The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  The sound of a young woman’s voice brought his thoughts crashing back to the reality. He dropped his hand to his side. Maggie’s reputation could be badly damaged by his presence here in her room, even though she lay injured and sleeping. He had no reason for being there, other than the simple fact that he was unable to leave her. He should be miles away by now. He curled his hand into a tight fist before flexing it open. He would never be able to confess the true reason he still stood twelve inches from the side of her bed, hat in hand, heart strangely empty and aching for reasons he dare not question.

  “Has she been awake yet?” His gut clenched, fearing she hadn’t. He’d seen others lose less blood and remain unconscious for hours.

  “She was awake earlier for a bit,” the woman answered with a glance at Maggie’s still form.

  Though the woman’s eyes had widened as she watched him, he could sense she did not fear his presence, and that was a good thing because before he left, he had two things to accomplish. He had to make it seem as if he had a legitimate reason for being here, and he had to find out more about Seamus—the man who occupied Maggie’s last conscious thoughts.

  He backed away from the bed and turned to face the young woman. “I’m here on official business, Miss—?”

  “Cole—Samantha Cole.”

  Damned if the woman didn’t bat her eyelashes at him. Hell’s Bell’s—this was the last thing he needed—unwanted attention. He slid his fingertips back and forth over the rim of his Stetson. When her lips curved up into a smile, he knew it was past time to take control of the situation. “Miss Cole, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  She looked over at Maggie and then at the open door behind her. Was she expecting Mrs. Smith? Finally she answered, “I suppose that would be all right.”

  He pitched his voice low, but had to work to keep it soothing. “Much obliged, Miss Cole.”

  Her smile disappeared and she seemed nervous. He wondered what had caused the change in her. He needed the woman to cooperate. His gaze slid from Miss Cole to the looking glass hanging on the wall over the washstand. He flinched at the sight of his own glittering green eyes staring back at him. The look clearly said, “Back off, don’t mess with me.”

  He tore his gaze away from the mirror and back to the young woman. With an effort, he schooled his expression to a more approachable one before asking, “Do you know where Miss Flaherty was headed?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you know if she was going to visit kinfolk?”

  Again, the young woman shook her head and a gnawing tension filled his insides. He recognized the familiar feeling and chose to ignore the burning sensation. It would either go away on its own, or he’d be riding out to the Ryan spread bent over in his saddle, clutching his aching belly.

  Best to leave before it got any worse. Besides, he had only one question that he really wanted to know the answer to. “Did she mention anyone named Seamus?”

  Miss Cole’s mouth curved upward. “Yes, she did.” She paused, as if remembering. “She said something about sending a wire to him, then drifted off to sleep.”

  Not as much information as he’d hoped, but better than nothing. His gut continued to burn. The longer he stood within the confines of the small room, the more urgent his need to get away. “That it?”

  When the woman didn’t immediately answer, he started toward to the door.

  “She said something about leaving town in the morning,” Miss Cole called out.

  That stopped him in his tracks. He turned around, shoved his had to the back of his head with his thumb. “What did Mrs. Smith have to say about that?” As if he couldn’t guess.

  Miss Cole took her time answering. Long enough to have him noticing the faint blush staining her pale cheeks. She was tall and slender with pale blond ringlets that bounced every time she moved her head.

  She was pretty enough, but he didn’t feel the same spontaneous connection he had with Maggie. Maybe it was the contrast between the two women. Maggie was tiny, but with a generous figure. Her lush curves fit perfectly to the hard planes of his body. He could still remember the way it felt to hold her against him in that moment before he removed the arrow.

  His head had swum with a dizziness he could not explain. At the time, he attributed it to the nasty job of removing the arrow; now he wasn’t so sure that was the cause. While he admired her figure, he had to be honest; it was her inner fire that called to him. That and the glimpse of loneliness in her expressive blue eyes. She had him tied up in knots from the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Mrs. Smith said, interrupting his dangerous thoughts.

  He was dead tired. Why else would he continue to stand here staring down at Maggie? She was no longer his responsibility. It was time to cut loose and walk away. Besides, it wouldn’t do to get careless now. He had to focus on his work. In a few weeks, this job would be over, and he would either have to move on to his next assignment, or hand in the letter of resignation he’d been carrying around in his shirt pocket for the last two months. If he chose the latter, he’d need to look for a piece of land to buy up, dig roots in, and settle down. The he could begin to look for a wife…

  The sound of Mrs. Smith clearing her throat jarred him out of his wandering thoughts. He saw the older woman smile before she turned toward him and promptly frowned. It was more than obvious she was put out that he was in the room. He couldn’t say that he blamed her, remembering how he nearly keeled over the first time Doc Simpson slid the needle into Maggie’s flesh. She had been forced to stop and find a stool for him to sit on. But she’d probably be more worried that it wasn’t proper for him to be here in the room with two young women without herself as their chaperone.

  He was the law, and normally didn’t worry about such things. But this situation wasn’t ordinary. Besides, if Ida had told him once, she’d told him a dozen times as she was shooing him out the door that she would care for Maggie’s reputation as well as her injury.

  “Marshal.”

  Her voice sounded as if she’s just swallowed sour milk. He’d had to once years ago, out of near-starvation, and could imagine that his own expression then mirrored the pained look on Mrs. Smith’s round face now.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Her tone suggested she didn’t think there was.

  He glanced over to where Maggie lay and then back to the stern-faced, gray-haired matron. “No, ma’am.” He hoped his tone sounded respectful. “Miss Cole just finished answering my questions.”

  The older woman placed a hand to her breast. “Oh, I didn’t’ know you were here on official business.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from commenting on that assumption. “I’m headed to Emerson on official business. The fact that the stagecoach Miss Brown and Miss Flaherty were traveling in was attacked by hostile Indians, who had no business being so close to town, just adds another reason for my being in the area.”

  The older woman tilted her head to one side and slowly smiled at him. “Still feeling light-headed, Marshal?”

  He smiled, acknowledging the veiled sarcasm as receiving his due for the trouble he’d caused her. He was a good judge of character, came in handy in his line of work. And Mrs. Smith came across as someone who would never shirk any duty that came her way—or let anyone else ignore theirs. Before he could reassure her he was fully recovered, he was interrupted.

  “I hate to rush off,” Miss Cole said, calling his attention to her once more, “but Mamma’s waiting supper on me.”

  “Thank you, Samantha, dear,” Mrs. Smith walked with her to the door. When Samantha had gone, Ida turned back to him. “Now then, Marshal, is there anything else you’d like to ask me?”

  He was bombarded with feelings he didn’t quite know what to do with and questions he had no right to ask. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was fear that caused his burning stomach to knot up, transporting him back in time to the day his parents were buried.
Fear had tied his stomach into knots when his neighbor had tearfully relayed the news of the carriage accident. It had started to burn watching their coffins being laid side-by-side. He had run away, fear nipping at his boot heels, twelve years old and all alone.

  “Well?” The exaspiration in her voice snapped him back to the present.

  Fragmented thoughts from his childhood and young adulthood skittered around in his brain, dancing in and out of the main focus of his thoughts—Maggie.

  “Has anyone come to visit Maggie?” He truly hoped whomever she was traveling to meet had come to town to meet the stage. He envisioned an older woman, not unlike Ida Smith, welcoming Maggie with open arms.

  “No one. I don’t think the poor thing has any relations expecting her at all.”

  The image his mind created, of a motherly relative embracing Maggie, blurred for a moment and disappeared, replaced with the disturbing image of Maggie being held against a tall, dark-haired man. The knots in his stomach doubled up. This was the first time he had developed the fiery stomach thinking about a female. In fact, he hadn’t had the problem flare up in quite a few months. Maybe it was the thought of the fiery redhead being alone in the world. Just as he had been after his parents died. Thought it might be cruel of him, he’d rather see her alone than with the bothersome image his brain had conjured up of the faceless, dark-haired man.

  Blocking that thought from his mind, he remembered how it felt to hold her in his arms. Warmth flowed through him, easing the burning in his gut and filling him with a strange sense of contentment.

  Granted holding her against him had been out of necessity, and under normal circumstances, he would never have been forced into such intimate contact with a woman he hardly knew, but the powerful feelings she roused could not be ignored. What he would do with those feelings, and how he would keep his mind focused, moved to the forefront of his thoughts.

  Setting those thoughts aside, he was finally able to concentrate on the situation at hand. “We’ll have to wait a few days until she’s feeling up to answering some questions.”

  “But I can’t help but wonder why no one came to meet her,” Mrs. Smith’s voice trailed off into a whisper.

  “Maybe she wasn’t due to get off at Milford,” he suggested. “There are a few more stops west of here. Someone could be waiting further down the line.”

  The very thought of someone waiting—the faceless Seamus—rankled.

  Ida tapped her finger to her chin. “Maybe I could send a wire to Emerson.”

  He nodded. “You do that. I’ll keep in touch with the sheriff, just in case someone starts looking for a woman matching Maggie’s description.”

  Mrs. Smith stood quietly for a moment, as if lost in thought, then briskly smoothed her skirts and smiled at him—obviously his cue to take his leave. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He touched the brim of his hat briefly in farewell.

  Walking away from Maggie’s still figure was harder than he had imagined. He clenched his jaw and strode out the door without a backward glance, onto the aging wooden sidewalk. More than one board creaked and groaned in protest as he pounded his full weight against them. It felt good to release some of the pent-up frustration he was feeling. Since he’d rode up to the arrow-riddled stagecoach, frustration had been building. He had a lot stored up. A good barroom brawl would release it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the storefront windows. The man reflected in the glass looked determined purposefully walking toward the livery stable, a matched set of Colts slung low on his hips and a silver star on his chest. Unapproachable. But if his stance was part of the reason most folks were reluctant to approach him, it was also part of the reason he was still alive. So far his demeanor and reputation had kept him alive when facing down the outlaws he came in contact with while performing his job as marshal.

  Though his outward appearance bespoke the confidence necessary for the job of marshal, inside his gut twisted with the worry over a woman he’d do best to forget. Seamus is probably her sweetheart—and he’s worried, waiting for her. Unconsciously gritting his teeth, he walked into the semi-dark stable building with its welcoming scent of hay and horse.

  He paid the grim-faced owner and led his horse out of the corral. Swinging up into the saddle, his knee banged into the empty leather scabbard, reminding him he’d asked Ida’s husband to leave his rifle with the sheriff after taking his horse at the livery stable.

  “One more stop, boy.” He squeezed his knees against the broad, strong sides of his roan. Blaze responded to the urging and moved forward.

  The sheriff’s office was just down the road.

  Sheriff Roscoe reluctantly handed over the Winchester he’d been keeping for Joshua. “Mighty fine rifle you got there, Marshal.”

  “It does the job.”

  “Been thinking ‘bout buying one of them repeatin’ rifles myself.” The sheriff gave one last wistful look at the long, smooth barrel.

  “It saved my hide more than once,” Joshua admitted. “Thanks for letting me leave it here.”

  “I’m surprised you’d let it out of your sight.”

  Joshua laughed wryly. “I didn’t wan to scare Mrs. Smith, arriving at her store armed to the teeth.”

  He noticed the sheriff’s eyes settle on the pair of Colts he wore. “.38?”

  “.45.” Joshua didn’t try to hide the pride in his voice. The Peacemaker had been aptly named and earned its reputation more than once, helping him settle minor disputes and even a range war or two.

  “Good luck, Marshal.”

  Joshua touched the brim of his hat, turned and headed back outside. Once he sheathed his rifle, he unhitched his mount. Blaze nuzzled his hand until Joshua slid his hand down the distinctive white line between Blaze’s eyes and continuing to the top edge of his velvety muzzle, and then back up again. The familiar feel of rough horsehide and water-soft muzzle beneath his hand soothed him.

  It had been a rough few days. There was never an excuse to be too distracted to check his animal’s hooves for tiny stones, or having his horse come up lame. He ran a hand from shoulder to fetlock on both sides of the big roan, before lifting one hoof at a time.

  He checked the cinch. Satisfied it was secure; he put a hand on the saddle horn, his left foot in the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. If he was going to make it out to the Ryan spread by tomorrow, he’d best get to it.

  Mentally going over the directions he’d been given in the wire he’d received from James Ryan, he turned his horse west, blocking out all thoughts save those of the upcoming job. He had a bunch of rustlers to round up and a crooked banker suspected of land fraud.

  But instead of mentally reviewing the most recent wanted posters he’d studied before leaving Denver, his mind’s eye captured one of the redheaded female with soft blue eyes and a sugar-sweet smile.

  Chapter Four

  The insistent throbbing in her shoulder, and the nauseous feeling in her stomach, woke her. Maggie opened one eye. The soft light filtering in through the faded flour sack curtains didn’t hurt too much. She bravely opened the other eye. The sun streaming in was a bright and welcoming sight as a warm breeze billowed the curtains, letting in a breath of fresh air into the tiny room.

  She had no idea where she was and only a sketchy memory of being lifted into strong arms. Uneasy, but not afraid, her gaze sweep the room. The bare pine floorboards had been swept clean recently. In fact, a corn-husk broom leaned in one corner, a pile of dirt hiding behind it. Either the woman who did the sweeping had been pressed for time, or she needed to pay a bit more attention to her housekeeping. An oval looking glass hung on the wall, directly across from the bed, over a washstand that had been painted a pale green.

  A tired-looking, heart-shaped face watched her with a look of trepidation. Poor thing’s pale as flour. She blinked, and the pale face blinked. For heaven’s sake! ‘Tis herself! Her mind must be in quite a state to not have immediately recognized her own ima
ge in the silvered glass. Looking closely, she noticed strands of red hair hanging in her face. She lifted her right arm to brush them away, and slashing pain ripped through her arm from elbow to shoulder. Instinctively, her left hand shot over to hold it firmly in place, while she breathed in deep gulps of air, hoping the worst of the pain would pass.

  The thickness of the bandage beneath her fingertips reminded her of the hazardous ride and the arrow that had penetrated her arm. Thank God she had enough flesh to spare. Surely the arrow would have hit bone. The thought of waking up with one less arm had her scooting up in bed and taking stock of her injury.

  The skin under the bandage felt tight. She remembered the gaping hole in her arm, but didn’t remember anyone sewing the wound closed. Would there be a wide ugly scar or a thin one? Hard to tell until she unwrapped the dressing—she shook her head. She had far more important things to worry about without worrying over what the scar would look like. She had to continue her journey. After she’d seen Seamus she could worry about scars and regaining the full use of her arm.

  A wave of panic welled up from the pit of her stomach. She tried not to think about never playing the piano again, or never having the ability to knead bread dough or roll out piecrust. Heaven help her, she needed two arms to hold the babes she hoped to someday bear. So many things—and Maggie was only just now realizing how grateful she should have been that she’d spent the last twenty-one years all in one piece.

  Needing something to take her mind off the pain in her arm, she recited her mother’s recipes for apple pie and soda bread. Her stomach roiled. Maybe ‘twas time to think of something other than food. She closed her eyes and dreamed of holding a babe in her arms. She curved her left arm around the dream babe, so small and needy, with sun-kissed curls and bright green eyes—

  Her head snapped up, and her eyes shot open. Her reflection in the mirror made a mockery of her daydream. She had flaming red hair and bright blue eyes—just like Ma. Her brother Seamus, their Da, and even Rory, had the same bright blue eyes and thick, wavy dark hair of the Black Irish. She didn’t even know anyone with grass-green eyes…