The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  He hadn’t thought about her often over the last five years, and when he did, it was only a fond memory of her trailing behind him wherever he went, asking dozens of questions every step of the way. Now and again, at night, when he was too weary to stop himself, the image of her laughing face would fill his mind.

  Looking at her now, he remembered the times he’d been ill and she’d kept him company. When he’d come home to find her in the kitchen with his ma, baking berry tarts. She’d always managed to lighten his heart, but in all of his memories she’d been child, not a woman grown.

  Lord above, had she grown.

  “I care, lass.” And that thought alone scared the bejeezus out of him. He had no business caring about what happened to his childhood friend, especially in the direction his thoughts were heading—straight into trouble.

  She stood and walked over to him. Tilting her head back, she stared at him, winced, and reached a shaking hand to gently cup his jaw. The ache lanced through him, but it wasn’t pain from where she touched his jaw. It was need, sharp and sweet.

  “I’ve a fearful temper, John.” The tears gathering in her eyes spilled over, trailing a path from the corner of her eyes along the curve of her cheek and down behind her ears.

  He was struck by the overpowering need to draw her into his arms and hold her close, whispering words he’d no right to even think, let alone use, where Jessi was concerned.

  What was the matter with him? She was too young. Well, not quite that young—and she’d certainly grown up since he’d seen her last. He stared down at her upturned lips and felt his gut clench.

  Just grab the lass, pull her into yer arms and kiss her!

  He battled against the overwhelming need to give in to what his heart wanted, telling himself it wouldn’t be right or proper. I can’t do that to Jessi.

  Dazed from the blow and confused from striking his head, he stepped back from her as if he’d been burned. Desperate to put some space between them and rein in his thoughts, he shook his head to clear it of inappropriate thoughts about her. Hoping he could make amends, he said, “I apologize for not recognizing ye, lass.”

  He spun on his heel and walked away from the enchanting woman his childhood tag-along friend had become.

  Distance would help.

  Ireland might just be far enough away.

  Chapter Three

  Reilly stumbled down the hallway and burst through the back door onto the porch. Grabbing a hold of the railing, he swayed again. Damn her pretty hide, his jaw ached and his head swam.

  “John,” a familiar soft voice called out. “Where are you hurt?”

  He looked over his shoulder and wished he hadn’t. Bridget Flaherty, his employer’s wife, stood staring at him, worry etching lines between her shapely brows. Now he’d have to explain what happened, and she’d no doubt tell Maggie Turner, who no doubt would tell Pearl Smythe—God save him from meddling, well-meaning females!

  “I’m fine, lass,” he lied, hoping she’d accept his word and leave. When she continued to gape at him, he realized he should have known better.

  She walked over to the porch and helped him to sit down on the one of the rocking chairs. “Really?” Not missing a beat, she cupped his head in her hands, as he’d seen her do to her young son Mick more than once over the last year since they came to Emerson and moved out to the ranch, when Mick got caught trying to rustle Flaherty’s cattle. When she started feeling for bumps, he knew he was in trouble.

  Her fingers grazed the sore spot on his chin and the back of his head simultaneously. He sucked in a breath.

  Bridget stared into his eyes. “Did you fall?”

  “Harder than ye know, Bridget.”

  “Did you trip?”

  “Over me own tongue,” he admitted.

  She shook her head at him as worry eased through her soft amber eyes. “I’ll go find Doc. You’re not making any sense.”

  Reilly wondered briefly if he’d ever make sense again. Thinking of the lovely woman he should have recognized anywhere, sipping tea just inside and down the hallway, he realized he’d been more than a fool. Pushing to his feet, he swayed, but it was preferable to the slightly sickening motion of the rocking chair.

  The Jessi he used to know had a fearful temper, and the chances were pretty good that she’d not lost that particular part of her personality.

  He smiled, remembering the time she’d come upon him, her brother, and two of their friends trying to piss on old Mrs. Feehan’s beast of a cat. The cat had been sleeping and made such a satisfying target. He still had the scars to prove the cat was vicious. Jessi’s temper had been high that time.

  Then there was the time by Mrs. Murphy’s chicken coop, when they’d been caught tossing chickens off the roof to see if they could fly.

  “You just stay right here, and I’ll be right back.” Bridget was gone before he could summon the will to stop her.

  Sitting down on the top step, he figured he’d give his aching jaw a few minutes to recover before trying to stand up again and negotiate the walk back to the wagon. He still had a load of timber and supplies to pick up.

  Jessi’s lilting laugh echoed down the hallway and out onto the porch. A shiver of desire sprinted up his spine and settled in the vicinity of his aching heart. Reilly shook his head, reminding himself that she was too young for him.

  He’d always admired the lass’s spirit and sense of adventure, but she’d been a thorn in their sides—her brother’s and his own. How did he approach her now that she’d knocked him on his backside and humiliated him in front of the entire town? Well, not the entire town, exactly, but definitely enough of the townspeople that the tale would surely reach the other side of the river and the former marshal’s homestead before Reilly made it back to the Flaherty ranch.

  The longer he sat thinking, the more eerily convinced he became that Jessi Fahey just might be the something his mother had been referring to that was light as a feather and twice as sweet.

  “Reilly,” Flynn said, opening the back door. “Are you all right?”

  Reilly didn’t bother to turn around. He suspected Flynn would have more to say if he did, and he just wasn’t up to talking just yet. “Fine,” he said. “Dandy.”

  “I’ll just go back in then and let her know.”

  That last comment had Reilly turning to look over his shoulder. “Who?” he asked. “Mrs. Swenson or Jessi?”

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “You mean Miss Fahy?”

  “Aye,” Reilly muttered. “Miss Fahy.”

  Just when Reilly figured his friend had headed back inside, a booted foot landed on the step beside him. He looked up. “Well, why aren’t ye goin’ back inside?” Reilly demanded. “Or have you finally remembered yer wish to see to Widow Dawson’s gate?”

  Flynn’s jaw clenched and the laughter in his eyes faded. “I thought you should know that the lass cried her eyes out over you,” Flynn said. “And I don’t want to see that happen again.”

  Reilly’s gut clenched and his stomach burned. “I didn’t mean to make her cry.” But apparently he had, and that bothered him.

  “That’s funny,” Flynn said. “Jessi said you wouldn’t—once she’d dried her eyes,” Flynn said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the lass has traveled across a damned ocean and more than halfway across this blasted country just to see your ugly face,” Flynn bit out. “The very least you could do is go back inside and tell her you’ve missed her and how wonderful it is to see her again.”

  The sound of retreating footsteps, and slamming of the screen door told Reilly that Flynn had gone back inside. He slowly pushed to his feet and grabbed hold of the railing to steady himself. “Time to apologize,” he told himself. “No time to be a coward.”

  Opening the door, he followed the sound of softly uttered conversation toward the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, he was once again struck by the beauty of the woman the girl he’d once known had become.

  When had she filled out and blossomed
into the woman he’d barely recognized? How had he missed the fact that she still had a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose? His gaze moved from the top of her head downward, and his brain couldn’t get past how different she looked. Where did she get that dress?

  God help him, when had he ever been so tongue-tied, not knowing what to say to the slip of a lass who’d dogged his steps most of his life before leaving Ireland?

  The sound of someone clearing his throat brought Reilly back to the present. “Er…Jessi…um, Miss Fahy,” he began. “I’d like to apologize for—”

  “Ye needn’t apologize to me,” she interrupted. “I’m over my infatuation with the likes of ye.”

  Reilly was positively struck dumb. He couldn’t have uttered a word if his life depended upon it. She was over him? But she just traveled an ocean and more than half a continent to see him, and he was still trying to deal with the riot of emotions and needs churning inside of him, just looking at her.

  “After all,” she told him, “I’ve a wonderful offer from Mrs. Swenson to stay in one of her cozy rooms upstairs until I can find a job and support meself,” she said. “So ye’ve no reason to fret on my account.”

  “But Jessi, I—”

  “I’m certain sure yer mother and brother Aiden would be pleased to know ye didn’t know me and wouldn’t lift a finger to help a friend from yer home town.”

  The last guilt-laden words arrowed through him. It wasn’t like that. He did want to help; he just couldn’t seem to figure out where to start or what to say.

  When he remained silent, she touched the linen napkin to her lips, calling his attention to the fullness of her bottom lip and the lush color, a soft dusty rose.

  Instead of addressing him, she turned to her hostess. “Sure and it’s been a grand treat taking tea with ye, Mrs. Swenson.”

  The older woman smiled, while Reilly simply stood there in the doorway staring.

  “I’ve a strong back and willin’ hands,” Jessi was saying. “Ye can count on me to help with yer chores just as soon as I can collect me bags from the stagecoach.”

  “I’ll get them,” Reilly ground out. Not knowing what else to say, tired of staring at the vision seated at Mrs. Swenson’s kitchen table, he turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, out the door and down the street.

  He didn’t stop until he reached the walkway where a small carpetbag and battered hatbox sat in the sun. He looked around, but no one seemed to notice him. Odd, he thought. Just a short while ago, there had been a crowd of onlookers. Bending down to pick up the bag and the hatbox, his head swam and he swayed.

  “There he is, Doc,” he heard Bridget Flaherty saying, but his head buzzed like a swarm of bees. Before he embarrassed himself further, he sat down on the walkway and waited for Doc to make his way over.

  “Well, now, Reilly,” the Doc said. “I hear tell that you’ve run into something.”

  Reilly groaned and bent his head lower, hoping his vision would clear. “Ye might say so,” he said.

  “Was it something so hard that it rattled your brain?” Doc asked.

  Reilly shook his head and moaned. “No,” he whispered. “ ’Twas light as a feather and twice as sweet.”

  Doc continued to stare at Reilly without speaking.

  “What?” Reilly asked, glancing over his shoulder at the boarding house. Where the hell was Flynn?

  “Bruise’ll be coming up soon,” the doctor predicted, examining Reilly’s jaw.

  “Thanks,” Reilly said. Hell if he meant it, but figured he’d best be remembering his mother’s teachings, else he’d end up in even more trouble than he was in now.

  He slowly stood and began walking over toward the wagon. His jawbone ached like a sonofabitch, and his head hurt like bloody— Reilly had enough sense not to finish that thought; it would only lead to trouble, and he was in enough of it as it was. Absently rubbing at his aching jaw, Reilly saw stars and stumbled.

  “Maybe you ought to sit down.” Doc’s voice irritated him.

  “No.” He fought the urge to drop to his knees until the lightness in his head went away, but damned if Doc didn’t grab him by the arm.

  “You’re coming back to my office,” the older man said without preamble.

  “I don’t think—”

  “That’s obvious,” Doc said.

  “I’ve a load to pick up at the mercantile.” Reilly thought to shrug the other man’s hand off of his arm, but ended up swaying as his area of vision grew even smaller.

  “Hell.”

  His world went from gray to black.

  * * *

  “I really think you should go after your friend, Mr. Flynn.” Mrs. Swenson sounded as if she meant business.

  Jessi wasn’t sure what to do. She’d cried all over Michael Flynn after he’d come to the rescue when John had seemed to brush her off.

  Should she urge Mr. Flynn to go after John? Had she hit the poor man too hard? Would anyone else know of her loss of temper and deem her unacceptable and try to run her out of town? She’d gotten her hands on a few dime novels when she’d switched from traveling on the train to the stagecoach, so she was all too familiar with the way of the West.

  Good Lord above, her head started to pound with each successive question that popped into her brain.

  She was exhausted and still didn’t feel quite right after the tortuously long sea voyage, the train ride, and then the stagecoach ride west. But that was still no excuse for her unladylike show of temper.

  “Well, now,” Flynn said. “I thought I’d stick around and see if Miss Fahy needs anything.”

  Jessi reached deep inside herself and found she had one last smile. She looked at Mr. Flynn and lied through her teeth. “I’m just fine now, and I’ll be thankin’ ye for watchin’ over me, and for helpin’ me find a place to stay for the night.”

  Before he had a chance to respond, she stood up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips on his cheek.

  “Ye remind me of someone back home,” she said, thinking of Aiden, quite certain that John’s brother didn’t miss having to look after her, now that she’d come to America.

  “ ’Tis a fine day when a young woman as pretty as yourself kisses the likes of me.” Flynn’s face was as red as his head.

  Jessi blushed. “I didn’t mean to upset ye after yer kindness.” That would be two things she’d have to get on her knees and pray for forgiveness for tonight.

  “Don’t mind Mr. Flynn,” Mrs. Swenson said, moving to stand beside her. “He’s always flirting with the ladies, and when one of us pays him any mind, he just gets all flustered.”

  “Now, wait just a minute—” Flynn began.

  “Oh, but I didn’t mean to be toying with yer affections,” Jessi said. “It was just my way of thanking you.”

  If possible, Flynn’s face turned a brighter shade of red. “I’ll just be headin’ back to the ranch now.”

  “See that you find John Reilly and make sure he didn’t keel over in the street,” Mrs. Swenson warned.

  “You’re casting aspersions on my good friend’s manliness if you think he’d be falling down after a quick tap on the chin.”

  Jessi knew from the way her hand had started to ache that she’d hit John harder than she’d intended, but she wasn’t given the time to say anything.

  Flynn picked up his hat, put it back on his head and strode out the door. “I’ll be letting John know what you said,” he warned.

  Mrs. Swenson wrapped her arm around Jessi and led her back to the table. “Why don’t you sit on back down and tell me what your plans are.”

  Jessi felt her eyes well up with tears and blinked, mortified that the kindness of strangers tugged at her heartstrings so. She’d never been one to give in to tears before and couldn’t help but wonder why she was doing so now.

  When the kindly boarding house owner asked her again, Jessi realized she’d best pay attention and answer the woman.

  “Well, now,” she began. “I’d had a pl
an, but ’tis changed.” The look of utter shock on John’s face had hurt, cutting right through to the bone. Was he sorry she was here, or had she changed so much he couldn’t face the woman she’d become?

  “Have another cup of tea.” The older woman got up and took the kettle off the cookstove and poured more hot water into the crockery teapot. “I think there’s still some life left in these tea leaves.”

  Jessi nodded. “Me ma always used her tea twice.” Jessi paused, then said, “Sometimes she’d add just a pinch more if me brother was goin’ to be havin’ a cup.”

  When the other woman didn’t comment, she added, “ ’Tis because he’s a man and likes he tea stronger.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Swenson said. “But what if you liked your tea strong? Would she add the extra pinch for you, too?”

  Jessi didn’t even have to think about it. “There’d be no need. Me ma and I are used to doin’ without.”

  Mrs. Swenson put the kettle back on the stovetop and sat back down. “Will your mother and brother be coming soon?”

  Jessi’s stomach lurched. “No.”

  After a few moments of awkward silence, the other woman must have realized that Jessi wasn’t going to elaborate. Appalled by her recent show of temper, Jessi wasn’t about to forget the rest of her mother’s strict teachings about conduct and confiding her family’s troubles to a stranger. It was bad enough her ma hadn’t wanted her to get on the boat, let alone leave Ireland.

  “Do you have family here in Colorado?” Mrs. Swenson asked, reaching for the sugar bowl, scooping up a half spoonful and stirring it into her tea.

  “No, but I thought I’d have a friend from back home to count on.” Jessi’s heart ached with longing. She’d thrown caution to the wind, bravely met destiny head on, and had failed, something neither she nor Mrs. Reilly had considered.

  “John Reilly?”

  “Aye.” Pity she’d not thought of a plan if he didn’t recognize her. Would she have made the journey if she’d realized it was a possibility? She sighed, knowing she would have.

  “So,” Mrs. Swenson began. “You’re thousands of miles from home, with no family and no friends.”