The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Mick looked at Pearl. She nodded to him, and he poured another, watching Davidson repeat the movement, then place the empty glass carefully back down on the table in front of him.

  “Ready?” Pearl’s heart ached for the pain she’d caused and the agony yet to come.

  He nodded. She pressed another hot, damp cloth against the bit of fabric. This time it pulled free, uncovering the wound, an angry red hole ringed with black gunpowder.

  At least the wound had stopped bleeding. Her gaze flickered over Davidson’s face. From the look of things, he’d lost more blood than was healthy. He was pale as flour.

  She began the arduous process of cleaning the wound again. Though she’d used whiskey-soaked cloths earlier, there was still dust and tiny bits of fabric stuck to the skin around the wound.

  Gentling her touch, she carefully cleansed the area.

  “Doc and Reilly are here,” Amy called out, sticking her head in the open doorway.

  Mick went outside to help Amy with the horses.

  Pearl nodded for the others to go with them. “Take care of our horses. We won’t be needing them any time soon.”

  “But Pearl,” Nellie wailed. “We want to help.”

  She looked into the face of her youngest and said, “You can help our poor horses, they won’t like having their saddles on for this long. And I bet they’re mighty hungry.”

  Nellie shuffled her feet, but finally agreed when Pearl added, “I need to speak to Mr. Smythe alone for a moment.”

  Finally they all filed out and she and Davidson were alone. Pearl hadn’t wanted the girls to overhear what she intended to tell him, but before she could pour out her feelings, he grabbed her hand.

  “Promise me, whatever that happens”—his grip on her hand cut off the feeling in it—“you’ll stay on at the ranch.”

  “What do you mean, ‘whatever happens’?” she demanded, an icy feeling of dread sliding into her empty belly, clutching tight.

  “The bullet’s deep,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It won’t be easy to dig out.”

  She brushed a lock of sun-lightened hair off his forehead so she could see both of his eyes. “Nothing is going to happen to you.”

  He tried to smile, but only managed a grimace. “Do I have your word on that?”

  “You do.” She knew he didn’t believe her but didn’t want her to worry.

  Before she could ask him more about his attacker, Davidson drew her attention to his hand as he struggled to remove the signet ring he always wore on his little finger.

  “What are you doing?”

  Slipping it free, he held it out to her. “Please keep this for me.”

  “You don’t think your hand will swell, do you?”

  He shook his head. “If I die—”

  “You will not die,” she said, desperate to hide the terror his words caused.

  He shook his head and held the ring out to her. “Send this to my mother and tell her—”

  She tilted her head to one side, waiting for him to finish. When she couldn’t wait any longer, she prompted him, “Tell her?”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered raggedly, looking down at the ring. “And that I love her.”

  Pearl nodded, accepting the ring. As she slipped it on her middle finger, the doctor walked into the room. Reilly followed him and was promptly sent back outside with the girls, leaving Pearl alone with Doc and Davidson.

  “Let me have a look at that.” Doc pulled his eyeglasses out of his vest pocket and bent close to Davidson’s back, staring at the ugly wound. Then he walked around to the front, prodding Davidson’s chest in a few different places.

  When Davidson didn’t move, Doc narrowed his gaze and murmured beneath his breath. “Hmmm.”

  Doc stepped back and walked over to the still-steaming bowl of water and began to wash his hands. Straightening up, he motioned to Pearl. “I want you to see something.”

  Pearl leaned close and Doc reached out, clasping Davidson’s arm by the elbow. “Easy, son. This may hurt a bit.”

  He lifted Davidson’s arm and the poor man moaned. Pearl’s gut clenched, but Doc ignored him, asking her, “Tell me what you see.”

  She looked at his arm, confused. “Nothing.”

  Doc snorted. “Look under his arm.”

  “Blood. It must have dripped down—”

  “Use your eyes, woman,” Doc urged.

  “Good Lord!” Pearl rasped, “I didn’t see that other wound. How could I have missed it?”

  Doc reassured her, “You took good care of what you did find. This here’s the exit wound, and from the looks of things, he must have landed on a sharp rock, too.” He shoved Davidson’s shirt out of his way and pointed to a deep ragged cut. “Must have bled like a stuck pig.”

  Davidson groaned again, and Doc lowered his arm. “You did just fine, son.” He moved over to the table and opened his leather bag. “I’m going to put some carbolic acid on it to clean out both wounds.”

  The doctor set to work. After a few moments, he paused. “Hmmm.”

  “What is it?” Pearl’s heart hammered in her chest. Don’t let it be more bad news!

  “I think the slice the rock made needs to be sewn up.”

  “Pearl’s nearly killed me cleaning the bullet hole out,” Davidson mumbled, staring at the bottom of his empty glass. “I’m going to need another shot of whiskey.”

  Doc nodded. “The way that slug ripped through you, though, son, it’s a wonder you didn’t lose more blood or skin.”

  Turning to Pearl he asked, “What did you use to clean this with?”

  Pearl flushed. “I . . . I thought whiskey would be a good substitute until I got him back here and could use hot soapy water.”

  Doc frowned at her. “Let me see your hands.”

  She hid them behind her back. “Later.”

  He glared at her, but let her have her way for now. “Count on it, missy.” After a moment, he said, “You did a fine job, cleaning out the wound.”

  When Doc had finished using the cleaning solution on both wounds, he said, “You can have that drink now, Smythe.”

  “But he’s already had two!” She didn’t think he needed any more alcohol.

  “I think he’s earned another drink, Pearl. Besides it’ll make the stitching go easier.”

  Her stomach lurched at the thought of a needle piercing Davidson’s already ripped flesh. She poured the drink, handed it to Davidson and whispered, “I told you you’d be fine.”

  He nodded, his gaze solemn. “You did promise. You always keep your word, don’t you?”

  “I try.” She looked away from his dark, penetrating gaze. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by your wagon.”

  Doc threaded the needle and Pearl tensed. Grabbing hold of Davidson’s hands, she said, “Just hang on to me.”

  His warm brown eyes lifted to meet her. “I don’t plan to let go.”

  His softly spoken words went straight to her heart. Clearing her throat, she nodded. “Well, all right then.”

  By the time the stitches were in place, the wounds had been bandaged, and more linen strips wrapped around Davidson’s chest to hold them in place, the poor man’s head was whipping up and down as he fought to stay awake.

  “He’s exhausted.” Afraid it was something more, but not wanting to ask Doc in front of Davidson, Pearl busied herself straightening up.

  “He’ll be sore for a few days, and fever could set in,” Doc told her, “but I think he’ll come around by the end of the week.”

  Doc handed her a small brown bottle. “Laudanum,” he told her. “But do not use this today. He’s had enough alcohol to numb the pain for tonight.”

  “What can we do for the fever?” She started wringing her hands, but the burned skin ached, and she hissed in a breath.

  When she saw Davidson had straightened up and was staring at her hands, she grabbed hold of her skirts and bunched her fists in them to hide them.

  “Willo
w bark tea will do.”

  Once Doc was finished, the kitchen filled up with people, the girls demanding to see Davidson’s wounds, and Reilly demanding to know if Davidson had seen his assailant.

  “No,” Smythe told the girls, “not until the bandage comes off.” Then he looked up at the big Irishman. “No. I didn’t see a thing.”

  “How many shots were there?” he prodded.

  “Three.”

  That bit of news had the hairs on the back of Pearl’s neck standing at attention. “Three?” Bile rushed up her throat, and she had to clamp her jaw tight together to keep from throwing up. Could it be the same shooter?

  “Sit down, lass.” Reilly had his arm around her and was pushing her into a chair. “Ye’ve done a fine job of patching himself up. Ye need a cup of tea.”

  Amy bustled around the kitchen, picking up the soiled, bloody linens, while Daisy put the kettle back on to boil.

  Pearl was finally in control enough to speak and knew she had to tell them, “Whoever shot at me tried three times, too.”

  “Damnation.” Davidson’s curse was echoed by Reilly’s.

  “And when were ye plannin’ on sharin’ that bit of information with us, lass?”

  She looked down at her sore hands and nearly jumped out of her skin when a large hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  “You didn’t think I’d forgotten about your hands, did you, missy?”

  Doc stood over her and gently lifted first one of her hands, and then the other. He sighed. “I know you were trying to help, but you’ve got a nasty burn on your right hand.” He turned her other hand over. “Not so bad on the left one.”

  He reached into his bag and pulled out a small jar. “Use this ointment after washing them with lye soap and water.”

  She nodded and reached for the jar.

  “Then wrap both of her hands for the next day or so,” he said to Amy.

  The older girl nodded.

  “You four young ladies will have to take care of Pearl and Mr. Smythe for several days.”

  Reilly frowned down at Pearl, then glanced over at Davidson. “I think I’ll leave Mick here with you while I ride into town.”

  Pearl knew where he was going, and for once she didn’t argue.

  Reilly’s next words confirmed her assumption. “I think it’s time the marshal was made aware of this latest problem.”

  Pearl stood and walked to the door with him. She reached out to place her hand on his arm and winced. With fingertips on his arm, she waited until he turned back to her and asked him, “Do you think the committee is behind this?”

  Reilly shook his head. “They may be a collective pain in the arse, but I don’t believe the ladies would be takin’ shots at either of ye.”

  “But we didn’t exactly follow along with their plan.” Pearl had worried about that all night.

  “Isn’t it a grand thing ye didn’t?”

  She drew back her hand and tilted her head to one side, “Why?”

  He grinned at her. “Then ye wouldn’t be here to doctor Smythe.”

  Needing to ask Reilly the one question she feared the answer to, she followed him outside. “So you think it’s someone else entirely?”

  He nodded.

  “And that someone is after Davidson?”

  He took her arms, mindful of her hands. “Trouble may have followed him from back East.” He locked gazes with her. “Just how much do we know of the man?”

  “Enough.” Enough to know he was worth keeping.

  Reilly nodded. “Well then, see that Amy takes care of yer hands, lass.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Pearl woke with a start. Her neck had an awful crick in it, and her knees ached. She lifted her head up and watched the man sleeping in her bed. The steady rise and fall of his chest was a blessed relief.

  As quietly as possible, she stretched and gently laid the back of her uninjured hand against his brow. The cool, smooth skin of his forehead brought tears to her eyes.

  Three days. Three nights.

  Davidson had fought the wound fever that settled in that first night. She’d cajoled Reilly into moving him upstairs to her bed, because it was the biggest, although the man mumbled under his breath the entire time.

  She leaned closer, placing her lips to Davidson’s brow—the final test. He passed. Not a smidgeon of heat in his skin. He grumbled and shifted away from her. Pearl couldn’t help but wonder if he would still be surly when he woke up.

  No matter. At least he would wake up.

  She’d nearly lost him.

  The thought went straight through her heart, the ache spreading up to tighten her throat and down again to turn in her queasy belly. Leaning back, placing a hand to her stomach to ease the feeling; she couldn’t remember the last time Amy had come upstairs to demand she eat. She’d shooed the poor girl away so many times.

  Pins and needles prickled her legs from the kneecap down. She wobbled to her feet, shaking out first one leg and then the other. Her stomach rumbled, and she knew it was time to look for a bite to eat.

  One last look, she told herself, turning back to the man in her bed. He seemed so peaceful. What a change from the restless patient who’d tossed and turned, burning with fever. Bending toward him, she brushed a wayward strand of hair from his brow and couldn’t resist just one more kiss.

  His arm snaked around her and pinned her to his broad bare chest.

  “You’re awake?”

  “I am now,” he growled.

  “Don’t move like that!” The dense man would probably start bleeding all over her horsehair mattress.

  “Like what?” His gaze never left hers, as he drew her head down closer to his. “Like this?” he whispered, his lips a breath from hers.

  Every last thought vanished as his lips pressed warm and firm against hers. She fought back her tears. He didn’t need to know just how close he had been to dying. Not now; she could tell him later, once he was back on his feet.

  “Mmmm,” he murmured, “you taste like honey.”

  Before she could tell him it was the spoonful she’d had in lieu of a meal, his tongue dipped between her lips and tangled with hers. Pearl gave up all pretense of trying to shove herself off Davidson, relaxing against him, reveling in the firm muscles rippling beneath her. Whatever he’d done back East, the man had not been idle.

  “I wondered what it would be like to wake up with you in my arms and in my bed.”

  The absence of his warm mouth against hers cooled her rising passion. “You are in my bed.” She tried to push out of his arms, but he just tightened his hold on her. Shouldn’t he be weak?

  “If you let me go, I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  “I don’t want water.” He nipped at the cleft in her chin. “I want you.”

  Tingles shot from that point along the length of her jaw.

  “You need to keep drinking water. Doc said—”

  “I’m not thirsty for water.”

  Pearl squirmed too close to his injury and he immediately released her.

  “Did I hurt you?” Lord, she had not meant to do that.

  He grimaced and shook his head. “Not too much.”

  Slipping from the bed, she shifted first to one foot, then the other. “You really ought to drink this.” She reached for the enameled cup she’d placed by the bedside and handed it to him.

  Davidson’s sigh was loud and long. “I need to sit up, or I’ll drool down my neck.”

  Pearl put the cup down and helped him shift up a bit in bed. “Better?”

  He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her in for a long, lusty kiss.

  When he let go, she just had to ask, “Where did you find the strength to do that?”

  He shrugged, reaching for the cup she handed to him again. “I must have rested last night.”

  She leaned back and waited for him to take a long drink. “You’ve been in bed with a fever for three whole days.”

  He paused, holding the cup just below
his bottom lip. “Not possible. I’d remember if I had been that ill.”

  Pearl shook her head. “You were out of your mind with fever.”

  He stared at her as if she’d grown another head.

  “The things you said!” Just thinking of the horror he’d relived while fighting against the infection and fever had her reaching for his free hand with the one Doc thought had been burned badly. She hadn’t given a thought or noticed the blisters until just now. Ignoring them must have helped them heal faster. The blisters were not as raw as they’d been. Standing there, looking down at him, her heart flipped over. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, and he had three days’ growth of beard on his face, but she’d never seen a more handsome, welcome sight than his face—attached to his particularly distracting body—in her bed.

  “What did I say?” He handed the empty cup to her.

  The wary look in his eyes had her wondering if he was hiding something and was worried that he’d broken a confidence while in the fever’s grip. “Not a whole lot that made sense.”

  He watched as she filled the cup from a small earthenware pitcher. “If I acted improperly, I apologize.” He hesitated. “I hope I didn’t do anything to hurt you, Pearl.”

  She shook her head and looked over her shoulder at the door. It was ajar, but no light shone beyond it. The girls must still be asleep on the other side of the hallway.

  Handing him another cupful, she waited until he’d drained it. Satisfied, she sat on the edge of the bed. “You kept mentioning someone named Runyon and then Michael.”

  He nodded. “My friend and my brother.”

  “I figured Michael was your brother.”

  “Did I tell you his name the other day?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Then what made you think—”

  “It was your reaction when he was thrown from the horse.”

  Davidson closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “What did I say?”

  Pearl reached for his hand. “Your words were garbled.” She paused, “You were out of your mind with fever at the time.”

  He nodded, then opened his eyes and watched her. “Did you understand any of what I said?”

  How much should she tell him? What was truth and what was the fever talking?