The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “I’m not daft,” she murmured, laying her head on her knees. “I know I put it in the bottom of me bag.”

  With a huge sigh, suspiciously sounding of defeat, she lifted her head, deciding to try one last time. She ran a hand around the empty interior of the bag again, but this time was rewarded when the stiff piece of thin board that shaped the bottom of the bag moved. Shifting the loose piece to stand on its side, she touched the soft bottom of the bag.

  The familiar feel of her father’s leather folio felt cool to the touch. Relief spread through her body, loosening the tightness in her chest and allowing her to draw in a deep breath. “Thank God!”

  The fact that she had not lost the papers during that wild stagecoach ride through Indian country eased her conscience and gave her renewed hope that she’d accomplish her mission.

  A firm rap on the door startled her out of her semi-dazed reaction to finally finding the papers. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice wavering from exhaustion.

  “Ida,” the woman answered. “Are you decent?”

  “Well now, that would depend on who wants to know and why.” Maggie snipped, shoving the leather folio beneath her pillow. She was too tired to be nice, and had gone beyond her recovering body’s strength today on what little food she’d been given. She would no doubt pay for it later.

  “You have a visitor who wishes to ask a few questions, “Ida said, peering in around the edge of the door. The dear woman’s smile of welcome changed to a frown of concern. “I’ll just tell the marshal that you are not up to receiving any visitors today.” Before Maggie could answer, Ida disappeared back around the door.

  “No, wait!” Maggie called out. “Don’t mind me tongue,” she said quickly, calling the woman back, “I’m sorry,” she said, when Ida poked her head back in the room. “Me Da always said I’ve a tongue so sharp, it could clip a hedge.”

  “You look like you fell in the river and were dragged out by your hair.” Ida frowned and stood with her arms folded beneath her bosom. “I don’t think you are up to speaking to the marshal.”

  Maggie could feel the telltale warmth of her blush rising from her throat all the way to her eyebrows. Either she was feverish, or the mere mention of the golden-haired lawman was sending her into a tizzy. Looking down at her hands, folded in her lap, she asked, “Can ye ask him to give me a few moments to make meself presentable?”

  Ida hesitated, then smiled indulgently and walked over to the bed. Standing beside her, she noticed the carpetbag and the haphazard pile on the bed tilting toward the floor. “Whatever are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” Maggie answered, cramming the myriad of items back into the bag.

  Ida surprised her by not asking again, instead she stared at the poor excuse for a braid Maggie had fashioned in her unruly hair.

  “You should have asked for help braiding your hair,” Ida chided. “You’ve such lovely thick hair, it would be a trial to care for it even with both arms working.”

  Ida pulled the finely crocheted shawl from the pile and slipped it around Maggie’s shoulders before helping put the rest of the items back inside the bag. Slipping the leather strap through the buckle, Ida fastened it and lifted the bag from the bed. She picked up a hairbrush from the top of the washstand and set about fixing Maggie’s hair.

  “We’ll just comb out a few of the tangles and re-braid your hair,” Ida said softly. “Not that the marshal will notice whether your hair is properly braided of not, but no woman should have to suffer the embarrassment of having menfolk seeing her less than her best.”

  If Ida thought Maggie was concerned about straightening out her appearance before she let the marshal see her, that was fine with her. Though the thought did cross her mind, the truth of the matter was she needed to time to tame her strange reaction to the news that he wanted to see her. She concentrated on breathing deeply to calm her racing heart. She was still hungry and now sure she was dizzy from lack of food. The rhythm of the brush stroking through her hair had her chiding herself for being ungrateful.

  Ida was only following the doctor’s orders. Her own lack of appreciation bothered her. After all the Smiths had done for her in the last three days, she didn’t feel comfortable not confiding in Ida. If her brother had not been so specific in his warning not to tell anyone, she would have told Ida last night. But something must be terribly wrong from him to have her promise not to trust or speak to anyone about why she had traveled all the way from New York City on her own.

  Keeping her scattered thoughts and worries to herself, she sighed, focusing on the visit at hand. She’d just as soon not let the handsome marshal see her in her nightgown at all, but given the current state of her health, she’d have to settle for the blanket covering up her lower half while her grandmother’s shawl wrapped around the upper.

  When Ida finally finished, Maggie could swear her stomach had tied itself into half a dozen knots. Her face was beginning to grow unbearably warm and a few drops of perspiration beaded on her upper lip. She wondered if she had begun to run a fever, despite her rapid recovery.

  “I’ll be right back with the marshal, but I won’t let him stay more than five minutes.”

  Ida must have noticed the flush on her face, but decided after all the trouble she went through to make Maggie presentable, a short visit would be all right.

  Maggie blotted her face and lip with the edge of the shawl and tried to relax enough to calm her stomach.

  “Miss Flaherty?”

  The sight of his familiar broad form framed in the doorway reminded her of how wonderfully strong he was, how capable. She was struck all over again by his powerful frame and physical beauty.

  The deep timbre of his voice curled around her like an embrace. For a second she reveled in it, then realized he hadn’t used her given name. Now that her life was out of danger, proprieties were obviously being observed. Well, she’d not been raised in a barn; she could be proper as well.

  “Marshal Turner.” She hoped he couldn’t see how uneasy his direct look made her, or that he would pick up on the hint of hurt she could not keep from her voice.

  “Now then, Marshal,” Ida said, pulling a chair over next to the edge of the bed. “You sit down right here next to Maggie.” She practically pushed him down into the chair. “I’ll be back in five minutes. The poor dear isn’t up to much more than that.”

  “Thank you,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the retreating woman’s back.

  “Just be sure to leave the door open and talk loudly, so I can hear if Maggie needs me.”

  “Is she always like that?” he asked, his fingers curling the brim of his Stetson between his huge, restless hands.

  “She means well,” Maggie answered. “She’s tryin’ to protect me reputation.”

  His eyes widened and a look she could not define flashed through them, but it was gone before she could figure it out. “I’ve come on official business.” His voice sounded oddly gruff.

  Somehow his reassurance that he’d only come to see her out of duty to his job bothered her. The unbidden thought that he would come to see her because he was concerned for her health had obviously been a dream. The hope that he came to see her because he could not keep away mocked her. She’d only met the man once, she reminded herself. Why she should be concerned over whether or not she’d made as deep an impression on him as he’d made on her, she had no idea. Why should she be concerned at all? Groaning inwardly, she reminded herself…it was destiny.

  “Well then, she’s got no reason to worry,” Maggie said, struggling to keep a lid on her riotous emotions, “does she?”

  Rather than answer, the marshal held her gaze, then shrugged and laid his hat on his knees.

  It took all of her concentration to keep her voice steady, “How can I help you?”

  He continued to watch her closely. She looked away before he could see the longing she hoped to hide. She yearned to be held in his arms, to rest her head against his broad chest. Maggie was beyond ti
red and nearly desperate for a way to send word to her brother. She could not afford to let her tired state interfere with her thinking or her purpose for being in Colorado.

  “I need to ask a couple of questions about your trip from back East.”

  He watched her with eyes a brilliant shade of green. Then the color of his eyes seemed to change, to deepen. The intensity in his gaze flashed and was gone. Maggie wondered if he felt anything for her at all. Had she hoped he might? If so, how could she find out if he continued to ignore what she thought simmered just beneath his calm exterior?

  “Were you and Miss Brown the only passengers on the stage?”

  Maggie was a bit confused, thinking he would want to ask her questions about the Indian attack. “Not at first.”

  “Do you remember any of the other passengers?” he asked hopefully.

  “Aye,” she said softly. “There was a very important man—” She paused, trying to recall his name. “Mr. Johnson,” she said, smiling.

  “Why would you say he was important?”

  Maggie had a hard time thinking with Joshua looking directly at her. The intense look in his eyes lit an answering fire deep within her, making her skin go all tingly. She could feel herself grown warmer the longer he stared. “Well now.” She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “I’m thinkin’ it may have been the way he was dressed…like a man of business…in a dark suit and bowler hat.”

  He seemed satisfied with her answer, and continued to ask about other men, whose names she did not recognize.

  “Time’s up Marshal!” Ida sang out, walking into the room. “Maggie! You look positively wrung out,” she chastised, bustling over to the bed.

  The strain of keeping her emotions under tight control had drained her. She certainly felt like a limp rag that had been banged against a rock repeatedly, then had the life squeezed out of it. Maggie nearly smiled, thinking how long it had been since she had helped her grandmother wash the family’s clothing in the stream by their home. Some memories seemed to last longer than others.

  “I’m all right,” she said, hoping to sound convincing.

  The other woman’s snort of disagreement should have been the first clue that she truly looked as bad as she felt.

  “I’m sorry, Mag…Miss Flaherty.” Marshal Turner sounded contrite, through the look in his eyes led her to believe a much stronger emotion burned just beneath his lawman’s exterior. “I should not have pressed so many questions on you.”

  “No bother at all. I’m not sure I helped, but—”

  “You’ve been a great help, ma’am.”

  His voice sounded gruff again, skittering along her spine, leaving her feeling oddly restless. His gaze held hers, his eyes changing hue once again to a deeper shade of green. He seemed to be about to ask her something.

  “Marshal?” she asked, hoping to ease him through whatever he needed to ask.

  He stood, moved closer to the bed, and stared down at her. Maggie felt the breath hitch in her lungs when he stared at her mouth. She waited for him to look up at her, uncertain if she was imagining things, or if his beautiful green eyes had darkened briefly with a hunger that matched her own.

  The impact from the heat in his gaze sent a quiver of excitement dancing through her. Surely she had imagined the intensity behind the look; no one had looked at her like that since Rory. Certainly she’d not been interested enough to notice…that is, until the day before yesterday.

  “Take care, Maggie love.”

  His whispered words were a soft caress across her aching shoulders, enveloping her with his concern. A spark of recognition reignited deep within her. It was the second time she’d felt the strong pull toward him. It was inevitable, she reasoned. He was the one.

  Before she could collect her thoughts or summon the strength to speak, he placed his Stetson on his head, tipped it to her, and was gone.

  “I let him stay too long.” Ida fussed with the bed-linens, smoothing and tucking them in at the foot of the bed.

  “Not at all.” It was the truth; she didn’t mind. The more she spoke to the marshal, the more she sensed she knew him. He seemed to be honest, forthright, definitely a man of high principles. A good thing, since he’d chosen to be a lawman.

  The speculative gleam in Ida’s eyes almost made Maggie smile. She was more like her mother than she first thought.

  “You’re quite taken with him, aren’t you?”

  Maggie opted to ignore the smug smile that curved the other woman’s lips and tried to scoot down lower in the bed. The movement jarred her injured arm, making her groan.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have let him stay so long,” Ida said regretfully. “I just hope you don’t suffer a setback.” She patted Maggie’s hand. “You could still develop wound fever.”

  “Don’t worry, Ida.”

  Without the woman’s kindness and willingness to take a total stranger into her home, Maggie had no idea where she’d be right now. Though she was already deeply in debt to Ida, she still needed to ask more of her.

  “Does Milford have a telegraph office?”

  Ida looked at her, waiting.

  “I need to send a wire as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll be happy to take care of the task for you tomorrow,” Ida offered.

  “You can’t—I mean—that is, it’s personal,” Maggie said softly.

  “You are not well enough to leave this bed,” Ida said, eyes narrowed.

  “I may look a bit worse for the wear, but I’m stronger than I look.”

  “That may be, but we’ll just wait and see what the doctor thinks. Doc Simpson said he’d stop by in another hour or so. Close your eyes and try to sleep. I’ll wake you when he gets here.”

  Two hours later, Maggie was awakened by the familiar raspy tones of Doc Simpson.

  “Ah, Miss Flaherty.” A dour look on his drawn face, didn’t give her a hint as to what he was thinking. “I see you’ve followed my instructions and have been resting.”

  “That I have, Doctor,” she said, coming more fully awake. “I feel so much better, I’m sure I can tolerate more than bread and broth.” She grimaced at the thought of eating yet another meager meal. Used to a much heartier diet. Maggie nearly groaned aloud when the doctor didn’t agree with her.

  “Another two days more before you can start adding solid foods back into your diet,” he said archly.

  Maggie closed her eyes and nearly condemned the man to perdition for attempting to starve her. “I’ll be needin’ to leave on the stage Friday,” she said quietly.

  “Out of the question,” the doctor answered, as if her wishes were of no consequence whatsoever.

  “I need to send a telegram then.”

  “I’m sure Ida can take care of that chore for you.”

  “But I want to go—”

  “Young woman,” he said slowly, narrowing his gaze at her, “you are not going anywhere until I’m certain you are out of danger of contracting wound fever.”

  Maggie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out what she thought of his orders. She’d find a way to send that telegram by noon tomorrow.

  “Now then, Miss,” he said, “let’s have a look at that arm.”

  Chapter Seven

  Hugh Emerson stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window into the street beyond. The cloud of dust following the progress of a farmer and his wagon toward the smithy barely warranted a second look, much less his consideration. He had far more important items on his agenda this morning.

  “Mr. Emerson?”

  “Ahh, Boyle.” He turned his back to the window. “You have good news?” Anticipation hummed through him.

  “Another twenty head last night—”

  “At this rate, it will take months to make a dent in Ryan’s herd! What seems to be the problem?”

  The rail-thin cowboy opened his mouth to speak, but Emerson interrupted him. “I thought I made my instructions quite clear,” he said succinctly.

  �
�The man must lose five thousand head by the end of the month!”

  “But Mr. Emerson, sir—”

  “Enough!” he ground out. He was running out of time. If Ryan produced the proof he claimed to have within the next two weeks, Emerson would have to abandon all plans for taking over the Ryan spread.

  “If you can’t make enough cattle disappear…”

  “Heck, I thought you only wanted us to rustle—”

  “Keep your voice down!” Emerson had no idea why he thought he could trust a job of this magnitude to a drifter like Clay Boyle. “You have until Friday to finish the job.”

  “But—”

  “If you can’t, I’ll bring in Sykes.”

  “He doesn’t know anything about cows—he’s a hired kil—”

  “Hired gun.” Emerson sat behind his mahogany desk and proceeded to shuffle through the stack of papers directly in front of him until he found the one he wanted.

  “But Mr. Emerson—”

  “Friday!” He dipped his pen in the inkwell and signed his name with a flourish. Reaching for the ink blotter, he ignored Boyle, waiting to hear the door close. A few minutes later, someone knocked.

  “Enter.”

  His baby-faced assistant poked his head around the edge of the door. “A Mr. Sykes has answered your wire.” The young man hesitated in the doorway.

  “Splendid.” Emerson beamed. “How soon can he get here?”

  “He expects to arrive on Monday’s stage.”

  Emerson nodded that he’d heard the message before waving the young man away. He liked Sykes’s style; no one would suspect a hired gun to arrive by stage. He steepled his hands and tapped his fingertips together, deep in thought. He hoped his hired gun would be able to finish the job. Time was running out.

  Glancing down at the document in front of him, he focused on the beneficiary’s name—Margaret Mary Flaherty. He hoped the young woman would not be foolish enough to travel west to lay claim to the Ryan spread after its owner’s untimely death.