The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

Mick slammed the book shut and held it to his heaving chest. He couldn’t catch his breath or make his brain work. The outlaw in the jail was his father! He had a father!

  Mick remembered living at the ranch with Mr. Ryan. He thought of the easy way the man had with his ranch hands, and the kind words Mr. Ryan always had for him. He remembered wanting very badly to be a part of the man’s life. For a while, he had wondered what it would be like to have a man like James Ryan as his father.

  But that was before he knew he still had a father. Mick raced back down the stairs, bursting through the back door on his way back over to the jail. He wondered if his father’s blood was bad. If it was, did he carry the same bad blood in him?

  “Whoa! Where are you headed there, partner?”

  Mick skidded to a stop beside the sheriff’s desk. He didn’t want Marshal Justiss to know that the man sitting behind bars was his father. For the second time in his life, he lied. “I thought I’d share the Good Word with your prisoners.”

  The marshal narrowed his eyes and stared at him. Hard. Mick felt unease slide through his empty stomach. Did the marshal know he was fibbing? Just as he thought the marshal was about to boot him out of the building, the man nodded his agreement.

  “Keep back from the bars. No telling what O’Toole or his men might try.”

  When Mick agreed, the marshal added, “I’ll give you five minutes. That ought to be enough time. Then I expect to see you standing right back here in front of my desk. You hear?”

  Mick swallowed against the growing lump in his throat. He nodded his head in agreement. Screwing up his flagging courage, he stepped into the short hallway and made his way to the jail cell.

  “What brings you back here, boy?” one of the men demanded.

  “Let him be,” another muttered.

  “What’s that in your hands, Mick?” O’Toole’s voice broke. Mick wondered if the poor man was so desperate to hear a reading from the Bible that he was getting emotional over it. Then shook his head. This was the man who’d held Pearl and her girls hostage.

  “My mother’s Bible.”

  “The O’Toole family Bible?” the man reached for the book.

  Mick nodded, but kept the book just out of the man’s reach.

  “You wouldn’t begrudge your father the chance to hold his own grandmother’s Bible in his hands, would you?”

  “I’m still not convinced you are.” Something about O’Toole’s eyes bothered him. As he spoke, his eyes had narrowed and grown darker, beadier. Mick shook his head, trying to dispel his unease. If the man was his father, then Mick should be more understanding.

  Maybe it wasn’t true. But the flowers … The proof that O’Toole spoke the truth was pressed smack dab in the middle of the Bible. He decided then and there not to wait to talk to his mother. He was going to be a man soon. Well, thirteen in a few months. And anyway, he figured he was old enough to make his own decisions without any input from his mother.

  “What was your grandmother’s name?” Mick asked, holding out for one last small bit of proof.

  “Nellie Mae Flynn.”

  Mick’s arms tingled and went numb, the Bible fell out of his hands, but the outlaw—no, his father—grabbed at it through the bars, snagging it before it hit the floor. The look of awe on his father’s face was telling. The man nearly teared up with emotion, holding the leather-bound book in his hands, rubbing the back cover between his thumb and forefinger.

  “I can leave it with you for awhile,” Mick offered.

  “You’ve your mother’s big heart, lad.” O’Toole finally said.

  Mick nodded. The sound of boot heels scraping against the bare wood floor had him hopping. “I promised the marshal I wouldn’t be long. I’ve gotta go.”

  The minute Mick left the room, one of his men turned to O’Toole. “Do you think Sam made it over to Slim’s place?”

  O’Toole nodded. “Should be on his way back about sundown.”

  “What’s so special about that there book, O’Toole?” another of his men prodded.

  “Didn’t know you were so dedicated to reading the Bible.”

  He simply shook his head, not answering.

  * * *

  Later that night, as Bridget lay in bed, past events swept through her mind at a frightening speed. Not once since her decision to do her best by Mick had she thought of herself. Wasn’t the last decision she’d made proof enough that she was incapable of making decisions for herself? She did a far better job of thinking about others, caring for others.

  Flipping over onto her stomach, burying her face in the soft, lavender-scented pillow, she wondered if she was brave enough to even try to think of what she wanted from life. Rolling onto her back, she stared up at the darkened ceiling. If she had only herself to think about, only herself to be responsible for, what would she do? Where would she go? “What do I want out of life?”

  The answer came as a soft snore from the bed next to hers, breaking into her train of thought. Mick mumbled something incoherent and kicked a foot out from under the covers. Bridget sat up, intending to go tuck her boy back in, but Mick mumbled again, and his foot slipped back under the covers.

  What do I want? Letting go of all her worries for a moment. The answer was so simple and came so swiftly that her breath snagged in her lungs.

  “James,” she whispered aloud. “I’d want to be with James.”

  As soon as the words left her lips, despair flooded through her, leaving her weak and drained. In the eyes of the Catholic Church, she was married. For better or worse, till death…

  So much for dreams of a happy future with the dark-haired man who was never far from her thoughts. She was still a married woman, and she would stay true to her marriage vows, even if it killed her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bigamy!

  The word swirled around in his aching head. How much whiskey had he had to drink last night? He couldn’t remember. He started to shake his head at his foolishness, but the intense pain and accompanying roiling in his gut demanded that he stop.

  He reached up and grabbed both sides of his head. Raking his hands through his hair, he clenched his fingers into fists and rested them at his temples. The pain of pulling on his hair was nothing compared to the ache in his head and the slashes across his heart.

  If Bridget had accepted his proposal that day, they would have committed more than one sin. Though neither of them truly would have done so had they any knowledge that her first husband was alive. Remembering how it felt to sink into her welcoming depths haunted him, taunted him. Maybe he would have done it anyway. But the question that plagued him was: did she know? Had she used her weakness and her son as a ploy to get him to help them out of their dire situation?

  The answers didn’t come. His head was still clouded with too much of the Irish.

  “Coffee. Strong and black.”

  “A gallon or so ought to do it,” Flynn suggested.

  Ryan turned around, slowly and deliberately. The movement didn’t jar anything vital, and remarkably, his head began to clear. Reilly and Flynn had helped him get through more than one major problem. They had been with him for so long now that they were an intrinsic part of his family. Maggie seemed to take to them, treating them to the same clipped admonitions that had so often made him smile when she used them on him.

  Why couldn’t they just tell him flat out what they thought about Bridget? Why did they have to turn his question back on him, leaving him to answer it for himself?

  “I’ve a pot brewin’. Care for a cup?” Reilly asked, watching him closely.

  Ryan grunted in response. His head might have begun to clear, but it still pounded like the very devil.

  “Put an extra bit of sugar in it, lad,” Flynn advised with a sage nod.

  Seated at the scrubbed oak table, Ryan slowly made his way through eggs, bacon, and biscuits before he looked up from his plate. The other hands had come and gone by the time he rose to place his dish, fork, and knife in the s
ink. At least the ranch wouldn’t suffer, even though its owner did. The animals depended upon him and his men to feed them, to take care of them. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of taking a day to himself to nurse his hangover, or his foul mood.

  Flynn stopped him before he could step down off the back porch. “Have ye decided yet how ye feel about her, lad?”

  Reilly magically appeared next to Flynn; the two stood silent as stones waiting for his answer.

  “I’ve no time to be thinking about women.”

  “He must have spent the night tossin’ and turnin’, frettin’ over her,” Flynn said to Reilly.

  Ryan felt the first lick of temper flare to life. “I didn’t say—”

  “Poor man, he doesn’t even know how far gone he is over the lass,” Reilly confided to Flynn. Neither one seemed to be paying any attention to Ryan at all. That had his temper bubbling closer to the surface.

  “I don’t have the time—”

  Flynn reached into the front pocket of his Levis and pulled out a dented silver pocket watch. “Half past nine.”

  Ryan couldn’t stop the roar of anger that swept up from his toes as he slammed his fist into the porch column, cracking the wood. The previous owner had promised the ranch house was built to withstand any storm. Well, it had held up to the fury of Ryan’s temper.

  “I told ye we should have woken him up earlier,” Flynn said quietly, watching Ryan through narrowed eyes. “Now he’s missed his favorite part of the day, the milkin’. Now he’s bound to be surly till noon.”

  Ryan clenched his fist again, only to feel a slick, wet substance seeping into his closed palm. Blood. He looked down at his hand. He’d split three knuckles and left a decent-sized gash across two fingers where they had connected with a knot in the wooden post.

  “Too bad Bridget isn’t here to care for your hand. She’s got a way about her. Makes a man realize how lonely a ranch house is without a woman tendin’ to the cookin’ fires and the ones that could burn brightly within a man. If the woman is the right one.”

  Ryan turned on his heel and headed over to the barn. He had a ranch to run and no time for foolishness. Let his friends worry over women. He could live without them. He could live without Bridget. Couldn’t he? Closing his eyes, he saw her lying on her back in his bed, her warm, dark eyes going blind with passion as he pushed her over the peak with his tongue. Would he ever rid himself of these memories? God, it had only been one night. One night would never be enough with Bridget.

  He pulled a bandana out of his back pocket and wrapped it around his knuckles. He tied the knot, vowing never to see her again. But the thought ate a hole in his gut, leaving him feeling hollowed out, empty. What would it be like living with Bridget? The ghost of a smile swept across his face. Sunshine and rainbows, candlelight and tangled sheets immediately came to mind. He could imagine her standing in front of the stove cooking breakfast for him and his men. If he cocked his head to the side, he could almost hear the sound of her laughter for the next fifty years—as easily as he could imagine the nights they’d spend together.

  Funny, whenever he thought of Rebecca Lynn he only imagined spending a hot, sweaty, sheet-tangling night or two with her. No more than that. With Bridget . . . well, with Bridget it was just different.

  His heart suddenly tumbled over and his stomach followed suit. God, he wanted Bridget in his life. Not just to warm his bed, but by his side every day. In sickness and in health, for better or worse. He scrubbed his hands over his face. God help him, he was in love with a married woman!

  He wondered what the law would say after twelve years. Bugger it, in the eyes of the Church, she was still legally bound to the man she had married a dozen years ago. What ate a hole in his gut was still that one simple question: did she know her husband had been alive all of this time?

  His heart told him she hadn’t, but his heart had been wrong before. Dead wrong. He’d gone to jail for believing and following in his heart. Well, maybe not for following his heart. Five years older and wiser, he realized his heart had nothing to do with the way he felt about Rebecca Lynn. But because his heart was truly on the line this time, he had to make certain he would never go back to jail again. No man or woman would ever force him back behind bars. He’d suffocate from the combination of the lack of freedom and his overpowering need to be outside breathing in the fresh air. Heart or no heart, he would never go back.

  * * *

  Marshal Justiss stared out the front window of the sheriff’s office, his temporary home. A feeling of elation swept through him as he thought of the outlaw he had locked behind bars, a shout away, down the hall. Two years was a long time to wait. The wire he’d sent off to Marshal Brodie left him feeling well satisfied. He looked forward to receiving a reply, though the fact that O’Toole’s right-hand man had escaped did continue to cast a shadow of worry over things. The man was notorious for acting without thinking, and, along the lines of a man who had no fear of anything, the very least of the man’s thoughts would concern a hangman’s noose.

  What was left of the cup of coffee he’d poured a half hour ago had gone cold. He got up to refill his cup from the coffeepot kept warm on the cast iron pot-bellied stove.

  The enamel cup was warm to the touch, even through the layers of calluses he’d built up over years of using his hands. Whether it was to hitch a plow, fork hay, hammer nails, or draw his Colt .45, the hardened layers of skin were as much a testament to the man as was his ability to pick up on what people were hiding from him; what they didn’t say. Given time to think, he always figured it out.

  Ever since he had arrived in town, all five of his senses had been on the alert. There was something about the rancher, James Ryan. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, just a feeling he had. Relaxed and with his feet propped up on the scarred desktop, he narrowed his eyes, gazing off into the distance, sipping the strong hot brew, and letting his mind wander.

  Seamus.

  The name popped into his head out of nowhere. Damned if he couldn’t see the wanted poster in his mind’s eye. A tall, rangy man, black hair, and light eyes with a go-to-hell expression in them. He slammed the empty coffee cup down on the desk, righting the chair as his boots hit the floor. In less time than it took to draw a breath, he was out the door, unhitching his horse.

  It was time to have a word with retired Marshal Turner. He didn’t think the former marshal knew the true identity of the convicted criminal hiding out in Emerson. If he did… well then, the former marshal was about to experience life from the other side of the bars.

  * * *

  Bridget sat with little Emma on her lap. She didn’t think Pearl looked comfortable, but there was little left that hadn’t been tried to ease her pain. Instructing the girls not to make Pearl laugh or bump up against her or the bed had been difficult for such a boisterous group of young women.

  “Girls, why don’t you ask Mrs. Swenson to take you over to visit Maggie?”

  “But what about Pearl?” the oldest demanded, while the other girls nodded their heads in unison, awaiting her answer.

  “I’ll be right here.”

  “But what if you’re downstairs and you can’t hear Pearl calling you?”

  Bridget could tell the girls needed a bit more coaxing, and a lot more hugging, before they would totally relax and let down their guard around her. She set Emma carefully on the bed, then stood and shook out her skirts before taking Emma back into her arms.

  Scooting Emma over onto her hip, holding the little girl snug against her side with one arm, she turned to brush pale blond flyaway bangs out of Mary’s eyes. She had a special feeling for Mary, if for no other reason than the way the young girl watched her son with an expression of total adoration.

  Her heart swelled with pride, knowing her son was well on his way to becoming a man she could not only be proud of, but also one who would attract the love of a good woman. Something inside Bridget told her Mary might be the woman for Mick. The girl still had some growing u
p to do, but she’d worry about that later.

  “Girls,” Pearl called out from the bed.

  Immediately a half dozen faces turned toward the battered woman lying on the bed.

  “You know I trust Maggie as much as I trust Bridget and Mrs. Swenson. I’ll be fine right here,” she said with a half smile.

  Bridget could tell she was in a lot of pain, and probably not admitting to half of it. But she was grateful Pearl had enough strength to speak up in order to sway the girls’ thinking.

  “Well,” one of the girls said, “if you think so.”

  “But we won’t have any fun,” another added, crossing her arms across her skinny chest.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Bridget,” Mrs. Swenson called out, walking into the room, “I was wondering if you’d mind if I drove on over to see Maggie.” Her question effectively cut off any other protests or comments from the girls. “I’ve yet to see their new house. Well, not since the walls were nailed in place.”

  Bridget sent the woman a silent thank you. “Would you mind if the girls went with you? Maggie promised to teach them how to bake cream scones and soda bread.”

  Mrs. Swenson nodded. “I’ll be leaving in about five minutes,” she told the girls, who slowly moved, with varying degrees of reluctance. She turned back to Bridget. “Where’s Mick? I was hoping I could convince him to hitch up the horse while I pack the jars of blackberry conserve I promised that darling husband of hers.”

  “He was up before me, but I haven’t seen him yet this morning.” Bridget worried over that fact, but then chastised herself. Mick could take care of himself. Besides, it was past time she started giving him more freedom. She would never know how he would treat that freedom if she kept him tied to her apron strings.

  “Well then, I’ll need a volunteer to hitch up the horse to the wagon.”

  The girls argued over whose turn it was, skipping out of the room and down the stairs. Mrs. Swenson turned back to Bridget. “Do you want me to find out where Mick is?”

  “No. I’m sure he is fine. He needs some time alone.”