The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Ever the gentleman, Pearl thought with a scowl of disapproval, watching him rise from his chair.

  “I do not need a man telling me how to act—”

  “I didn’t tell you how to act,” he interrupted.

  “—how to dress—”

  “And I certainly didn’t tell you what to wear this morning, though the pale blue is a striking contrast to your dark hair.”

  The soothing cadence of his voice eased the knot of tension forming between her shoulder blades, but did nothing for the knots in her aching stomach.

  “You must be confusing me with some other man.”

  His softly uttered statement cut right through to the heart of her problem. He was absolutely right. She’d lumped his order that she eat together with all of the past orders she’d had to listen to.

  Lifting a hand to her hair, she tangled her fingers in the braid, trying to rake them through it. “Damn!”

  “Easy, you’ll tear it out.”

  Before she could extract her fingers, Davidson had gently unwound the tangled strands of hair from her now-shaking hand.

  He didn’t mention the obvious, and for that she was truly grateful. She felt foolish enough without him pointing out that she’d been so rattled she’d made knots in her own hair!

  Placing his hands on her shoulders, he drew her closer. The air between them grew charged, sparking like a just-lit fuse on a stick of dynamite.

  His warm, velvet-brown eyes beckoned her to close the slender gap between them. On a sigh, she did, until they stood toe-to-toe, belly-to-breast and cheek-to-shoulder. She’d have a crick in her neck if she had to keep looking up at him.

  Mesmerized by him, she could not look away. Heat poured off him in waves. Unable to resist the pull of the heat or the man, Pearl swayed toward him.

  “I’ll just send for the doctor.”

  And just like that, the spell was broken. Doctor? Lord, he was blind and dense. “I’m…uh…fine, Mr. Smythe, please don’t trouble yourself.”

  * * *

  Smythe begged to differ with the stubborn woman. She was exhausted, hungry, and tied up in knots. She all but fell into his arms just now. He knew better than to hope she was as attracted to him as he was to her.

  He clenched his jaw, stifling thoughts of burying his hands in her black-as-night waves. He hadn’t realized yesterday just how long her hair was. Her braid touched her waistline. He imagined it unbound and clutched in his hands as he wound the dark, silky strands around his wrists, reeling her in until she was crushed against him with her mouth softly rounded open in shock. Her bountiful breasts would spill from the neckline of her sheer white linen shift while he pressed his lips to hers…

  Damnation! He’d best get a hold of his randy thoughts and concentrate on the upcoming meeting with the formidable Sarah Burnbaum. “I suggest a wager.”

  Both Pearl and Mrs. Swenson looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  Perhaps he had.

  “If Pearl eats the rest of her breakfast, then we do not send for the doctor. If she doesn’t, then she runs the risk of keeling over at our feet, and we will end up summoning the doctor anyway.”

  “That’s not a wager.” Pearl’s gray eyes narrowed at him. Slits of icy color flashed hot with temper. She was dangerous when crossed and intriguing as hell.

  “It’s as close to one as you’ll get from me this early in the day.” Good, he thought. The self-assured Pearl appeared just a bit unsettled. She’d had the advantage yesterday. He ground his back teeth as he remembered just how much of an advantage she’d had.

  He’d see that he definitely had the advantage today.

  Bowing, he took his leave. “Ladies.”

  Taking the stairs two-at-a-time, he opened the door to his room and grabbed his hat off the bed. Settling it on his head, he checked his reflection. Michael never would have worn such a hat. Swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat, he vowed he wouldn’t let the past be forgotten, not Michael, or the fact that a killer was still at large.

  “I will find you,” he promised his reflection. “And God help you then.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It wasn’t difficult to track down Mrs. Burnbaum. It seemed she’d already visited the marshal’s temporary office, the bank, and the mercantile.

  Smythe missed her by five minutes at each successive stop. Knowing he’d eventually catch up to the woman, he lingered at the mercantile and watched two enormous men carefully lifting a new sheet of plate glass into the gaping storefront. From the age of the wood surrounding the opening, it was not newly built. Something must have happened to the previous window.

  “Did a horse kick up a stone?”

  One man looked over his shoulder at him, his freckled face filled with curiosity. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “It seemed the most reasonable explanation for needing a new window.” Smythe had actually considered the hypothesis a sound one.

  “Dynamite.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Had he heard correctly? “Someone threw a stick of dynamite into the mercantile?”

  The younger man frowned at him. “Not the mercantile, the jail,” he clarified with a nod at the burned-out gaping hole next to where they worked.

  Of course. Mick told him the jail had been blown up. The close proximity of the mercantile would have placed much more than the plate-glass window in danger of being blown to bits.

  “How many people were injured?” The mathematical possibility for disaster was enormous.

  “’Bout a half dozen.”

  “Matthew!”

  His companion’s shout called the young man’s attention back to where it was needed. Smythe waited until they’d fitted the window in the opening and were adding the shims to hold it in place before badgering them with more questions. From his years spent haunting the waterfront back home, he knew the glazing compound would be applied next.

  “Mr. Smythe?”

  He recognized the voice and turned toward it. “Mick. What brings you here?”

  “Josiah said I could help with the new window.”

  “Well, you nearly missed it,” the gray-haired man on the left side of the window grumbled. “Here, stir this glazing compound, then put a dollop on here.” Josiah handed Mick a putty knife and flat pointed tool. “Watch before you try to use the glazing knife, lad.”

  Smythe watched Mick and had to admit the young boy was sharp. He’d watched Josiah and applied the compound carefully—in a thin coat. Too thick and it wouldn’t hold the glass in place properly.

  “Care to give it a try, Smythe?”

  He didn’t even wonder how the older man knew his name. Reilly had told him everyone in town knew who he was yesterday. He was tempted, but he was wearing his only other freshly laundered shirt and didn’t want to get it dirty before his meeting with Mrs. Burnbaum.

  “Maybe some other time. I’m late for a meeting.”

  The three men looked over their shoulders in unison. He stiffened. Small-town life. Apparently, his business was now the town’s business.

  Not bloody likely—not yet.

  Crossing the street, he marveled that the blisters on his heels didn’t pain him. Mrs. Swenson’s herbal ointment was everything she’d promised. Now if only her information concerning the elusive Sarah Burnbaum proved accurate.

  He stopped in front of the largest house in town. Two stories painted a soft green with yellow trim. The fence had been freshly whitewashed, the path leading to the front porch steps carefully tended. Not a weed grew between the square stones. The windows gleamed in the bright sunlight. Obviously the woman was fastidious and had an army of servants at her disposal, because the amount of dust and dirt from the road would keep her staff busy from dawn to dusk just cleaning the windows.

  Letting himself in through the gate, he strode up the path, his steps purposeful, determined. He would get to the bottom of how the woman came to be in the possession of the deed to Pearl’s ranch. Then he’d extract the rest
of the information he needed and pay a visit to Marshal Justiss.

  A harried young woman answered his knock and crisply informed him Mrs. Burnbaum was not receiving visitors, as if this were high society and he were calling on her for the pleasure of her company.

  “I’m here to speak with Mrs. Burnbaum concerning a private matter of the utmost urgency.”

  “Who’s there, Elizabeth?”

  Ah, his quarry had been run to ground at last. “Mrs. Burnbaum.” Smythe eased past the gaping maid into the entry. He looked up the curved mahogany staircase, but didn’t see anyone.

  “Elizabeth!”

  “Ah, the parlor.” He walked into the front parlor. “I’d hoped to find you at home.”

  The buxom Mrs. Burnbaum positively preened at his words, reminding him of the fat hens he’d noticed out at the ranch pecking at the seeds someone fed them.

  “I had not planned on receiving anyone this early,” she began slowly, a speculative gleam in her eyes. “But I could make an exception.” She turned toward the maid. “Bring tea.”

  He noticed no polite words accompanied the command, yet one more reason not to like her. Motioning him to a small green-striped satin sofa near the fireplace, Mrs. Burnbaum sat on a rather spindly looking red velvet lady’s chair. He wondered, as it shifted to accept her weight, if it would hold her bulky frame.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Smythe?”

  She acted as if they hadn’t exchanged verbal barbs last night, so he would as well. “I’m intrigued by what I’ve heard about your committee.” In truth, he wasn’t, and he hadn’t heard anything remotely good about it, but he could stretch the truth when he had to.

  She drew in a breath and sat straighter in her chair; it creaked ominously. “The Committee for the Betterment of Emerson was founded by me nearly a decade ago to help our growing town become prosperous and our society acceptable to all of those who believe, as I do, that one can never be too cautious allowing strangers to settle in their midst or be overly prudent when one’s morals are called into question.”

  The next half-hour was a true test of Smythe’s patience and steely control as the ignorant woman pontificated on the loose morals of two of the less-than-desirable women who had recently settled in town, as well as one who’d lived here for quite some time. Not one of the three, whom Smythe sensed were not truly of questionable character or morals, had joined Mrs. Burnbaum’s precious committee. Nor had they been swayed to back her attempts to strongly advise newly arrived undesirables to move on rather than settle in Emerson.

  “That is why I was so pleased when my bro—” She paused to clear her throat. “Er, Mr. Jones contacted me. It was my opportunity to rid this community of a blight that began spreading nearly ten years ago.”

  Smythe called on every ounce of polish his mother had instilled in him and managed not to jump to his feet, dump the contents of his cup on the odious woman’s head, and heave the pot onto the rose-patterned carpet beneath their feet. He reached deep for a calm he didn’t feel and asked, “Blight?”

  She hadn’t noticed the true direction of his thoughts. The woman’s dark eyes positively gleamed with unholy glee. “From the moment John Lloyd opened Pearl’s Place, this town has had to put up with the indignity of knowing our menfolk were in the company of, dare I even say it—” She looked over her shoulder, then leaned forward and whispered, “Whores!”

  The need to hit something began to twitch the skin on his palms. He set his cup and saucer down on the side table and clenched his hands into fists. Mrs. Burnbaum’s gaze never faltered. She reached for a teacake, popped the entire cake into her mouth, and sat back, chewing with her mouth open, reminding him of a bloody cow.

  “And Pearl herself entertained men upstairs,” the woman shrilled, nodding and then lifting her dainty bone china cup to her lips, downing the contents in one gulp.

  Revulsion churned in Smythe’s stomach, but he knew he could not let her see the rage in his expression. He opened his fists and smoothed his damp palms on his thighs and reached for his cup.

  “Is that a fact?”

  “That’s not all. Bridget O’Toole—”

  “I thought her name was Flaherty.” He knew it was and so did this blasted woman.

  “Well, she may as well not have married the man. She lived openly at his ranch for weeks—in sin!”

  Before Sarah Burnbaum could work up an even bigger head of steam, he cut her off. “I understood she had been ill.”

  She waved his words aside and grabbed another cake off the silver serving tray. “Hah! She was living in sin, all the while knowing her husband, a reputed outlaw, was still alive!”

  Smythe nearly choked on his sip of tea. It tasted sour, and the teacake he’d eaten lay like that lump of fish guts he’d eaten on a dare years ago. His stomach began to roil.

  There was no point in arguing or continuing a conversation with this thick-skulled bitch of a woman. Though he might learn more about the lawyer from Denver, whom he suspected had a blood tie to Mrs. Burnbaum if her earlier slip of the tongue had been the truth, he could not stomach her self-righteous attitude and prejudicial comments any longer.

  He rose to his feet, and though it rankled, bowed low over her hand, thanking her for the refreshment and pleasure of her company. Although his heart knew the words were false, she never would.

  Stepping back through her highly polished door onto the dusty street, he realized he’d once been a part of a society very similar to the one he’d just heard touted in tones of near reverence. As he walked away, he reminded himself he’d never once treated anyone as if he or she were something nasty he’d stepped in, and never spread gossip that would severely damage anyone’s reputation. Not only did the woman need a lesson in table manners, one in tact would definitely be in order as well. Though similar, Boston society matrons at least had passable table manners.

  He liked a game of cards the same as the next man, and had called out more than one opponent over the years, but he’d never become a social reptile, cold and calculating, like the self-appointed committee head he’d just paid the social call on.

  Never had and never would. While he still had breath in his body and strength in his hands, no committee would ever run anyone, desirable or not, out of Emerson again. He’d found a purpose and a home.

  He was staying.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pearl’s head whirled when she remembered the way her body reacted to the nearness of Davidson. Alone on the stairs, she paused for a moment, and lifting her elbow to her nose, she inhaled, drawing in the faint scent of sandalwood. Closing her eyes, she savored the fragrance, all the while thinking his powerful form was definitely at odds with the delicate scent that clung to him.

  She’d not wash the faded calico dress until she absolutely had to. At the top of the stairs, she paused again, wondering where her mind had gone. She had been about to go back into her room and change out of her dress, simply to keep the scent of the damned man’s shaving soap with her as long as possible.

  “Foolish.” The last time she’d acted in such a way had been nearly a decade ago. She was no green girl now. She was a mature woman, the blush of her youth long gone.

  “Is Miss Pearl up to receiving visitors?”

  The marshal’s voice carried up the stairs to where she stood. Lord, she wished she could dredge up more than a feeling of friendship for the lawman. Sighing, Pearl turned and headed back down to the front parlor.

  Marshal Justiss stood, hat in hand, staring out the window. His shoulders broad, his back straight, Ben Justiss was the image she’d once carried in her heart of the type of man she would one day fall in love with. He’d be tall, strong, and have fair hair, if only as a perfect contrast to her dark hair, so that when the two were seen together, people would comment on how beautifully they complimented one another in looks. But physical beauty could hide a defective character flaw—a pockmarked soul.

  Youthful dreams were just that. Dre
ams, best left to the dark of night. Reality. That was what Pearl needed to focus on. She’d married John Lloyd ten years ago and been a widow for more than half that time. Looking down at her work-roughened hands, she wondered what Ben saw in her. There was absolutely no trace of her youth left.

  “Pearl.”

  She looked up. When had he turned around? Her gaze caught the hint of desire ever-present in his gaze. He sure was a looker. Too bad her heart just wasn’t interested.

  “Ben.” She walked past the two-seater sofa, meeting him in the middle of the room.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better this morning.”

  She clasped her hands at her waist and hoped he wouldn’t notice she held them there to hide the way they trembled.

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  He glanced around the room and at the empty seats, then shook his head. “I can’t stay. I’ve got some paperwork to fill out and another report of rustling.”

  “Not out at the Flaherty Ranch?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, good.” Relief surged through her. She’d hate for the Flahertys to have to wage war against an unseen and unknown force of cattle rustlers again. The cattle were always stolen in the dead of night, and it could take weeks to figure out who the culprits were.

  “Is it one of the ranchers in Emerson?”

  “This time it’s over on the other side of the river, closer to Milford.”

  Her heart sank. “Oh, so you’ll be gone overnight then?”

  He stepped closer to her. “Will you miss me?” Hope flickered in his gaze, darkening his eyes to a brilliant emerald green.

  “Ben. You are a good man.”

  The flicker went out, and he jammed his Stetson on his head. “Stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

  Pearl hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, but sensed she had. “Ben, wait!”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “Why?”

  “Lord, are all men as pigheaded as you?”

  His mouth twitched, as if he was fighting a smile.

  “I was thinking the same about women.”