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

by Kit Morgan

  Eva shook her head. “I have a lot to learn about the funeral business.”

  “No, ye just have a lot to learn about how things are done in Oregon City.” They smiled at each other, and set to work.

  The morning passed quickly as Eva and Finn sat side by side at the desk and poured over the books. Eva was relieved to find that Mr. Mullaney kept excellent records, and was surprised there were so many details to such a business. “People pay in installments?” she asked in astonishment.

  “Sometimes. Not everyone here has money, lass. Some have nothing to give us at the time they've lost their loved one. But a few months down the road, they give us some chickens or maybe a goat as payment.”

  “I see,” said Eva, her eyes full of sympathy. “Are there many like that?”

  “Not many, but it happens. Oregon City is small yet, but when it grows I'm sure we'll see more.”

  “Like you saw in New York?”

  Finn nodded sadly. “Aye, lass. Like New York, only hopefully with less murder.”

  “Murder?!”

  “The bigger the city …,” he offered with a shrug. “And New York is the biggest.”

  “Well, are you two finished?” Mrs. Mullaney emerged from the stairwell. “It's lunchtime.”

  “I'll go hitch up the horses,” said Finn as he got up from the desk. “It won't take me long.”

  “You do that,” agreed his mother. “The lass and I will get ready.”

  Finn smiled at them and left.

  Eva looked at Mrs. Mullaney and sighed. “Finn showed me a lot.”

  “Good. Ye picked up on it easy enough, I take it?”

  “Yes, it shouldn't be hard at all to keep everything straight.”

  “Glad to hear it, dearie.” She sat in the chair Finn had occupied. “It's been my and Mr. Mullaney’s hope that Finn and whomever he married would take over the business one day. We're getting on in years, after all – we won't be able to do this too much longer. Besides, once ye start having babies, ye'll want someone to keep an eye on them while ye work the business.”

  Eva smiled. “I can't think of anyone more qualified than you.”

  “Neither can I,” said Mrs. Mullaney with a satisfied grin.

  Soon Finn had hitched up the buckboard and brought it around to the front of the building. He went inside to help Eva, who insisted she walk this time. Once outside, he helped her off the boardwalk and settled her near the wagon. “I'll lift ye up and ye can sit at the very back, all right?”

  “With my feet dangling?” she said teasingly.

  “Aye, if that's how ye prefer it.”

  “And what if I prefer that you sit next to me?”

  Was she flirting with him? He felt a chill race up his spine. “That … can be arranged.”

  Her eyes widened. “It can?”

  “Of course; Maither knows how to drive the wagon.”

  “She does?”

  “Don't sound so shocked, lass.”

  “I had no idea,” she said as she watched Mrs. Mullaney come out the door and onto the boardwalk. “My mother never learned – she’s always had someone driving for her. Can you teach me?”

  “I was already planning to.”

  “You were? Whatever for?”

  “Because ye never know when yer going to need it,” he told her as he put his hands around her waist and lifted her into the back of the wagon. Then he jumped up himself and took one of her hands in his.

  “Aren't you going to help your mother up?” Eva asked.

  “Da will do it.”

  Eva turned just in time to see Mr. Mullaney help his wife climb up onto the wagon seat, then scramble up himself like a squirrel. “I've never seen your father move so fast,” she giggled.

  “You should see him when maither makes a chocolate cake,” Finn said with a grin.

  “I'll have to remember that, if I ever make him one.”

  Mr. Mullaney gave a flick of the reins. The wagon lurched forward, and Eva realized she'd never ridden in such a fashion. It made her feel giddy with her feet hanging over the edge of the buckboard and Finn beside her, holding her hand. “Are we going to lunch first?”

  “Aye. Remember when I told ye about Rosie's Café? That's where were going. She’s a fine cook, that one. If maither wasn't so proud, I'd ask Rosie to teach her how she makes some of her pastries.”

  “They're that good?”

  “None like them anywhere else in the state.”

  “Well then, I guess I'd better ask her.”

  Finn gaped at her and gave her hand a squeeze. “Ye’d do that for me? That's a dangerous undertaking, lass.”

  “Why is it dangerous?”

  Finn leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. “Maither wants to teach ye how to make all of her pies and pastries. She'd be appalled to know ye learned Rosie's.”

  Eva covered her mouth with one hand and laughed. “Oh dear – dangerous indeed.”

  Finn kissed her on the cheek. “Sitting back here with me could also be dangerous.”

  Eva blushed. “You're going to be the death of me, Finn Mullaney,” she whispered to him.

  “You'll die happy then, won’t you?”

  She wanted to smack him on the arm, but the wagon hit a bump and she almost bounced right out. Finn grabbed hold of her and held her close. “Good heavens!” she yelped, then realized he had his arms around her, and hers were around him. “Oh my …”

  Finn continued to hold her, not caring who saw. “Harvest Moon is only a few days away, lass. I'll find out this afternoon if we’re to be married under it.”

  “You really do want to be married outside, don't you?”

  “Aye,” he answered with a chuckle. Then he put his forehead against hers. “In the pumpkin patch.”

  “The pumpkin patch!” she said with a laugh.

  “I think it's rather fitting, don't you?”

  “Finn, you are so … so …”

  “Clever and romantic?”

  “Clever, maybe, but what’s so romantic about getting married in a pumpkin patch?”

  “It’s where we first met,” he whispered softly.

  He had her there. “True. All right, then – the pumpkin patch at Harvest Moon.”

  He glanced at his parents, then looked back to her. “Should my business take longer to finish than I expect, do ye mind waiting?”

  Her smile faded. “If you think it's best, no, I don't mind.”

  He let out his breath and smiled. Eva wondered if he'd been holding it. “I thank ye, lass,” he said and brushed some hair from her forehead. “For understanding.”

  “Just so long as your business doesn't keep you from me too long,” she added.

  “Then let us both pray it doesn't,” he told her. And meant it.

  * * *

  Rosie took their lunch orders, then hurried off to the kitchen to get their drinks. “Wait until ye try the blackberry pie,” beamed Mr. Mullaney.

  “Blackberry pie?” scoffed his wife. “If ye don't make it just right, it gets all seedy.”

  “Rosie's isn't,” Mr. Mullaney said smugly.

  Eva watched Mrs. Mullaney's face redden. “Ye'll find no seeds in my blackberry pies, Mr. Mullaney.”

  “I didn't say I would.”

  “If yer implying that Rosie's pies are better than mine, then ye’ve got another thing coming.”

  Mr. Mullaney's eyes twinkled, and he pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “Rosie's cherry pies are a force to be reckoned with, I hear.”

  Mrs. Mullaney's head snapped around to him. “Are ye saying my cherry pie isn't good enough?”

  “No such thing. Simply stating that Rosie makes a fine pie.”

  Eva giggled. “You’re too much,” she told them with a laugh.

  “Ye mind yerself, dearie,” scolded Mrs. Mullaney. “This is serious business we're talking here.”

  Eva continued to giggle. “I can see that. Perhaps I should ask Rosie for some of her recipes.”

  Finn n
udged her leg with his foot. She glared at him, and he was about to return the look when he realized what he'd done. “I didn't hurt yer ankle, did I?” he asked in a whisper.

  “No,” she whispered back. “It's my other ankle.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Thank heavens.”

  “What are ye two whispering about?” asked his mother.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Eva with a grin, and kicked him back. He closed his eyes and smiled as she smirked at him.

  Mr. Mullaney watched them a moment and began to chuckle.

  “Finn,” his mother said in a stern tone. “Tell me the truth, whose pie is better – mine or Rosie's?”

  Finn's eyes widened – not because of his mother's question, but because the tall Scotsman was staring at them from a corner table across the room. Finn stared back.

  Rosie brought their drinks, laid the tray on the table, and served them each a glass of water.

  “Well?” his mother snapped. “Which one of us?”

  “Aye?” Finn said, his eyes still locked with the Scotsman's.

  “Finn Mullaney, are you listening to me?”

  Eva followed his gaze. “Who is that?” she asked.

  He turned to her. “Ye mean ye don't know?”

  “No, should I?”

  Finn leaned toward her and whispered, “Isn't that the man who brought the envelope the other day?”

  “No. I've never seen him before.”

  Finn went silent a moment, glanced at the Scot, then back to Eva. “What did the man look like?”

  Eva blinked a few times as she tried to remember. “Tall, but not as tall as the man over there, and certainly not as broad. Well-dressed, with a thin mustache and … oh, he had a long scar down one side of his face! And he spoke with a Southern accent – Louisiana, I think.”

  Finn paled. So Mr. Slade, the man he'd met in the street, had delivered the note! Then why on Earth did he help Finn after some idiot hit it him with a shovel?

  “Son, are ye all right?” asked his father.

  Finn nodded, and once more gazed across the room at the Scotsman. He was still watching them, but didn't look threatening … at the moment, anyway. “I'm fine.”

  Rosie spotted the big man, smiled and made a direct line for him.

  Finn watched as she took his order, then hurried back to the kitchen, a pleasant smile on her face. If Slade delivered the envelope, and the Scot was looking for Philip Brennan, then shouldn't he tell the Scot about Slade? There was only one way to find out. Finn took a deep breath, stood, and went to invite the Scot to join them for lunch.

  Fourteen

  Dallan MacDonald was his name, and he stared at Finn and Eva with interest. “I thank ye for the invitation to share yer table. ‘Tis nice to sit and chat wi’ ye again, Master Mullaney.”

  Finn’s parents exchanged a quick glance. Master Mullaney? Finn’s father cleared his throat. “Where did ye say ye were from?”

  “I dinna recall telling ye, nor yer asking until now.”

  Mrs. Mullaney narrowed her eyes at him. “What is Finn to ye? He hasn’t told us about being friends with you.”

  The big Scot smiled. “No, I would imagine not. Suffice it to say, yer son and I share an acquaintance, whom I’d like to find as soon as possible.”

  Finn took a deep breath and looked at his father. “He’s looking for Philip Brennan.”

  His mother gasped. “What? Just what do ye want with that black-hearted devil?”

  “My business with him is my own. But I must find him – have ye any information ye can give me? Any at all?”

  “Who is Philip Brennan?” Eva asked, her voice low.

  “The devil’s own!” Mrs. Mullaney exclaimed with a huff. “And I’ll ask ye not to mention his name at this table, Mr. MacDonald, or ye can go eat alone!”

  “I meant no disrespect, madam – I share your sentiments toward him.”

  Finn leaned over to Eva. “He’s the man who forced Lorcan to fight, even though Lorcan was blind.”

  “How terrible!” she gasped. “Has he wronged you in such a way as well?”

  “More than ye can possibly imagine,” said the Scot, his eyes now a fierce green.

  “We’ve seen nothing of him since he escaped the sheriff and his men months ago,” offered Mr. Mullaney. “No one knows where he is. It’s like he just disappeared in a puff of smoke.”

  The Scot sighed. “I was afraid of that. I thank ye for confirming my suspicions.”

  The Mullaneys looked at one another, then back at Mr. MacDonald. “What do ye mean?” asked Finn. “Where did he go?”

  “I haven’t a clue, but I hoped that if I had a chance to speak with yer friend Lorcan, I could find one.”

  Finn’s parents became tight-lipped and sat back in their chairs. Rosie showed up and started setting their orders in front of them. When she was done, she stared dreamily at Mr. MacDonald and asked if he needed anything else. “Nay, lass,” he told her. “We’re fine.”

  She smiled, turned slowly to the kitchen and left.

  “It’s a good thing we ordered sandwiches,” said Finn. “She might have burned the fish had we ordered it.”

  Mr. Mullaney chuckled. “Are ye a married man, sir?” he asked the Scot.

  “Aye, but my wife is resting at Mrs. Brown’s boarding house. We … we had quite the adventure getting here.”

  “We don’t know where that nasty man is,” Mrs. Mullaney interjected. “Let’s not talk about him anymore.”

  “Then may we talk about Lorcan Brody? D’ye ken where I might find him?”

  “Ask his parents,” suggested Mr. Mullaney.

  “I did, and they were quite … vague. I take it they dinna want anyone to ken their son’s whereabouts. Is that true?”

  The Mullaneys gave each other another furtive glance. “That’s their business, none of yours.” Mrs. Mullaney told him, her eyes narrowed in challenge. “Or mine.”

  “I dinna wish the lad harm, madam.”

  “Aye, we’ve heard that before,” said Mr. Mullaney. “I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t help ye.”

  “Very well, I understand,” he said graciously. He looked at Finn and Eva. “So yer to be married? Congratulations.”

  Finn started. “How did ye know that?”

  “It’s all over town, as I understand. I heard it from one o’ the residents at the boarding house whilst I was rescuing a cat.”

  Mr. Mullaney laughed. “Fat old Mrs. Fitzsimmons was in trouble again?”

  Mr. MacDonald chuckled. “Aye, that’s the one. I gather it’s a regular occurrence.”

  “That cat could survive anything. I’m surprised she let ye near her – it was always Lorcan’s job to rescue that feline for Mrs. Brown.”

  “Did she try to scratch yer eyes out?” asked Mrs. Mullaney, almost hopeful.

  “Nay, I found the little beast quite agreeable.”

  Mr. Mullaney eyed him. “Now don’t that beat all? The only one Mrs. Fitzsimmons really liked was Lorcan. Ye must have a way with animals, then?”

  “My wife and I have … cats.”

  “Are they as fat as old Mrs. Fitzsimmons?” chuckled Finn, hoping to lighten the mood at the table.

  Mr. MacDonald smiled. “Och, Mrs. Fitzsimmons is naught but a wee kitten in comparison.”

  “Ye must keep some mighty big felines,” remarked Mr. Mullaney.

  The Scot smiled. “Ye ha’ no idea.” He turned his attention back to Finn. “When’s the wedding?”

  Finn gaped at him a second or two before he finally said. “I’m not sure.” Eva visibly stiffened next to him, but didn’t say a word. Finn reached under the table and took one of her hands from her lap. “We were hoping to be married …”

  “… at Harvest Moon,” finished Mrs. Mullaney with pride.

  “In our pumpkin patch,” added Mr. Mullaney.

  “Weel now,” drawled Mr. MacDonald. “That’s a bonny idea, I must say. My wife would call it romantic.” His face took on a faraway look as his eyes drif
ted toward the door. Then he reached for his sandwich and took a generous bite.

  The rest of them followed his example and started to eat. Soon the meal was over, and Finn began to relax a little. The Scot was being very polite, and hadn’t pressed them about Lorcan’s whereabouts any further.

  “That was a fine lunch. How about some pie, Mr. MacDonald?” asked Mr. Mullaney.

  “I’m afraid I must be going. My wife will be hungry by now, so I’d best go feed her.”

  “Did ye want to order something for her? Rosie would be happy to wrap a sandwich up for ye,” suggested Mrs. Mullaney.

  The Scot smiled. “Thank ye, no. My wife’s palate leans in … another direction. I’m afraid a sandwich wilna be enough to satisfy her.”

  “If the lass is that hungry, whatever are ye to feed her, then?” asked Mrs. Mullaney.

  Mr. MacDonald’s smile broadened in answer. He then turned to Finn. “Before I go, Master Mullaney, I’d like to speak with ye in private?”

  Finn's heart began to beat faster. It was now or never, he supposed; might as well get it over with. He needed to know what the Scott was about and if he was any friend of Mr. Slade's. He gave Mr. McDonald a curt nod, and stood. The Scotsman stood as well, and together they left the café.

  Finn could feel Eva’s eyes on him as he went out the door, but didn't turn to look at her. He had to focus on the task at hand. Once outside, he asked the inevitable. “What's this all about? I know there's more to it than just asking Lorcan if he knows where Philip Brennan is.”

  “Perceptive, are ye no’? Well then, yer right. There is more, and if ye care anything for yer friend Lorcan, ye’d be wise to tell me where he is.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because Brennan still means to kill him, and I'm here to keep that from happening.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Mr. McDonald sighed. “Trust me, laddie, there are things in this world ye ken nothing about, and dinna want to know. Philip Brennan is one of them, and I'm here to clean up the messes he's left behind. Yer friend Lorcan is only one of the many.”

  “Don't talk to me in riddles, sir. Do you mean Lorcan any harm?”

  “Nay, laddie – I'm here to keep him alive.”