The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Joshua looked over at Ryan and paused, holding the other half of the biscuit poised, ready to pop into his mouth. “What?” The look on Ryan’s face was speculative, that is, if Joshua could count on the man’s face mirroring what he was thinking.

  “I was wondering if you’d be here tomorrow when Brennan and Masterson ride in.”

  “That was my original plan, but now that you’ve given me a few leads to follow up on, I’ll be getting in touch with the men who’ve offered to purchase this spread.”

  “They won’t have much good to say about me,” Ryan muttered.

  “Any particular reason?”

  Ryan smiled. “I’ve a way with words, and I won’t be pushed around.”

  Joshua nodded. Nice to have that much confirmed, though he’d already surmised as much for himself. “I’ll be back after I check out Johnson, Baker, and Morrison. Then I’ll question Brennan and Masterson.”

  “Good enough.” Ryan nodded. “You plannin’ on eating all of those biscuits yourself?” he demanded of Flynn.

  The red-headed man smiled and pulled the plate right up against his chest, holding it there protectively. “I’m partial to Sean’s cooking,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “More stew, Turner?”

  Joshua put his fork down and shook his head. “That was some of the best grub I’ve had in a month of Sundays.” He pushed away from the table. “Thanks for the meal.”

  “You turning, in?” Reilly asked.

  “After I make sure Blaze is bedded down for the night.”

  “Breakfast’ll be ready at first light.”

  Joshua turned back and looked at the group of men still seated around the table. Four pair of eyes watched him closely, but without the initial traces of suspicion. No sense of unease tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. No underlying tension sparked in the air. He figured his actions during the day had spoken for themselves, as had theirs. Not only were they loyal to James Ryan, but for that matter to one another as well. He’d bet there was a story behind how each one had come to work for Ryan and pledge their loyalty to him.

  “I’d appreciate a meal to carry me through tomorrow. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover before I come back.”

  “Marshal?”

  Joshua stopped and turned back one more time.

  “Do you think you’ll find out who’s trying to take the ranch away from Jamie?” Flynn asked.

  “And the rustling?” Sean added.

  “I don’t walk away from a job until it’s done.” And that pretty much summed up his life to this point. He never shied away from a job, no matter how dangerous. A body could bank on Marshal Joshua Turner to bring in his man, every time.

  The look of satisfaction and relief in the eyes of the men watching him went a long way toward easing the guilt he was feeling about the handful of times his concentration slipped throughout the latter part of the day. Being surrounded by Irishmen with thick brogues had reminded him of Maggie’s soft lilting voice. Flynn’s red hair and freckles made it hard to forget the beautiful woman he’d left behind. He had a job to do. Until then, he’d have to wait to sort out his feelings for Maggie.

  His gut feeling that she might be the woman he’d been searching for all of his life stayed with him. But now wasn’t the time. A familiar saying slipped into his tired brain: If it’s meant to be, she’ll be waiting for you.

  If he wanted to catch whoever was behind the rustling and land-grabbing ploy, he’d best clear his mind of everything but the job ahead of him.

  ***

  “Any word from Maggie?” James Ryan could not keep the worry for his younger sister from gnawing away at his gut. She had been due to arrive days ago. “I should have received a telegram from her by now.”

  “Not a word. What do you think about Turner?” Reilly asked, changing the subject.

  “I think if anyone can catch the rustlers, he’s our man.” Ryan rubbed a hand on his chin. Concern about his sister filled his mind. She’d promised to send a wire to him as soon as she reached the last town on the route before Emerson. He was worried to distraction, berating himself yet again for not traveling back East to bring her to his ranch when their parents had died. He should have made the time. Reilly could have held things together.

  Five years—it had been five long years since he last saw her. Once he had made the decision to head West and build a new life for himself, he couldn’t wait to leave New York City behind. He rubbed a hand over his heart and grimaced. Never in his wildest imagining would he have guessed how much it hurt to leave his family behind.

  Now they were all gone—only his sister remained.

  “Did she say exactly when she’d be leaving New York?” Reilly asked, his brown eyes filled with concern.

  Ryan shook his head.

  John Reilly had never even met James’s sister, but his concern was genuine. The man was loyal to the bone.

  “Well then, me boy-o, best not to borrow trouble. I’m sure the little people are watchin’ out for her.”

  Ryan placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Thanks.” The strain of the last few months made his voice sound rough. “With all we’ve faced lately, the last thing I’d need is to find out she’s lying somewhere injured—”

  “I’m certain she’s fine,” Reilly said, smiling. “If half the tales you’ve told about her are true, then anyone who tries to stop her from doing what she’s set her mind to is bound to be in for trouble.”

  Ryan agreed. “She’s trouble, all right. All five feet, two inches of her.”

  Flynn and the Murphy brothers walked over as Reilly asked, “Is her hair really redder than Flynn’s?”

  “What about her dimples?” Thomas, the elder Murphy, wanted to know.

  “Ye’ve not said much about her figure,” Sean added.

  Ryan turned to glare at the younger Murphy. “I don’t plan to—and I’ll not have ye oglin’ me sister.” Ryan’s anger made him forget the need to keep the thick brogue from his voice. “I’ll have yer word on it, Sean.”

  “On my honor, James, I won’t.” Sean wiped the palms of his hands on his thighs.

  “See that ye don’t,” Ryan said over his shoulder, slamming the kitchen door open and stalking inside. The sound of the door quietly opening told him Reilly had followed him inside.

  “Can you wait another week for the proof she’s bringing?” Reilly asked.

  “Just a few days more,” he said in a gruff voice. “Emerson won’t be giving me another week beyond that to back up my claim.”

  “But I was there when he signed that blasted piece of paper saying ye’d paid the last cent on the place.” Reilly’s voice sounded rough with anger.

  “Aye,” Ryan agreed with Reilly’s words and anger. “But who’d back up our claim that the founding father of the town of Emerson was trying to steal our ranch, if I’ve not the got paper to prove it?”

  “And that’s where your sister comes in?”

  Ryan nodded. “I sent her a copy of the deed, the satisfied mortgage, and my will for safekeeping. I didn’t want her to have any problems claimin’ the land if anything happens to me.”

  “She’ll inherit it all?” Reilly asked.

  “Half of it,” Ryan said, holding the other man’s gaze. He waited for the moment Reilly realized what he had not put into words, and smiled when Reilly’s eyes bugged out in shock.

  Reilly shook his head. “Why would ye go and do a thing that like, Jamie?”

  He smiled, expecting this reaction from the man who’d saved his life—twice.

  “Have you forgotten the stampede?”

  Reilly shook his head.

  “What about that back alley near the saloon outside of Denver?”

  “But Jamie—”

  “ ‘Tis done,” he said quietly. “Besides, I’d not trust just anyone to watch out for my sister.”

  “I’d have done that regardless,” Reilly countered.

  “That’s another reason I’m leaving half the
ranch to you.”

  Ryan looked out the window at the barn, corrals, and fertile grazing land just beyond. He’d sweat bullets and bled, more than once, over the last few years struggling to build this ranch to the point where rustlers would risk hanging to steal from him. Ryan knew he was now worth enough that the town’s namesake would lie in order to claim Ryan had defaulted on the mortgage he had paid in full. But what Emerson did not know was that Maggie was Ryan’s ace in the hole. Proof was on its way.

  “She’s the only one who can prove our claims—she’s got to make it in time.”

  A shout had Reilly moving to the back door. “She will.”

  Ryan watched as Reilly pushed the door open and headed over to the small frame building where the men slept. The sound of raised voices didn’t bother him. His men were apt to argue at the drop of a hat, and more often than not, argued for argument’s sake. Irish to the core, he thought, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

  Alone, the light of a full moon spilling down all around him, Ryan let his worry take him. “Wherever you are, Margaret Mary,” he whispered, “may you find your way here in one piece—before it’s too late.”

  Joshua woke early, unable to sleep as a rough plan of action already worked itself out, waking him. The sun’s rays wouldn’t streak across the sky for another hour or so, but he didn’t plan on hanging around long enough to witness the splendor Ryan promised was a sight to behold. He downed the last mouthful of strong coffee and handed the cup to the rancher.

  “I’ll be back in a day or so.” With that he slipped outside.

  He’d saddled Blaze earlier, so all he had to do was put his boot in the stirrup and pull himself up into the saddle. Pointing his mount west, he began the half-day’s ride back to town.

  ***

  “Sheriff Coltrane?”

  “Who wants to know?” The gray-haired man sitting behind the battered pine desk didn’t bother to look up, engrossed in whatever he was reading. His chair was tilted back on two legs, with dusty boots resting on the battered desktop.

  “Name’s Turner.”

  The sharp rap of chair legs hitting the wood floor echoed in the silence that followed. The man shot to his feet and came around to the front of the desk, hand extended.

  “I heard you were on your way, Marshal,” the older man said.

  “Then you know what I’m after,” Joshua replied, gripping the man’s hand firmly.

  “I don’t’ mind telling you, I’ve been out to the Ryan spread half a dozen times in the last six months, and I’ve yet to find a trace of rustlers.”

  “Then you don’t believe there’s any need to investigate?” Joshua wondered if the man had a talent for tracking, or if he spent most of his time the way he’d found him just now, with is feet up on his desk, reading.

  “Ryan’s lost more than a few head of cattle.” Sheriff Coltrane shook his head. “I’m saying those rustlers are good—real good.” His pale eyes narrowed. “Their trail always ends up leading to a stream, or it dead-ends at a pile of rocks.”

  “Do you know anything about Ben Johnson, Jim Morrison, or Tom Baker?”

  If the sheriff thought the question odd, he didn’t let it show. “They each own a sizeable spread a few miles outside of town. Why?”

  “No reason.” Joshua filed that bit of information away. He’d pull it out later, when he had the time to mull it over—after he’d paid each of the ranchers a visit.

  “You plan on staying in town long, Marshal?”

  “Long enough,” Joshua answered, turning to leave.

  “You plan on keeping me informed of your progress?”

  “Not unless you plan on taking an active part in it,” Joshua challenged, pushing his hat brim up. The reason he had been called in was the supposed lack of help from the lawman who faced him.

  The man’s jaw was as rigid as his posture. So he didn’t like his authority or integrity questioned. Too bad. Joshua had no use for local law who spent their time ignoring what went on in their own towns, right underneath their noses—sometimes with their knowledge. If Coltrane was dirty, he’d soon uncover the connection. Until then, he’d reserve that judgment until he had proof.

  The grim look on the man’s face indicated his displeasure with Joshua’s attitude. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Plenty.” Joshua turned back around. “Just how many businesses and ranches does Hugh Emerson own?”

  The sudden silence lasted until he was just about ready to peg Coltrane as guilty of being in Emerson’s pocket and on his payroll. The sheriff’s loud sigh broke the silence, but the man’s next words convinced Joshua to stay.

  “This might take some time,” the sheriff answered, kicking a chair over to where Joshua stood.

  Joshua turned the chair around so that the seat faced him, straddled it and sat down.

  Coltrane grabbed a threadbare towel and an enamelware cup off the low shelf behind his desk, then walked over to the pot-bellied stove. Lifting the steaming pot of coffee, he walked back over to the desk and poured two cups to the brim with the thick, black brew.

  Joshua watched the man’s stiff movements, wondering if the man had taken a ball in the hip or leg. That might explain part of the reason the sheriff hadn’t had much luck tracking. It took patience and stamina to keep at it until a trail could be uncovered. The strands of gray in the man’s hair made him wonder if it was just age settling in the sheriff’s bones, stiffening his gait.

  The sheriff looked up and caught Joshua looking pointedly at him. “Pistol ball in the thigh, last year,” he bit out. “Hurts like the devil every time the weather fixes to change.”

  Joshua’d known more than one man who swore he could predict the severity of the weather by the intensity of the ache in old gunshot wounds, and admitting he’d even felt the gnawing ache himself a time or two from the old bullet wound in his shoulder. “Think it’s fixin’ to storm?”

  “Tomorrow, maybe the day after,” the sheriff answered.

  Joshua nodded and lifted the cup to his lips. He’d be heading back out to the Ryan place by then. “I need to know everything you can tell me about Hugh Emerson.”

  The sheriff nodded.

  “Then you can fill me in on James Ryan.”

  Chapter Six

  Maggie struggled to scoot to the edge of the bed. That much accomplished, she swung her legs over the edge and drew in a deep breath. With her good arm holding onto the bedpost, she slid her feet to the floor and, for the first time in days, stood on her own. The wave of dizziness assaulting her almost brought her to her knees. She’d not felt this bad last night. Must be lack of food, she grimaced. The strong will that urged her to try to stand on her own would not let her back down now.

  She’d no time for weakness. She had to find Seamus’s papers. She’d already spent as much time lying in bed as she intended to. She could regain her strength after she saw her brother. There was too much on her mind to worry about convincing the doctor, and the immovable Ida Smith, that she was fully recovered. It was time to leave. She needed to get word to Seamus. Though her strength of will had carried her through once before, the realization that it might not now bothered her. More than one problem besieged her. First, she felt weaker than a newborn lamb. Second, she had no idea where Ida had left the carpetbag containing the precious packet of legal papers her brother had entrusted to her. Finally, outside of promising she would not trust anyone with the true purpose of her journey, she could not help wishing Joshua—Marshal Turner, she mentally corrected herself—was here so she could confide her troubles to him. Hang the consequences, and her brother’s temper, should he ever find out.

  Remembering the compassion and integrity she glimpsed in Joshua’s bright green gaze, she wished she could ask his opinion, maybe even seek his help in delivering the papers before the allotted time was up. If he was to be her destiny, she thought, why could he not help her?

  Hoping she had enough energy stored to stand on her own, she let go of the post. G
ritting her teeth together, she locked her wobbly knees tight, and managed to steady herself. She needed ham, eggs, and potatoes, she grumbled to herself. Not broth and bread—that was food for invalids and sick people…she wasn’t either. She’d only been skewered!

  “If I could only find me bag,” she muttered to herself.

  A quick look about the small room didn’t reveal anything she had not already seen from her perch up on the bed. Disgusted, she had all but given up when she decided to look behind the tallboy dresser. Using one of the knobs on the lower dresser drawers to steady herself, she knelt down and peered behind the tall dresser.

  Relief swept through her. “Me bag!”

  She reached in with her good arm and pulled the bag out. Hefting the heavy bag with one hand was no small feat, but she managed to drag it over to the bed without tripping over the trailing hem of her nightgown. Climbing back into bed was far trickier than climbing out of it. Finally, she decided to try backing up into the bed. Leaning against her good arm, she scooted back up into it.

  By the time she settled herself on the bed, a thin sheen of perspiration formed on her forehead and upper lip.

  “Ye may have overdone it just a wee bit,” she chided herself, before digging through the pile of necessities she’d brought with her. Shoving aside her precious sheet music, Grandmother’s recipes, and a satin bag of hollyhock seeds—ones her mother had cultivated from her grandmother’s garden back home in County Clare—she grumbled when she reached the bottom of the bag. She still hadn’t found the leather folio holding her brother’s papers.

  Rather than sort through everything she’d already shoved out of her way, she simply began to stack what she’d looked through on the bed next to the bag. A strand of hair pulled free from the lopsided braid she’d fashioned earlier. It tickled her nose. She blew the bright lock out of her face and continued her search.

  Exhaustion had her seeing double, but she persevered until she’d emptied the bag. The sum total of her life lay in a haphazard heap next to her on the bed. A rainbow of brightly colored ribbons tangled with garters, and a button hook snagged itself in her grandmother’s lacy crocheted shawl. Too tired to look closely at the rest, she pulled her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her good arm around them.