Desperate emotions churned within her, until her head began to pound and her stomach burned. She reached for the O’Toole family Bible, flipped to the back page, and lovingly traced the flowing curves of her husband’s handwriting, the only words of his she had left.
The key to happiness is in the hands of the one who holds my heart, M.O.T. 3 * 3 * 1 8 5 0.
Michael’s written words had been a balm these last nine months, but the date following his initials truly was a puzzle. She had been born in 1850, but not in March. She shook her head, remembering one of his quirks, the inability to remember numbers without first committing them to paper. It hadn’t worked this time either.
The baby’s lusty cry of hunger interrupted her thoughts.
She closed the Bible with a snap, snagging the edge of her nail on the loose thread that bound the leather covering in place. Running her fingertips over the slight bulge in the lower corner near the binding, she marveled that her husband had felt strongly enough about his family’s treasure to repair the cover when it had apparently come undone the year before. It was all the more precious to her because of its imperfection.
Baby Michael’s cries became more insistent, causing a tingly sensation in her breasts; they suddenly felt full. Lifting the squalling baby into her arms, she settled in her grandmother’s rocker. The soothing motion of rocking back and forth with her baby suckling at her breast went a long way toward healing the jagged hole in her heart.
“We’ll be just fine, angel face,” she whispered, brushing the tips of her fingers across his forehead. The downy hair stood up then fell back against his head.
“Your papa will come back.”
Bridget’s promise rang through the empty cabin as she lifted the baby to her shoulder to rub his back.
Where was Michael? Why had he left without a word?
Just then, the baby let out a lusty, bubbly burp, and she forgot all about her missing husband and the nights she’d spent at the cabin door, waiting, watching. Enthralled with her tiny son, she pressed her lips to the top of his head and breathed in his scent, catching a whiff of the soap she had laundered his sleeping gown in, mixed with the lavender she used to keep her linens smelling fresh.
Stroking the edge of his ear and the curve of his eyebrow, she whispered nonsense words to him, hoping to soothe him. Instead he started fussing, his cue that he had yet to drink his fill. Settling him to her other breast, he latched on and opened his eyes. When his dark blue gaze fixed on hers, a wave of love swept over her. He was going to have his father’s eyes, the shape of them, if not the color.
A lone tear slipped past her guard, as she thought of her handsome husband. The fragment of an unanswered question thrust its way into her drifting thoughts. Where had she left her mother’s cameo? Had she put it with her father’s gold pocket watch and their marriage lines? Both had gone missing months ago, around the time Michael left.
She felt the baby’s mouth go slack and looked down at his little body, replete with milk, solidly in the grasp of whatever dreams his baby’s mind could conjure. Kissing the top of his head, each tiny closed eye, and the tip of his nose, she laid him on his full tummy in his cradle, tucking her grandmother’s crazy quilt around him. She smiled and touched the tip of her finger to a faded square of blue—Gram’s favorite dress—and one of equally faded red plaid—Granddad’s favorite shirt. The pieces had been stitched alongside one another, as her grandparents had lived the whole of their lives: side by side. Comforted by thoughts of them, Bridget climbed up into bed, but stretched one hand out to gently rock Michael’s cradle, all the while, envying him his innocent dreams.
Bridget’s dreams were tortured with nightmares of his father never coming back, entwined with thick black smoke and flames licking the length of the cabin’s walls.
The baby’s screams awakened Bridget from a dead sleep. Unable to shake herself free of the nightmare, she scrubbed her hands across her face in an effort to clear her vision, but the smoke remained—thick and black. She drew in a breath, and her lungs protested violently. Coughs wracked her body, hampering movement.
Dear God in heaven! This was no dream!
A roar rumbled off to the left of her as the entire north wall of the small cabin erupted into flames.
Terror for baby Michael galvanized Bridget into action. Grabbing the baby, tossing Gram’s quilt over his face, Bridget pulled him tightly to her breast. A wicked fit of coughing had her reaching out to steady herself. Her hand landed on the bedside table and the book she always kept there. Another roar of flame sounded, this time from behind her. Half of the cabin was engulfed, floor to ceiling, in wicked red-orange flames. The smoke from the fire rapidly filled the room, making it impossible to see.
Bridget grabbed her baby and the Bible, tucking them protectively within her arms. Ducking her head down, she sprinted for the door while tears began pouring from her swollen, smoke-filled eyes. Unwilling to shift her precious burden to wipe them clear, Bridget closed her eyes and prayed they would make it to the door.
Chapter One
Twelve Years Later
“Where are you off to, Mick?”
Bridget gathered the remnants of her flagging strength, lifting her heavy head up from the pillow, and waited, listening. The creaky floorboard near the front door told her that her son had heard her rasped question and paused.
The floorboard creaked again before he answered, “Hunting.”
Her son’s terse reply hurt, but she ignored the feeling and asked, “At this hour?”
Mick was growing like a weed and was moody as a bear with a thorn stuck in his paw. She wracked her brain for something to say that would draw him back to her side, but her boy had changed. He was no longer the sweet little toddler who followed her everywhere nor was he the laughing young boy with the high-pitched, squeaky voice who worked tirelessly by her side planting their garden.
She thought of their sun-baked garden, and missed the way he had trustingly put his hand in hers; looking down at their shriveled-up plot of vegetables, asking how they would eat, knowing she would somehow find them food.
“I’ll be back.” His words broke through her troubled thoughts. “Don’t worry, Ma.”
Good Lord he sounded just like his father, with the same deep rumbling timbre that seemed to spring up from deep inside of him. After all this time, she still missed the way her husband’s voice reverberated from deep within his chest when she would lay her head against him.
For a heartbeat neither of them spoke or moved. The low hoot of an owl nearby drifted in through the open window, jarring her back to the present.
Bridget had to get a handle on her drifting thoughts and useless wishes. She might be weak from fever, and what her son termed a “mysterious illness,” but she was still aware enough to know when her boy was up to no good. Worry for her only child speared through her like a hoe through freshly turned earth.
“But Mick, I thought—”
”I love you, Ma.”
The puff of air from the softly closing door blew out the stub of a candle Mick had thoughtfully placed on the table next to her bed.
As her only source of light winked out, darkness closed in on her, leaving her alone with her tortured thoughts.
Where was he going? Who was he meeting?
Would he leave her and not come back as his father had?
Too weak to get out of bed and chase after her son, Bridget nearly gave in to the hopelessness and fatigue plaguing her, closing her eyes. But she had one option left to her, one that had yet to fail her.
“Lord, please watch over my boy . . . he’s all I have left.”
* * *
“Jest kill him and leave him for the coyotes,” one of the rustlers ground out.
“No!” the scrawny-looking boy shouted. “I did what you asked.”
“Then why is the hair on the back of my neck standing up?” the one with the black eye patch demanded.
“Maybe ya need to use more soap—” the
boy began.
“Don’t sass me, boy,” the one-eyed rustler growled. “Everybody knows it’s a warning; I inherited the sight from my Scots granny.”
James Ryan inched another step closer, then crouched low to hide behind the jagged boulder, never taking his eyes off the rustlers or the young boy surrounded by them. Here was trouble he hadn’t bargained for. All he’d intended to do tonight was stop a mangy group of cattle rustlers from stealing any more of his herd. He’d have to change his plans. The boy was in deep trouble, probably his own doing. But the boy needed his help, and he couldn’t ignore the boy’s pleas. Now it looked as if he’d have to stop the rustlers from hurting the poor boy shaking in his boots.
“Naw, jest cut off his nose and his lips,” the one with the scarred face snarled. “That’ll teach him he can’t poke what he don’t have into nobody else’s business.”
Ryan’s gut clenched in reaction to the gruesome threat. He flexed his hand then slowly drew his Colt .45 from its holster.
“Yeah,” another gruff voice shouted, “without his lips, he won’t be tellin’ tales.”
“No, stupid. He can still talk without lips. Ya need to cut out his tongue—”
“Help!” the boy screamed as the rustler with the eye patch slid a wicked-looking Bowie knife from his belt and held it up to the boy’s lips.
The high-pitched keening sound raked jagged fingers up and down his spine, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand at attention. The eerie silence that followed was quieter than last Sunday when the preacher had given his twice-yearly hellfire and damnation sermon.
“Bloody buggering eedjit,” Ryan mumbled. No one was going to lay a finger—or knife—to that poor boy while there was breath left in Ryan’s body.
“Are ye after savin’ the lad then, Jamie?”
“Aye,” Ryan whispered. “Somewhere he’s got a mother worrying herself sick over him. Ready, men?” Ryan turned to look at the four men riding with him. All four nodded in unison. “Wait for the marshal’s signal. Shoot to disarm.”
Off to Ryan’s left the marshal gave the signal. Ryan and his ranch hands stepped out of the darkness into the firelight, guns blazing. The black powder was clearing by the time Ryan had a hold of the boy’s arm.
“Let me go!” the boy shouted, though Ryan thought he heard the boy’s voice wavering.
“Is that anyway to talk to the man who saved yer skin?” one of Ryan’s men demanded.
“Let it go, Murphy.” They didn’t have time for this now.
“Doesn’t seem grateful, does he lads?”
“That’ll do, Flynn,” Ryan bit out, watching as one of the rustlers tried to sneak off without being noticed. “See if you can help Marshal Turner over there. I want to talk to the boy.”
The boy struggled to free himself, so Ryan let him go. The boy stumbled back and landed hard on his backside. Recognizing the boy’s embarrassed pride, he didn’t offer his hand in help, knowing it would more than likely be refused. “Are you hurt?”
The boy shook his head and brushed himself off as he got to his feet.
Getting a better look at the youngster, he wondered just how old he was and how he got mixed up in the attempted rustling. “What are you doing with the likes of them, lad?”
Ryan watched the boy, waiting for an answer, but before he had the chance, one of the rustlers called out, “Don’t tell him a thing, Mick!”
The boy’s head swiveled away from Ryan toward the threat. So, his name’s Mick.
A stream of brown tobacco juice splattering the boy’s left boot accompanied the second threat, “I’ll cut your throat ear to ear!”
Anger surged through Ryan. “Enough!” He watched Mick bend down to wipe the spit off his worn boots.
“Gag ’em,” the marshal ordered, coming to stand alongside Ryan and the boy.
The boy started to shake something fierce, Ryan took pity on him and hunkered down next to Mick. “You want to save your mama from having to watch you hang?”
The quietly spoken words had an empowering effect on the boy. Mick nodded and pointed to the man with the eye patch. “I don’t know the name of the man they rustle for, but that one’s called One-Eyed Jack.”
“Well now, Jamie,” Flynn said with a nod, “the lad’s not as dumb as we thought.”
“I’m not stupid!” the boy snapped.
“Aren’t you, now?” Murphy pushed the brim of his Stetson up to scratch his forehead, “Sure and it’s a smart lad who knows to stay home instead of taggin’ along after cattle rustlers.”
Mick opened his mouth to speak then shut it.
“Tie ’em up,” the marshal ordered.
“And lay them face down over their saddles,” Ryan added.
“If you do that, how will you get them to town?” Mick asked.
“We’re going to tie their horses’ reins together,” Marshal Turner said, pulling bits of rope out of his saddlebags and tossing them to Ryan’s men, who began tying the outlaws’ hands and feet together.
Satisfied that orders were being followed, he turned back to Mick and asked, “Why are you mixed up with these outlaws?”
More than one muffled curse sounded, and Ryan was afraid the boy would balk and run.
But Mick didn’t make a move to run. Instead, he stared at the group of men—and their hands and feet—he must be trying to judge whether or not they were securely tied. Ryan knew he was right when Mick drew in a deep breath and stood up straight. “I did what I had to—for my ma.”
Ryan wondered where the boy’s father was, but knew better than to ask that just yet. “We’ll stop by my ranch on the way to jail.”
Still a bit wobbly, Mick took a step closer to Ryan so they stood toe to toe and bravely asked, “Am I going to jail, too?”
“You’ll not be goin’ off to jail tonight, lad.”
“He’s broken the law, Ryan,” Marshal Turner grumbled. “He’ll have to answer for that.”
“Oh, let him alone, Marshal—” Flynn began, but Ryan interrupted.
“I think Mick will be invaluable in capturing the head of the rustling operation.” Ryan turned toward the boy. “Won’t you, Mick?”
“I swear I don’t know the man’s name, but I know we were to meet him tomorrow night up by the abandoned mine shaft.”
“I need to take the boy into town for questioning,” Marshal Turner insisted.
Ryan’s gazed locked with Mick’s, and he would later swear the boy was seeing his own ghost—he looked that petrified about going with the marshal. Ryan remembered just what that fear could do to a person . . . what it had done to him.
“I’m sure you can ask Mick anything you want, tomorrow after breakfast.”
“Ryan—” the marshal began.
“You have enough to keep you busy until then, Marshal Turner.” Ryan patted the boy’s shoulder. “He won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”
More muffled curses sounded from behind them as he watched Mick mount his horse. “Follow me back to the ranch.”
“All right.”
One of the rustlers managed to loosen his gag and threatened, “I’ll cut your mother’s heart out the minute I break out of jail!”
Mick’s cry was heartfelt and terrified. He squirmed to get down off the horse, but Ryan anticipated the reaction and was there to steady the boy, keeping him from leaping from his saddle.
“No one’s escaped from the Emerson jail in ten years,” he assured Mick. “It’s not likely to happen with Marshal Turner in charge.”
“Aye, lad,” Flynn said. “Don’t mind them. They’re just anxious to test the length of rope the sheriff has waiting for them over at the jail.”
“But I thought the marshal—”
“Marshal Turner is here for another reason,” Ryan said quietly, meeting the lawman’s gaze over the top of Mick’s head.
“I’ll find her, Ryan,” the marshal vowed. “You have my word.”
Ryan nodded, trying not to think about his missing sister
. Maggie should have arrived over a week ago.
“What about my ma?” Mick demanded.
Ryan’s thoughts shifted back to the present. “She won’t be following after you, will she?”
Mick was silent, so they started riding toward the Ryan spread. Finally he spoke up, “Naw, she’s too sick. The doc won’t see her anymore, and we needed the money. That’s why I…” Mick’s voice trailed off.
Ryan put a hand on top of the one Mick placed on the saddle horn, and squeezed once before letting go. “I’d never fault a boy for trying to take care of his mother, would you lads?”
The group riding with Ryan and the marshal closed ranks, with the exception of the one who led the string of rustlers’ horses they’d tied together; he concentrated on the task of keeping the train of mounts together.
“Nay, I’d not,” Flynn agreed.
“Well sure and it’s a grand thing,” Reilly said.
“No lad should desert his ma, ’specially when she’s ailing,” Murphy sagely added.
“Right you all are, and sure it’s himself that’ll be the one to save the day.”
Ryan wondered at the odd look in the boy’s eyes, and he looked around at his men. Nothing out of the ordinary there, but maybe through a scared boy’s eyes they might look a bit rough around the edges.
“Does this mean you’ll help me?” Mick finally got up the gumption to ask.
“Do I have your word that you’ll not try to steal from me?” Ryan countered.
Mick’s jaw dropped. Before he had a chance to close it, the marshal bit out, “He broke the law.”
“He’s just a lad. Misguided at that,” Ryan insisted.
“Why would you be willing to help me?” Mick demanded. “No one else would.”
“And there’s yer answer,” Flynn said.
The marshal sighed loudly then added, “He’s in your custody, Ryan. Keep him out of trouble.”
“Are you certain you won’t change your mind?” Mick asked him as they urged their horses into a canter.
Ryan let his gaze slide off the gangly young man riding at his side. He was younger than Ryan had first thought. He shook his head. Nothing would make him change his mind.
The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Page 17