The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

Stomach still roiling, throat tight, Bridget tried to ignore the uneasiness pervading her being. She was not sure she was doing the right thing by leaving, but she knew she could not stay.

  Drawing in a breath through lungs that burned, she prayed James would understand and hoped someday Mick would forgive her. God help her, she knew she’d made the right decision. Hadn’t she?

  “But, Ma—”

  “You have to trust that I know what is best, Mick.”

  The look he shot her hurt her heart, but she couldn’t back down now. Besides, they were already in the wagon and she’d already embarrassed herself enough when she’d given James her answer. She shivered, remembering the coldness in his eyes.

  From the way Mick slumped and the grim set to his unsmiling mouth, Bridget knew her words did not sit well with him. She could imagine how her answer sounded to a twelve-year-old boy being forced to leave the first real home he’d ever had, and the protection and friendship of a man he had come close to worshiping.

  “Now then, Mrs. O’Toole, ye know Jamie wanted ye to stay,” Reilly said, flicking the reins.

  “I know he did, Mr. Reilly.”

  She knew it and would never forget the look in James’s eyes. She could swear she felt James’s gaze boring holes in her back as Reilly snapped the reins and headed down the road to town. But she didn’t dare turn around to see if he was sorry or happy to see her go. Should it really bother James so much if they left? It would be two less mouths to feed. Well, three, really seeing as how Mick ate enough for two people. James constantly complained about any chore she did. Now he could complain when one of his ranch hands did the chores.

  James truly seemed to be concerned with how they’d get along on their own. She huffed out a breath. Hadn’t they gotten on fine without him all these years? A nagging thought chipped away at her defensive thoughts. They’d done better at the ranch with James, and Lord help her, she’d miss him something fierce come morning.

  Could she tell Reilly what she had not been able to tell James? She shook her head, setting those dangerous thoughts aside. Bridget needed to get Mick settled back in town where she was in control of their lives, before he became too attached to the black-haired rancher, too comfortable living out at his ranch, before gossip about what a widow of questionable reputation could possibly be doing living at the ranch reached Mick’s ears.

  “Is there something else ye’d care to tell me?” Reilly prodded her.

  Bridget cleared her throat and dared a glance at the slump-shouldered boy who looked as if he’d just lost his best friend. Though she’d gladly give her son the world to see him healthy and happy, she could never let her actions bring about the ruin of the finest man she had ever met. Honest, loyal, dependable—and so beautiful her heart squeezed every time she looked at him.

  And that was the only grain of truth to her thinking: she was afraid of how it felt when she looked at James. Afraid of how easy it would be to let herself come to care for him if she’d stayed. She could probably work through the gossip and rumors, but she was absolutely scared spitless about her reaction to James.

  But even if she had it to do all over again, she wouldn’t stay. Vicious gossip swirling around the poor man and casting a dark cloud over his unblemished reputation would not be the way she wanted to repay him for his kindness.

  James Ryan deserved more than that from her.

  Concentrating on the scenery as the horse plodded toward town, Bridget was assaulted by a myriad of unanswered questions eating a burning hole in the pit of her stomach. Her head ached, and her heart hurt. She stole a glance at Reilly, whose massive hands held the reins loosely, guiding the horse with a slight tug on the leather traces. The need to explain to someone who would understand, who would listen and not interrupt as Mick was wont to do, burned through her.

  Before she could speak, Reilly said, “Ye didn’t have to get yer back up and leave us in a lurch,” he huffed.

  She nearly reached out to pat the man’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just so used to taking care of Mick by myself.” She cleared her throat. “It’s hard to be beholden to anyone, now that I’m well again.”

  The half-truth nearly stuck in her throat. Up until the moment James informed her the town was already gossiping about her being at his ranch, she’d hadn’t definitely decided to leave. But after learning that, added to the attempted rustling and possible ruining of James’s good name and standing in the community, she knew they would have to.

  Reilly nodded in reply and snapped the reins. The sturdy plow horse threw back his head as if agreeing it was time to pick up the pace. The wagon bounced in and out of the deep ruts, reminding her the road ahead would be just as difficult.

  “So yer running away to work yourself sick again.”

  “No.” She nearly groaned aloud.

  Mick squirmed on the seat beside her. “Have a care, lad, or ye’ll end up with splinters in yer backside,” Reilly warned.

  Mick sat still, then blurted out, “If you can’t find a job in town, can we go back to the ranch?”

  At least Mick sounded resigned to her decision. Heaven knew it would be so much harder if he fought against her. Although she’d begun eating again and gained some weight, emotionally she wasn’t up to the possibility of doing battle with her son. Leaving James and his safe haven behind had been harder than she’d envisioned; she felt exhausted.

  “We’ll see,” she said.

  Screwing up her courage, straightening in the seat, and squaring her shoulders helped prepare her for her first glimpse of town in more than two months. The bend in the road skirted a stand of ancient, gnarled oak trees, and all at once the town lay sprawled before them. Squeezing Mick’s hand once, then letting it go helped to dispel the feeling of unease skidding up her spine.

  The wagon wheels and trotting horse churned up a pale brown cloud of dust, enveloping them, announcing their progress into town.

  The road ahead was busy. Two other wagons headed toward them, laden with barrels of food stores and sacks of grain. Reilly waved cheerfully to the other drivers. His greeting was returned with an equal amount of friendliness. Even the foreman of James’s ranch was well known and liked. One more reason to stick to her decision not to go back.

  The strong midday sun beat down uncomfortably on her worn straw bonnet. The high collar of her much-mended, but scrupulously clean, faded dress added to the building heat, making her feel lightheaded. She dug deep inside herself, finding the strength to ignore the heat and clear her head. Now was when she needed to be strong.

  Reilly slowed the horse to a walk as they approached the mercantile, and Bridget had the uneasy feeling she was being watched. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the well-dressed older woman standing on the wooden boardwalk in front of the store, glaring at her!

  “Dandy,” she mumbled. “Sarah Burnbaum.” Now word would spread like wildfire that the widow O’Toole was back in town. The woman stiffened, but did not turn away as the wagon slowed and Reilly tipped his hat to her.

  “Pleasant day,” he called out.

  “Mr. Reilly.” The older woman acknowledged the greeting, but pointedly ignored Bridget and her son.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Burnbaum.” Bridget’s stomach flipped as her greeting went unanswered, but she managed what she hoped was an outward appearance of calm. The gray-haired president of the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson, whose main function was to find ways to keep the members’ menfolk out of the town’s three saloons and the nearby den of iniquity (at least that’s how Bridget had heard Millie Peabody refer to The Ranch), narrowed her rapacious gaze at Bridget and lifted her hawk-like nose a fraction of an inch higher.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the widow O’Toole.”

  Bridget squirmed under the scrutiny of the older woman. Though no other words were exchanged, Sarah Burnbaum had managed to deflate Bridget’s flagging optimism.

  As if Mick sensed his mother’s mood shift, he greeted the difficult woman. “Good mor
ning, Mrs. Burnbaum.” Mick’s smile was wide as he hopped down off the wagon. “May I carry that heavy basket for you?”

  Before the woman could answer, Mick had the basket in one hand and her elbow in the other. Absolutely charmed, or totally at a loss for words, Mrs. Burnbaum let herself be led.

  “I’ll be droppin’ yer mother off at Swenson’s Boarding House.”

  “Aye, Mr. Reilly.” Mick’s reply was cheerful as he guided the reluctant, but moving, Mrs. Burnbaum down the uneven boardwalk.

  “Mr. Reilly—John, please stop.” The urgency coiled inside of her had her entire body quaking with nerves. Her son was about to be eaten alive by one of the meanest women in all of Emerson. She took one last longing look over her shoulder, expecting to see Mick backing away from the woman in horror. Bridget blinked, then rubbed her tired eyes, clearing her vision.

  But the scene before her did not waver.

  Her son had grown three inches in the last month, but it wasn’t his height that had her heart swelling with pride before it slowly broke apart. Mick’s posture was erect, his chin high. He walked with the newfound confidence of a young man who recognized his own self-worth.

  Her eyes welled with unshed tears. One sneaked free; she could feel it trail down her cheek before she brushed it away. Mick was the one she saw with her eyes, but James was the man she saw with her heart. Every movement her son made confirmed what she hoped at first, then later feared, would happen. James Ryan had made an indelible impression on her son, and in doing so, had given Mick much more than a home. He had given Mick the gift of his time and attention, but still more. He had instilled a sense of worth in Mick that was beyond price. Something she had been unable to do.

  Her son was becoming a man. Thank heavens James had saved Mick from his own worst enemy—himself. Her heart skipped a beat. Then why was she taking him away from James?

  “We’re nearly there.”

  “But I’ve changed—”

  “Aye, ye have, Mrs. O’Toole.” Reilly’s voice was no longer smooth. She caught the rasp of emotion and turned to look at him.

  His sad smile caught her attention and had her looking at the man, and truly seeing him for the first time. His dark hair curled into his eyes, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by that fact. He brushed a fingertip up the bridge of his nose, effectively flicking the hair out of his eyes. Their deep, rich brown color was enhanced by the compassion she saw in his gaze. Bridget was shocked to notice that he cared, and very unnerved to discover John Reilly was an attractive man. Why hadn’t she noticed before?

  “Yer a picture of health. No longer weak as a kitten, or pale as milk.”

  Bridget wished he didn’t sound so concerned, and wouldn’t look at her with such intensity. She’d had enough trouble with one thickheaded, black-haired Irishman; she didn’t need to worry about another.

  She sucked in a much-needed breath of air, and in an effort to compose herself, changed the subject. “You recognized the difference in Mick,” she prodded. “Didn’t you?” It wasn’t a question. There was no doubt in her mind anyone who looked would see it.

  “Aye.” His sigh was heavy. “There is no finer man alive than Jamie Ryan.”

  Bridget could feel her emotions tangling. Threads of gratitude were becoming entwined with admiration. Not a bad thing, so long as that was all she allowed herself to feel.

  Desperately hoping what she felt on the inside didn’t show on the outside, a glimpse out of the corner of her eye dashed her hopes. Reilly’s gaze narrowed. He truly was a very observant man. Too observant.

  “Does Jamie know how you feel?”

  Bridget shook her head. “Yes. No.” How could he when I’m not certain myself?

  After the way she acted back at the ranch, there should be no doubt in James’s mind. She’d turned him down flat. No explanation, no softening of her rejection. Simply, I can’t. Her second response was the real truth; James had no idea how she felt about him. He only knew she had ultimately rejected him, though he’d never hear the reasons why from between her tightly pressed lips.

  Her stomach was back to roiling, remembering the hurt she’d seen in the bold blue of his eyes. Why did her rejection seem to bother him so much? It wasn’t as if he truly cared about her…did he?

  She never wanted to hurt anyone the way she’d been hurt, but she had had no other choice. Besides, if she was going to prevent James from losing the respect of the other ranchers in the community, she had to sever the ties that bound them together from the moment he accepted responsibility for Mick and herself.

  If she was doing the right thing, why did it hurt so much?

  * * *

  “Is there a problem?”

  Ryan chose to ignore the concern he heard in Flynn’s double-edged question. He knew what Flynn wanted him to say, but he’d be damned to eternal hellfire before he admitted he’d let another woman get under his skin. Why couldn’t he forget the tentative looks she’d sent his way? Or the way she drew in her breath whenever he’d caught her looking at him? He should be concentrating on the way she constantly ignored his helpful suggestions, blithely going about her business as if she hadn’t been at death’s door a few weeks ago.

  He’d been a fool. Again. He should have known better, after already losing his head over one woman. In spite of the vow he’d made to harden his heart against the lonely widow, he’d gone and done it again.

  Bleeding, buggering eedjit! Whatever possessed him to leave himself wide open for rejection like that, asking Bridget to marry him?

  His skin itched, as if it didn’t fit him anymore. Damn, but she’d gotten to him, with her big dark eyes and silky soft skin. She’d been so needy.

  Just thinking of her had him kicking himself in the arse all over again. Why couldn’t he get the image of her full, dusty-rose lips out of his addled brain?

  His sister would have quite a laugh at his expense, of that he had no doubt. Thoughts of Maggie, and the last time he’d seen her, chased away the dark mood that had settled upon him the moment Reilly snapped the reins to drive Bridget and Mick back to town. The lightening of his mood didn’t last, as the stark reality hit him right between the eyes.

  He’d lost them. And they weren’t coming back.

  “Why don’t ye ride into town and check on that grain shipment ye’ve been wonderin’ about?”

  He ignored Flynn’s suggestion, in favor of asking himself if he’d ever really had them.

  “I’d go meself, but the boss is a terrible tyrant lately. No sense of humor at all.”

  Ryan’s head snapped around at the muffled laughter he heard in Flynn’s voice. His guts felt like they’d been ripped out of him and someone was trying to stuff them back inside, and Flynn was laughing at him? His temper shot straight to boil. Before he could stop himself, he had Flynn by the throat, with the man’s feet dangling in the breeze two feet off the ground.

  Flynn’s voice rasped out, “Is this how you coax yer men to work twenty hours a day for ye?”

  Ice slid over the burn of humiliation lying in his twisted guts. He looked up into Flynn’s face and saw only concern, not condemnation. Never that from Flynn. He unclenched his hands and flexed them, keeping them close to the redheaded man’s shoulders on the outside chance he’d squeezed Flynn’s neck too tightly for too long and would need to steady the man.

  But Flynn was made of tougher stuff. Hadn’t he known that from the first? Wasn’t that the reason he hadn’t tried to stop Flynn from leaving the Texas ranch where they’d both hired on as cowhands, allowing Flynn to follow him down the long, hard road to Purgatory? The money had been good, the food better, and the owner an honest man . . . or so he’d thought. It still ate at him that he’d been wrong about that too.

  Bridget’s rejection had shaken his confidence, cutting him right down to the bone. He needed to ask Flynn, “Why didn’t you stay on in Amarillo?”

  Flynn tilted his head to the side and rubbed at the bright red lines Ryan’s fingers had left on his
neck. “Why do ye want to know now?”

  Guilt added another layer of ice to the fear building in his stomach. “I’ve never needed to ask before.”

  And it was that simple. He’d been loyal to the men he’d picked up along his journey from New York City to Colorado. The path hadn’t been straight, the work never easy, and somehow the years melded one into another.

  Six years! Compared to the last thirty minutes he’d spent standing at the foot of the back porch steps, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the wagon he prayed would turn around, it seemed like yesterday. With each second that ticked by, he missed Bridget and Mick more. Every other minute he asked himself, why? And yet he waited, watching the road, positive he’d see the telltale wisps of ground-up dirt that a fast-moving wagon, heading up the lane to the ranch, would stir up on a dry-as-dust day like today. But he was only fooling himself.

  “Ye saved me life.”

  Ryan shook his head, setting thoughts of Bridget and her son aside while he stared at Flynn. The man’s red hair always made him think of Maggie, but it was the man’s continued denial that his hair wasn’t that red that made Ryan think of Flynn like a brother. Flynn and Maggie had a lot in common. Just last month on her wedding day, she was still denying her hair was red. He remembered her new husband trying to keep a straight face while she denied it yet again. Just one more reason to like the man she’d married.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Ye didn’t have to vault over the corral fence and wrestle that bull to the ground by his big ugly horns,” Flynn continued as if Ryan hadn’t spoken.

  “Well, I—”

  “And ye didn’t have to paint the air blue with yer Gaelic curses until I’d shaken the cobwebs from me head enough to stumble to my feet.”

  “Well, English wasn’t working.”

  Flynn clapped a hand to Ryan’s shoulder. “A finer friend I’ve never had. Ye’ve let me travel with ye and never once tired of teaching me how to ride and rope until I no longer embarrassed meself.”

  “If ye’d let me get a word in—”

  “Ah, so now the temper comes up and with it yer Irish!” Flynn smiled.