“What’s he saying, Reilly?”
“Well now, Mick, me lad,” Reilly began, “he’s tellin’ the beast how grand he is.”
“Why? The horse would have flattened you like one of my ma’s flapjacks!”
Reilly nodded, and they waited in silence until Ryan settled the horse and walked over to where Mick and Reilly sat on the fence rail.
“Horses need to know who is in control, but never forget to be gentle with them,” Ryan said to Mick. Then, turning back toward Reilly, he asked, “What happened?”
“I rushed things.” Reilly scratched the dark whiskers on his chin. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Good enough. Can you finish up here, or do you need me to comb him down for you?”
“I’ll be fine.” Reilly picked up the battered borrowed Stetson off of Mick’s head and ruffled the boy’s hair, then plunked the hat back down on the boy’s head. “I’ve got Mick here to help me.”
Ryan laid a hand on Mick’s shoulder and looked down at the boy, noticing he’d done a bit of growing in the weeks since he first came to the ranch. Filled out some too, he thought with a smile.
“What?” Mick demanded when Ryan continued to stare at him.
“You did a great job.” Ryan didn’t want to dwell on how different the outcome might have been if they hadn’t been able to get the stallion back under control so quickly. He shuddered, remembering shattered ribs and punctured innards, but pushed the grim memory aside. “I’m proud of you.” He drew the boy in for a quick hug.
It was over before Mick could protest. Surprisingly, the lad blushed, looked down at the toes of his boots, and scuffed the dirt a bit before looking up at him.
“Aww, it wasn’t a big deal,” Mick protested.
Ryan didn’t argue. In truth, he was concentrating on the changes Mick had gone through since he’d nearly sent the boy off to jail. Mick needed a man around to keep him on the right path, to make sure he wouldn’t be talked into breaking the law again. The tremendous urge to be that man had Ryan’s heart flipping over in his chest.
But he acknowledged it.
The overpowering need he felt where the boy’s mother was concerned, now that was a problem. He could not fully accept it, nor was he ready to face it. One’s perspective was far different in the dead of night, by the light of the moon. Then anything was possible. But the stark reality of day brought with it responsibilities of the present and memories of the past.
He couldn’t chance letting himself fall for another woman, even though she might be everything he’d ever wanted. Five years and a few thousand miles lay between Texas and Colorado, but there was a chance that Big John still had a posse out looking, trying to pick up Ryan’s trail. He hoped to God the trail was stone cold by now.
Though he envied every loving look and gentle touch the pretty widow bestowed on her son, he could not afford to give into to what he felt. Ghosts from his past haunted him. More, they still had the power to destroy him and everything he had worked so hard to earn. He would store away the tender looks and loving touches so he could pull them out after Bridget and Mick were only a fading memory. He never doubted they’d leave. The question was, when?
Chapter Seven
Bridget’s hand stilled at her throat, keeping her heart from jumping any further out of her breast. The danger Reilly just avoided would take a bit of time and concentration to forget. But it was the way James touched her son on the shoulder, quietly speaking to him and somehow eliciting a look of awe and pride from Mick that she would hold on to and cherish.
Thoughts of the danger Mick could have been in if he’d been the one trying to saddle that big black beast were not lost on her. She knew there had to be a safer job for her son. One that would not place him in danger or threaten her weakening resolve to follow her heart.
She had worked long and hard to support the two of them. She had come to the painful realization that Michael would not be coming back. In her heart, she knew the only thing keeping Michael from her side, or from sending word to her, was that he was dead. There simply could not be any other explanation for the man’s disappearance, coming to that realization had been a difficult but necessary step for her.
Slipping back inside the house, Bridget smoothed the hair out of her eyes. Tucking in a stray hairpin, she drew in one steadying breath, then another. Able to breathe without a hitch in her chest went a long way toward convincing herself she was back in control of the disquieting riot of emotions she’d felt just a few short moments ago.
The kitchen was sparkling clean. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing, and the wash water heating, by the time the back door opened.
“Ahh, Mrs. O’Toole!” Reilly seemed none the worse for wear as he stood in the open doorway wiping his feet on the bit of rug she’d left there for that purpose.
“Can I get you anything to drink, Mr. Reilly?” Bridget caught herself wringing her hands, then stopped.
“Mister?”
“Reilly then, if you must, but I hate calling anyone by their last name.”
“Well then, ye can call me John.” Reilly’s broad grin nearly split his face.
“All right then. John. Can I pour you some coffee?”
“Thank ye, no. I just stopped in to tell ye what a fine lad ye’ve raised.” The grin slid into a look of thoughtfulness. “We’re comin’ to depend on Mick around here.”
Bridget didn’t know whether to say thank you, or to run the other way screaming. She didn’t want Mick to become too attached to James Ryan or his ranch hands. She had never meant to stay for more than a couple of weeks. Somehow, they had fallen into the routine of ranch life. Four weeks had come and gone, and she was well, growing stronger by the day. Up until James told her about Mick’s brush with the law and the attempted rustling, she’d seriously considered staying. But now….
“Mrs. O’Toole?”
Dear God, if word got out about the attempted theft, gossip about them would start up all over again. She’d never be able to face it. Bridget knew she would have to tell Mick it was time to move on. But this time things were different. This time, she would not be looking for Mick’s father. This time, when they moved on, she’d leave a big chunk of her heart behind.
“Bridget!”
“What?” Trying to remember what John had just said wasn’t easy, but, she finally remembered. “Oh. Thank you, John. I depend on him, too.”
She decided she couldn’t afford to waste any more time thinking about how to approach the subject with her son. She would just do it. But she didn’t want any interference or distractions. “Where’s James?”
“Headed over toward the south pasture,” Reilly offered. “There’s a break in the fence and some rotten posts that need fixin’.”
“Did Mick go with him?”
Reilly shook his head. “The lad is out by the corral, tryin’ to sweet-talk a horse.”
Bridget shuddered, remembering what that horse had tried to do.
“I’ll be goin’ back down to the corral,” Reilly said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. “I’ve left something unfinished.”
As she watched him turn and walk out the door, Bridget could only guess what needed finishing. She hoped it wasn’t another attempt to saddle the stallion. Shaking her head, she picked up the wicker basket she’d left in the corner of the room. It was time to think, and it would be easier if her hands were busy. If she and Mick were going to be leaving, she would make certain not to leave the ranch before finishing all the chores she’d set out to do.
She hoped James would still be in the south pasture for a few more hours. She knew she wasn’t up to arguing with him, and he started arguing every time she lifted a finger. Reilly’s assurance that he would be mending fences for a while eased her mind a fraction, but James never did what she expected of him. Just a little while longer, she pleaded silently, wringing the last of the freshly washed sheets with a deft twist of her wrists, and dropping the sheet into the wicker basket at her feet. Tu
rning back to the wooden washtub, thinking to empty it, she was startled out of her deep thoughts by a voice.
“Don’t lift that!”
Bridget spun around, a quick retort poised on her tongue, but the look of concern on her son’s face had her biting back the words. She took a mental step back from the irritation bubbling up within her.
“And why not? I’ve finished the wash and need to dump out the water before I hang the sheets up to dry before—”
“Before James finds you slaving—” Mick began, but she interrupted him.
“Washing sheets is honest work,” she said, choosing to ignore her son’s use of their host’s first name. “I’m feeling better, and I know my own strength.”
Mick’s eyes filled and he blinked the moisture away. “You nearly died!”
She had no reply for him. The same realization had struck her just as forcefully, a few weeks ago while she lay weak and feverish, unable to lift her head from the pillow. The excitement down at the corral, and Reilly’s brush with near disaster, must have reminded Mick how tentative life could be.
Bridget knew she couldn’t meet the accusation in her son’s steady gaze. Besides, she had no intention of letting Mick see the truth of his words reflected in her eyes. Instead, she looked out over the land, so beautiful it made her eyes tear up. Looking closer to the ranch house, she admired the new fencing near the corral, then saw the run-down barn. It definitely needed a few well-placed boards and more than a handful of ten-penny nails.
Certain she had her thoughts and expression composed, she turned back toward Mick. A lock of dark brown hair fell into his eyes, and she nearly reached out to brush it out of the way, but something in his stance told her not to. She watched him blink, then straighten and square his shoulders. Thank goodness she’d not given in to temptation. He was no longer a little boy, and wouldn’t appreciate any coddling touches from her.
Mick reached up, raking an impatient hand through his unruly hair, continuing to stare at her with his quiet gray eyes. A swift shaft of pain arced through her chest. A certain Irishman always raked a hand through his hair when he was troubled. Mick had somehow picked up the habit while they’d been living at the ranch.
Remembering her son’s age, and his need to be reassured that all was still well within his world, she finally spoke. “But I didn’t die.”
Using the pause in conversation to her advantage, she forged ahead with what she knew would not be an easy topic. “Mick, I think it’s time we moved back to town.”
“But James said—”
Using the man’s first name twice was no accident. All the ranch hands referred to their employer that way, but Mick wasn’t a ranch hand. He needed to remember to respect his elders. Obviously, he needed to be reminded to address the man properly. “That’s Mr. Ryan to the likes of you.”
Mick’s cheeks colored in response to her rebuke, but he didn’t relax his aggressive stance. “Mr. Ryan said we could stay as long as we liked.”
Standing toe to toe with her, more than ready to do whatever it took to convince her they needed to stay, put a dent in her plans and an ache in her softening heart. A heady mix of love and pride swelled within her. Her boy stood before her ready to argue. But was it because he truly felt it would be best for the both of them, or because he’d finally found a place where he fit in?
“But Mick—”
He stood even straighter, stiff as a board and just as inflexible. Her son. Her pride and joy. Just a few months shy of thirteen. He’d be thirteen by the time the first snow fell. Look at him, she thought. So tall. Summer had a way of helping young boys grow. Must be the rain, she mused. Gram always told her rainwater help all things grow, including children. Looking up at him now, she believed it.
“Ma, please?”
Bridget didn’t miss the note of longing tinging her son’s words. If she could afford to be honest with herself, her heart urged her to stay, too. But some things could not be changed overnight.
Even after a month living under the same roof of the kindest, most thoughtful man she’d ever met had not been enough to change her way of thinking. It had been ingrained in her over a dozen years: men could not be trusted. Although she’d like to think a certain rancher could be, she couldn’t take the chance. She alone supported herself and her son. That way, no man could lay claim to what she was not willing to give.
In her time here at the ranch, she’d been lulled into forgetting all of her reasons for not trusting men. Her softening resolve would get her into trouble. Needing a distraction from her son’s earnest face, and the dark thoughts troubling her, she draped the sheets across the clothesline one by one, all the while chiding herself for the way she felt. She’d learned life’s lessons well. She’d best not forget them again.
Her husband’s promise that nothing could tear him from her side had given her little comfort over the last dozen years he’d been gone. She’d spent those years supporting herself and her son with backbreaking work, traveling from town to town looking for her missing husband.
Assuming he was dead went a long way toward helping her reconcile herself to the fact that he wasn’t coming back. Praying she was wrong kept the tiny flicker of hope alive in her breast. She shuddered, remembering the number of times her questions about her husband had led to speculation that he wasn’t really her husband, that she’d gotten herself pregnant and was looking for the man responsible now that she’d had the baby.
After a while, the towns all seemed the same and the townsfolk’s reaction to a young woman and a baby alone did too. Except for one time . . . Her mind drifted to thoughts of the second man she’d trusted. Richard Gray, the man who professed to love her and vowed to honor her promise to remain faithful to her absent husband and not press his suit. Instead, her refusal of his continued advances had enraged him to the point that he’d used his fists on her. Battered and bruised, she quickly learned that men who were bigger and stronger were not to be trusted.
Now she possessed better instincts about defending herself. Maybe she ought to thank Richard for that. No man had taken advantage of her since then, and as God was her witness, no man ever would again.
The ugly memory brought it all back: the emotional and physical pain, the horrible gossip that surrounded them at the time. Unable to deal with either, she and Mick had packed up and left under the cover of darkness, guided only by the stars. There would be no third time—or man. No matter how steady and safe, or warm and caring a man appeared to be, they all held secret desires and life plans that would hurt either her or Mick in the long run.
She stiffened her spine and her resolve. No man could be trusted.
“…and I could work the ranch with Reilly and Flynn—”
“Mick, why won’t you listen to reason? We can’t stay.”
“I’ll listen when you start to make sense,” he grumbled, turning away from her.
Tightness crept into her chest, constricting her breath, but she managed to say, “Mr. Ryan said we could stay while I regained my strength.”
Mick’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. She reached a hand out to him, but he turned his back on her and walked away.
He had never done that to her before. Something inside of her crumbled, making her want to call out to him and tell him they’d stay. They’d do whatever he wanted if he’d just turn around. This pain was far greater than the pain she’d felt when she realized Michael wasn’t coming back.
Before she could open her mouth to speak, he mumbled, “You look puny to me.”
Love for him rushed through her, and with it a feeling of lightness; he wouldn’t leave her. As long as she and Mick were together, they’d be all right. She walked over to where he stood, stiff and silent, and laid a hand on his back. She needed him to smile and knew just how to get him to. “I may be puny, but I know your weakness.”
Her son drew in a sharp breath and tensed. “You wouldn’t!”
“Wouldn’t I?” Bridget slid her hand down to his sid
e.
“But that’s not fair, I can’t help—”
“Life is not always fair, Mick.”
He moved, trying to slide away from her, but she was shorter, lower to the ground, and moved like lightning. She had him begging for mercy in three minutes flat. “Give up?” she asked, tickling his ribs mercilessly.
“No. I never . . . can’t—”
”I could go on all day,” she drawled, working her nimble fingers up and down his sides, while he laughed, gasped, and struggled for breath.
“All right! You win! I give up!”
He let her pull him into her arms and hold him close. Bridget felt a lump of emotion building in her chest, spreading to her throat. She missed these daily hugs so much. But her boy was well on his way to becoming a man. From what she’d seen over the last few weeks, Mick had been attempting to act the part, unconsciously molding himself into James Ryan’s image. Although that in itself was not a bad thing; it would only make it harder to leave, and they had not been asked to stay—permanently.
Even if they had been asked, how could she say yes, after what James told her this morning? It just didn’t feel right working for the man her son tried to steal from. But she would repay him. She had to. But how could one repay a selfless act so far beyond the normal bounds of compassion and understanding?
She let go of Mick and picked up the basket where she’d set it down.
Mick’s laughter died as quickly as it had bubbled up. “I’ve got to do the milking.”
He turned and started to walk away. She could bear the weight of the cleanly laundered sheets, but was not sure she could handle the guilt weighing her down.
How could she bear to see her son so unhappy? How could she force him to leave the ranch?
He’d slipped right into the routine, taking his turn cooking meals while she recuperated. His face lit up every time he rode out with the ranch hands, mending fences, finding stray cattle, lending a hand whenever, wherever, he could.
The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Page 23
