The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  His worries evaporated. Bless her heart. “My dear Mrs. Swenson, you are an angel.”

  Her laughter sounded a bit on the rusty side, and he wondered why. Shaking his head, he chided himself to keep his nose out of everyone’s business, and perhaps they’d reciprocate and keep their noses out of his.

  “Come down whenever you’re ready. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

  He waited, listening for the sound of her retreating footsteps. Satisfied she’d gone, he stood up, letting the water rush down his body until all that was left were little trickles. Fighting the urge to shake himself dry, as he would have when he and his brother had been younger—but that had been solely to vex the upstairs maid when they were lads—he reached for the towel he’d left on the floor, and dried himself off.

  Staring at the mirror hanging above the sturdily built pine bureau, he mused, “Amazing what a little soap and water will do to lift one’s spirits.” Smythe’s reflection didn’t have anything to say in response. Just as well. Lately every time he saw his reflection, he started in shock for a heartbeat, thinking it was his twin. There was no telling what his brother would have to say about his present situation.

  Pulling a clean, if wrinkled, white cotton shirt from his saddlebag, he shook it out before putting his arms into the sleeves. Buttoning the front, he marveled at the freedom of not having his valet with him. He’d long been used to not only his manservant dressing him, but choosing his clothing, too. The simple pleasure of knowing no one would chide him for selecting the wrong waistcoat or not achieving the proper wrap of his neck cloth could not possibly be understood by any one of the men he’d met since arriving in Emerson.

  Eyeing his reflection once more, he deemed himself ready to go downstairs. Dessert awaited him.

  Descending the stairs, he followed his nose and the mouth-watering scents of cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee to the back of the house, into the bright kitchen. Well-scrubbed walls reflected the light from the kerosene lamp hanging over the table.

  “Well, now.” Mrs. Swenson looked up and smiled at him. “You clean up right nicely, Mr. Smythe.”

  Her reply had his earlier sense of unease returning. Maybe he should be a bit wary of the woman after all. “Er, thank you, I think.”

  Nodding at the place she’d already set with a generous slice of pie, Mrs. Swenson grabbed a dark blue enameled cup off the table and poured the aromatic brew, stopping three-quarters of the way to full and asked, “Do you want me to leave room for cream and sugar?”

  Inhaling the combination of scents wafting toward him, Smythe agreed. “Thank you.” He waited until she’d finished pouring the coffee then held her chair for her.

  The woman blushed, a faint and becoming pink gracing her cheeks.

  “I’m not used to such gentlemanly manners, Mr. Smythe.” Her voice was whisper-soft. “No need to treat me any differently than you would any other woman.”

  Smythe rounded the oak farm table and settled into the sturdy rush-bottomed chair by the place set with the slice of pie. Pulling closer to the table, he slowly smiled. “My dear Mrs. Swenson, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Just so you don’t think I expect special treatment while you are staying here.” She lifted her own cup to her lips, blew on the surface, sipped, and drew in a sharp breath. “Too hot!”

  Smythe grinned and lifted his cup. Blowing on the coffee, he sipped and groaned. “It’s perfect. Just the way I like it, hot and sweet.”

  “Is that apple pie?”

  Smythe’s head whipped around. “Marshal?” His mind whirled with any number of reasons the lawman would be walking into Mrs. Swenson’s kitchen.

  “And just the way you like it, Marshal Justiss, with cream poured over the top.” Mrs. Swenson pushed back her chair, but the marshal motioned for her to stay seated.

  “I don’t need you to wait on me, Inga. I can pour my own coffee.”

  Smythe’s stomach clenched. Why was the lawman here? Didn’t he believe Smythe wouldn’t leave town? He’d given the man his word. Worry churned in his gut.

  The marshal glanced over at him. “Smythe.”

  “Do you eat here often?” It was as close as he would get to questioning the other man outright.

  “Every night.”

  Wonderful. He’d have to take his meals with the suspicious lawman. “Then you only eat here?”

  The other man grinned and sat down across from Smythe. “Just ask whatever is on your mind, Smythe.”

  “Where exactly do you live?” The question popped out of his mouth before he could hold it back.

  “I used to live over at the jail.” Justiss paused to sip his coffee. “There was a cot in the back that I used to sleep on and a small woodstove for heating. I’ve taken most of my meals here at Mrs. Swenson’s boarding house lately.” He turned and smiled at the older woman. “Some of the best stew and beefsteak I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Thank you, Marshal.” The woman positively beamed with pleasure.

  “I thought the jail was blown up.”

  The marshal turned toward him, narrowing his gaze. “It was.”

  “Then where are you staying now?”

  Justiss had the audacity to grin. “Here.”

  “You’re staying here, too?”

  “Is that a problem for you, Smythe?”

  He shook his head and snorted in disbelief. “No. No problem at all, Marshal.”

  “You haven’t finished your pie, Mr. Smythe.” Mrs. Swenson had risen to refill their coffee cups and now hovered next to his elbow, pie plate in hand. “Is something wrong?”

  He looked away from the lawman and shook his head. “No. I’m just taking it slowly. I haven’t eaten much in the last few days, and your stew this afternoon was delightful.”

  “I don’t guess you’re used to such plain fare.”

  He smiled, lifting a forkful of pie to his lips. “No. But I’ve learned to appreciate a well-cooked meal since leaving home.”

  “Mrs. Swenson’s known for her cooking,” the marshal said around a mouthful of pie. “Then again, so’s Miss Pearl.”

  Her name caused a jolt of pleasure to shoot through him. What was it about the woman that he could not ignore? Was it the way she’d held him at gunpoint and laughed at him?

  He knew that wasn’t it.

  Perhaps the hint of bruising along the line of her jaw. No. That wasn’t it either.

  Her wild mane of wavy black hair, her soft gray eyes, and cream-colored skin? Oh, yes. Most definitely. Her silky black hair and creamy skin, practically begged him to caress it. God help him, he was under her spell. Was she a witch?

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of tasting Miss Pearl’s cooking.”

  “Well.” Mrs. Swenson sighed. “It’ll be some time before she’s well enough to stand in front of the cookstove.”

  “Who told you about the jail?” Justiss frowned slightly.

  Smythe acknowledged the shift in topics and answered. “Mick O’Toole came by earlier.”

  “Did he?”

  Smythe was surprised the lawman hadn’t heard that Mick had been by the jail to see him.

  “He had heard a bunch of rumors about this morning.”

  “Ahh.” The other man had the nerve to grin, “Did he ask if she shot off your manly parts?”

  Smythe choked on the mouthful of coffee he’d just swallowed. Just who else had heard that rumor?

  “He’s just a boy.” Mrs. Swenson seemed worried. Did she think he’d take out his anger on a boy?

  She’d done so much for him already, Smythe didn’t have the heart to let her worry that he’d be seeking justice against the young man who’d unknowingly slandered Smythe’s character. “A smart one at that.”

  “You aren’t going to—”

  “Rest easy, Mrs. Swenson,” Smythe interrupted, laying down his fork across his empty plate. “I don’t believe in glossing over the truth, and I don’t believe in lying.”

  He met the marshal’s gaze, held it, the
n nodded.

  Seemingly satisfied, the other man set down his fork and lifted his coffee cup. “How do you plan to extricate yourself from this mess, Smythe?”

  “I plan to get to the bottom of this whole debacle, and then I’ll decide.”

  “You may not like what you discover.”

  “I’m already certain I won’t.”

  “But you’ll dig for the answers anyway?”

  “You can depend upon it, Marshal.” Smythe rose to his feet. “Thank you for the pie, Mrs. Swenson. I’ve never tasted better.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Pearl?”

  She jerked awake. Lord, she must’ve fallen asleep the minute she’d sat on the bed. Pearl started to stretch and remembered Doc’s warning not to.

  “Come in.”

  Mrs. Swenson pushed the door open a crack and shook her head. “You need at least a week of sleep to rid yourself of those black rings beneath your eyes.”

  Pearl brushed at the hair that had fallen over her eyes and sat up, unable to hide her groan of discomfort. Mrs. Swenson slipped inside the room.

  “What did Doc say?”

  Rubbing her nose, then brushing at the stubborn lock of hair tickling it, Pearl rubbed her nose again. “Not much. Just that I was healing ‘bout as good as could be expected.”

  “For someone who refuses to sit still long enough to heal?”

  Pearl’s snort of disbelief sounded oddly out of place in the darkened room. Inga Swenson was a force to be reckoned with, just like Doc, and had recently become a friend.

  “Something like that.” Pearl felt her smile blossom from deep inside of her.

  “That’s more like it,” Mrs. Swenson said with approval. “I’m about to put a pot of tea on. Would you like a bite of breakfast?”

  Pearl had to get back to the ranch and was about to refuse when, as if on cue, her stomach rumbled. When had she last eaten? She couldn’t remember. “I’ll be right down.”

  “Take your time, the water has to heat.”

  A quarter of an hour later, her wild hair tamed into a long braid and half of the wrinkles smoothed from her dress, Pearl headed downstairs for the promised hot meal and the much-needed cup of hot tea.

  “Miss Pearl?”

  That voice should be outlawed. Its sinful timbre made her think of cool sheets and hot bodies. A bead of sweat trickle down her back. The chill it left behind wracked her tired frame.

  “Don’t wait until you fall down, please. Sit here.”

  Davidson took her by the arm and steered her toward the chair he’d just vacated.

  Unable to do more than nod, she let herself be led. She sat and was amazed at the warmth left behind on the chair seat.

  Instead of calling for their landlady as she expected him to, Davidson lifted the still-steaming teapot and poured a cup for her. Did gentlemen in Boston serve others? Not from what little she’d heard.

  “Cream?”

  The sinfully rich voice had her mind wandering back to body-warmed sheets and adding a dollop of cool rich cream to the sensual fantasy.

  Pearl cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

  His velvety dark gaze slid across the line of her cheek in a silent caress she felt in her very bones. “Sugar?”

  Oh, God. “Please.”

  His gaze shot up and locked with hers. What had she said to shock him?

  “I would do my utmost to please you, Pearl.”

  The stark image of the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms, nothing between them but the night, flashed in her mind’s eye. She bobbled the cup, nearly spilling her tea. Lord, she must be more tired than she thought if the man could plant thoughts he no doubt did not intend in her brain.

  Why would he be interested in her? He was a stranger. Not one she was certain she could wholly trust. Besides, she had no business entertaining such intimate thoughts of him, stranger or not.

  Mrs. Swenson bustled into the room. “Oh! You’re here.” Moving to the cookstove, she reached for the pot.

  “Mr. Smythe has already poured a cup of tea for me.”

  Without missing a beat the older woman set the pot back down, reached for a large cast-iron skillet, and began to line the bottom with thick slices of bacon.

  Pearl breathed in the delicious smell beginning to fill the air in the kitchen. The comforting sound of the meat sizzling as it began to cook eased a bit of the tension she was starting to feel as she sat in silence across from the extremely distracting Davidson Smythe. She wanted to ask him more about the advertisement he’d answered, but the words twisted through her brain and kept knotting up on her tongue.

  Finally she managed, “What are your plans for today, Mr. Smythe?” The question was innocent enough, though the need to find out what he would do today nearly drove her mad. Would he try to head out to her ranch?

  “I believe I’ll pay a call on Sarah Burnbaum.”

  Well, that was certainly to the point and exactly what she feared.

  “And what about you?” he continued.

  She had a few options, although they were limited. Unsure of where to start without raising undue suspicion, she shrugged and helped herself to a few crispy slices of bacon and a scoopful of scrambled eggs from the platter Mrs. Swenson placed in the middle of the table.

  His gaze darkened as he stared at her. His look was so intense, Pearl began to worry that he could pry her thoughts from her mind.

  “I cannot imagine a woman such as yourself greeting the day without a plan.”

  Pearl could not decide if she should be insulted or not. She set her fork carefully alongside her plate and gripped her hands in her lap. “And just what type of woman did you mean to imply I am?”

  Smythe’s nostrils flared, the only indication that she’d rattled him, though his voice remained calm. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Mrs. Swenson set a plate of biscuits in between them and joined them at the table, effectively cutting short any comeback Pearl might make. Filling in the silence, she said, “I’m sure Mr. Smythe did not mean to imply anything untoward, Pearl.”

  Lord, she could still feel her skin positively bristling at the man’s choice of words. A woman like her. She hadn’t been the one to hire girls for Pearl’s Place when John had been alive, but she knew about it. Guilty by association.

  She knew exactly what Smythe’s words meant, and she deserved every bit of censure he and anyone else meted out. Wanting to change one’s past didn’t mean it magically disappeared. Actions spoke louder than words. She wasn’t done changing her past, but she was damned close.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t.” Butter would melt in Pearl’s mouth, although she might just bite off the tip of her tongue to keep herself from lashing out at the man. A woman like her. She’d heard that expression used to refer to her more times than she cared to remember over the years she’d lived in Emerson.

  She was not a woman of loose morals. She did not run a whorehouse. Why couldn’t the hoity-toity do-gooders in town ride on out to the ranch and see for themselves?

  Be careful what you wish for. Her grandmother’s words echoed through her.

  Mr. Smythe’s gaze lingered on hers. “Let me rephrase. What I meant is that Miss Pearl seems to be the type of person who takes charge of a situation, and I would find it odd if she didn’t already know how she was going to attack our problem this morning.”

  Our problem. The phrase jolted her, though it sounded oddly right. It was a problem, and it did involve the two of them; therefore, it could conceivably be referred to as their problem.

  “More tea?”

  They both nodded, and waited while Mrs. Swenson poured. When she sat between them once more, Pearl spoke up. “I had planned on speaking to Sarah today.”

  Davidson’s gaze locked with hers, but she could not discern any hidden messages in the warm, dark depths of his eyes. He had such lovely eyes.

  Wasn’t life perverse? Just when she thought her life would get back on track, the Lord sent Davidson Smythe to
claim her ranch and muddle her thoughts. He was distracting, a very handsome man—a gentleman, and her complete opposite. His clothes didn’t fool her. She could just imagine him wearing buff-colored trousers with a crisp white shirt, neck cloth, a beautiful chocolate-colored coat, and shiny dark boots.

  She’d seen an illustration of a society gentleman not long ago, and if ever she met someone who fit what she imagined a distinguished gentleman would look like, it was the man sitting across the table from her.

  What did he really want with her ranch? Did he want to farm it, raise cattle or horses on it, or turn around and resell it to the railroad? She could not believe he really wanted to start over and build a new life for himself thousands of miles from home and the memories she was beginning to sense haunted him?

  She had her own memories that continued to plague her. Two weeks ago, she’d fought off a gang of outlaws while praying for help to arrive. Now she was being confronted by a devastatingly handsome dude from back East who claimed to own her ranch.

  Praying had helped before; would it help now?

  And like the true definition of the word dude, he probably didn’t even know how to handle a gun, let alone load one. Of what use would someone like him be out here where a man—and a lone woman—lived by their wits and skill with a gun?

  Pearl was the first to look away, down at her plate and the mound of now-cold eggs. She was no longer hungry.

  “You need to eat every bite, or I’m going to send for Doc.”

  Mrs. Swenson meant well, but Pearl’s stomach was still in knots. “I’m not really all that hungry.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Her head whipped up to face Davidson. How dare he tell her that she was hungry? Who did he think he was, waltzing into the town, staking a claim to her ranch and now telling her what to do?

  She didn’t realize she’d risen from the table or that she’d stalked around it to where the offending man sat, drinking his tea, until Mrs. Swenson rose from her seat and put a hand out to stop her.

  “Pearl—”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Swenson.” Davidson turned to face Pearl, set his cup aside, lifted the linen square to his lips, and dabbed at them.