The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  Flaherty laughed out loud. “I’ll serve them cake if you get your basket of healing herbs.”

  “Aren’t ye feelin’ well?” Reilly thought Flaherty looked fine to him, but sometimes a man hurt on the inside where no one could see. Like ye ache whenever ye see Jessi Fahy.

  Masterson looked from one man to the other and shrugged. “I guess you didn’t stop to see what you looked like before you came inside.” Rising to his feet, Masterson offered to get Bridget’s healing supplies.

  “No,” she said looking from one battered man to the other. “I’ll go and get them.”

  “You’re tired.” One look at her and Reilly knew it was true. She was pale as flour.

  Mick looked up from his empty cake plate, took one look at Flynn and Reilly and shot to his feet. “Are there rustlers outside?” he asked without waiting for the answer. “How many of ’em are there?”

  Flaherty lifted little Emma off his lap and handed her off to Masterson, who scooped the girl up and pretended to drop her. Emma giggled and held on to the man’s hair with both fists.

  Pushing to his feet, Flaherty rounded the table to where Mick stood frozen in fear. Flaherty put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “You’ve nothing to fear, Mick,” he said, looking at the two battered men. “There aren’t any rustlers. Marshal Turner took care of them a while back,” he reassured the boy. “Remember?”

  Mick trembled beneath Flaherty’s hands.

  Reilly took pity on the boy and said, “No one was outside save for Flynn and meself.”

  Flynn nodded. “Reilly took exception to something I said.”

  “The hell I did,” Reilly said, turning toward Flynn.

  Flynn opened his mouth to speak, but Bridget glared at him, shoved a cake plate in his hands and told him to sit. Smart man that he was, Flynn sat.

  “Don’t ye have a slice for me?” Reilly really wanted a piece of that cake. His mood hadn’t improved. Usually a good fistfight and smooth sipping whiskey were all he needed to put a smile on his face. Tonight something was missing. Something wasn’t the same.

  Bridget held a cake plate in her hands, but didn’t hand it to him. Instead she asked, “Are you through arguing with Michael?”

  Reilly looked at Flynn, who’d already sat down and dug into his cake. Since his friend’s hands were busy and mouth was full, Reilly guessed he was finished fighting with him. “For the moment.”

  Bridget rolled her eyes, and the other men in the room started laughing.

  “You see, Mick?” Flaherty said. “It was just Reilly pounding on Flynn again.”

  “He’s always picking fights with me,” Flynn said once his mouth was empty. “And me a peace-loving man.”

  It took a few minutes for Flaherty’s words to register and the laughter of the men to die down, but Mick finally moved past his initial fear and took his seat. When his little sister reached out to him, he held out his arms. Masterson bent down and set the little girl in Mick’s lap. She clung to her adopted brother like a burr.

  As if he sensed what was wrong and knew she was reliving their shared nightmare, he reassured her. “There aren’t any bad men outside, Emma.” It was his turn to soothe. “Marshal Justiss and your new pa took care of them.”

  “You did, too,” she said, laying her head on his chest.

  Bridget’s eyes filled with tears, but Flaherty was there to gather her in his arms. “We’ve been through hell,” he rasped. “But sometimes you need to wade through the fires of hell to find heaven.”

  Bridget laid her head on Flaherty’s chest and let him hold her.

  The Murphy brothers talked quietly with Flynn while they finished their dessert and coffee. Masterson was chuckling at something Emma said to Mick. But Reilly hadn’t been able to eat.

  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the couple.

  His friend had found the perfect mate. Bridget and Flaherty and their makeshift family fit. Once their child was born, another piece to the puzzle that was their family would be set into place. They’d make room, just as they had when little Emma needed a family.

  Reilly hadn’t thought much about family since leaving his. He missed them, but he didn’t need to see them on a daily basis, as he sensed Bridget and Flaherty needed one another and their children. But wasn’t that the way of it? Children grow up and leave their families so they could make their own way in the world. For the first time, Reilly wondered if his mother had continued to fret about him while he’d been busy spreading his wings, discovering himself. He hadn’t spent a lot of time wondering what was going on back home. Life on their little farm never changed; it was a large part of the reason he’d left.

  Reilly’s heart ached. He rubbed a hand over his chest, but the ache only intensified. Wondering just what it was that drew a couple together, he looked over at his friend in time to see Flaherty scoop Bridget off her feet.

  “But I haven’t finished cleaning the kitchen.” Bridget sounded as tired as she looked.

  “We’ll do it, Ma.” Mick set Emma on her feet, and she danced over to where Flaherty stood with Bridget in his arms.

  “Is the baby tired too, Mama?” the little one wanted to know.

  “Yes,” Flaherty answered, grinning down at Emma. “That’s why they both have to go to bed.”

  “But what about John and Michael?” Bridget looked over at Reilly, and Reilly shook his head at her.

  “Just some scrapes and bruises,” Reilly reassured her. “Masterson can doctor us if it makes ye feel better.”

  Masterson nodded. “Is your basket upstairs?”

  Outgunned, Bridget nodded.

  The ranch hand nodded and headed for the stairs, saying, “I’ll be right back.”

  Once he left, Reilly turned to Bridget and was about to say something, when he noticed that her color had returned and she didn’t appear as tired as she had a few minutes ago.

  Was there a healing quality from being held by the one you love, or was it something more? From the way Bridget was blushing, he supposed it might have more to do with the way a man loved a woman in the physical sense.

  Either way, Reilly figured he wasn’t going to be healing anytime soon. He’d no one to hug and no one to love. He closed his eyes, and Jessi’s face smiled at him. He sighed and opened his eyes; the girl was still plaguing him.

  Thinking about her now would only get him into trouble with the lass. Hadn’t it already? He had the bruises and bumps to prove it. Glancing at Flynn, he realized not all of them had come from Jessi’s hands, but they were still her fault.

  Masterson returned with Bridget’s healing basket. He set it down on the table in front of Reilly. “Who wants to go first?”

  Reilly looked at Flynn and grumbled, “Flynn.”

  At the same time, Flynn said, “Reilly’s in worse shape. He can go first.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Jessi thought about lying to Mrs. Swenson, but in the end knew it wouldn’t be fair to the woman who’d taken her in. “Better than the night before last.”

  Mrs. Swenson frowned at her. “You didn’t sleep a wink that night.”

  Jessi didn’t want to talk about it, so she changed the subject. “Is today yer bakin’ day?”

  Mrs. Swenson nodded. “I promised to bring an extra loaf to the Widow Dawson.” She worked as she talked, setting out the ingredients she’d need for the promised bread.

  “What else will ye be bakin’?” Jessi hoped Mrs. Swenson would let her prepare one of the recipes she’d brought with her. Even if she wouldn’t be baking it for John, she was sure Marshal Justiss would enjoy the moist, rich cake.

  Mrs. Swenson paused and asked, “Didn’t you mention a butter cake recipe yesterday?”

  When Jessi nodded, Mrs. Swenson smiled. “Why don’t we make two of them?”

  “Do ye think the marshal will be eatin’ both of them?” Jessi couldn’t imagine anyone eating that much of the rich treat. “It might not be wise to let him.”


  Mrs. Swenson laughed as she worked the yeast and flour mixture with her hands, then covered it with a towel and set it aside to rest and rise. “It’s not just for Ben,” she said. “We can visit Bridget and bring a cake with us.”

  “So both Widow Dawson and Bridget don’t bake?” Jessi didn’t think there was a soul who didn’t know how to bake, although she remembered giving up hope of ever developing the knack her mother had with baking, until Mrs. Reilly patiently explained what Jessi had been doing wrong. Jessi’d been so grateful, she’d spent as much time as possible, after her chores were done, in Mrs. Reilly’s kitchen.

  “Widow Dawson is struggling just now, and doesn’t have the means to purchase extras for baking sweets. Bridget’s been feeling tired for the last few weeks,” she said. “But according to Doc, that’s normal, and she should perk up and have more energy by the end of April.”

  “But that’s weeks away.” Jessi couldn’t believe it would take that long. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember any of her friends back home suffering from being tired while they were carrying. But she really hadn’t spent that much time with girls her own age. Her free time had been very limited. Most of her spare time had been spent with Mrs. Reilly.

  Mrs. Swenson nodded. “That’s what I said to Doc.” She reached for another bowl. “Why don’t you go and get your recipes, and we’ll take a look at them and see what else you’ve got that looks interesting.”

  “I’ve a nice bread that doesn’t use yeast, but soured milk and carbonate of soda—”

  “Is that the same as Saleratus?”

  “Sure and I have no idea,” Jessi admitted. “Mrs. Reilly used the soda, though it was quite dear at times.”

  “I have sourdough starter in the pie safe,” Mrs. Swenson nodded to the cupboard with the pierced tin front. “It makes a tasty bread, too.”

  “I’ll fetch the recipe for ye,” Jessi offered.

  The morning passed quickly as the women worked together, Mrs. Swenson punching down and then turning out the bread dough until it was formed into loaves and put in the cookstove, while Jessi did the best she could to fetch and carry with one hand.

  “Anyone at home?”

  Jessi looked up but didn’t recognize the woman standing at the back door.

  “Pearl!” Mrs. Swenson called out. “Come in.” She wiped her hands on her apron and tilted her head to one side studying the woman. “You look radiant. You must have driven over here to give me good news.”

  “Actually,” Pearl began, “that’s part of it.” Holding out her hand, she waited for Jessi to take it before squeezing it and smiling. “So, John Reilly’s finally met his match?”

  “I beg yer pardon?” Jessi wasn’t sure she liked the fact that there was yet another woman who knew her John so well.

  Pearl waved her hand at Jessi. “Don’t you fret none about your man. He’s been thinking about you lately.”

  Curious, Jessi couldn’t keep from asking, “How do ye know?”

  The woman named after nature’s jewel looked like Mrs. Feehan’s cat did after it had captured and feasted on a particularly tasty bird. “John’s been a good friend,” the woman said by way of explanation before turning back to Mrs. Swenson. She smiled, practically glowing. “I do have other news as well.”

  “Oh, Pearl,” Mrs. Swenson hugged the other woman close and was blinking back tears. “When are you due?”

  “Due for what?” Jessi interrupted, not wanting to be left out of the conversation.

  “My good friend Pearl is going to have a baby.”

  “There seems to be a lot of that goin’ around out here,” Jessi said with a smile. “Congratulations.” Looking at Pearl’s still-flat stomach, Jessi asked, “Come late fall or early winter?”

  Pearl beamed. “November, we think.” Pushing up her sleeves, Pearl walked over to where Mrs. Swenson kept towels and slivers of lye soap. Without being asked, Pearl washed up and grabbed one of Mrs. Swenson’s aprons and put it on. “Well, then, what can I do?”

  Mrs. Swenson shook her head. “Why don’t you just sit down and tell us how your handsome husband is?”

  Pearl’s fair skin flushed a lovely shade of pale pink, making Jessi homesick for her mother’s garden and the sweet peas that would be blossoming there in another few weeks.

  “Davidson is fine and actually doesn’t know yet. I’ve just come from seeing Doc.”

  “What are ye doin’ here then?” Jessi demanded. “Doesn’t yer man deserve to know yer carryin’ his babe?”

  Pearl smiled at her. “Oh, he’ll be by shortly. I think he suspects, given the way I’ve been dragging my sorry as—” She looked up at Mrs. Swenson and bit her lip. “—er…bottom around.”

  Mrs. Swenson shook her head. “You don’t have to watch what you say in my kitchen, Pearl. Surely you know that by now.”

  Pearl nodded. “I wasn’t sure about your young boarder here.”

  Jessi smiled. “I’m not that young,” she announced, setting a measure of flour next to the bowl Mrs. Swenson was using to mix the cake batter. “I’ll be nineteen come the fall.”

  Pearl shook her head and smiled. “I was married by then.”

  “To yer man Davidson?”

  Pearl’s smile faded. “No, to my first husband.”

  From the tone of her voice and the way her expression changed, Jessi sensed it hadn’t been a happy marriage. “How long have ye known yer present husband?”

  That was the right question to ask, because the woman’s face brightened and her smile returned, changing her looks from merely pretty to beautiful. “About six months, but from the moment we met, it seemed as if we’d known each other for much longer.”

  Mrs. Swenson snickered. “Would that be the day you shot his hat off his head and threatened to shoot off the parts that made him a man?”

  Pearl’s mouth opened and closed twice, and then she laughed, what Mrs. Reilly would call a laugh straight from a glad heart. “No, that was when I thought he was trying to steal my ranch.”

  “Yer husband tried to steal yer ranch?” Jessi would never have believed it. Confused and not sure that she understood, she asked, “So he married ye to get his hands on yer ranch?”

  Mrs. Swenson chuckled. “If you’d been here at the time, you’d never ask that. Since you’re new to town, we’ll take pity on you and tell you the whole story.”

  By the time Pearl and Mrs. Swenson had taken turns telling Jessi what had happened half a year before, Jessi was convinced the women behind the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson should be drawn and quartered, and she said as much.

  “Isn’t that a traitor’s punishment in your country?”

  Jessi thought about it and shook her head. “I think they also disembowel a traitor, then lop off his head.”

  Pearl turned positively green and rushed outside before either Mrs. Swenson or Jessi could move.

  “Is it the babe?” she asked.

  Mrs. Swenson shook her head. “Either that or your apt description just now.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jessi said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll see if I can help.”

  “Here,” Mrs. Swenson said, dipping a small cloth into the bucket she kept handy. “She’ll feel better if she blots her face with this.”

  Jessi took the damp cloth in her good hand and pushed the door open with her hip. Pearl was on the back porch, leaning against one of the columns with her eyes were closed. “Mrs. Smythe?” she called softly. “I’m ever so sorry to have upset yer delicate constitution.”

  Pearl’s eyes shot open and she snorted. “I’ve never been called delicate in my life,” she said. “But I’ve never felt this weak or tired before, so maybe I will be delicate for the next few months.”

  “Let me help,” Jessi offered, wrapping an arm about Pearl and leading her into the empty rocking chair off to one side.

  Pearl let herself be led, and she sighed when Jessi handed her the damp cloth. “Thank you,” she said. “I hate to throw up.”


  Jessi shivered. “I did me own fair share of that on me journey across the Atlantic.”

  “You’re awfully brave, traveling all this way to see John.”

  “How do ye know I came all this way just to see him?” Jessi asked. “Maybe I’ve other friends or family to see in this country as well.”

  Pearl finished patting her face and throat and leaned her still-warm cheek against the cloth. “Have you?”

  Jessi looked away. “I wouldn’t be here right now if I did.”

  “But you’ve only just arrived,” Pearl said. “Why would you want to leave?”

  Jessi’s throat tightened and her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t want to at first,” she said, looking down the dusty street, missing the verdant green that had been a part of her everyday life. Odd. She hadn’t considered missing the grass or the trees. Would they have the same flowers here in Colorado as they did in Ireland? She’d have to ask Mrs. Swenson later. Wishing she were anywhere but on the back porch of the boarding house talking about the one man she couldn’t seem to forget.

  “I should have married Sean McNulty,” she mumbled.

  “Why didn’t you?” Pearl asked.

  “I don’t love Sean,” Jessi said.

  “Ah,” Pearl said softly. “I thought as much.” When Jessi didn’t say anything more, Pearl added, “John Reilly is a good man, and he deserves someone to love him for who he is.”

  Jessi met Pearl’s direct gaze without flinching. “Aye, that he does.”

  “Do you plan to change him?”

  Jessi laughed. “As if I could. The man barely knows I exist, except as someone he remembers not unkindly from his youth.”

  “Why would you think he doesn’t notice you?”

  Pearl’s question was one Jessi had asked herself more than once after John bumped into her without recognizing her. “From what I’ve heard since I stepped down off that stagecoach, he’s got plenty of women interested in him. What would he want with the likes of me?”