The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “Don’t be sayin’—” Ryan stopped mid-sentence. He was doing it again. Every time he lost his temper, he’d revert back to his heavy Irish brogue, forgetting to speak carefully, without the musical inflection from his homeland. His heritage had been deeply ingrained, but on Ian McMaster’s advice he’d kept it well hidden for the most part. He could either change his name and his life so he could continue to send money home to his family, or he could be true to his heritage and be tracked down like a dog and dragged off to jail inside of six months’ time. Self-preservation, and the need to fill his belly, had been the reason he tried to suppress his temperament and his accent.

  The Irishmen he’d encountered on his journey west reinforced the need for it. With so many of his people trying to find work, and an equal number of people unwilling to hire the Irish, Ryan had decided to change his name and his speech. Seamus Ryan Flaherty, immigrant, had become James Ryan, rancher.

  He’d almost begun to believe the partial lie he used to cover up the real reason he’d changed his name. Amarillo and Rebecca Lynn Trainor were both a long way away. And so was the jail cell where he belonged.

  “When are ye goin’ to stop worryin’ about the law catching up to ye?”

  Ryan hated when Flynn knew what he was thinking. But the concern and worry in his friend’s eyes warmed the ice sliding into his gut.

  “I keep expecting to see Big John step out from behind the barn with his Colts aimed at my guts.”

  Flynn nodded. “I’ve had a few bad moments meself, worryin’ over whether or not Smith or Shorty would ride up the lane.”

  Ryan gritted his teeth at the mention of Big John’s ranch hands. “They didn’t give me a chance to speak!”

  Flynn nodded.

  “Smith just hauled me out of bed and pinned my arms behind my back.”

  Flynn placed a hand to Ryan’s shoulder. “There was never a chance for any of us to tell our side of it.” The grim acceptance in Flynn’s voice arrowed through Ryan with a finality that made him bleed on the inside. No one had believed him then. Nearly six years later, who would believe him now?

  He looked at Flynn and forced a smile. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  Flynn’s level gaze met his. “Are ye sorry ye made an effort to save me neck?”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “Well then, ye can come inside and have a cup of me fresh-brewed coffee and tell me why ye let the lass take herself and her boy off to town.”

  Ryan hesitated. Right now, he only knew one thing: there was a gaping hole in his life with Bridget and Mick gone, one he feared would never be filled.

  “Are ye comin’ then?” Flynn called out.

  Ryan shook his head. “I think I’ll ride into town after all.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Michael O’Toole straightened in the saddle, gazing at the land and its possibilities with practiced ease. His left shoulder ached where a Bowie knife’s blade had bitten deep. The stitches pulled against the tender skin, but he couldn’t afford to let it slow him down. Two of his men, Sam and Nick Paige, rode off to the left of him, arguing.

  “Do you think the sheriff’ll figure it out?” his right-hand man, Sam, demanded.

  O’Toole shrugged, drew in a sharp breath against the hitch of pain that shot through to the bone, ignoring the question and the man.

  “I still think—” Sam continued,

  “I thought I saw smoke,” Sam’s brother Nick interrupted, needling him. In response, Sam whipped out one of his Colts and shot a piece off the brim of Nick’s Stetson.

  “Damn it, Sam!” Nick shouted, but before he could retaliate, O’Toole had his horse between the brothers.

  “I’m getting mighty tired of having to step in between you boys to make sure you don’t kill each other,” he drawled, making eye contact with first one, then the other.

  “Come on Mick, you know he don’t mean nothin’ by it,” the younger Paige brother said by way of apologizing for his older brother.

  O’Toole shook his head, and drew his gun. The Colt beneath Sam Paige’s nose must have been unexpected. O’Toole could tell it unnerved the man.

  “I’m not going to put up with any more of your fighting, boys. Understand?”

  The younger Paige brother nodded his head like a puppet on a string. The only time O’Toole had ever seen any real emotion in the man’s eyes were the few times he’d had to threaten Sam to keep the both of them in line.

  O’Toole didn’t even bother to see if Sam was affected; he turned back toward his destination. “Let’s see what kind of action we can find in this poor excuse for a town.”

  “I hear tell, there’s a saloon owned by a woman, goes by the name of Pearl,” Nick added.

  “Pearl’s place,” Sam said with a sneer.

  O’Toole let them talk, turning back to see if the rest of his gang had any objection to heading toward the saloon owned by a woman named after one of nature’s jewels.

  A simple nod and the gang headed toward the town of Emerson and Pearl.

  * * *

  With Flynn’s question still ringing in his head, Ryan stood just outside the door to the sheriff’s office. He hesitated long enough to hear the sheriff say he was leaving town early. Ryan opened the door to the sheriff’s office as his brother-in-law was asking, “Are you certain you won’t wait until the marshal arrives?” Ice formed in his gut as his worry for Bridget and Mick was temporarily forgotten in the wake of the trouble brewing in the sheriff’s office.

  He could all but feel Turner’s anxiety. Ryan had seen disasters stem from less of a sticky situation than a sheriff retiring before his replacement arrived. He wondered what the sheriff was thinking.

  “Marshal Justiss wired just last night,” the sheriff said. “Should be here in a couple of days,” the man added, rubbing his leg before reaching for the saddlebag he’d left on the floor

  Ryan knew the injury still bothered the aging sheriff, but didn’t think it was the main reason behind the man’s early retirement. He remembered a similar conversation he’d had with his brother-in-law before Turner married Maggie. Once a lawman lost his edge, he was just days away from a bullet in the back.

  Turner nodded, indicating he’d heard the man, but he didn’t answer. Ryan wondered if Turner regretted retiring. He knew his brother-in-law had been a marshal for years, but then had given up his badge and life in the saddle, tracking down outlaws, to marry Maggie a few months ago. Then he thought of his sister, who seemed to walk around looking as if she’d swallowed sunshine, and he knew Turner had no regrets in that regard.

  “How is Maggie?” the sheriff asked, putting a much-mended shirt into his saddlebag.

  Turner didn’t try to stop his lightning-fast grin, and Ryan envied his brother-in-law his happiness. Ryan had just lost his.

  “I’ll take that smug smile on your face to mean your pretty little wife is just fine.”

  Turner nodded and schooled his features, and Ryan laughed. “Don’t let Turner use his marshal’s face on you, Sheriff,” Ryan said slowly. “He’s just trying to change the subject and avoid telling us how he’s going to explain to my sister why, after giving up his job as a United States marshal and marrying her, he suddenly has had a change of heart about leaving his job behind.”

  The sheriff nodded. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that one.” He straightened up from his packed bag and stretched. “But my mind’s made up. The marshal should be here tomorrow or the next day.”

  “I also know what can happen out on the trail,” Turner said. “More often than not, I got delayed by circumstances beyond my—”

  “Just say it straight out, Marshal—”

  “Retired marshal,” Turner corrected.

  “Oh, hell! No use talking to you once you’ve made up your mind, Turner.”

  “You always were a quick study.”

  “If you are so all-fired up about me leaving, why don’t you come out of your blasted retirement and park your boots beh
ind the desk here in my office until Justiss arrives?”

  From the look on Turner’s face, Ryan knew he had thought about it, but probably hadn’t discussed it with Maggie yet. “I just might at that. Does the sheriff over in Milford know you’re leaving?”

  “Who do you think convinced me I was a statistic waiting to happen?”

  Ryan looked at Turner, then the sheriff. But before he could add his two cents, Turner spoke up, “I don’t blame you for retiring,” Turner said slowly. “You’re dedicated to the bone, and after clearing up the tangled web of lies and legal documents your local banker tampered with, I’d have made the same choice.”

  “Bullets have a way of convincing even the most dedicated public servants,” Ryan added, turning toward Turner. “Isn’t that the line of reasoning you used when you decided to retire?”

  “Something like that,” Turner said with brief smile. “I think I’ll go talk to my wife.”

  “Well now, you be sure and do that, Marshal,” the sheriff said, trying not to smile.

  “I’m retired!” Turner snapped, pushing past Ryan and stalking out of the sheriff’s office.

  * * *

  Bridget smoothed the flat iron over the linen tablecloth one more time. Setting the iron back on its stand, she checked the cloth for any missed wrinkles.

  “Not a one.”

  Satisfied, she lifted the cloth and carefully folded it corner to corner, until it was a manageable size, and placed it on the top of the growing pile. Work helped her get through the day, and there seemed to be enough work at Swenson’s to keep her busy for a long time.

  She used the back of her wrist to brush the hair out of her face. The heat from the flat iron always made her hair corkscrew around her face. The springy curl fell back into her eyes, but she ignored it, already concentrating on the last of Sarah Burnbaum’s laundry. The old harridan had decided Bridget was not fit company for her, but certainly fit enough to handle her wash. The irony of the situation was nearly laughable. She sighed and forced the rest of her uncharitable thoughts out of her mind. Only two dozen napkins left.

  “Take a break, dear.” Mrs. Swenson held out a glass of iced lemonade to her.

  “Thank you.” Bridget gratefully accepted the proffered glass. She didn’t want to admit she was tired, but she knew from the week or so she and Mick had lived at Swenson’s that not much slipped past the observant older woman. She always found the stray speck of dust Bridget never failed to leave behind while dusting the front parlor.

  “You’ve worked straight through the last four hours. Did you stop for lunch?”

  Bridget sighed and shook her head, then tilted it back and drained half the glass. The tart flavor danced upon her tongue on its way down her parched throat. Lemons had been a luxury she could never afford. Thankfully, Mrs. Swenson took the offer of room and board to heart and fed them well. In a town as small as Emerson, it was no secret Bridget had been ill, but she was still uncomfortable talking about it.

  She finished her drink. “Thank you for the lemonade.” She turned back to start on the pile of napkins, but the hand on her arm stopped her.

  “I usually don’t like to interfere with my boarders,” the older woman began, “but seeing as you’ve held up your end of our bargain, picking up the slack in the cleaning and lending a hand with the laundry I take in, I’m about to make an exception to my own rule.”

  “I’d love to chat, but I’ve got to finish Mrs. Burnbaum’s laundry before five o’clock.”

  “If you keel over, you won’t get the order finished at all, will you?”

  Bridget sighed again. The woman was right and obviously knew it. “All right. I’ll take a short break.”

  Before she could set the iron back near the fire, the kindly rooming-house owner had put a bowl of thick beef stew on the kitchen table. As Bridget sat down, a small plate with warm bread, dotted with melting butter, appeared next to her elbow.

  Inhaling the yeasty scent of freshly baked bread and newly churned butter, she sighed. The first bite disappeared before her taste buds realized it. Grateful for the break and the meal, she smiled. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought.” The sudden need to blurt out her fear that she’d not be able to keep feeding Mick the same healthy meals they’d enjoyed at the Ryan spread nearly slid past her decision to keep her troubles to herself.

  “From the looks of you, you’ve not been eating enough.”

  Mrs. Swenson took care of all her boarders, seeing that they were well fed, but she took extra care of Bridget and Mick. Why she did so was still a mystery. For some reason the older woman didn’t believe the gossip surrounding them. Either that or the kindly Mrs. Swenson paid no mind to gossip.

  “But I’m sure that trying to keep that boy of yours, with two hollow legs, fed takes a lot of time and effort.”

  Bridget felt a warmth flow through her. “He eats like he hasn’t seen food for weeks.”

  Smiling and nodding, Mrs. Swenson filled their cups with hot tea, adding a generous dollop of honey and cream to both cups before sitting back down to discuss tomorrow’s list of chores with Bridget.

  A few minutes before five o’clock, Bridget set aside the pint-sized calico dress she’d stitched a hem into. Standing to stretch out the ache in her lower back, she tried to come up with an excuse for heading out the front door if she heard Sarah or Millie coming to the back door. The desire to be long gone before the Committee’s leaders arrived was too strong to be put off.

  The self-appointed head of the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson had recently spearheaded a campaign to run Pearl out of town on a rail. The only thing Pearl had ever done to anyone (as far as Bridget knew) was to serve the best chicken and dumplings this side of the Rockies. As owner of the notorious Chicken Ranch, affectionately called The Ranch by the local townsfolk—well, the menfolk—Pearl’d been shunned by the local women. As far as Bridget had heard, Pearl had never hurt anyone, nor had she done anything to deserve the attention of the Committee.

  That hadn’t stopped those hard-hearted ladies from making Pearl’s life miserable, and in the end, completely ostracizing Pearl, who rarely came into town unless she needed supplies. Maggie had filled her in on how the Committee treated Pearl and others they did not approve of. Whatever convinced the women they had the right to approve or disapprove, Bridget couldn’t say, but they reminded her of Michael’s mother. She shuddered, pushing that memory away.

  Poor Pearl. Bridget knew exactly how it felt to be on the receiving end of endless ill-humored jokes and countless rude stares of condemnation. She’d eaten bad fish once. The nasty stuff had made her stomach ache, just the same as it did whenever she’d heard gossip about herself and Mick. Over the years, she’d heard more than her fair share.

  If Maggie’s latest information was correct, Pearl needed their help. Coming to a decision, she asked Mrs. Swenson if she could borrow her wagon.

  The older woman’s brow was furrowed, her mouth grim. “You planning on driving out to The Ranch again?”

  She nodded. Although she usually rode alone on her frequent trips out to see Pearl, she wondered if maybe Mrs. Swenson was waiting to be asked. After all, the woman hadn’t yet denied Bridget the use of her wagon.

  “Pearl needs help,” Bridget blurted out. “Maggie said poor Mary burned her hand stoking the stove in the kitchen.”

  Mrs. Swenson nodded. “I heard Amy twisted her ankle hurrying down the stairs to feed the chickens.”

  Bridget’s head snapped up at that. “I thought you didn’t listen to gossip?”

  Mrs. Swenson smiled. “Well, now, dear, there’s gossip and there’s some things that need to be passed on so a body can stay informed about what goes on in their own backyard.”

  Bridget nodded. Some people understood the difference between friendly nosy neighbors and downright mean, rumor-spreading harpies. Her heart clutched thinking of the other little one Maggie had told her Pearl had recently taken in.

  “Have you heard about little Em
ma?”

  Mrs. Swenson nodded. “Some men should be shot before they can sire any offspring.”

  Bridget’s throat closed as she remembered what Maggie told her about the poor child. Disbelief had her heading out to see if she could help Pearl and the little mite. Her stomach clenched, but seeing is a whole lot more disturbing than simply hearing unpleasant things. The bruises spoke for themselves. She suddenly needed to know more about Pearl and why she was the only woman in town willing to help these poor runaways.

  “What do you know about Pearl?”

  “I’ve heard lots of things.”

  Bridget’s gaze sharpened. “Well, I hope you don’t believe everything you’ve heard.”

  Mrs. Swenson looked at her and was silent for a moment. “I’d have to be a halfwit to believe everything the women in this town spout as gospel truth.”

  Bridget unclenched her hands. When had she fisted them? “I hate gossip.” And it was true. Bridget did. Unfortunately, sometimes it was the only way a body learned anything.

  The older woman nodded.

  “She’s a wonder in the kitchen. There isn’t any way of cooking chicken that she hasn’t perfected.”

  Another nod of agreement.

  Bridget swallowed and plunged into what disturbed her the most. “Have you heard she serves more than buttermilk biscuits, chicken and dumplings? And I’m not talking about cherry or apple pie.”

  “Whiskey?”

  Bridget shook her head, sadness seeping into her stomach.

  Mrs. Swenson sighed and slowly stood. “The trouble with gossip is that it grows. The first person who tells it sticks pretty much to the truth, but the one who hears and passes it on might add a bit to make the telling more interesting.”

  Bridget’s stomach started to settle a bit. She blurted out, “Have you heard she has an upstairs room for entertaining?”

  Mrs. Swenson’s back went poker straight, stiff with whatever she was thinking. Bridget didn’t have to wonder long what that might be. “Hmph. I knew it was only a matter of time before Sarah and Millicent went too far.”