A Stockingful of Joy

by Hannah Howell

  He calmly walked over to the man who was so unsteady on his feet and was making some very strange choking sounds. Mitchell lightly tapped him on the shoulder, and, when he turned, punched him in the face. The man went down without a sound.

  “Lyle,” growled the other man, cursing when one tiny booted foot caught him high on the leg, “where the hell are you? This was all your damned idea.”

  “Lyle is otherwise occupied,” drawled Mitchell.

  Maura felt almost as surprised as Hank looked. It was impossible to see any of the new man’s features, but his shadowed form was huge, and Maura did not think it was simply the poor lighting in the alley that made him seem so. Hank took one quick look at Lyle’s still form, cursed, and shoved Maura aside. She cried out as she fell down hard on the trash-strewn ground.

  “Go find your own honey, mister. This one’s ours,” said Hank, standing before the intruder with his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched at his side.

  “Are you with these gentlemen willingly, ma’am?” Mitchell asked, keeping a close eye on the man in front of him even as he watched the woman stumble to her feet.

  “Gentlemen?” Maura knew she sounded a little shrill, but she was too overwrought to care. “They are filthy pigs and they should be tossed back into the swamp they oozed out of.”

  “I will take that as a no,” Mitchell said quietly, the faintest hint of the laughter he tried to swallow in his voice. “The woman wants you to go,” he said to her attacker.

  “She’s just being a tease and trying to make us pay her more than she’s worth. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”

  “Why don’t you go somewhere and eat ground glass,” Maura bit out through clenched teeth.

  Mitchell admired her unique threats and prepared himself for the attack he knew the man was about to make. When it came it was clumsy and the fight was over quickly. One clean blow to the man’s soft stomach and another to the jaw laid him out next to his friend.

  Maura stared down at the two men who had planned to rape her. The huge man standing there had defeated them with an admirable swiftness. Then she tensed. She had assumed he had come to her rescue, moved to interfere because he had heard her cries, but it might not be wise to just accept that. He could easily prove to be just as dangerous as the other two. Taking another quick look at her unconscious attackers, she amended that thought. This one could be far more dangerous.

  “I thank you for your kind assistance, sir,” she said, using her primmest tone of voice even as she tried to pull the torn edges of her bodice together. “I was losing the battle against these ruffians.”

  “You’re not from the saloon, are you,” he said, the words a statement of fact revealing he had no doubt about her answer.

  “Certainly not.” She frowned a little when she heard what sounded suspiciously like a heavy sigh.

  “Well, then, you should have known better than to come to this part of town.”

  “Should I now. How is that, seeing as I do not live here nor have I ever even visited this place before?” She picked up her shawl and secured it over her torn bodice. “I was simply returning from church—”

  “Church?” Mitchell wondered how anyone with such a sultry voice could be so prim.

  “Yes, church, not that my whereabouts before this fiasco are any of your concern. As I walked home, I was accosted by these two men and dragged in here, obviously for some nefarious purpose.”

  “Obviously. So, where were you headed before you were attacked? I should walk you there so there won’t be any more of these incidents.”

  “It would be most improper for you to escort me anywhere. Although you are certainly entirely responsible for me escaping this business unscathed, I do not know you, sir.”

  He tipped his hat. “My name is Mitchell Callahan.”

  Maura stopped her subtle attempts to get around him and flee the alley. She must have hit her head or been made far more upset and terrified than she had guessed. The man who had walked up to save her in the nick of time could not possibly have just said he was a Callahan. Then she took a deep, steadying breath. Callahan was not such an unusual name. Neither was Mitchell. Just because one of the brothers who had hired her uncle had the exact same name did not have to mean anything, did not have to be any more than a coincidence. Or, she thought, her eyes narrowing, it was a trick.

  After subduing a brief twinge of guilt for thinking poorly of a man who had saved her from a gruesome fate, she began to consider the possibility that he was lying or trying to entrap her. So far she had managed to elude the few attempts made to get a hold of her. There was obviously someone on her trail, but staying close to other people at all times had kept her safe. This was the first time she had been alone. Perhaps it was not just ill luck that led to her being attacked or very good luck that led to this man racing to her rescue. What better way to lull someone’s suspicions than to save them, to play the big, brave hero. In fact, it was such a good ploy, she did not know why there was a need to use the name of one of the brothers.

  “Mitchell Callahan, is it? From where?” she asked, not overly concerned that her question was rapped out as if she was some sheriff and he an accused criminal.

  “Paradise, Montana.” He held out his hand. “And you are?”

  “Why, I am Maura Kenney.” She shook his hand, and tried to sound cheerful, almost flirtatious. “It must be because it is so very dark in here, and so I will not take offense that you do not remember me, sir.”

  “I recognize the name Kenney,” he muttered, staring at his hand when she released it, for he could still feel the warmth of her touch. “Knew a fellow name of Patrick Kenney once. A good man.”

  “Yes, he was.” Maura softened for a moment, swept briefly but strongly with a still-fresh grief. “I am sorry you don’t recall anything about that dance we shared when you were in Missouri last,” she murmured.

  “I was only in Saint Louis once and I didn’t do any dancing. I was there on business.” He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the alley. “Just to be sure, and to prove to you that you don’t know me from a hole in the ground, let’s take a gander at each other in the light.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then quickly closed it again. Getting out of the alley had been what she had been trying to do since she had been pulled into it. It was a little silly to protest because he took her out instead of allowing her to leave of her own volition. Maura just wished he did not tow her along as if she was some rag doll toy. When they stepped out into the light of a fading day, she faced him to rebuke him for his treatment of her, and nearly gaped. In the alley he had been imposing in size and the rich timbre of his deep voice. In the clear light of day he was enough to make any woman’s senses swim.

  Long and lean and lethally handsome was the first clear thought that entered Maura’s head. She tried not to stare, looking him over discreetly as possible. His thick black hair hung over his collar and forehead in gentle waves, softening his features. High, wide cheekbones, a long, straight nose, and a firm jaw made for a somewhat harsh face, but it was softened by the slightly full lips of his mouth—and his eyes. A deep gray, ringed with thick, long lashes, and set beneath vaguely arched dark brows, his eyes were almost mesmerizing. She tried not to let herself be captured by their allure as she patiently waited for him to speak.

  Mitchell dragged her out into the light, turned to say she was lying about having met him, and felt the words catch in his throat. Maura Kenney was certainly no saloon girl. Tiny, slender, and standing so straight he felt an urge to see if she had some strange back prop under her gown, she was unquestionably a lady. She was also unquestionably beautiful. Her thick hair, only slightly mussed by her ordeal, was a deep, rich auburn. Her heart-shaped face was dominated by a pair of wide, deep-blue eyes set beneath delicately arched brows and rimmed by the longest lashes he ever had seen on a woman. His gaze rested on her full-lipped mouth. It was a little wide for her face, but that only made it more tempting. When she li
fted her head slightly, sticking out her little chin, he realized he had been staring at her too long.

  “Now, do you want to repeat that little tale about having danced with me in Saint Louis?” he asked.

  “It was worth a try,” she replied, not even attempting to deny her trick.

  “I am one of the Callahans who hired Patrick Kenney. Is he here?”

  “No, he was shot,” she said quietly, unable to keep all of the sadness she still felt out of her voice.

  “Good God. And Bill Johnson?”

  “He was shot a week before my uncle was.”

  Mitchell did not want to believe what she was saying. They had hired Bill and Patrick to simply deliver some papers. Although they had warned the men that there would be trouble, that the Martins would do their best to see that the papers never reached Paradise, neither he nor his brothers had thought the job would prove fatal. The deeds were going to be soaked in blood by the time they found their way back to Paradise and Mitchell found that a chilling thought.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked abruptly, not wanting to continue the conversation in the street.

  “At the Depot Hotel,” she replied, and immediately wondered if that was a mistake.

  “So am I.” He took her by the arm and started off toward the hotel.

  “I have not agreed to accompany you there,” she said, nearly running to keep up with his long strides.

  “And I have no intention of letting Patrick’s niece run around these dangerous streets alone.”

  “But I am not alone. I am with you, whoever you are.”

  “I told you who I am. I’m Mitchell Callahan, one of the brothers who needs those papers.” He looked down at her, idly thinking that a brute like him could crush a little thing like her, then wondered why that thought depressed him. “Didn’t your little lie tell you that I am speaking the truth?”

  “It might have. It might also be telling me that you’re clever enough to have seen through my little ploy.”

  “Fine. If you want some more time to see that I am just who I say I am, you’ll have it. You can tell me your decision when we meet for dinner.”

  Maura almost cursed and that alarmed her. Then she recalled all she had just been through and decided she had just not recovered yet. The anger and fear were still there, still left a bitter taste on her tongue. That was more than enough to encourage a slip in her manners.

  “Since you know that I don’t trust you, why do you think I would go to dinner with you?” she asked.

  “Because you’ll want to eat?”

  “How droll.” Maura was sure there was a little twitch at the corners of his too tempting mouth, but could not tell if it was from anger or laughter.

  “Join me for dinner, Maura,” he said in a coaxing voice. “If I am who I say I am, I could help you. We are on the same side.”

  “That is yet to be determined.”

  She wanted to dine with him and that alarmed her for a moment. Here was the sort of man her mother had warned her about, a tall, dark man who was eager to protect her. The flutter she felt in her heart told her that she was already too keenly aware of him. If he was who he said he was, then she would have to accept his help. That attraction she felt tingling inside her would not make such an association acceptable. Unfortunately, she would have no way to stop him from riding along with her. More complications were the very last thing she needed. And, if he really was a Callahan, just how much should she tell him?

  “I will meet you down here at eight,” he said as they stepped into the lobby of the hotel.

  Maura sighed. She did have to eat and she had to try to decide if he was an ally or an enemy. There was time to have a rest before dinner, to regain her wits and calm herself.

  “At seven, sir,” she said quietly but firmly as she eased free of his light hold.

  “It’ll be busy then.”

  “Exactly.”

  Mitchell smiled faintly as he watched her go up the stairs. She had spirit. After what she had just been through many another woman would be prostrate. She seemed a prim little thing, but he knew there was fire beneath that oh so proper exterior. He had seen her with her back to the wall, literally. Although he knew she had to be scared when those two men attacked her, she had revealed only anger, and it had been a classic redhead’s fury.

  Whistling softly, he went to his room, pleased to catch a faint glimpse of black bombazine disappearing into room 10 as he approached it. Little Maura Kenney fascinated him. When he realized he had lost the urge to go to the saloon, he just smiled.

  Chapter Two

  MAURA SCOWLED AT HER image in the mirror. She had done everything she usually did, but it did not look the same. Her hair was securely fastened in a bun at the back of her head, only a few whispers of curls left free. The collar of her black dress was high and tightly buttoned, revealing not the slightest patch of skin. Yet, something was ever so slightly different.

  Shaking her head, she told herself she was imagining things. If there was a light flush to her cheeks or a hint of a sparkle to her eyes, it was because she was still vastly upset over being attacked. None of it had anything to do with a tall, dark man who called himself Mitchell Callahan.

  As she stepped out of her room, she gave a delicate little snort of contempt. She could call herself Queen Victoria if she wanted to. It did not make it so. The man was going to have to give her more proof than his word no matter how beguiling his smile.

  “Hello, Maura,” said an already familiar deep voice from right behind her.

  Maura nearly cursed as she jumped in surprise, then whirled around to face him. “I thought we were to meet in the dining room.”

  “I was just headed there.”

  She just shook her head as he took her by the arm and started down the stairs. He was obviously a stubborn man, used to having his own way. If he did prove to be her ally and they began to travel together, she was going to have to curb his tendency to take her where he pleased. The fact that he discussed it with her made no real difference, for, as he talked, he dragged her right along to where he wanted to go in the first place.

  Once seated in the dining room, he made no attempt to choose her meal for her, and her annoyance with him was eased a little. He made idle conversation about her life in Saint Louis and what she had seen in her travels until they were served. The amount of food that was set down in front of him made her eyes widen slightly, but she said nothing. He was a rather big man, at least a foot taller than her own five feet two, if not more, and probably required a lot to keep up his strength. It was not until they were served their dessert and coffee that he turned the conversation to the matter at hand.

  “You still doubt I am who I say I am, don’t you,” he said, smiling faintly.

  “I have to.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is wise to be cautious.” He took a small packet of papers from a pocket in his coat and handed them to her. “This might help you decide.”

  Letters, bills of sale, and even a short, scribbled message from Bill were amongst the strange assortment of papers. They were all addressed to him, Mitchell Callahan, or carried his signature. It was the very strangeness of the assortment, the mundaneness of the papers, that convinced her. No one who forged papers would choose such a collection to try to establish an identity. Silently she handed them back, wondering what would happen now.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “Yes. I know a little man in Saint Louis who does a little forging of papers and he would never think to include things like the bill of sale for a pair of boots. Very expensive ones, too,” she murmured.

  “An indulgence. When you got feet as big as mine, it’s real important that your shoes fit perfectly.”

  She laughed softly. “Makes sense.”

  “So, who has the papers I’m after?”

  “I do.” She concentrated on eating a piece of her apple crisp, afraid that he would see the lie in her face.

  “You?” Mitchell made no atte
mpt to hide his shock. “Just you?”

  “Who else is there, Mister Callahan? My uncle was murdered and so was Bill. The job passed on to me and my cousin Deidre.”

  “Ah, so you aren’t here alone.”

  “I am. Deidre has taken a different route. We felt that would make things a little more difficult for the men trying to steal the papers.”

  “What possessed you to take on such a job?” he demanded. “Two men are already dead. The danger had to be clear to see. It’s no job for two young women.”

  That display of typical male arrogance had Maura gritting her teeth against a sharp reply. “You hired my uncle and Bill to do a job. That job was bequeathed to Deidre and me. Uncle Patrick said the money owed was to be our legacy. I am more than half the way there, am I not?”

  “Sheer luck.” He noted the glitter in her beautiful eyes and decided it might be wise to temper his words. “All right, you’ve managed to get this far and not get shot, but there’s no longer any reason to put yourself at risk. I can take the papers the rest of the way.” Since that would mean she would leave, Mitchell felt a sharp pang of disappointment, but there was no other choice.

  “No.” Maura was not surprised when that quiet but very firm refusal left him speechless for a moment, and she waited patiently for him to begin blustering again.

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “This is my trouble, mine and my brothers. If anyone else is going to be shot at, it should be us.

  “Mister Callahan, you can argue until you are blue in the face. It will not change my mind. I am taking the papers I hold to Paradise.”

  “I don’t want my victory over the Martins bought with the blood of a young woman.”

  “And I have no intention of spilling any.”

  “Why are you being so damned stubborn?”

  “Deidre and I were with Uncle Patrick when he died. Fatally wounded, he somehow managed to drag himself home. We promised him, on his deathbed, that we would complete this job.”