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

by Kit Morgan

  “So do I, lad, so do I,” Mr. Brody added solemnly.

  Finn balled his hand into a fist and struck the envelope with it. “I’ll have to go through with it then.”

  “Now, lad, let's talk about this. It won't do ye any good to put yerself in danger. Ye've got a brand-new bride at home waiting for ye, and the last thing that pretty lass needs is to become a widow before she’s even had the chance to get married.”

  Finn gave him a half-hearted laugh and leaned against the counter. “Ye can't be a widow unless ye are married.”

  “Then perhaps ye should remedy that.”

  “Why do all of ye think I'm going to marry the lass?”

  Mr. Brody studied him and shook his head. “Because we all see something ye can't.”

  “And what is that, may I ask?” Finn spat at him.

  “That ye need her, lad. More than anything else in this world right now, ye need the love of a good woman.”

  * * *

  Eva retreated to her room as soon as Finn left. She informed Mrs. Mullaney that she was tired and wanted to rest her ankle. In reality, what she needed to rest were the floodgates holding back her tears.

  She was just going to have to face it; Finn Mullaney did not want to marry her. She was going to have to make a way for herself in Oregon City. But that might not be the best idea either – Oregon City was far too close to Independence, and thus her mother. Without the safety of a marriage contract to protect her, her mother could whisk her home and lock her away until she could marry her off to a man of her choosing. Then Eva would really be in trouble.

  She wiped her tears away and sat on the bed, her hands in her lap. She needed to write Betsy, tell her what happened and that she needed her help. Knowing Betsy, she’d show up within a few days.

  Sniffing back the last of her tears, Eva got up and went to the dresser, looking for some paper, pen and ink. Unfortunately, there were none in her room. “Drat!” she muttered. She’d have to ask Mrs. Mullaney for some. A logical request, but she didn't want to have to answer any questions about why she needed it ...

  She sighed and limped out of the bedroom and into the parlor. “Mrs. Mullaney?” She found her sitting in the same chair she'd done the mending in. “I'd like to write a letter.”

  “Certainly, dearie – I’ll go fetch what ye need.” She motioned Eva to sit, then got up and disappeared down the hall. But Eva didn't want to sit, and stood where she was until Mrs. Mullaney returned. “Are ye going to write home to tell them about yer upcoming wedding?”

  Eva stiffened, and couldn't help the look of sadness that crossed her face. “I wish I was.”

  Mrs. Mullaney shook her head, and handed her some paper, a pen, and a small bottle of ink. “Write what you have to, dearie, and we’ll take things one day at a time.”

  Eva nodded and offered her a smile. “I appreciate that.” She took the writing supplies, turned and headed back to the bedroom.

  “Yer not limping as badly,” Mrs. Mullaney observed.

  Eva stopped in the middle of the hall. The woman was right – her ankle didn't hurt as much. Good. The sooner she could get out of the Mullaneys’ house, the better.

  Back in her room, she penned a quick note to Betsy, folded it up and set it on the vanity. A sudden feeling of helplessness came over her, and her eyes drifted to the door. She had to do something to get her mind off her troubles. “I know what I'll do,” she said to herself. She got up from the vanity, limped to the door and left the bedroom in search of her hostess. She found her in the kitchen.

  “Did ye write yer letter?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Ye can send it out in the afternoon post if ye like.”

  “That would be wonderful. I'll go get it.”

  “Never mind that, dearie, I’ll fetch it. I was just going to step out and run to the mercantile anyway. Is there anything ye might be needing?”

  You have no idea, Eva thought, then smiled at the woman. “No, not that I can think of, but… well… I am a little bored.”

  “I have the perfect remedy for that!” said Mrs. Mullaney with a happy smile.

  Thank the Lord! Eva thought. “Oh?”

  “How are you at baking pies?”

  Eva smiled. “Not bad, if I say so myself.”

  Mrs. Mullaney positively beamed. “Well, then, what say we make the men some pies?”

  Eva's smile was bright enough to match Mrs. Mullaney’s. “I'd like that very much.”

  “And so will Finn,” added his mother with a wink.

  Eight

  Finn left the Brodys’ house feeling less than satisfied. Mr. Brody had nothing that could help him figure out why the tall Scot would deliver the note to his door, then come looking for him. He stopped in front of the sheriff’s office and stared at the boardwalk. What if Mr. Brody was right and there were two separate men? Then what? Shouldn't he tell the sheriff what was going on? Good grief! He hadn’t even thought to ask Eva if the man who came to the door had a Scottish accent!

  “Well, well, if it ain’t the future groom,” a voice drawled behind him.

  Finn turned to see the sneering face of Deputy Blanchard. “What do ye want?”

  Blanchard looked him up and down, and shook his head. “To think that poor little lady is all alone in the world because you haven't got the guts to marry her.”

  “That’s it? Don’t make me waste my breath on ye, Blanchard,” Finn huffed, and turned to the sheriff’s door.

  The deputy grabbed Finn by the shoulder and spun him around. “Well, then you won't mind if I court the little lady, seeing as how you don't want to marry her.”

  Finn started to turn on his heel, his fist ready to smash into the deputy’s face, when the door opened. “Howdy, Finn,” greeted the sheriff. “How's your future bride doing?”

  Finn gritted his teeth and turned to look at him. “She's fine.”

  “You, ah … still thinking of sending her back?”

  “Who said I was sending her back?”

  “You did, yesterday,” pointed out the deputy.

  Finn wanted to smack his own face. I did say that, didn’t I? He noticed Blanchard’s eyes held a strange look. “What?”

  “I was just telling Finn here,” the deputy said, addressing the sheriff, “that since he doesn't want the little lady, I'd be happy to take her off his hands.”

  “Is that so?” asked the sheriff. “You really don't want to marry her?”

  Finn let out his breath. “I can't right now, Sheriff. I just don't …”

  “It’s settled, then!” barked the deputy. “I'll head on over to your place right now and have myself a chat with her.”

  Finn spun on him, his face locked in unfamiliar rage. “Stay away from her, Blanchard.”

  “Whoa there, boy,” the deputy drawled. “You're being awful possessive over a woman you don't want, ain’t ya?”

  “Maybe I've changed my mind.”

  “Ha! I don't think so. In fact, I think I'll go get Rev. Franklin and bring him along with me to your place.” Blanchard gave Finn a leer. “He can marry us now, and I can have her tonight.”

  Every protective instinct charged to the surface, bringing with it a few friends. Jealousy. Outrage. The urge to smash in Blanchard’s grinning face. “I don't think so,” Finn snarled.

  “Then why don't you marry her?” Blanchard hissed back.

  “Now, boys,” the sheriff scolded. “There's nothing more disconcerting than to see two grown men fight over a woman. Will one of you make up your mind?”

  “I already made up mine, Sheriff,” Blanchard told him.

  “I said one of you,” the sheriff pointed out, then looked at Finn.

  Call it a moment of weakness, or a moment of insanity, or, he supposed, maybe a rush of brains to the head. Finn heard himself say the words he thought he'd never speak. “Aye. I’ll marry her.”

  * * *

  “Saints alive, what have I done?” Finn lamented as he headed home. But when he’d se
en the lust burning in Blanchard’s eyes, it had been too much. He knew the deputy would swoop in on Miss Brock faster than a spider chasing a fly. He’d had to do something – regardless of any feelings of his own toward Miss Brock, he wouldn’t wish the lupine affections of Deputy Blanchard on any woman on earth!

  So what was he to do now? Well, he supposed he could simply forget to mention his declaration of marriage. By the time word got around – and word would, let’s face it – Miss Brock could be safely out of town and on the way home, the change in plans chalked up to a change of heart.

  He reached the funeral parlor and went in through the back. “Finn – there ye are, lad,” his father greeted. “A man came by looking for ye, or so yer mother says.”

  Finn sighed. The woman was relentless! “I know, Da. I've taken care of it.”

  “Well then, I've done my part and delivered the message.”

  Finn watched his father's face to see if he'd say anything more, but thankfully he turned back to his desk and opened a ledger instead. Relieved, Finn headed for the stairwell.

  “What was in the envelope, son?”

  Finn froze. Dealing with his mother was one thing: she was relentless in her pursuit, but he could use his anger to keep his secret safe. His father, on the other hand, was more reasonable and clever, and less likely to be bulled. He turned to face him. “I think he's back,” he said in a low voice, then headed to the desk. He didn't want his mother to hear any of this.

  “Who's back, son?”

  “Lord Brennan.”

  His father stiffened and pushed his chair away from the desk. “Ye sure, son?”

  Finn reached into his pocket, pulled out the envelope and handed it to him. “I wasn't going to tell either of ye. I didn't want Maither to get hysterical. Ye know how she is. I showed it to Mr. Brody already.”

  “Ye showed it to Mr. Brody first instead of yer own da? What kind of son have I raised?”

  “The kind that wants to keep ye safe.”

  “Aye, but there's more safety in numbers, lad. Ye’d be wise to remember that.”

  Finn blew out his breath and nodded. “I'm sorry. I was so upset, I guess I wasn’t thinking. And then Deputy Blanchard threatened to …”

  Mr. Mullaney's head snapped up from the letter in his hand. “Threatened to what?”

  Finn fought the urge to roll his eyes and stared at his father instead. “To marry Miss Brock. Before sundown if possible.”

  “What?!” Mr. Mullaney exclaimed as he stood. Then he thought a moment. “Well, why wouldn't he, what with you bellowing about putting her on the first stage out of town?” He grimaced and stared at the letter. “And now this on top of that.” He looked back at his son. “Well, what are ye going to do about it?”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  Finn shook his head and began to pace. “I've already taken care of the deputy.”

  His father gasped. “Ye didn't beat him, did ye?”

  “Oh, I beat him all right, but not with my fists.”

  “What then?”

  Finn stopped his pacing, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I told him and the sheriff that I was going to marry Miss Brock.”

  “Ha!” his father cried as he threw his hands in the air. “I knew ye'd come around!”

  “I said it to protect her,” Finn added, cutting off his father’s reverie. “The man's no good, even if he does work for the law.”

  “Right ye are,” his father agreed. “And right it was what ye did, son. I'm proud of ye. When’s the wedding?”

  “Da, I said it to keep him away from her, nothing more. By the time he figures it out, she’ll be safe at home where she belongs.”

  His father's face fell. He snorted and threw the letter on the desk. “A cad,” he hissed and pointed at him. “My own son is a cad!”

  “Da, please …”

  “Well, what do ye expect me to say? Ye get my hopes up, then tell me yer only buying the time needed to get rid of her?! Don't ye think the poor lass has been through enough?”

  Finn’s jaw tightened. “Ye don't have to put it that way.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? It's the truth!” Mr. Mullaney was getting red in the face.

  Finn backed up a step. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen his father so angry. “I'll, I’ll take care of it ...”

  “Aye, like ye take care of everything else?” he snapped. “Like ye took care of this?!” He snatched the letter from the desk. “It's been months, son – months! And this madman still haunts us!”

  “Don't ye think I know? There isn't a day that goes by that my mind isn’t full of the horror of it! I have nightmares about it, Da. Nightmares!”

  His father sobered and stared at him. He swallowed hard as if to fight back tears, which perhaps he was. “I'm sorry, son … I had no idea it was such a burden on your soul.”

  “Do ye see now why I can't marry the girl? My heart’s too black with guilt and shame, and I'll not make her bear it, mail-order bride or no.” He spun on his heel and headed for the stairwell.

  “Finn, stop!”

  He did, and turned around to face his father once more.

  Mr. Mullaney took a deep breath before speaking, and when he did, his voice was quiet and low. “Yer Maither and I … we’ve often talked with the Brodys about getting ye a bride. We thought that the love of a good woman would help to break ye free of the blackness ye speak of. We prayed about it too. Now, I know that yer the only one that knows if yer heart is ready. ” He went to Finn and put a hand on his shoulder. “But I have to ask ye one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Give the lass a chance. Spend some time with her, get to know her a wee bit before ye send her away. At least be her friend. And who knows, maybe later ye can seek her out, find her, and God willing, she’ll not be married.”

  “There are other women besides this one.”

  “I know,” he said, and took his hand from Finn’s shoulder. “But I like this one. I like her a lot and so does yer mother. Don't disappoint us, lad – and don’t make the lass suffer needlessly. Think about it.”

  “Yes, Da. I shall.” Finn nodded, then turned to the stairs. Truth be told, he’d already been thinking about it – during his walk home from the sheriff’s office, in fact. And of all the crazy things, he had to agree with his father. He liked Miss Brock, too. In fact, he’d liked her from the moment he found her in his pumpkin patch.

  But it was because he liked her that he didn’t want to inflict his guilt-ridden heart on her.

  * * *

  Eva's trunk had arrived, and Mrs. Mullaney was beside herself helping her unpack it.

  “Really, you don't have to do all this,” Eva told her as she watched the woman shake out her dresses and hang them in an armoire.

  “Well, yer not going anywhere, now are ye? So why shouldn't I get ye settled in?”

  Eva sighed. “But Mrs. Mullaney, I don't think your son would agree with you.”

  Mrs. Mullaney hung up the last dress and turned to her, hands on hips. “Lorcan Brody didn't want Ada when he first met her either.”

  “He didn't?”

  “Not at all. In fact, he was more adamant about getting rid of her than Finn is about …” She sighed and let her hands fall to her sides. “I'm sorry, dearie; that was a poor choice of words. Anyway, Mrs. Brody decided her son was being an idiot, much like I've decided Finn is. So she hired Ada on to work for her in the bookshop, ye see. That way, Lorcan would have to be around her, and she knew he'd fall in love eventually.”

  Eve's mouth dropped open. “That's positively – and, might I add, diabolically – clever!”

  “Innit, though?” Mrs. Mullaney asked with pride. “Though there was nothing diabolical about it.”

  “How long did it take Lorcan and Ada to fall in love?”

  “Not long, as I recall. In fact, they were already married when the trouble broke out.”

  “Oh yes, that fighting business you told me
of.”

  “Aye, but there's no such nastiness going on here – there’s nothing to keep Finn from falling in love. Except Finn, of course. And while he may be stubborn, my son is not stupid. And,” she added with a wink, “yer a pretty girl, and he still has his eyesight.”

  Eva blushed almost purple.

  “So don't worry, dearie,” she said with a smile. “Love will catch up to him soon enough.”

  Eva shook her head in wonderment. The woman was so confident it was scary. She decided to ask an equally scary question. “How long do you think it will take Finn to fall in love with me?”

  Mrs. Mullaney crossed the room and sat next to her on the bed. “Trust me, lass – as soon as he forgives himself, it’ll be full steam ahead!”

  Eva bowed her head and folded her hands in her lap. “I hope so, Mrs. Mullaney, I … I rather like it here. But … what if I don’t fall in love with him?”

  Mrs. Mullaney put an arm around her. “Pah! I’m not worried about that at all. Besides, we like having ye here, too. More than anything, the Mister and I would love to keep ye around.”

  Eva looked at her and smiled. “Thank you for saying that – it makes me feel better. But I don't know how much use I’d be if you put me to work in your … business.”

  “I won't put you to work in the funeral parlor, if that’s what yer worried about. I don’t think yer fit for the type of work that needs to be done – unless ye'd like to start digging graves.”

  Eva's eyes widened. “Heavens, no! I could never do that!”

  “I didn't think so. But ye can still help me with the cooking and mending, and maybe keeping the house and downstairs clean and tidy.”

  “I can handle that.”

  “Well, ye can't handle anything until yer ankle’s healed, now can ye?”

  “No, I suppose not.” Eva suddenly noticed an odd scent wafting into the room. “Oh my goodness! The pies!”

  “You stay here – I’ll take them out of the oven. The men will be up soon, and be happy we made them.”