The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “Joshua.” His name came easily to her lips. How could she have forgotten?

  Now there was a man worth dreaming about. She settled back against the soft lavender-scented pillows. The movement was uncomfortable—as long as her thoughts stayed focused on the man from the stagecoach—not unbearable. Other than Rory Muldoon, Joshua was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. His jaw had been chiseled and firm. His shoulders—well, maybe it was not a good idea to think about the width of them too much. Her brain was just foggy enough to make her wonder if they had been quite as wide as she’d remembered, or if the loss of blood had affected her memory.

  Her hands tingled as her thoughts centered around the feel of his full sculpted bottom lip beneath her fingertips. She blushed recalling her forwardness and his startled reaction. Her head swam remembering the subtle scent of male wrapped in body-warmed leather. Her heart pounded remembering what it felt like to be enveloped in his strong muscled arms, held safe against his rock-hard chest.

  She couldn’t remember the last time her Da or her brother had hugged her close like that, and it had been too many years since her darling Rory had held her in his arms while they’d planned their wedding. Rory. Strong arms and broad shoulders. He was a big man, her Rory. She remembered the last time they’d talked of the improvements to his farm, and the two crops they would be raising: potatoes and black-haired, blue-eyed Muldoons. His dying wish, and her solemn promise that she find another man worthy of her love, was the only thing that kept her going after his sudden illness and tragic death stole him from her life just weeks before they were to wed.

  Strong stock, her mother had bragged. Like her mother before her, the Ryans were made of strong stock. A head of granite was what her Da would say to that. She missed them both so much. The pain of their deaths was still strong enough to wring a bucket of tears from her aching heart and empty soul.

  “You’re awake!” A gray-haired woman holding a tray, stood framed in the doorway to the room.

  Maggie’s wandering mind snapped back to the present. “Aye. This is the second time strangers have extended their kindness to me. Thank ye for taking me into your home.”

  Maggie watched the stern lines bracketing the woman’s mouth ease. “I couldn’t very well leave you to lie bleeding in the street.”

  Maggie hoped she hadn’t insulted the woman, but couldn’t tell from the tone of her voice. “I’m Ida—Ida Smith.”

  “ ‘Tis glad I am that ye didn’t Mrs. Smith,” Maggie said softly. “I know that I have added to yer burden, and I intend to make up for that.” She was almost afraid to ask, fearful of finding out she was still days away from her destination—her brother’s ranch—with no foreseeable way to get there in a week or so until she healed. “Where am I?”

  “You are in the town of Milford.” Ida bustled into the room and set the tray down on the dresser top, the only available surface.

  Maggie eyed the tray with interest. Though her stomach was still uneasy, most of the nausea had gone. She watched as Ida stirred a cup she hoped contained strong tea the way she and her Da preferred it: one sip to open the eyes, two to chase the sleep from them, and three to put a spring in your step to help you face the day.

  “I’ve brought you what the doctor ordered.” Ida’s voice brooked no arguments. “Weak tea and a bit of unbuttered bread with beef broth to soak it in.”

  Maggie’s sigh must have been louder than she intended.

  This time, just a hint of a smile began to lighten Ida’s dour expression as she said, “Doctor’s orders.”

  “Does this doctor have something against feeding gravely injured patients, or just the ones with Irish blood?” She hadn’t meant to sound so surly, but her arm ached, and her stomach was empty. She still didn’t know how she was going to get word to her brother.

  Ida chuckled. “Doc Simpson is a good man, and for a treat, he’s said you’re to have bread soaked in milk for dessert.”

  She closed her eyes and groaned out loud. She’d be a shadow of her former plump self in a week on such a stingy diet.

  Ida’s broad smile lifted years from her round face and added a twinkle to her eyes. “I may be persuaded to add half a spoon of blackstrap molasses to the milk, if you eat every bite of your dinner.”

  “I don’t suppose I could convince you to change yer mind and bring a bit of butter and jam for the bread—I’d rather have the bread dry, if ye don’t mind.”

  Ida shook her head and smiled. “I think we’ll get along just fine, Maggie, if you mind the doctor’s orders and stay put.”

  Maggie frowned, toying with the edge of the blanket. “I’ve yet to have much success staying put,” she said slowly. “I have to send a wire to someone.”

  “You can worry about that later. Rest now,” Ida said, a stern note creeping into her voice.

  Maggie bit her tongue. She’d almost let it slip who she needed to send the wire to. “I have to be somewhere by the end of the week,” Maggie began.

  “You have to give the stitches a chance to heal. You are not leaving that bed until the doctor is satisfied—”

  “Did he say how long before I can leave?”

  “Where would you go?”

  Panic had her hold back the answer, and Seamus’s warning ringing in her head. “Tell no one who you are, or where you are going,” he had urged. “Send a wire to James Ryan when you get to Emerson. I’ll meet the stage.”

  Maggie hated to lie, but she’d promised. “I’ve a sick aunt who needs me.”

  “You’ll do her no good in the shape you’re in.”

  “If the doctor—”

  “Give it a few days, then we’ll see what the doctor says.”

  “But—”

  “Doc said you were to stay put for a week.”

  Maggie could see that Ida’s agitation was going to skip over annoyed, straight to anger. She regretted upsetting the woman, but it couldn’t be helped. “I can’t—I ‘m sorry, but I’ll be goin’ by Friday.”

  Ida’s face flushed beet-red. “Great-grandmother!” she exclaimed, mumbling something Maggie could not quite catch under her breath.

  She didn’t want to push Ida, but she had to. “If you’ll just promise to help me.”

  Ida’s coloring and expression return to normal, and Maggie could tell Ida was thinking about it. Relief washed over her. Seamus had worked too long and too hard to lose everything now. She couldn’t let him down. If her instincts were right, she wouldn’t have to.

  “I’ll speak to the doctor,” Ida said slowly, “but you’ll have to promise to stay in bed for the next three days.”

  Maggie opened her mouth to argue, but Ida added, “I’m your only source of food, and the only hope of getting that hair washed.”

  Maggie felt the hot flush of embarrassment creep up her throat, all the way to the rounded tip of the widow’s peak that made her face seem heart-shaped. “Ye drive a hard bargain, Ida,” she said, willing to acknowledge the woman definitely knew her way around difficult people. Her mother had often despaired of Maggie ever learning to be accommodating. It wasn’t in her nature. Somehow Ida had sensed it.

  “I’ll promise to do what the doctor ordered, and eat broth-soaked bread, but only for a few days. I’ll starve otherwise.”

  The older woman eyed her from head to toe, “I don’t think a few days on bread and broth will hurt you one bit.”

  Maggie began to sputter, outraged at the hint that she had enough flesh to spare losing a bit of it. It was one thing to admit to your own flaws, she thought, but quite another altogether for someone else to point them out.

  “I don’t believe in prettying up what’s best said flat out.” Ida crossed her arms under her ample bosom in a posture that was clearly meant to challenge. “Besides, you are hungry, aren’t you?”

  Maggie’s outrage was short-lived. Ida Smith reminded her of her own mother, outspoken to the point where you’d find yourself looking for something to stuff in the dear woman’s mouth, but at the same t
ime grateful for her grand heart. She suspected that deep down, Ida hid a heart of gold.

  “Maybe I could eat.”

  Ida pulled up a chair and held an enamelware cup out to Maggie before sitting down.

  Maggie smiled. “If I behave and finish me supper, can ye add the blackstrap to the milk?”

  “My dear girl, I may even be coerced into adding a whole spoon of it along with an extra slice of bread.”

  “Ye drive a hard bargain.” Maggie smiled. “But I’m takin’ it.”

  Her smile was reflected back at her, and she sensed a softening in Ida’s initial attitude toward her. Given time, she knew she could convince Ida to help her get a message to Seamus. For now it was best to appear to acquiesce, or at the very least distract Ida from guessing her purpose for traveling to Emerson.

  “Tell me, are there any eligible bachelors in Milford?”

  Ida’s eyes lit up at the prospect of divulging the latest gossip. She drew in a deep breath and began, “Ezra Jones is a well-propertied man, but then, so is Zeke Martin. I declare,” she laid a hand to her ample breast, and said, “If that Samantha Cole had half a brain in her head, she’d stop dithering about and marry poor Zeke.”

  Maggie sighed and held the empty cup in her lap as Ida extolled Zeke’s virtues.

  “…and that house of his! So many rooms and no one to share it with…”

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine a life working beside the virtuous Zeke Martin. But the only face that came to mind belonged to a certain green-eyed lawman.

  Chapter Five

  Joshua’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the empty yard. No sign of life moved near the ranch house. No puff of smoke rose up from the chimney. He breathed deeply, but only caught the scent of fresh-cut hay, rich damp earth, and cattle. No welcoming smell of coffee brewing, or midday meal cooking, wafted toward him on the breeze. Something was not quite right here. His sixth sense had the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickling at attention.

  In a practiced move, he pulled his rifle from the leather scabbard and rested it across his thighs. No sense courting disaster. His instincts never lied—something was wrong. He reined in next to the corral by the barn and swung his foot over the top of his saddle. Before his boot could touch the ground, the metallic click of a rifle being cocked confirmed his suspicions.

  “Drop your rifle and step down out of that saddle real slow,” a gruff voice ordered from behind him.

  Taking the order in stride, and banking on his next move being the right one, he stepped down and spun on the balls of his feet, rifle cocked, aimed, and ready to fire.

  “You expecting trouble, friend?” Joshua asked, years of practice enabling him to keep his voice steady. Not a hint of the unease still skittering up and down his spine showed.

  The dark-haired, rawboned man who slung the challenge at him had a rifle pointed at Joshua’s heart, but lowered it a fraction as the hard look in the other man’s eyes changed to one of speculation. “Trouble comes in all forms.”

  Joshua nodded, but didn’t mirror the man’s movement. He kept his rifle trained on its target. One wrong move and the hard-eyed man facing him down would be finished. As if the man sensed Joshua’s intention, he raised his rifle in the air and fired two quick shots.

  “How many men will answer that signal?”

  “Well now, there’s Reilly, Flynn, and the Murphy brothers—”

  “Where’s Ryan?” he asked, impatient to get on with his meeting and back to town. Sensing the other man’s change in attitude toward him, he nearly pulled up on his weapon. Thoughts of a certain redhead slipped through his mind, breaking his concentration. Annoyance had him grinding out his next words. “I asked a question—where’s Ryan?”

  “Well now, that depends on who’s wantin’ to know.”

  The short leash on his patience had nearly run out. He watched the other man lower the butt end of his rifle to the ground and lean against it. Either that man was not too long on brains, or he obviously did not feel threatened at all by the long barrel Joshua aimed at the man’s heart. Joshua grudgingly admitted he was beginning to respect the man.

  He watched anger flicker briefly in his opponent’s eyes. “Are you the lawman Ryan sent for?”

  Joshua nodded, lifting the edge of his jacket to reveal the badge that declared his rank and defined his life.

  “Are you open-minded?”

  Joshua eyed him warily, wondering where this line of questioning was going. If this man wasn’t Ryan, he was obviously a part of Ryan’s inner circle. He decided to let the man finish asking whatever questions he had stored up before deciding whether to answer or not.

  “Do you take things at face value, or do you dig deep?” the man asked.

  Intuition had him releasing the trigger and lowering his rifle. “You’d be James Ryan,” Joshua said, closing the distance between them and extending a hand. “Marshal Turner.”

  Joshua was not surprised by the strength in Ryan’s grasp, but the grin shook him. People greeted him with a multitude of reactions: reserve, wariness, and open hostility, but pleasure—well he had to admit it was a first.

  “Expected you a few days ago,” Ryan said.

  “I got held up,” he answered, not willing to go into detail. “Tell me about your operation here.” He walked back over to his horse, holstering the rifle. “Then you can give me the name, or names, of any man who’s made an offer to buy this place within the last six months.”

  Ryan opened the corral for him. Joshua led his mount inside.

  “This could take some time. There’s a barrel of oats in the barn; your horse looks a bit played out.”

  He ignored the implied question, having no trouble sidestepping it. Patting Blaze’s strong neck, he ran a hand down the splotch of white between the horse’s eyes.

  “What do you say, boy? Hungry?”

  His horse’s head shook up and down, leaving no doubt that he understood the words, or at the very least, the tone of his master’s voice.

  “Just let me take the saddle off and rub him down.”

  “Take your time. If Flynn hasn’t finished off the coffee, I’ll heat it up.”

  Joshua watched Ryan’s unhurried stride and wondered if the man was too trusting, or too sure of himself, to worry about turning his back on a stranger. Once he met the foreman and ranch hands, he could decide whether or not to waste his time investigating the possibility of the rustling being an inside job.

  He tossed his saddle on the top rail of the corral and threw the saddle blanket on top of it to dry off. Before he finished rubbing Blaze down, Ryan called him.

  He turned in time to catch the rest of the summons, “Coffee’s done—best come get it before Flynn sucks the pot dry.”

  Joshua shook his head. On his way over to the house, he slapped most of the trail dust out of his vest and pants with his hat. Ryan had taken him at his word that he was Marshal Turner. If he were in Ryan’s boots, he sure as hell wouldn’t allow a stranger free range on his ranch. He’d stick to the man like glue until his story could be verified. He still couldn’t decide if Ryan was too trusting and easy to rustle cattle from, or if the man’s instincts were dead-on, and the rustling was a large-scale operation.

  Joshua carefully cradled the steaming cup of coffee in his hands, blowing on it before sipping. The strong hot brew zinged through his weary system like heat lightning jumping from cloud to cloud. It had a bite to it that he welcomed, as his weary body absorbed the power of the strong brew. He was well past dead tired, but had a long way to go before he could feel comfortable enough bunking down here for the night.

  True to Ryan’s prediction, four men showed up in answer to his summons with the rifle, Joshua spent the next few hours getting acquainted with the acreage closest to the ranch house and the men who worked it.

  The information he’d gathered during the afternoon convinced him of one thing: Ryan’s men were loyal to a fault. He’d have to look elsewhere for suspects. The hands were a
gruff group, and they took their cue from Ryan. Once he relaxed his guard, so did they. Ryan was obviously well liked and respected by his men, confirming Joshua’s initial impression of the man. It wasn’t so much a relief, having his gut instincts confirmed, as a part of Joshua’s investigative process. Now it was time to search out more possible suspects.

  His decision to stay for supper was twofold. He hoped to pick up some additional information on what kind of boss Ryan was, and at the same time watch Ryan’s men closely, hoping to pick up any inconsistencies in their character. Although he was inclined to go with his gut here and take the men at face value, there was no reason not to spend the time observing them. His time was his own until the rustlers were caught and he wired in for a new assignment—or cut loose and resigned.

  “Hope you don’t mind plain fare.” Ryan placed a cast-iron Dutch oven on the trivet in the center of the wide oak table.

  Surprised that he had let his thoughts drift off instead of paying attention, Joshua asked, “Where’s the cook?”

  “You’re looking at them.” Ryan’s grin practically split his face from ear to ear.

  “We all take turns,” the hand named Flynn offered.

  “Himself’s right handy at it too,” one of the Murphy brothers added, nodding toward Ryan.

  “But Sean here,” Ryan said, pointing to one of the brothers, “makes biscuits that’d melt in your mouth. You’re lucky it was his turn to cook.”

  The collective sigh from the group gathered around the kitchen table was heartfelt.

  “Never could resist good biscuits.” Joshua helped himself to one from the dozen or so piled high on the plate being passed in front of him. He broke it open and inhaled the heavenly doughy scent. He smoothed on a thin layer of butter and watched it soak in and disappear, anticipating the flavor of it before biting into it.

  “Mmmm.” He did not even try to hold back the low sound of pleasure. Giving Ryan his due, he had to agree with him, the younger Murphy brother was an ace biscuit maker.