A Stockingful of Joy

by Hannah Howell

  Chapter Eleven

  “YOU DO STILL HAVE the papers, don’t you?”

  Maura nodded as she sat down on the bed. The moment she had been dreading had finally arrived. The tension she felt had been mounting from the moment they arrived at the hotel, throughout the process of getting a room, and with each step they had walked toward the room they were supposed to share, until it was a hard lump in her stomach. She had thought to spend a passionate night or two with Mitchell before she had to go home, but she had the feeling that what she was about to tell him was going to turn that little dream into ashes.

  “Yes, I have them, but there is something I must tell you,” she said as she reached beneath her skirts to unhitch the secret pocket holding the papers.

  “That’s where they’ve been hidden all this time?” Mitchell asked, slightly amused. “Who thought of that?”

  “Deidre.” She handed him the papers and said carefully, “She kept her set of papers in a similar one.”

  Mitchell looked up from the papers he had just been perusing with a slight frown. “What do you mean—her set?”

  For a brief moment, Maura seriously considered not confessing to anything, just letting him go off and find out the truth on his own. He had spoken of his brother Stephen, a lawyer, and a certain Judge Lennon. One of those men would surely recognize that the papers Mitchell had were forgeries. By the time he learned the ugly truth she could be long gone. It was cowardly, but it would probably hurt less.

  “Deidre and I had a plan. We had tragic proof that the Martins were willing to kill to stop you from getting those papers,” she explained, the look of growing suspicion and betrayal that was turning his dark-gray eyes black tearing at her heart. “We decided to split up. Each of us would carry a set of papers to Paradise. It was rather hoped that the Martins would more closely follow the woman who took the train.”

  “Why? Why was it better if they followed you?”

  She could tell by the hoarseness of his voice that he had already guessed what she had done. “Because the papers I carried are worthless forgeries. Deidre has the real ones.”

  “And you couldn’t have told me this?”

  “Deidre and I decided that it had to be kept a complete secret.”

  “Even from me, Maura?”

  “If the Martins had found out . . .” she began, and winced when he spat out a vicious curse.

  “Dammit, woman, it would’ve been kinder if you had just cut out my heart with a spoon.”

  The papers clutched tightly in his hand, Mitchell strode out of the room. Maura jumped slightly when he slammed the door behind him even though she had expected it. She sat there for a minute in the silence, blindly watching the tears drip onto her tightly clenched hands.

  This was what she had wanted, she told herself firmly. The affair was certainly at an end now. Maura just had not anticipated that it would hurt quite so much. She certainly had not considered the possibility that anything she did would hurt Mitchell, but he was hurt, deeply so. It had been there to see in the taut lines of his face, the near blackness of his eyes, and his loss of color. She had the chilling feeling that his parting words held far more truth than bitterness.

  Fighting desperately to calm herself, she stood up and went to draw herself a bath. That would soothe her. It always had before. After a while relaxing in the bath, she would be able to get control of her emotions again. This pain and this wrenching sense of loss could be buried right beside the love and need she had not yet been able to rid herself of. Her skill in doing so had wavered lately, but, now that Mitchell was no longer going to be around to play upon her weaknesses, she would regain that skill. It was just a matter of time.

  * * *

  Mitchell stood outside the hotel almost savoring the cold. He glanced at the papers he still held and thought about throwing them away, then decided to keep them. They could become a memento of sorts, a reminder that even when every bone in your body told you you had found the right woman, you could still be wrong.

  He strode off down the street. It was tempting to go straight to the saloon and drink himself into a stupor, but he needed to talk to Stephen. The trouble was not over yet. If Deidre Kenney was still out there, then the ranch and the mine were still at risk, not to mention Deidre as well.

  His body shaking, Mitchell stopped again and took several deep breaths of the bitingly chilly air in an attempt to calm himself. It was hard when all he could think of was Maura’s betrayal. Despite all he had thought they had shared, she had never trusted him, and that cut him to the bone. He had had to get away from her for fear of what he might say or do. It was bad enough that he had revealed how she had hurt him, if only briefly. He certainly did not want her to see how badly he was falling apart now.

  It took several more attempts before he made it to his brother Stephen’s house. As he reached up to rap on the door, he saw the papers he still clutched in his hand, and cursed. Shoving them into his coat pocket, he banged on the door. Mitchell hoped Stephen had a bottle of whiskey. Maybe two.

  “Mitchell!” Stephen cried with delight when he saw his brother at the door, then frowned when he got a good look at the expression on Mitchell’s face. “Something wrong?”

  “I need a drink,” Mitchell said as he strode past Stephen and headed stright for the parlor.

  “Mitchell, are you all right?” Stephen asked as he hurried after his brother.

  Going straight to the cabinet where Stephen kept his liquor, Mitchell pulled out a glass and a bottle of whiskey. Ignoring his brother’s concerned looks, Mitchell poured and quickly drank two whiskeys. He then poured himself a third, yanked the papers out of his pocket, and handed them to Stephen. As his youngest brother looked over the useless sheets of paper, Mitchell yanked off his coat, tossed it over the back of a chair, and then sat down.

  “What are these?” Stephen asked as he sat down in the chair facing Mitchell.

  “They are supposed to be the papers the Martins want so badly. They are the reason I have been shot at, beat up, and chased for more miles than I care to count. They are the reason I’m sitting here thinking of getting stone-cold drunk.”

  “I don’t understand.” Stephen dragged his long fingers through his thick, black hair, tousling it badly. “You can’t know, but Tyrone has returned. He also brought papers. Miss Deidre Kenney had them. We took them to the judge, who approved them, then took them to the land office. We even got that crook Will Pope to sign a paper saying he saw them and filed them. So, how is it that you can have papers, too?”

  “Tyrone’s all right?” Mitchell asked, briefly diverted from his own misery by concern for his brother.

  “Fine. So is Miss Kenney. In fact, Tyrone and Deidre plan to be married.”

  Mitchell cursed and had another drink. “That is just wonderful.”

  “I would really like to know how you came by these papers. They can’t be real, can they?”

  “Nope. They are forgeries. That is what Miss Maura Kenney and I have been protecting with our lives for a few hundred miles.”

  “Oh. You arrived with Deidre’s cousin?”

  “Yes. She is over at the hotel, or was when I left there.”

  Stephen helped himself to a glass of whiskey. “Something has you wound up tight as an old maid’s corset. Now, we can go back and forth and round and round with me asking questions and you biting out little useless answers or you can just tell me what the hell is wrong?”

  Mitchell almost smiled. “You’re getting sassy, boy.”

  “You drive me to it.”

  After taking a deep breath and an equally deep drink of whiskey, Mitchell told him all about what he saw as the grossest of betrayals by the woman he loved. There was not much sympathy on Stephen’s face when he was done with his tale, and no outrage. The most prominent expression was one of curiosity, with the slightest hint of admiration. Mitchell hoped that last was not for the traitorous Maura.

  “And you believe this Maura Kenney is that fated ma
te you have been waiting for?” Stephen finally asked.

  “It certainly felt like she was, but a true mate would not betray me like this.”

  “Was Maura right beside you all the way here? Sharing the discomfort and the danger?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Did she fight the Martins’ hired guns as hard as you did?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Did she ever once falter and speak of giving up, perhaps just saying to hell with it, why am I doing this for these Callahans? These papers aren’t worth anything anyway?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “So, in other words, despite her lack of skills, despite being, how did you put it, a little bit of a thing, despite cold and men trying to kill her, she left Saint Louis to come here, to finish the job her late uncle had started, an uncle killed by our enemies? She stuck it out unto the bitter-end, playing the diversion, putting her life in danger so that Deidre, who had the real papers, might be able to get through and save our land?”

  “Dammit, you really are a lawyer, aren’t you?” Mitchell said, half in admiration and half in annoyance. “She should have told me that the papers she had were not real. She didn’t trust me.”

  “She gave her word that she would tell no one.”

  “I am not no one, dammit,” he yelled, then took a deep breath and added more quietly, “She could have told me. She should have known that it would be safe to do so.”

  “Yes, I suppose she should have. Maybe she didn’t think too much on how the papers she had were forgeries. It didn’t matter to her, did it? Her job was to divert or at least split the Martins’ hunters.”

  Mitchell rested his head against the back of the chair, stared blindly up at the ceiling, and sipped his whiskey. He carefully thought over all his brother had just said. The things Maura had done, when looked at as a whole, did rather reduce the sting of what she had not done—told him about the papers. Mitchell could not even be sure if it showed that she did not trust him. About the only thing he could be sure it revealed was that Maura Kenney would never break a promise.

  He had to wonder if some of the strength of his reaction to her lie was because he was so unsure about her. The only thing he was sure of with Maura was that they could make each other burn. Delightful as that was, it was not enough to build a future on. After spending weeks in each other’s company, he had hoped to see more, but Maura kept her feelings well hidden.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

  “It’s obvious that you care deeply for this woman or this lie, and that is all it is if you look at it calmly and unemotionally, and it would not have hurt you so much.”

  “A lie. Do you really think that was all it was?”

  “I don’t know the woman, but looking at all she has done, I have to think so. If she really thought you could not be trusted with the truth, that would imply she thought you might give in to or help the Martins. Well, everything she’s done seems to imply that that thought never crossed her mind. She stayed with you, fought with you, and froze with you. To me that seems to show a great deal of trust.”

  Mitchell began to feel a great deal better. Stephen had been able to look at the problem with the calm, logical mind that made him such a good lawyer. It could easily be that he had seen betrayal because he simply did not feel secure with Maura. Perhaps he should swallow his pride, go back to the hotel, and try to sort it all out.

  “I think there is only one question you should be asking,” Stephen said quietly, smiling faintly at his brother. “Is this really worth giving her up completely?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I’m not sure anything is, but then, I’m not even sure I have her.”

  He stayed with Stephen for a little while longer, talking about their victory over the Martins and Tyrone’s marriage plans. Mitchell was both sympathetic and pleased to hear that Tyrone was wracked with uncertainty. Unlike Maura, however, Deidre seemed to make no secret about her preference, at least not to anyone who cared to look closely. Maura was obviously far more tightly controlled than her cousin. In fact, Mitchell thought with a rising sense of having a revelation, it was almost as if Maura was afraid, afraid of what she felt, perhaps even afraid of how vulnerable such feelings could make her.

  “I believe I will go back to the hotel now,” Mitchell said as he tossed off the rest of his drink and stood up.

  “We are supposed to go to the ranch for Christmas dinner,” Stephen said, standing up as Mitchell put on his coat. “Tyrone’s hoping he will be announcing his engagement.”

  “Well, Jason has lent us the use of his sleigh, so I will stop by here and get you.”

  “Strange that Jason didn’t tell you Tyrone had returned.”

  “The sneaky bastard probably thought it amusing to keep it a secret.”

  “Well, good luck,” Stephen said as he followed Mitchell to the front door.

  “I wish I could say I didn’t need it.”

  * * *

  Maura lay sprawled on her back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why her bath had failed so miserably in making her feel better. Her emotions were not obeying her. They were swirling through her with such force and confusion she felt nauseated. All the tricks she had used in the past to set such emotions deep inside her, to hide them from herself and the world, were not working.

  Mitchell, she thought, and cursed him for what he had done to her. It would take a very long time to get over him, to return to some semblance of normalcy. He had pulled her apart, set free feelings that were fierce and frightening. She loved the fool, and she really resented him for making her feel that way.

  She closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths, struggling to bring back that sense of calm she had always had. It was proving depressingly elusive. All she could see when she closed her eyes was the look of devastation on Mitchell’s face just before he had stormed out of the hotel room. She had put that look there and she felt weak with guilt.

  All of a sudden she thought about what Jason had said. Maybe, in some odd way, she had learned the wrong lessons from her parents. Unless the man was a bland lump of human oatmeal she suspected him of being like her father. Deep in her heart, she knew she had done that to Mitchell and it was grossly unfair. Mitchell was handsome and charming, but that was all he had in common with her father.

  And was she like her mother? she asked herself. Maura did not think so. Even as a child, she had often felt the urge to yell at her father, to scold him for what he was doing to her mother, even to strike him. When he would tell them stories of what a fine time he had in New Orleans, she did not ooh and ahh like her mother over tales of ball gowns and beautiful carriages. She had thought instead about the money he had spent, money they could have used to do more practical things, like put a new roof on the house. Maura sincerely doubted that she would have sat there and cried when tales of his infidelities reached her ears. The philanderer would have been running for his life. No, she was not like her mother. Her mother had loved a man who had behaved no better than a spoiled, thoughtless child, who had walked all over her and left her and their child struggling from day to day in poverty. As a woman, she could never have wasted years of her life on such a man. She would have spanked him, told him to grow up, and left him behind.

  The only thing Maura was sure of was that love could hurt you, could make you feel as if you were bleeding from a hundred stinging wounds. She was not sure she wanted that in her life. It was such a terrible vulnerability. There was always the chance that her mother had started out as sassy and strong, but love had turned her into that meek, forever-crying woman who had spent more time looking out the window waiting for her husband to stop by than she ever had on her child.

  Maura gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. She could not believe she had just thought that. She had loved her mother. Catherine Kenney had been all that a proper lady should be. Then Maura stiffened her spine and refused to allow herself to back away from the truth. Cath
erine Kenney had had little time and no interest in anything that did not center around her ungrateful husband. That was where Catherine had failed. She had made a man the very center of her world, her reason for living, and he had proven to be a clay-footed idol.

  With a weary sigh, Maura felt the touch of exhaustion start to pull her into a sleep state. She decided it was just what she needed. Although she had not solved any of her problems, she did feel as if her revelations would be very helpful in sorting out what to do with Mitchell. That was, if he even got within twenty feet of her ever again.

  The pain she had been feeling since he walked out tried to surge back to strong, vital life, but Maura forced it away. She needed to rest. She was so tired, so heartsore, all her thoughts were doing was circling around one another in her head. A few hours of sleep would help clear her mind. When she woke up, all of the pain would rush back, but she would be a little bit stronger and, maybe, a little more able to deal with it.

  Chapter Twelve

  SOMEONE WAS WATCHING HER. That sharp realization cut its way into Maura’s sleep-dulled mind. Right behind it was fear and that brought her fully awake. She was painfully aware of the fact that she was alone and only half dressed. Was it the Martins? Had they discovered that she had arrived and come to try to take the papers? Was it some drunken cowboy who had seen Mitchell bring her into the room, then desert her? Her hands clenched to try to calm herself, she slowly opened her eyes. What she saw at the end of the bed did not completely end her sense of unease.

  Mitchell sat there, leaning against the tall end post of the bed. One foot rested on the floor and one on the bed. His big hands were clasped around his raised knee. In his fingers dangled her set of papers. She slowly met his gaze and sighed. There was little expression on his handsome face, no warmth in his beautiful eyes. He watched her as if she was a stranger. That hurt. That hurt a lot.

  “They are very good forgeries,” he said, tossing the papers down onto the bed. “Stephen was unable to tell if they were real or not.”