The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Maggie took another few sips of her drink and wondered why she hadn’t thought to bring some of the Irish with her from New York. Her Da always swore it could cure anything the devil could plague a man with.

  “I wonder if that was where the marshal was headed,” Ida said slowly.

  Joshua. An image of clear green eyes and sun-kissed hair filled her. There was no denying the attraction; she had been drawn to him from the moment he stepped onto the stagecoach. In the past three days, thoughts of him distracted her at the oddest moments.

  Now that she knew he had ridden all the way to town holding her in his arms, she understood the look she saw reflected in his lovely green eyes. Remembering the feeling of safety she’d felt held close in his arms brought with it a shock of awareness. The broad width of his shoulders and the rock-hard muscles of his chest had been a comfort, but had also ignited a tiny flicker of passion that had continued to smolder and grow in intensity.

  If she had to say what attracted her the most, it would have to be his inner strength and character that had drawn her to him, that and the bone-deep loneliness in his brilliant green gaze. Though he had ridden away before she could thank him, she knew she would see him again—it was fate.

  “Marshal Turner?” she managed to ask.

  “A fine-looking man.”

  Maggie could feel Ida’s gaze on her, but she didn’t look over at her. The possibility that he would be near enough to enlist his strength and calm reasoning to help her brother, had her mind racing. Maybe she could get word to him somehow.

  “I was a colonel in the Regular Army,” Taylor said. “Back in ’69, I was with the 5th Cavalry under General Carr in the Battle of Summit Springs. There wasn’t any confrontation that I couldn’t handle—be it Sioux, Cheyenne, or Lakota—although there was a time when Tall Bull nearly gutted me that I wondered if I’d see my sweet Ida again.”

  Taylor cleared his throat and continued. “The point I’m trying to make, Maggie, is that whatever trouble you are in, I can keep you safe.”

  “It’s not just meself—” Maggie whispered.

  She searched her heart and decided she had to trust someone on the outside chance she did not make it to Emerson. So far the odds seemed to be in favor of the worst possible thing going wrong at precisely the wrong moment. If she thought about it, she could say the same for every important moment in her life.

  A week before she and Rory were to wed, he died in her arms. Two days before her family was to sail across the Atlantic, her father met with the wrong end of an English rifle. He never regained his full strength and died a month after they landed in New York Harbor.

  Now, days away from delivering Seamus’s important papers, she had a bad feeling that she would never finish the journey. For her brother’s sake, someone else must know about the papers she carried, and the reason for her journey.

  “Me brother Seamus entrusted a copy of his deed and paid mortgage into me care,” she said slowly. “For some reason, he needs the copies in his hands by the middle of next week, or else the bank will take his ranch! He’s worked too long and hard for me to let that happen now.”

  Taylor and Ida waited patiently for her to continue, with identical looks of grave concern etched across their brows. She briefly wondered if the longer a person was married, the more they began to take on characteristics of their spouse, and think similar thoughts. She only just now realized that her parents had not been the only ones to act that way.

  “Ye must not let anyone else know about me mission,” she warned. “I think me brother is afraid I’ll not make it in time with the proof he needs.”

  “Why don’t you show us the paperwork,” Taylor said.

  Maggie watched him take off his glasses and clean the lenses with the pristine white linen handkerchief he always kept in his back left trouser pocket. While she followed the sweep of his strong fingers across the lenses an idea started to form.

  “Could we have someone witness that I’ve shown the papers to ye?”

  “We’ll go one step further,” Taylor advised. “We’ll have Jeremiah Johnson over at the Land Management Office draw up a legal paper attesting to the fact that your brother’s papers do in face exist and that Ida, Jeremiah, and myself have all read the papers and will act as witnesses.”

  “Not that we think we’ll need to use the papers, mind you,” Ida added.

  “Just in case,” Taylor said solemnly, “as a precaution.”

  “Aye,” Maggie agreed. “Hopefully the stage ride to Emerson will be uneventful.”

  “Have you the money for a ticket?” Taylor wanted to know.

  “I’ve already bought and paid the fare all the way to Emerson,” Maggie answered. “Ye don’t think they’d make me pay again, do ye?” She’d have to go to the bank once she reached Emerson and have money wired from her bank in New York. She intended to repay her brother for the money he’d sent over the last few years. She knew he needed it, but must have felt obligated to send it to her and her mother. Her dear mother had insisted they only use what they needed and put the rest in the bank for Seamus. Maggie had wholeheartedly agreed.

  “No. The Indian attack was unforeseen. The stage company should honor your ticket,” Taylor added. “They knew you were injured during the attack and could not continue your journey right away. And if they’ve forgotten, we’ll remind them.”

  “Well, then,” Maggie said, brightly. Her burden felt lighter. “I’ll go and pack me things.”

  She rose from the chair and turned to go, but thought of one more thing she needed to tell the Smiths. She grabbed a hold of the top rung on the ladder-back chair. “If anything should happen to me,” she said, her voice tight with emotion, “send a wire to Seamus Flaherty at James Ryan’s ranch. He’s the only man me brother trusts.”

  “Don’t you fret dear,” Ida said, coming to stand beside her. “This time tomorrow, you’ll be on your way to Emerson.”

  “Lord willing,” she prayed.

  “And the creek don’t rise,” Taylor added.

  Chapter Nine

  Disbelief speared through Hugh while rage simmered inside him, threatening to boil over. Instead of giving in to his anger, he very carefully smoothed the crimped edges of the telegram, where his fingers had clenched it, until it lay flat on his desk.

  He had to think.

  If the Irishwoman somehow managed to get on board the stage bound for his town, all his plans for the future of Emerson would be but ashes left blowing in the wind. The railroad would officially be sending surveyors and engineers out in a few months to scout out a location. He had paid dearly to find out in advance what route would be used. He gambled on his informant’s having the correct information. The land he’d started to acquire last year would soon be a beehive of industry, once the railroad moved in and started to lay tracks.

  He had started planning this scheme ever since the Kansas Pacific Railroad had connected Kansas City with Denver nearly ten years ago. Rumors had developed into fact about six months ago. The prospect of a railroad spur connecting Abilene to Santa Fe would soon become a reality. He would own a good portion of the land in southeastern Colorado, land that the rumors guessed railroad would cut through, and which would be worth a gold mine. When the time was right, he planned to be on the receiving end of a bucket-load of money.

  There was only one reason he could fail. And he had no intention of allowing anyone to stand between himself and the fortune he planned to make.

  He had to find a way to stop her.

  Sykes was not due to arrive for another few days. Then at least he’ll have taken care of Ryan, his biggest problem. That man was harder to get rid of than fleas on a hound dog. Sykes had a reputation with a six-gun. Anyone Sykes shot, he killed. Emerson was fully prepared to pay out as much as five hundred dollars to get the job done.

  Moving the telegram to the upper left-hand corner of his desk, he picked up a copy of the stagecoach schedule and the Milford Gazette. Though the newspaper was not a
big one, it contained the information he needed. More than one leg of the stage had been attacked in recent weeks, either by outlaws or Indians. He’d have to send for Foster—he could be counted on to do whatever he was asked, quickly and cleanly. He’d not been caught yet; only Boyle had. The only reason he hadn’t used Foster to go after Ryan was the need to make it appear as if a lone gunman killed the wealthy ranch owner. Foster would be able to get rid of the female.

  Leaning back against the leather-cushioned chair, he laced his fingers together and rested them on his stomach. He tried to imagine what Ryan’s sister would look like. Drawing a blank, he finally decided to go on the assumption that she looked like her brother. She’d be rawboned like Ryan, possibly five and a half feet tall, with wavy ink-black hair. Heaven help the woman if she shared the same craggy features. Ryan’s horse looked a darn sight better than Ryan did.

  Jotting down the brief description, he folded the bit of paper into a small square, slipped it into his vest pocket, and patted it for good measure.

  “Sheridan!”

  His young assistant poked his head through the door and waited for his summons before entering.

  Emerson motioned for him to come in, then pointed toward the telegram on the corner of his desk. “See to it that that gets delivered to Ryan today.”

  His assistant looked down at the wire, then back up at him and opened his mouth to speak.

  “Now,” Emerson bit out. He had no intention of explaining how Ryan’s telegram had come to be in his possession. Sheridan was fairly new. He would learn not to question him.

  “Right away, sir.”

  He watched the young man sweep the piece of paper off the desk and start to dash out of the room, as if the lad’s heels were on fire, when he remembered something else.

  “Sheridan!”

  The young man stopped, one hand on the edge of the open door. “Sir?”

  “Send word to Foster that I want to see him tonight at the house.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  Maggie smiled at the slender dark-haired woman climbing into the stage, settling on the seat opposite of her. “Good mornin’ to ye,” she said pleasantly.

  “It will be, when this last leg of the journey is behind me,” the woman grumbled.

  “Me name’s Maggie. I’m goin’ as far as Emerson.”

  The driver cracked his whip and set the team of horses in motion.

  “Sarah Worthington,” her fellow passenger replied. “I won’t be stopping in Emerson,” the woman mumbled. Her grumbling was less noticeable now that they were actually on their way out of town.

  Maggie had hoped the woman’s bleak mood would improve with the journey. Sometimes the close confines of the stage encouraged conversation. She sighed, glancing over at the still-silent Sarah, and was struck by the sudden thought that Sarah reminded her of Seamus. She was tall like him too—and a lot thinner—Unlike those of us who are short, with flesh to spare. With Sarah’s luxurious dark hair and cool blue eyes, she could be mistaken for Seamus’s sister—more so than Maggie ever would.

  “Sarah,” she began, “have ye any relatives in Ireland?”

  Sarah smiled and shook her head. “My mother’s people are from Wales.”

  “That’s grand,” Maggie said excitedly. “I’ve a cousin on me mother’s side that’s from—”

  The crack of a rifle shot cut off the rest of her words. The coach lurched, then gradually stopped. Not again!

  “Are we being held up?” Sarah asked, worry creasing a line between her raven brows.

  “Have ye a weapon?”

  The other woman shook her head.

  “Whatever ye do, don’t scream,” Maggie suggested. “It rattles the driver and scares the horses.”

  “I promise—”

  The barrel of a six-gun appeared in the open window.

  Before either woman could think to act, the gun went off and Sarah slumped over in her seat, crimson staining the right side of her pale-blue cotton dress.

  Maggie waited until the gun disappeared from the window, then threw herself across to the other seat.

  Joshua—what would ye do, if ye were here? She wondered, tearing a strip off the bottom edge of one of her petticoats. Folding it quickly, she thought of the extra cloth Annie had packed in her carpetbag. How wise Annie had been. If she intended to live out here, she would have to start carrying around supplies for just this sort of occasion. Until then, she’d just have to make due and hope Sarah’s wound would stop bleeding soon.

  Her own rescuer had been calm, she remembered, the only sign of emotion showing in his tightly clenched jaw and beautiful green eyes.

  “At least, I don’t have to remove an arrow—” Maggie paused, then gasped, “The bullet!”

  The sound of a horse riding away didn’t deter Maggie from the need to search for an exit wound. Though Sarah was larger than she, Maggie was able to brace the woman against her chest and she searched Sarah’s back. The sight of a slowing spreading bloodstain on Sarah’s back brought with it a sigh of relief that the bullet had gone clean through, but also the worry that she had two wounds to care for.

  Working quickly, she ripped off another strip and fashioned another square and a bandage that she could wrap around Sarah. Sticking her head out of the window, she was surprised to see dust in the distance. A wagon was heading toward them.

  “Hello!” a sultry voice called out. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Luann!” Maggie opened the door and leapt down from the coach totally unaware that the bodice of her dress was smeared with Sarah’s blood.

  “You’re bleeding!”

  Maggie looked down at herself and saw the stains for the first time. “Not mine—Sarah’s—she needs help.”

  “What about the driver?” Luann asked, nodding toward the top of the stage. The driver was slumped over, his big body tangled in the reins. No wonder they had slowed down.

  “I’ll check. We need to get Sarah someplace safe.” Halfway up the side of the coach, she stopped. “I think I may know why we were attacked,” she said slowly. Luann waited, but Maggie shook her head. “Later.”

  Hauling herself up on the top, she swallowed the fear edging up her throat and touched the man. He groaned. “He’s alive!” she shouted down.

  “See if you can rouse him, while I get Sarah into my carriage.”

  “He needs a doctor,” Maggie gritted her teeth, sat the driver upright, then gently shook him. “Can ye hear me?”

  “I’m not deaf,” the man grumbled.

  “Well now, I’m certain to be thankful for small favors,” she bit out.

  The driver opened one eye and had the audacity to glare at her. Maggie decided then and there that he’d survive. He looked too stubborn to let a little thing like a bullet keep him down.

  “Can ye help me?”

  “You been shot too?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well then, what do you need my help for?” he demanded. “I ain’t gonna be much help—been shot ya know.”

  Maggie swallowed the sharp retort poised on the tip of her tongue and looked up at the deep blue sky, searching the endless blue for a way to rein in her impatience.

  “I can’t lift ye,” she explained. “Can ye move?”

  It took a few minutes before he understood her. When he did, he actually smiled. “Why didn’t ya say so?”

  Maggie tore off another strip of her petticoat and wrapped it around the wound in the driver’s thigh, but it still bled.

  “You’ll have to tie another one around my leg above the wound,” he told her. “Tie it tight enough, and it’ll stop bleeding.”

  Maggie did as she was bid.

  “Real tight,” he reminded her.

  When he was satisfied, he let her help him down.

  “How far are we from your place, Luann?”

  “Half a mile.”

  “Sarah needs help.”

  “Doc Simpson’s seeing to Betty Lou and her new baby,”
Luann said.

  Maggie knew Luann was watching closely for a reaction. After all Ida had told her about the woman, she thought she knew what Luann waited for. It just wouldn’t be the response Luann expected. Maggie smiled at her. “Then let’s go.”

  The driver limped over to check his team and then nodded in the direction Luan had mentioned. “I’ll follow along behind; no sense leaving my team at the mercy of outlaws.”

  “Do ye feel well enough?” Maggie watched the way the man swayed as he walked back to the coach. He nodded and put his leg up to prepare to climb back on the top, but his wounded leg folded up beneath him.

  As she braced an arm around him, she asked. “Can ye lead the way?”

  The other woman smiled, realizing what Maggie was suggestion. “You’ll be sure to follow right behind?”

  “Aye. If I can convince Mr.—”

  “Seth,” he grumbled, limping to the door Maggie held open for him.

  “I’ll drive Mr. Seth and his team.”

  “Just Seth,” he said. “Dad-blamed female,” he complained, hoisting himself inside the coach. “Get a-going,” he ordered.

  Maggie climbed up into the driver’s seat. She grabbed the reins and released the brake, clicking her tongue the way she had for her father’s horse on those few occasions when she had been allowed to drive their wagon into town.

  “Joshua,” she whispered, “I need yer help. Me brother’s in trouble. And I think someone just tried to kill me.”

  ***

  “Sheriff!” Joshua called out pounding on the jailhouse door.

  Though the hour was still early, he’d seen a light burning in the back window. Either the sheriff had someone locked up, or he had spent the night catching up on some paperwork and had yet to leave.

  Sheriff Coltrane opened the door and stood there shaking his head, a single piece of paper clutched in his left hand. Joshua’s senses jumped up and started twitching. Something in the man’s stance indicated there was a problem. He’d seen that same look before.

  Two summers back, Jed Slater had looked up at him from where he sat cradling his injured wife in his arms. Joshua remembered the way his gut clenched, unsure if the woman would survive the beating she’d taken at the hands of the outlaws who had tried to take Slater’s ranch. Even the news that the outlaws had been captured had not eased the anguish from Slater’s eyes. No longer new to the job of marshal, Joshua agreed with him. Nothing would replace Essie Slater, or ever make up for the fact that she had been attacked. She had taken him in after she had found him wandering the back alleyways of Denver nearly a decade and a half ago and had been a surrogate mother to him. Essie fed him and hugged him when he was too tired and lonely to care what happened to him. His young man’s pride never seemed to stop her from doing what she’d seen as her duty, even when she took to hugging him in public.