The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Maggie shook her head. “With the barn being finished, Jamie has more work than he knows what to do with. He can’t spare Reilly or Flynn to stay behind and sit with Pearl.”

  A glimmer of relief shot through Bridget before she squelched it. Pearl wouldn’t be all alone out at the ranch with her James—she liked the way that sounded and wondered why no shaft of fear chased through her at the thought of caring about a man. Had she changed that much? Had she gained enough faith in herself that she could trust her instincts when it came to men?

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Swenson if they can stay in town with us.”

  Maggie looked at Bridget, but the sounds of muffled laughter coming from the kitchen and the yard beyond had Bridget looking over her shoulder. Laughter was the best medicine for whatever ailed young people. It certainly seemed to help with Mick. So long as she kept a watch out, between Maggie and herself, they should be able to counter any attacks coming from the Committee for the next little while. Right now, she needed to pay a visit to the jail.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The rough board sidewalk was empty. Bridget’s resolve wavered for a moment. Digging deep into her soul, she found the grit to go on. If there was a single grain of truth to the marshal’s speculation that his prisoner was the same man who had walked out on her twelve years before, she had to know.

  “Mick’s well,” she told herself. “He’s happy,” she added, blowing out a breath. Bridget bit her bottom lip. “I’ve raised a good son.” Her heart warmed at the thought of him standing on the brink of manhood, no longer a man-in-training. Her eyes misted at the thought that her work was nearly done; only the fine-tuning was left.

  She’d taught him to respect his elders, taught him manners enough that he wouldn’t embarrass himself at a fancy sit-down dinner, but above all, she’d taught him to be honest. That trait, fortunately, ran deep and wide in him.

  “Mick,” she whispered, “I’m so proud of you.” She hesitated outside the door to the jail. “I just hope you’ll understand what I’m about to do.”

  Plastering a smile on her face and squaring her shoulders, she opened the door to the sheriff’s office.

  Marshal Justiss was alone and seemed surprised to see her. But the surprise swiftly changed to a look of speculation as he rose from his chair and walked around the scarred oak desk to greet her.

  “Mrs. O’Toole,” he rumbled.

  Skittish, nerves dancing a jig up and down her spine, she focused on the sound of his voice, surprised at how it eased her worry.

  “What brings you here?”

  Though couched in pleasantries, she knew the question was not one to be sidestepped. The marshal expected an answer.

  “After our conversation out at Mr. Ryan’s ranch yesterday, I thought I would satisfy your curiosity and my own.”

  His eyes darkened to a deep, forest green and fixed on her for long enough that she looked away, uneasy. He obviously hadn’t changed his mind. She hoped the marshal was wrong.

  Bridget swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump of fear in her throat. Could it be written on her face that she’d been with James Ryan? “I’d like to see the prisoner.”

  Marshal Justiss leaned back against the front of his desk and crossed his long, lean legs at the ankle. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  Bridget hated the fact that she was back to feeling unsettled. Wasn’t it enough that she had come here to face her fear that the man locked behind bars was her Michael? Nerves be damned. For Mick’s sake, and her own, she had to do it. She nodded.

  He turned around and reached for the ring of keys hanging on the wall behind his desk. “All right.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder at her, “If you’re sure you want to.”

  His concern seemed genuine and lightened her heavy heart. No, she did not want to do this. “I have to,” she answered.

  He stopped again, barring her way to the back room where the prisoners were kept. “Before you go back there . . .” His voice was pitched low enough not to be overheard. “I just want you to know how much I admire your courage.”

  She shook her head back and forth, silently denying his words. “Courage?” she said. “I think not.”

  Marshal Justiss’s eyes held hers for a heartbeat. “Let me do the talking,” he advised.

  Before Bridget could agree, they had stepped into the back room. Five men were divided between the two small cells. The two on the left side were lying down on their cots, facing the back wall. She looked over at the other cell. Two men lounged on cots, while the third stood at the bars. She started to look away.

  “Son of a bitch!” the man at the bars hissed.

  Soulful gray eyes ringed with thick, dark lashes widened in disbelief. As she watched, disbelief smoothed into recognition and spread across his familiar features.

  “Michael?” The face had matured, but there was no denying the man standing behind bars in the Emerson jail was the man she had thought dead and buried these last twelve years.

  He stood stone silent.

  “You’re alive?” Shock swept through her, leaving her knees weak and her head buzzing. Her eyes blurred in and out of focus. She could no longer feel her fingers or draw in the breath her lungs screamed for. She’d given herself just last night to the man she loved and planned on spending the rest of her life with. But now—

  Though dazed, she felt a strong, firm arm wrap about her waist, as the marshal swept her back into the front room.

  “Mrs. O’Toole?”

  Dear God. Michael was alive? She couldn’t quite get her thoughts to focus on anything but that. He was not dead. He was alive!

  “Married,” she murmured. Heaven help her! She was still legally married to Michael, the man of her young dreams, the man who’d swept her off her feet after just one look. The same man who had promised to love her forever. The man who had held a woman and her young charges hostage at gunpoint for hours.

  “Mrs. O’Toole?”

  Had he beaten Pearl, or had one of his men done it? His men! He was an outlaw! The man she thought she knew and loved now broke the law for a living.

  “Mrs. O’Toole!”

  Her eyes welled up with tears. It was all too much. Michael was alive, and she should be celebrating finding him after believing him dead all these years.

  “Bridget!”

  All she could think of was the fact that he was not the man she thought she’d known and loved. The man behind bars was a complete and total stranger.

  “Drink this.”

  She found herself seated and a glass of amber-colored liquid thrust into her hands. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to hold it. Her quaking hands sloshed whiskey over the rim of the glass until a warm, firm hand steadied hers.

  Marshal Justiss guided the glass to her lips, waiting expectantly while she swallowed the fiery whiskey. She was grateful for the trail of warmth burning its way to her quivering belly. God she was cold. So cold.

  “You really thought he was dead.” It wasn’t a question.

  Bridget forced herself to meet the marshal’s intent gaze. “Michael said goodbye that morning.” Closing her eyes helped to picture it, to remember. “Same as he always did. He kissed my cheek, touched the tip of his forefinger to my chin.”

  A tear welled up and broke free; she could feel it trickling along the curve of her cheek. “I loved him.”

  The marshal cleared his throat. “What happened?”

  “He never came home.”

  “Not once?”

  Bridget shook her head, fighting to keep a lid on the wild emotions rushing around inside.

  “I have to ask.” The marshal paused, looked down at his hands, clenched them, and looked back up at her. “Is he Mick’s father?”

  Stunned speechless, Bridget could only nod. No one had ever questioned Mick’s parentage to her face before—only behind their hands, when they thought she didn’t hear them.

  “You didn’t realize you were pregnant the last morning you saw O’Toole
?”

  The implication was clear. Disappointment evaporated as white-hot fury bubbled to the surface, releasing her voice. She lashed out, “I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am,” she began, but before she could add that she’d never been with anyone other than her husband, thoughts of last night blurred her vision. She’d been with James in every way possible. Every position possible. They had been as close and connected as a man and woman could be. And she’d reveled in it. She’d given herself wholeheartedly to him. She could feel her cheeks beginning to flush. Oh, Lord. What could she say?

  The marshal’s gaze narrowed, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Bridget knew he didn’t believe her. Well, maybe he did, but she was not going to give him any excuse to ask her point blank if she’d ever been with another man. Until last night, she hadn’t, but that wasn’t any of the marshal’s business.

  “I didn’t realize I was carrying Mick until a week or so after Michael disappeared.”

  The marshal nodded.

  Her hands started shaking again, so she clenched them in her lap to try to keep them still. Somewhat mollified by his acceptance, she continued. “I waited, watched, and asked everyone I knew…”

  “And?”

  “No one knew anything. He just disappeared.” Bridget’s hands started to ache, they were clenched so tightly. Still they shook. “I just knew something awful had happened to him.”

  Marshal Justiss didn’t say anything, so she continued, “A few days after Mick was born, the cabin caught fire. I was—”

  “During the day?”

  “No. I was asleep and thought I’d been having a nightmare.”

  “But it wasn’t a dream?”

  She shook her head. “The smoke was so thick, and one whole wall was in flames.”

  “How did you get out?” The marshal was on the edge of his chair, waiting.

  “I prayed, put a quilt over my baby, and ran through the flames.”

  “It’s a miracle you or Mick weren’t hurt.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  His gaze snapped back to hers, “Were you?”

  She nodded, not wanting to have to tell him about the scars or the rest of it. James hadn’t mentioned her scars last night. Hadn’t he noticed them? Would it matter to her if he had? As if he understood, Marshal Justiss rose and stood before her, squatting down in front of her chair so they were eye to eye. He took her hands in his. She looked down at them, hers small and shaky, his steady and strong, and it was suddenly easier to tell him the rest.

  “You don’t have to tell me now.”

  “But you’ll expect an answer soon?”

  He smiled and nodded.

  “My back is covered with scars.”

  “And Mick?”

  “Not a one.” She smiled. She’d done her best and protected her boy.

  It was harder explaining the next twelve years, traveling from town to town, taking in laundry, scrubbing floors, all the while searching for word of her husband, but the marshal’s steady silence eased her through it.

  “For twelve years?”

  Bridget let her gaze meet his. Compassion was a rare quality in a man. She saw and felt it with the marshal, as she had with James.

  “It’s easy to wonder why, but harder to explain. I looked younger than I was—”

  “You still do.”

  “Traveling without a man . . .” Bridget sighed. “People talk and believe what they want to believe.”

  “And they believed what?”

  “That I’d never been married. Mick didn’t deserve to grow up hearing such talk.”

  “So you just moved on?”

  Bridget nodded.

  “How many times?”

  “Thirteen times in twelve years.”

  “Are you going to run again?” His steely gaze challenged hers.

  Bridget met the look and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “What about Mick?”

  “What about the man you have behind bars?”

  “Let me help you,” he said.

  “How?”

  “For starters,” he began, “I know where your husband has spent the last twelve years of his life.”

  Bridget gulped, her stomach flipping. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “Yes, you do.” Marshal Justiss sounded so certain of it, she almost believed him. After a moment of studying her, he added, “You’ll want to know, because you’ll need to face your problems for Mick’s sake.”

  “Mick—” Her heart actually ached, thinking of her strong, proud son. “He’ll never understand!”

  “He’s a good young man,” the marshal offered. “He’ll stand beside you through whatever comes next.”

  Bridget nodded her head. The confusion was seeping away as an image of her son standing beside her filled her mind’s eye. A shadow of a taller man was standing beside him with his hand on Mick’s shoulder. James had taught him to stand tall. James! Dear God, how could she ever explain this to James? He’d never believe her.

  “Bridget?”

  She looked up from their still-linked hands.

  “I know we can get to the bottom of this.”

  Her instincts told her the marshal was a man to be trusted, while her heart cried out that she had already lost the trust of the one man she could have spent the rest of her life with.

  What would James do once the truth about her was known?

  “I don’t know what to do. How will I tell Mick?”

  “You need to put some distance between yourself and O’Toole,” the marshal said. “Where can we talk privately?”

  Bridget could not imagine having this conversation at Swenson’s, or anywhere else for that matter. Thinking of the Committee, and unwanted gossip, she decided the best place would have to be the most public. “The hotel dining room.”

  “Let me buy you lunch over at the hotel,” he urged. “I can start to fill you in. Once you know the facts, you can decide how to tell Mick.”

  Bridget could feel her strength seeping away. Her head swam and her breathing was far too shallow, too rapid. She had to leave before she dropped into a dead faint at the marshal’s feet. That was something she wouldn’t do, especially since the husband who’d deserted her was close enough to hear when her body hit the floor.

  For Mick’s sake, she’d go to lunch with marshal and find out what she needed to know. Then she’d be ready to face Michael again. For Mick’s sake, she had to find out why the man who had vowed to cleave to her, until death parted them, had simply walked away from her and the life they were building together. For Mick’s sake.

  * * *

  Michael O’Toole’s hands gripped the iron bars caging him, separating him from the freedom he would die to regain. God help him, Bridget was alive! She hadn’t died in that fire more than twelve years ago.

  Relief washed over him. The Bible! Did she still have it? How could he ask? How could he convince her to come back and speak to him? She was obviously as surprised as he to find out their situation was not what either one had assumed. But what to do? How could he convince his wife . . . was she still his wife? In the eyes of the law, he couldn’t say; he’d been gone for more than ten years. But in the eyes of the Church, they would be married, and he knew how much value his wife placed on the Church and its teachings.

  Damn, but he’d give his right arm to get his hands on that Bible and the key to the safe deposit box, which he’d sewn into the back cover. Then the mine payroll would be his! After twelve long years, he’d finally be able to retrieve the money he’d stashed in the safe deposit box in Denver.

  He wondered what type of woman the biddable young Bridget had grown into. She certainly was still a fine looking woman, although far too thin for his tastes. He preferred a woman with more to hang on to. But he would have no problem trying to convince his wife he still cared for her, if that’s what it would take to get his hands on that Bible!

  Once he got his hands on the money, he’d find a way
to disappear again. This time, he’d stay gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “What should I do?” Ryan stopped mid-pace; his feet would not go any further. He had practically worn a path smooth on the cobbled walkway leading up to his sister’s back door.

  Turner leaned back against the newly painted porch post. He didn’t appear any worse for the wear, even though Ryan knew how it felt to have a bullet rip a few layers of flesh out of your arm. But his brother-in-law seemed to be deep in thought, and for once did not have a ready answer. “Why don’t you wait to speak to Justiss? I’ve known him for a few years. You can trust him to be honest with you.”

  Ryan nodded, taking in the wisdom of Turner’s words. The dull ache in his chest where his heart should be tormented him. He had tried not to let himself care, but instead he’d somehow fallen head over heels in love with the widow and her son. Now that he had, what was he going to do about it?

  The turmoil was driving Ryan over the edge. He blurted out the one question that plagued him. “Do you think O’Toole is her husband?” If he was, Ryan had already made up his mind that he would harbor no regrets about last night.

  His brother-in-law shook his head, then stopped. “I wish I had the answers you need, Ryan.” Turner tilted his head and stared at him. “Maggie is really fond of Bridget, and I am too.”

  Fond? Ryan mulled over the meaning of the word. His feelings went way beyond fond where the widow O’Toole was concerned. He had already lost his heart and was in jeopardy of losing his soul to her as well. But was his heart whole? After that long-ago night in Amarillo, he wasn’t sure the frozen lump in his chest would be complete once it thawed.

  “If she’s in trouble, Maggie will stand beside her.” Turner let the words sink in before adding, “So will I.”

  Ryan knew without hearing the words that his sister and his brother-in-law were prepared to stand with Bridget, no matter what. But where did that leave him? He wanted to believe that a man missing for more than a dozen years should forfeit the rights to his wife, but his staunch Catholic upbringing would not let him. If her husband was alive, the holy sacrament of matrimony still bound them together, whether Ryan liked it or not.