breath, her jaw clenched. "I know you too well. None of us matter to you. You'd do anything to get what you want. I've seen what you'll do. I haven't forgotten what you are. You're lying to me now."
"Sari—"
She lifted her chin defiantly. "I don't want you here, and that won't change—believe me. So make it easy on both of us, Jam—Conor." Her voice lowered, he heard the hatred in her tone. "Protect me if you want, but leave me alone. Just leave me alone."
T he memory burned, quick and lethal, piercing the fog of his dream until it became a nightmare. Over and over he saw it, saw the white faces of the men who had become his friends, the disbelief in their eyes when he walked into the eerily silent courtroom and took a seat on the witness stand. The bow tie tightened against his throat, constricting him, but his voice was strong and sure, even when the defense lawyers ripped into him.
He'd given the information without a pause, had looked into the eyes of his friends and seen their fear.
He could not forget that. Even though those left had killed his father, Conor could not forget the terrible hopelessness he'd seen on their faces. Could not forget that he had betrayed them.
The dream gripped him, the bodies of the men he'd sent to the gallows growing formless before his eyes, their mouths dark holes yawning in misty spirits. "I should have let them kill you when I had the chance." Evan Travers's voice was the loudest of all. "I trusted you, Jamie O'Brien. I called you friend."
Conor sat straight up, his body drenched in sweat. It took him a moment to realize that the rustling of hay and the movements of the animals were not part of his dream. He was not in Pottsville, not in the courthouse. He was in a dark, damp soddy barn, and he could hear the wind shrieking outside.
He took a deep breath, raking back his hair and staring into the darkness. It had been months since he'd had that dream. With his father's death the memories of his disquieting feelings about the Molly Maguires had faded into the background. He'd thought they'd disappeared forever.
They should have. God knew, he was about as far from feeling any sympathy for the Mollies as a man could be. There had been days when he'd questioned his involvement, when he'd wondered if the lies and violence that were part of his job were necessary, but he thought he'd long resolved that.
He'd come to terms with that betrayal, had realized that the two and a half years of living among them, being one of them, had been too long. Hell, he'd almost started to believe he was a Molly. For a while, he'd believed in their causes. That had never happened to him on any other job, never before had he questioned his role as a Pinkerton agent.
It had only been a temporary feeling. His uncertainties had disappeared when Michael Doyle planted the bomb that destroyed his house and his life. It
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