Little Girl Lost. Shirlee McCoy
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down from the carriage and watched until it turned a corner and disappeared from sight. The alley was dark, shadowed by buildings to either side. Portia had been here many times as a child, playing with friends who lived in one of the Queen Annes that lined the street.
She started toward the mouth of the alley, hoping Mick would be easy to find in the crowd. The sooner she spoke to him and cleared things up, the better. Though she wasn’t sure talking would do any good if Alannah had pressed charges. Something shuffled in the darkness behind her, a whisper of a sound that shivered along Portia’s spine and had her turning to peer into the blackness.
“Hello?” Nothing moved, and Portia almost convinced herself that the sound had been her imagination. Then it came again. More a rustle than a footfall. Shadows shifted, a strange realignment of blacks and grays that made Portia blink and step back.
“Is someone there?” She backed up again, moving as quickly as she could in the cumbersome dress, afraid to turn her back on whatever stood in the shadows.
And bumped into something solid and unyielding.
A hand landed on her shoulder, holding fast as she jumped and screamed. She tried to turn, felt her feet slip out from under her and screamed again as she was pulled up into hard arms.
She twisted, struggling against her assailant’s hold, her fist aiming for whatever it could connect with, panic giving her strength, a prayer for help shouting through her mind.
Mick grabbed Portia’s fist seconds before it made contact with his face. “Whoa. Two broken noses in a lifetime is two too many.”
“Mick?” She pushed against his arms and he eased her back onto her feet, feeling the quick, frantic beat of her heart and the fine tremors in the muscles beneath his hands. “You scared me half to death.”
“Were you expecting someone else?” He made his voice light, even as he scanned the alley and the shadowy blackness behind the buildings. Something had frightened Portia, and he didn’t think it was his sudden appearance.
“No. I just…” She turned her head, not even trying to free herself from his grip as she surveyed the area behind her.
“You just what?”
“Nothing.” She faced him again, shrugging her narrow shoulders.
“It’s not ‘nothing.’ You’re shaking.”
“I thought I heard something over there in the shadows.” She gestured to the back of the alley and Mick pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it in that direction.
There was nothing but brick and pavement, the area to either side the same.
“See? Nothing. Just a dark night and an overactive imagination.” She laughed, the sound hollow.
“Maybe.” Mick released Portia and stepped toward the place she’d indicated. Nine times out of ten a noise in the dark was nothing. It was the one time out of ten that Mick was worried about. “Tell you what, why don’t you go out onto Main Street? I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m just going to check around. It can’t hurt to take a closer look.” He cupped her upper arm and tugged her toward the lights and noise of the Winter Fest Parade. The band had passed and a float meandered by, boasting a three-tiered wedding cake of flowers complete with pint-sized bride and groom who waved cheerfully from their place on the top layer. People milled about on the sidewalk, laughing and chatting with one another. A few feet away, a street vendor sold pretzels to a smiling family. The scene was reminiscent of Norman Rockwell at his finest—small-town life portrayed to perfection. Yet, Mick couldn’t shake the feeling that something tragic had just been averted. “Stay here.”
“But—”
“Stay. Here.” He doubted the added emphasis would keep her from following, but he hoped for it anyway.
The ground in the alley was snow- and dirt-covered cobblestone. Mick searched it for clues that someone besides Portia had been there. He found hoofprints and footprints. More than one set. Mick would be hard-pressed to say which were fresh and which were from earlier in the day, maybe even the week. The ground was frozen, the thin layer of snow and slush over the cobblestone unable to melt even during the warmest time of the day.
The soft slide of boots on the ground and the swish of the heavy skirt Portia wore announced her presence. Mick wasn’t surprised that she’d returned. “I thought we agreed you were going to wait out on Main Street.”
“I thought you might need my help.” The words, coming from a woman almost a foot shorter and probably a hundred pounds lighter, made Mick smile.
“I appreciate your concern, but I told you to stay put.”
“How could I do that and help at the same time?” She stepped close, her arm brushing against his as she peered into the darkness. He caught a whiff of her shampoo and the subtle, flowery scent that was uniquely Portia.
“Did you find anything?”
“Footprints and hoofprints, but nothing conclusive.”
“Then maybe we can get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”
“Sounds good to me.” He flashed the light into the shadows once more, the nagging worry in his gut not dissipating despite the fact that he could find no proof that Portia hadn’t been alone. “What do you say to a cup of coffee somewhere warm?”
“Coffee?” That sounded like a bad idea to Portia. A really bad one. Discussing Alannah’s accusations was one thing. Doing it over a cup of coffee was another. “I don’t know. I’m not really dressed for it.”
“You look perfect to me.”
Thank goodness the darkness hid the color staining Portia’s cheeks. “What I mean is that Mr. Dugal won’t be happy if I spill coffee on the dress.”
“Did you bring a change of clothes?”
“In my car.”
“So let’s go get them. You can change at the police station and we can hit the Beanery after that.”
“Mick—”
“I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment, Portia. I’m asking you to have a cup of coffee with me while we discuss what your grandfather did this afternoon. It’s either that or we stand out here and discuss it. I spent most of the day outside. I’m about ready for a little warmth.” He cupped her elbow and led her out of the alley, neatly stopping any argument Portia might have made.
She told herself that it didn’t matter. That it was only a cup of coffee. But it felt like something more, and despite the fact that Mick wasn’t her type, Portia had the alarming feeling that he could do even more damage to her heart than Tad had.
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