The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “He always sleeps like a log.” Bridget smiled up at James. “Heaven help me, if I needed to move him during the night, I couldn’t. He’s grown so much this last year.”

  “You’ve taken better care of your son than you have of yourself.”

  Bridget bristled at his words, though she knew them to be true. “And what business is it of yours if I have?”

  Ryan smoothed the covers over Mick as the boy turned back onto his side, facing the window. He slowly rose to his feet, his gaze never wavering as he spoke, “I made it my business the night I made the decision to save Mick from himself.”

  Confusion slid through her, chilling her. She rubbed her arms to warm them. “I don’t understand.”

  Ryan sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up for a moment before falling back down against his skull. “I don’t suppose you know where Mick ended up the night we met?”

  A frisson of fear added to the chill she already felt. She started to shake. Ryan looked as if he wanted to wrap his arms around her again, but somehow she knew it wouldn’t be to comfort her. Angry with herself for not being able to keep her thoughts off the rancher’s beautiful face and rock-hard body, she let her turmoil seep into her words, biting out, “Why don’t you tell me how the two of you met?”

  Mick stirred in his sleep again. This time he half sat up, opened his eyes, and then rubbed them. “Mr. Ryan. What are you doing in here?”

  Ryan turned toward her boy and calmly answered, “Your mother had a nightmare. I came to make sure she was all right.”

  “Oh. She has those alot.”

  Bridget was shocked. She didn’t know she cried out at night. She thought her tortured dreams remained inside her head. Dear Lord, she tortured her boy with them as well? Guilt sluiced through her, and like hot oil, stuck to her, burning her.

  “I . . . I do?”

  “Sure you do, Ma.” Mick scrubbed at his face, waking the rest of the way. “You’re always calling me. So I come in to see what you want. But you never wake up. You just keep calling.”

  Bridget was almost too afraid to ask, but she bore down on her fear and whispered, “What do you do?”

  Mick looked away, embarrassed. “Aww, I just sit there, hold your hand, and tell you I’m right here.” His gaze darted over toward Ryan, then he added, “Sooner or later you believe me and fall back to sleep.”

  Ryan crouched down beside her son once more. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about caring for your mother.”

  When Mick nodded, Ryan went on to say, “‘I wish I had been there for my mother.”

  Bridget heard the regret in his voice and wanted to ask about his mother, but Ryan’s next words stopped her cold.

  “But I was off searching for my place in the world. I thought I’d found it, but I was mistaken.”

  “Where did you leave your mother?”

  Bridget blessed Mick’s curiosity. He’d asked what she wanted to.

  “In New York City with me da and me sister.”

  Did he know how his voice changed when he spoke of his family and home? She doubted it. She’d have to ask him about that sometime, to see if he realized he slid into the musical lilt of his native homeland.

  “Well, you didn’t leave her all alone, then.”

  Ryan sat down on the floor next to Mick. “My da was ailing and me sister wasn’t that sure of herself back then. She’d only just lost the man she was to marry.”

  “Maggie was married?”

  “Nay, lass. He died in her arms the week before they were to wed.”

  Pain and sorrow wound their way through Bridget, tangling up in her confused reaction to the black-haired rancher. He was kind to her son—kind to her. He treated his men well and offered Mick and her a place to stay when they hadn’t a hope of sleeping on anything but the rock-hard ground outside.

  Why then did she detect a note of guilt in the man’s voice over Maggie’s husband-to-be’s death? And why did he sound guilty about not staying in New York with his parents and sister? Ready to ask the questions burning in her mind, she opened her mouth to speak, but Mick’s next statement stopped her.

  “We’re grateful to you for taking us in, Mr. Ryan. I know my ma doesn’t know why you did it, but I do. And I’ll be in your debt forever.”

  Ryan ruffled her son’s hair and got to his feet. “You two had best get some rest now. Morning’s just a few hours away.”

  “I’ll be down to make breakfast. It’s my turn.”

  Ryan nodded at the boy. “Will you be making biscuits?”

  Mick snorted, “I could get Flynn and Reilly to do all my chores for me so long as I promised them an unending supply of biscuits.”

  Ryan’s laugh was low and rumbling. “That you could, lad. That you could.”

  His gaze swept the room, as if checking to see that all was in its place. Satisfied, he looked over to where Bridget still sat on the bed. Her heart turned over in her breast. Refusing to acknowledge the emotion twisting through her for what it truly was, she met his gaze.

  “Sleep sweet, Bridget O’Toole.”

  As quickly as that, her heart tumbled the rest of the way toward love.

  She was his for the asking.

  Chapter Five

  Ryan mentally kicked himself in the backside all the way to his room. An hour later, still wide awake, he gave up the fight, splashed water on his face, washed up, and dressed for the day. “No point in trying to sleep when there’s no sleep in sight,” he mumbled, stumbling into the kitchen.

  “What’s that yer grumblin’?” Reilly said from where he sat in the dark at the kitchen table.

  “What are you doing up this early?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. Seems some people like to have tea parties, gabbin' in the middle of the night, keepin’ hard-workin’ men from their sleep.”

  Ryan grumbled, but apologized for waking Reilly. It was going to be a long day if the both of them were tired at the start of it. He’d learned early on with Reilly that once the gruff man had some coffee in him, he was a whole lot easier to handle.

  The familiar motions of grinding the beans and adding them to the pot of water soothed the rough edges of his temper. He’d nearly acted on impulse upstairs, and that would have been a mistake. Ryan placed the pot on the stovetop, thankful that Reilly had started the fire in the cookstove before he sat down to brood at the kitchen table.

  Sitting in the dark room while the coffee slowly heated to boiling soothed the raw edge off Ryan’s temper and put the final cap on his desire for the dark-haired woman sleeping upstairs.

  “Why are you up?” Reilly finally asked.

  Ryan didn’t want to talk about it, so he stalled by asking Reilly if he had gone out to gather eggs yet. Reilly’s answer was short, rude, and physically impossible. Ryan chuckled as he grabbed a cup, filled it with coffee, and offered it to the other man.

  “I’m still not puttin’ me hand under a cranky chicken at this hour of the mornin’, even for the likes of you, Jamie, me lad.”

  Before Ryan could think of a proper insult, Mick announced from the doorway, “I’ll be making biscuits this morning. Scones, if you’d rather.”

  “The boy is a godsend, Jamie. A godsend!”

  Reilly got up and walked out the back door, but not without stooping down to snag the basket they used for egg gathering.

  “Well I’ll be.”

  “He’s just mad, feeling protective of your sister, ’cause of the way the marshal rode off without saying a proper goodbye to her, knowing how she feels about Marshal Turner.”

  “Maggie and the marshal?” Ryan couldn’t quite get his thoughts around the idea of it.

  “Didn’t you see the way she looked at him the night he rode here with her?”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “Then I don’t suppose you noticed the way he was looking at her.”

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .well because he shouldn’t be look
ing at me sister.”

  “But you just said you didn’t see the way he was looking at her.”

  “Doesn’t much matter. He shouldn’t be looking at my Maggie.”

  “Why?” Mick sounded like he really wanted to know.

  Ryan couldn’t exactly put it into words. The protective feelings were tangled up inside of him fighting against the fact that he actually liked the marshal. But he hadn’t been able to protect her from the pain of what happened to Rory Muldoon. He closed his eyes and inwardly groaned. He hadn’t ever asked Maggie if she’d gotten over Muldoon’s death. God help him, he hadn’t. Rory was his best friend from the time they both learned to walk. Leaving Ireland had been easier with Rory gone.

  Since he didn’t have the words to explain, he just said the first thing that came to mind. “If you had a sister, you’d understand.”

  “I think I’d be a good brother, if I ever had a chance to have a sister.” Mick’s voice sounded far away . . . thoughtful.

  Ryan couldn’t imagine life without his sister and his parents. His self-imposed estrangement these last five years had been by his choice. But before that he’d had a family. And it had made all the difference in the world.

  “Well, sisters are a pack of trouble.”

  The sharp intake of breath coming from behind them was his only warning. “And brother’s are like poking a sharp stick in yer eye!”

  “Maggie. I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Are you up to making us breakfast?”

  “I thought I heard Mick say he was making biscuits and scones?”

  “Not if you’d rather cook,” Mick said carefully.

  “Why don’t we work together this morning,” Maggie suggested.

  Mick smiled and agreed. The morning passed—slowly, but it passed.

  * * *

  Right after the midday meal, Maggie and Mick were in the kitchen and heard a commotion coming from the barn. The sound of a familiar voice had Mick heading out the back door to stand on the porch. Marshal Turner was back. Mick was hesitant, but Maggie rushed out the back door, leaving him standing on the porch wondering if he should stay put or follow. Before he could decide, she was back, her eyes all red and misty. Mick wanted to ask her what happened, but she held herself so rigid, he sensed she didn’t want to talk about it.

  Mick heard shouts from the direction of the barn, but he was more concerned with the woman who was here in the kitchen with him, trying not to cry. She reminded him of his mother . . .

  “Maggie! Open the door!”

  She ignored the command, and shoved hard on the door—and the marshal’s hand.

  Though the marshal shouted for her to let him in, she only eased up enough for him to slip his hand out, then continued to put her weight against the door, not budging. Mick added his weight to hers to keep the door closed, figuring that if she didn’t want the marshal inside, then he would help her keep the man on the outside.

  While Maggie and the marshal traded insults and threats, the door slowly pushed inward. In the end, they were helpless to keep it shut.

  Suddenly the marshal was inside.

  “Go get Flynn or Reilly!” Maggie urged.

  Mick thought about stepping between them, but the way the marshal was looking at Maggie stopped him. He’d seen that look before—recently. James Ryan looked at his mother that way. He began to wonder if that meant what he hoped it did.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Seamus is your brother?” the marshal demanded.

  “I didn’t think I’d need to explain my family to the likes of you!” Maggie bit out. “Why should you care?”

  Mick went down the hall and out the front door in search of the redheaded ranch hand. He hadn’t seen Reilly since the man had stomped into the kitchen with a basketful of eggs. “Why does it matter what name Mr. Ryan goes by?” he wondered out loud.

  “’Course even I know Maggie is James’s sister.” He’d heard her call him Seamus enough times that he asked her why. She’d laughed and explained that James is the Americanization of Seamus. Mick was surprised a smart man like the marshal didn’t know that.

  “Flynn?” Mick called out, stepping onto the front porch as he spotted the redheaded ranch hand heading around back toward the barn.

  “Who’s Maggie arguing with?” Flynn wanted to know, changing direction and heading toward the porch.

  “. . . traveling west to be married . . .”

  Mick grinned and tried not to laugh at the bits and pieces of the conversation they could hear and answered, “The marshal.” The two of them walked down the hallway to the kitchen listening to the raised voices.

  “. . . to me brother? Are ye daft?”

  The sight in the kitchen was worth a chuckle: two people standing with their hands on their hips, swapping insults. Before he or Flynn could say anything, the marshal pulled Maggie into his arms and kissed her, just as Reilly burst into the kitchen.

  “Jamie’s gone into town to confront that crooked banker with his proof!”

  The marshal set Maggie aside and lit out the back door. The set of his jaw made Mick feel a bit better. So long as the marshal was on his side, he wouldn’t worry about making the man mad. But if he were that banker . . .

  “He’s got the deed now. There’s no stopping him,” Reilly said, following him outside.

  “I thought you said the banker was trying to take the ranch away from him.” Mick was worried about the man who’d taken them in. “Isn’t it dangerous to just walk into the man’s office?”

  As they stood on the back porch watching Ryan’s figure in the distance heading toward town, Reilly added, “Aye, lad, but the marshal here is just leaving—there’s a shortcut.”

  As the marshal turned his horse toward the lane, the sound of shots being fired galvanized the rest of the ranch hands into action.

  “Go back inside, Mick!” Maggie shouted. “And for heaven’s sake, lad, don’t stand in front of the window!”

  Mick nodded, too startled by the sound of gunshots to move at first. Then he got up his gumption and stole a peek out the window. He could see the marshal had his rifle in one hand and his Colt in the other as five armed men came riding up the lane, guns blazing.

  Before Mick could think to enter into the fray, the battle was over. The armed men were trussed up like geese for Sunday dinner. And still Maggie and the marshal were arguing. Before the argument could escalate, Reilly calmly reminded them that Ryan had probably gotten to town by now.

  The marshal and one of Ryan’s men headed off into town. When they returned, Ryan had to help the marshal down off his horse.

  Mick could tell by the way the marshal swayed that he’d been shot. It took Maggie a little longer. “Mick, fetch me sewing basket!”

  Mick didn’t wait for explanations. He knew the marshal had been badly hurt. Not that he wanted to stick around and watch while Maggie sewed him back up, but a small part of him did.

  “Doc’s here!”

  Flynn’s cry had Mick’s heart settling down. At least the doctor should know how to stitch a man back together after his arm had been ripped apart by a bullet. Shouldn’t he?

  Ryan walked into the hallway and saw Mick standing there, watching Maggie. He pulled Mick by the arm, and led him out the front door.

  “But I wasn’t really listening . . .”

  “It’s all right, lad. I’d be listening too, if your mother hadn’t told me not to.”

  “She did?” Eyes round with wonder, Mick waited for Ryan to say more.

  “Aye. She said the marshal needed a moment alone to propose to my sister.”

  “How does my mother know that?”

  Ryan laughed. “Far be it from me to argue with a woman, lad.”

  “Is it something I should know not to do?”

  “Aye. Never argue with a woman. You’ll never win.”

  As the two strolled out the door and down the steps, a cry of happiness echoed through the house. “Let’s give
them a little time alone,” Ryan suggested.

  By the time they rounded the side of the house and were headed around the back, Maggie and the marshal burst outside, grinning like two fools who had been in the sun too long and had had every ounce of sense baked out of their brains.

  “I guess it’s official then,” Flynn said, coming to join them.

  “About time,” Reilly said with a nod.

  “What?” Mick demanded. What was official? What was about time?

  “We’re getting married!” Maggie announced, her face like a beam of sunlight, her feet barely touching the ground.

  Mick wondered what it would be like to see his mother that happy, with her face glowing and her feet dancing. Worth every moment it would take to get her there. He began to wonder if maybe he could push her in that direction, if he was very careful not to let her know what he was up to. Maybe . . . possibly . . . it could be done.

  He knew which man he wanted to push his mother toward. With a little help from Flynn and Reilly, he just might make it happen.

  Chapter Six

  “You’re lookin’ well this mornin’, lass.”

  Bridget looked over her shoulder and smiled. She felt wonderful. “You’re not going to wheedle an extra scone out of me with flattery, Mr. Flynn.”

  “Scones!”

  “Back off, Reilly,” Flynn said with grim determination. “The lass is baking scones for meself.”

  Bridget set the tray on top of the stove and whirled around, hands on hips. “If either of you thinks I’m still not strong enough to knock you both senseless if you try to snitch any scones, think again.”

  “Now why would you want to go and do a thing like that, lass?” Flynn wanted to know. The redheaded ranch hand scratched his head and waited for her to answer.

  “She’s feelin’ put out is all,” Reilly answered, taking a step closer to the stove.

  “Mr. Reilly—”

  ”Now, lass,” Reilly began, “we’ve told ye before, ye don’t need the ‘Mister’ in front of our names.”