The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “Where are yer shoes, lass?”

  “I, uh…forgot them.”

  “Did ye now?” Tiny lines crinkled out from the corners of his dark brown eyes—eyes dancing with humor.

  “Yes.” Desperate to come up with a plausible reason for not having them, she explained, “You see, I was in a hurry to speak to the prisoner.”

  Reilly, bless his soul, didn’t contradict her. He pushed his hat to the back of his head with the tip of his finger then hooked his thumbs in his pants’ front pockets.

  While she waited to see if he would try to stop her, his brow furrowed and finally he spoke. “Shall I carry ye, then?”

  The gruff question caught her off guard. She started to shake her head, but looked across the street to where she needed to go, and saw at least three piles of horse manure.

  Pearl wrinkled her nose as she thought of trying to walk around those piles in bare feet. She was a proud woman, but she wasn’t stupid. “That would be wonderful, Mr. Reilly.”

  “No Mister. Just Reilly.” The size of the man belied the gentleness of his touch. He swept her up into his arms and strode across the dusty street to the back of the boarding house where Marshal Justiss had his temporary office.

  Not bothering to knock, Reilly swung the door to the office open, startling the lawman, who jumped to his feet, pistol aimed and ready to fire.

  “Well, now, Marshal, I don’t think we mean ye any harm,” Reilly drawled, setting Pearl on her feet. “Yer gun is making the lass skittish.”

  Pearl hadn’t realized she was shaking until Reilly pointed out that fact. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  The marshal’s eyes narrowed. “Dizzy and in pain. How did you get here?” The gruffly ground out question caught her by surprise.

  “The usual way, I hitched the horse to the wagon and drove myself here.”

  The way the man narrowed his bright green eyes should have been the tip-off that his temper bubbled just beneath his calm exterior like a pot of stew, just beginning to boil. “I gave strict orders that the girls take your clothes and your shoes.”

  He paused, clamped his jaw shut, and planted both hands on the top of his desk. Leaning over, he looked down at her feet.

  “Dammit, woman! Where the hell are your shoes?”

  “I think Mary hid them behind the wood box.”

  Reilly’s snort of laughter eased the tension in the room. “Well now, at least you didn’t lose them on the way to town.” His lips twitched, from holding back the deep chuckles she could sense he wanted to give in to. “I was afraid there was a hold-up on the way to town—a shoe-stealing band of outlaws.”

  “Out!”

  Pearl whirled around to face the marshal. “Ben, really—”

  But the marshal ignored her. “Reilly, so help me God, if you are not out of here in two seconds, I’ll be sending you back to the ranch with a bullet in your ass.”

  Pearl’s face flamed. She’d never heard the marshal use that kind of language in front of her before, had never seen him this angry before.

  Reilly started to back out of the office, but only made it as far as the doorway before bursting into guffaws of laughter. When he finally came up for air, he braced his hands on the doorway and grinned. “I’ll just wait outside.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” the marshal asked. “Something to do?”

  “I’m thinkin’ I’ll wait out here for Flaherty.” He turned toward Pearl and added with a nod, “For propriety’s sake.”

  “Don’t you think it would be worse for my reputation if I were found in here alone with two men?” If her ribs weren’t so sore, Pearl would have let loose the chuckle bubbling up within her.

  Reilly pushed the door open wide behind him and stepped back out onto the small porch landing, arms crossed against his chest, looking for all the world as if he was guarding whomever was inside the temporary marshal’s office.

  “You planning on waiting out on the stoop?”

  Reilly’s eyes narrowed at the marshal’s question until he was glaring at the man.

  Pearl guessed that Reilly was staying put. She looked back at the marshal and noticed a shadow marring his clear green gaze. Pearl knew he had more than her health on his mind, and was baffled by the emotions bubbling just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. “Won’t you sit down, Miss Pearl?”

  “Thank you.”

  Knowing she didn’t have a lot of time before someone from the ranch would ride into town looking for her, she blurted out, “You’ve got the wrong man behind bars.”

  Justiss glanced outside to where Reilly stood listening, then turned back toward Pearl, leveling his gaze at her, waiting a beat.

  She knew she had his undivided attention. “I can’t say as I understand the how or the why of it, but I know for certain Mr. Smythe has the deed to my ranch.”

  “Did you find your copy?”

  Sadness swept up from her toes, stomping out all other emotions. She shook her head.

  The marshal came around to the front of his desk, leaned back against it and crossed his long legs in front of him. The tips of his boots brushed her petticoats. Pearl was about to move them out of his way, then realized it didn’t really matter. Whatever the marshal thought about her past or present actions as a lady weren’t important. Propriety and petticoats be damned. This meeting was about her needing the man’s help.

  “Not yet. I could have sworn I put it in John’s mother’s rolltop desk.” She paused, struggling to remember. “But it wasn’t there when I looked.”

  Marshal Justiss crossed his arms and waited, looking so much like her late husband an involuntary shudder racked her tired body. The room began to grow dim and voices from the past swirled around in her head.

  “I want you to wear the red silk dress tonight.”

  “But John, I—”

  “And if Bart Thompson wants to take you upstairs and lift your petticoats,” her husband bit out. “You go.”

  “Miss Pearl, are you all right?”

  Her gasp of surprise was punctuated by the slamming of their back door. Unable to move, shock commanding her body, Pearl stood rooted to the freshly scrubbed floor staring after him. A teasing scent of lye, from the new batch of soap she’d made, wafted past her on the late afternoon breeze, making her shame all the more real. It wasn’t enough that she cleaned for the man, and cooked. She served whiskey with hearty stew, and now he wanted her to offer up a side of herself?

  “Open your eyes, Pearl,” a voice urged.

  Pearl felt the past slipping back into the darkest corner of her mind reserved for that particular nightmare as cool water touched her parched lips.

  Pearl jerked back to the present. The ridge of her spine pressed hard against the spindly chair as horror mingled with the fear that she’d cried out while reliving the past. She couldn’t face the marshal if she had. The urge to run away—leave filled her.

  She pushed to her feet, but a broad-palmed hand kept her from getting up. Her gaze focused on that hand before sweeping up past the tanned and heavily muscled forearm of the man who’d come to her rescue for the first time just two short weeks ago.

  “Ben—”

  What could she say? What should she ask that wouldn’t give away the painful past she strove so hard to hide? The longer she stared up into his steady, green gaze, the more certain she was that something had slipped from between her now tightly compressed lips. A look of sorrow-laced concern confirmed her worry as he slowly eased up the pressure on her shoulder and removed his hand.

  “I’ll see you home.”

  It wasn’t a question or a suggestion. How like Ben to simply state what was going to be. Yet another in a long line of similarities to her late, but not lamented, husband.

  But she was no longer the sort of woman who lived under a man’s tight control. She’d been doing just fine on her own—well, except for the not-entirely-unexpected outcome from facing down the O’Toole and his gang. And, if she had to admit it, her lates
t problem: she was in danger of losing her home.

  Eyes narrowed, brows lowered, Marshal Justiss leveled his glacial glare at her. “It wasn’t a suggestion.”

  “I know.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched twice, a now-familiar sign that he knew his censorious looks would not make Pearl do what she didn’t want to do. “You could drive a man to drink.”

  “How convenient.” Irony laced her voice with an unpleasant edge. “He’d end up at my place.”

  “Dammit, Pearl.”

  All traces of warmth disappeared in the wake of the serious expression on the marshal’s weatherworn face. A strong face, handsome, too. Lord, if only I could feel something deeper than gratitude for this man.

  “Here now, boy-o,” Reilly said, coming back into the room balancing a tray filled with cups, biscuits, and jam.

  “I didn’t ask you to bring tea, Reilly. I asked you to bring Mrs. Swenson.”

  “And so I did.”

  Reilly set the tray down on the desktop and stepped back, making room for the owner of the boarding house.

  Pearl finally let out the breath she’d been holding. It hurt, but the pain centered her, keeping her grounded in the present, not mired in the past

  “How is she?” Mrs. Swenson stood in the doorway with a teapot in her hands. Wisps of steam curled up from the spout of the pot. With efficiency of movement, the woman stepped into the room and made short work of pouring freshly brewed tea into the waiting cups.

  Keeping her gaze locked with the marshal’s, Pearl thanked the older woman while reaching for the cup.

  “You’ll be wanting a bit of sugar and dollop of cream in your tea, for strength lass.”

  “I am quite sure Pearl can decide what to take in her tea, Mr. Reilly.” The other woman’s stern tone had the desired effect on Flaherty’s foreman. He clamped his teeth together and dropped his gaze to the floor.

  Another icy finger of worry eased its grip. Compassion for the red-faced man staring down at the tips of his scuffed boots replaced her own worries. “A wonderful suggestion. I think I need a bit of sugar and would dearly love the cream.”

  Turning back to face the marshal, she murmured, “I do need to talk to you about the prisoner.”

  A look over his shoulder was all the answer he could spare her.

  “Tea?” Mrs. Swenson held a cup out to big Irishman.

  “Thank ye, no.” Reilly tipped his hat and bid them goodbye. “I think I’ll go on over the stable and see how the prisoner is doing.”

  A twinge of guilt arrowed through Pearl. While she sat sipping tea, Davidson Smythe was locked up behind bars, probably sharing his cell with at least one of the rats she’d seen gnawing away at the feedbags old man Peterson kept at the back of the building.

  “I’ll just have a word with Reilly.” Marshal Justiss slipped from the room and paused at the door, “I’ll be right back.”

  Once he’d gone, Pearl relaxed.

  “Eat.”

  Startled to find a plate of freshly baked biscuits in front of her, she smiled at the other woman, reached for a biscuit and took a dainty bite. Warm, doughy delight melted in her mouth as she chewed. “Mmm…delicious!”

  Mrs. Swenson positively beamed with pleasure. “Here, have a bit of strawberry preserves on it.”

  Pearl tilted her head to one side and waited. The look on Mrs. Swenson’s face warned her she had more to say.

  She reached for the jam, “Why don’t you just ask whatever is on your mind?”

  Mrs. Swenson nodded, “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “That the man sitting behind bars has the deed to your ranch?”

  Pearl’s throat tightened and her breath hitched. She set the jam-covered biscuit back down on her plate and willed herself to speak without dissolving into tears and whispered, “I’m afraid he does.”

  Chapter Five

  “Smythe!” The marshal’s voice sounded clipped, hard.

  Pearl knew he was still angry with her, but she’d gotten her way and would be allowed to speak to the prisoner.

  She waited for the marshal to step back so she could see through the opening in the door and into the small room beyond.

  It was worse than she imagined. No one had removed the soiled straw from the stall. They’d simply swept it to one side and left it there. Shame filled her, thinking of this well-spoken, proud man reduced to cooling his heels in such a place. Emerson’s jail had been brand new, the cells furnished with a cot, a warm bedroll, and a bucket in the corner. But a few sticks of dynamite and a truly evil gang of outlaws had destroyed the jail.

  She looked over at the marshal and shuddered. The temporary setup was not even close to being a decent jail, but this was the best they could do until a new one could be built.

  “It’s about time you came back—”

  Davidson Smythe stopped mid-sentence and stared at her. Pearl felt every drop of spit in her mouth dry up. A few days’ worth of whiskers covered his angular jaw, and there were dark rings under his eyes. She hadn’t noticed either before.

  Warm brown eyes focused on her. She shifted from one foot to the other under the man’s intense scrutiny. What was he looking at? She followed the direction of his gaze and looked down.

  “Where the hell are your shoes?”

  What was it with men and her bare feet?

  The marshal answered for her. “Long story. Smythe, Miss Pearl has a few questions for you, and I’d be obliged if you’d answer them.”

  He straightened to his full height. My, he was a tall one, a few inches taller than the marshal. Pearl’s gaze noted the width of the stranger’s shoulders, which caused a hitch in her breathing. She’d always been a sucker for a man with broad shoulders. Not that she’d be doing anything about it, but there was no law against noticing. Well the committee probably had one.

  “Pearl?”

  Her gaze slid over to the marshal’s and he nodded toward the prisoner, obviously thinking she’d lost her nerve about confronting the man claiming to have purchased her ranch. If only he knew. She’d been wondering just how heavily muscled Mr. Smythe’s chest would be beneath the cotton shirt he wore. Lord above, before she could believe the direction of her thoughts; her fingers positively itched to find out.

  She cleared her throat and struggled to keep her mind on why she was standing here in the first place. “Um…Mr. Smythe, may I take another look at your papers?”

  Smythe looked at the marshal, waited a beat, and finally turned back to her. “You’ll have to ask the marshal. He said he needed them for evidence.”

  A fire started to burn in her belly. She narrowed her eyes and glared at the lawman. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve had them all along?”

  The lawman met her glare for glare. “You said you wanted to ask Smythe a few questions. You didn’t ask me if I had the damned papers.” He paused, “I only just got my hands on them.”

  She closed her eyes and silently prayed for patience. These two hardheaded men would certainly see the end of it if the Lord didn’t intervene and grant her prayers.

  “What was the other question?” Mr. Smythe’s eyes lost some of the hardness she’d noticed when he had been looking at the marshal.

  The deep brown of Davidson Smythe’s eyes positively mesmerized her—such a lovely shade. The words melted right out of her brain as she stared into dark velvet pools and saw the emotion bubbling just beneath the surface. But was it anger or passion?

  “Pearl, are you all right?” The marshal moved to stand beside her, placing a hand about her waist.

  “Yes.” She breathed in, then slowly out. Her gaze locked with Smythe’s, and given the way the other man still stared at her, she couldn’t look away. It was as if he were silently asking her something…willing her to answer. But what?

  “We’ll come back later, Smythe. Miss Pearl should be home resting.”

  Pearl closed her eyes and broke the strange hold Smythe’s gaze seemed to have on her. She dr
ew in a calming breath, opened her eyes, and turned toward the marshal. “Ben, wait. I need to know who Mr. Smythe claims to have purchased my ranch from, and for heaven’s sake, where it was advertised.” She’d beg if she had to.

  “I can tell you that without you having to look at the papers.” Smythe’s voice was as smoothly sensual as his dark brown gaze. The deep timbre of it slid over and around her as her imaginary lover’s arms would. Pearl shivered. Get control of yourself, or else you’ll never find out what happened.

  “Make it quick, Smythe. Pearl’s not well.”

  “I answered an advertisement posted in the Denver Chronicle a few weeks back.”

  “But whose name—”

  “Don’t interrupt him.”

  Pearl blew out a breath of exasperation. “Fine.”

  “Samuel Jones, Esquire.”

  “A lawyer?” She didn’t even know any lawyers. “Did you meet with the man?”

  Smythe’s lips lifted on one side. His crooked grin went straight to her heart. Damn him. “I thought you only had two questions, Pearl.”

  “Well, since you’re being so cooperative…”

  “Anything else?” Justiss urged.

  “Did you meet with him?”

  “Actually, I met with his assistant. Mr. Jones was called away and could not keep our appointment.”

  “Did you think that was odd?”

  The marshal’s question had been one Smythe had been considering if the man’s furrowed brow were any indication. Mr. Smythe shook his head. “At first I wondered, but once I saw the deed and the proxy—”

  “What proxy?”

  Smythe turned back to her. “The one Sar—”

  Marshal Justiss grabbed her arm, and tugged her toward the door. “That’s all for now, Pearl.”

  “But, Ben, Mr. Smythe was not finished speaking.” She turned toward the fair-haired man and waited.

  The marshal pulled her behind him and moved to shut the door to the cell. “I asked Reilly to drive you back to the ranch. You don’t want to make the man miss his supper, do you?”

  No, she didn’t, but she refused to be sidetracked. “What don’t you want me to know, Ben?”