The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “I depend on your friendship, Ben.” Once she said the words, the heaviness in her heart eased. She knew she’d not encouraged the man, but he had been encouraged anyway.

  “I was hoping for more.” He turned around to face her and, if desire were flesh and blood instead of an emotion, it would be six feet tall, broad shouldered, with green eyes and sun-kissed hair.

  Her belly twitched with nerves under his intense perusal of her face and form, but her heart simply beat as always. No skipping, no shock to the system, the way her body reacted this morning when Davidson Smythe stood with but a breath of air swirling between them.

  “I won’t lie to you, Ben. You’re a handsome man, but—”

  He shook his head and stepped back. “The but says it all. I won’t press you again.”

  Relieved, she nodded. “I appreciate it.”

  “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.” His growl of impatience actually soothed her.

  “I don’t trust easily, Ben.” She wrung her hands, agitation surging through her. “But I trust you to keep your word.”

  “Whoever hurt your heart should be shot.”

  Pearl found her first smile. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  “Was it Lloyd?”

  She nodded, unable to say his name even after all this time, the hurt still too close to the surface. It would take a strong, caring man to heal the wounds her husband had inflicted on her.

  “He’s already dead.” The marshal had reasoned it out and actually sounded sorry that he wouldn’t have the chance to kill him.

  Though she didn’t need to, she answered, “Yes.”

  Ben Justiss could be the man she’d been waiting for. Her head said he was, but her heart knew he wasn’t. He could have been the right man two days ago if she’d made up her mind, but now…

  Damn you, Davidson Smythe.

  One more intense study of her face and he turned to leave. “Remember what I said,” he warned. “Stay out of trouble.”

  Pearl walked to the window and looked outside.

  “Is he gone?”

  Pearl nodded, watching the way the marshal’s stride ate up the distance between the boarding house and Peterson’s stable, where he kept his horse. “He’ll be gone overnight.”

  “Are you worried?”

  Gratitude filled her. “No, though you are a dear to worry about me, Mrs. Swenson.”

  Waving Pearl’s answer away, the older woman headed back toward the kitchen. “You should be resting.”

  Pearl laughed and walked toward the stairs. “I have a ranch to run. I’m going to get my things and head back out.”

  A voice called out from the back of the house. “Do you want me to send for John Reilly?”

  “Whatever for?” Pearl didn’t need anyone to cart her around. Her ribs were actually feeling much better this morning, and she’d slept the whole night through.

  Mrs. Swenson’s answer was an indistinct mumble. Pearl would have to ask her what she’d said later. She opened the door to her room, grabbed her shawl off the bed and her Winchester from beneath the bed. She checked to see if it was still loaded and headed down the stairs to the kitchen.

  “Thank you for breakfast and a place to sleep.”

  Inga Swenson’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “My pleasure, Pearl. Are you sure you don’t want to wait until I fetch someone to ride back to the ranch with you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “All right. I’ve got loaves of bread and a cherry pie to bake.”

  Pearl smiled. “Why Inga Swenson, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you had your sights set on a man with fancy manners.”

  The older woman blushed. “Fat lot you know.”

  The truth of Mrs. Swenson’s words hit home with unerring clarity. “The marshal?”

  Inga cleared her throat. “I realize I’m a few years older than him, but—”

  Pearl’s heart cried out for the kindly woman. How many men had overlooked the sturdy Swedish widow? Was it the size of her big-boned frame, or the threads of gray in her white-blonde hair?

  “I’m not interested in the marshal.” Pearl hoped the other woman hadn’t held the man’s obvious infatuation with her against her.

  “I know.” Brushing a strand of hair back from her still-smooth forehead, Mrs. Swenson smiled sadly. “But I’m not what you might call, pretty.”

  “Inga Swenson! Don’t you dare belittle yourself. You’re a fine-looking woman, still in your prime child-bearing years.”

  The woman flushed positively scarlet and placed floured hands on her flaming cheeks to hide them.

  “Well, I never.”

  “Haven’t you?” Pearl wondered about that. “How long ago did Mr. Swenson die?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Oh.” That was even longer than John had been gone. Yet something else they had in common. “Do you miss him?”

  “Not so much anymore. I keep busy.”

  Pearl wasn’t fooled. Mrs. Swenson might be a big woman, but she still had tender feelings and a gentle heart. Otherwise, she’d never have befriended Pearl, Bridget, or Maggie.

  “Why haven’t you said anything to Ben?”

  Inga looked over her shoulder and paused with her hands wrist-deep in bread dough. “I suppose I was waiting for him to get over his infatuation with you.”

  Pearl smiled. “I think he will be over it by the time he gets back tomorrow.”

  The flush was back on Inga’s high-cut cheekbones. To Pearl’s dismay, a teardrop escaped. “How long have you been in love with him?”

  Inga sniffled. “Since he rode into town.”

  Pearl nodded. She understood implicitly and was afraid she’d developed similar feelings for the man who’d tried to claim her ranch.

  Leaning her rifle against the doorjamb, Pearl wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on her faded cotton dress, then brushed them together. “I think you need to spark the marshal’s attention.”

  “Just how do you think I can accomplish that?” The other woman hadn’t stopped kneading the bread dough. She turned it out onto the floured tabletop and continued to knead it on the table, shaping it.

  “A new dress and hairstyle.”

  “What’s wrong with my dress?” Inga demanded.

  “Not a thing.”

  Mollified, the older woman nodded.

  “But you’d look lovely in a soft blue.”

  Inga looked stunned. “What would I do with a new dress?”

  “Grab the marshal’s attention?” Pearl laughed at Inga’s expression. “Now about your hair…”

  Two hours later, Pearl was halfway back to her ranch. The sun was bright overhead, and a warm summer breeze brushed past her cheeks. Her heart was light, knowing she’d done her best to encourage the shy Inga Swenson to go after her man. Ben Justiss.

  The horse settled into a comfortable gait, plodding his way toward a well-earned handful of oats and munch of hay. Pearl didn’t have to do much other than loosely hold the reins and guide the horse.

  Her mind drifted. Now that she thought about it, they’d make a perfect couple, the stoic marshal and the nurturing boarding house owner.

  A shot rang out, startling her. Her horse danced nervously, but she hugged her knees to the animal’s sides and pulled back on the reins to keep him under control.

  Before she could catch her breath, a second shot echoed through the clear air. A rock shattered six inches from the horse’s front hooves. She struggled to control the beast. “Bad luck always comes in threes.”

  The third shot rang out. Heat seared across Pearl’s cheekbone. Ignoring the pain, she yanked on the reins, pulling the horse’s head down, hopefully out of range of whoever was shooting at her. The animal didn’t like it, but followed her lead. Slipping from the saddle, she took the reins and led the horse off the road and into the brush a few yards from the edge.

  Nestled behind the low bushes, her heart beat double-time and her breath kept
snagging in her breast. Though she felt chilled, she started to sweat profusely. Fear. She recognized the emotion, well acquainted with it. It had only been a few weeks since the last time she’d been bombarded with the now-familiar sensation.

  A hot trickle dripped from where heat had burned her cheekbone. It could not be tears. Her eyes were dry. Pearl’s stomach roiled in protest, but she swallowed hard, ignoring the queasy feeling, and forced herself to touch the tips of her fingers gingerly to her cheek.

  It was wet. Warm. Her hand shook. Knowing she would have to face the truth, she drew back her hand and stared at the bright crimson evidence dripping from the tips of her fingers.

  She wiped her hand on the front of her dress. It would be hard to scrub the blood off later, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She needed her handkerchief to stop the bleeding.

  Slipping the thin linen from her pocket, she folded it in thirds and placed it on her cheek.

  “Sonofabitch! That hurts.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes. It would require more strength than she had to hold them back. She was a mile from home and someone had just tried to kill her.

  “And I thought meeting yesterday’s challenge was something to be proud of.”

  Gingerly lifting the handkerchief from her cheek, she felt around where it burned the most to judge how deep and wide the wound was.

  “Lord, please don’t let me need a needle and thread to close it.”

  Her head whirled, and for a moment she wondered if it had become detached; she couldn’t feel the top of it. A wave of dizziness threatened to drag her under, but she refused to give in to it. She still had to make it home to warn the girls. Danger stalked her in the open country. Once she left the safety of this small bit of brush, she’d be a target the gunman couldn’t miss.

  Knees quaking, needing support, she laid her head against the horse’s strong black neck, nearly giving into panic building with each breath she drew.

  A bird chirped as it flew overhead and she realized it was the only sound other than her ragged breaths and the gentle snuffling of her horse as it nudged her as if to urge her to action.

  “The shooting has stopped.”

  The horse stared at her.

  Closing her mouth, Pearl struggled to get control of her uneven breathing by drawing in air through her nose. The scent of sun-warmed earth crowded her senses. As her breaths evened out, she tilted her head to one side, straining to listen for any sound that would give away the location of whoever had shot at her.

  Nothing.

  Maybe he was long gone.

  A realist, Pearl didn’t feel like risking her life to test the theory that just because she couldn’t hear anything didn’t meant no one was out there ready to draw a bead on her and fire, settling the problem of who owned her ranch once and for all.

  Time seemed to stand still. She had no concept of how much had passed since the last shot was fired.

  Far more afraid than she’d been when confronting Michael O’Toole and his outlaw gang, Pearl scooted farther into the sharp, prickly brush, closed her eyes, and began to pray.

  The sun grew too warm for comfort and she was sweating like a pig. Pearl knew she’d have to chance revealing herself soon; she was lightheaded from loss of blood and lack of water. Slowly easing out from under the bushes, she pushed herself up on her hands and knees, bracing for the sound of gunfire.

  Still nothing.

  She slowly rose to her feet and dared a look around her.

  The sky was crystal clear, with a blue bright enough to hurt her eyes, and not a cloud to mar its cerulean beauty. Hard to believe just a short while ago a killer had tried to end her life, and if he had, she’d not be able to look up into the clear endless blue ever again.

  Who would shoot at her?

  Maybe the gunman thought she was someone else?

  She snorted. Not likely. The only woman in town taller than her was Inga Swenson, and she was as fair as Pearl was dark.

  The longer she delayed, the weaker she felt. The answer to her dilemma was suddenly clear as glass. Reaching around to check the leather scabbard, she sighed in relief. Her Winchester was still where it should be. Now would come the hard part. Stroking her horse’s neck once more, she pressed her lips to the coarse hair just below and between his eyes, on the tiny white star.

  She leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Amy’s got a scoopful of oats waiting just for you.”

  His left ear twitched, but he didn’t move away from her.

  “Daisy’s probably got a carrot in her apron pocket.”

  Both ears twitched this time.

  “Please?” She was reduced to begging with an animal in order to get word to her girls. She hoped whoever the gunman was; he wouldn’t shoot a riderless horse. Pearl was counting on the man’s noticing the lack of rider and remaining behind to look for her and finish the job.

  Gently grabbing the horse on either side of his black-as-night face, she looked into his eyes and hoped he understood. “You’ve got to bring one of the girls back.”

  With an equine nod that had tears streaming down her cheeks, stinging where the bullet had grazed, Pearl watched her horse twitch his tail and trot off in the direction of her ranch.

  She should wait for help, but time stretched endlessly.

  Hot, tired, and nauseated beyond belief, she looked up into the brilliant blue sky and ground out, “Is this a test?”

  No answer.

  No surprise.

  She’d begun walking when the sound of rapid hoofbeats coming from behind her chilled the blood in her veins. There was no time to hide. Bracing herself, she prayed the next bullet would find its mark in her head or heart and not her belly. She didn’t want to bleed to death. She threw back her shoulders and cried out, “Lord, make it quick!”

  “Pearl!”

  Stunned to see Davidson Smythe riding toward her, she sniffled, wiping at the tears beginning to fall in earnest.

  Something in his gaze warned her to stand still. Was the gunman standing behind her, waiting to end her life? She swayed on her feet. Standing still was harder than it had been an hour ago.

  “Dear God!” He threw his leg over the horn on his saddle, slid to his feet, and ran to her side. “Did you fall and smack your head—”

  His words trailed off as he examined the wound on her cheek. Davidson’s jaw clenched and his grip on her upper arms intensified. “You’ve been shot?”

  The facts, uttered in his cultured Bostonian tones, sounded far worse than when she’d said those same words aloud over an hour ago. Now that help had arrived, she began to shake uncontrollably.

  “It’s not safe here.”

  Before she could open her mouth to protest, she’d been swept into Davidson’s arms and up onto his saddle. He mounted behind her and pulled her onto his lap.

  Warm lips caressed her brow briefly before he murmured, “We’ll find out who did this later. Right now, I’ve got to get you back to the ranch.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was all she had to offer at the moment. Leaning back against the hot, solid wall of his chest, Pearl gave in to need, and for the first time in a long, long while, let someone else take care of her.

  * * *

  Smythe bit back the questions bombarding him, knowing the woman he held in his arms wasn’t ready for them.

  Why had she ridden back to her ranch alone?

  Why hadn’t she gone to confront Sarah Burnbaum?

  Why hadn’t the marshal stopped by to question him or give him instruction before the lawman left town to track down rustlers?

  Davidson’s head started to pound in time with his horse’s hoofbeats. Pearl sighed softly. He settled her more intimately against him. She fit. It was the only thought he would acknowledge. The others involved a locked door, a hot tub of water, clingy soap bubbles, and sweat-slickened bodies.

  Pearl wasn’t asleep, but she was finally relaxing for the first time since he’d met her yest
erday. It seemed like a week had passed instead of just twenty-four hours, so much had happened in that brief span of time. He’d met a headstrong woman who fired his blood and stirred his bruised heart back to life.

  The steady pace and warmth of the sun eased some of the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t want the poor woman worrying that he sensed danger when the only danger looming before him was the loss of his sanity. He didn’t dare think of the peril his heart might be in.

  As they approached the last bend in the road, he heard the rumble of wagon wheels. Pearl heard it too; she stiffened in his arms and struggled to sit up.

  “Let me handle it.”

  “But if it’s the girls—” she protested.

  “I think I can handle the girls.”

  “But one look at me—”

  Too late, Smythe mused, if Amy’s face mirrored the anguish the young woman must be trying hard to suppress. Thank goodness she was alone in the wagon.

  “Mr. Smythe!” Amy’s voice broke over his name. She drew in a breath and glanced over at the drying blood on Pearl’s face.

  “Wh-what happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Amy set the brake and wrapped the reins around a peg on the side of the wagon. Rising to her full height she placed her hands on her hips and shouted, “How could you not know?”

  Pearl struggled to move; this time Smythe let her.

  “He hasn’t asked.”

  “Then he didn’t—”

  “Good God, Amy!” He couldn’t believe the young woman would even think he’d do anything to hurt Pearl. He hadn’t been the one doing the shooting yesterday. He didn’t even own a gun!

  “You owe Mr. Smythe an apology,” Pearl whispered.

  Amy glared at him then shrugged. “What was I supposed to think? Your face is all covered with blood. You’ve streaks of dirt and dried tears on your cheeks.”

  Smythe sensed Pearl’s strength was flagging. “Can we discuss this back at the ranch?”

  As if surprised he’d ask, Amy nodded, sat back down, unhooked the reins, and released the brake.

  “You aren’t going to insist Pearl ride with you?” Smythe didn’t even try to hide his shock.

  “She seems to be comfortable where she is.” The young woman looked over her shoulder at him. “I’m glad you’re here. I thought I’d find her alone, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold her on the horse if we rode double, so I brought the wagon. I wasn’t sure if she’d be conscious or not. There was blood on the saddle.”