The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  His heart clenched at the thought of taking care of another woman. He’d gone down that road five years ago. Well, this time he’d not put his trust or his heart in the woman’s hands, no matter how badly he was tempted. Placing his fate in the hands of the woman he loved was a risk he couldn’t take, a mistake he couldn’t make twice.

  “Jamie?”

  He looked over at his foreman. “Aye, Reilly?”

  Reilly’s gaze met his. “No word yet from Turner.”

  The worry that his sister would not arrive in time was driving him crazy. He needed the papers he’d entrusted to her care to help prove he owned every one of the precious, blessed acres McMaster had deeded to him two weeks before the old man died.

  If the bloody crooked banker hadn’t destroyed the other copies, Ryan wouldn’t have had to send for his sister. She’d still be safe and sound back in New York instead of missing somewhere in eastern Colorado. God, he hoped she was missing and not—

  “She’ll turn up.” Reilly looked so sure of it, Ryan swallowed the knot of fear and nodded.

  “What have we here?”

  Reilly’s question helped snap Ryan’s focus back on the immediate problem at hand. Today Ryan would focus on making Mick and his mother feel welcomed and cared for. Tomorrow he would have time to worry about Maggie’s whereabouts.

  Chapter Three

  Three days later, Ryan was about to burst from the combined worry of his still-missing sister and his two new charges.

  Ryan bit back a curse as the worry tying his guts into knots became painful. “What has Mrs. O’Toole eaten today, Flynn?”

  The two men stood facing one another on opposite sides of the kitchen, both sipping strong coffee in an effort to wake up.

  The redheaded man’s eyes looked bleak. “Not enough to feed a damned bird.”

  Reilly opened the back door and swept the hat from his head, smacking it against his thigh. Dust billowed out from both the hat and Reilly’s denim-clad leg. “Are we talking about Mrs. O’Toole again?”

  “Aye,” Flynn answered with a nod toward Ryan. “Himself thinks he has to keep his word to the lass.”

  Reilly and Flynn exchanged a long look while Ryan swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee. “I don’t give my word not intending to keep it.”

  “Didn’t you now?” Flynn quietly asked before taking a healthy drink from his own chipped, enameled mug.

  “No.” Ryan set his cup on the table and reached for one of the empty ones, filling it with steaming brew from the pot. He sloshed coffee on his wrist as he handed it to Reilly. “Bleeding—”

  “—buggering eedjit,” Reilly finished for him. “We’ve heard the expression a hundred times over these past few days. Can ye not think of another, then?” Reilly smiled over the rim of the cup Ryan handed him.

  Ryan scowled at his men. How could he put into words how he felt about breaking his word to the fragile woman lying upstairs, wasting away with each breath she took. He’d broken it more times than he could count in the last five years, and each time he did, he added another black spot to his already pockmarked soul.

  She hadn’t eaten nearly enough to satisfy him, although Mick proclaimed she’d eaten more today than in the past three. “She’s warm, but I don’t think she’s feverish.”

  “No obvious sign of sores or lesions. What ails the lass?” Reilly demanded.

  “You’ve got to bring the doctor in.”

  Flynn’s statement left a hollow feeling in Ryan’s gut. “I gave my word.”

  “Are ye prepared to let the lass simply fade away?” Flynn asked. “She’s not strong enough to last another week without food!”

  Ryan knew Flynn was right, but he hated breaking his promise.

  “Ye gave your word,” Reilly said with a nod. “I understand ye’ll not want to break it. But ye’re an intelligent man, Jamie. Ye know we need to summon the doctor.”

  The sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching saved Ryan from having to answer.

  * * *

  Raised voices stirred Bridget from a fitful slumber. “Maggie, me darlin’!” She strained her ears, trying to hear more.

  “Go on down and see who it is, Mick.”

  “I know who it is.”

  “How? You haven’t looked yet?”

  “Mr. Ryan’s been expecting his sister for over a week now.”

  “Please, Mick?” Bridget waited for him to do as she asked.

  He slowly got up from the rocking chair by the side of her bed, as if he was reluctant to leave her. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, as she had done so many times when Mick had been sick.

  “I’ll be right back.” He paused in the doorway and turned back. “Do you need anything? Are you hungry?”

  Truth be told, she was starving—literally. But her stomach could no longer tolerate food. Covering up the deep-rooted worry, Bridget managed a fleeting smile. “Not a thing. Hurry back.”

  To distract herself from thinking of her stomach and the hunger that churned and roiled in it, she closed her eyes, promising herself just a short rest.

  Bridget’s eyes flew open, and she knew she’d slept longer than she’d planned. Brilliant sunlight poured in through the window, highlighting the dust motes dancing and swirling on the breeze.

  Bits and pieces of remembered conversations flitted through her mind. Lord, she felt so groggy. Struggling to clear her head, she tried remembering what she could. She remembered Mick leaving to go hunting. But the next thing she remembered didn’t make sense. She remembered being carried in strong muscled arms, held carefully against a rock-hard chest.

  Who had carried her? How much time had passed?

  Straining to recall, she remembered a stern, black-haired man with the most beautiful, deep blue eyes. His concern, and that of his men, had warmed her heart, but it had been days since she remembered seeing him.

  More tired than she ever remembered being, Bridget closed her eyes and drifted back off to sleep. Caught in a web of dreams, she fought against walls of flame and then against angry fists.

  Awake again, she still felt fuzzy. Had the room had gone warm, or had she? Brushing a hand across her brow, she felt the dry, brittle heat coming off her forehead and neck in waves.

  Too weak and tired to call out for help, Bridget closed her eyes, drifting off again. Surely someone would come back to check on her, wouldn’t they?

  Something cool and wet eased the heat from her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes fluttered open and met those of a blue-eyed redhead she didn’t recognize.

  “There now, yer not to worry at all.” The woman’s soft, lilting voice crooned.

  The cooling cloths had eased some of the heat. Grateful for the respite, she asked, “Who are you?”

  “Jamie’s sister.”

  Bridget’s smile was fleeting. “Ahh, the missing Maggie.”

  “Ma?” Mick sounded close, maybe he was in the hallway.

  “Here’s your boy now.” Maggie turned and motioned for Mick to bring the tray into the room.

  “Have a sip of water, then we’ll work on getting some broth into you.”

  Bridget looked from Maggie to her son and back. She was beyond help and knew it. Needing to tell someone, and not wanting Mick to hear, she motioned for him to come closer. “Would you see if there is any coffee or tea to drink?”

  His gaze met hers, and she knew he wasn’t fooled, but the boy was smart enough to know when to make himself scarce. She hoped he wasn’t going to stand out in the hallway and listen.

  He nodded, brushing a quick kiss to her brow, then left to do her bidding.

  “Ye’ve raised a strong and carin’ son, Mrs. O’Toole.”

  Bridget smiled. “He’s all I have.”

  “Ye should be proud.” Maggie paused. “He’s worried about ye. Can ye not bring yerself to have a sip of broth, then?”

  Bridget was afraid to try. All her other attempts to eat had failed miserably. Her stomach muscles still protested from the last time she’d
eaten and promptly thrown it up.

  Eyes narrowed, Maggie demanded, “When was the last time ye ate yer fill?”

  Bridget tried to look away, but Maggie’s blue-eyed stare pinned her, as Maggie softly added, “And yer boy is a picture of health. Obviously well fed.” The other woman nodded as if she truly understood. “Me own parents would have starved themselves to see me and me brother fed.”

  Bridget’s gaze darted about the room before settling back on Maggie’s. There was no use to deny the truth when Maggie had guessed it. “He’s the image of his father.”

  “Ye must have loved him something fierce.”

  A single tear slipped past Bridget’s guard. “I did. But he’s been gone a long, long time.”

  “Why don’t ye try a bit of bread soaked in broth? It’ll build up yer strength, then ye can tell me about him.”

  Bridget hesitated then crumbled against the pillow. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t eat, or can’t tell me about Mick’s father?”

  Bridget felt the tears before her brain registered the fact that she was crying. She wiped them away. “I’ve tried, but I can’t keep any food down.”

  Maggie’s gaze flickered, then she rose to fetch a bit of bread from the tray. “Me grandparents suffered, the same as ye are.”

  Bridget blinked. “Truly?”

  “Aye. Me parents lived through the worst of the famine. The trick is to take it slowly. Small meals five or six times a day . . . bread soaked in broth, sweet tea, and plenty of water.

  “I’d like to try, but I can’t.”

  “Trust me. I know what I’m about.”

  No match for the other woman’s forceful personality, Bridget hesitated, before deciding it might help to share the heavy burden, of knowing she was starving herself in order to feed her son, with someone who would truly understand. “Do you promise not to say anything to Mick or your brother?”

  Maggie paused, thoughtfully tapping a finger to her full lips before slowly smiling. “I will, if ye promise to eat a least half this slice of bread with half of that broth.”

  Mounting frustration and growing fear nearly had Bridget bursting into tears again. Only the knowledge that her son could come back at any moment kept her from breaking down and sobbing like a baby. She nodded and told Maggie how she and Mick had come to such dire straits, needing someone to step in and help them.

  Maggie patted her hand as she fed Bridget another bit of broth-soaked bread. When she seemed satisfied Bridget had eaten all her shrunken stomach could handle, Maggie gave her a few more sips of water, then helped her to lie back down. “Rest. I’ll be back, and I’ll send Mick up too.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Aye?”

  “I’ll be eternally grateful to both you and your brother.”

  “Go on with ye now.” Maggie fussed with the napkin, setting it back on the tray before lifting the tray to rest on her hip. “Try to close yer eyes and rest.”

  “I will,” Bridget promised, letting her eyes drift closed. Strangely, her stomach no longer roiled. It felt full, but not queasy. Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that she would live to see Mick’s thirteenth birthday. She wasn’t going to die.

  * * *

  Bridget woke to the insistent, but gentle, shaking. Her eyes fluttered open and focused on the face so familiar, she’d seen it a hundred times in her dreams. “Michael, you’ve come back!”

  “No, Ma. It’s me. Mick!”

  The worry in her son’s voice broke through the cobwebs her fevered brain had conjured up.

  “Mick, I was just dreaming . . .”

  He laid his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. I understand.”

  Mick’s gut clenched as worry tangled with fear. Every word he’d overheard earlier as he stood outside his mother’s slightly open door ran through his brain, making it feel like he imagined a droplet of water did as it hit the surface of a hot cast-iron skillet. He wondered why his head didn’t sputter, spit, and then just evaporate in a cloud of steam.

  While he watched, his mother’s eyes slowly closed before she fell back into what he worried was a fevered sleep. Hands in fists at his sides, he stood staring down at the woman who had loved him all of his life. The one who had tried to shelter him from harsh words and hateful gossip as they moved from town to town.

  She’d worked until her back bowed under the strain of standing over a washtub, scrubbing other people’s clothes. Her hands were callused, not smooth like the ladies he’d seen at the Rusty Spur.

  Funny how some of the richer ladies in town had always said the same things about his ma that they’d said about them fancy pieces of female who served drinks and did what he could only imagine in the upstairs rooms of the Rusty Spur. And he could imagine plenty!

  He shook his head. His ma wasn’t like them; she was a hard-working, devoted mother who’d starved herself to feed him. Guilt welled up from his toes to his knees, surging up to his chest. He’d only just realized what she’d done for him, and he couldn’t forgive himself for not noticing sooner. He swayed before getting a grip on emotions he couldn’t let take over.

  Careful not to disturb her, Mick pulled the cover up over her shoulder, tucking it under her chin. Sweeping the hair off her forehead, as she had done for him countless times as a child, he felt the heat pouring off her in waves. For a moment he didn’t know what to do; fear for his mother had every drop of spit drying up in his mouth. If she needed him to call out for help just then, he knew he couldn’t.

  But while he couldn’t speak, he could still move. He was out of the door like a shot, pounding down the stairs in search of help.

  * * *

  Ryan heard the back door slam open and looked up in time to see Mick burst through it like a bullet, before stumbling down the porch steps drunkenly.

  “Flynn!” Ryan hit the bottom stairs in time to catch Mick. “Easy now, lad. Breathe in slow. That’s it. Now, bend down. Concentrate. Breathe in slow and out slow.”

  Holding the boy’s head between his knees, Ryan nodded as Flynn joined him. “Must have had quite a scare to lose your breath like that.”

  Mick’s pale face was all Ryan needed to see to know what had scared him. “Flynn. Stay here while Mick gets his wind back.” Mick’s gaze pinned his, and Ryan assured the boy, “I’ll take care of your mother.”

  Ryan didn’t start to run until he heard the back door close with a thud. His long legs took the stairs three at a time. No more than five minutes had passed since Mick had stumbled out of the door when Ryan reached Bridget’s side.

  He could see that she had been covered up, but the blanket now lay in a heap on the floor. Her white cotton nightgown had worked its way up to mid-thigh, exposing long, lithe legs. A stronger man would have been able to ignore the punch of lust hitting Ryan in the gut as he walked toward the bed. Consumed with worry and responsibilities at the ranch, he had been too busy lately to ride on over to the Desert Rose. He had gone too long without a warm and willing woman, and his body let him know just how anxious it was to do something about it.

  Stifling the curse burning the tip of his tongue, he stepped up to the side of the bed, grabbed the edge of her nightgown and pulled it down to her toes. Once she was covered, the sharp edge of lust dulled to a thick ache. The ache he could deal with. The white-hot need—well, he’d think about that later. Right now, Bridget and Mick both needed him. Mick was in Flynn’s capable hands, leaving Ryan to tend to Bridget.

  His sister had left a fresh linen cloth next to the washbasin. He dipped the soft cloth into the now-tepid water. Wringing out most of the water, he placed the cool, moist cloth on Bridget’s forehead. Her soft moan made his stomach clench.

  Berating himself for paying too much attention to the way his body reacted around the fragile woman, Ryan focused on trying to bring her fever down. He traced the line of her jaw and curve of her cheek with the cloth. Each time the cloth smoothed over her too-hot flesh, Bridget let out a small moan.

&nb
sp; He hoped to God it wasn’t pain she was feeling. Dipping the cloth into the water again, he brushed it over her cheeks and chin, patiently repeating the process until the cloth finally seemed to be as cool as the water. He’d drawn most of the heat from her face, but each time his fingertips brushed her neck, the heat still pulsed strongly there.

  Giving in to the inevitable, he opened the top three buttons of her nightgown and pressed the cool cloth to the base of her throat. The soft intake of breath surprised him. It wasn’t a moan this time. Maybe the cloth was too cool. Determined to help break her fever, as his sister had explained how to do earlier, he dipped the cloth again. A noise outside caught his attention. He looked over toward the window, then back, and nearly swallowed his tongue. His cloth-filled hand rested against Bridget’s chest, but it wasn’t the sight of his large, work-roughened hand lying against the alabaster of her skin that caused the reaction. The chill of the cloth against the heat of her fevered body had the sleeping woman’s breasts pearling against the sheer white of her gown. He shook his head and told himself to look away, but couldn’t. The sight robbed him of speech.

  “Eedjit! You’re here to take care of the woman, not—”

  “Not what?”

  Ryan jolted, dropping the freshly dipped cloth. It landed with a squishy plop on the floor. “You’re awake?”

  “I am now.” Bridget’s eyes were bright, too bright, and glassy with fever.

  “You need to drink more water. You’re body’s fighting to get better, but you have to help it along.”

  “Where’s Maggie? She was here when I fell asleep.”

  Bridget sounded a bit lost, befuddled. Ryan suspected she felt as disoriented as he did, only for different reasons. “She’s in town; she’ll be back soon.”

  “Where’s Mick?”

  “Well, now, he’s the reason I’m here.” Ryan stooped to pick up the cloth. Turning his back on Bridget helped him to steer his thoughts away from her delectable body and onto safer ground. “He came tearing out of the house. Something must have frightened him. The lad could barely catch his breath.”