The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Hoping to diffuse his brother-in-law’s growing impatience and ease the look of sadness on his sister’s face he asked, “What smells of heaven?”

  “Your sister has a way with apples and cinnamon.”

  Turner laid a hand on Maggie’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. The soft smile curving her generous mouth was swift and joyous.

  Ryan wondered if he reached out a hand, would he be able to feel the invisible bond of love he knew connected the couple? It was palpable. Their love was strong and unselfish enough to include him. As his sister squeezed his hand, a jolt of self-disgust ripped through him. He didn’t deserve their love. He didn’t deserve anyone’s. Accused of breaking the law, and still running away from the cold jail cell that waited for him back in Texas, nearly six years of helping other immigrants like himself cope with the strange customs of a strange land hadn’t balanced the scales of justice. He was still a wanted man.

  Maggie set a generous slice of warm apple pie on the table in front of him. Automatically, he lifted the fork to his lips and slipped the cinnamon-and-sugar-spiced flaky confection into his mouth.

  He chewed and swallowed without tasting a thing. How could he continue to keep the truth from his sister, when she’d bravely ridden all the way from New York City to Colorado to help him save the ranch?

  He was a bloody, buggerin’ eedjit! During the weeks she’d been missing and he’d feared the worst, her stagecoach had been attacked by Indians and she’d been kidnapped. When she’d arrived on his doorstep, she’d been battered and weak, but not defeated. Still she had not turned back. She never let her fear get in the way of accomplishing her goal of delivering the legal papers he’d sent to her for safe keeping, the ones he needed to keep a crooked banker from foreclosing on his ranch. She’d risked so much to help him. How could he continue to keep the truth of his past from her now?

  Because she wouldn’t understand, and Ryan couldn’t take the chance she wouldn’t believe him. But he was innocent! If Big John and his beautiful two-faced daughter were standing before them right now with the so-called evidence, would anyone believe he’d not committed cold-blooded murder?

  He set the barely touched cup of coffee next to the piece of half-eaten pie and pushed back from the table. “That was delicious as always, Maggie.”

  “But ye didn’t finish—”

  Her husband’s hand on her arm effectively stopped her.

  Ryan wished he didn’t know that she worried about him. He didn’t want her to, but knowing Maggie, he couldn’t stop her, even if he wanted to.

  “I’ll be by again soon.”

  “For Sunday supper then?” Maggie asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re welcome any time.”

  Ryan shook hands with his brother-in-law, grateful for the honest offer, but careful to avoid his too inquisitive gaze.

  “Thanks.” He had no desire to get into the details of his past with the former lawman.

  A little while later, he wondered if he could trust Turner. With each mile he rode, his gut formed another twisted knot of tension, as he remembered the Big J Ranch. Images of the dank jail cell got all tangled up with the blond-haired, blue-eyed angel who had helped to put him behind bars. He would never forget how it felt to be hauled from his bunk in the middle of the night. Not one person believed that he hadn’t broken into the wealthy rancher’s new safe, and that he hadn’t committed murder. But the arrow to the heart was hearing Rebecca Lynn swear he had.

  McMaster believed him and had understood the reasons Flynn and Reilly had broken Ryan out of jail. McMaster had family in Scotland and sent money home regularly, too. But McMaster agreed with Ryan that he could never go back to his former identity, much less the state of Texas. Over a bottle of single-malt whiskey, the four of them had come up with a plausible story as to where Ryan had been born and what kind of family he had.

  Ryan hated lying, but he couldn’t earn money to send home to his mother and sister in New York City if he was behind bars. The need to help them outweighed the consequences he would suffer if he were caught.

  So he immersed himself in learning to run McMaster’s spread. The old man’s knowledge was endless, his patience limitless. His final gift to Ryan, the ranch, could never be repaid, but Ryan would continue to honor the vow he’d given McMaster to help those in need.

  He shook his head sadly. He’d never be able to tell Maggie. She believed in honesty above all things, and he’d already lied to her about why he changed his name. Yes, he’d faced some difficult times as an Irish immigrant, but that alone would never have made him give up his proud name. Protecting his mother and sister, making sure they could not be connected to the Seamus Flaherty wanted for murder in Texas, was the real reason.

  He knew if he tried to explain everything to Maggie now, she’d feel obliged to tell her husband, the former U.S. Marshal. Before his head hit the pillow that evening, Ryan would find himself handcuffed, headed off to jail to spend the night behind bars.

  He clenched his jaw tight, grinding his back teeth. It was too late to tell the truth now. Besides, his secret could keep him company when he finally succeeded in pushing his friends and family away.

  * * *

  Michael O’Toole watched the flames of their campfire flicker, then flare up where the roasting rabbit juices splashed onto the hot coals. They’d arrive in Emerson soon. The plans were falling into place. Gossip was the local law was retiring. With luck, they’d have a few days before a replacement or a marshal would show up.

  All they needed was some time to relax and unwind before the job. From all they’d heard along the way, Pearl’s place—The Ranch, should just about fit the bill.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Bridget!”

  The musical voice was echoed by a chorus of feminine laughter. Half a dozen pretty young women burst out of the door and headed toward the wagon.

  Thankfully, Mick had already set the brake. Otherwise, the horse would certainly have been confused by the way Mick handled the reins. The death grip he had on the leather traces would have the horse struggling between stopping and taking off like a plug out of a shotgun.

  Bridget patted his hand and smiled at the girls hanging on to the side of the wagon, waiting to be introduced to the slack-jawed, freckle-faced, blushing boy.

  She fought to hold back delighted laughter as she watched her son’s eyes nearly pop out of his head when their wagon was surrounded by the excited group of lovely females.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.” Bridget felt their answering smiles warm her all the way down to her toes. At least here she could count on the welcome being from the heart, and not from a misplaced sense of civility.

  “Aw now, Miss Bridget, you know we’re just regular folk. Not real ladies,” one chestnut-haired girl answered.

  “’Sides, we don’t know anything ’bout being ladies, except what Miss Pearl’s taught us,” a tall, willowy blonde added.

  “Well, that’s why I’m here.” Bridget’s smile bloomed.

  “I thought you were going to help teach us to cook!” two others wailed, their distress loudly evident.

  Mick snapped out of his stupor and jumped down off the wagon. His hand was warm, his grip sure, as he handed Mrs. Swenson down out of the wagon, then his mother. Bridget turned and smiled at the girls. “I’ve brought one of the best cooks Emerson has to offer to help teach.”

  She watched the way the girls eyed the tall, sturdily built woman standing next to her with more than a hint of hesitation. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost think they were suspicious of Mrs. Swenson. Hoping to make them feel more at ease, she smiled and added, “Mrs. Swenson owns Swenson’s Boarding House and makes beef stew so tasty, you don’t need ketchup to hide the flavor. It stands on its own.”

  Six pair of eyes rounded in wonder, but before anyone could comment, Mick found his voice. “Then there’s her biscuits.”

  Bridget turned, intending to say something, when he continued
, “It’s nearly a crime to sop up the gravy with her buttermilk biscuits.” His sigh was huge and exaggerated. “She could make a fortune if she’d sell them.”

  Bridget’s gaze flew to where Mrs. Swenson stood, still silent, but the small smile playing about her lips eased the tension Bridget felt. It would be all right. With the help of her friend, they’d get Pearl through this latest run-in with the Committee.

  Before she could speak, Pearl walked out the back door.

  “Bridget! I’m so glad you came.”

  Pearl’s voice was too cheerful, her eyes too bright. Bridget had an idea it had to do with the newest addition to The Ranch’s residents, little Emma. Maggie had filled her in on the latest news concerning Emma, but rather than ask outright, she decided to wait until she could get Pearl alone for a moment.

  “I’ve brought help. You remember Mrs. Swenson?”

  Pearl nodded and smiled.

  “She’s been kind enough to put us up over at her boarding house.” Bridget knew from the sympathetic look on Pearl’s face that she understood what Bridget hadn’t said. No one else in town had been willing to let Bridget and Mick stay with them.

  Pearl walked down the steps and over to where Mrs. Swenson stood.

  “If you’re not comfortable here, please don’t feel obliged to stay. You’ve already done far more than anyone else to help me.”

  Mrs. Swenson huffed out a breath. “If you think I’m going to let that old busybody Sarah Burnbaum influence what I think, you’ve got another think coming! Besides, I’d rather eat dirt than let the self-appointed president of that darned Committee tell me what to say or whom to say it to!”

  Relief swept through Bridget. “Well, if that’s all settled, shall we get to work?”

  She turned back to the wagon and started hauling out the first of three sturdy wicker baskets she’d stashed there earlier.

  Mick took the heaviest ones and let her carry the last one. She was struck once again by his gentlemanly manners. They hadn’t been this polished or noticeable before his stay at the Ryan ranch. Was he maturing, or was it someone else’s influence? Now that they were living on their own again, she began to notice more and more how much her son had changed, and how greatly his words and deeds resembled James Ryan’s.

  A brief image of the tall rancher flitted through her mind. Only this time, he wasn’t quite so tall. In fact, he was down on one knee, holding her hand and asking her to marry him. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Sure you can, Ma,” Mick insisted. “You’ve a way with needle and thread.”

  Shaking her head to clear it, thoughts of the man who’d surely saved their lives scattered on the gentle breeze. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “But—”

  Pearl smiled and patted her arm. “Sometimes I let my thoughts take me on a nice little side trip too, honey. No shame in dreamin’.”

  Bridget allowed herself to be guided up the back porch steps and into the kitchen. Though she smiled at the group of young women gathered there, her heart was not really in it. Her heart was miles away, held tightly in the hands of a certain black-haired Irishman, one who’d turned her life upside down with his declaration to protect her reputation.

  Why James? Why now?

  No man had cared to protect her before, except for Richard Gray, but Richard never understood her need for friendship. She hadn’t been ready to let another man fill Michael’s shoes. When she finally told Richard how she felt, his reaction had been violent. She shuddered, remembering the feel of his fists on her face, and his feet in her ribs.

  Bridget drew in a deep breath and gathered her scattered wits. No use thinking about the past, or James. He didn’t need the likes of her hanging around the ranch, causing more talk than there already was. She set her basket down on the table and lifted the first bit of calico fabric up for all to see.

  “I’ve some spare fabric and bits and pieces of lace I’ve crocheted for trimming. Who wants to be the first to be fitted for a new dress?”

  At the sound of someone clearing his throat, Bridget looked up and saw the look of panic on her son’s face. He was surrounded by females. Taking pity on him, she called out, “Mick, if you’re finished flirting with the girls, would you see to the horse?”

  The look of relief he flashed her as he bolted for the door was sweet.

  Mrs. Swenson smiled. “You’ve a fine son there. He’ll be striking out on his own before you realize he’s finished growing into a man.”

  Panic swept through Bridget, stealing her breath. Dear Lord, she hadn’t thought that far into their future. What would she do without Mick? How could she go on, if she was all alone? Who’d feed him? Who’d watch over him while he slept?

  The room started getting fuzzy about the edges. It had always been the two of them, since the night she’d thought to end her life and instead miraculously discovered she carried a new one inside her.

  “Take a nice deep breath now. Easy.” Someone rubbed her hand up and down Bridget’s back, easing the knots of tension.

  She did as she was told and drew in one breath, then another. Gradually the room came into focus again and her tension eased a bit.

  “Drink this.” Pearl’s order was softened with a quick grin. “It’ll put the starch right back into your spine.”

  Bridget’s hand was not quite steady as she took hold of the small square glass. She forced herself to calm down, telling herself Mick would have to leave home sometime in order to make his own life. She’d been foolish not to think ahead to the day when she’d have to say goodbye and let him go make his way in the world, leaving her alone.

  The mouthful of whiskey left a fiery trail of warmth from her tongue all the way down to her stomach. Pearl was right. It was enough to put the starch back. “Thank you.”

  “Shall we start with biscuits?” Mrs. Swenson’s question was answered with a flurry of movement.

  The girls soon paired up and set to work mixing dough, while Bridget and Pearl got to work taking measurements for the first of six new dresses.

  In between fittings, Pearl leaned close to Bridget and spoke softly. “Emma spoke for the first time last night.”

  Bridget saw concern mar her friend’s nearly perfect features. She wanted to soothe away Pearl’s frown. “Do you want me to see if I can get her to tell me what happened?”

  Pearl paused, the scissors open and resting against the fabric she’d been cutting. “I’d appreciate it. Try to get her to talk to you. So far, all we know is that her step-daddy is somehow involved in the beating.”

  Cringing at the thought of any man laying hands on a five-year-old girl in anger, Bridget nodded and rose. “I’ll see what I can find out.” Reaching into the bottom of the basket, she found what she was looking for and tucked the tiny gift she’d made into her apron pocket.

  “Bridget—”

  She turned back around to find the owner of The Ranch wringing her hands in agitation. She sensed there was more bothering Pearl than the little one upstairs. Bridget reached out to her. “What is it, Pearl?”

  “Luann.”

  “Is she another homeless girl?”

  “No.” Pearl shook her head, seeming to need the time to gather her composure. “My real name’s Luann. My husband thought I needed a fancy name to attract attention when we first opened the business. I just don’t use it anymore. It doesn’t seem to fit.”

  Bridget knew the other woman’s husband was dead, but she didn’t know too much else about him. “And did you need the name?” she asked quietly.

  “I suppose. That first year, I’d cooked and served more chicken and dumplings than I’d thought possible, and dodged more grasping hands than I ever want to see again!”

  Bridget did not miss the frown marring Pearl’s pretty face. “Was that all he wanted you to do, attract attention?”

  Pearl shook her head. “But I refused to entertain any of the customers like he wanted me to.”

  Disgust surged through B
ridget at the thought of a husband asking his own wife to flirt and do Lord knew what else just to bring in business. “I never thought you had.”

  Bridget’s assurance seemed to chase some of the sorrow from Pearl’s eyes.

  “It means more to me than you know, having you and Maggie believe me.”

  Bridget would have said the same thing to Pearl, but Pearl had turned back to the task of cutting fabric. The rhythmic sound of scissors snipping cleanly through material followed her upstairs.

  It helped knowing she was not alone in the world. There were others who’d suffered from the slings and arrows of gossipmongers. Bridget now had three staunch female friends who by turns needed her help and who were more than willing to help Bridget whenever they could. The bonds of friendship were cemented by the fact that polite society, or those who mistakenly thought they were polite, scorned them.

  Bridget paused in the doorway. The tiny figure slumped against the pillow wrung a soft sound of distress from her before she could stop herself.

  The child’s head whipped around fast enough to have Bridget’s head swimming. The terror in little Emma’s eyes tore a gaping hole right through Bridget’s heart. The yellowing bruises on the little girl’s thin face and neck stood out against her pasty complexion. She immediately recognized the signs of near starvation. The poor little thing wasn’t eating enough. Bridget should know.

  What she didn’t know was why.

  She walked purposefully into the room. Bridget kept her voice pitched low; she didn’t want to frighten Emma. “I’m Bridget. Remember me?”

  The little girl’s eyes lost that stark fearful look, but the wariness that replaced it didn’t ease the tension in the room. But at least Bridget knew the child wasn’t afraid of her.

  When Emma nodded slowly, Bridget sighed with relief. “Wonderful. I’ve brought you something.”

  The look of wonder transforming the child’s face had tears pooling in Bridget’s eyes. The doll she’d hastily sewn for Emma, after meeting her just a few days ago, had yellow yarn for hair and embroidered blue eyes, and looked just like Emma.