The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  But once the other women were gone and she was all alone, she started wondering how different her life would have been if she’d been brave enough to run away and find someone to help her instead of waiting too long only to be sold outright to a total stranger.

  She looked at the young women surrounding her, abused orphans and runaways, the lot of them. Her makeshift family. She’d taken them in one at a time, accepting them for who and what they were. Only Betty Lou stayed long enough to have her baby and move on.

  Using her grandmother’s well-remembered lessons, she taught the girls how to sew, cook, and take care of the ranch. Someday, when each one was ready, her girls would be able to take care of themselves.

  She took the shotgun from Amy, placing it back on the shelf over the doorway to the parlor, and the pistol from Daisy, putting it back in the drawer she kept her tableware in. Lord only knew what the girls would have hit if they’d actually tried to fire one of her guns. Aiming for a man’s kneecap could have cost the man his head! Her girls meant well, but shooting lessons were too far down on their daily list of chores to have any real effect on their cockeyed aim, given what little time they had for shooting practice.

  Knowing her girls needed reassurance; she dug deep for a confidence she didn’t feel. “Trust me. I’ll get to the bottom of this mix-up before you girls have the supper on. Now help me by straightening up. I have to find the deed.”

  While she rummaged through the old oak roll-top desk, she heard the girls flitting around the kitchen. They argued while straightening the tablecloth. Pearl hoped the snapping sound was the cloth being opened up over the table to lay it down, not the faded old cloth being ripped in half.

  The clink of dishes told her the girls were putting them away, but not gently enough to suit her. She’d have to step in and remind them. “If you chip any of those plates, you’ll be taking turns scrubbing newly laid eggs and scooping up chicken shit!”

  A snort of laughter followed by giggling was not quite the reaction she’d hoped for, but it would have to do. As long as the room had been set to rights, she wouldn’t complain, at least not yet.

  “Should we bank the fire in the stove?” Amy called out from the kitchen.

  Where is that blasted paper? “Yes, that way you won’t have to worry about lighting it again, just adding more wood to the fire later.”

  “Prisoner’s ready.”

  Her hand shot to her throat as fear sprinted through her. “You startled me.”

  Marshal Justiss stood just inside the doorway to the parlor. Lord, the man moved like a ghost. She hadn’t heard him come in.

  “I wanted to make sure you’d actually do what Doc said and rest.”

  “Hmmm . . . uh yes. I will later, Ben.” Desperation shot through her. Where was that damned piece of paper? She hadn’t moved it since she’d gone through her husband’s things after he up and died on her. Had she? It should be in the small center drawer underneath a ribbon-tied trio of letters from her grandmother. They were precious to Pearl. Grandmother had written to Pearl right before her heart gave out.

  “Is there something I can help with?” The deep timbre of the marshal’s voice washed over her and eased a bit of the raw terror coursing through her. She had to find that paper; without it, she and her girls would be homeless. Her hands trembled. She clenched them before sorting through the cubbyholes for a third time.

  It was no use! She spun around to face him. “Ben, I can’t find the deed.”

  His gaze lingered on hers and something warm moved through his eyes, heating them by the minute. Before she could respond, the look was gone, like the banked fire in the cookstove, waiting for a spark so it could flare back to life.

  Lord above, she didn’t have time for this now!

  “You can look for it later. I’ve got to get Smythe to the jail and sort this out, but I can’t concentrate on my prisoner if I’m worrying about you healing.”

  “If I promise to lie down for a spell, will you leave me in peace? Please?”

  A flicker of hurt swept across the marshal’s handsome face. Pearl almost called back the words, but just couldn’t. She liked the marshal, was grateful to him for everything he’d done so far, but she didn’t want the man to get the wrong idea as to where her true feelings lay. She enjoyed his company and the attention he paid her. He treated her as if she mattered, but her heart was not ready to let anyone get too close to her.

  Ben tipped his hat, turned on his heel and left, calling out over his shoulder, “Amy, you and the girls put Pearl to bed. I’m sending someone over in a little while to make sure she stays put this time.”

  Indignation surged through Pearl. Before she could even think of the words to retaliate, he glanced over his shoulder at her, and bit out, “Strip her down to her chemise, hide all her clothes and her shoes if you have to. I mean it!”

  Pearl turned back to face her girls. Varying degrees of interest and speculation lined their sweet faces. They were listening to him. Those same sweet faces gave their traitorous thoughts away. They were on his side! Lord above, she’d hurt Marshal Ben Justiss if she had to. No one told her what to do anymore. Not her girls, and sure as hell not any green-eyed lawman, no matter how handsome he was.

  “Well, Pearl,” Amy, the eldest, said. “Are you going to make this easy or hard?”

  Chapter Three

  “Hear tell you’ve got a prisoner, Marshal.”

  Young Mick O’Toole stood with his hands deep in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his boot heels. Justiss was definitely impressed by the boy’s newfound confidence around adults.

  He wasn’t surprised to see Mick. In fact he wouldn’t be surprised to see a whole slew of townsfolk show up one-at-a-time, all afternoon. News traveled fast in Emerson, Colorado—some news faster than others.

  The last time there was trouble out at Pearl’s Place, a gang of outlaws had shot up the place and beat Pearl, but no one had laid a hand on her girls. He’d later found out Pearl hadn’t been the only woman abused that day.

  The memory of Bridget Flaherty’s battered face haunted him. Justiss had arrived on the scene as the black powder was clearing. He cringed inwardly, remembering Turner’s description of what had been about to happen as he, Flaherty, and a few ranch hands had burst through the back door, not waiting for the law to arrive.

  He needed to put the scene out of his mind, focusing on the young man, he asked, “What else did you hear, Mick?” He liked talking to the young man, and respected him too, especially after the way the boy had protected his mother from her former husband and his gang of outlaws.

  Mick answered his question with a question, “Is it true?”

  The boy’s gaze darted around the small room, but Justiss knew he wasn’t seeing the whitewashed walls; the boy was focused on whatever he’d heard, and whatever it was, it bothered the boy.

  “Is what true?” Justiss could see the lines of worry wrinkling Mick’s brow.

  “Did Pearl sell the place? Will the girls be homeless?”

  Before Mick could get himself all worked up, the marshal soothed his fears. “No. She hasn’t sold. We still have to sort through the legal papers, but I know she would never do that to her girls.”

  A look of relief swept across the boy’s features, softening them, making him look more like what he was: a boy of twelve, pushing thirteen years.

  “Thanks. I’ll go and tell my ma.” The boy spun on his heels so fast, he nearly smacked his head against the doorjamb. If he had, the row of mason jars on the shelf above the door would have been history.

  “Hold on there, Mick,” Justiss called out after the boy.

  Mick stopped mid-step and waited.

  “Tell Flaherty I need to meet with him as soon as he can get here.”

  A look of sheer terror replaced the complacent look on the boy’s face. “You gonna put my new pa in jail?”

  Justiss could have bitten off his tongue for worrying the boy. Mick’s new stepfather had put his own life on
the line for Mick’s mother and meant the world to Mick. Justiss shook his head. “Your stepfather’s not in any trouble. I need his help talking to the prisoner.”

  “So long as there’s no more talk of him going back to Amarillo,” Mick murmured, shuffling his feet.

  Justiss stepped out into the midday sun next to the boy and placed his hand on Mick’s shoulder. “Seamus Flaherty’s name has been cleared of all charges. He served time he didn’t have to. No one will be coming after him ever again.”

  The marshal could feel the tension ease out the boy, one twitchy muscle at a time. Satisfied Mick would give Flaherty the message, he patted him on the shoulder and walked back into his temporary office at the back of Swenson’s Boarding House.

  “Marshal?”

  Justiss paused in the doorway, turning around. “Yeah?”

  “You want I should get Marshal Turner too?”

  Smiling to himself, Justiss nodded. The boy was smart as a whip. “Good idea. Have them meet me here.” Although Marshal Turner had retired a few months before, folks around these parts were still inclined to call on him to help out in disputes or when there was trouble. Justiss didn’t let that tendency get his back up. Turner’s sharp mind would be very useful in trying to ferret out the prisoner’s lies and separate them from the truth.

  “Good idea. Run along now.”

  Happy to oblige, Mick raced off around the corner of the boarding house and disappeared from view. Justiss could hear the rattle of boards being pounded by Mick’s boots as he raced across the boardwalk in front of the Boarding House toward home. Shaking his head at the exuberance of youth, Justiss swept the hat from his head and stepped back inside.

  * * *

  Two hours later, he was pacing his small office like a mountain lion, impatience warring with the need for swift action. He stopped and glanced over at the two other occupants of the tiny room, they were still talking. Giving them time to sort things out, he looked up over their heads at the planked walls. Mason jars of varying sizes glinted down at him from a half-dozen shelves. He smiled and wondered what type of jam the industrious boarding house owner would be filling those jars with.

  Without missing a beat, Former U.S. Marshal, Joshua Turner answered the unasked question. “Strawberry.”

  Justiss grinned; he was real partial to strawberry jam. Before he could ask the next question, Turner continued, “Maggie said Mrs. Swenson used this room to store baskets of laundry when boarders were scarce.” He nodded to the pegs on the far wall. Each one held a different size wicker clothes basket. The middle peg held a small one filled with clothespins.

  Turner’s way of knowing the answers to questions Justiss was about to ask should have unnerved Justiss, but he admired the man too much to let it.

  Turner grinned and Flaherty said, “You were eying those jam jars like I’ve seen Mick eyeing peppermint sticks at the mercantile.”

  “Besides,” Turner added, “we know how your mind works. Oh, and don’t use Mrs. Swenson’s last hank of rope to tie up any prisoners.”

  Justiss nearly laughed aloud. Instead, he swallowed the laugh and stared up at the ceiling, wondering yet again how long he’d be stuck in this town. He didn’t mind the assignment, but he was starting to become too ingrained in the town life, and making friends he wouldn’t want to leave behind. If he didn’t watch himself, he’d be too attached not to feel anything when it was time to move on to the next assignment.

  Turner changed the subject, his next question forcing Justiss to think about something else. “How long will it take to rebuild the jail?”

  Justiss raked a hand through his hair. “I reckon the better part of a month if I can’t find a willing body to deputize.” He started pacing again.

  The two other men shook their heads. “What does a deputy have to do with putting the jail back together?”

  Just thinking of the blast from the dynamite thrown in through the jail window a few weeks ago had Justiss stopping in his tracks. Both men had bloodied their hands digging through piles of rubble in the street to look for his body before realizing Justiss hadn’t been in the Jail.

  For that alone, he owed them the truth. “There isn’t enough money to rebuild the jail,” he said. “It was only a month old.”

  Turner and Flaherty looked right at him, as if trying to discern what he wasn’t saying. “What you mean to say is that no one will lift a finger to help you,” Turner bit out.

  “Of all the blasted reasons—” Flaherty began.

  “Ah, yes, the good citizens of Emerson show their true colors once again,” Turner ground out. “Just like they did the night I needed to round up a posse of men to ride out to Pearl’s Place.”

  “But that worked out well,” Justiss said with nod toward Flaherty.

  “I’d kill O’Toole, if he wasn’t dead already.” Flaherty eyes blazed with anger.

  Justiss knew the man hated being reminded of the near miss his new wife and stepson had at the hands of her late husband.

  “You’d have to get in line behind your sister, Flaherty,” Turner rasped.

  “I didn’t know you felt that strongly about what O’Toole did to Bridget, Pearl, and her girls,” Justiss added.

  “Bridget is Maggie’s friend,” Turner said. “Pearl is, too.”

  “My sister is a hard-headed female,” Flaherty murmured. “But she’s got a heart of gold.”

  All three men agreed.

  “What are you going to do about the prisoner?” Turner wanted to know.

  Justiss didn’t miss the keen interest in both of his friends’ gazes. They more than cared. They wanted to make sure nothing bad ever happened to their women and the women in their town again. From the way both men spoke of their wives, Justiss wondered if maybe he wasn’t missing something by not settling down.

  Shaking his head, he knew that type of life wasn’t for him, so he concentrated on the problem at hand. Damned hard to settle down when his job took him from state to state, territory to territory, keeping the law and tracking down the outlaws who broke it.

  “So the good townspeople expect you to tend to the law around here and build the blasted jail too?” Flaherty asked.

  “That about covers it.” Justiss leaned against the scarred worktable and crossed his ankles, staring down at the worn toes of his boots. He needed to ask some questions about Pearl. Personal questions. Ones he didn’t really want to hear the answers to.

  Swallowing against the dryness of his throat, he asked, “Do either of you remember Pearl’s husband?”

  Turner shook his head. “I’m new to the territory. Ended up here on assignment tracking down Flaherty’s cattle rustlers and claims of land fraud.”

  Justiss already knew that, but had hoped Turner had dug deeper into the history of the town. Turning toward Flaherty, he asked the same of him.

  Flaherty hesitated, then said, “I’ve been here going on six years this fall.”

  “I need to know whatever it is you’re afraid to tell me before I confront the prisoner,” Justiss bit out.

  The rancher clenched his jaw. “I heard her husband was a mean son of a bitch who treated her like hired help.” His voice had grown softer before it trailed off.

  “Hadn’t she been here longer than that?” Turner asked.

  Flaherty nodded. “Her husband died a few years after they’d opened Pearl’s Place.”

  Justiss sensed there was more—a lot more. He needed to know all of the facts before he could sort through them. Annoyed that the Irishman was dancing around the truth, he asked what he feared most. “Word round town has it, that Lloyd expected his wife to do more than cook and serve food.”

  He knew his eyes burned with hatred for a man he’d never met, but the rumors he heard about John Lloyd and Pearl’s Place ate at his gut and lay there burning. He felt responsible for the woman’s safety, and against his better judgment was fast becoming attracted to her.

  As a lawman, he had to have all the facts before he let go of his heart.
Flaherty’s expression turned to one of stone. He looked to Turner, then back to Justiss, before answering. “The bastard asked her to entertain men upstairs—”

  “Did she?” Justiss interrupted, relentless in his need for answers.

  Flaherty shook his head. “I don’t think she did, but you’d have to ask her.”

  One last question, Justiss thought. “Did she love him?”

  “Lloyd?” Flaherty’s eyebrows rose up and disappeared under his ink-black hair. “I doubt it.”

  “Why?” Turner interrupted.

  “She never mourned him, and seemed as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders after the man was gone.”

  Justiss confided what he feared. “She can’t seem to find the deed to her ranch.” He scrubbed his face with both hands and shook his head. “Without that piece of paper, Smythe’s claim will have to be considered, while I try to prove Pearl has the right to the land.”

  “But she’s lived here more than ten years,” Flaherty sounded incredulous. “Everyone in town knows that land belongs to her.”

  “Everyone in town knows it belonged to her husband,” Turner said quietly.

  Justiss agreed. “But he’s dead.”

  “Doesn’t she get to keep his land and everything else that belonged to him then?” Flaherty’s face grew more stone-like with each question.

  “In most cases, yes,” the marshal said quietly. “But this instance is different. Someone else has a claim to the land, and that someone supposedly has the deed. It can’t be settled legally until we find out where Smythe got his papers and who he paid money to for land he can never really claim.”

  The room grew silent, each of the men lost in their own ruminations.

  “Well, if we’re going to spur the townspeople into rebuilding the jail for ye,” Flaherty said, “we’d best get goin’.”

  “Watch your temper, Flaherty,” Justiss warned. “Your Irish is starting to show.”

  With a grunt, the rancher shoved the door open and stormed outside.

  “He’ll be all right.” Turner seemed to believe it, though Justiss wasn’t quite so sure. “Need help interrogating the prisoner?”