Love at Harvest Moon (Holiday Mail Order Brides, Book Seven)

by Kit Morgan

  “Finn? Is something wrong?”

  He closed his eyes. How stupid could he be? “It's nothing, lass,” he said. But it was. His business with the Scot wasn’t settled. What if it became dangerous? What if the nightmare he’d lived months ago came back and then some? How could he even think of dragging Eva into it? “Be a good lass and stay here. I've got some things to attend to.”

  “Will you be gone long?”

  He took a deep breath, then smiled. “I wish I knew, lass, but I don't.”

  She nodded as he stood. “Be back soon,” she whispered.

  Finn bent down and kissed her on the head. “I shall.” And he left.

  Eva watched him go, and sighed as the door closed behind him. He wanted to marry her! She smiled in relief and closed her eyes. Thank you, Lord! Thank you so much. But her prayer of thanks didn’t spill out of her because Finn decided to accept her as his mail-order bride, but because she had genuine affection for him. The thought of having to find another husband after she’d gotten to know Finn Mullaney had shot pain through her heart. Now, that fear was past.

  Eva sat back in her chair and had just picked up the mending when Mr. and Mrs. Mullaney walked through the door. “Well?” Finn's mother asked. “Did he finally say yes?”

  Eva looked at her in confusion. “Say yes to what?”

  Mrs. Mullaney rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “Did the lad ask ye to marry him or not?”

  “No … not exactly ...”

  Mr. Mullaney, eyes twinkling, sat in the chair next to her. “Tell us all about it, lass. And don't leave anything out.”

  Eva set the mending down. “What makes the two of you think we were talking about marriage?”

  “Because, like all self-respecting parents, we were downstairs listening under the grate,” Mrs. Mullaney explained.

  Eva’s mouth dropped open in shock for a moment before she burst out laughing. “You were doing what?”

  “He did,” stated Mr. Mullaney with a nod of his head. He looked at his wife. “He's going to marry her.”

  “I said nothing of the sort!” Eva protested.

  “Ye didn’t have to, dearie,” said Mrs. Mullaney. “We can see it in yer eyes.”

  Eva pressed her lips together as her tears started again. “He did,” she choked out.

  “Come now, dearie, there's no reason to cry.”

  “That's what Finn said.”

  “Then why are ye?”

  “I don't know!”

  Mr. Mullaney stood, looked at her, and actually giggled. “I do!”

  Both women stared at him. “Why, then?” his wife asked.

  “Can't ye see it? She's fallen in love with the lad!”

  Eva almost choked. “I … I did not… have I?”

  Mr. Mullaney broke into hysterics. Eva could only sit and stare at him.

  Mrs. Mullaney, on the other hand … “Get a hold of yerself, man! Ye'll scare the poor lass! And for Heaven’s sake, calm down or the neighbors will think ye've been drinking!”

  Eva, unable to help it, laughed. She had the sudden urge to hug them, and tried to stand.

  “No, no, ye’ll hurt yerself,” said Mrs. Mullaney as she guided her back into the chair. She hugged Eva and kissed her on the cheek. “Welcome to the family, dearie.”

  * * *

  Thaddeus Slade slugged down another shot of whiskey and stared at his empty glass. He'd been hired before by men to perform deeds too distasteful for their own hands, deeds they wanted no association with except for the results. But this man – this Lord Brennan – was of an ilk he’d never seen before.

  Handsome and clever, with that upper-crust accent, Thaddeus had almost taken him for a dandy. But Lord Philip Brennan was no dandy, and neither was he someone Thaddeus wanted to cross. He was ten times more ruthless, more cunning, and more evil than Thaddeus (who’d thought he was master in those areas, at least in his native New Orleans) had ever dreamed of being. And this was not New Orleans, nor even the South for that matter. This was a Western frontier town, one he'd like to be rid of as soon as he was able.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave until his work was done. He set down his glass, tossed a coin onto the counter and left.

  So far he’d come up empty as to the whereabouts of Lorcan Brody, and he was beginning to wonder what he’d have to do to loosen the tongues of the locals. All he’d found out so far was that Lorcan had lost his sight fighting, gotten married and left town. Some said he went to Portland, while others said he’d traveled south to California. A few even said he went east. But which was it? And how was he going to find out without leaving a mess behind?

  Outside the saloon, he looked up and down the street. If someone didn't talk soon, he'd have to start being more persuasive with people, and that meant he'd have to get out of town quickly afterward. That being the case, he needed to know exactly where he was going, which meant he needed to find out where Lorcan Brody was. A vicious circle – he’d have to find out where Lorcan went to escape the trouble he’d cause in finding out where Lorcan went …

  Perhaps he should pay a visit to the Mullaneys again. He was positive their son knew where his friend was. Of course, his parents might also know, but if Lorcan was trying to make himself scarce, he might not have told them. But even when a man left town in a hurry, he usually told someone. If he didn't tell his immediate family, it was probably to protect them. But that didn't mean he didn't tell a friend, and Finn Mullaney was the most likely confidante.

  Thaddeus started off in the direction of the funeral parlor at the other end of town. By now, the boy should have seen the note he left for him and was fretting over how to respond. Good. He liked to keep his victims on edge. Maybe when he was done dealing with him, he'd backtrack and make some time with the fetching morsel he’d met at the Mullaneys’ when he’d delivered his note. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more the idea had appeal.

  And besides, Eugena wasn't here to foul things up for him. How she’d gotten involved with a mail-order bride business he’d never know, and didn't really care. What bothered him was that somewhere along the line, she’d found morals, and now spent her life doing good and bettering the lives of orphans and widows. It was enough to make him sick. Maybe when he got back to New Orleans, he’d burn down the Ridgley Mail-Order Bridal Service. That would show Eugena a thing or two ...

  Thaddeus sighed in frustration as he strolled down the boardwalk. He was just going to have to face facts – his days of doing business with Eugena Ridgley were over. True, at one time she'd been one of the best madams in the business, but no more. He’d lost her to God and the church, and there was no getting her back – she’d made that clear.

  Rejected and alone, he’d sought revenge, vowing he'd undo whatever good she was able to accomplish. But so far, he'd been thwarted at every turn. More unnerving, he’d almost gave in to her ridiculous suggestion that he attend church with her. The mere thought made him shudder, and he stopped and wondered if he didn't need another drink. But no, he had work to do. And he’d best get it done, or his current employer would have his head on a platter, and likely feed the rest of him to his dogs.

  He stepped off the boardwalk and sneered at the funeral parlor. Three small boys were sitting on the steps in front of it, with a man who was probably their father. Great – four possible witnesses should he decide to try to get the information he wanted now, rather than later. He glanced around for a bench to sit on, but didn't see one. It figured.

  He supposed he could wait them out regardless – after all, how long would the four sit there like that? They'd have to move along at some point. And when they did, Thaddeus would be ready. Now, if he could only find someplace decent to rest, he'd be happy.

  * * *

  “You three boys are going to apologize to Mr. Mullaney, and that's final!”

  “Awww, Pa, it wasn't our fault!” whined Walton.

  “Besides, it was Nate who hit him with the rock, not us,” added Bart.
/>   “Nathaniel?” his father demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  His son looked up at him, a remorseful look on his face. “Well, gee, Pa, maybe if ya hadn't given us these slingshots, we wouldn't have gotten into so much trouble.”

  Alton Dalton shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not an excuse, young man.”

  Nate and Walton exchanged a quick look. “Well, you know us better than anyone,” Walton told him, “so you oughta have known we'd misuse them. You shoulda been there to guide us.”

  “Walton,” his father said, his blood obviously boiling, “everyone with any sense knows you’re to not go around shooting people in the heads with rocks!”

  “Can Nate help it if’n he’s a good shot?” asked Bart.

  “Enough of this! You’re gonna go in there and apologize! Then you’re gonna turn in your slingshots to Mr. Mullaney, and he will decide what's to be done with them.”

  Three mouths dropped open, followed by groans of protest.

  “I've made up my mind, boys. Since you yourselves as much as said that you ain’t responsible enough to have ‘em, you don’t get to keep ‘em.”

  No sooner had he spoken than Finn stepped out the funeral parlor’s door onto the boardwalk. “Why, Mr. Dalton, what brings ye here?” he greeted as he gave the boys a pointed look.

  All three frowned and turned to look at the street.

  “I'm afraid my boys owe you an apology, Finn,” Mr. Dalton told him. “As do I.”

  “You? Alton, you don't owe me any sort of an apology.” He looked back at the boys. “Walton, Nate, and Bart, on the other hand …”

  Bart was the first to stand up, slingshot in hand. He looked at Finn and his father, and gritted his teeth. Then he walked up to Finn and handed him his slingshot.

  “Bart,” his father said sternly. “What do you say to the man?”

  Bart swallowed hard. “I'm sorry, Mr. Mullaney, for trying to hit you with a rock.”

  Walton was next. He too handed Finn his slingshot. “I'm sorry, too. At least Bart and I missed.” They both went to stand next to their father.

  Finally Nate got up and, dragging his feet, slowly approached. When he reached Finn, he stared at the slingshot in his hand a moment before offering it up to him. Then he looked Finn right in the eye. “I'm sorry I didn't miss.” He too returned to his father’s side.

  “Now that wasn't so bad, was it?” Alton asked his sons.

  Finn looked at the slingshots in his hands, then at the boys. “Ye could have done a lot more damage than ye did.”

  “We were just playin’,” said Walton in their defense.

  “Aye, sure ye were. But ye have to understand that these are weapons, not toys.”

  All three boys gawked at him. “Weapons?” asked Bart.

  “Aye; and they can be lethal. Ye can kill someone with one of these. Don’t ye remember the story of David, lads? He killed Goliath with one.”

  Nate's eyes were as round as saucers. “If, if … if I had killed you, would they hang me for it?”

  Finn stood over the three and bent down to stare them in the face. “What do you think?” he said, his voice dropping in pitch. He stood and looked at their father, who was trying his best to hide a smile. “I’ll keep these under lock and key until ye think they've learned their lesson.”

  “I think those slingshots deserve a life sentence.”

  “But, Pa!” protested Nate. “You made them for us!”

  “Yes, I did – but you couldn’t handle ‘em. Mr. Mullaney’s right – those slingshots are as much a weapon as a knife or gun. Maybe in a couple of years you'll be ready to handle ‘em again, but not now.”

  All three boys groaned again in protest, then glared at Finn.

  Finn was unmoved. “The day ye show me ye can handle these properly is the day ye’ll get them back. But, ye did do one thing for me that I'd like to thank ye for.”

  Nate stared at him. “What?” His eyes suddenly widened. “You mean the lady in your pumpkin patch?”

  “Aye. If ye hadn’t pointed her out, she might have been stuck out there for hours, and who knows what would've happened to the driver of the stagecoach.”

  The three boys looked at each other, and took a step closer to their father. “Boys?” Mr. Dalton asked. “You wouldn't happen to know anything about the stagecoach, would you?”

  They looked at him, but remained tight-lipped.

  Finn glanced between the boys and their father, and quickly put two and two together. “Aye … didn't the sheriff say he’d lock up the culprits who’d caused the horses to bolt and the stage to go off the road? For the rest of their lives, I believe he said … unless they confessed.”

  Alton nodded his head. “Yes, I do believe I did hear something about that. Whoever did that would spend the rest of their lives in jail, unless they voluntarily went to the sheriff and told him of their crime.”

  Finn could see Walton and Nate starting to sweat. Bart had clenched his hands into fists, his face red from the effort it took to keep his mouth shut. Of course, both men knew the boys were guilty – it was the only logical explanation for the horses bolting the way they did. A couple of rocks on their hindquarters from slingshots would do the trick.

  “What … what’ll happen if they confess?” asked Nate.

  Finn shrugged. “That's up to the sheriff. But I bet he'll pardon them for their honesty. The law does that sometimes, ye know.”

  The three boys looked at each other, then back at Finn. “How many times is sometimes?” Bart asked.

  “Ye'll have to ask the sheriff.”

  “Do you really wanna find out?” asked Alton.

  “It’s something I've always wondered about,” said Nate in a small voice.

  “Is it, now?” asked Finn. He looked at their father. “Well, I guess ye'd better take them down so they can ask the sheriff themselves.”

  “Good idea, Finn – I think I will.” He put his arms around his sons. “Come on, let's go pay the sheriff a visit, shall we?”

  Finn winked at him as he ushered the boys away. He laughed to himself as he turned to head across the street, and stopped short. A man stood on the boardwalk, leaning against a post, watching him. He was tall, though not as tall as the Scotsman, and Finn had a sudden sinking feeling that this was the man who’d shown up on his doorstep with the envelope. So Mr. Brody was right – this Mr. Slade and the Scotsman MacDonald really were two different men. But were they working together, or had they separate agendas? And which one – if either – was on his side?

  Well, there was only one way to find out. Finn stuffed the slingshots into his pockets, stepped off the boardwalk and marched across the street.

  Eleven

  “There now, dearie,” beamed Mrs. Mullaney. “Ye look pretty as a picture.”

  “I haven't dressed for dinner like this in a long time,” said Eva. “Not since my mother would invite gentlemen over to dine with us. My parents used to do it quite often when we lived back east, but we got out of the habit once we settled in Independence.”

  “Doesn't matter where ye live,” said Mrs. Mullaney as she brushed the skirt of Eva’s dress with her hands. “Or even how big a town ye live in. It's just nice to dress up for dinner now and then, don't ye think?”

  Eva smiled and examined herself in the mirror. “Yes, it is.” Finn's mother had pulled out her pink lace dress and told her she should wear it that night. She'd oohed and ahhed over the frock when she’d unpacked Eva’s trunk, and said she couldn't wait to see her in it. Turned out she was being literal. “This dress was a good choice, Mrs. Mullaney. Thank you for the suggestion.”

  “Ah, it gives ye a soft and cuddly look. Finn’ll like that.” She took Eva by the hand. “I'm so glad yer here with us. Ye have no idea how long we’ve prayed for the good Lord to bring Finn the perfect wife.”

  “I don’t know about perfect,” she told her with a laugh. “But here we are. I guess we can all thank the Lord for
that.”

  “Aye,” Mrs. Mullaney sighed. “Now, let’s get ye into the kitchen and ye can help me with the biscuits. I’ve an apron ye can use so ye don’t get that pretty dress of yours dirty.”

  Eva put a hand on her shoulder for support, and they left the bedroom. She hadn’t worn this dress in a long time, and had brought it with an eye to use it as her wedding gown. Would Finn like what he saw?

  She pushed the thought aside when they got to the kitchen, and concentrated on helping Mrs. Mullaney make biscuits. “Yer not bad at this,” the woman commented as Eva spooned dough into a pan.

  “I have a little talent in the kitchen, even though my mother had a cook back east.”

  “Did yer mother teach ye how to cook, then?”

  “No, unfortunately my mother doesn’t cook much. I learned how to cook from a very dear friend.”

  “Oh? What’s her name?”

  Eva chuckled. “Betsy.”

  “Why didn’t she teach yer mother how to cook as well?”

  “Well, Betsy is the maid of Mayor Vander and his wife. My mother would think it beneath her to take cooking lessons from a servant.” She took a finger and pushed up the end of her nose for emphasis.

  Mrs. Mullaney laughed as she put the pan of biscuits in the oven, then sat down at the table. “How did ye become friends with her, then?”

  “Betsy used to play checkers with me in the kitchen of the mayor’s house when my mother brought me with her to committee meetings. Playing games in the kitchen with Betsy was a lot more fun than dying of boredom, listening to my mother and her friends plan their next social function.”

  “I didn’t realize Independence was that big a town.”

  “It’s not. But my mother was bent on having all the same social luxuries she had back in New Jersey. We lived in Trenton, the state capital, and she was used to fancy dress balls and formal dinners with members of government and the like.”

  Mrs. Mullaney gave her a sardonic look. “And how’d that work out for her?”

  Eva laughed again. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”