smile.
She grinned back at him. "I'm a coal miner's wife. I'd have to be blind not to know about them."
"As you say." He brushed by her, carrying the trays of butter without effort, and his voice was low as he bent close. "But you're not a coal miner's wife. Not anymore."
He was past her before she had time to react, but his words hovered around her ear; she felt the warmth of his breath against her skin, the heat of his quick annoyance. He'd only gone a few feet when he turned around and stopped, watching her, waiting for her as the wind whipped his duster around his legs.
Her uncle's chuckle surprised her as he walked to her side. "You had best go after him, Liebling , before he gets lost."
"As if he could get lost in Woodrow."
"Go on," he said, giving her a slight push. "I am going to the saloon. Mrs. Landers has some stories to tell me today."
"But—"
"I will meet you back here, Liebling ."
He started off, his cheerful whistling piercing the cold air, his breath a frozen cloud. Throwing one last glance at her disappearing uncle, Sari lifted her skirts and hurried toward Conor.
Woodrow was quiet today; the crunching of a few wagon wheels and cheerful hellos were the only sounds that floated on the dry, frigid air. Sari shielded her eyes, needing more than the protection of her bonnet to keep from squinting. The bright but ineffectual sun glittered on the snow until it sparkled like crushed diamonds.
"So," he said when she grew nearer. "Where is this 'Clancy's' anyway? And where did Charles go?"
"He's off to visit his friend Mrs. Landers." Sari fell into step beside him. "Every time we come into town, he has to pay her a visit. She's a terrible gossip.”
Conor's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know Charles listened to gossip."
"He says he doesn't." She smiled. "He says he only goes because she's lonely and it makes her happy when he visits." Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "But I think he likes to hear her talk, though he wouldn't be caught dead passing it on. Besides, she sometimes has cherry pie. It's his favorite."
"Cherry pie," he mused, shuffling the trays in his hands. "I've forgotten what that tastes like. The last time I had it was—" He stopped abruptly.
Sari felt the wall go up, his expression shuttered. She glanced at him curiously. "The last time you had it—?" she prompted.
He gave her a smile; it seemed oddly forced. "Your aunt Bernice," he said. "I ate it with her last." But though the words were easy and casual, Sari sensed a lie. She tensed in sudden wariness. It was there again, this hiding, this something he didn't want her to know. What was it?
Sari turned away. She hurried her step until she reached Clancy's General Store. There, on the torn planking of the narrow porch, she paused. She swiveled on one foot to face Conor. She wanted to forget, she wanted to be able to believe him, to forgive him. "It's such a beautiful day," she said evenly. "Do you think we could be kind to each other?"
His gaze was inscrutable, his ice-blue eyes nearly froze her with their emptiness. But his voice was warm, vibrating with a tension that pierced her heart. "I want nothing more than to be kind to you, Sari," he said softly. "It's the reason I came here." He stepped onto the porch and walked past her to grab the door. It swung wide, and a string of bells jangled.
Sari took a deep breath and went through the door. She paused to breathe in the melange of odors—dried fish and smoked meats; the rich, mellow aroma of tobacco and coffee; the dusty smell of spice. Conor went up to the counter and set down her trays of butter. Almost proudly, she thought, the sight dispelling her tension. Almost as if he had a right to be proud.
Then she noticed the curious glances of the other people in the large room. The three men huddled around the stove in the corner had stopped talking; the women comparing fabric turned to stare. Sari's heart beat rapidly, her pulse fluttered as she dodged the barrels lining the
She grinned back at him. "I'm a coal miner's wife. I'd have to be blind not to know about them."
"As you say." He brushed by her, carrying the trays of butter without effort, and his voice was low as he bent close. "But you're not a coal miner's wife. Not anymore."
He was past her before she had time to react, but his words hovered around her ear; she felt the warmth of his breath against her skin, the heat of his quick annoyance. He'd only gone a few feet when he turned around and stopped, watching her, waiting for her as the wind whipped his duster around his legs.
Her uncle's chuckle surprised her as he walked to her side. "You had best go after him, Liebling , before he gets lost."
"As if he could get lost in Woodrow."
"Go on," he said, giving her a slight push. "I am going to the saloon. Mrs. Landers has some stories to tell me today."
"But—"
"I will meet you back here, Liebling ."
He started off, his cheerful whistling piercing the cold air, his breath a frozen cloud. Throwing one last glance at her disappearing uncle, Sari lifted her skirts and hurried toward Conor.
Woodrow was quiet today; the crunching of a few wagon wheels and cheerful hellos were the only sounds that floated on the dry, frigid air. Sari shielded her eyes, needing more than the protection of her bonnet to keep from squinting. The bright but ineffectual sun glittered on the snow until it sparkled like crushed diamonds.
"So," he said when she grew nearer. "Where is this 'Clancy's' anyway? And where did Charles go?"
"He's off to visit his friend Mrs. Landers." Sari fell into step beside him. "Every time we come into town, he has to pay her a visit. She's a terrible gossip.”
Conor's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know Charles listened to gossip."
"He says he doesn't." She smiled. "He says he only goes because she's lonely and it makes her happy when he visits." Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "But I think he likes to hear her talk, though he wouldn't be caught dead passing it on. Besides, she sometimes has cherry pie. It's his favorite."
"Cherry pie," he mused, shuffling the trays in his hands. "I've forgotten what that tastes like. The last time I had it was—" He stopped abruptly.
Sari felt the wall go up, his expression shuttered. She glanced at him curiously. "The last time you had it—?" she prompted.
He gave her a smile; it seemed oddly forced. "Your aunt Bernice," he said. "I ate it with her last." But though the words were easy and casual, Sari sensed a lie. She tensed in sudden wariness. It was there again, this hiding, this something he didn't want her to know. What was it?
Sari turned away. She hurried her step until she reached Clancy's General Store. There, on the torn planking of the narrow porch, she paused. She swiveled on one foot to face Conor. She wanted to forget, she wanted to be able to believe him, to forgive him. "It's such a beautiful day," she said evenly. "Do you think we could be kind to each other?"
His gaze was inscrutable, his ice-blue eyes nearly froze her with their emptiness. But his voice was warm, vibrating with a tension that pierced her heart. "I want nothing more than to be kind to you, Sari," he said softly. "It's the reason I came here." He stepped onto the porch and walked past her to grab the door. It swung wide, and a string of bells jangled.
Sari took a deep breath and went through the door. She paused to breathe in the melange of odors—dried fish and smoked meats; the rich, mellow aroma of tobacco and coffee; the dusty smell of spice. Conor went up to the counter and set down her trays of butter. Almost proudly, she thought, the sight dispelling her tension. Almost as if he had a right to be proud.
Then she noticed the curious glances of the other people in the large room. The three men huddled around the stove in the corner had stopped talking; the women comparing fabric turned to stare. Sari's heart beat rapidly, her pulse fluttered as she dodged the barrels lining the
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