The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Reilly grunted. “Ye always say that when ye’ve something to tell me.”

  Flynn urged the horse to a quicker pace and nodded. “I always said you had more brains than brawn, lad.”

  Reilly didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. Knowing Flynn, he’d just been insulted. What were friends for, if not that?

  “We’ve a load of timber and supplies to bring back after we meet the stagecoach.”

  Reilly already knew that. “And?”

  Flynn’s face turned just the faintest shade of red. “I…er…well, to tell you the truth—”

  “Out with it, Flynn.” Reilly had a feeling it had to do with a certain young widow, new to town.

  He watched his friend’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as Flynn swallowed. “If you must know, I’ve promised to help the Widow Dawson mend her back gate.”

  Suspecting Flynn had bent the wire and watched the chickens scurry through the gap, Reilly tried to get a rise out of the man, asking, “Does she leave it open often?”

  Flynn didn’t take the bait as Reilly had hoped. The man was too busy concentrating on urging a bit more speed out of the horse, in a hurry to get to town to help the lovely widow. Reilly hadn’t felt that way about a woman in a long time. He envied his friend the feeling.

  The road ahead curved and at last the town lay before them. From the cacophony of voices and animals, the stage must have arrived on schedule. Damn, he was late.

  “Just slow down, Flynn.” Reilly noticed the way the driver of the stage was tossing luggage and brown-paper packages down from the top of the coach. “I’ll jump off and get me package before the driver crushes me gift from me ma.”

  Flynn nodded and slowed down. As Reilly hopped off, Flynn called out, “Save some cream scones for me!”

  Reilly looked over his shoulder and grinned at his friend. “Not bloody likely, boy-o. I’ve a powerful hunger—oomph!”

  Something soft and frilly landed against his chest before he could call out to let the driver know he’d arrived for his package.

  Reilly grabbed a hold of the woman he’d nearly knocked to the ground and steadied her. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am.”

  Her sharply indrawn breath told him he was either in for a tongue-lashing for being so careless, or the gasp was the prelude to a bout of ladylike tears. Neither of which appealed to him at the moment. He really needed to find out what his ma had sent him from home. He’d received her letter a month ago telling him she’d be sending him something light as a feather and twice as sweet.

  Dreaming of his ma’s berry tarts and cream scones, he’d nearly driven himself daft with the wait, never once thinking about the possibility of his mother’s home-baked goods spoiling on the voyage over from Ireland.

  Not really looking at the woman he’d bumped into or waiting to find out what she would do, he stepped around her and reached the side of the coach.

  “Have ye a package from County Cork for John Reilly?”

  The driver stopped unloading and tilted his head to one side. “No,” the driver said slowly, looking past Reilly and then back. “No package.” He reached for a trunk and nodded to a man standing next to the coach to give him a hand.

  Reilly’s heart sank. She’d promised. “Are ye sure?”

  The driver nodded. “Yep.”

  The sound of someone clearing his throat caught his attention. He turned around in time to see Michael Flynn standing on the wooden boardwalk outside the mercantile talking to a beautiful stranger.

  Losing interest in the nonexistent package, he wandered over to where Flynn stood, hat in hand.

  “So you’re from Ireland,” he heard Flynn saying as he reached where the two stood on the boardwalk.

  The woman looked up as Reilly stepped onto the walkway. Beguiling brown eyes searched his face with a look of longing so acute, his gut clenched in reaction. Honey-blonde curls framed a pixie face beneath a dusty bonnet.

  Déjà vu had him reaching out to steady himself. She reminded him of someone, but he just couldn’t place her face.

  “I’d like to introduce you—” Flynn began, only to be interrupted by the pretty stranger.

  “Oh, we’ve met.”

  The woman was younger than he’d first thought and had the lovely lilt of home in her voice.

  He pushed his Stetson further back on his head. “If we had, lass, sure and I’d remember.” He would definitely have remembered meeting someone as lovely as she. He stared. Lush, ripe curves that would fit his hands like a dream, dark-blonde curls peeking out from under her bonnet and a mouth that would tempt a saint toward sin.

  He was wrong; she wasn’t lovely. She was beautiful, even with a smudge of dirt across her cheek, where she must have brushed it with her dusty glove.

  Unbelievably, Flynn threw back his head and laughed at the same moment the woman placed her hands on her slender hips. Eyes narrowed at Reilly, she demanded, “So ye don’t know me?”

  Something about her tugged at the back of his mind, but he was sure he didn’t know her. Certain that if he had met her, he’d never have forgotten her tempting, pale-as-milk skin and strawberry-colored strands entwined with all those glorious honey-blonde curls.

  He stepped forward, wondering why Flynn was still laughing. The man was starting to draw a crowd. Reilly glared at his friend. But instead of quieting down, Flynn doubled over, laughing harder.

  “As I was saying, ma’am,” Reilly began, close enough to see the spattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Lovely. “If we’d met, I’d remember.”

  He was close enough to see her pupils dilate and watch her eyes darken. He smiled down at her, but she didn’t return his smile. The faint teasing scent of lavender wrapped around his heart and tugged hard. Had he met her? Did he know her? He watched her hand flex and curl into a fist and wondered. Was she upset with someone?

  Before he could ask, Flynn had stopped laughing and moved to stand beside the young woman. “Now Miss—”

  “I’ve come across the Atlantic on a boat that had me pukin’ up me guts the entire voyage.” She curled her other hand into a tight fist.

  Intrigued by the swift change that had come over the woman, Reilly folded his arms across his chest and tried to think of something to say to make her feel better. “Not everyone is a sailor born.”

  He would later swear he saw steam come out of her ears.

  “Here ye stand broad and tall, a man fully grown with yer fancy hat, yer tight-legged blue trousers, and a gun at your hip—not the younger man I’d lost me heart to. But one look at yer peat-colored eyes and I’d have known you anywhere.”

  Her voice broke, but she ignored it and continued. “I rode halfway across this God-forsaken dry land to be with ye, and ye don’t know me!”

  Reilly didn’t know what triggered the long-ago memory, but something she said had him remembering his youth in Ireland and a skinny slip of a lass who’d followed him everywhere. Jessi? He looked closely at her face, searching for a glimpse of the lass he remembered, but it was no use. The beautiful woman standing before him in fine temper couldn’t be the lass he’d left behind.

  It couldn’t be little Jessi Fahy. Could it?

  Wondering if he’d lost his mind—or found it—he could only shake his head.

  “Ye can go to the devil, John Declan Reilly!”

  He never anticipated what happened next. One minute she was yelling at him, and the next he was flat on his back, arms spread at his sides.

  * * *

  “Now Miss Fahy, I told you to give the man a chance.” Flynn stood over Reilly, looking down at him. When Reilly didn’t move, Flynn shook his head, “I think you’ve knocked what little sense he had clean out of his thick head.”

  Jessi couldn’t believe she’d punched the man she’d been dreaming about for five and a half long years. Horror was tempered with awe, realizing Mrs. Reilly had been right. John’s jaw was as fragile as her prized china cake plate! Looking down at the big man who was just now com
ing around and then at her gloved hands, she started shaking.

  Emotions she’d kept bottled up during the horrendous sea voyage, tedious train ride, and the subsequent disastrous stagecoach journey threatened to let loose.

  “Mr. Flynn,” she began, knowing she’d only have a few more moments before she broke down and cried like a baby. Desperate to preserve what was left of her dignity, she said, “I need to get away from here—please?”

  Taking one more look down at his friend, Flynn sighed. “You have a head of granite and a jaw like fine bone china, Reilly.”

  Offering his arm to Jessi, Flynn patted her hand as he walked her over to Swenson’s Boarding House.

  “You mustn’t mind himself, miss. He’s had a busy day and was expecting a package from his mother. Something light as a feather and twice as sweet.”

  Jessi nearly groaned out loud. Mrs. Reilly never confided what she’d written to John. She thought it would be to expect Jessi on the stagecoach. Now that she knew, her hard-won composure faltered and tears began to fall.

  Flynn patted her shoulder, but she couldn’t seem to get a hold of herself. The realization she’d traveled thousands of miles to see a man who didn’t remember her, or care to, even though she’d given him plenty of hints and time, cut her deeply. Dear God in heaven, what was she to do now? She hadn’t enough money to make the return journey, hadn’t thought she’d be going back so soon—or alone.

  Flynn steered her toward a building with a sign that declared it was Swenson’s Boarding House. He led her up the front steps and inside. An older woman came down the hallway as they entered. “What happened, Michael?”

  Flynn shook his head. “The poor woman has traveled all the way from County Cork, Mrs. Swenson, just to see a friend who doesn’t remember her.”

  Mrs. Swenson tsked, taking Jessi by the arm. “Here now, that’s no cause for tears. A nice cup of tea will set things to rights.”

  Bustling about her kitchen, the woman asked, “Was it Maggie Turner or Bridget Flaherty? I can’t imagine either of my friends not recognizing a friend from home.” She paused to ask, “Which one was it?”

  Jessi shook her head at the woman and whispered, “Neither.”

  She knew tea wouldn’t fix anything. How could it when John Reilly didn’t know her? Her! How was that possible? Five long years she waited for word from him that he’d be coming home. Five cold, wet springs without his smiling face chiding her to keep up if she were going to follow him into the peat bog to cut turf for their fire.

  Before she realized what was happening, her bonnet and gloves had been removed and she was seated in Mrs. Swenson’s kitchen with a steaming cup of fragrant tea in front of her. Reaching for it, Jessi concentrated on steadying her hands. It had been so long since she’d had anything but mud-colored coffee. She didn’t want to spill a drop.

  She managed to bring the cup to her lips and sip without spilling, though her right hand was stiff and sore. Ignoring the pain, she closed her eyes, savoring the flavor. Sighing, she set down her cup. “I’m sorry, Mr. Flynn. Mrs. Swenson. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You’ve had a long and difficult journey,” Flynn said. “Perfectly understandable.”

  “When did you eat last?” Mrs. Swenson wanted to know.

  Jessi sniffed in the last of her tears and wiped her cheeks. “Last night. I was so tired, I slept through the stop this morning and missed the coffee and buttered bread.”

  “I’ve got some stew left. Would you like some?”

  Jessi’s stomach rumbled and Flynn smiled. “I’d say she does.”

  She felt her cheeks heating in embarrassment, but what could be more embarrassing than being ready to throw your arms around the man you’d loved forever, a split second before you find out he doesn’t even remember you, and then punching him in the face with a dozen witnesses watching?

  Mrs. Swenson set a steaming bowlful of stew and two slices of buttered bread in front of her. “Now that you’re able, why don’t you tell me your name?”

  Jessi paused with the spoon halfway to her open mouth. “Jessi,” she said. “Jessi Fahy.”

  “Well, Jessi, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Jessi smiled for the first time in days. “Sure and the pleasure is all mine.”

  Flynn grinned. “The perfect Irishwoman. The face of an angel, a tongue that could clip a hedge, and a wicked right cross.”

  * * *

  “Reilly. Reilly!”

  The insistent calling of his name broke through the haze of pain fogging Reilly’s brain, but it was the splash of cold water in his face that brought him the rest of the way around.

  Sputtering, he sat up and wiped his face, wondering what had happened until he opened his mouth to speak and a sharp pain lanced through his jaw. It all came back to him. The beautiful young woman, a perfect stranger, punched him in the face! No. He shook his head. She wasn’t a stranger. ’Twas little Jessi Fahy.

  How could he not know her?

  And weren’t those her last few words to him?

  “Maybe we should get Doc over here,” one of Burnbaum’s sons mumbled. “He went down pretty hard.”

  Harder than you know, lad.

  “Mr. Reilly.” The shrill voice could only belong to Sara Burnbaum, former head of the temporarily disbanded Committee for the Betterment of Emerson.

  The back of his head started to pound in time with the throbbing in his jaw. He rubbed at it and felt the knot growing there. And wasn’t it just his luck for his hard head to hit the only rock in the middle of the road?

  “Are you all right?”

  He didn’t answer right away, hoping she would leave him alone, even though past experience told him he couldn’t escape the woman if she wanted to speak to him.

  Levering his weight against his hands, he pushed to his feet, and much to his embarrassment, swayed. Did the lass have a bit of brick hidden in her hand when she’d punched him, the way he’d taught her to all those years ago?

  “You’re not well,” the older woman crooned, taking him by the arm. “Did you swoon?”

  The group of curious onlookers turned as one and stared at him with looks that ranged from wonder to horror on their faces. His temper snapped. “If ye’d been here, ye’d know I did no such thing.”

  He hated the way she dropped his arm and backed away from him in fear, but he couldn’t stop himself. His masculinity had been challenged by both a blow from a beautiful lass and the accusation from this meddlesome woman. “I’ve never in me life swooned.”

  “Well, then, what were you doing on the ground with your eyes closed?” she demanded, getting some of her formidable temper back.

  Reilly fingered his aching jaw and another unwelcome memory assailed him, that of his older brother Aiden straddling him shaking his fist at him. They couldn’t have been much more than five and six years old at the time. Damned weak jaw. It had failed him then, and it had failed him now. Ever since that time, in a fight he always protected it. But against a slip of a lass with honey-colored hair, he hadn’t thought he had to.

  “I lost me footin’ and tripped, strikin’ me jaw on the boardwalk.”

  Not one person contradicted him as he made his way over to the wagon, but give them all five minutes with his back turned, and the fresh tale of a young woman fresh off the stagecoach knocking him flat on his back would be making headlines in the Denver Chronicle.

  Where was Flynn? Where was Jessi?

  He had to find her; unless her brother had traveled with her, she’d be all alone here in America. He’d never want that for her. The journey had been hard as hell on him until he’d found his sea legs. When he’d arrived in New York City, there had been the fear of not finding work, once he realized not all employers were willing to hire an immigrant from Ireland. Then there had been the nights when he’d gone to sleep on an empty belly, too many to count, until he’d been befriended by Seamus Flaherty, who’d been traveling under the name of James Ryan at the time.


  Fighting against the noxious roiling in his gut, Reilly concentrated on the faces of the townsfolk slowly walking past the wagon. He’d come to know them all so well over the last few years. Not a stranger among them, or his redheaded friend. Where the devil was Flynn?

  The deep laughter he’d grown to appreciate rumbled from nearby. His brain cleared instantly. Swenson’s. Where else would Flynn take a stranger, other than back to the ranch?

  Making his way on unsteady feet, Reilly walked up the front steps and into Mrs. Swenson’s Boarding House. Having been inside over the years, he knew the way to the kitchen. As his steps brought him closer, he heard the familiar lilting voice he should have known anywhere.

  He paused and closed his eyes to listen and was swept back in time. Skinny as a rail, heart in her tear-filled eyes, Jessi Fahy begged him not to leave. His gut had clenched in terror that day. But he couldn’t stay. The ship had been about to set sail, and he was determined not to be left behind.

  He’d had to leave then. But he didn’t have to leave now.

  Why was she here? What had happened back home to make her travel all the way across the Atlantic and half the continent of America to find him? It had to be bad.

  He opened his eyes; purpose renewed, he walked to the back of the house and straight into hell. Jessi, his Jessi, was smiling at his former friend, Flynn. Rage bubbled up and mixed with the hurt churning through Reilly as he watched his best friend in the world laugh with the girl he’d never thought to see again.

  Flummoxed, he came to a halt. Why should he care? Why should it matter that Flynn was befriending Jessi, instead of chasing after the Widow Dawson and her never-ending list of things that needed a man’s attention, or that Jessi had been crying.

  Crying? “Jessi, lass, are ye all right?”

  She turned, and her smile disappeared, leaving a cold mask of hurt behind on her pretty face. She’d never looked at him like that before. What had he done to deserve it? All he’d done was ask if she was all right?

  “As if ye’d care.”

  Stunned, he stood there, hat in his hands, jaw aching, head pounding, stomach roiling, and knew without a doubt, that he did care. More than he should, given the difference in their ages.