The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “I wonder what it was?”

  God love her, the woman actually stopped to consider what was wrong with her son, when it was obvious to Ryan that she was the problem.

  “He’s worried about you.”

  “That’s silly. I’m fine—”

  Ryan straightened to his full height. “You will be. But you aren’t yet. You need to rest, eat, and drink more.”

  Bridget narrowed her eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

  Ryan ignored the annoyed tone of her voice, stomped to the side of the bed, and bit out, “You’re doin’ such a fine job of it now that yer starvin’ yerself and ye don’t even seem to realize it!”

  “Maggie told you?”

  No, he’d finally reasoned it out for himself. “Maggie didn’t have to tell me. I’ve seen men starving before. I’ve just never known one to do it intentionally before.”

  The censure of his words hung in the air, like greasy smoke from a cook fire.

  Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, not willing to hear what she had to say. “You’ll do as you’re told from now on. You’ll eat what I say, when I say.”

  The daggers shooting out her eyes should have given him fair warning that she didn’t take too kindly to being ordered about. Too bad.

  “I take no orders from anyone, even when they may be given with good intentions.”

  Ryan placed his hands on his hips, bending forward until his face was an inch from hers. He could feel the anger radiating from him and knew his temper was spiking, but the woman was being so difficult. “Ye’ll do as I say, and like it—for Mick’s sake.”

  Bridget crumpled at his words. He’d known the mention of her son would get her to agree to what he wanted, but he hadn’t expected her to fold so quickly.

  Ryan nearly felt sorry for her, until he looked back at her and saw the hollows in her cheeks where there should be flesh to spare. Anger spiked again. In order to tamp it down, he thought of how often he could get a rise out of his sister by playing on her sympathies. Likely Bridget O’Toole would be as easy to figure out. Hell, all he’d have to do was mention Mick’s name, and she’d likely do whatever he wanted her to.

  “You need to rest.”

  Bridget turned away and slumped down in the bed, dejection evident in every line of her body. He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out for her hand. It lay limp and lifeless in his. “I’m a good listener, if you want to talk about it.”

  Bridget turned back toward him, staring down at her hand resting is his. She swallowed audibly, then cleared her throat. “I’ve yet to thank you for your kindness to Mick and me.”

  Ryan started to push away, but she continued. “You may not want our thanks, but it’s all we have to give in return. I haven’t any money. But once I’m well again, I intend to make it up to you. I can cook, clean—”

  His simmering temper shot straight to boil. Pushing up off the bed, he stalked to the door; fists clenched, and nearly put one of them through the wood panel. The overwhelming need to explain stopped him and had him turning back. “I don’t need or want your thanks for doing what I was brought up to believe was expected. If someone I know is ill, I tend to them. If they need help building a new barn, I bring over a wagon loaded with planks of wood and my tools.”

  Ryan dropped his hands to his sides and stared up at the ceiling. How can I make this thickheaded woman understand?

  “Your parents must be exceptional people, James.”

  Something warm flowed through him, loosening all the tight little knots of tension at the sound of his given name on her lips. His head whipped around and he pinned her with a look. “They were.”

  “Oh.” Bridget’s hand went to her heart. “I’m so sorry. You must miss them.”

  “It makes them seem closer when I do as they would have done.” He walked back over to the bed. “I’m only trying to do the right thing. Mick and you need my help. Let me help you, Bridget. Let me help your boy.”

  Her eyes filled at his words. She tried to blink them away, but couldn’t. Big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Her eyes reddened and her nose started to run. Their hands reached for the handkerchief on the bedside table at the same moment. For a heartbeat, neither one moved. Ryan’s big hand clutching the linen cloth, while Bridget’s much smaller one held on to his thumb.

  Eyes swimming with tears, nose running, Bridget O’Toole felt her whole world grinding to a stop. Her heart lurched and her stomach fell all the way to her feet. Feelings for this man bombarded her as he handed her the handkerchief, holding it for her, ordering her to blow her nose.

  She didn’t want to feel anything for any man. She’d spent too many years loving the one who’d deserted her. Then the one time she trusted her heart again, the man had used his fists on her.

  When Ryan ordered her to blow her nose again, her thoughts jerked back to the present. She couldn’t afford to let her heart lead her down the wrong path again. She just wasn’t up to the heartache that would surely follow.

  Placing her trust in him would be difficult, but the man all but demanded that she do so while she recovered. Her mind raced, trying to figure everything out. Mick needed a place to stay, food, and tasks to keep his hands busy so he wouldn’t get into trouble again. Heaven only knew how they ended up at James Ryan’s ranch or what her boy had been hunting. Time would tell. She could always ask Maggie. Surely she’d know and would be willing to tell Bridget.

  “If I accept your hospitality and help with my son, you must accept my terms in return.”

  When he bristled, she raced on. “When I feel recovered, you’ll not stop me from pitching in where I think I am needed.”

  He rose to his feet and turned his back to her. Bridget wished she could see the expression on his face. Such a handsome face. Strong jaw, probably like granite, should anyone try to test it with a fist. She remembered how long her own had ached when—she shook her head, resolving not to think about that time in her life. It was over. She’d survived. Mick had survived.

  They would move on when she was well. This time Mick might not want to go, but he would go. She couldn’t think of life without her son—wouldn’t think of it.

  Ryan turned back. “If I think you are overdoing it, I will tell you.”

  Their gazes met and held, neither one giving an inch. She admired him for that. What he thought of her, she could only speculate. The sudden realization that he didn’t frighten her speared through her, leaving her light-headed. Here stood a man well over six feet tall, raw-boned and muscled, with big broad shoulders and immense hands callused from working his land, but not once had she felt any tinge of fear when he was alone with her. Somehow she sensed he would rather break one of his own hands than so much as bruise one of hers.

  Comforted by that realization, and the further one that James Ryan seemed to care what happened to her son, Bridget settled back down against the pillows and closed her eyes.

  At the sound of the door handle being turned, she opened one eye. He stood in the doorway, looking at her. Her other eye shot open as the heat from his gaze scorched her. Raw desire ripped through her, leaving her feeling weaker than the fever that had just broken.

  Before she could speak, the look in his eyes changed. Like a shutter being closed, or a shade being drawn, the desire in his eyes was wiped out until only concern remained. He turned and walked out the door.

  Her thoughts in turmoil, her heart beating madly, Bridget knew it would be a long time before she fell back to sleep. Reaching for the glass he had thoughtfully left within reach, she drank the cool water, all the while wondering how she’d ever cool the newly awakened desire for the man who opened his home and his heart to them. “A dip in the horse trough, most likely.”

  “A fine suggestion, but I don’t think the horses like finding people in their drinkin’ water.”

  “Maggie? I didn’t see you there.”

  “Obviously,” the other woman said with a grin.

  “I thought
you were in town?”

  “I was. Now I’m back.”

  Bridget watched Maggie bustle into the bedroom with another tray in hand. “I suppose you’re going to make me eat again.”

  “Count on it. We can either do this the easy way, or I can pinch yer nose closed and shove the bread down yer throat. Either way, ye’ll eat.”

  Bridget sputtered and started to protest, but the look in Maggie’s eyes stopped her. Pure animal stubbornness recognized its own kind. But right now, Maggie was on her feet and in fighting form, while Bridget lay on her back in bed, too exhausted to sit up half the time. For now, Maggie could tell her what to do. Bridget was smart enough to realize that she’d have to do it. Like it or not, Maggie wanted her to get well as badly as Maggie’s brother did.

  “You and your brother are two of a kind, you know.”

  “Aye. Both hardheaded as me da’s old mule. I have a permanent lump on me shin where the blasted creature kicked me years ago.”

  Conversation was so easy with Maggie, Bridget didn’t realize she’d eaten every bit of broth and bread until Maggie announced that she’d see if there was another bit left in the pan on the stovetop.

  “No. Thank you, I’m full.”

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed.

  “Truly. And I ate two whole slices of bread tonight,” Bridget pointed out.

  “Well now, sure and I’d be fallin’ on me face, if I’d only eaten that little.” Patting her generous hip, Maggie laughed. “If only I could be as slender as ye be—but not for the same reasons.”

  Bridget marveled that someone with Maggie’s voluptuous figure would want to be reed thin. “But you’ve such curves. Why would you want to be any different?”

  Maggie laughed out loud. “Isn’t it always the way? The good Lord gives us one thing, and we want another entirely.”

  Picking up the tray and resting it on her hip, Maggie bent over Bridget and smoothed the tips of her fingers across Bridget’s brow. “Yer much cooler. ’Tis a good thing.”

  Bridget flushed, remembering how it felt when James had brushed his fingers across her brow.

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye feelin’ poorly again?”

  Bridget cleared her throat. “No—yes. I—I don’t know.”

  The concern in Maggie’s eyes went right to Bridget’s heart. She had to make Maggie understand. It wasn’t the fever from her illness that threatened to consume her; it was the fever of desire. How could she possibly confide in Maggie that Maggie’s brother made Bridget’s heart pound and her stomach flutter?

  Never one to mince words, Bridget decided just to say it. But before she could say anything, Maggie smiled. “Well now that explains why me brother lit out of the house like his tail was on fire.”

  Bridget’s mouth opened, then closed. What could she possibly say now?

  Maggie smiled. “He’s a fine lookin’ man. Many’s the lass back home who would’ve counted herself the lucky one, if me hardheaded brother ever asked one to wed. There was Moira McGee, Shelia O’Brien. Oh, and how could I forget Katherine—”

  “Maggie!” Bridget sputtered, embarrassed that she’d felt the spurt of jealousy at the mention of the women who’d loved James back home.

  Maggie just laughed again, hoisted the tray back up, and promised to be back later.

  Now mentally and physically exhausted, Bridget scooted down under the covers and snuggled against the feather pillows. How fortunate for her neither Moira, Shelia, nor Katherine were here at James’s ranch. She was. She intended to stay until she was well, and then she planned on paying James back for his kindness.

  Whether he wanted her to or not, she’d be washing his clothes and cooking his meals before he realized she was at it. Bridget drifted off to sleep planning out how and when she could slip out of bed to wash a tubful of dirty shirts without James or one of his ranch hands being the wiser.

  Contentment flowed through her as her breathing deepened and her head grew heavy. Maybe tomorrow she’d feel well enough to get up. If not tomorrow, definitely the day after.

  Chapter Four

  The smoke blinded her. She couldn’t find her way to the cabin door! God help her, she needed to get the baby, but she couldn’t find his cradle.

  Stumbling, sobbing, she thrashed her way to where she thought the cradle would be, as an ominous crackling sounded right behind her.

  “Mick!”

  Her cry was swallowed up by the rush of flames as it ate its way through the north wall of the cabin. She tamped down on her fear, put her head down, and dashed toward the flames.

  “Bridget?”

  Where was he? Why couldn’t she find him? Dear God, help me find him!

  “Bridget!”

  The sound of her name being called finally broke through the nightmare, as did the teasing scent on the night wind. Sandalwood, fresh-cut grass, and a hint of horse.

  James.

  The brush of callused fingertips across her brow pulled her the rest of the way free from the depths of darkness. Her eyes opened and slowly focused in the flickering candlelight. The breeze from the open window brought another wisp of scent past her nose. She breathed deeply, oddly soothed by it.

  “There’s a lass. Are you all right?”

  Concern added an edge to his voice. Being pulled from his bed in the middle of the night added a husky quality to it that pulled at her belly. Still groggy from the nightmare, she wondered about the desire she’d seen in his gaze earlier. Licking her dry lips, she nodded. She was all right, just confused. She only saw concern in his eyes. Did he no longer desire her, or had the fever caused her to see things that hadn’t been there?

  “I heard you cry out. I thought something was wrong.” He shifted from one foot to the other. The motion had her looking down at his feet—his bare feet.

  She swallowed. Her tongue felt thick. It had been too many years to count since she’d seen a man without his boots or socks.

  Her gaze slid up from his toes to his denim-clad knees and promptly got stuck as she stared at sun-browned skin one inch above the top button of his pants. Oh good Lord. He was shirtless! Thoughts of how his chest would look, how the muscles would form and meld into one another, had heat flushing her cheeks. Did she dare to peek at his chest to see if it equaled her imagination?

  “Here now, are you feverish again?”

  His concern was her undoing. She moaned out his name, unable to help herself.

  He was at her side before she could stop him. Held against the strength of his chest, Bridget melted. It had been so very long since she’d leaned on anyone. Not since Michael—but she hadn’t wanted to. Especially after the way the townspeople treated her when she arrived in town with baby Mick in tow. No one believed that Michael O’Toole had gotten married, least of all to a nobody like Bridget Garahan. The words hurt then, and they still hurt now.

  She shuddered.

  James’s arms tightened around her a moment before he slowly stroked the back of her head with the tips of his fingers, easing the tension out of it. Heaven. His strong fingers were so clever. She couldn’t help but relax against him as his fingers started working on her neck and shoulders.

  Warmth pooled low in her belly, spreading up her back, wrapping around to her heart. His touch was so gentle, his fingers so strong, yet they massaged her aching muscles with a deftness that showed he knew how to care for someone weaker than himself.

  Although she ached for something more, his touch didn’t ignite passion in her; it was all about healing and caring. Bridget’s heart fluttered at his touch. It had been too many years to count since someone had actually taken care of her. She had been the rock Mick had leaned on for nearly thirteen years. To have that load suddenly lifted from her shoulders, if only for a short while, eased the constant ache in her heart. For the moment she wasn’t alone. She had James.

  ***

  When Bridget melted against him, Ryan thought he’d go up in flames. Keeping his need for her in check was slowly killing him. He felt
as if he were roasting alive on a spit, knowing he should only move his hands if they sought to comfort—not to excite. His hands should only ease tension from knotted muscles, not want to smooth across silky skin, eliciting tiny flames of desire as he stroked the path from Bridget’s ankle up to the back of her knee.

  He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. God, he wanted to touch her. All of her. Her comfort was the last thought on his mind. His body ached with need too strong to ignore burning in his gut. But he had promised himself when he heard her cry out that he would only go into her room to see if she was all right. Not to trace the satiny skin of her face with the tips of his fingers . . . or run the tip of his tongue along the rim of her pretty mouth, before plunging deep, tasting the honeyed sweetness he was certain waited for his questing tongue.

  Sucking in a much-needed breath of air, Ryan fought against the urge to curse in Gaelic. The words formed in his mind, tripping down to this tongue, when he heard a sound from the other side of the room.

  “What was that?”

  “Hmmm?”

  He loosened his hold and leaned her back against the pillow and rounded the bed. “Mick, lad, what are you doing sleeping on the floor when you’ve a perfectly good bed right next door?”

  “I didn’t know he was there,” Bridget whispered, watching him start to squat down next to her son. “No,” she said, when Ryan tried to move him, “let him be. He’s tired.”

  Ryan nodded and straightened back up. There was a cot on the third floor. He could set it up in here tomorrow. The boy should be sleeping in a bed—not on the floor.

  Just then Mick mumbled something more in his sleep and turned over, kicking off the blanket he’d tossed on earlier. Ryan stared down at Mick, trying to decide if he should lower the boy’s leg until it was flat on the floor again, or let him sleep with his leg bent all night.

  “I’d leave him be.” Bridget was sitting up on the bed, looking at her son with her heart in her eyes. He’d seen the same sort of look in his own mother’s eyes, when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

  Ryan’s heart ached just a bit to be loved like that again. No questions asked, just loved for who you were, not what someone wanted you to be, or whom you thought you should be.