Over the years since the Slaters had found him, he slowly healed from the devastating loss of his parents enough to dedicate his life to the pursuit of justice. He could never bring his parents back, but he could try to protect the Essie and Jed Slaters of the world. The hardest blow in his later years had been the realization that he could not protect the ones he loved every minute of the day. He already knew bad things happened to good people, but the added knowledge that he could not always be there for those he loved was a bitter pill to swallow.
He muttered under his breath, and set his memories side. One thing he had learned over the years was to pay attention to the warning signs his instincts gave him. The prickling of unease that crept up his spine, the wave of cold that swept over the back of his neck, or the knots of tension in his gut. Right now, standing there facing the sheriff of Emerson, he felt all three. Whatever the news, it was not good.
At the other lawman’s continued silence, he decided to tend to the business at hand.
“We caught these men rustling cattle over at the Ryan spread.”
The sheriff’s head snapped up, and the look in his eyes instantly cleared. “Bring ‘em in.” He tossed a ring of keys toward Joshua.
He deftly caught the ring and motioned for the men to be brought inside. Reilly and Flynn shoved the men through the doorway and prodded them to walk down the hallway, using the barrels of their guns to keep the men moving.
Once the outlaws were untied and the door to their cell safely locked, the men headed back down the hall to where the sheriff still stood gazing down at a piece of paper in his hand.
“Coltrane?”
The haunted eyes that met his gaze had uneasiness snaking back up his spine.
“Whatever news you’ve got, can’t be good,” Joshua said slowly, “no sense keeping it all to yourself. Let’s have it.”
Reilly and Flynn moved to stand on either side of him, waiting for the sheriff to tell them the news.
“The stage to Emerson was ambushed five miles outside of Milford.”
“Any word on who did it?”
“None.”
“Anyone injured?”
The sheriff’s pale-gray eyes misted over, and he audibly cleared his throat. “The driver and one of the two women passengers.”
Joshua felt his gut clench, the ice over. Maggie was due to get back on the stage as soon as she felt well enough. Could it be her? “How badly?”
“The driver was shot. The bullet bounced off his thighbone.”
Impatient for Coltrane to finish, he prodded him to continue, “And the women?”
“One was shot, the other is missing,” the sheriff said, laying the paper on his desk.
All of the air left Joshua’s lungs, and his vision grayed. “Have either been identified?”
It cost him to speak the words without any inflection, to appear outwardly in control. Inside, his mind screamed at the injustice of living in a territory so new to statehood, large sections of it were still patrolled by the Army. The lawless preyed on the innocent without mercy. His heart bled, tormented by the image of his Maggie lying unconscious and bleeding.
“The information is scarce yet. I’m waiting for another wire with descriptions of both women.” Coltrane turned and reached for four mugs and snatched the steaming coffeepot off the pot-bellied stove in the corner of the room.
Joshua noticed the man’s hands shaking, as he poured the thick black brew, sloshing it over the brim of one cup. He waited for the older man to get himself back under control. There must be more to the story that he was telling. Anyone who spent his life chasing outlaws and trying to right wrongs usually ended up either sacrificing the love of a good woman in order to uphold the law, or losing someone dear to him because of that same job.
Before either of them could lift a cup to sip the strong brew, the door to the jail burst open and James Ryan stormed inside, a crumpled bit of paper clutched in his fist.
“I just heard about the stage!” he said, his chest heaving.
Joshua noticed Ryan had the look of a man on the verge of violence. “Did you know one of the passengers?”
“Aye, my—Maggie.”
Joshua heard the words, and wondered how many Maggies could be traveling by stage to the town of Emerson. The tortured look in Ryan’s eyes, and the anguish in his raspy voice as he spoke Maggie’s name, arrowed through Joshua. Whoever this Maggie was, it was obvious to everyone in the room that Ryan loved her.
“Can you write a description?” the sheriff asked “I can send a wire over to the sheriff in Milford.”
Ryan took the pen the sheriff offered, dipped it in the inkwell, and tried to put the words to paper, but his hand shook so badly, the ink blotted across the paper.
“Here,” Reilly said, “let me.”
“But ye don’t know what she looks like,” Ryan protested.
“I’ve heard ye wax poetic on how she looked for the last five years,” Reilly shot back.
Joshua noticed a similar look of anguished worry on both Reilly and Flynn’s faces. This woman meant a great deal to all of them.
“Start with her height, then hair color, and eyes,” the sheriff advised.
“She’s just a wee bit of a woman, comes up to here on me,” Ryan said slowly, holding the flat of his hand even with the bottom edge of his breastbone.
“A little over five feet high,” Joshua said through gritted teeth—the same height as the Maggie he knew.
The sheriff nodded, agreeing with his estimation of the height.
“Hair as red as Flynn’s with eyes blue as himself,” Reilly added, pointing to Ryan.
Could it be the same woman? Fate would not be so cruel, would it? He’d only just found her. They had sealed their vows in blood, just like his Scottish ancestors—well, not exactly the same way, but their blood had mingled and their souls had connected. She was his! In his dreams, Maggie would be waiting for him.
“Ye’ve never seen her!” Flynn bit out.
“Aye, but Jamie here’s told us so often, Flynn’s taken to wearin’ his hat indoors, just to keep Jamie from remarkin’ his hair being just like Maggie’s,” Reilly added.
Joshua looked over at Ryan and saw a ghost of a smile start to form, then swiftly disappear. He knew how Ryan felt. He’d been tempted to sink his fingers in Maggie’s hair, compelled to touch the fire in it, wondering if would be as hot to the touch. Would he be burned?
“She has such lovely skin—roses and cream, with freckles across her nose,” Ryan choked out.
Joshua was nearly undone by the man’s pain. He’d have to be dead not to see the love Ryan felt for Maggie. Though his breath snagged in his chest, and his heart felt as if it were being wrung mercilessly by unseen hands, he struggled to keep his slipping control in place.
She’s the one—but not mine—she belongs to Ryan.
“I’ll not be waiting for you to send the wire,” Ryan said, his blue eyes blazing with inner fire. “I just stopped to make sure you’ve locked up the rustlers before I ride for Milford.”
“You’re not going alone, Jamie,” Reilly said, placing a restraining hand on his arm.
“We’ll ride with ye,” Flynn added.
“Who will run he ranch?” Joshua asked, hoping to distract Ryan and convince him not to interfere with the law. He needed Ryan to stay behind for two reasons. The first, his desire to see for himself that the injured woman was not the woman he feared. The second, he was planning on finding the missing woman. If it was his Maggie, then he wanted to hear from her own soft lips that Ryan meant nothing to her—that he was a cousin, or a friend of the family—anything but her intended. He could not and would not accept that the woman who had melted so smoothly into his embrace could love another.
“Masterson and the Murphys can handle things while I’m away.”
So much for Ryan staying behind. As if he would in Ryan’s place.
“We’re set on coming as well,” Reilly reminded him.
Ryan
nodded that he’d heard, before turning on his heel and heading out the door.
Joshua started to follow the other men, when the sheriff called him back. “After I send this wire, I’ll be expecting a description of the women. If you can convince Ryan to wait for just a bit it might save us a heap of trouble down the road.”
Joshua started to disagree, then thought of something he could use. “Why don’t you go on after Ryan and tell him you need him to sign some papers to keep the rustlers behind bars. While you do that, I’ll head on over to the telegraph office, send in my report on the rustlers, and wait for the women’s descriptions from the sheriff in Milford.”
Coltrane nodded and went after Ryan.
Alone, but for the muted conversations echoing down the hallway from the jail cells, Joshua hung his head and sent out a silent prayer that Ryan’s Maggie was the missing woman. Just please don’t let her be the same woman I cradled in my arms.
He couldn’t bear it if Ryan would be the one to dip his head down and inhale the haunting scent of lavender and rain.
Reason slowly filtered through his aching head as he walked toward the telegraph office. He’d been unable to fight the attraction from the first. Though he felt the connection they shared was soul-deep and binding, Maggie might feel differently. In fact, he had no idea how she felt about him. Other than the trust he’d seen in her eyes when he was taking care of her wound, he was unsure of what she thought of him. He’d not pressed her the last time he’d seen her. He had all but ignored the need to enfold her in his arms and hold her against him. He had needed to focus on the job at hand and could not afford to let himself be distracted. He had tamped down the need to find her, gather her in his arms, and lean the side of his face in her hair—breathing in her scent. He had been a gentleman. Being gentlemanly may have just cost him the love of his life.
With that cold thought running through his body like ice, he strode into the small office and nodded to the man busily copying down a wire transmission. The man glanced over at him, but didn’t stop writing. While he watched, the man answered the transmission with a few clicks of his own.
Whether or not either of the women involved in the attack was his Maggie, it was time to find out just where he stood in Maggie Flaherty’s eyes.
Chapter Ten
“Don’t let the doc see you, if you don’t want anyone to know you are here,” Luann advised.
Maggie smiled and shook her head. “You’re a wonder, thinkin’ up a way to keep anyone from knowin’ where I am. This is the second time ye’ve come to me aid.” She took the other woman’s hand in her own. “I cannot thank ye enough.”
“Is there anyone you want to send word to, so that someone knows where you are?”
“Can ye send word to the Smiths, tellin’ them I’m all right for now?”
“Done.”
Maggie could hear the commotion coming from the lower level. She recognized the voice sending a stream of swear words floating up to her. She smiled. The stagecoach driver really hated being cared for by females. And if her guess was right, more than one had flocked downstairs to see to the driver and the barely conscious Sarah. She tried to put the most recent scene from her mind, but the echoing shots and terrifying sight of Sarah’s blood-spattered gown made it impossible to focus on anything else.
Needing something to do, she pulled a sheet of writing paper out of the dainty painted desk in the corner of the room and began to transcribe one of her grandmother’s recipes for mutton stew from memory. While she wrote, another of her mother’s recipes came to mind. She scribbled that one down too. A short time later, she had compiled quite a few of her brother’s well-loved recipes. She intended to surprise him and give his cook a break, by offering her own services temporarily.
But thoughts of both attacks had her wondering if she would live to see her brother again—or a certain lawman.
Try to envision yer guardian angel then, mo croi—my heart, her mother had often advised, when she’d had bad dreams as a child. Maggie closed her eyes, willing to give it a try now. She focused on the image she’d so often used as a child—but the dark-haired warrior angel wielding the immense sword she often pictured, now melded into the image of a green-eyed, golden-haired lawman with broad shoulders, strong hands, and a six-gun.
“I’m not sure where to go or what to do,” she said softly to the image of the man she’d come to depend upon in her dreams. “Whom should I trust?” she asked the phantom vision.
“No one,” a deep voice called out from the doorway.
She gasped and turned toward the sound of the voice.
“Taylor!” she exclaimed. “What are ye doin’ here? Does Ida know ye’ve come?”
“It was her idea. Once she knew you were safe and unharmed, she sent me off to tell you the latest news.”
“What would that be?” She closed the door behind him.
“Sheriff Coltrane from over in Emerson has a posse riding this way. They left after they received the wire about the attack.”
“Do you know who is riding with him?” Her heart pounded within her breast, as thoughts of Marshal Turner flitted through her tired brain.
“No. Seems some men from the Ryan place are riding with him, three I think.”
“Mr. Ryan himself?” she asked.
Taylor shook his head. “I don’t know. Why?”
“I was hopin’ to send word to me brother that I’ll be traveling at daybreak.”
“Just how do you plan to get there?” Taylor demanded, his back ramrod straight, eyes blazing.
“Ye remind me of my Da,” she said softly, laying a hand on his arm. “Ye know I’ve got to go—the time left is runnin’ out.”
Taylor looked away, cleared his throat, and looked back at her. “I’ll wait until Doc leaves to take the patients with him to his surgery, then we can ride back to town without being seen.”
When she would have protested, he shook his head. “You are staying with us tonight—no arguments.”
She started to speak, but his determined look stopped her. She nodded.
“I’ll go down to the kitchen and rustle up some coffee and something to eat. Stay put.”
She smiled. He had a hand on the doorknob, but paused before opening the door.
“I’ll be riding with you at daybreak,” he said, over his shoulder. “I’ll have two horses saddled and ready to go.”
“How can I thank ye and Ida for all ye’ve done for me?”
“By not getting into any more trouble.”
Maggie walked toward him grinning and hugged him tightly. “Ye know, I’ve tried more than once, but I can’t seem to help meself. Trouble comes lookin’ for me—I don’t go lookin’ for it.”
She heard Taylor’s low sigh and watched as he made his way down the back staircase into the kitchen.
***
“You look dead on your feet, Maggie,” Ida observed hours later.
Nearly cross-eyed with fatigue, Maggie did not wonder whether or not Ida was right. She was more concerned with walking down the long hallway to her room without having to ask for help. She hated to admit to being tired or weak. She had a two-day journey ahead of her at daybreak. Getting as much rest as she could was at the top of her list of things to do right now.
“I think I’ll turn in,” she said, touching the white linen napkin to her lips before folding it neatly and setting it next to her dinner plate.
“Do you need my help?” Ida asked.
“Not just yet,” she replied, not wanting to intrude upon Ida’s time with her husband. The thought that she’d be taking him away from Ida for the next few days bothered her. But it was the only way they would let her go. “Enjoy the rest of your meal. No need to rush.”
Maggie made her way down the narrow passageway in a daze, struggling to keep her eyelids from closing before she made it to the door to her room. She intended to sit for awhile and read through some of her sheet music. But since there was no piano nearby, maybe she’d opt to read
through some of the recipes she had copied earlier that afternoon. It had been too long since she’d had the opportunity to bake. Her fingers itched to sink into a bowl of bread dough or fashion a fluted crust for a pie.
“I’ll be glad to see Seamus and the grand kitchen he’s been writing about,” she murmured with a sigh.
The five years since she had last seen him stretched before her like the endless miles of ocean they had crossed together. Soon, she’d hold her brother in her arms and feel his strength surround her. Their parting hug had nearly crushed her ribs and broken her heart, but her brother’s hopes and dreams were worth every tear she shed missing him. She could wait a few more days.
Maggie laid a hand against the door and pushed it open the rest of the way. “Me mind must be playin’ tricks—I thought I’d left it closed altogether.”
The bedclothes hung half on the bed, half off. The dresser drawers had been upended; her unmentionables heaped in the middle of the floor. Walking toward the pile, she recognized the tiny bits of white as the remains of her precious sheet music.
“My things—”
Her breath snagged in her throat at the sound of a floorboard creaking behind her. She whirled toward the sound, and the sight that met her disbelieving eyes nearly caused her heart to stop beating.
A tall, wiry man stood between her and the door. Dressed in black from hat to boots, he blended in with the shadows. Heaven help her, she must have walked right past him. The bottom half of his face was hidden by a dusty, stained bandanna, leaving only his small dark eyes and slashing black brows accenting the top half of his crooked nose.
The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Page 10