“I may not look healthy to you, but I know my own strength. I’ve had to look out for myself and Mick all these years without any help.”
“And a fine job ye’ve done of it lately.” Her sharp intake of breath told him his words had struck her hard. He hadn’t meant to be that blunt. But he did want her to see reason and understand why he could not let her overdo.
“I’m sure you didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she said.
Bloody buggering eedjit, he mentally kicked himself, then closed his eyes and started to count. When he reached five, he opened one eye. It didn’t help. He still had the urge to wring her slender neck. He closed his eye again and kept counting. By the time he reached fifteen, he no longer wanted to throttle her, but the havoc she wreaked within him still had him nearly giving in to the urge to yell at her.
He heard her breathing change and quicken. Resolving not to frighten the fragile widow, he swallowed his anger. God knows she’d led a hard life without a man to lean on. That she’d survived her own share of trials was something he knew instinctively. She could hold her own counsel too. Since she arrived at his home, he’d not been able to pry any of her past out of her.
He remembered the way she’d arrived at his ranch a few short weeks ago, so weak he’d been afraid she’d die. He had lived a hard life, worked hard to achieve all that he now owned. Life and death were an integral part of ranching, but somehow the thought of this vibrant woman never smiling again took the starch right out of him. Thoughts of her expressive dark eyes closing forever nearly broke what was left of his heart. He cared about what happened to her. She had obviously done the best she could with what little she had. One look at her son, and he could see where all of her energies and food had gone. The lad was the picture of health, but at a terrible cost to that of his mother.
A funny feeling beneath his breastbone had him pause in his counting. The feeling was not unlike the indigestion he suffered whenever it was Reilly’s turn to cook. He rubbed absent-mindedly at the spot before deciding to ignore it, focusing instead on resuming his counting and controlling his temper.
Twenty-five.
He opened both eyes and prayed his anger was sufficiently under control. Damned if she hadn’t been waiting for him to look at her.
“I need to speak with you.” Bridget hesitated. “It’s important.”
Ryan sighed. If she mentioned paying him back for his hospitality again, he was going to lose the tenuous hold he now had on his growing annoyance.
Frustration added a razor-sharp edge to his voice, “I told you, I won’t hear of you paying—”
She shook her head. ”It’s not that.”
He drew in a breath. Counting hadn’t helped. He was still mad. He waited, watching her face closely for a clue as to where this conversation was headed.
She cleared her throat. “Have you thought of hiring a housekeeper?”
Of all the things he could think of, he never thought she’d want to talk about hiring a housekeeper.
He watched as she grabbed fistfuls of her pale yellow cotton dress in each hand, all the while trying to decide what part of the woman’s brain had ceased to function. The doctor had told her not to work, had said she was too weak. He had asked her not to work, didn’t want her to work. How many different ways did a man have to come up with of saying the same thing?
Were all women this thickheaded?
Only the ones worth caring about. As Ian McMaster’s gruff voice echoed in his head, he realized yet again how much he missed the old Scot. Now more than ever.
“You’re not well enough,” he began, but one hard look from her and he fell silent, recognizing the need to try another tack.
The old Scotsman was right, and she was worth caring about. She was difficult, but if he could afford to care, she’d be the one. He turned his thoughts to a happier part of his past, and realized that, although he owed McMaster for the very land he stood on, he would willingly give it all back to have his mentor standing beside him, railing at him for letting this slip of a woman get the better of him.
Bridget unclenched her fists and smoothed the wrinkles from the sides of her dress. He watched the movement of her hands, mesmerized by them. They were so small, but so capable. God help him, was he losing his mind altogether?
This was not the first time he’d caught himself watching for small gestures particular to the woman who had become a part of his home and ranch; therefore becoming an essential part of his life. His brain warned his softening heart to harden afraid the frozen organ was beginning to thaw.
As he stood there watching, she brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. The movement reminded him of the way she stroked her son’s cheek when she served the lad his meals. The way she ruffled her fingers through Mick’s dark hair always had Ryan imagining how it would feel to have her slender fingers caressing his own scalp.
He could not stop staring at her. Though only God knew why she continued to captivate him. The woman irritated him no end, never listened to reason. Whenever she smiled, he felt his grip slipping. The way her lightning-fast grin flashed whenever Mick said something amusing pulled at him, drawing him inexorably toward her, though he tried to maintain a respectful distance.
He clamped his jaw down hard, grinding his teeth together, forcing his curving mouth to flatten into a line of disapproval. The woman was getting to him. There was no place in his life for a woman. He would never, ever, let a woman take hold of his heart. He shook his head, realizing she was speaking to him. Lord above, she’d make him daft!
“Mick and I are so grateful you took us in. Why won’t you let me take on more chores in order to make it up to you?”
His gut clenched, churning, remembering the bony feel of her ribs as he’d held her undernourished body in his arms. “Do you have any idea how you looked when you arrived here four weeks ago?”
He watched as she clasped her hands in front of her and stared down at them. What had her so nervous? Then it dawned on him: something Maggie had told him about Bridget’s constant battle with gossip.
“I need to feel like I’m pulling my own weight.” She set her mouth in a grim line. One that matched his own.
“Well now, that being the case, I’d say you more than used up your quota. Your weight can’t possibly equal eight stone!”
Impossibly, her eyes darkened until he could no longer see the black centers. The look in her eyes reminded him of a certain fractious bay mare whose eyes would darken right before she kicked out with her back legs at whomever had the misfortune to be standing too close to her.
“You have done so much for Mick and me, even after he tried to steal from you! Can’t you see I have no other way to pay you back for all you’ve done?”
He noticed the sheen of moisture pooling along her thick black lashes and mentally kicked himself for pushing her to the point of tears.
“Bridget, please,” he began. “There is no need.”
“Can’t you see this is not about me?” she argued, furiously blinking away the evidence of tears.
“Well, I’d say—”
“And you’d be wrong,” Bridget interrupted, placing her fisted hands on her slim hips.
He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to calm his rising temper. Why did this one woman have the ability to get under his skin so quickly? The lass didn’t mean to rile him, did she?
He pushed the Stetson further back on his head, all the while trying to figure out a way to get her to agree with him without her realizing she was being manipulated.
“Look at me, you daft man!”
He obeyed and looked his fill. Her cheeks had splotches of pink on them, making her brown eyes seem brighter.
“Do I look ill to you?”
Lord help him, he looked, taking in the gentle curve of her cheekbones. They’d filled out a bit in the last few weeks. The sharpness of her features had softened and her color had certainly improved. His gaze swept from the top of her head to the toes of her h
igh-buttoned shoes. She’d gained weight and now had curves he hadn’t noticed at first. Well, hell. He was noticing now.
“If you don’t want Mick and me to stay, that is another matter entirely,” she continued. “I can always find work in town.”
“I thought you couldn’t find work in town,” he retorted. “Wasn’t that why you nearly died, starving yourself?”
A deep rosy flush swept up from the collar of her dress to the top of her forehead. Blast his temper. He never seemed to say the right thing where Bridget O’Toole was concerned.
“I was unable to find work.” Her voice was even. She chose to ignore the fact that Ryan already knew what had happened to her and Mick.
“If you’re worried about the old biddies gossiping about you living out here, don’t worry.”
She sighed, and her still-moist gaze swept back to him.
“They’ve been talking about you since the day we brought you here in my wagon.”
Instead of soothing her worry, Ryan noticed the sharp jerky way her head snapped up at his words. The rosy blush drained from her forehead, cheeks, and chin, all the way to the lace-trimmed collar of her dress. The stark contrast of pale-as-milk skin and dark brown hair worried him. He recognized the anxious look. He’d seen it before; she looked desperately ill again.
Preparing to offer a steadying hand, Ryan stepped closer.
***
Bridget wet her suddenly dry lips, and struggled to stay upright. She couldn’t feel the top of her head, and she could swear her stomach felt as if the bottom had just dropped out of it.
It was too late! But then again, it seemed she was always too late to repair the damage her husband’s leaving had done.
“Well now, and what did you say to them?” she countered, hoping at least this man who seemed so solid and upright had explained her desperate situation to the old harridans.
His look of confusion should have tipped her off. It certainly set her back up. She could feel her temper flare. Just like a man! She thought. He hadn’t even tried to stem the gossip, probably just did what every other man usually did when faced with gossip, ignored it!
Or had he? Had he believed the gossips? Was that why he didn’t say anything in her defense?
“Bridget, I never thought—”
“Aye, that you didn’t Mr. Ryan.”
The color seemed to leach from his eyes, leaving them a cold, lifeless, pale blue. Sweet heaven. Why couldn’t she keep control of her biting tongue? Even well-placed blame would not solve her current troubles. She certainly should not fault him for acting the way any other man would.
She clenched her hands again and willed her churning stomach to be calm. “Has Sarah Burnbaum told you I’m not really a widow?”
She didn’t pause for fear he’d answer. “Has Millicent Peabody told you she doesn’t believe I was ever married?” She watched his eyes widen while disbelief added lines of frustration between his thick black brows.
“Did the fine ladies of Emerson collectively wonder aloud just what type of service I’d be useful for way out here, away from their prying eyes and wagging tongues, with not another female around for miles?”
Bridget couldn’t catch her breath. Her spiking fury simply drained her. That the man she so admired could possibly remain silent, leading her to the conclusion that he had heard the gossip and believed it, drove the breath from her lungs. In that moment before he spoke, as a dark look tightened his jaw and furrowed his brow, she realized just how much she cared what he thought of her.
But she was far from worthy of his regard. An honest man like James Ryan, pillar of the community, deserved a woman without a tarnished reputation. Hers had been following her since she and Mick left Louviers, Colorado. She blinked back tears, hating the weakness they implied.
He took a step toward her, then another. They were a breath apart when he finally spoke. “Ahh, lass. Why would you think I’d ever judge you?”
The deep timbre of his voice eased a bit of tension from between her shoulder blades, but not the hurt slicing through to the marrow of her bones.
He reached out a hand to her.
“Everyone else has!” Bridget blurted out. Then sucked in her breath, wondering why she just didn’t bit off the tip of her tongue. He didn’t deserve the sharp edge of it. He wasn’t the one with the murky past.
Though she wanted to clasp his hand between her own and draw on some of his strength, she couldn’t—didn’t—have the right. Not after the way the harsh words tumbled out of her mouth. Searching his face for a clue as to what he was thinking, she didn’t have to wonder long. His eyes frosted over, like a shallow pond on a wintry day, chilling her. Though he hadn’t moved, she could see him mentally stepping back from her.
He dropped the offered hand.
She had lost her chance. Making a last-ditch effort to smooth over the feelings she knew she’d tramped all over, she spoke softly. “You’ve a good heart.”
He glared at her.
“You would never presume to judge anyone.” And hadn’t she done just that?
“Then why are you and Mick leaving?”
He honestly didn’t have any idea. “What do you know about me?”
“You are a wonderful mother to a likeable lad.” His eyes clouded for a moment, and a flash of what she recognized as pain flickered to life.
“What if Sarah is right?” she whispered. “What if the things Millicent has been saying are true?”
She watched the man before her stiffen, almost as if he were preparing to receive a blow.
He took her hand in his, nearly crushing it in his strong grasp, pulling her close to him. Bridget could feel the warmth radiating from his powerful form. She had to fight to ignore the feelings she had for him, and not give in to them as she’d wanted to from that first night he’d sought to ease her nightmares.
“It would not matter what anyone else said, or thought.” His voice was firm with conviction. “I make my own decisions.”
“Aye, and I’m sure all who know you bow to them.” Bridget mentally kicked herself for failing to rein in her sharp tongue. She just couldn’t seem to help herself.
His eyes widened, then narrowed. He seemed to be thinking deep thoughts again. She wished she knew what they were. James Ryan spent more time thinking than he did speaking. It was almost as irritating as his penchant for ordering her about.
“Marry me, Bridget O’Toole,” he rasped, staring intently into her eyes.
For the life of her, she couldn’t form a coherent thought in her head. It wasn’t a question. It had been a statement. An order.
Marry him. Was he daft, or did he truly care for her?
When she didn’t answer him right away, he shifted from one foot to the other. “Then no one would dare to question or speak ill of you again.”
Her silent question had been answered abruptly. He didn’t harbor feelings for her, other than his overpowering need to protect those he felt needed protecting. She’d been fooling herself, thinking she could stay. Worse, the fact that she’d fallen for more than deep-blue eyes and coal-black hair made her chest tight and her breath quicken. God help her, she would not cry!
Needing to get away from him before the tears started, she snapped, “I can’t.”
She had hoped to keep her heart out of the matter, but the shadows she glimpsed in his eyes had her questioning her need not to become involved with him. Steeling herself against the desire to throw her arms around him and say yes, she’d marry him, she wrapped her arms about herself. He deserved better than a widowed mother dragging her twelve-year-old son and tarnished reputation behind her. Far better.
“Thank you for the asking, Jamie.”
“Bridget—”
”I owe you my life, such as it is. I’ll never forget your kindness to Mick and me.”
“Wait! You can’t just—”
Before she could change her mind, and allow her resolve to weaken any further, she grabbed her skirts and lifted them just
high enough to keep the hem from brushing along the ground. She was as close to loving James—no—she corrected, it was time to be honest and admit it—she was so far gone over him, she almost gave in to the need to turn around and tell James she’d changed her mind. But she couldn’t complicate the poor man’s life any more than she already had.
It was time she and Mick moved back to town so she could begin to rebuild her reputation and their future. Time to let James Ryan pick up his life where he had put it on the shelf a few weeks ago.
They had to leave.
Dear God, she wanted to stay!
Chapter Ten
“Why can’t we stay?”
Mick’s voice cracked, and Bridget’s heart nearly broke at the sound of it. How could she begin to explain the choices she had made all those years ago, and how they still affected their lives today?
“Mr. Ryan said we could.”
How could she tell her beautiful son anything without confessing the one truth she had never faced until today: his father had abandoned them. Wasn’t it enough that Mick was old enough to understand the horrible rumors that followed them from town to town?
“He said I’m a natural at roping.”
Her stomach began to churn as she thought of taking Mick away from the one man who had given her son confidence in himself.
Would Mick recover?
Would he be scarred for life?
Though the words nearly stuck in her throat, she managed to say, “You knew from the beginning it was only temporary, until I regained my strength and got better.” She couldn’t look at her son yet; if she did, her steely resolve would surely shatter to bits.
Focusing on the mountains in the distance, ignoring the road ahead, she silently asked herself if it wasn’t better to sever the ties Mick and James were forging now, before the bond was so strong both would be devastated.
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