“Then they made it all up?” Bridget shuddered, remembering Richard Gray and the Rusty Spur’s back room.
“I’ve met Pearl,” Mrs. Swenson said. “She’s an honest woman.”
“If she did have a room and was forced by circumstances to—”
Before Bridget could finish, Mrs. Swenson interrupted. “Everyone has run up against trouble a time or two in their lives. If they haven’t, they aren’t really living. People are human. Humans make mistakes.”
Bridget’s skin iced over. She hoped Pearl had not been forced to entertain men in that upstairs room. Good Lord, she’d nearly been forced herself. If she hadn’t—
Before her past could catch up to her, Bridget felt herself being dragged to her feet and wrapped in a fierce hug. “Don’t drag the past up now. You need to concentrate on the present. You’ve a strong son who’s teetering on the edge of manhood. Such a scary time. He’s at the crossroads. He’ll either take the right fork or the left one. You need to be there for him to help him choose the right path.”
“Mrs. Swenson—” Bridget stumbled over her tangled thoughts, trying to come up with the right words. All she could find were the simplest. “Thank you.”
“A body can’t have too many friends, Bridget.” Mrs. Swenson’s smile was beautiful, touching something deep inside of Bridget. It’d been so long since another female had offered friendship, she was still unused to it. She’d nearly missed it altogether, and passed it up. She’d almost done that with Maggie’s offer, too. Then again Maggie was a sharp one, and not about to let Bridget get off so easily. Bridget smiled thinking of her redheaded friend.
“I’m planning on heading out to see if I can help Pearl and her girls. Would you like to ride with me?”
The older woman dried the dish in her hand and set it down on the far end of the pine table, away from the laundry basket. She wiped her hands on one of the pristine white aprons she always wore before crossing her arms beneath her ample bosom.
“Let me get some things together. I’ve some salve that would help with Mary’s burn.”
“Anything we can do to help will be appreciated.”
At the other woman’s silence, Bridget stumbled on. “She’s a special friend of Maggie Turner’s. Any friend of Maggie’s—”
“I’ve been making up my own mind about people for nigh on thirty years. Besides I’ve got eyes in my head.” Mrs. Swenson frowned. “Now tell me what else you’ve heard that you think I haven’t.”
Bridget swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. “I was just wondering if you knew whether Pearl’s husband was still alive or not.”
“Well now, seems to me I heard they rode into town about fifteen years ago and bought the place, but before he could turn it into much more than a glorified watering hole for itinerant cowboys moving from one spread to another, he died.”
Bridget nodded. “Is that why the womenfolk around here and over in Milford convince their husbands not to have anything to do with her and The Ranch?”
Mrs. Swenson’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Well, that would be part of it. But the fact that the womenfolk around here couldn’t keep their men away from The Ranch was the straw that broke the camel’s back. When he died, word got out, and before Pearl knew what had happened, gossip that her well had gone bad spread. She couldn’t get spit for the land after that.”
“That’s what Maggie told me. That it was Sarah Burnbaum and Millicent Peabody who single-handedly tried to close down The Ranch and run Pearl out of town. Apparently they’re still trying.”
“But they haven’t succeeded yet,” Mrs. Swenson said with a slow sweet smile.
“No,” Bridget agreed with a small smile of her own. “They haven’t.”
“The women in both towns have the right to an opinion as to where their menfolk spend their evenings,” Mrs. Swenson added.
“Maggie’s husband spends them at home.” Bridget couldn’t stop the smile that blossomed from within her, just thinking about her newly married friends. “But what no one seems to understand is that the girls who work for Pearl cook, clean, and tend the ranch. That’s all they do. Why are people always willing to believe the worst?”
“It’s the nature of the beast. Why don’t you believe it?”
Well, that was a switch: someone asking why she chose to believe the best when only the worst stared her in the face. Rather than spill her guts and share what she hadn’t in ten years, Bridget shrugged. Mrs. Swenson didn’t pry.
“As far as I hear tell, she runs a boarding house, same as me, only she takes in young girls down on their luck—”
“But they don’t sell their bodies for pleasure!” Bridget’s stomach was back to clenching, her throat burning as the meal she’d eaten worked its way back up.
Mrs. Swenson placed her hands on Bridget’s shoulders and settled her into the chair. Meeting Bridget’s gaze, she quietly spoke. “No, dear they don’t. No matter what others believe about Pearl, she’s an honest woman. Even when she had no more than dirt to eat, she didn’t sell herself to buy food. She’s proud and she’s strong.”
“Then why didn’t you stand up for her when the Committee tried to run her out of town?”
“I did.”
“I don’t understand.” And she didn’t. Confusion rumbled around in her brain until her head hurt.
“I told you. Everyone who’s lived has made mistakes now and again.”
Bridget wondered what mistakes Mrs. Swenson had made, but she wasn’t brave enough to ask. She’d let it alone for now.
“Pearl didn’t turn her back on those poor, tired, dirty, and bedraggled girls. Each one had a tale of hard luck that would just break your heart.”
“How do you know?”
“Who do you think helped keep food on the table when Pearl was on the verge of starvation?”
“Then why do Sarah and Millie swear no one in town stood beside Pearl?”
“Because it makes for a much better story.”
Bridget stood and wrapped her arms around her kindly landlady. “You’re stronger than I thought you were. I’ll be ready to leave for The Ranch as soon as I get a few things from my room.”
“Inga Swenson!” Sarah Burnbaum flung open the door and marched into the kitchen uninvited and unannounced, shaking her head so violently her flower-bedecked bonnet bobbed wildly, threatening to fly off her head. “Don’t you dare set foot in that establishment!” The head of the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson stood with her hands on her more-than-generous hips, her mouth set in a grim line of determination.
For a moment, Bridget wished she’d escaped before Sarah had arrived, but then she realized this was her chance to strike a blow for Pearl and the homeless girls who helped work her ranch.
“Last I heard, folks in the Colorado Territory could come and go as they pleased.”
Mrs. Swenson smiled.
Sarah glowered. The hate-filled look she sent Bridget’s way would have cowed her a few weeks ago, but she was stronger than the day Sarah had stomped all over her new-found confidence right after leaving James and his ranch. Being able to take care of Mick and herself, and having someone who appreciated her help, went a long way toward rebuilding the sense of worth Bridget had buried inside herself.
A certain black-haired Irishman had shown her that she was special, so special that he’d proposed—
She shook her head. She couldn’t think about that now.
“Young woman,” Sarah said, “do you dare to contradict me?” Before Bridget could say yes, the old bat continued, “You dare to shake your head at me?”
Sarah’s face turned a hideous shade of mottled red as she drew in short, choppy breaths. It made Bridget feel bolder. “I have a name. It’s Bridget, and if you’d rather not be on such familiar terms, Mrs. O’Toole will do.”
“Well, I never!” Sarah sputtered.
“Exactly the reason why I’ve invited Mrs. Swenson to help instead of you. Pearl is a member of our community in n
eed, and it’s our Christian duty to see that she gets that help.”
“I’ll never set foot in that den of iniquity!” The heavily stomped foot punctuated the woman’s declaration.
Both Bridget and Mrs. Swenson ignored her outburst. “I’ll be ready to leave in a moment, Bridget.”
“I’ll just take Mrs. Burnbaum’s laundry out to her carriage.”
“Anyone who consorts with that fallen woman will be publicly ostracized!” Sarah jabbed her pointer finger high above her head, nearly tipping over the oil lamp hanging above the kitchen table.
“I’ve already received that same gracious welcome from the fine ladies of Emerson.” Bridget kept her tone even, although her throat hurt from her overwhelming desire to shout at the dense woman.
“And justly so.”
“And you would know all about justice, Sarah?” Mrs. Swenson’s quiet prompting had the other woman falling silent.
Bridget looked from one woman to the other. Whatever Mrs. Swenson knew about Sarah Burnbaum had the power to silence her. Bridget would have to find out what it was another time. Right now she needed to get out to The Ranch. “I’ll just put this outside.”
“I’ll carry it myself.” Much to their surprise, Mrs. Burnbaum hefted the basket and swept from the room. Pausing on the top of the front step, she called back over her shoulder, “I won’t be needing your laundry services again, Miss O’Toole!”
Bridget started to correct her, that it was Mrs. O’Toole, and that the laundry service belonged to Mrs. Swenson, but the aggravating woman was already inside her carriage, pulling away.
“It’s just as well you don’t have anything to do with that one.” Mrs. Swenson pulled her shawl off the peg on the wall and drew it about her shoulders. “Let’s see what we can do for our neighbor.”
“I have a few things upstairs—”
“Do you need help getting them?”
Bridget shook her head before dashing upstairs. By the time she’d gathered everything together, Mrs. Swenson and Mick were waiting by the already hitched wagon. Her son stood quieting the dark brown plow horse the older woman was so fond of. He’d obviously heard part of their conversation. Bridget shuddered; it had certainly been loud enough.
“Are you all right, Ma?”
Without looking at him, she reached over and patted his hand, wordlessly assuring him she was.
“Where to, ladies?”
Bridget turned to stare at Mick. For a moment she could have sworn it was James Ryan sitting beside her, asking where she wanted to go. Shaking her head to dispel the remnants of his voice, she answered, “Pearl’s place.”
Mick clicked his tongue against his teeth and snapped the reins, urging the big horse forward.
Chapter Twelve
Marshal Ben Justiss reached inside his shirtfront pocket and pulled out the well-worn bit of paper he’d been carrying for nearly two years.
The face hadn’t changed.
He hadn’t expected it to, but at times he surely wished it had. He might have caught up to Michael O’Toole long before now if it had.
Wanted posters were not always accurate, and at times they could be frustrating if one had not seen the depicted outlaw in the flesh. Justiss swiped his hand across his forehead, mixing the sweat with the fine layer of dust his horse had kicked up, leaving a smear of dirt behind. Squinting up at the position of the sun in the bright blue sky, he figured it was heading on toward mid-afternoon.
He’d make the town of Emerson by tomorrow evening, if his luck held out and the wind didn’t shift, bringing in the weather change he sensed was coming. He couldn’t rightly say why he could always tell when the rain was headed his way; he simply accepted the fact that he could.
“What do you say, boy?” He gave his horse’s strong neck two quick pats before squeezing his knees against the animal’s sides. His mount responded as expected, with the lift of his equine head and snort of agreement. Justiss had to smile at the reaction; even his horse thought he had spent too much time thinking when it was time to be moving.
“Always thought you were too smart to be hitched to a plow.” The affection in his voice echoed what he felt for his best friend. The heavily muscled blood bay was strong enough to have been a draft horse, and would have been, too, if Justiss hadn’t seen the way the animal could flat-out run. The horse had heart; lots of it, and would run until he dropped if Justiss asked it of him. The horse rarely disagreed with him, and had saved his life. Twice. Red had a dizzying move that enabled him to outflank even the fastest of horses. Any man who harbored thoughts of consigning Red to a life drudging behind a plow should be shot first, and then asked why.
Damned if Red didn’t nod his head up and down in the agreement. Sometimes the way the horse seemed to understand what he was saying to him jarred Justiss to the bone. But he never questioned Red’s ability.
As he followed the sun, due west, the breeze shifted and blew harder. “Rain’ll be coming.” Too bad it wouldn’t hold off another day. He hated bedding down on soggy ground.
He focused on the trail ahead, knowing in his bones that this time he would find O’Toole before the outlaw discovered he was being followed. Two years was the time limit he’d given himself to bring O’Toole in. One year and six months had seen the end of his patience. His anger was slow to build, but once he had a good head of steam going, it took a while for his temper to cool.
Justiss was nearly out of time, and out of patience. He sorely missed the comforts of home, the smile of a pretty woman (even if she was related to him), and the taste of a home-cooked meal. Especially buttermilk biscuits. He surely missed his sister’s biscuits, but the need to bring O’Toole in forced aside all other thoughts.
* * *
Ryan’s knock was answered immediately. The door swung open, and before he could take the hat from his head, his arms were filled with a laughing woman.
“Jamie! Well, if ye’ve come for dinner, yer late.” His sister hugged him tight to her. “If I had known you’d stop by, I’d have waited the meal.”
Maggie’s gentle reminder of the length of time between visits wasn’t lost on him. “I’ve been busy.”
“Oh, aye.” She smacked his chest half-heartedly before pushing away from him, holding him at arms’ length for a moment. The way she intently studied his face unnerved him. There was no use trying to school his features; his sister would see what she wished to see.
“I don’t expect you to feed me every time you see me, Maggie.”
Ryan hoped she would be sidetracked by his brusque words, but he didn’t expect it. He was not surprised when she replied, “It gives me pleasure to watch ye enjoy what I’ve cooked.”
Her furrowed brow was the tip-off that she was upset with him. Bloody hell, she’d probably be able to guess what he was thinking no matter how straight a face he adopted.
“There’s no finer cook alive,” he added, hoping to distract her from her train of thought.
Maggie sucked in a breath. “When did they leave?”
The hair on the back of his neck bristled. By the saints! How did she do it? Could she read his mind? And why couldn’t he keep her from doing it?
“Who?” he asked, intensely gratified to see a moment of confusion mar her smooth complexion. Perverse of him, but he couldn’t help himself. His sister was too often right, and on too many uncomfortable occasions, she knew what he was thinking.
“Bridget and Mick,” Maggie huffed out. “Did ye think I wouldn’t hear that they’d left your ranch and moved into Swenson’s?”
“James!” his brother-in-law called out as he walked into the kitchen. “Did you bring Bridget and Mick?”
Pain flashed through him like a bolt of lightning, sharp, hot, and quick. He hadn’t the time to try to hide his feelings from the only family he had left. He was a proud man, but not so proud that he would push aside the unconditional love his sister showered on him, or the friendship he and Turner shared.
God help him; he needed them b
oth.
The stark need to be with his family had him leaving the ranch with chores unfinished and no word to anyone about where he was headed or when he’d be back. Anyone who knew him would have attested to the fact that something was very wrong. He never shirked his duties. Ever. He simply didn’t act this way.
But in the last few days, his whole world had turned upside down and inside out. Feelings he thought were forever burned from his heart had taken him by surprise. That battered organ still had the capacity to feel. To need. To want. To love.
It scared him to the soles of his well-worn boots that he had no control over his feelings for the widow O’Toole. Had he been aware he was developing an affection for her, he would have blocked the feelings before it was too late. Hadn’t he done so successfully for the last five years?
But he never even saw it coming and was in up to his neck before he recognized the signs of a man going under for the third and final time.
Unaware that he was being steered toward the big oak table, he started when he felt strong hands grip him by the shoulders and push him down into a chair. The silky soft cheek pressed against his broke the daze he was in. He reached up and gently tugged on the wavy strand of red brushing across his chin.
Maggie smiled. Her watery eyes were the clearest of blues. Everything she felt was reflected in their depths.
“I’m fine, Margaret Mary.” He was careful to control his voice, careful not to let it crack over the jagged emotions running riot in his gut. She was the image of their grandmother.
Turner’s fierce look had him trying not to smile. The mere fact that his sister’s new husband was ready to knock some sense into him for daring to upset her was laughable. It would take a stronger man than himself or Joshua Turner to budge his sister once her mind was made up. At least he and Turner agreed that she was worth protecting and keeping happy.
He couldn’t have found a better man for Maggie if he’d chosen the man himself. A sudden image of his boyhood friend Rory Muldoon with his arms about a much younger Maggie surprised him. He’d chosen Rory for Maggie. Praise the Lord she’d not let his death stop her from opening her heart again.
The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Page 28
