The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Jessi was horrified at the thought of anyone being trapped inside of a burning building. “But Sarah knew Pearl was in the barn?” Jessi wanted to be sure she understood.

  “I don’t think so,” Turner answered slowly. “Mrs. Burnbaum was bent on making mischief, but not killing Pearl. Sarah closed the barn door, shutting them inside, but someone else had propped a length of timber against the barn doors so they couldn’t get out once the fire was set.”

  “So this Sarah never intended to kill Pearl?”

  Turner shook his head. “Just run her out of town.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s a long story,” he said, setting the brake and hopping off the wagon so he could hand Jessi down. “As soon as I see to the horse, we can go talk to Doc and check on Reilly.”

  Jessi fretted the entire time Maggie’s husband unhitched the horse, her emotions jumping between hoping John would be all right, and then cursing John for putting her through such turmoil.

  “We’ll be back in about an hour, Peterson,” Turner said to the man working in the stable. “I know you’ll take good care of him for us.”

  “He’s looking a mite peaked,” Mr. Peterson said staring at the horse while holding both sides of the halter in his big hands. “A scoopful of oats ought to do the trick. He’ll be right as rain and ready to go when you get back.”

  “Thanks.” Turner turned toward Jessi. “Let’s go.”

  Jessi couldn’t say when the feeling of dread first crept up her spine, chilling her, but it was there now. “If anything happens to me,” she asked. “will ye promise to write me family and Mrs. Reilly?”

  Turner stopped mid-stride and stared down at her. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  Jessi tugged on his arm to get him moving toward Doc’s. “Just say that it does,” she said, pulling harder this time. “Will ye just tell them I love them?”

  He shook his head at her as if exasperated with her. “No one would try to harm you,” he reassured her. “Especially when you’re with me.”

  “Ah, so everyone’s afraid of ye, then?” She took his measure again and realized she almost felt as safe with Maggie’s husband as she did with John Reilly. “No wonder ye made a fine marshal.”

  They’d arrived at Doc’s, but he paused before knocking. “How would you know that?”

  “By the way people defer to ye, and the way they speak of ye. Yer a well-respected man, Joshua Turner.”

  Jessi was growing more tired by the minute, but couldn’t stop to rest now. She was moments away from seeing the reason she couldn’t use her right hand. “Are ye going to knock or should I?”

  Taking the hint, Turner lifted his hand to knock, but shifted backward when the door swung open and a bull of a man backed out of it with his hat in his hands. “Ye can’t keep me here, just because ye think I’m daft, Doc.”

  “It’s a good thing you’ve got a hard head, Reilly.”

  “Sure and me own sweet ma used to say the same thing to me.” He chuckled. “Thank ye, Doc. I’ll just be goin’ back to the ranch now.”

  Reilly turned around and would have knocked Jessi flat if Turner hadn’t been there to pull her out of the way.

  “ ’Twould have been twice in two days that himself knocked me down, if not for yer kindness,” Jessi said. “Thank ye, Joshua.”

  The former marshal stared down at her. “I see what you mean. Reilly does tend to walk through things instead of around them.”

  “Jessi?”

  “Aye. Ye’d best be lookin’ forward instead of backward, Mr. Reilly.”

  “Mister?” Shock leached every ounce of color from his face. “Since when have ye started callin’ me Mister?”

  “Since yer kind words yesterday, askin’ me when I’m leavin’ town, Mr. Reilly.”

  He raked a hand through his thick, dark hair and mumbled something she couldn’t quite hear. “If I said I’m sorry, would ye be forgivin’ me?”

  Jessi lifted her chin in the air and tossed her braid back over her shoulder. “Not unless ye were breathin’ yer last.” She turned away from John and cleared her throat. It had pained her to lie to John, but she couldn’t have him knowing she’d give her life for him, not when she was certain he couldn’t care in the slightest. “I’m ready to go now, Joshua.”

  Color suffused Reilly’s face. “Since when do ye call a stranger by his first name?”

  She linked her arm through Turner’s and moved closer to his side. “Joshua’s not a stranger to me,” she said loftily. “We’ve been properly introduced. But I’m thinkin’ ye are. Good day to ye, Mr. Reilly.”

  Turner leveled a look at Reilly, but Jessi didn’t pay any mind to the man she’d crossed an ocean to see. She was too busy tugging on Turner’s arm to get him to leave before she gave in to exhaustion and the tears she felt burning inside of her.

  But instead of doing as she asked, Turner stopped her. “While we’re here, why don’t we have Doc take another look at your hand?”

  Reilly stopped three feet away. “Does it still pain ye, lass?”

  She stiffened as if she’d suffered a blow, but didn’t turn toward her childhood friend when she answered him. “I’m fine. It only pains me now and again.”

  The sound of his footsteps walking away from her added one more ache to the ones she already had. She fought to keep her emotions under control.

  “Miss Fahy,” Doc greeted her as he stepped outside. “It’ll only take a moment to see if the swelling has gone down yet.”

  “But I don’t want—” Wishing she’d been nicer to John, she turned in time to see his broad back as he walked away from her…again.

  “Trust the doc.” Turner ushered her inside. “Besides, since it’s still swollen, it could be broken.”

  “But I’m leavin’ on the next stage,” she said. “How can I do that if me hand’s broken?”

  “Maybe you’ll have to stay with us a little bit longer,” Doc said, ushering her over to his examining table. “Let’s unwrap it and take a look, shall we?”

  “I suppose.” Jessi’s stomach lurched when Doc tugged on the bandage and it fell away, revealing purple blotches on a hand so swollen she didn’t recognize it as her own.

  “How will ye know if it’s broken?” she rasped.

  “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

  Jessi managed to move them slowly, though shards of pain splintered through her hand. “Do ye need me to move them again?”

  “Just relax, Miss Fahy,” Doc soothed. “I need to check the bones in your hand to see if any of them are broken. If I need to set them, it will be painful. I’ll need Turner to hold you steady so I can work the bones back into place.”

  Fear sprinted through her as she called out to John with her heart. Can ye forgive me for being stubborn?

  But he must have washed his hands of her once and for all, because John didn’t turn around or come back. Jessi wondered if he’d been glad to see the back of her all those years ago. A devastating thought burrowed through her like a worm in her heart. Maybe he never intended to come home! All she did by coming all this way was convince him he’d made the right choice by staying in Colorado.

  “Are you ready, Turner?” Doc asked.

  Turner moved to stand behind Jessi and placed his hands on her shoulders and held her still. “Just breathe nice and slow, and Doc’ll be finished before you know it.”

  She held those words to her heart, enduring the probing and manipulating necessary to make certain no bones were broken. Jessi didn’t cry out, but by the time Doc finished, her bottom lip was numb from biting it and beads of perspiration dotted her upper lip.

  Turner stepped back and released his hold on her. “We’re finished, Jessi,” he said. “You were very brave.”

  Doc nodded. “I’m sorry it was necessary to hurt you, but I needed to be sure there were no breaks.”

  “Can you give her laudanum?”

  Her stomach needed to settle, and her grandmother’s cure ought to do th
e trick. “I’d rather have whiskey, if ye have it.”

  If Doc thought her request was strange, he didn’t give any indication. He nodded to a cabinet. Turner retrieved the bottle and a short, squat glass. He poured a liberal amount of whiskey into the glass and handed it to Jessi.

  “Thank ye.” She lifted the glass to her lips and sipped, savoring the smoothness of the Irish whiskey. “You’re a dear, sweet man.” After the first two sips, she was ready for the jolt she knew she’d get if she downed the rest. Tilting her head back, she tossed it down, set the glass on the table in front of her and smiled. “Can ye spare another?”

  Doc and Turner stared at her for a long moment before either of them reacted. “I think she deserves another, Doc.”

  Doc shook his head, but didn’t disagree. While Turner poured, Jessi listened to Doc’s instructions. When he was finished, she promised to use the jar of comfrey-root salve and not use her hand for the next few days.

  The pounding on Doc’s door wasn’t unusual, but the way it burst open was. John Reilly stepped inside and demanded, “What’s keepin’ ye, lass?”

  “Well, if it isn’t Flaherty’s foreman,” she crooned. “Ye’ve changed for the better and grown into a fine figure of a man, Mr. Reilly.” Jessi dissolved into giggles as she reached for the package Doc held out to her.

  “You’d best take her back to the boarding house, Turner,” Doc said. “The whiskey must have gone right to her head.”

  “Such a lovely feelin’,” Jessi said with a laugh. “I never would have punched him if I’d had whiskey first. I’d have kissed him till his eyes crossed.”

  “Jessi Fahy!” Reilly rumbled. “What ails ye, lass?”

  She smiled at him and replied, “Sure and it’s yerself.”

  Jessi leaned forward, aiming for his cheek, but ended up kissing his bruised chin. Reilly sucked in a sharp breath, unwilling to embarrass himself by admitting it still pained him.

  “I’ll take her back.” He ranged himself between Jessi and the doorway.

  “Mrs. Swenson is still visiting Maggie. I’ve got to take the wagon back to her,” Turner said.

  “Go right ahead. I’ll take Jessi to the boarding house.”

  “You know it’s not proper for her to be alone there with you,” Doc reminded Reilly.

  Reilly knew it, but he didn’t care. The woman/child was a burr beneath his saddle, and it was high time the two of them had a serious talk about her behavior. “What if we sit in the parlor?”

  Doc shook his head. “Inga Swenson would have my head.”

  “Maggie’d have mine,” Turner admitted.

  “Can I have John’s?”

  Reilly turned to look down at her, and damned if the lass didn’t give him another of her sweet smiles. She wasn’t a burr. She was a splinter, long and deep, piercing right into his soul.

  Was ever a man plagued as he was? She irritated him no end, but that wasn’t what really bothered him. She’d grown up on him, and he hadn’t counted on being so attracted to her.

  She’d been a skinny little thing when she trailed after him back home. When had she filled out, curving in all of the right places? He’d be damned for noticing, of that he was sure.

  Lord above, what would her brother say? Reilly shook his head. Time enough to think about that tonight while he lay awake wondering why she’d come all this way to see him.

  You could just ask her. He ignored the voice of reason and gently touched her elbow, guiding her to the still-open doorway.

  “You may not care about your own reputation, Reilly,” Turner ground out. “But I can’t let you ruin Miss Fahy’s.”

  Reilly stopped and looked over his shoulder at Turner. “What are ye blatherin’ about?” he asked. “I’ve known the lass her entire life, been plagued by her chasing after me and mine when she should have been home learning to work a needle and thread.”

  “She’s already being talked about for fighting in the street yesterday,” Doc warned him.

  Reilly drew in a deep breath. “The lass has an evil temper. Just ask me ma…” His words drifted off as worry filled his heart. “Jessi, lass,” he said. “Tell me, ’tisn’t because of me ma that ye came all this way.”

  Jessi tilted her head to one side and lifted her shoulders. “But I’m not supposed to tell a lie.”

  Reilly paled as he tried to get the words out. “When did she…why didn’t she—”

  “Our friend seems to be stumbling over his words,” Doc said. “What’s worrying you, Reilly?”

  Jessi patted Reilly on the arm. “She wanted me to bring ye the family Bible.”

  Reilly’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he fought to control the riot of emotions running through him. Disbelief streaked through him. His ma—gone, and he’d not been there to tell her he loved her, or that he was grateful for her. Worst of all, he’d broken his last promise to her and stayed in America. “I have to go.”

  Without another word, Reilly bolted through the door, out into the street.

  “Do ye think we should be worried about his brain?” Jessi said aloud. “He’s actin’ strangely.”

  “I think the poor man’s suffering from grief,” Doc explained.

  “How long ago did his mother die?” Turner asked. “And why didn’t you tell him yesterday?”

  Jessi looked at the two of them as if they were daft. “What are ye goin’ on about? Mrs. Reilly was fine the day she helped me pack me bags, givin’ me John’s favorite recipes and the family Bible so I could record our mar—” Jessi realized a heartbeat too late that she’d all but said the word—marriage.

  Doc’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  Turner just smiled. “So his own mother is behind this whole plot.”

  “What plot?” Jessi was having trouble following their conversation.

  “The one where Reilly’s childhood friend follows him all the way to Colorado, armed with his favorite recipes and the family Bible to record their marriage and the births of each of their children.”

  “Who told you?” Jessi asked, knowing it hadn’t been her. She’d been sworn to secrecy by Mrs. Reilly.

  “You did.” Turner sounded exasperated with her.

  “I most certainly did not,” she huffed. Her brain whispered that the whiskey had done the talkin’ for her.

  “Do you usually talk more when you’ve been drinking?” Doc asked.

  “I don’t drink,” she answered loftily. “Me mother would have me hide.”

  “What do you call drinking whiskey?” Turner demanded.

  “Necessary for me health,” she said. “Me hand was plaguing me, and ye were kind enough to give me a wee bit of the Irish. Me sainted grandmother swore ’twas better than laudanum. ’Twasn’t like I was in a public house swilling it down.”

  “Someone’s got to go after Reilly and tell him his mother’s fine,” Doc said, hoping Jessi wouldn’t cause the poor man any more trouble.

  “If I can leave Jessi here with you,” Turner said, “I’ll go after Reilly and go pick up Mrs. Swenson.”

  Doc nodded. “Hurry back.”

  Chapter Seven

  Reilly was sick at heart by the time he heard a rider coming up fast behind him. He looked over his shoulder and sighed. When Turner pulled up alongside him, Reilly didn’t bother to look at him.

  “She could have told me yesterday.” What hurt the most was that Jessi would keep something this vital from him. No matter what happened between them as friends, he knew Jessi loved his mother as if she were her own. Hell, from what Dermot had told him over the years, probably more than her own mother. He wouldn’t blame the lass. His mother was special.

  “Would you have listened?” Turner asked.

  Reilly shook his head. “Would that be before the lass punched me or after? If ye mean before, I might have if she’d have let me get a word in. If ye mean after, no. I was a bit addled after strikin’ me head on the ground.”

  “It’s not what you think, Reilly.”

 
“What am I supposed to think with me ma gone and me thousands of miles away?” It hurt right through to the bone. He had to find Flynn and Seamus. They’d know what to do. He had plans to make if he was going to be returning to Ireland.

  “If ye don’t mind,” Reilly began, but didn’t bother to finish. He spurred his horse and galloped away. He didn’t want to talk to Turner right now. Reilly needed the men who’d been through thick and thin with him. The friends who’d fought with him, bled with him.

  Kicking up a cloud of dust as he rode, he heard Flynn’s voice before he saw the man. “What is it, man?” Flynn demanded, running over to Reilly’s side, helping him remove his horse’s saddle.

  While they worked to cool down the horse, Reilly tried to think of a way to say it without feeling the backlash of the words. By the time his horse had been curried, fed and watered, he realized there wasn’t an easy way to say it. Best just to get it out.

  “She’s dead, Flynn.”

  “Jessi?” The man paled. “But she’s so young, what happened?”

  Reilly stopped and stared at him. “What the hell are ye talkin’ about?”

  “What the hell are you?” Flynn demanded.

  “Me mother,” Reilly whispered.

  Flynn didn’t speak for the longest time. He wrapped an arm about Reilly’s shoulders and led him away from the barn to the back of the house. “Wait here,” he said, leaning Reilly against the porch railing.

  Grief-stricken, Reilly didn’t move until Flynn came back outside with a familiar bottle and three glasses. “Himself will be along shortly.” Flynn said. “He’ll catch up.”

  Sliding down onto the step, Reilly held out his hand. Flynn obligingly handed him a glass and proceeded to fill it with whiskey. Reilly tossed it back and held the glass out to Flynn.

  By the third time Flynn had filled it, Flaherty joined them. “How many has he had?”

  Flynn held out a glass to Flaherty and said, “Three.”

  Flaherty shook his head. “He’s got a head start, but I think I can catch up.”

  When Bridget came outside to call them in for supper, she saw the three men ranged across the back steps, not one of them standing, and not one of them sober.