The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “Hey, are you gonna place yer bet, or what?” Nick demanded, his fist hitting the table hard enough to rattle the glasses and spill the just-poured whiskey.

  “Dang, that’s a waste of perfectly good red-eye!” one of O’Toole’s men muttered.

  “It’s still on the table. Why don’t you lick it up like the dog you are?” Sam cuffed the man who’d complained.

  “There’s no call to be getting surly,” another man said slowly.

  “Either place yer bet, or fold!” Nick spat out.

  All bets were placed. Six pairs of eyes narrowed, and one by one, they laid their cards face up on the table.

  “You can’t have a royal flush!” Nick hissed. “You must be bottom-dealing again!”

  “You’re just sore ’cause I beat ya.”

  The sound of pistols being cocked echoed in the room. Chairs scraped against the floor as six men rose in unison.

  “I swear, O’Toole, I didn’t!”

  O’Toole looked from one man to the next. Each one had his hand on the butt of a Colt. If he didn’t have a bank job coming up in two days, he’d let them all shoot it out. But right now, there wasn’t time enough to find more men to do the job, let alone go over the plans again until their moves were mapped out and the timing set down to the minute. He couldn’t let them shoot each other—yet.

  He looked over at the lovely Pearl and noticed the color had completely drained from her face. Good. Fear meant she’d be a more agreeable hostage. It was time to see just how many women Pearl had running the place, and just how willing they’d be.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bridget woke when her dress got caught beneath her. Sleepily she lifted her head and noticed the sleeping gown lying across the end of the bed. With her eyes half closed, she slid off the bed and undressed, slipping the nightgown over her head. She was dead to the world by the time her head touched the feather pillow. Exhaustion forced sleep upon her, but she slept badly. Dreams of heat and flames had her racing about the tiny cabin in Louviers, only this time Mick was a young man, and she could not lift him protectively in her arms and carry him to safety. He was too heavy, and she couldn’t wake him. She cried out in her sleep.

  A strong steady hand brushed the hair off her forehead in rhythmic motions, soothing her.

  “Aye, there’s a lass. Wake up now. ’Tis just a dream. Yer boy’s fine.”

  The softly uttered words drew her from the depths of troubled sleep. “James?” Bridget couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. In the soft candlelight, she recognized the stark planes of his handsome face. Her gaze slid lower and found what she’d hoped. He was shirtless, all that lovely muscle exposed. Belly-churning pleasure warred with the knowledge that he shouldn’t be here, in her room.

  “Aye?” he continued smoothing the hair back off her face.

  “I—that is, we—what if…”

  “ ’Tis the middle of the night, and everyone’s asleep.” His sigh was long and deep, as if he were drawing on a reserve of patience. “No one else heard you. Go back to sleep.”

  The ghost of a smile playing about his firmly sculpted lips caught her attention. She stared at them, wanting to reach out and trace their edge. The quiet of the house combined with the soft candle glow made her feel bolder. She reached out a tentative fingertip, watching, waiting for his permission to touch.

  “Bridget,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

  Emboldened by the way his rasped out her name, she traced the top edge of his mouth, reveling in the way it arced up and the dip right smack in the middle of it.

  She’d thought his lips would feel cool and soft, but she was wrong, they were firm and warm. As her questing fingers reached the apex of his lips and started their downward trip, he moaned out her name and crushed her to him.

  Enraptured by the feel of his mouth on hers, she felt her grip on sanity begin to slip away from her. She arched her back and pressed her breasts against his chest. Heat met heat and melded them together. God in heaven, how had she survived so many years without the touch of a man? The cold, stark years since Michael left dissipated like early morning fog burned off by the sun.

  “Bridget, wait. We can’t—”

  A wisp of cool air across her face brought Bridget sharply to her senses. She clenched her hands to keep from reaching out to touch him again. ’Twas bad enough she harbored the need, but acting on the need again, once he’d made his intentions clear, would place both of them in a compromising situation she was certain neither of them wanted.

  Should she apologize even if she wouldn’t mean it? “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me?”

  “You don’t understand—”

  Oh, but she did. Far too clearly. He didn’t want her kissing him. Maybe he didn’t want her at all. She’d misread all of the signs. What a pitiful fool. “I’m afraid I do understand.”

  “Do you?” James could not resist running the tip of his finger along the slight curve of her jaw, tapping the rounded point of her chin. Though still far too thin, Bridget O’Toole had velvety soft skin. Her cheek reminded him of his mother’s roses back in Ireland. One of his earliest memories of home would always be running his fingertips across rose petals, releasing the flower’s scent, though he’d learned the hard way not to grab the stem, risking having to suffer later while his mother pulled the thorns from his fingers.

  The confusion darting in and out of Bridget’s eyes stirred up a mix of emotions. In the light of day, he could convince himself he didn’t need her but here at night, by the soft glow of a candle, the connection between them pulled him inexorably closer. Though her cries of distress would bring him to her room, it was her frailty that kept him at her bedside long after she drifted off to sleep. James continued to stroke the side of her face until she relaxed. Hoping he could soothe her and walk away; he’d done it before.

  “James…”

  It wasn’t the way she said his name as much as the longing in her dark brown eyes. He felt the same longing. He’d gone too long without the tenderness of a woman’s touch in the night. But he didn’t just need any woman. Devil take it, he needed the widow O’Toole!

  “Bridget…”

  All of the reasons he should turn and walk away churned through his mind, making his head ache. He wanted her, not just in his bed, but in his life. But more than that, he wanted her gangly twelve-year-old, would-be cattle-rustler son in his life, too.

  He shook his head, knowing he should leave. But Bridget was tossing the covers aside and standing before him. He couldn’t speak. The light from the candle he’d left on the bedside table shone through the soft linen of her nightgown, silhouetting her softly curved body. Ripe breasts jutting against the thin fabric, begging for his touch. His hands itched, and he flexed them. Unable to stop himself, he crossed back over to where she was standing and placed his hands where they needed to be, cupping her waist, pulling her close.

  He breathed in the scent of sun-warmed wildflowers and was lost. He buried his head in the curve of her neck and breathed deeply. Of their own volition, his lips traced a path up her neck to the gentle curve of her jawline, kissing their way to the dent in her chin.

  “Oh my Lord!” Bridget whispered, groaning as his lips found her mouth again and kissed the breath right out of her.

  She melted against him, eager to feel the hot length of him pressing against her, fitting the muscled planes of his work-hardened body against her soft curves. For a moment, she wondered if she should give in to the overwhelming need to remove her nightgown and press herself against the hot hard chest that lured her from the first.

  “James, tell me to stop.”

  He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Bridget, you don’t want me—”

  “God help me, I do. I’ve never been with anyone but my husband.”

  Unsure how he would react to the news, she looked down at her feet. Before she could draw in a steadying breath, she felt the tip of his finger on her chin, forcing it up until she l
ooked him in the eye. “Don’t expect me to walk away from you, not now that I know you’ve been waiting for me.”

  It was suddenly clear as glass. She had been waiting for him. Half her life.

  “Make love to me, James.”

  “Bridget, we shouldn’t—”

  Emboldened, she stood on the tips of her toes and pressed her lips to his neck, felt the rapid pulse beating there, and rejoiced: he wanted her. He was trying to hold back. She let her lips trail kisses down the side of his neck and onto his collarbone, dipping lower, licking, and kissing a path all the way to his heart.

  Just as she was thinking of being bold, of dropping to her knees and kissing along the edge of his unbuttoned trousers, his hands gripped her shoulders and jerked her away from him.

  Pain sliced through her. He didn’t want her as badly as she wanted him. She turned her head away. “Bridget,” he said, his voice ragged. “Tell me to stop.”

  Her gazed darted back to his, and she saw everything she was feeling reflected back at her from the depths of his beautiful blue eyes. “I don’t want you to stop.”

  His hands were everywhere at once. Sliding up and down her spine, brushing over her breasts, making her nipples stand at attention, begging for more.

  “Oh, please—”

  But James didn’t speak. He continued to caress every inch of her body. When she thought she’d simply melt into a puddle on the floor, he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the bed. Laying her in the middle, he stared down at her as he undid his pants and stepped out of them.

  He was glorious, naked and hers for the taking. Nerves skittered through her taut belly. Every fiber of her being called out to him to take that first step forward because she was afraid to. What if this was a mistake? What if she woke in the morning and regretted making love with him?

  As if he sensed her fear, he knelt on the bed, never breaking eye contact, then placed his lips against her breast where her heart beat, and her fear evaporated. Whatever he wanted, she’d gladly give him. She loved him. She should have realized it before, but she had been too busy trying to ignore the signs. No longer the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old who’d fallen so hard, so fast, for a sweet-talking pretty face, Bridget lifted her hand to James’s face and brought him closer. Placing her lips against his, she kissed him softly, then breathed deeply and let everything she was feeling pour into the kiss.

  “I’ve needed you for so long,” James whispered against her lips, kissing her back, caressing her curves with a gentle touch.

  “I was afraid to want you,” she admitted, not caring if he thought her crazy.

  “Ye’ve made me daft from the beginnin’.”

  The soft, lilting tones of his voice added fuel to the fire burning deep within her. “Make me daft, James. I want you.”

  Watching her, James grabbed the hem of her nightgown and waited for her to stop him. She didn’t. He lifted the gown over her head and sat back on his heels and just looked at her.

  His eyes caressed every inch of her body. The body she’d thought too thin.

  She pulled him down against her, reveling in the feel of his strong chest against her soft breasts. Before she could urge him to do so, he’d gently nudged her legs apart and settled himself at the very core of her womanhood. Heat surged up from deep within her, as his erection hardened and grew.

  “I don’t know if you’ll…”

  “Shhh.” He pressed his fingertips against her lips. “I want you too, Bridget O’Toole. From tonight on, you’re mine.”

  She opened herself to him and watched as his eyes turned midnight blue, with passion. “Say it.”

  “I’m yours,” she breathed, drawing in a breath as he slid home deep inside her.

  Time had no meaning. It stood still as they loved one another, soft touches, hard thrusts, closer and closer, until she screamed out his name. “James!”

  “Aye lass, I’m here, and I’m yours.”

  His words pushed her over the edge into oblivion. Her world shattered as he poured himself into her.

  “I love you, James.”

  The candle sputtered and went out as he drew her close and confessed, “Not as much as I love ye, lass.”

  * * *

  “Marshal!”

  The insistent pounding on the back door woke Turner from a sound sleep. He smothered a curse as he stumbled out of bed, stubbing his toe against the bedpost.

  “What time is it?”

  Maggie’s sleepy voice had him cursing again. The ride back from his brother-in-law’s ranch had been long, but necessary. He wanted his wife to himself, and not rising up at dawn again to cook for the hired hands that worked the Ryan spread. If they had stayed there last night, she’d have the first batch of scones ready to put in the oven right about now.

  The knock came again, louder this time. “Damnation!”

  Turner pulled the door open and stared at the slight young woman standing on his doorstep, wringing her hands.

  “Please, Marshal Turner,” she cried, “you’ve got to come! They have guns! Poor Pearl! You have to help us!”

  Turner tried to digest everything the young woman was telling him while struggling to clear the sleep from his brain. He wanted to remind her he was no longer an acting marshal, but her fear touched him, and he let that thought slide. “Why don’t you come on inside and sit down? Then you can start from the beginning and tell me what happened.”

  She nodded and followed him inside.

  Maggie was already at the stove, heating water to brew a pot of tea. “Ye poor wee thing,” Maggie crooned. “Have a seat and catch yer breath, Mary. Then ye can tell us what happened.”

  “But Pearl—”

  “If you don’t calm down enough to tell us the whole story, I can’t help you,” Turner said, keeping his voice even. He didn’t want to rattle the young woman more than she already was.

  “Six scruffy-looking men came in to The Ranch wanting a meal.”

  “Do ye know any of their names?” Maggie asked.

  Mary shook her head. “No.”

  “That’s all right. Go on,” Turner urged.

  “They were eating and drinking Pearl’s best whiskey, then they started calling for the women.”

  “What women?” Maggie demanded.

  “The ‘willing’ ones,” the girl whispered, staring down at the hands she’d folded in her lap.

  “Of all the nerve! Pearl doesn’t run that kind of place!” Maggie seethed.

  Mary looked up at her with tears in her eyes. “She told them that. But they—they wouldn’t believe her.”

  “What happened?” Turner demanded.

  “Pearl got out the playing cards, hoping to get them interested in playing poker instead of—”

  “We understand.” Maggie pulled a chair up right next to the girl’s. She took her hand and patted it. “Ye don’t have to think about that now. Yer here, so tell us the rest of it.”

  “I think one of them was cheating. Or at least someone accused another of cheating, and then the chairs started scraping against the floor. They were shouting and guns were being cocked.”

  “Were any shots fired?”

  Mary looked over at Turner. She seemed to settle down as she watched him strapping on his holster and tying it around his leg, then she nodded.

  Maggie brushed a hand across the girl’s brow. “Drink yer tea, and get comfortable. Yer not going back there tonight.”

  “But what about the others?”

  “Joshua will see that a posse of men ride out to The Ranch with him. Don’t ye worry,” she soothed. “It will all work out just fine, ye’ll see.”

  * * *

  “Henry Peabody! If you set one foot in that den of iniquity, you’ll burn in the fires of hell!”

  “Now, Millie…”

  Turner shook his head in amazement. This was the fourth stop on his way out to The Ranch, and so far, not one man was willing to cross his wife. And every wife so far had forbade her spouse to have anything
to do with riding out to The Ranch to rescue Pearl and her girls.

  “Why don’t you go on back up to bed, Mrs. Peabody,” he suggested.

  “Don’t you dare tell me what to do, Mr. Turner,” she huffed. “I don’t care if you were a U.S. Marshal. You’re retired now and have no jurisdiction over my husband or any other man in this town!”

  “You’re right as rain, Mrs. Peabody. But with the sheriff already gone, and the new marshal not yet arrived, I’m the closest thing to the law that you have.”

  Stalking over to his mount, he realized there was no point in arguing with the irritating woman. She’d set her jaw, straightened her shoulders, and glared at him. Turner bit his tongue and tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

  Turner had hoped to have at least five men riding with him out to Pearl’s. After two more refusals, he started to worry. He jammed his Stetson back on his head and swung up into the saddle. Time was running out, and he didn’t have time to ride out to the Ryan spread to get help.

  If the two men he’d roused down at the livery weren’t able to get help from Ryan, the odds would be one man pitted against six… not the type of odds he favored. He hoped it would be the other way around and prayed he could count on Ryan and a few extra guns.

  Making his way down Main Street, he realized that his last duty had come down to a shoot-out after all. He didn’t have the heart to tell Maggie what he feared he was going to find out at Pearl’s. It didn’t matter who held Pearl and her girls hostage. Too many whiskeys never made the job of negotiating for a hostage’s freedom any easier. He forced that grim thought away.

  Right now there were five innocent young women and their protector, the only woman in town Christian enough to take them in during their time of need. They were all alone at the mercy of some gang of disreputable men. On the government’s payroll or not, he had a job to do. Nothing would stand in his way.

  A hundred feet ahead of him, a pair of horses and riders moved out of the shadows. “Did you find Ryan?”

  “He’ll meet us on the way.”

  “Let’s ride.”