The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “Ye have to move with the motion of the wagon, not against it.” Reilly’s words rumbled from deep within his chest. When she didn’t answer, he sighed heavily as if it pained him to speak. “I’ll not hurt ye, lass. I’d rather cut off me right arm.”

  Pearl searched his gaze, but saw nothing in it that would give her cause to be afraid of him. Reilly was an honest man, and she knew he’d be true to his word. He’d never hurt her.

  Trusting him to keep her safe, she let go of all the worries plaguing her. Sagging against him, she closed her eyes.

  The soft strains of a faintly familiar lullaby drifted in and around her scattered thoughts, lulling her to sleep.

  ***

  “Mr. Reilly! What happened?”

  Amy’s anxious voice jarred Pearl toward wakefulness. She shifted against the comforting warmth, and the strong arm gently anchoring her in place.

  “Lass?”

  Her eyes shot open at the softly uttered word. Had she fallen asleep? Feeling groggy from the unaccustomed warmth of the man holding her in his arms, she struggled to sweep the cobwebs from her mind and focus on the group of girls standing beside the wagon.

  “Amy, Daisy—”

  “Did something happen in town?” Amy demanded, sparks of temper glimmering in her light brown eyes.

  “Can ye hold the reins, Amy?”

  The girl stepped forward to do as she was bid. Reilly slid Pearl off his lap with one swift movement that neither jarred or unnerved her or the horse, and jumped to the ground.

  “Thank you for bringing me home, John—”

  Before she could finish her apology, the big man swept her off the seat and back into his arms.

  “I can walk.”

  “I am sure ye can, lass.” He looked away from her toward the second oldest of her girls. “Daisy, can ye help Amy unhitch the horse and rub him down?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. “Oh…feed and water him, too?”

  “Can we help?” Nellie and Mary asked as one.

  Reilly nodded, taking charge of the situation without Pearl’s agreement. Though he’d brought her home and taken care of her when she stubbornly refused to acknowledge she needed help, ordering her girls around had her independent nature reasserting itself.

  “I’ll thank you not to order my girls around.”

  A nod was all the indication he gave that he heard and understood. His stride ate up the distance between the wagon and her front porch steps.

  “I can walk from here.” He didn’t intend to carry her all the way inside and up the stairs to her bedroom, did he?

  “I’m sure ye can, and have been since ye’ve returned to yer ranch,” Reilly ground out. “And has that helped ye heal faster?”

  The censure in his comments arrowed through her, and she sputtered in anger, trying to form the words that would put the man in his place. He didn’t have the right to tell her or her girls what to do. But his next words had her own sliding back down her throat, unuttered.

  “Where would your girls be without you to take care of them?” He paused to open the door then shouldered his way through the opening, heading for the stairs.

  “I—”

  “Which upstanding citizen in our town do ye think would offer to take them in? Millicent Peabody? Sarah Burnbaum?”

  Pearl flinched as if she’d been struck. “John—” But the man wasn’t listening.

  He took the last few steps two at a time, stalking through her open bedroom door.

  “I was hoping to speak to Maggie and Bridget about that very question before Davidson Smythe showed up with the deed to my ranch.”

  Reilly drew in a sharp breath and held it. How long could he hold it, she wondered, before he either exploded or burst into the flames of temper she knew simmered beneath his calm control?

  Before she could do something stupid, like ask him that question, he placed her on the bed, turned, and strode for the door. Not looking back.

  “John?”

  He’d made it to the doorway. She couldn’t let him leave without asking why he cared. “Please, wait?”

  His hand pounded against the doorframe, but he stopped.

  “I’ve not known many men as kind as you have been.”

  When he didn’t look at her, she knew this was going to be harder than she imagined. Digging deep for the courage she did not feel, she forged ahead with what she needed to ask. “Have I done or said anything to give you the impression I’d welcome—”

  “Bleedin’ buggerin’…”

  Her face heated at his expression. She’d never heard him swear before. Obviously he exerted control most of the time. That made two men in one day whom she’d by turns embarrassed and then angered enough to have them swearing.

  Oh, and he was angry, very angry, but Pearl needed to understand. She’d made the mistake of trusting one man before, and he’d twisted their vows to meet his own greedy needs. Tears welled up in eyes. Blinking furiously, she wiped the backs of her hands over her eyes and sniffed.

  Reilly’s entire body stiffened. He heard her, but still he wouldn’t turn around.

  “I’m sorry if I misunderstood your intentions and took them as an offer of friendship.”

  With a swiftness that left her breathless, he turned around, his eyes stark with an emotion she didn’t care to name. To do so would be foolish. The Irish were a passionate people, and the man before her was no exception. Something told her she’d be no match for the feelings glittering in his eyes.

  He stood as still as though he’d been changed to a pillar of stone.

  Finally he spoke. “That would be me own fault now, wouldn’t it?” He looked over his shoulder toward freedom—the staircase down.

  Relieved that he would keep his distance and his earlier promise, she rasped, “If I gave you the impression I was interested in more, I need to know.” She wrung her hands and waited.

  His sigh was low and deep. “Nay, lass. It was me own weak head that followed where me heart led. ’Tis just that ye remind me of someone I knew back home.”

  “Oh.” She’d not considered the quiet man standing before her shuffling his feet as having left a woman behind. He certainly never spoke of her. “Did you plan to go back for her?”

  Her question must have startled him, as if he were only just now asking it of himself. “I hadn’t, no.”

  “But now?” It was clear to her that whomever he’d left behind meant a great deal to him.

  He shrugged, and with that he was gone, her question not answered to her satisfaction. Had she unknowingly encouraged a man she considered a friend? Had she done the same with the marshal? Dear God, had the years she spent as John Lloyd’s wife running his damned saloon twisted her until she couldn’t tell friend from would-be lover?

  Reilly’s heavy footfalls meeting each successive step down echoed in the stillness until he’d stepped through her front door. Silence filled her home and uncertainty filled her soul.

  “Have I truly become the hard-hearted harlot, my husband tried to force me to become?”

  Chapter Seven

  Tears formed in her eyes, and the dam on her tightly held emotions broke. She cried for the young girl she’d been, whose father had traded—no—sold her to a passing stranger to take her off his hands in exchange for a jug of whiskey.

  Soul-searing pain sliced through her. The pain in her ribs took second place to the pain filling her heart. Could she ever trust another man enough to love him? Or had that tender emotion been purged from her heart with fists and harsh words?

  She curled into a tight ball, bracing against the pain. A fair-haired man’s face floated through her mind. His warm brown eyes alight with interest. Pearl knew the man’s interest had been caught because she was the only thing standing between him and his ranch. Her sobs lessened, giving way to sniffles.

  His ranch. She’d have to find a way to speak to Mr. Smythe without the marshal realizing she’d been visiting the prisoner. She had to find out what that proxy said.

&
nbsp; Then she’d need to ask the marshal if she could take a closer look at the deed.

  Furious shouts of anger echoed up the staircase. Pearl sat up and dried her eyes. It was then that she noticed her shoes had miraculously reappeared; they were beneath the bedside table. Had she simply missed them earlier? She shrugged. No matter, they were here now.

  Using Reilly’s shirt to wipe most of the dust from her feet and vowing to wash it later, she hastily pulled on her stockings and stepped into her half boots, lacing them up, while straining to hear what was being said.

  The voices got louder.

  “And I’m tellin’ ye, I didn’t harm the lass.”

  Who was Reilly yelling at?

  “I could hear crying when I tethered my horse to the fence post by the corral.”

  Ben.

  The muffled sound of a scuffle drew her to the window, but she couldn’t see the men from there. She’d have to go downstairs and stop them before someone got hurt.

  Taking one last swipe with of the backs of hands across her eyes and rubbing her sleeve beneath her nose, she was ready.

  Pearl walked to the stairs. With each step down, the voices grew louder, the words more harsh.

  Pearl burst through the front door in time to see Reilly’s arm surge forward, connecting with the marshal’s jaw. The lawman’s head snapped back, and he staggered back two steps, but held his ground.

  The sound of a pistol hammer being cocked echoed in the now-silent yard. As one, the furious Irishman and equally furious lawman turned to face the new intruder. Pearl would have laughed out loud if she’d had even a smidgeon of that happy emotion left in her soul. But she didn’t. Instead, she nodded to the new arrival, stepped off the porch and walked slowly toward where the dark-haired man sat atop his horse. One look revealed her neighbor was mad enough to shoot both Reilly and the marshal.

  “Is there a problem here, then?” Seamus Flaherty demanded.

  Reilly stepped toward him and started to speak, but one hard look from the man holding the gun silenced him.

  Flaherty turned toward the marshal. “Justiss?”

  Long used to wading into arguments when more than one man had had too much whiskey, Pearl walked toward the rancher, effectively placing herself between Flaherty and her would-be protectors. “Seamus.”

  His jaw clenching and the twitch near his left eye were the only indication he’d heard her call his name.

  “Can ye not answer the lass, Flaherty?” Reilly asked.

  “It would be a mistake to fire that gun.” Leave it to Ben to try to settle things for her when she hadn’t asked him to.

  Pearl shook her head, hoping the men standing behind her would realize it was past time for them to stop talking. Couldn’t they see something had upset Seamus? This was still her place, and she would see to it these bullheaded men remembered that fact.

  “The only gun that gets fired on my land,” Pearl said, placing her hands on her hips, “is my gun.” She waited for the stubborn rancher to acknowledge her request.

  “Have a care, lass,” Reilly warned.

  “Don’t be a fool, Pearl,” Ben snapped.

  “The only fools here,” she bit out, glaring at both of them, “are the two standing behind me.”

  That shut the two of them up and brought a smile to Flaherty’s face.

  “Ye’ve got the right of it,” he said with a chuckle, releasing the hammer, shoving his pistol back into the holster at this side.

  “Have you come for tea?” Pearl knew he hadn’t, but decided the best way to take hold of the dangerous combination of tempers threatening to boil over in her front yard was with a sense of humor.

  “I’ve come at Bridget’s request.”

  The mention of his wife brought a slow smile to Pearl’s face. She had two true women friends in town, Bridget Flaherty and Maggie Turner. The other women all belonged to the committee that had recently tried to run first Maggie then Bridget out of town. Their plots and intrigues hadn’t worked on them, either. Both of Pearl’s friends had dug deep and planted roots in Emerson. They were not going anywhere.

  And neither was she. Pearl’s Place was no longer a den of iniquity. She had been working hard to make sure every man who stepped across the threshold knew that since her husband had died, but then O’Toole had arrived. Now she didn’t want to remake Pearl’s Place into a respectable saloon. She wanted to turn it into a farm and a home for her girls. They needed both it and her.

  She’d find a way to keep her ranch and continue providing a home for her girls, or die trying. Determination had her stepping closer to where her neighbor still sat atop his horse. “Well then, Seamus, why did Bridget send you?”

  Unbelievably, his cheeks flushed, before he clenched his jaw and ground out, “Reilly’s needed.”

  Hoofbeats racing toward them had her turning around.

  “Marshal!”

  To give him credit, the lawman could move like lightning. He vaulted onto the back of his horse and was already urging the beast toward the newcomer.

  “Mick?” She and Seamus called out the boy’s name simultaneously.

  “What’s wrong, lad?” his stepfather asked.

  Mick O’Toole drew his horse to a stop, pulling back on the reins and gulping in a deep breath of air. “Mrs. Burnbaum’s over at Peterson’s stable demanding to see the prisoner.”

  “Well, now, that isn’t any cause to alarm the marshal—”

  The boy’s head whipped around to face Pearl. “She said he’s innocent, and she can prove it!”

  Fear, oily and slick, lined the pit of Pearl’s stomach, which threatened to heave its contents up her throat. She clamped her teeth tightly together and willed the bilious fluid back down. She’d already disgraced herself enough in front of these three men. She’d not do it again.

  “What else did you hear?” Marshal Justiss asked, clamping his knees against his horse’s sides, urging him forward.

  “Said she’d had a wire from the lawyer in Denver that someone purchased Pearl’s ranch and was due to arrive any day.”

  Pearl could feel the blood rushing from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Why would a lawyer in Denver send a wire to Sarah about the sale of her ranch? She closed her eyes. The answer was clear enough for a blind man to see, but she could not and would not judge Sarah before speaking to her. She’d not sink to the other woman’s level of dealing with people.

  A wave of dizziness washed over her. This could not be happening. Who would have the right to sell her land out from underneath her? It had to be a mistake.

  Strong hands steadied her. Grateful, she drew in one deep breath, then another, until she felt stronger. Opening her eyes, she nodded to let Reilly know she was ready. He let her go.

  She stepped forward. “I’m coming with you, Ben.”

  His hard green glare cut through her outward calm, threatening her newfound courage, but she met his glare with one of her own. He looked away.

  What did he know about Sarah Burnbaum?

  “Of course ye will.” Reilly sounded certain of that.

  “I can rest later,” she promised Amy, who had come to stand beside her.

  “Depend on it,” the younger woman assured her.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” Seamus predicted.

  Mick looked from one man to the next, then let his gaze rest upon her. “There’ll be a full moon.”

  Pearl knew then she had another person on her side. If she asked the boy, he’d rally her friends and they’d be standing beside her when she confronted the town’s self-appointed head of the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson.

  “And a lovely ride home that will be.” She smiled at Mick.

  “Pearl,” The marshal’s voice held a note of warning she chose not to heed.

  “I answer to no man.”

  Daisy rushed outside with a shawl and Pearl’s Winchester. Amy wrapped the shawl about her while Daisy handed Pearl the rifle. The weight of it in her hand comforted her. She’d
never use it to kill anyone, but she’d proved earlier today that she could defend what was rightfully hers against any challenger.

  Too bad she couldn’t demand Sarah Burnbaum back off by pointing her rifle beneath the buxom woman’s pointy nose.

  Or could she?

  “Are ye sure ye’re up to this?”

  Without question, she was ready.

  “What about yer ribs, lass?”

  “I’ll ask Doc to rewrap them before I confront the head of the committee.”

  * * *

  “Are you Davidson Smythe?”

  Tired and discouraged beyond belief, Smythe didn’t bother to turn around. “Who wants to know?”

  “I do,” a harsh voice answered.

  “And what will you do with the information once it has been confirmed?” Smythe was too tired to play a game of semantics, but he’d be damned if he’d answer any more questions today.

  His head was pounding in earnest, ready to split open. He needed a glass of whiskey and a hot meal. God help him, he was ravenous and couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.

  “You will look at me when you answer my questions.”

  That did it. What was left of Smythe’s temper surged through him. He spun around and stalked over to the door. Grabbing hold of the bars, he snapped, “You’d best be warned, madam, I am not in the best of moods and do not appreciate being spoken to as if I am someone’s lackey.”

  The superior tone he’d adopted always worked, and it did not fail him now. The large woman standing on the other side of the door drew in a shocked breath. Apparently not many folks spoke to her in condescending tones. Her flushed face confirmed that thought.

  “My name is Sarah Burnbaum.”

  It did sound familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “And I suppose that should have some meaning to me?”

  Smythe noted the furious flush tingeing the woman’s already florid face. He nearly smiled; toying with this overbearing woman would be more sport than he’d had since he left Boston. He’d known her type back home, and never once had he let one of those society matrons get the better of him. He narrowed his gaze at her. He wouldn’t now.