“If ye don’t, I won’t be responsible for me actions,” Maggie gritted her teeth preparing to argue.
A hint of a smile curved the older woman’s mouth until it tilted up on one side. Ida cleared her throat, “Well then.”
“Well then?” Maggie echoed hopefully, smoothing the front of her floral-sprigged cotton dress. It was a cream-colored dress with tiny blue flowers dotted across it. She’d made it just a few weeks before she received Seamus’s wire that he needed her. Thought she’d left New York a full week ahead of schedule, she was quickly running out of time. She had to convince Ida she was fine. She had to send that wire today.
She rose up from where she’d been sitting in the ladder-back chair with minimal difficulty. “I’m fine, Ida.”
“I can see that you think you are.” The other woman stood in front of her. “Here, let me help you with your hair.”
The two women were silent while Ida finished pinning the coil of heavy red hair at the nape of Maggie’s neck. One look in the looking glass Ida held for her and she nodded. “I could not have done it without ye,” she said softly, turning to face her. “I have so much to thank ye for, Ida.”
The look that came into the other’s woman’s eyes clearly showed the concern and caring the two had developed for one other in the last few days since Maggie had been carried unconscious into the Smiths’ back room. Ida sniffed and patted the braided coil at the back of her own head. “Well now, it was only fitting—”
“Not everyone would have been willing to take in a complete stranger, prepared to have to care for them,” Maggie said, knowing the gratitude she felt could not be hidden. Her Da always told her he knew what she was thinking a moment before she did—all he had to do was look at her expression. Her heart clenched in her breast. She missed him; the ache was still just as raw as it had been five years ago.
“Now that I’m feeling more meself, I need to send off a wire.”
“I can—”
“Ida, ye are a dear, sweet woman,” Maggie said slowly. “But I need to do this meself. Please don’t ask me to explain,” she rasped. “I truly would if I could.”
“I’ll be back with Doc Simpson,” Ida said quietly. “If he changes his mind, then I will too.”
“Wonderful,” Maggie muttered.
***
“Maggie!” At the sound of her name on Samantha Cole’s lips, she nearly groaned aloud. Ida hadn’t trusted her after all. She’d sent Samantha to keep an eye on her, and to make certain she didn’t leave the first chance she got. Well, that had been her plan, but the fact that Ida guessed her intentions did bother her. Well, at least Samantha should not be as much of a problem as slipping by Ida’s guard would be.
“You can’t just leave!”
Maggie turned her back on Samantha and checked her own reflection in the looking glass. The pathetic-looking creature that stared back at her had purple smudges beneath her eyes and skin the color of watered-down milk. She cringed, thinking she looked more like a wrung-out rag that someone had used to wash the floor with, than a flesh-and-blood woman in her prime. Well, maybe just a wee bit past her prime, but not totally beyond all hope yet.
“Ida will skin me alive,” Samantha protested. “She made me promise not to let you out of my sight.”
“Well then if ye close yer eyes now, ye won’t be havin’ to lie about seein’ me leave.”
“Maggie, be reasonable. You’ve lost so much blood.”
The plea in Samantha’s eyes was not lost on her, but what the young woman did not understand, Maggie could not tell her. It was urgent that she get a message to her brother. Nothing, short of the devil dancing upon her grave, was going to stop her.
A quick glance satisfied Maggie that the papers she’d hidden beneath the mattress would not be disturbed. For good measure, she pretended to drop her linen handkerchief so she could look at the bottom edge of the bed without being too conspicuous while picking the mattress up. Perfect—her hiding place was still secure.
As she straightened up, the floor started to sway, and the room started to spin. You’re not dizzy, she told herself, just tired.
“Maggie, you’ve gone pale as wax.”
“Well now with all the freckles I have across me nose, I can’t imagine how you could say that.”
Maggie’s attempt at levity distracted Ida’s young friend, allowing Maggie to draw in a few steadying breaths. Once the floor stopped moving, her equilibrium returned.
“Ida said—”
“Aye, ye’ve told me more than once what Ida said,” Maggie said quietly. “I’ll be back before Ida knows I’m gone,” she said from the doorway.
The moment she stepped onto the boardwalk, Maggie had the uncomfortable feeling she was being observed. A quick look over her shoulder made her head swim, but relieved her initial worry that Samantha had followed after her.
According to Ida’s husband, the telegraph office was at the far end of the street, across from the bank. She hurried off in that direction. The first time a stranger passed by, she felt the heat of the woman’s stare. Maggie looked down to make sure hadn’t missed any buttons.
All fastened.
When she looked back at the woman, the bit of sidewalk was empty.
By the time she had passed by four storefronts, three more women had passed by, a similar reaction occurring each time. Surely it wasn’t a crime to be walking about without an escort. Was it? Wondering if perhaps the good people of Milford had never seen a red-headed woman before, she didn’t see the dip in the boardwalk.
Flinging her hands out, trying to catch herself before she pitched forward onto her face, Maggie was amazed to find herself suddenly weightless.
“Easy, miss,” a deep voice warned close to her ear.
She looked up. The reason for the weightlessness stood a whole head taller than her brother, with hair white as snow.
“Thank you,” she managed. “I must not have been minding me step.”
The weathered planes of the man’s face crinkled up as he broke into a broad smile. “You’d be welcome lass,” he said, setting her back on her feet.
At his words, Maggie’s face lit up with delight. “Yer from back home?”
He shook his shaggy white head. “My wife was.” The lines in his kind face softened from pleasure to sadness.
Their eyes met and held, as understanding flashed between them. She recognized the look in his eyes; the man’s pain was still too fresh. ‘Tis too soon for him to speak of her. She’d been like that with her parents.
“I’m sorry for yer loss.”
He nodded before hurrying across the street. Dust swirled out from under his boots, reminding her of the dry-as-dust road she’d been traveling when the Indians attacked. She shuddered before she was able to put those thoughts in the back of her mind and focus instead on the message she would send to her brother via James Ryan.
It was simple:
Delayed…STOP…have what you need…STOP…will arrive by stage Friday…STOP
Fifteen minutes later, Maggie stepped back onto the boardwalk and headed back to the Smiths’ store. A wave of heat washed over her. Far too warm, she tugged at the high collar of her dress, hoping to let in a breath of cool evening air. With each step, her feet dragged and the darkness seemed to be closing in around her.
“Let me help you.”
Maggie turned toward the throaty voice and shook her head to clear it. The vision in front of her could not be real. She blinked, but the raven-haired woman dressed in pale-gray silk still sat perched upon the luxurious leather seat of a shiny black phaeton. Her tiny gloved hand held the reins to an enormous gray horse stomping restlessly in place.
Maggie had never seen such a beautiful sight in her life. New York had been full of wealthy women, but none could quite compare with the lovely lady before her.
“Are ye offerin’ to help me?” She looked around to make certain there was no one else in greater need.
“You look dead on your feet. May
I offer you a ride?”
Maggie collected herself enough to nod, grab hold of the side of the carriage, and pull herself up into it. “I’m not quite meself lately, thank ye.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman tilted her head to one side and looked Maggie over.
“I’m just passing through.” Maggie shifted uncomfortably on the seat. She knew she looked a wreck, especially when compared to the beautiful woman seated beside her.
“My name’s Luann,” the woman offered, extending a gloved hand to Maggie.
Maggie smiled, taking Luann’s hand in her own and squeezing it before letting go. “ ‘Tis glad I am ye stopped. I was starting to wonder if I would make it back to the Smiths.”
“The Dry Goods Store?”
“Aye,” Maggie said slowly. “I’ve been staying with them for a few days.”
Luann’s hands deftly snapped the reins, setting the sleek carriage in motion. “How long do you plan to stay on in Milford?”
“I’ll be gone by Friday, on the mornin’ stage.”
Luann sighed softly. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
Maggie caught the woman’s wistful tone. “What?”
“Since you won’t be staying, I may as well tell you. I don’t have many friends in town.”
“Are ye new here yourself, then?” Maggie asked.
Luann shook her head. “Been here nigh on ten years this fall.”
“Then why—”
“Margaret Mary Flaherty!”
Maggie’s head snapped around at the shrill sound of Ida Smith calling her name. Her given name—how on earth did Ida know her full name?
“I’m sorry,” Luann said softly. “It would have been nice talking to you, Maggie.”
Ida stared at the other woman. If looks could kill, Maggie would swear Luann would be six feet under. Maggie let Ida help her out of the carriage, but stopped when Ida would have continued dragging her into the store.
“Thank ye for yer kindness, Luann,” she called out. “You’re a fine woman.”
“Do you know who that was?” Ida hissed under her breath, watching the carriage roll away.
“Aye, she said her name was Luann.”
“That is the owner of the Chicken Ranch!”
Maggie turned to stare at the older woman. Lines of frustration furrowed her brow and bracketed her mouth. “She must do very well raisin’ chickens. That dress was made of pure silk.”
Ida mumbled something under her breath about eggs and innocent women, but that was all Maggie could decipher.
“Do you sell her eggs in your store?” she wanted to know.
Ida pulled her inside the front door and slammed it shut. Putting her hands on her hips, she rounded on Maggie and spat out, “That woman runs Pearl’s Place!”
“I thought you said she ran a chicken farm.”
“Ranch! The Chicken Ranch.”
“Well then, what’s Pearl’s Place?”
“Ida,” a deep voice said from the darkened hallway, “do you really think you should be talking to such an innocent young thing like Maggie about Pearl?”
“Taylor Smith! Do you know who just dropped Maggie off in front of our store?”
“Sheriff Roscoe?”
“That man couldn’t find his way out of his own front door!”
“I don’t see why ye won’t tell me what Pearl’s Place is,” Maggie said to Ida before turning to face Taylor. “Luann must be doing quite well for herself if she owns a chicken ranch and Pearl’s Place. Is it a saloon, then?”
“Best tell her, Ida.”
Maggie caught the solemn note in the older man’s voice. He sounded sad.
“Pearl—that is Luann—hires poor young things off the street and—”
“What Ida is trying to say,” Taylor said gently, helping Maggie to a chair near the back of the store, “is that Pearl’s Place hires women who entertain men.”
Understanding dawned, but no condemnation followed. Maggie had learned early in life that she who would be the first to cast stones had better be certain she had no black spots on her own soul. Besides, who was she to judge another? “Luann stopped to help me,” she said quietly. “She was the only woman today who didn’t look right through me as if I wasn’t there.”
“We will get back to the topic of why you are out of bed in a moment,” Ida bit out. “First I want to know what was so all-fired important that you’d risk a relapse or possibly wound fever by traipsing around town all by yourself!”
“Do all the women in Milford go about with an escort?”
“Well, of course not. It’s just that—” Ida’s words died at the direct look Maggie gave her.
“Just what?”
“Well, how you came to us,” Ida finished in a brusque tone.
“And how was that?”
“Don’t try to pretty it up, Ida,” her husband advised, “best to tell her straight.”
“In the arms of Marshal Turner.”
“I thought the stage—” she let her words trail off. This was something else to ponder. What could the marshal have been thinking to carry her all the way from the ambush site? Hadn’t someone mentioned to her that it had happened a few miles outside of town?
“The marshal was worried that the ride into town over the deeply rutted road would jar your wound and reopen it.” Ida’s intent look unnerved her. “He was very worried about further injuring you.”
“Well.” Maggie cleared her throat. She tried to still the butterflies fluttering about in her belly, but it was no use. Just the thought of being carried about like that made her knees weak and her heart light.
“But I still don’t understand why that would bother the women.”
“They’re just acting persnickety,” Taylor interrupted. “Why didn’t you wait?”
“I had a feelin’ the doctor wouldn’t let me go.”
“Ida,” Taylor said quietly, “why don’t you see about something for Maggie to eat.”
“There might be some cold fried chicken.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said softly. As the older woman swept past her, Maggie reached out to grasp her hand. “I don’t mean to cause ye trouble. I’m more than grateful for yer kindness these past few days. But there are things that I can’t tell ye,” she said, looking up at Ida. “ ‘Tisn’t safe. I’m not deliberately throwin’ yer hospitality in yer face.
“There now, Maggie,” Taylor said, squatting down beside her chair once his wife disappeared. “My Ida is so used to running things, she just gets herself in a dither when people don’t willingly fall in with what she wants them to do.”
Tears stung the back of Maggie’s eyes and a lump of emotion clogged her throat. She struggled to speak. “I’ve not had anyone to answer to for these past few months,” she said softly. “I’ve only just realized how much I’ve missed it.”
“All set, Taylor,” Ida called out from the kitchen. As she walked back toward them, she wiped her hands on a towel and waited by the stool Maggie still sat on.
“I think a shot of whiskey is in order.” Taylor headed down the hall toward the kitchen.
“We’ll be right behind you, dear,” Ida said. “Maggie, I—”
“Ida—” They both started to speak at the same time, then fell silent waiting for the other to continue. When it was obvious that Ida was waiting for her to speak, Maggie continued, “Me mother died four months ago—me Da’s been gone five years now.”
“You poor dear.” Ida patted Maggie’s hand.
“I’ve traveled across the Atlantic Ocean to make a new life after Rory…” Maggie’s throat closed completely thinking of him. She shook her head, willing herself not to cry. She succeeded, but was unable to speak past the constriction in her throat.
Ida drew Maggie to her feet and held her close. Enveloped in Ida’s ample embrace, Maggie was reminded of simpler times, when a hug was all it took to make the hurt go away. But all the hugs in the world could not bring her parents or Rory back. Sh
e sniffed back the rest of the tears that threatened to fall and hugged Ida hard. Then she drew away.
“You’re a wonderful woman. I would not hurt ye for the world. But there are things that I must do,” Maggie said quietly. “I cannot go back on me word. I’ve promises to keep.”
Ida’s gaze was penetrating. Finally, she nodded her head and took Maggie by the arm. “Let’s go and find Taylor. Then you can tell me where you need to go. We’ll see that you get there.”
Walking into the kitchen, Maggie felt her eyes fill with tears. “I’ve got to be on the stage to Emerson Friday morning.”
Taylor pulled out a chair for Maggie, then his wife. He poured two fingers of deep amber-colored whiskey into a short squat glass and handed it to Maggie. “Drink up,” he ordered. Pouring two more glasses, he bid Ida to do the same.
One sip and Maggie was transported back to her family’s kitchen back home in Ireland. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could just imagine the faint odor of a peat fire filling her nostrils, surrounding her with a feeling of welcome.
“A man by the name of Reilly traded this bottle for some supplies a few years back.”
Maggie looked at the gray-haired man who stood back from the table, drink in hand and a smile on his face. “Did ye know then he traded ye some of the finest Irish whiskey in the world?”
Taylor shook his head and grinned. “No, but he did ask that we share one drink before he left.”
“Smart man, that Reilly.” Maggie took another sip.
“I heard he’s working for a man named Ryan over near Emerson.”
“Ryan?” Maggie whispered. That was the name of the man she’d sent the telegram to. The man who was to help her get in touch with her brother.
“James Ryan owns one of the largest cattle ranches near Emerson,” Ida said.
“Does he now?”
“I heard he’s having trouble with rustlers.” Taylor’s mouth was set in a grim line.
“Rustlers?” Maggie asked, unsure what the word meant.
“Cattle thieves,” Ida clarified.
The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Page 8
