Read Conor's Way for Free Online Page A

explained
reluctantly, pointing to an announcement still tacked to the wall.
"Circuit boxers. They travel from town to town, fighting the local
champion, or challenging all comers. It depends." He saw her frown
and toss down the magazine. "Now, it's nothin' to get riled about,
Liv. It's just a bit of fun."
    "It's gambling, Grady, no getting around it."
She looked at the notice from a few days before, at the names
printed there plain as day, and felt a sudden unreasoning anger.
She'd had almost no sleep the past four nights for tending that
man, a man who'd cursed a blue streak in front of her girls, broken
her great-grandmother's china shepherdess, forced her to miss
Sunday services, and thrown up on her; a man who hadn't given her
so much as a thank-you. All that because he was a traveling
prizefighter who made his sinful living off gambling and
violence?
    Olivia turned on her heel and strode toward
the door.
    Jeremiah came in carrying her crate of
peaches. He took one look at her face, and hastily stepped out of
her way.
    "Wagon's loaded, Miss Olivia."
    "Thank you, Jeremiah," she replied, through
clenched teeth, as she marched past him and out of the store,
contemplating a little violence of her own.
     
    ***
     
    Conor was so battered and weary that he
longed for sleep, but the wee girl's words about his dreams made
him tense and edgy. Three years of trying to forget, but he could
not forget. Three years of running, but he couldn't run away from
himself. Every time he thought he had, the dreams came back. He
closed his eyes and concentrated on the present—the tantalizing
smell of freshly baked bread that drifted through the open door and
the feel of the soft mattress beneath him. He drifted back into a
light sleep.
    A soft sound woke him instantly. He opened
his eyes, and for the second time in as many days, he found himself
the subject of a little girl's scrutiny. Not the impudent lass who
liked to hear him curse. No, this one was even younger, with a
round face, brown hair, and big blue eyes. She was looking at him
over the top of the footboard like a solemn baby owl peering over
the edge of the nest.
    Beside her, also staring at him over the
footboard, was an enormous sheepdog, the biggest he'd ever seen.
The dog looked him over, then uttered a low, unfriendly growl, his
opinion of Conor obvious. Well, it was an English sheepdog, after
all. Conor wondered what the animal would do if he growled back.
Probably jump over the footboard and take a piece out of him.
Deciding he'd been injured enough, Conor turned his attention back
to the child.
    "Well, now," he murmured, his voice soft, as
if he might startle her away. "Who might you be?"
    Her eyes got even wider, but she didn't
answer.
    "Miranda, where are you?"
    The voice caused the child to glance over her
shoulder, and Conor heard footsteps approaching. He followed the
child's gaze to the door as yet another girl appeared, this one a
blonde of about fourteen.
    How many daughters did Olivia Maitland have?
he wondered, as he watched the older girl enter the room. He was
starting to lose count.
    She stopped just inside the doorway and
glanced at him, meeting his eyes for only a moment before she
looked away and noticed the wee girl at the foot of the bed.
"Miranda, you know you're not supposed to come in here," she chided
in a whisper. "Mama said so."
    The little girl hung her head, caught in the
act. "Sorry, Becky," she whispered back. "He was asleep."
    The older girl crossed the room and took
Miranda by the hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Branigan," she murmured. "She
didn't mean to wake you."
    "It's all right," he answered, unable to
remember the last time anybody had cared about disturbing his
sleep. The girl started to turn away, but his voice stopped her.
"Becky, is it?" When she nodded, he went on, "I don't suppose you
might have any tay about? Real tay, I'm meanin', not that foul
green stuff your mother's been tryin' to give me."
    A tentative smile lifted the corners of