The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  * * *

  “Are ye sure? You could have heard wrong.”

  Mary shook her head. “Positive.”

  Maggie could not seem to catch her breath. It wasn’t the babe she carried that caused her panic. It was the name the poor girl had just remembered. God help them! She had to find her husband and warn him just what he was up against, but she had to tell Bridget first. By all that was holy, she hoped there were two men with the same name.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Marshal Justiss swigged the last of the coffee in his canteen and turned his horse to the east. He was just outside the town of Emerson. The trail was still warm. O’Toole was nearly in his sights.

  “Faster!” A wagon rumbled up over the rise in the road. Some blasted female and her passenger were riding hell-bent for leather down the middle of the road. He knew the moment the redhead saw him.

  “Merciful heavens!” He watched as she tried to rein in her horse.

  He yanked on his own horse’s reins, and moved out of the way. She nodded, by way of thanks he supposed, and snapped the reins again, coaxing even more speed from the huge draft horse.

  Justiss had seen that look before. The woman who barreled on past him had not just seemed determined. Her grip on the reins and squared shoulders tipped him off. It was utter desperation that drove her forward toward a goal he feared was beyond the woman’s capabilities.

  He decided to follow along behind and see if he could lend a hand. Knowing it would be a waste of good breath to shout after her, he wheeled his mount around and gave chase.

  Maggie’s eyes were focused on the back of the horse she coaxed more speed from, and on the road to her brother’s ranch. She felt Mary tugging on her arm, but didn’t dare look away from the road.

  Time was of the essence.

  Her vision tunneled until all she could see was the road before them and the horse. Maggie’s brain registered the sound of another set of hoofbeats, but she ignored them, focusing on her mission. God help her, she had to find Bridget!

  Rounding the bend in the road, she turned off and headed up the lane to Jamie’s ranch. Let him be there, too, she prayed. They would need his help, if what she feared had come to be.

  “Whoa!”

  The deep male voice at her elbow startled her. She looked away from the ranch house and saw a brown leather vest with a silver star pinned to it. Her eyes flew up the man’s broad chest to his clean-shaven chin and penetrating grass-green eyes.

  “Yer the marshal we’ve been waitin’ for?”

  The man nodded as he took the reins from her and helped her down from the wagon.

  “Yer late, Marshal Justiss!” Maggie turned away from him and shouted, “Bridget!”

  The woman came hurrying over toward them. “Don’t worry about your husband,” she soothed, “James and his men rode out to meet him.”

  Maggie shook her head, “ ’Tis you I’m more worried about. Tell her.” She urged the young girl to tell her what happened out at Pearl’s.

  Bridget felt her stomach knot up as she listened to Mary’s tale. “Are you certain that’s the name you heard?”

  Bridget’s stomach burned when Mary nodded her head. It didn’t have to be her Michael. It could be another Michael O’Toole. ’Twas a common enough name. Wasn’t it?

  She looked up and saw the way the marshal was watching them. She wondered if he had heard their conversation.

  A flush stole across Bridget’s cheeks when she remembered the way she’d given herself to James last night. She’d never made love until she was exhausted before. With Michael—good Lord in heaven above, could it be him? Could her husband be alive after all these years? The thought nearly drove the breath from her lungs. Why now?

  Shooing everyone into the kitchen, Bridget steadied her hands, making sure to pour the hot coffee into the marshal’s cup, not onto his hand. His bright green gaze reminded her of Maggie’s husband. Both were lawmen, and both were prone to stretches of watchful silence.

  A chill swept through her, leaving her shaking and covered with gooseflesh. Something was terribly wrong; she felt it all the way down to her toes.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Bridget watched as his eyes seemed to settle on one empty chair after another, as if he were mentally counting the number of able-bodied men he was prepared to deputize.

  “Mr. Ryan and his men rode out a little while ago,” Bridget offered.

  Unsure of what the marshal was thinking, worried she would hear a truth she could not bear, Bridget sent up a silent prayer that the man the marshal was after was not the same man she had taken vows with. She shook her head and nearly laughed out loud. Of course, it couldn’t be Michael. He was dead.

  Wasn’t he? She’d never have given herself to James otherwise…or would she?

  Now that the niceties had been observed, she wanted to get Maggie alone to find out if there was more her friend was not telling her. But the marshal had other ideas.

  “Mrs. Ryan—”

  His direct gaze unnerved her. “I’m not Mrs. Ryan. I’m a widow.”

  His eyes pinned her with a hard look. “Do you keep house for Ryan?”

  Bridget cleared her throat and decided the truth would be the easiest to remember. Her mind was so muddled right now; she would never be able to keep a string of fibs straight. “I did for a time.”

  “But not now,” he finished the statement for her.

  She met his penetrating look openly, daring the lawman to judge her. Everyone else had within moments of meeting her, why not Marshal Justiss?

  “I noticed a new barn.” His voice had softened a bit. The edge was gone, but his eyes were still wary.

  Bridget nodded toward Maggie. “James Ryan is Mrs. Turner’s brother. We had a barn-raising yesterday.”

  “And you came back to help?” he suggested.

  She nodded, waiting for the recriminations to start. Though she was weary of them, she braced herself for yet another round.

  “A lot of work goes on besides the actual construction of a new barn.” Bridget watched the way he looked first at Maggie and then turned back to look at her. “I imagine you ladies had your hands full feeding everybody and taking care of mashed fingers.”

  Bridget sucked in a breath and held it, waiting for him to criticize the fact that she was still in the man’s home; a man she was no relation to.

  The marshal watched her, as if he knew what she waited for. Could he read her mind? Lack of air was making her dizzy. She let the breath out in a whoosh.

  “You might want to take a sip of coffee. It’s mighty good.”

  The compliment surprised her, but not as much as the man’s easy acceptance of her presence at the Ryan ranch. Bridget could not remember the last time she had been so readily accepted. Actually, she could. James had accepted her during one of the lowest points in her life.

  Maggie spoke up then. “I’m forgettin’ me manners again.” She turned toward Marshal Justiss. “Allow me to introduce you to one of me greatest friends, Bridget O’Toole.”

  The marshal’s eyes narrowed to pinpoints of deadly green. “Widowed, you say?”

  “Aye, she and her young son Mick were all alone in the world, until me brother came to their rescue.”

  Bridget had seen a similar look to the one in the marshal’s eyes once before, and she had been on the receiving end of that man’s wrath as well. She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up.

  The marshal blinked and the look was gone. He took another swallow of coffee, set his cup down, and pushed his chair back as well.

  Bridget took a step back and looked over at Maggie. Bless her heart, she understood the look.

  “Shouldn’t ye be on your way to help me husband and brother?” Maggie demanded.

  Bridget wanted to hug her for trying to deflect the marshal’s attention from her. But the man was like a greedy dog with a juicy bone.

  “I’d like to ask you just a few questions before I head on over to The Ran
ch.”

  Bridget screwed up her courage and faced him. She had to crane her neck back to look him in the eye. He must be near in height to James. The anger she had glimpsed in his gaze receded a bit. Fighting the urge to take another step back from him, she nodded. “What would you like to know, Marshal?”

  “When did your husband die?”

  Bridget managed to clear the tightness from her throat and answer, “Nearly twelve years ago.”

  “Where did he die?”

  “I—I’m not sure. That is—” Bridget stumbled over her answer. She was not sure where Michael had died.

  “You weren’t with him at the time?”

  The marshal’s tone, and his questions, raised her suspicions. He knew something that she did not. She would never have had the courage to speak up before, but a certain rancher had changed the way she felt about herself. She now had the courage to ask her own questions.

  “Why do you ask, Marshal? Is there a specific reason for your questions about something that occurred more than a decade ago?”

  “Would you step outside with me for moment, Mrs. O’Toole?”

  “Ye don’t have to speak to him alone, Bridget,” Maggie warned.

  Bridget hesitated, then looked up at the marshal’s closed expression, struck by the realization that while he looked stern, she did not have anything to fear from the lawman. He was simply doing his job.

  “It’ll be all right, Maggie.”

  Bridget preceded him through the door he held open for her. Once outside, he grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around. “I don’t have time to waste on civilities, Mrs. O’Toole.”

  Bridget felt a frisson of icy fear sprint up her spine.

  “I have reason to believe the Michael O’Toole I followed here is responsible for the hostage situation out at The Ranch. But before I ride out there, I need to make sure of a few facts.”

  She stared down at his hand, still clenching her elbow. At her pointed look, he let go.

  “O’Toole is a common name.”

  “I also have reason to believe that he is your husband.”

  “But my husband is dead!”

  “And you buried him where?”

  Dear Lord, she had no idea how to answer the marshal’s question.

  “But—but he never came back!” she whispered.

  “How long did you wait?”

  A lifetime, she thought. “A year.”

  “Only a year?” He was standing right in front of her again, and the toes of his trail-worn boots touched the tips of her serviceable boots.

  “There was a fire…” Her voice trailed off. Was Michael alive after all these years? Could it possibly be him?

  “You left after the fire,” he said.

  Bridget nodded. Her head began to pound.

  “Why didn’t you go home to your parents?” he asked.

  Shocked by the possibility that Michael could still be alive, Bridget could not seem to find her voice. Oh, my God. After last night, how could this be happening?

  Her brain felt as if she had been head-butted by an ornery billy goat, repeatedly. “My parents died in a carriage accident right before I married Michael.” God help her, she couldn’t think. Was it written on her face that she’d spent the night in James’s bed, in his arms, loving him?

  His eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. He shook his head, and Bridget wondered if the man had answered his own silent question.

  “So you are all alone, then,” he suggested.

  She shook her head, no. “I have Mick.”

  “Mick?”

  “Aye, Marshal,” her son answered. Relief speared through her. She watched her son as he walked up the path to the back porch. “She has me.”

  The marshal was a smart man. Bridget watched his face closely and knew the moment he put two and two together. She nodded. “I’d like to introduce you to my son, Michael O’Toole, Jr.”

  Mick wouldn’t take the man’s hand when the marshal offered it. He stepped around the marshal and put an arm around his mother. “Maggie was worried. I’ve just come from town. I was able to talk a few men into riding out to The Ranch with me.”

  “That won’t be necessary—” Marshal Justiss began.

  “You don’t know anything about Pearl or her girls,” Mick countered. “You don’t know the lay of the land, like I do.”

  The marshal stared at Bridget’s son.

  Mick stared right back. While a bit unnerved by the glare the man was directing at her son, Bridget couldn’t deny that she was proud of Mick. He was unafraid to speak up for what he believed was right.

  “How many men have you got?” she asked, hoping to deflect the marshal’s attention.

  Mick turned and smiled at her. “Five.”

  “But . . . I thought Marshal Turner couldn’t convince any of the town’s menfolk to ride out with him?”

  Maggie stepped through the back door with her arm around Mary. “Now that he’s retired, he couldn’t,” she said softly.

  “How did you change their minds?” Bridget prodded.

  “He didn’t,” Marshal Justiss said, looking out at the yard behind Bridget.

  “We’re ready when you are, Mick!” a young voice called out.

  Bridget turned around and saw the group of men her son had gathered together. They ranged in age from eleven to sixteen, but she had no doubt that they were capable of holding their own in a fight. She’d seen them working side-by-side with their fathers just yesterday. They were young, strong, and every last mother’s son could shoot the head off a diamondback at twenty paces. Bridget nearly smiled as she remembered the day she had happened upon that particular rattlesnake-shooting contest.

  “Do be careful,” she whispered, smoothing the hair back off of her son’s forehead.

  “You too, boys,” she called out to the group of brave young men ready to ride out and avenge the honor of her friend Pearl and her homeless girls.

  “Yes ma’am,” the group called back.

  “Have a care!” Maggie warned. “Watch yer backs and listen to Marshal Justiss!”

  As one, the group nodded.

  “Be safe,” Mary called.

  Mick turned back and placed a hand on the girl’s slim shoulder. Bridget watched the look of tenderness fill her son’s expression and soften the hard lines around his mouth. “We won’t let anything happen to them, Mary,” he promised. “You have my word on it.”

  She reached up and put a shaking hand to Mick’s face. “Hurry back, Mick.”

  As the group rode off into the growing light, Bridget brushed a hand over the young woman’s back and pulled her into a quick hug. “My Mick’s a smart lad,” she offered.

  “And can hit a snake between the eyes at twenty paces,” Maggie said with a grin.

  “I’ll get my healing basket,” Bridget said, holding the door to the kitchen open. “With any luck, the men will all be back before noon and ready to have their scrapes tended to.”

  Her heart lurched, thinking of her son riding off into such a dangerous situation. But he wouldn’t be alone, she thought; he was riding with Marshal Justiss. Maggie’s husband, a former marshal, and James Ryan, the man she’d only just realized she’d trust Mick’s life with, were already riding toward Pearl’s. She just hoped they’d all arrive in time.

  Chapter Ninteen

  Ryan heard the sound of shots being fired as they approached The Ranch from the back.

  He tried to block out a woman’s high-pitched scream of terror, riding his horse right up onto the back porch and leaping off. He raised his Colt into the air.

  “Wait for my signal,” Turner whispered.

  As they slipped off to their assigned places, James thought of Bridget and Mick and the life he wanted to offer them. A safe home and his protection and caring—

  “Now!”

  James burst through the back door, leveled his Colt and shot out the light. He heard Turner crash through the front door at the same time a window shatte
red off to his left. He had time to draw in a breath, while the outlaws stared at them in the dim light with their guns drawn, ready to fire.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  When the dust settled and the black powder cleared, a blessed quiet descended, giving Ryan time to take stock of the situation. His brother-in-law’s left arm was bleeding just above the elbow, but he didn’t seem bothered much by it. In fact, the man stood with both guns pointed at the battered group of men sprawled on the dining room floor.

  “Who do we have here?” Ryan asked, pulling out one of the spare bits of rope he’d thrust into his vest pocket earlier. He walked over to lend a hand tying the prisoners up.

  The largest man in the group glared up at him. Although he couldn’t place the man’s face, the eyes were familiar. An eerie feeling that he had met him before settled around him like a cold, wet rain. He shook the feeling off and bent down to the task at hand.

  “O’Toole and his gang,” Turner said, nodding toward the man Ryan had just tied up.

  The silence that followed allowed Ryan to adjust to the sudden roiling in his gut. His stomach flipped, and his breath snagged on its way into his lungs. His gaze riveted to O’Toole’s. No. It couldn’t be!

  “What’s your first name?” he asked through tightly clenched teeth.

  “What difference would it make to you?” the man demanded.

  “None,” Ryan answered, slowly rising to his feet. Bugger it. Had he spent the night making love to a married woman?

  “Michael,” one of the other men called out. “A fine upstanding Irish name!”

  Ryan looked around at the shards of glass—all that was left of the windows—and splinters of wood—remnants of chairs and tables. O’Toole and his gang had shot the place to pieces, but it was what he had yet to find out that ate a hole in his gut. He needed to find out where Pearl and her girls were and what condition they were in.

  “Ye bring shame to the proud people you’ve descended from,” Ryan snapped, unable to keep from slipping into a heavy brogue.

  Flynn nodded in agreement, finishing off the knots he was tying.

  Reilly placed a hand on Ryan’s arm, but he barely felt it. “You’re not from around these parts?” he asked, already knowing the man was not, and all the while dreading the answer the man might give.