The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Pearl’s eyes fluttered shut, then back open. She shook her head.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Ryan tightened his hold, stepping carefully around piles of shattered lumber and stone littering the road, making his way back to Swenson’s Boarding House.

  “She and Emma went outside to pick flowers, so I could rest.”

  “And then?” Marshal Justiss prompted.

  “I heard a rumble, but thought it was thunder. The second blast rattled the windowpanes. That was no thunder.”

  Ryan leaned his shoulder against the partway-opened door, not waiting for either man to open it for him. He strode right through the kitchen. Before Pearl would answer his question, he had her tucked into Mrs. Swenson’s best chair in the front parlor.

  “Turner—”

  Before Ryan could tell him what he wanted him to do, his brother-in-law headed back into the kitchen. Sounds of water being pumped, and a teakettle banging against the cookstove told him without words that Turner had known what was needed. He should have figured out marriage to his sister would have any man trained inside of three months.

  He started to smile, but Pearl’s next words pulled him right back into the nightmare. “O’Toole and his gang have Bridget and Emma.”

  Ryan looked over at the marshal, who had been leaning against the wall, waiting to hear what Pearl had to say. He stood straighter, definitely ready for battle. Time to find the trail and track down the outlaws.

  “Will you be all right, Pearl?” Turner asked, bringing her a cold glass of water.

  “I thought you were making tea?” Ryan prodded.

  “I was, until I heard about Bridget and Emma.”

  “Mick’s gone,” Pearl whispered.

  “Have any of them been hurt?”

  Pearl shook her head, though Ryan could tell it pained her to do so. “What are you trying to tell us, Pearl?”

  “I think Bridget and Emma are all right. It’s Mick.”

  Ryan felt every muscle in his body go rigid. If anyone hurt the lad, they would pay. “What about Mick?”

  “I think he’s riding with the outlaws.”

  “Ryan! Wait!”

  Ryan heard his brother-in-law calling to him, but he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Not until he brought Bridget and Mick back home safely. Home—to his ranch. He needed to see Bridget with an apron tied about her waist, smiling down at him as she poured his morning cup of coffee while plying him with sweet scones and fresh butter. He needed her curled against him in the night after they’d love one another until their limbs were weak. The utter certainty that she had not lied to him about her husband filled him, giving him a sense of peace, a peace he needed to survive.

  Though still a bit too thin and fragile-looking, the woman possessed a spine of pure steel, and a heart big enough to love a man like him. A sudden vision of Bridget with her hair tangled about her shoulders tightened every muscle in his body. Another vision quickly followed, this one of her brushing the hair out of Mick’s eyes. He loved the way she cared for others; he loved the way she loved Mick. God help him, could she truly ever love him enough to forgive him for not believing her, for not trusting her with the truth of his past?

  “Ryan!” he heard Marshal Justiss’s voice ring out, but he kept going.

  “Flaherty!”

  The sound of his real name stopped him dead in his tracks. The world seemed to grind to a halt as he stood rooted to the ground, halfway between Swenson’s back door and the barn. He shook his head, not believing it at first. He turned to face the men who were chasing after him, trying to get him to listen to reason.

  Why hadn’t he listened in the first place? Why hadn’t he waited for Turner to catch up? If he had, how much longer would the marshal have kept Ryan’s true identity a secret?

  He stood absolutely still, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Twin emotions raged through him. Anger was the first. He could handle the anger. He had learned long ago to keep a lid on his vicious temper, but the sorrow sweeping along in the wake of his anger was more difficult to handle. What would happen to him now? What of Bridget and Mick? Would the marshal still let him ride with the posse when he went after O’Toole?

  His heart stumbled in his breast. There would be no future for him now. Bridget deserved better than him. His future contained a jail cell, and hers a difficult road back to the life she and Mick had led before O’Toole had been miraculously resurrected from the dead. He wasn’t sure how he could help smooth their way, but he’d be damned to eternal hellfire before he let her go back to that lying, cheating, son-of-a-bitch outlaw husband of hers. Before the marshal escorted him back to Texas, he’d come up with a solution to her problem.

  He could just hear Flynn and Reilly berating him for finally figuring it all out in his head, only to find he had lost the chance to offer the woman, who unknowingly held half his heart, the rest of it.

  “So,” he said, as the marshal came to a stop in front of him. “How long have you known?”

  “Not right off, but something about your face just kept niggling at the back of my mind, like there was something I was forgetting.”

  “When will you be taking me back to Texas?” Ryan could barely handle the thought of leaving Bridget and Mick behind, let alone the men he’d befriended and taken in when his mentor died. He didn’t doubt that his men would take care of the ranch while he was gone. It was the sinking feeling that he’d never see Colorado or Bridget and Mick O’Toole again that cut him to the bone.

  “What about Bridget?” he whispered, not able to look Turner in the eye.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened to Rebecca Lynn Trainor?” the marshal demanded.

  Ryan shook his head. “What about Mick?”

  “Who’s Rebecca Lynn?” Turner demanded, grabbing hold of Ryan’s right arm, spinning him around to face him.

  “We don’t have time to go into particulars right now,” Marshal Justiss said. “Suffice it to say, that your brother-in-law had more than one reason to change his name. At the very bottom of the list of reasons was the way Irish immigrants were treated when they arrived fresh off the boat.”

  “I’ll go along willingly, Marshal, if you’ll just let me ride out with you. I need to bring Bridget and Mick home safely.”

  “Home where?” Turner demanded. “To the boarding house?”

  Ryan grimaced, then shook his head. “No, to my ranch.”

  “But she’s a married woman!” Turner’s voice reverberated with the anger that was obviously building inside of him.

  Ryan thought to stem the flow of Turner’s anger, wanting to spare the man he’d come to know and count on as a friend, but in the end he decided against it. What did it matter that he was about to lose another friend, when his whole world was caving in all around him?

  When he was up to his neck in trouble, would he remember that the truth is the only thing that mattered?

  “Turner,” the marshal urged, “in the eyes of the church they are married, but how would you feel if it were Maggie instead of Bridget? How would you feel if, after a decade or more, a dead husband appeared out of nowhere? Would you expect her to honor her vows to her first husband? Would you expect her to divorce him, so that your marriage to her would stand up in a court of law?”

  Turner’s pallor changed from bright crimson to ash-gray. His silence indicated his turmoil. Ryan was grateful for at least that much. But why had the marshal spoken up for him? If he was a criminal, why would a lawman take his side on anything?

  “We’re running out of time,” Ryan said, hoping to change the subject and move things along his way. “The kidnappers are getting away!”

  “It’s her husband, Ryan!” Turner shouted at him. “It can’t be considered kidnapping!”

  “What if she was forced to go against her will?”

  “The man is still her husband!”

  “I don’t care,” Ryan growled. “It doesn’t matter what the law thinks…” The words died on his tongue.
It did matter what the law thought. The law would put him behind bars. The law would separate him from Bridget and Mick. The law would take away his second chance at love. In his heart, he didn’t think he deserved this second chance, but he’d be damned if he’d lie down and let this chance pass him by.

  “If I promise to give myself up the moment O’Toole is back behind bars, will you let me ride with you, Marshal?”

  For a heartbeat, the silence tormented Ryan. Then something flickered in the marshal’s bright green eyes, eyes so like those of his brother-in-law that he looked from one man to the other. Both were tall and thick through the shoulders. Both were strong men, able to take care of his sister and the woman he loved. Here was the answer he sought. All he had to do to ensure the plan worked was to give up the woman he loved. Forever.

  He’d go one better; he’d ask the marshal to take care of Bridget and Mick for him. He’d seen the way Marshal Justiss had looked at the lovely Bridget. She deserved to have a strong man by her side, an upstanding man, someone who wouldn’t steal, cheat, or lie. He was guilty of all three evils. God help him, he was no better than Michael O’Toole.

  The marshal nodded, and held out his hand. “I’d like your word on it, Flaherty.”

  Ryan held out his hand, and added one last request. “Only if you promise to look after Bridget and Mick. I need to know that someone worthy of them will be taking care of them while I pay off my debt to society.”

  Their gazes locked. The marshal didn’t try to cover up his surprise. “I’d be honored to look after Bridget and Mick.”

  Ryan nodded and turned to Turner. “Will ye promise on your life to look after me sister and the baby? I may not get back up this way for awhile.” He couldn’t keep from slipping back into his brogue; he was nearing the breaking point of his control.

  Turner grabbed Ryan’s outstretched hand in both of his and squeezed it hard. “I pledge on my life that I’ll never let anything happen to your sister, or any children we have, as long as there is still breath left in my body.”

  “Then you have my word, Marshal. I’ll willingly give myself up when this is finished.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bridget could not believe her son would willingly participate in her husband’s corrupt way of life. She had to do something! But what could she do? Legally, she was still married to the man and bound to obey him. Maybe she could somehow convince Mick to go back to the Ryan ranch.

  “Welcome to our new home,” O’Toole was saying.

  The words hadn’t penetrated until she walked through the front door of the cabin and stood rooted to the floor. At first, she thought the only furniture in the entire cabin was the large brass bed standing against the far wall, with a pile of folded sheets lying at the foot of it.

  But as she turned her gaze away from the bed, the sight unnerving her, she realized with relief that there was a battered three-legged table and two chairs next to the fireplace on the opposite wall. “I have a home with Mrs. Swenson.”

  “No wife of mine is going to live in a boarding house.”

  “But I—”

  The blow to the side of her face should not have been unexpected, but somehow it was. Michael had never hit her before today, and this was the second time in only a few hours that he had struck out at her. He had definitely changed.

  “Don’t you touch my mother!” Mick shouted, lunging for O’Toole’s legs and taking the bigger man down.

  The scuffle was brief, but bloody. Mick’s lip was split, and his nose bleeding, by the time his father hauled him up off of the floor. O’Toole gave him a hard shake for good measure.

  Bridget took a step closer to Mick and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, hoping to communicate without the need for words, that he should be still. For now.

  “O’Toole!”

  She heard someone shout from just outside the cabin door. Relieved beyond measure, she watched him turn on his heel and leave. Bridget drew her son into her arms. One arm around Mick’s shoulders and another around Emma’s back, Bridget felt her strength of purpose returning. She had spent her life doing for others, making sure others were taken care of.

  There would be time later to decide what she would do for herself, but right now she had a job to do. She needed to keep Emma and Mick safe, but she also needed somehow to convince her husband that she meant to honor her vows, even though the idea of lying beside him in that bed was the most repulsive thought she could imagine.

  “You can’t mean to stay with him, Ma.”

  The utter despair in Mick’s voice tugged at her heart strings. “You were ready to ride with him.” The words were blunt, but they had the desired effect.

  “He said something about protecting his interests in Denver. I thought he meant a family, and I know how hard you’ve worked to take care of me. I thought if I helped him, then he’d help us.”

  She felt him quiver, and she began to rub his back, dropping her head to his broadening shoulder. “You’ve a kind heart, Mick, but not everyone is willing to put the needs of others before themselves. Your father must have meant something else entirely.” She paused and lifted her head. She could not keep the tears from filling her eyes, but she blinked them away.

  Brushing a hand across his cheek, she noticed that the peach fuzz was giving way to a much rougher, coarser type of hair. Yet another sign that her boy was becoming a man.

  The pain of Michael’s hand slapping her cheek was worth it, if it opened her son’s eyes to the truth of his father’s character. “I love you, Mick.”

  “Me too!” Emma piped in.

  Shock had her stepping back and looking down into Emma’s bright blue eyes. “I love you too, Mickey,” Emma said, patting a tiny hand to his flushed cheek.

  The sound of angry male voices carried in through the open window. Reality returned, and with it Bridget’s fear for the children she loved.

  “We have to get out of here,” she said, dropping her voice to the barest of whispers. It wouldn’t do to have her husband or his men find out what they were planning to do. For now, she’d let Michael think she was going to go along with his plans.

  While they waited for him to return, she had time to think and plan how they could escape unharmed. They had to. Because the more she looked at that brass bed, the more she thought of James and the night they’d shared. If she had to hold on to the memory for the rest of her life, if that was all God was going to grant her, then so be it. Some people were just destined to be alone. But one thing for sure, she would never again be able to fulfill her duties as a wife to Michael. After a dozen years of believing him dead, to find out he was alive—and living a life of depravity—cemented her resolve. She had to protect Mick and Emma, and they had to escape.

  The only thought centering her, keeping her sane, was the image in her mind’s eye of James Ryan. The Irishman’s shoulders were broad enough to share her load, his arms strong enough to protect them, and his heart big enough to care for another man’s son. She hoped he had just a kernel of feeling left for her and didn’t hate her. It was too much to hope that James believed her, but she wouldn’t know until she saw him again.

  He’d captured her heart with his kindness to Mick and herself. She should have admitted from the first that she’d fallen in love with him, but now nothing, not even the return of her husband from the dead, would keep her from finding out if James returned those feelings. A feeling of rightness settled over her. She would grab at her own chance for happiness. Sometimes a body had to make her own chances in life. If a lifetime of kindness were all he offered, she’d accept it rather than lose his friendship, but she sure hoped for more.

  What she felt for James could not be any more wrong than her husband’s life of crime, could it?

  The sun dropped lower in the sky, adding a hint of orange to the whitewashed log walls. Still she sat at the small three-legged table, staring at the bed her husband intended to share with her. She prayed she could come up with a way to convince him she
never would, without putting Mick or Emma in danger.

  A few hours later, her husband returned, but instead of what she expected from the harsh man, he asked, “Why are you so thin, Bridget?”

  She didn’t want to tell him how she and Mick had struggled to survive after he left them. She didn’t want to tell him of the towns they’d moved from, staying one step ahead of the town gossips, in order to preserve her boy’s chance of growing up proud of his name.

  Proud! Hah! What was there now to be proud of? Instead of discussing the likelihood that Bridget had never married, now the town would be able to talk themselves silly. She had a husband, all right: an outlaw. What difference did it make if she told him the truth or not? It was too late to stop the inevitable.

  “I was starving myself.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t have enough money to buy food for two. The jobs I worked paid enough for food for one growing boy.”

  His gray eyes narrowed into slits of flint. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe. It’s the truth.” She sighed deeply, drawing the sleepy Emma closer. “I really don’t care what you believe anymore.”

  “No!” she heard Mick cry out, but she never saw the fist coming. It connected with brute force, snapping her head back, sending her into a spiral of graying darkness. Her last thoughts were of Emma and Mick. She prayed nothing would happen to them, and then the darkness claimed her.

  “Mama, Mama,” Emma pleaded. “Wake up. Please?”

  Bridget felt something cool against her throbbing cheekbone. It felt wonderful. She opened her eyes and realized she lay on the cabin floor, with Emma crying and patting at her bruised cheek with her cold little hands.

  “Where’s Mick?” she whispered. Her throat felt dry, and scratchy.

  Emma pointed to a dark form lying on the floor on the other side of the room. For the little girl’s sake, she bit back the cry of anguish bubbling up inside her. She rose to her feet. She was shaky, but she’d do. But her heart nearly stopped beating when she knelt beside her son and saw the bloody gash across his forehead.