Conor's Way by Laura Lee Guhrke - Conor's Way Page A

he wanted
Peachtree.
    So far, she'd been able to hold her own
against him. She had refused his offers to buy her out, she had
ignored his threats to force her out. She knew how he'd always felt
about her and how deeply her refusal to defy her father so long ago
had wounded him, but she'd never dreamed he would do anything like
this.
    She felt certain Vernon was behind the damage
to her trees, but there was no way she could prove it. Vernon was
powerful and he had powerful Yankee friends. She left the orchard
and walked back toward the house, firmly banishing her worry.
Slashing her trees was a warning, meant to shake her up, intimidate
her into selling. It wasn't going to work.
     
    ***
     
    When Conor awoke, he found a pitcher of fresh
water and two neatly folded shirts outside his door. He bent down,
one arm around his sore ribs for support, and scooped up one of
the shirts. Olivia had promised to piece together some shirts that
would fit him, and she had. He discarded the torn shirt from the
day before and donned one of the new ones. It fit perfectly.
    He used the water in the basin, then left his
room, following the scent of something sweet and luscious to the
kitchen. Olivia was there, standing at the kitchen table, using a
spatula to scoop what looked like sweet biscuits off a tin sheet
and onto a plate. "Whatever it is you're making," he said from the
doorway, "I want a taste of it."
    Olivia glanced up at him and smiled. "You're
as bad as the girls," she said, "always wanting the cookies right
out of the oven."
    He walked to her side and grabbed a "cookie,"
as she called it, off the plate. She gave him a warning look, and
began to drop spoonfuls of dough onto the sheet.
    "Where are the girls?" he asked, taking a
bite of the cookie.
    "They went over to the Johnson place for the
day to visit."
    He finished the cookie and reached for
another, but she snatched the plate away. "Cookies are no breakfast
for a grown man," she told him sternly. "Give me a second and I'll
fix you a real breakfast."
    "Thank you." Conor sat down at the table and
watched as she moved about the kitchen, vaguely remembering the
last time a woman had offered to make him breakfast. Somewhere in
Maryland, he thought it had been, or maybe Virginia, and she'd come
to one of his fights. Afterward, she had approached him with a
whispered offer of herself for supper and eggs for breakfast. He'd
taken her up on the first part of her offer, but not the second.
After it was over, she'd fallen asleep and he'd left town. She had
smelled of cologne and tobacco, and she'd had red hair and a pink
silk dressing gown. Funny how he could remember details like that,
but he couldn't remember her name.
    He watched Olivia, and it
struck him how different she was from the redhead in pink silk.
Olivia Maitland was a woman who wore dresses buttoned up to her
chin. A woman who smelled of cloves and vanilla and had eyes like
chocolate. Good enough to
eat , he thought, and wondered what the
hell was wrong with him.
    Women like her were not for men like him. He
vastly preferred easy redheads who took his money and left him his
freedom, women who didn't give a damn if he swore and whose names
he didn't have to remember, women who didn't need what he couldn't
give and who didn't have daughters who wanted a daddy.
    Olivia walked over to the table and set a
plate of food in front of him. He stared down at it for a moment,
then looked up at her. "What's this?" he asked curiously, pointing
to one side of his plate.
    "Grits," she answered. That did not enlighten
him, and she seemed to realize it. "I don't suppose you've ever had
them, but here in Louisiana, we eat grits all the time. They're
delicious."
    He continued to eye her with some skepticism.
"I'm not sure I trust the opinion of a woman who makes me green
tay," he said, and picked up his fork.
    "Well, if you don't like my cooking, you can
do it from now on."
    He grinned at the challenging lift of her
chin. "I'd be happy to. But