“I do not speak English, ” she said in French, and took a steadying sip of her coffee, wondering if they would fall for the ruse.
The hairier of the two men scratched his gray-speckled beard and scowled at her. “They didn’t say you was a foreigner. Deidre Kenney?” he said very slowly as if that would help her understand him better.
Deidre shook her head. “Open the window.”
“Damnation, Pete,” he grumbled to the soft-bellied man at his side. “They said she was from Saint Louis. They talk English in Saint Louis, don’t they?”
“Yup, and her pa spoke it real clear, Jim. Hell, I can still hear him cursing us. Real clever with a cuss, he was.”
A trickle of panic chilled Deidre’s spine. These men had spoken to her father? It sounded as if the meeting had not been a friendly one. She suddenly realized that these were probably the men who had shot her father. Just the thought of it brought anger and grief rushing to the fore and she struggled to push those emotions aside before they showed on her face.
“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” said the tall, dark man seated at the next table.
Deidre looked at the man in horror, then quickly schooled her features. She had no time to let him know that these men could be a threat to her. There was still the chance that her fellow diner could also be a threat to her or, if some reward was offered for her, could soon become one. Worse, she only knew about a dozen French phrases, and many of those were risque. She tried to calm herself by recalling that she had already replied to the rough men before her with pure nonsense and, if the man at her side truly understood French, he had to know that. Deidre prayed that he was simply trying to lend her a helping hand.
Tyrone Callahan could not believe his luck. Instinct told him that this was indeed Deidre Kenney, Patrick Kenney’s daughter. She had the look of the man. He was not sure why she was here, but she could certainly be of some help. Her badly pronounced French told him that she was no foreigner and that she was trying to hide who she was from these men. Even if she was not Patrick’s daughter, she clearly did not want anything to do with these men and that was reason enough to lend a hand.
He smiled to himself. Tyrone suspected that her beauty also prompted him to heedlessly jump into the midst of her troubles. She was tiny, with a small but shapely bosom and a very slender waist. Not the more fulsome figure he had always sought out before, but he had not been able to stop covertly watching her as she ate. Her flame-red hair was done up in a soft chignon so fat it looked ready to burst free of its pins at any moment. Huge light-green eyes, encircled by long, thick, brown lashes and set beneath delicately arched brows dominated her small face. Her delicate facial bones, from the high cheekbones to the hint of a point on her small chin, and a small, straight nose made for an enchantingly beautiful face, one that would probably stand the test of time. Her full, faintly pouty mouth gave that cool, elegant beauty a touch of sensuality Tyrone wondered just how grateful she might be if he helped her.
“You know what she’s saying?” asked the man named Jim.
“Yes, some,” Tyrone replied, pulling his gaze from the small, long-fingered hand she had tightened around her cup of coffee. “She has told you that she doesn’t speak any English.”
“What’s so hard about replying to a name?” Pete glared at Deidre. “Are you Deidre Kenney?”
“Your mother was a barge whore.” Deidre forced herself not to blush.
“What did she say?” demanded Jim.
“That she doesn’t understand you,” replied Tyrone, biting back a smile.
Jim continued to idly scratch his beard as he watched Deidre with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know. The bitch we’re looking for is supposed to be traveling through here, this girl looks just right, and yet you’re saying she doesn’t understand us. Think she’s playing some game?”
“Seeing as you just called her a bitch and she didn’t flick an eyelash, I would say no,” drawled Tyrone.
“Still, how many ladies look like her? Ain’t that much chance you’d find two of them between here and Saint Louis.” Jim suddenly pulled his gun and aimed it at Deidre’s head. “Are you Deidre Kenney?”
As she stared down the barrel of the gun, held so close that she could smell the oil that had been used to clean it, Deidre decided it would not be suspicious if she revealed her fear. Any sane person would be terrified to suddenly have a gun aimed at her face. She clutched at the arms of her chair, went cross-eyed staring down the barrel of the pistol, and pressed herself back against the chair.
“Why don’t you stick that gun up your backside and blow your brains out?” She was not surprised to hear the tremor in her voice. She was so terrified she could not even blush over the taunt she had uttered.
Tyrone slowly closed his hand around the butt of his gun. He cursed himself as a blind fool for not having guessed what Jim or his rough partner might do next. Tyrone had to admire the little woman. She not only had guts, but the wits to know when it was safer to stick to her story.
“I do not believe there is any need to horrify the woman,” Tyrone said carefully.
“A good dose of fear’s sometimes all it takes to get folk to spit out the truth,” drawled Jim, but his stance eased a little. “Don’t seem to have worked with this little bitch.”
“Then, perhaps, one should assume she is already telling you the truth. She simply has the misfortune to look like the woman you are seeking. You might also consider how most people will view your threat to harm a woman,” Tyrone said, glancing around the silent, tense crowd watching them, then signaling with a jerk of his hand for Jim and his friend to do the same. “Not only are you not getting the answers you want, but you’re making yourselves damned unpopular.” Tyrone nodded when Jim looked around, then slowly reholstered his gun.
“Seeing as the little bitch even squeaked her fright in that foreign gibberish, I reckon she ain’t the one we’re looking for,” Jim said and Pete nodded. “Good day, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat faintly before leaving.
Deidre just watched them leave, too taut and witless to do anything else. It took her what felt like hours, but was undoubtedly only a moment, to start to ease her grip on her chair. Taking slow, deep breaths, she unclenched her hands, finger by finger, and struggled to loosen terror’s rigid grip on her body and her mind.
Then anger began to break through the fear, gaining strength and heating her fear-chilled blood. The man had pointed a gun at her, then politely wished her good day and left? Deidre wished she had the chance and the strength to chase after the man. She desperately wanted to hurt him.
“Are you all right, miss?”
Slowly turning her head, she looked at the man who had tried to help her. Another complication. Although she was deeply grateful for his intervention, she was not in a position to make that clear. Anything other than a terse thank-you would require conversation, perhaps even proper introductions. Deidre could not afford even that fleet and understandable intimacy. She could not allow anyone to know who she was or where she was going and why. She thought Dame Fate especially cruel to present her with such a handsome man at exactly the time when she could not afford to do anything about it. This would forever have to remain only a brief, chance meeting.
“I will be fine,” she murmured, absently patting her hair with a still-unsteady hand. “The upset already passes.”
“Upset?” Tyrone grinned. “You call some hairy fool sticking a pistol in your face an upset?”
“Since I have never had anyone do such a thing to me before, I fear I lack the appropriate word for his extraordinary conduct,” she muttered, a little annoyed at being the object of his amusement and yet finding herself made slightly breathless by the beauty of his honest smile.
“Perhaps you can find one in your vast French vocabulary, Miss Kenney.”
“How droll, and I have not said that I am Miss Kenney. That fool was mistaken. He needs spectacles.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. He was right. You d
o have the look of your father.”
“And you feel sure you know who my father is, do you?” Deidre idly wondered just how well traveled her father had been and just how this lean, much younger man might have met him. Unless, she mused, he was just another from the pack of jackals nipping at her heels and was simply far more clever in his approach. Deidre found that thought distressing and wondered why.
“I met Patrick Kenney a few times.” Tyrone noticed that she did not reveal any recognition of her father’s name. “Not enough to call him friend, but enough to know that you look a lot like him. What I don’t understand is why Patrick Kenney has let you travel all alone.”
“If Mister Kenney was my father, it would not mean that my business here is any of your concern.”
“Oh, but I think it is. Allow me to introduce myself.”
Staring at the big, long-fingered hand he held out to her as if it was a multiheaded hydra, Deidre shook her head. “There is no need.”
“But there is. I am Tyrone Callahan of Paradise, Montana.”
Chapter Two
“ARE YOU READY TO talk now?”
That deep, drawling voice finally pulled Deidre free of her shock. Her eyes widened when she saw that they were both seated by the window in her hotel room and she held a brandy. Mr. Callahan, if that was really who he was, had taken quick and efficient advantage of her surprise. Deidre could not clearly recall leaving the dining room.
“It is not proper for you to be in my room,” she said coolly and took a sip of brandy.
Tyrone almost laughed. She had sounded like the primmest of schoolmistresses. Until now she had looked lost, scared, and stunned. Deidre Kenney clearly had the ability to regain her footing quickly.
“You invited me in,” he said, sprawling more comfortably in the chair facing her.
Since she could not recall whether she had or not, she did not argue. “Well, I believe I have adequately thanked you for your kind assistance earlier, so perhaps you might leave before my meager reputation is completely shredded.”
“Sorry. Too late. After facing down two thugs and then being carried to your room by a handsome, gallant gentleman—namely myself—I fear you have little reputation left in this town.” He smiled gently when she paled slightly. “I should not fret. It’ll never get back to Saint Louis, especially since you signed the register with a false name.”
Deidre tried to recall everything that had happened since he had introduced himself, but it was impossible. The last thing she remembered with any clarity was a roaring in her ears after he said his name. It was possible that she had fainted, and she inwardly cursed. It was a weak thing to do, something she had never done before. It also meant that she had been completely insensible throughout her first experience of being held in a man’s arms. Dame Fate was definitely playing a May game with her. She steadied herself, for none of that was really important now. She had to concentrate on getting this man away from her so that he did not draw any more attention to her or, worse, himself. He had helped her once. Deidre was determined not to tangle him up in her troubles again.
“Why should you think the name I signed was a false one?” she asked.
“There is no need to continue this game, Miss Kenney. I am Tyrone Callahan.”
“Am I to simply accept your word for that, sir?”
“Of course not, not Patrick’s daughter.” From inside his black coat he withdrew a collection of neatly folded papers. “These should give you enough proof.”
Setting her brandy down on the small, delicate table between their chairs, Deidre read the papers. It was an odd selection, a few formal documents, one personal letter, a bill of sale for some horses, and a letter from her father concerning the proofs of ownership she carried. The very oddness of the assortment led her to feel certain the man was exactly who he said he was. It was his timely arrival, the fact that they had met at all, let alone exactly when she was in need of a helping hand, that made her cling to a ghost of a doubt.
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Callahan,” she said as she handed him back his papers.
“Are you?” Tyrone murmured. “I think I detected a hint of doubt still.”
“You probably did, as a few remnants do still linger. I am headed to Paradise by a very confused route, yet, here you are and at the exact time when you could gallantly lend me aid and thus ingratiate yourself.”
“Ah, yes, the coincidence is enough to raise a question or two.”
“Indeed.”
“But, unlike the East, roads, stage routes, and railroad tracks are not plentiful out here. There really aren’t that many ways to get to Paradise, at least not in any comfort. I could not envision Johnson, your father, or anyone they might employ, being the sort to ride across the land, living rough like some trapper of old.” He studied her for a moment as he took a bracing sip of brandy. “What I do not understand is why are you traveling to Paradise? Where is your father or Mister Johnson?”
“I fear they are both dead.” The sharp grief she still felt caused her voice to tremble slightly and Deidre took a deep breath to steady herself. “Mister Johnson was killed and then, a week later, so was my father.”
“My condolences, Miss Kenney.”
“Thank you. The loss of both men is still sharply felt.”
“I am sure it is.” He dragged his fingers through his hair and stared blindly at the drink he held. “I knew there was some danger involved. I had just not realized that the danger was a deadly one. Although I’ve always said the Martins would do anything to get what they want, I hadn’t really considered outright murder.”
“The Martins are the ones who don’t want you to be able to prove your claims?”
Tyrone nodded, then, suddenly feeling weary, slouched in his seat and rubbed his hand over his chin as he looked at her. “They don’t own Paradise yet, but they want to. They’ve managed to buy, cheat, and steal a large part of it away from a lot of people. Each time they get another piece it adds to the power and wealth they can use to break someone else down.”
Deidre nodded. “Such people are never happy with what they have, even when it’s more than anyone else. You obviously have a piece they badly want.”
“If they get the Callahan mine, they’ll hold all the ore rights in the area. Getting my ranch would make them the biggest landowners in Paradise and one of the biggest cattle barons in Montana.”
“I see. After they’ve worked hard to build their little kingdom, you Callahans are preventing them from donning the crown,” she murmured, sickened that her father and their dear friend had been murdered for such base reasons. “If you’ve been in Paradise longer than the Martins, why is there any question of ownership?”
“Somehow they discovered that we didn’t have the legal papers to back our claims.”
“And there were none in Paradise?”
“There were, but they mysteriously disappeared.”
“Along with other deeds, I imagine.”
“Yes, but, unlike us, those poor fools didn’t have a wiley father.” Tyrone smiled faintly. “Pa took one look at the Martins when they arrived and, even though he was dying, made real sure there were copies of all of our legal papers made, signed, witnessed, stamped. verified, and secured far away. Unfortunately, Pa died before he explained exactly why he mistrusted the Martins so. I don’t know whether it was a gut instinct or if he knew or had heard of them.” He sighed and shook his head. “To be honest, I didn’t see what he did until a long time later. It’s a good thing that my brothers and I were of a mind to pacify the old man. We did everything he asked even though we thought it was a waste of time and money.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t the Martins themselves your father knew, but ones like them. But to kill for it all?” she asked, her voice softened by shock and an inability to understand. “I don’t think my father and Bill knew how dangerous it all was, either. They weren’t cowards, but they wouldn’t have taken on the job if they had known people would be trying to kill them.
My father always said he didn’t mind a good dust-up, doing some running or hiding, or even a little genteel spying and thieving, but he didn’t see any gain in putting himself in front of a bullet to get his pay.”
“Smart man. I wish to God I’d had the sense to see that was what we were asking of him and Bill,” Tyrone said quietly, his voice roughened by guilt. “I would’ve come after the papers myself if I had realized the Martins would stoop to murder. Who has your father bequeathed the job to?”
Deidre decided the man really was upset, was not just mouthing platitudes, if he had not yet guessed the answer to that question. Instinct told her he would fight it, would try to take over and stop her. She was sure he was who he said he was, and most people would just hand him the papers plus all of the trouble that went with them, but she could not do that. She had promised her father on his deathbed that she would get the papers to Paradise and that was just what she intended to do. There was also Maura to consider. Her cousin was working her way to Paradise as well and there was no way to get word to Maura to tell her to stop or turn around. There was also no way to stop the Martins, to let the enemy know that she and her cousin were no longer involved in it all. Tyrone Callahan could join her, but he would not stop her.
“He bequeathed the job to me and my cousin Maura,” she replied, almost smiling at the look of utter shock that transformed his hard features. “I’ve taken this route and Maura is taking another. We planned it out very well.”
Tyrone stared at her determined expression as he fought to put some order into his thoughts. It was impossible to believe that anyone would ask this tiny, pretty woman to take on a job that had already proven mortally dangerous. Yet, they had, and, worse, she looked as if she had every intention of completing her task despite the deaths, even despite having a gun held to her head just a short while ago.
She was fulfilling her father’s dying request, he thought with sudden insight, and felt defeated before he had even begun to argue the matter. Her need to get the papers to Paradise was probably all tied up with her grief over her father’s death, a grief she probably had not had the time to fully deal with yet. There was also another Kenney female to consider. She might not be easy to reach and thus stop. Tyrone had to doubt that Patrick had been in his right mind when he had thrust the job on to the slender shoulders of two young women. The man might even have thought the Martins would either not suspect women or not threaten them. What happened today proved that the Martins not only knew who had taken over the job but that they were not constrained by any chivalrous impulses.
A Stockingful of Joy Page 2