The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “Joshua?” He heard Maggie call out. “ ’Tis time to have another look at yer arm.”

  The ex-marshal rolled his eyes heavenward before saying, “I think you have already made up your mind about Bridget, haven’t you?”

  Silence and confusion roiled around inside Ryan’s head to the point that he wondered if it would explode. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he nodded to his brother-in-law, turned on his heel and left.

  Unanswered questions, like so many wisps of fog, swept about him all the way back to his ranch. Had Bridget known her husband was alive? Was she truly running from the unfair gossip that seemed to surround her, or was she in fact running from a marriage that she would have everyone believe had ended with the death of her husband, a husband who at this very moment sat cooling his heels behind bars?

  * * *

  Ryan had removed the saddle and blanket when he heard footsteps approaching from behind him. He didn’t bother to turn around. It would either be Flynn or Reilly.

  “Where’ve ye been?”

  Ryan ignored Flynn’s question and began to curry his weary mount. The familiar feel of warm horseflesh quivering beneath the brush added a sense of normality to the otherwise surrealistic day.

  “Have ye fallen on yer thick head and damaged yer already addled brain?” Reilly’s question had Ryan spinning about to face his men.

  “Well?” they both demanded, glaring daggers at him.

  “And when have I ever answered to the likes of you two?” Ryan snapped, temper spiking dangerously close to the boiling point. He clamped the lid down on it.

  “There was the time over in Oklahoma Territory,” Flynn said, scratching his chin.

  “Wasn’t that a grand fight, now?” Reilly said with a cheeky grin.

  Ryan’s fist clenched, and itched to connect with a target. Frustration nearly won out over the inner battle raging within him.

  He patted the horse’s strong neck and put away the grooming tools he had used on his mount. Checking to make certain his loyal friend had enough fresh water to drink and oats to munch on, he brushed his now-sweating palms against his dusty, jean-clad legs.

  Facing his friends, he gave in to the overpowering need to talk to someone who would understand his very real fears. “How about a glass of the Irish?” They nodded and followed Ryan to the house.

  Somehow the warmth of the smooth whiskey eased the tightness in his throat and loosened his tongue. His worries came pouring out. “Flynn, ye understand how it was?”

  The redheaded man nodded.

  “ ’Twasn’t as if I had a choice in the matter.” He turned to look at Reilly. This time, Reilly nodded.

  “Aye, Jamie, ye had no choice!” Flynn insisted.

  “They would’ve kept ye behind bars until yer flesh rotted off yer bones!” Reilly’s words only added to the intense frustration creeping up the back of Ryan’s neck, cramping the muscles until they fairly screamed with tension.

  “I never should have looked at Big John’s daughter.”

  Flynn snorted. “As if the filly gave ye half a chance to ignore her.”

  “Twitchin’ her silk-covered bustle in front of yer face every chance she had,” Reilly added.

  “Ye don’t understand,” Ryan rasped, looking down into the empty glass he cradled in both hands. “Ye never did.”

  Flynn poured more of the clear amber-colored whiskey into James’s glass. “Always one to take on everyone’s problems, ignorin’ yer own,” he muttered.

  “I don’t—” Ryan began

  “Aye, lad,” Flynn said knowingly.

  “Ye do,” Reilly finished.

  “’Twasn’t about holding her in me arms,” Ryan continued, conjuring up the long-suppressed image of the angel-faced blonde who had stolen his heart after one look.

  “Oh, aye,” Flynn readily agreed.

  “She needed me.” Ryan tried to explain what he was only just now beginning to understand himself. “Her father didn’t understand that she only wanted to be married and live a life of her own.”

  “What the lass wanted was a patsy to take the fall when she and that overgrown ranch hand robbed her father’s safe. So they left ye there to take the blame for it.”

  Reilly’s words scored a direct hit. Ryan’s heart still ached, thinking about that time in his life. But he’d gotten past it. He survived time in jail—well, not the full extent of the time he was due to serve.

  “What yer sufferin’ from now, lad,” Flynn told him, “is guilt.”

  Ryan thought of the hours he’d spent trying to lose the thick Irish brogue, and when he had succeeded, the day he realized he also needed to change his name. Seamus Ryan Flaherty had become James Ryan overnight. Ryan now wondered if he’d lost a part of himself as well.

  “Over Rebecca?” He certainly had felt guilty about not being there to stand up to her father for her, one last time.

  “Have we given him too much of the Irish?” Reilly demanded of Flynn.

  Flynn shook his head. “Not quite enough, if ye ask me.”

  Reilly poured another round. “Now this may be borderin’ on almost too much.”

  Ryan still hadn’t unburdened himself; he still needed to get the rest of his worries off his chest. “Lads, ye have to listen.”

  Both men lowered their glasses and nodded solemnly.

  “ ‘Tis Bridget. Do ye think she’s telling the truth about her husband?”

  Reilly didn’t even hesitate. “I do.”

  Flynn nodded his agreement.

  “How can ye be sure?” Ryan hated the way his words sounded, thick with brogue and slurred with whiskey. He shook his head, in an attempt to clear it.

  “Think long and hard, lad. The answer will come to ye.”

  Ryan dragged his stiff and weary body off to bed. He toed his boots off, and left them where they landed. Not bothering to turn down the bedclothes, he drew in a deep breath and collapsed onto the bed, dead to the world by the time he exhaled.

  “Should we at least loosen his belt?” Flynn whispered.

  “He’s too light a sleeper,” Reilly answered. “Best to leave him be.”

  They turned as one and soundlessly made their way down the hall.

  “Do ye think he’ll figure it out by mornin’?” Reilly wondered aloud.

  Flynn shook his head. “Difficult to tell. He’s got a head twice as thick as yers.”

  Reilly snorted and wrapped an arm about his friend. “Sweet talkin’ won’t get ye out of yer turn makin’ breakfast, boy-o.”

  “Yer a hard man, John Reilly.”

  “Faith, don’t I know it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Oh God, what a fool she’d been. So blinded by love, she’d believe anything her man told her. She’d believed it all. The plans for their future and the lies. He hadn’t loved her. He left her!

  Bridget’s hands ached from clenching them in her lap. Marshal Justiss was patient with her, explaining as best he could. Her stomach churned. Trains robbed. Banks held up. Bile rose in her throat.

  Mine payrolls hijacked. Innocent men killed?

  She swallowed, clamping down on her body’s reaction to the devastating news that her husband had spent the last dozen years leading a life of crime. Her heart didn’t want to believe it, but a tiny piece of her brain prodded her; little things from the past that didn’t seem right made sense now.

  Michael leaving for days on end with no explanation as to where he was or when he’d be back again; the strange wound that looked an awful lot like a bullet had dug a groove along his arm.

  Had Michael ever loved her?

  As if sensing her inner turmoil, Marshal Justiss leaned across the linen-covered table and touched her lightly on the arm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mrs. O’Toole.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. “I don’t…that is—” She lifted her hands up, unable to remember what it was she wanted to say.

  Marshal Justiss nodded. “You are still in shock. You’ve thought him dea
d all these years. You’ve survived without him.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You have raised a fine son.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “Let me finish.”

  She nodded, trying to gather her scattered wits about her.

  “Have you considered divorce?”

  Shock had her gasping for breath. “I couldn’t! What would people think? What would Mick think?”

  And James. What would he think? Being a widow was one thing, but a divorced woman? She’d be one step up from the whores over at the Desert Rose.

  A flash of understanding shadowed the marshal’s deep green eyes before his eyes hardened. “People will think what they will. If we know in our hearts that we are living our lives to the best of our ability, then it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”

  Bridget’s head was filled to bursting with all the lies Michael had told, everything he’d promised. She had to leave and sort through it all.

  “Thank you for lunch, Marshal Justiss.” She rose from the table. “You’ve given me quite a bit to think about. I’ll need a little more time before I talk to Mick.”

  Though every fiber of her being felt as if it had been stretched to the limit and she was in danger of coming apart, she held her head high and walked past the curious stares of the townsfolk, not stopping until she reached the boarding house.

  “Where’s Mick off to?” she asked when she entered the kitchen. He hadn’t stopped when she called out to him. He seemed intent on his destination.

  Mrs. Swenson shook her head and smoothed the starched white apron she wore. “I don’t know. He didn’t stop long enough for me to find out.”

  Bridget watched the dust swirling in her son’s wake and wondered what had him running toward the sheriff’s office like the devil was chasing after him.

  The sheriff’s office! She hadn’t even had a chance to say hello to her son, much less tell him his father was alive—and cooling his heels behind bars.

  She thrust her troubles away for now and instead focused on knowing she’d have to deal with Mick later—and then James. What could she possibly say to James? Forcing a bright note into her words, though she didn’t feel cheerful, she asked, “How is Pearl feeling this afternoon?”

  Her world was about to come crashing down upon her head. She had accepted the marshal’s word as the gospel truth, but having Mick find out the man responsible for holding up Pearl and her girls was his own father seemed beyond what her tired brain was capable of comprehending.

  “Has little Emma eaten today?”

  “She has, and I suspect she’ll soon be right as rain,” Mrs. Swenson promised. “She’s upstairs playing with that little rag doll you made for her while she helps Susan keep an eye on Pearl.”

  “What are you girls planning on making for supper tonight?”

  “Chicken and dumplings, with pie for dessert,” Daisy announced.

  “Well then, I can see Mrs. Swenson has everyone busy.” Bridget nodded, satisfied everything here was under control.

  “Idle hands…” the older woman began with a pointed look.

  Bridget fidgeted under her gaze, wondering what Mick was up to. “Girls, why don’t you all take a break and see how Pearl is feeling? Mrs. Swenson and I will bring up a pot of tea and some of my gingerbread in a few minutes.”

  The girls all agreed and tripped happily up the stairs.

  When they had gone, Bridget slumped over, her head in her hands.

  Mrs. Swenson sat down beside her and waited. When the silence got to be too much, Bridget looked up. She knew she could ride over and tell Maggie everything, but she didn’t want to upset a woman in her delicate condition.

  The tension tightened and built until Bridget felt as if she’d go crazy. “I have to tell someone before I burst!”

  The older woman took one of Bridget’s hands in her own and patted it. “I’m a good listener.” Unable to hold back, Bridget told Mrs. Swenson what the marshal had to say about her husband.

  “After all this time, he’s alive?”

  Bridged nodded and swallowed, nearly choking on the lump of anguish caught in her throat. “Mick’s on his way over the jail!”

  “Do you have so little faith in what your boy thinks of you that you think he’d judge you and find you lacking?” the other woman demanded.

  Mrs. Swenson had hit the nail on the head. Bridget bit her bottom lip. She couldn’t bear it if Mick judged her harshly. And if her own son didn’t believe her, how would she ever convince a certain black-haired rancher?

  Bridget walked over to the dry sink and pulled the dipper out of the bucket of water. Pouring some of it over the pump, priming it, she then began to work the handle, filling the kettle near to the brim with cold, clear water. Her movements were slow and measured, the action soothing some of the coiled tension still filling her insides.

  Once the kettle was heating, she pulled out a chair and sat down.

  After a few minutes of intense silence, Bridget realized that Mrs. Swenson wouldn’t demand that Bridget tell her the rest of what was troubling her; she would simply wait until Bridget started talking.

  Before she could think where to start, words started tumbling out of her, and with it tears of anguish for the years she’d spent mourning a man who was never dead, and who wasn’t worth her grief. “Can’t you just imagine what the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson will have to say when they find out?”

  “Widow O’Toole’s husband is not dead. He’s one of the outlaws in the town jail!” Mrs. Swenson said in a voice that mimicked Sarah Burnbaum’s. “That’d be cause for talk. It’d stir those busybodies up like a tempest in a teapot!”

  Inhaling the fragrant steam from her teacup, Bridget got up the gumption to ask, “Do you see why I can’t talk to James?”

  Mrs. Swenson shook her. “No. I don’t.”

  “His standing in the community would suffer if he continued to associate with Mick and me.” Bridget’s voice cracked over the words.

  “So you are thinking of James first.”

  “Aye,” Bridget whispered, “and Mick.”

  “Do you really believe that a man like James Ryan would give a fig what those old busybodies have to say?”

  Bridget wanted to believe that he would give her a chance to explain, that he wouldn’t listen to the gossip that was no doubt, at that very moment, flying through the dusty streets of Emerson.

  The older woman shook her head and took both of Bridget’s hands in her strong, capable ones. “When are you going to do something for yourself?”

  “Myself?” Bridget couldn’t imagine why she should—or if she did, what that something would be.

  “Why don’t you slice up that gingerbread you promised the girls, and I’ll follow you upstairs with the tea.”

  “But—”

  “While you are sitting upstairs with those poor young women, why don’t you think about where they might all be right now, if not for the desire to find a better life for themselves.”

  “Pearl was the one who saw to that.”

  Mrs. Swenson shook her head. “Do you truly believe that those girls would ever have had the wherewithal to escape the daily beatings or whatever else they are running from, if they did not have an overwhelming desire to strike out on their own?”

  Bridget fell silent. She’d moved all those times for Mick’s sake. Could she remember ever having wanted anything for just herself? She carried the sliced gingerbread, plates, napkins, and silverware on one tray, while Mrs. Swenson followed along behind with the tea.

  Her stomach knotted in anguish when she realized that she had made a decision for herself, long ago, after Michael left. She’d been so wrapped up in feeling sorry for herself, she didn’t care about living anymore. Miraculously, she’d felt the first fluttering of life stirring low in her belly, and everything changed. Her decision to live for her baby was the turning point. From that time on, she’d never done another thing that hadn’t h
inged on what was best for Mick.

  She watched the girls fussing around Pearl. They seemed happy now that their friend was out of danger and being pampered. Bridget looked closer, but they still looked like ordinary children to her. Gram’s words filled her heart: It’s what’s on the inside that matters.

  “Well, yer biscuits broke the handle off my teacup!” Amy complained.

  Bridget saw Daisy’s face turn red. “I’m not the one who added so much flour to the gravy that you could cut it with a knife and fork.”

  Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but Pearl beat her to it. “If everything were perfect in life, why live it?”

  Why indeed, Bridget wondered.

  * * *

  “So you’re Mick?” Michael O’Toole said, scratching the day-old whiskers on his chin.

  “Do I know you?” the boy asked, tilting his head to one side, studying the man through the bars of the cell that held him.

  “Ask your mother if she remembers the forget-me-nots I picked for her bridal bouquet, then come back and ask me again.”

  Mick stumbled from the sheriff’s office out onto the wooden boardwalk. He righted himself and stood staring off into space. Was the man behind bars his father? Had his mother lied about his father being dead? If his father was an outlaw, what did that make him?

  With a sinking feeling, he remembered the flowers pressed in the middle of the Bible!

  Mick dashed back to the boarding house, raced in the back door, and flew up the stairs to their room, mindless of the stares of the young women gathered around the kitchen table.

  He found the O’Toole family Bible where his mother always kept it, right next to the bed. His hands shook as he lifted the book from the table and let it fall open in his hands. Tiny faded brownish-blue blooms marked his mother’s favorite Psalm.

  He knew the words by heart, but right now, not one of them reverberated through his pounding skull; all he heard was the echo of the outlaw’s words. Ask your mother…forget-me-nots…