The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “But you won’t.”

  Smart man. Smythe knew he had not misjudged the lawman. “No. I want the ranch and everything that goes along with it.”

  Something akin to carefully leashed violence flared in Justiss’ eyes. Smythe acknowledged the violence and the reason behind it and kept going. “I’m going to get my money back from the bilge rat that stole it from me.”

  “But if you already have the ranch—”

  “It would not have been acquired legally. I believe Pearl. With your help, we’ll find out who stole her deed. We’ve both been duped. They’ve stolen money from me and would steal the land right out from under Pearl.” Smythe paused for a breath, “More than money is at stake here.”

  “Her ranch,” the marshal began.

  “More than her ranch,” Smythe said quietly, his eyes locking with the marshal’s.

  The lawman snorted. “Your pride?”

  Smythe shook his head. “Pearl’s self-respect and good name.”

  Justiss stared at him then nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “I have a feeling Sarah Burnbaum has an intimate connection with that lawyer in Denver,” Smythe said. “And I aim to find out what that connection is.”

  Justiss nodded.

  At last, Smythe thought. Common ground.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What does she want?” Pearl could not believe that the head of the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson would be brazen enough to visit her at the ranch. Did the woman think Pearl was stupid?

  “I’ve put her in the parlor.”

  “Amy, you didn’t—” No point in trying to converse with air. Amy had made her pronouncement and promptly left.

  Pearl’s gaze swept the room with its comfortable bed, lady’s desk, and ancient dresser. Her room. Her refuge. She’d often retreated here once John had left the house seeking other company. She could hide up here now. No one would blame her…no one but herself. She’d never forgive herself if she didn’t take a stand now.

  Her self-respect and her way of life were on the line, directly connected to that of her girls. She would not back down.

  Brushing the hair from her eyes, Pearl hastily refashioned the sleek coil she’d pinned at the nape of her neck, wincing when she inadvertently brushed against her sore cheek.

  One quick glance in the mirror, and she knew she’d have a scar. The gouge had been too wide to heal closed, but not deep enough to require threads. The woman staring back at her seemed unconcerned with her appearance, but the frightened woman lurking inside of her wept for the loss of her looks because no man would want her now.

  She’d gone without a man for five years and had not shriveled up and died. She supposed she could survive without one for a mite longer.

  “Pearl?”

  Her mind made up, her resolve unwavering, Pearl answered Amy’s summons. “Coming.”

  Knowing the girls would rather kick the overbearing woman out the door and down the front porch steps, Pearl hurried down the worn stairs and into the sunny parlor. She’d best find out what brought Mrs. Burnbaum to her door this early in the day.

  “Sarah, what brings you—”

  “Dear God!” Sarah’s hand flew to her ample bosom. “Your face!” The woman’s sagging jaw was indication enough that her face did look as bad as she feared.

  Pearl closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for patience. To hell with formalities. “Why are you here, Sarah?”

  The woman closed her mouth and proceeded to pace in front of Pearl.

  “It has come to my attention that a Mr. Davidson Smythe paid you a visit yesterday morning.”

  Pearl didn’t feel it necessary to answer when it was common knowledge throughout the entire town that he had. She leveled her best uninterested stare at the older woman.

  Sarah cleared her throat. “Yes, well, it has also come to my attention that you had him thrown in jail for trespassing.”

  “I did no such thing.” Pearl hadn’t. The marshal had stepped in and taken charge of the situation once she’d fainted on him. It still rankled that Justiss had not given her the chance to sort things out without locking Smythe up.

  The other woman narrowed her small dark eyes until they were thin, black evil-looking slits. “I am given to understand that you are the one who has trespassed and in fact should be under arrest!”

  Pearl’s mouth worked but no sound came out. Words tumbled around in her brain, but she could make no sense of them. The events of the past two days came crashing in on her as Sarah leveled the final blow. “As the head of the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson, I vow to have you and the young women living under your roof thrown off this ranch by sundown!”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Pearl hoped she wouldn’t, but feared she might.

  “And why wouldn’t I? The town of Emerson has put up with your immoral ways long enough. You are no longer welcome, and since you do not have the deed to this property, Mr. Smythe will be back in a few hours to take ownership.”

  Oily fear slid through Pearl, turning her now-queasy stomach upside down. Ignoring the crass comments and focusing on the last bit of what Sarah Burnbaum said, she rasped, “How do you know that?”

  The other woman folded her arms beneath her bosom, taking on the appearance of a vengeful being. “I have my ways,” was all she would divulge.

  How had she known about the deed or that Mr. Smythe had changed his mind?

  The threat of Pearl and her girls being ousted from their home finally hit Pearl, and her earlier resolve returned. With it, her simmering temper flared to life with a vengeance. “You are a bully and a liar, just like your husband.”

  At the other woman’s gasp of outrage, Pearl delivered the coup de grâce. “He used his fists. You use your forked tongue, but a bully is still a bully.”

  The whoosh of air was the only indication Sarah had heard what Pearl had said. The other woman whirled around and burst through the door, stomping all the way over to the shiny black phaeton waiting just outside. The fact that Sarah now owned Pearl’s fancy carriage was just one more slap in the face. She’d had to sell the better part of her former life in order to secure the new one she had been building with her makeshift family.

  Pearl knew the good women of Emerson would never accept her, and, if what Sarah suggested were true and the committee had their way, she’d soon be long gone.

  If she had listened to her husband and agreed to entertain men privately, she never would have had to sell her carriage to Jake Burnbaum. She’d still have a closet filled with silks and satins and selection of French perfumes—a different scent for each day of the week. If she hadn’t fought against John’s forcing himself on her, she never would have had to lift a finger around the ranch.

  But she had fought back, refusing to be treated worse than their working girls. She knew. She’d asked. Staring down at her work-roughened hands, Pearl tried to remember how they had looked back then, before she’d stood up to John. They’d been soft and supple, without calluses from holding reins in her bare hands or scalding them in too-hot water scrubbing floors or laundry.

  “Pearl?”

  Her name being called drew her sharply back to the present.

  “She can’t throw us out, can she?” Daisy’s tear-filled question added one more worry to the ones Pearl had wrestled with all night long.

  Afraid that she just might, Pearl drew in a breath and pasted a smile on her face. “I’d like to see her try.”

  There. Once said, the words had the power to lift her sagging spirits. She might only get to wear her one and only pale gray silk dress to town on the anniversary of John’s death, her own private celebration. The rest of the time she wore homespun and calico. Her hands might be rough, not the soft hands of a lady, but they were rough from honest work. The good Lord knew her grandmother had told her often enough there was no shame in honest work, so there should be no shame in her heart.

  Sagging against the doorframe, Pearl drew in one deep breath and
then another, until she was calm again. It was time to send word to both the marshal and Davidson Smythe.

  “Won’t the marshal stop her?” Amy demanded.

  Lord, she hoped he would.

  “Won’t Mr. Smythe be back to claim the ranch?” Nellie looked as if she feared the man would boot them out without a word of remorse.

  “I don’t think so. Not until we get to the bottom of why the advertisement appeared in the newspaper to begin with, and there still is the matter of the missing deed.”

  “I’ve brewed a fresh pot of tea.” Mary’s soft pronouncement cut through the tension in the air like a warm, soft breeze.

  “Thank you, Mary.” Pearl smiled, but the way her healing skin pulled had her wincing in pain. Before any of the girls could comment, she asked, “Do we have any scones left?”

  The next half hour was spent sitting around their borrowed kitchen table planning how they would defend their ranch. One of the girls would remain near the front of the ranch house at all times to warn the others of unwanted visitors. The others would be ready to man their posts at the windows on either side of the front door, armed and ready to shoot at anyone who dared to trespass.

  Feeling remarkably better for someone expecting to be forced to leave her home, Pearl sat at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes for their midday meal.

  “Pearl!”

  Daisy’s shout had her dropping the paring knife on the floor. It landed point down, quivering, stuck in between two floorboards. Leaving it and the potatoes, Pearl called out the girls to man their posts, grabbed her Winchester, and rushed outside.

  Déjà vu filled her, making her light-headed. Riding up the lane to her ranch was the same fair-haired handsome stranger who’d dared lay claim to what was hers.

  Dear God in heaven, had he changed his mind? Had he sent Sarah Burnbaum earlier so she and the girls would pack their meager belongings and be ready to leave when he arrived?

  She thought she knew Smythe, thought she could trust him to keep his word. Was she the only one who could feel the sparks tingling beneath her skin when he touched her? Did he not know one look from his warm, dark eyes could send gooseflesh rippling along her spine?

  She lifted the rifle and aimed.

  “Good God, woman!” Smythe looked to the heavens before dismounting. Tying the reins of his horse to the top rail of the corral, he stalked toward where she stood.

  The rifle seemed heavier than it had a moment before; Pearl’s arms trembled as she braced them to hold the rifle steady. His look of displeasure seared through her, but it was the hurt expression in his velvet-brown eyes that had her taking a step back lowering her rifle.

  “Amy? Mary?” he called out. “Put down your weapons.”

  How did he know? They were inside, hidden.

  “I’ve a wonderful memory.” He answered the unasked question. “What I don’t understand is why. I told you I’d not try to wrest the property from you.”

  “I—”

  “Could you not trust me?”

  The bleak tone of his voice caused an answering trembling to take hold of her. She shook so badly by the time he’d made it to the bottom step, she had all she could do to hang on to the loaded rifle. Good God, if she’d dropped it and it had fired…

  Gazing intently into her eyes, Smythe nodded. “Exactly. How do you know the bullet wouldn’t strike Daisy or one of your precious horses?”

  “Why?”

  “Why, what?” he asked, taking the rifle from her and grabbing her elbow to steer her back inside the house.

  “Why are you here?” Amy answered for Pearl.

  “I was worried about all of you,” Davidson said softly before helping Pearl into one of the chairs around the kitchen table. “How do you feel today? Does your cheek pain you?”

  He’d squatted down in front of her chair, but had his hands on his own knees, giving Pearl the much-needed space to gather her scattered wits about her.

  Pearl was so rattled; she knew she’d continue to stutter if she tried to speak. She closed her eyes and prayed her tongue would sort itself out.

  Smythe looked over his shoulder at the still-armed girls and swore. “Damnation! Have all of your wits gone begging?”

  “What?” Daisy demanded, coming in through the back door. “I’m no beggar.”

  * * *

  Smythe raised his eyes to the ceiling above them. These women needed to learn to trust.

  Trust you? If he hadn’t tried to take their home from them, perhaps they might be more inclined to do so. He’d have to earn their trust. But how?

  “Mrs. Burnbaum was here before,” Mary offered.

  And that, my dear man, would be your ticket to gaining their trust. “What did she have to say?”

  “That you’d be back to throw us off the ranch.” Nellie, he noticed, was trying hard not to cry. Her watery eyes and sniffling went right to his heart.

  “I haven’t seen that woman since we spoke yesterday morning.”

  “And we are supposed to believe you?” Amy demanded.

  Pearl finally spoke up. “Amy, put that gun down before you shoot the cookstove.”

  The girl’s face blanched, but she did as she was told.

  “Mary, put the gun back in the drawer, and don’t forget to remove the bullets.”

  “You can’t trust him, Pearl.” Daisy sounded so certain of that fact, Smythe wondered if helping them stand against Sarah Burnbaum would be enough to earn their fragile trust.

  “Why don’t I wait here with you? We’ll face the committee head together.”

  Pearl shook her head. “She won’t come alone.” Her whispered words sent a chill of unease up his spine. None of the women he’d met out here acted as he’d expected them to. Didn’t anyone of them sit and embroider, pay social calls on one another, and drink tea?

  He looked around him at the grim expressions on the faces of the women gathered to stand with Pearl and knew they’d never had the luxury of spending an idle moment over tea and cakes discussing the latest fashions or balls.

  Pearl took hold of his hands and squeezed them, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. “She’ll bring Millie and Joan, Frances and…” Her voice trailed off, but her palpable fear crashed over him.

  He squeezed back. “No one can make you and the girls leave. You proved that the other day.”

  “But Davidson—”

  The sound of his name on her sweet lips enflamed him. His stomach clenched, and he felt his body begin to tense from the soles of his feet to his belly. The need to strike out in anger surged through him. He pushed to his feet, thinking of the cold-hearted bitch who’d threatened his woman.

  His woman? When, by God, had this dark-haired beauty become his? He hardly knew her, had only just met her.

  His heart begged to differ. He knew what he needed to know about her. She was brave, courageous, and would face down the devil to protect what was hers. She was perfect and just what he needed. Sometime during the weeks he’d spent journeying to Colorado, his life and priorities had shifted. His needs and desires had turned upside down.

  Pretty Rebecca Hansen’s smiling face faded until he could barely remember what she looked like. The memory of their last waltz together slipped from his mind, as he realized no simpering miss with her hair curled in the latest hairstyle or dressed in the latest fashion from Paris would do for him. He wanted the bruised but resilient, battered but beautiful, Pearl.

  When he stalked over to the door, the girls moved to flank Pearl. He began pacing in front of the cookstove, marveling that his tastes had changed so drastically. He wanted the woman before him, with the crooked smile, the spine of steel, and the slash of courage marring her beautiful face, with a passion that burned him.

  But would she want him once she knew he was suspected of murder?

  He glanced over at her and his passion fizzled out with the unasked question.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Pearl offered. “I understand. You purchased my ra
nch in good faith.” Her voice broke over the last two words. “I believe you.”

  Her whispered words pierced the protective shield around his battered heart. No one, save possibly Runyon, had believed in him since the night his brother died. To have that quietly spoken pledge now, from the one person who stood to lose the most if he but uttered the desire to stake his legal claim, humbled him—nay, saved him. No other woman would do. He had to make her need him as badly as he feared he needed her.

  Ignoring the startled faces of her girls, he pulled Pearl to her feet and crushed her to him. His mouth fused with hers. Heat seared heat, heart met heart, and soul reached out to soul.

  He felt her resistance give way one kiss at a time, until she melted against him, the generous curves of her body fitting against the hard planes and hollows of his own.

  In that melding of spirits, his was freed from the earthly chains that bound him. Gentling his kiss, he sipped from her lips, drawing every ounce of sweetness she possessed, claiming it for his own.

  He was that greedy for her. He was that desperate to claim her.

  “Pearl—”

  “Do you want us to—”

  Vaguely, Smythe heard Amy calling to the girls. He heard the sound of retreating footsteps, but he ignored the sound, every ounce of his being concentrating on the woman in his arms. His lips trailed a path of searing heat along the line of her jaw, sipping from the hollow of her throat. They were alone.

  “Davidson.”

  He could not speak; but he could feel, and he would show her how much he desired her.

  She tilted her head back, and he feasted on the sumptuous flesh beckoning him to taste, to touch, to devour.

  “Davidson…wait—”

  Had he imbibed an entire bottle of brandy? Had he hit his head? His brain was muddled to the point of utter confusion.

  His entire body vibrated with need for the woman in his arms. If he didn’t claim her as his own, he’d go mad.

  Pearl placed her hands against his chest and pushed back locking her elbows. “The girls.”