“Who did this to you ma’am?” he asked.
“It happened when I was bound, gagged, and tossed over a packhorse like a sack of potatoes,” she said with a sigh.
“Me head kept knockin’ against something hard—I’m thinkin’ now it may have been the skillet—‘twas a long ride to the cabin.”
“Cabin?” Seamus ground out, looking for all the world as if he were primed for a fight.
“Let her finish,” the dark-haired man interrupted
“Aye, Reilly.”
Maggie turned toward the man who coaxed her into the ranch house. “John Reilly?”
“Aye.”
“I’ve met someone who remembers ye fondly—and offered me a sip of the Irish ye traded for winter supplies a few years back.”
“Taylor Smith,” Reilly said softly.
“I was stayin’ with them after I’d been shot—”
“Shot? You were shot?” Seamus thundered, coming to his feet.
“What happened?” the red-headed man her brother called Flynn asked.
“Let’s get some whiskey in the lass before we try to pry any more words out of her,” Reilly suggested.
Maggie forced a smile, though her jaw ached. “I’ll need to be knowin’ the rest of yer names before I lift a glass with the likes of ye.”
“John Reilly, ye know,” her brother nodded toward the stocky, dark-haired man.
Maggie smiled.
“Michael Flynn has hair red as yer own.”
Her gaze shifted to a tall rangy man with hair red as fire.
“Mine’s not that bright.”
“Aye, lass.” Her brother grinned. “Every bit as bright. Thomas and Sean Murphy,” he continued, pointing toward two chestnut-haired, freckle-faced men who stood by the back door.
“William Masterson, who ye’ve promised to fix the salve for.”
“I’ve just the thing in me bag—” the rest of what she was going to say was lost, as she remembered her bag was still in the back room at the Smith’s in Milford. “No matter, I can fix up a batch; no doubt the rest of ye can use it.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” The solemn man stood beside her brother, his dark eyes searching her face before he looked away.
“Travis Brennan,” Seamus said, acknowledging the only light-haired man in the group.
He must have slipped in while she was not paying attention, she thought, then her heart lurched. The man had pale blond locks—but he wasn’t Joshua.
“Mick—Michael O’Toole’s the lad fetching the glasses,” Seamus added. “He and his mother will be staying with us for a time.”
Maggie decided to prod that story out of her brother later. Right now she was weary to the bone and grateful for the whiskey. After drinking half the potent amber liquid, she looked up at the solemn faces surrounding her and quietly began to retell all that had happened to her over the last few days since arriving in Colorado.
The telling of her tale was hard enough, but their endless questions exhausted her. While she relayed the story, a bowl of warm water and sliver of soap appeared on the table in front of her. She moved to pick up the soap, thinking to care for her wrists, but to her surprise her brother knelt beside her chair and began to bathe her sore wrists with exquisite care.
Maggie let the pain wash over her, but didn’t outwardly acknowledge it, knowing it would worry her brother.
While he slowly worked up a lather, Mick laid out a few strips of linen that smelled of sunshine and fresh air.
“I’ve a salve the doctor left here, the last time Flynn—”
“No need to tell the lass everything,” Flynn grumbled.
“I’m near dead on me feet, Seamus—” she began, trying to distract her brother from continuing with a story that obviously embarrassed the poor man. Watching the way the broad grin lit Reilly’s face, she decided she’d pry the story from him later. From the looks on Flynn and Reilly’s faces, it would be a tale worth repeating.
“Why do ye call him Seamus?” Reilly asked.
“ ‘Tis his given name,” she answered, confused by the question.
“ ‘Tis James,” one of the Murphy brothers corrected her, while the man beside him nodded his agreement.
“Aye—or Jamie,” Masterson offered.
She looked over at her brother. He ran a hand through his hair, twice. She knew then that something was wrong. Though it had been a few years since she’d seen him, she remembered his habit of raking his hands through his hair when he was deeply troubled.
Waiting until he finished bathing the side of her face, she asked, “What is it, Seamus?”
“Ye need a bath, lass.”
“Are ye offerin’ to heat the water?”
He nodded, then answered her earlier question. “I did what I had to do. Don’t ye see?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Why don’t ye tell me?”
“Remember how hard it was for Da to find work when we first arrived?” he asked, his brow furrowed.
“Aye.”
“The signs sayin’ Irish need not apply? The hired muscle who beat Da?”
She nodded. It had been a bad time. So many hopes for starting over in a new land, free from famine and disease. The shock of arriving and having to face a whole new set of prejudices against them, for the same old reasons—who and what they were—would never be forgotten, though their mother had tried to get them to work on the forgiving part.
“ ‘Tis not half as bad as it was traveling West,” he finished, looking down at the hands he clasped and unclasped.
She reached over and twined her fingers with his. “If it would ease the tellin’,” she offered, “I’ll forgive ye now for somethin’ I’ve no doubt plagues ye.”
The look of gratitude that filled his deep blue eyes warmed her heart.
“I’ve changed me name.”
“And what’s wrong with Seamus?” she asked, her temper on the rise.
“I thought she said she’d forgive him,” one of the men said loudly.
“I did,” she snapped back. “But yer name—”
She raked a hand through her tangled hair, in a gesture so like her older brother, the group of men around her smiled. She thought they were daft. “All right,” she conceded. “Ye did what needed to be done.”
He nodded. The other men nodded in unison.
“What’ll I call ye then?”
“James,” he answered quickly, “ ‘Tis the Americanization of Seamus.”
“Well, in that case—”
“James Ryan.”
“Well, at least ye’ve kept yer middle name,” she said, unable to keep the hurt from her voice.
“Do ye think I’d give up me name, turn me back on Da, if I had another choice?” he demanded, rising to his feet.
Maggie rose to her feet and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. Placing her head against his chest, she sighed. “Forgive me for seemin’ to doubt ye, I—”
The tears that she’d bottled up inside her, from the moment she’d received his telegram, choked her.
His big hand stroked her hair. “Maggie, darlin’, I’ve a fearful temper.”
She tightened her grip, wanting to tell him that her temper was far worse, but she couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat.
“You’re safe now darlin’,” her brother soothed. “Go ahead and cry.”
Safe? She’d felt safe in Joshua’s arms. But she didn’t know if she’d ever see him again. It couldn’t be her destiny to be rescued by the same man twice, and never see him again, could it? Just the thought of it cracked the invisible dam she’d erected to hold her fears and feelings at bay when Rory died.
Her brother murmured to her in their native tongue. The musical sound of the Gaelic flowing softly around her, soothed her. And thought it was Seamus’s arms wrapped around her, she closed her eyes and imagined it was Joshua who held her close, protecting her.
But he’s gone.
The one man who might have been able to heal the ren
d in her heart left by Rory’s death, had ridden away without a word of good-bye. She knew in her heart that she’d lost the only other chance she would ever have at love.
The crack around her heart widened, and her tears poured out.
Chapter Fourteen
“Maggie love,” her brother whispered, gathering her into his arms.
One by one the men filed out of the room, until they were alone.
“ ‘Tisn’t because I need you to call me James, is it?” he asked.
Maggie shook her head against the broad expanse of her brother’s chest. She inhaled the clean soap scent of him and relaxed against him. The realization that her brother’s chest was nearly as heavily muscled as a certain marshal’s brought on a fresh spurt of tears.
“I can’t go back to the way things were,” he explained. “Even if I could, everyone around here knows me as James.”
“ ‘Tisn’t yer name,” she cried, struggling to get control of herself.
“I promise to find the man who hurt you, and I’ll tear a strip off his hide—”
Maggie could not hold back her snort of laughter.
“Are ye cryin’ or laughin’?” her brother asked, his brogue thickening. A clear tip-off that he was vexed with her.
“Oh Seam—James. I’m just tired.”
“Does the arrow wound still pain ye?”
She shook her head.
“Was Marshal Turner the man who helped ye?”
“Aye,” she said, her voice going soft. “He’s a brave man, with hands as big as yourself and Da’s.”
“Have you feelings for the man, then?” he asked quietly, tightening his hold on her.
Maggie pulled back from his embrace and wiped the backs of her hands over her cheeks, and under her eyes. “And what if I do?” she challenged. She’d not had to answer to anyone for the last five years, and she’d not start now.
“As your older brother, and only living male relative—”
“Stop right there,” she ordered, poking her index finger in the middle of his chest. “I’ve handled me own affairs since Da passed on, and Ma’s as well until…”
“Aye, Maggie,” he said gently, taking a hold of her hand. “You did just grand, but now that you’re here, won’t you let me share some of your burden?”
“I might,” she said, relenting. “But just now, I’d like to lie down, just for a wee bit, mind.” She shook her finger in his face until he grinned at her. “Wake me in a few hours so I can make a proper meal for the lot of ye.”
“You’ll rest today.”
“I’ll not.”
“Maggie,”
“Jamie,” she said, drawing out her brother’s name, hoping by compromising on the use of his name, he’d agree to let her take over in the kitchen.
“If you wake up on your own, then I might let you ask Sean if he minds if you take his turn cooking.”
“Ye won’t be sorry,” she said, relieved that he’d almost agreed. “I’ve been wantin’ to make a couple of Ma’s pies.”
“Apple pie?”
Maggie could tell from the look on his face that he might be persuaded to let her bake a few pies. Back in Ireland, he’d polish off a pie for breakfast all by himself, if their mother didn’t stop him first.
“Well, then, you’d best rest up, lass.” He took her by the arm and led her upstairs.
She slept like the dead for the rest of the day and on through the night.
***
Maggie woke with a start and sat up straight. Her heart was pounding and her skin moist from perspiration. The demons from her nightmare vanished the moment she’d opened her eyes, but the memory of what she’d dreamed lingered.
Her hands ached. She looked down at them and nearly laughed out loud. They were white-knuckled, fisted about the bedsheets.
“It was a dream,” she said aloud to banish the wisp of the dream that lingered about her. But the image of the blond-haired man cradled in her arms haunted her. She could still see the life begin to dim in his beautiful green eyes. Though she’d tried to save him, the outlaw’s aim had been true.
“Don’t weep for me, mo croi—my heart. Promise me you’ll not bury your love beside me.
She shook her head and looked about her. The windows had flour-sack curtains tied back with frayed bits of twine, not the soft white curtains her mother had lovingly trimmed with bits of lace their grandmother had crocheted.
She was in Colorado—not Ireland, though the dying man’s words were no dream. Rory had made her promise to live and love again.
“Why then did I dream that Joshua was the one who died in me arms?”
It must be a warning, she thought. If she gave her love to him, he would die too. Heaven help her, she didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t reason it out.
Dragging herself from the bed, though she ached in a dozen places, it was better than lying in bed slipping back into the nightmare.
Grateful for the pitcher of fresh water and clean cloth, she washed as best she could, promising herself to ask her brother about a bath later. There was breakfast to see to, pies promised, and a poultice to prepare for William’s injury.
An hour later, she was rolling out piecrust, careful not to get any on the bandages on her wrists. Two trays of biscuits were cooling and two more were in the oven. Crisply fried bacon was piled high on a platter with thin slices of ham. The frying eggs needed tending. After the idleness of her journey West, and the enforced bedrest, it felt good to be doing something useful. Her arm ached, but she wasn’t going to share that little tidbit with anyone just yet. She’d finish her pies first, she decided. Placing the bottom crust in the pie tin, she filled it with the apples, sugar, and cinnamon. She placed the flattened bit of crust on top and began to flute the edges.
Finished, she drew in a deep breath and sniffed. The warm, yeasty scent of buttermilk biscuits baking was soothing. Like home. She opened the oven, took out the trays and put the pies in.
“What smells like heaven and cinnamon?”
“William.” She jolted in surprise, wondering why she hadn’t heard the big man walk up behind her.
He smiled, closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “We’ve not had any sweets since Sean tried his hand at making biscuits.” He smiled. “It smells of home.”
“Where is home?”
She watched his smile turn upside-down. “Far from here, lass.”
His silence seemed uneasy. Rather than intrude, she bid him to sit at the table while she applied the poultice she’d prepared with the comfrey root she’d found with the salve the doctor had left behind for whatever ailed Flynn.
“Have ye had no sweets at all” She wiped her hands on her apron and smoothed the hiar from his brow.
“None.”
“Ye poor man,” she sympathized. “Not even a decent scone?”
He shook his head looking so like a lost little boy deprived of his treats, she had to smile. “Well then, I hope ye like apple pie.”
His eyes sparkled, and his grin widened. “I plan on having more than one piece, just to make sure—”
“Biscuits!” Reilly called out, coming in through the back door. “Why didn’t ye bang on a pot or ring the bell if breakfast was ready.”
“Jamie,” Reilly hollered out the door.
“Coming!”
“You’d think the lot of ye hadn’t eaten in days,” she said with a smile.
“It’s been a week since we’ve had decent biscuits.”
“Longer since we’ve had anything sweet.”
“And Lordy, do I crave something sweet!”
“Well don’t just stand there,” she said, to the group of men gathered about her, hands on her hips. “Yer breakfast is gettin’ cold.”
“Maggie, you look tired,” James said coming to stand beside her.
She tried to shoo him away and heft the platter herself, but he took it right out of her hands and motioned for her to get the coffeepot. The group of normally talkative Irishmen was si
lent, except for a sigh or two or pure pleasure, as they put away every last bit of food she’d prepared.
“Jamie,” she said, touching her brother’s broad shoulder. “I forgot to give ye these last night.” Reaching into the deep pocket of her apron, she pulled out the roll of papers she’d traveled so far to deliver. She placed them into her brother’s hands.
They shook as he carefully unrolled them. “Ahh, Maggie darlin’—when you didn’t say anything about them last night, I was afraid to ask. But I knew I could depend on you.”
The break in her brother’s voice brought tears to her eyes. “Well then, I’ll just go up and see how yer guest is doing’. Oh,” she said, turning back, “do ye mind if I borrow the wagon?”
“Whenever you need to go, one of the men can drive you.”
“I’d rather see to me errands meself.”
Five pair of eyes turned toward her brother, waiting for him to either agree or disagree with her request. She held her breath and waited.
“You’ve been through so much, can’t you let someone drive you?”
“I don’t want to take anyone away from their duties.” She wrung her hands, her nerves taut as a bowstring.
“William?” James asked.
“No problem. I just have a bit of the fence repair left to finish and then I’ll be free.”
“Well then,” Maggie said, rubbing her damp hands on her apron. “Ye know where to find me.”
***
William pulled the team to a stop in front of the Bank of Emerson and set the brake. “I’ll wait outside if you like.”
Maggie nodded. “I won’t be long.” She walked through the open door to the bank.
“May I help you?” the short, spindly man who hovered near the entrance asked.
“Yes. I would like to see Mr. Emerson, I need to have money transferred from me bank back home in New York.”
The man bowed and made his way across the open lobby to the narrow hallway just beyond. While she watched, he knocked on the frosted glass door and waited for the summons to enter.
Uneasy at the prospect of meeting the man who singlehandedly owned and ran the town, she let her gaze take in the compact room. The floor was scrupulously clean, and the walls painted a soft green. It was not quite on par with the bank she was used to doing business in back in New York, but for a frontier town, it was quite nice.
The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Page 14
