Emma reached out a hand to Bridget, a shy smile lighting her face. Instead of putting the doll in Emma’s tiny hands, Bridget clasped hers around the doll and sat on the edge of the bed. The confusion on the child’s face was short-lived. “If you want to hold her, you’ll have to sip some broth and eat a bite or two of bread.”
Emma’s eyes tracked back and forth between the yellow-haired rag doll in Bridget’s left hand to the tray she had obviously been ignoring on the table.
In a raspy voice, the little one finally asked, “Can I hold her while I eat?”
A tear escaped as Bridget held the doll out to Emma.
Emma saw the tear and whispered, “Don’t cry, or the bad man will beat you.”
Bridget’s breath snagged in her chest, but she ignored it, handing the dolly to Emma and plastering a pleasant look on her face before helping Emma eat. Dear God, the brute beat her for crying? If she had her way, he would pay. The man would definitely pay.
Later that night Bridget lay awake, her mind tormenting her with images she wished she could forget: the sight of little Emma’s bruises, and the fear of condemnation in Pearl’s eyes when she’d shared the horrible things her husband expected her to do. But mostly she remembered the sorrow in her son’s eyes as they drove away from the Ryan ranch.
She rolled onto her side, and her thoughts whirled back to the past and the first time she realized Michael was not coming back. Shrugging that impossibly sad thought aside, she tried to clear her mind and relax. She nearly succeeded. Sighing deeply, she closed her eyes and images of James Ryan bombarded her. James talking to her son. James sitting, talking to her over cooling cups of coffee. The most disturbing one of all was the image of James looking at her as if she were the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
She swallowed the lump of emotion she knew would only lead to a serious bout of tears. Sniffing loudly, she rolled over onto her right side and stared out the window. A pale shaft of moonlight illuminated the windowsill with silvery beams. Another memory filled her. Moonlight mixing with candlelight, and the gentle touch of callused fingertips along the length of her jaw, the edge of her collarbone. Restless, she tossed the blanket aside and walked over to the window.
Looking down, she noticed a figure standing in the yard below. Before she could cry out, the soft light of the moon seemed to outline his form. Tall, broad-shouldered, and oh-so-familiar. Her heart lurched with longing. When she saw his body stiffen, she knew he’d noticed her in the window. Neither one of them moved for a heartbeat, then the man who had so gallantly offered her marriage turned on his heel and strode to the hitching post to untie his horse.
Why couldn’t she have met James before Michael? The answer was so swift and obviously simple. She wouldn’t have had Mick.
Watching the man she cared for far too much ride away, Bridget knew she’d reached a turning point her life. Her heart had finally healed and she was ready to love again. But for the first time in over twelve years, she was afraid her heart was in danger of breaking over a man she had no business thinking about.
The one emotion that had the power to scare the breath right out of her, the one she tried so hard not to feel, swept through her. Despite everything that had happened in the past, never mind her reputation and knowing her feelings could not possibly be returned, her heart ignored her head and leapt ahead. Dizzy with the sudden realization that she had absolutely no control over her heart, she realized she’d fallen completely and totally in love with the one man whom she could destroy simply by being herself.
Chapter Fourteen
Ryan rode like the devil was nipping at his heels, pushing his mount relentlessly until he finally noticed the animal had been breathing heavily for too long. He immediately changed his seat in the saddle and lightened up on the reins. The horse slowed to a trot.
Whatever possessed him to ride into Emerson just to stare up at her bedroom window? Wiping a hand across his face in frustration, he knocked the brim of his Stetson up until it slid back off his forehead. He knew she had seen him, but not at first. He’d had the pure pleasure of staring up at her exquisite face illuminated by the soft, pale moonlight.
“Bugger it!”
He should have been home catching up on his much-needed sleep. The last few miles between Emerson and his ranch stretched before him as exhaustion began to ease its way inside of him. The barn-raising was set for a few hours from now. He’d no business being out and about, let alone spying on the lovely widow O’Toole. He urged his mount up the lane to his ranch. “Gawking at her, like a lad just out of short pants!”
He dismounted, looked down at his long legs and shook his head. Taking the saddle from his horse, and then the blanket, he began to rub the animal down. Though bone-tired, he’d never ignore the needs of anyone, whether human or four-footed. He’d gone hungry and thirsty too many times and had to keep working long after his body needed him to stop for a breather. If he learned anything from McMaster, it was to value his ranch hands and keep them fed and happy.
Thoughts of eating inevitably had his mind curling around a slender brown-eyed widow. She looked like a dream and cooked like an angel. He didn’t want to think about Bridget, and had tried to stop, but if the last few hours were any indication, he wasn’t going to succeed.
All his efforts had been for naught; he’d been powerless against his fractured heart’s painful reawakening. He rubbed a hand over his chest, trying to ease the dull ache throbbing there. God help him, he never wanted to feel those feelings again. He’d nearly sacrificed the rest of his life in the name of love five years before. The trap had almost swallowed him whole. He’d been a blind eedjit and had vowed to never set himself up to be used by a woman again.
His horse turned and looked over its shoulder at him when Ryan started currying a spot he knew the animal liked.
“Feel’s good, doesn’t it?” Running a hand over the spot he just combed, he smiled when the huge equine head nodded up and down in agreement.
“Can’t you sleep?”
Reilly’s gruff, sleep-filled voice echoed through the dilapidated old barn. For a moment, Ryan stood, transfixed by the fact that sound could possibly bounce off planked walls with more than an inch of air and moonlight coming in through them.
Moonlight, gentle curves, ethereal beauty, illuminated by silvery beams.
Ryan caught his thoughts drifting toward her again, and shook his head. It would do him no good to follow that particular line of thinking.
Reilly mistook Ryan’s movement for agreement and shuffled into the barn. “I’ve got more than enough planks set aside for the walls.”
Ryan finished up currying his mount, then checked the feedbag. It still had grain left in it. “There’s a lad.” He patted the horse’s neck. “Finish up, and we’ll bed you down for the night.”
“What’s left of it.” Other than his comment, Reilly didn’t seem perturbed by Ryan’s lack of response; he just kept talking. “ ’Tis the beams that are givin’ me a bit o’ worry. I think we’ve enough, but they may have a bit o’ green to them.”
“The logs seemed dry enough when we checked them yesterday.” Ryan wondered if he hadn’t looked closely enough. Reilly’s concern should be looked into; the man never worried unnecessarily.
“Aye, that they did.”
“Well, then, what’s the problem?”
Reilly hesitated, looked right at him, then away. Something was definitely bothering the man. “I thought to catch ye up on what’s been happenin’ around the ranch.” Reilly’s eyes were narrowed, his brow furrowed intently.
“I had things to do.” Ryan was tired, irritable, and had to be up and about in three hours in order to ensure everything would be ready when the good people of Emerson and beyond arrived for the barn-raising.
One look at Reilly’s clenched jaw, and Ryan knew the other man wouldn’t leave until he said his piece. Reilly’s words confirmed it. “If yer tired, ’tis yer own fault. Harin’ off earlier, and then aga
in in the middle of the night, like a hound was snappin’ at yer heels.”
A slow burn started filling Ryan’s gut. “Leave it alone.” Ryan was losing his temper, but didn’t want to. He clamped his mouth shut. Volatile tempers were just part of the pleasure of working with fellow Irishmen. They all shared that one thing in common, as well as a few others. Each and every one of the men he’d taken in over the years had tempers to match his own, with engaging personalities that made him ache for the green homeland he’d left far, far behind. Though troubles had followed him all the way from County Clare to New York and on to Texas, he didn’t feel so alone as long as Reilly and Flynn were working alongside him. For that he owed the both men more than he could repay.
When he remained silent, Reilly spoke up, “Ye did what ye set out to do. The lad and his mother had a place to stay while she got her strength back.”
Ryan grunted.
“Aye, she’s fit and fine now. The picture of health. Such a lovely, slender frame—not that another stone on her frame wouldn’t sit just as well.”
“Reilly . . .” Ryan warned. He didn’t want to think about Bridget or her willow-slim body right now.
“Well,” Reilly huffed, “I’m just sayin’ a man wouldn’t mind a woman with a bit more to hang on to when he—”
“Enough,” Ryan snapped, stomping off toward the house. He’d be hard pressed to sleep at all, but he wouldn’t let his friend know he’d gotten the better of him. Without looking back over his should, Ryan called out, “Get some sleep, Reilly. You’re going to be needing it come morning!”
* * *
“Coffee.” He could smell it: hot, black, and sweet as sin, just the way he liked it. Ryan scrubbed his hands over his face. When that didn’t knock the sleep from his eyes, he raked his fingers through his hair until his scalp started to tingle.
“All right then,” he mumbled. Maybe his brain was finally awake.
Following the heady scent from the back porch, where he’d dropped into his favorite rocking chair a few hours earlier and fallen asleep, he stumbled into the kitchen. Barely awake and far from feeling pleasant, he snatched the offered cup and downed half of it before noticing whose hand the cup had been in.
“Well, then.” Maggie’s soft voice snagged his full attention. With half a cup of coffee in him, he was more or less awake. “Isn’t it grand? Me brother has such a sunny personality first thing in the mornin’.”
“Maggie?”
Ryan’s body stiffened as someone called out to her, followed by the sound of heavy footfalls and muffled voices coming down the hallway toward the kitchen.
“In here.” Ryan’s sister stood with her hands braced on her hips, her pointed little chin tilted up, as if poised to receive a clip on it.
Though he was often temped to lash out with his foul temper, he’d never struck anyone in anger. Defense, maybe, but never anger. His words… well, he’d not go down that rocky road right now. His sister was demanding his full attention, and it was all he could do to focus his bleary eyes and aching head.
“What are you doing here?”
“Aren’t you hosting a barn-raising in a few hours?” his brother-in-law asked, stepping into the kitchen. Maggie looked over her shoulder at him. While Ryan watched, all tension drained from her. Turner placed his hands on Maggie’s shoulders and drew her back to lean against the front of him.
Maggie sighed and closed her eyes.
“You shouldn’t be letting yourself get all riled,” Turner admonished.
“I thought you two had been married for over a month.” Ryan couldn’t believe Turner had actually lived with his sister for all that time and not witnessed his sister’s mercurial temper.
“Aye,” Maggie answered. “That we have.” Smiling at Ryan, she turned into her husband’s arms, letting him hold her close.
The temperature in the room seemed to rise, while all the tension in his rigid body eased away. Too be held like that, loved like that… The couple radiated happiness.
He shook his head; it was so much more than that. Love, a living, breathing, tangible emotion that he’d at one time ached to lavish on a certain rancher’s daughter, but she’d not loved him in return.
“ ’Tis yer redheaded sister!” Flynn called out, bursting into the room with one of the ranch hands hard at his heels. “Have ye come to save us from Sean’s cookin’?” Flynn nodded at the ranch hand and stared at Maggie, waiting.
Before Ryan could open his mouth to remind Flynn not to tease her, Maggie turned back around and grabbed hold of her husband’s hand. “I don’t have red hair, Flynn,” she said with the toss of her red head. “You do. Besides, I cannot let ye rile me.”
The breath whooshed out of Ryan’s lungs. Something was wrong with Maggie. He could tell from the way his sister had calmly answered the taunt that in the past had usually managed to get her back up.
Bloody hell, was she ill? Had someone hurt her?
He could think of only one man to blame. “Turner!”
Instead of the worried reaction he expected, his brother-in-law smiled at him, all the while pointedly watching the way Ryan clenched and unclenched his fists. Damn the man for knowing he was angry.
“Ryan?”
“What have ye done to me sister?” Ryan nearly bit his tongue off. Bugger it, he hated the way his temper brought out his brogue. He’d tried so hard to lose the lilting way he spoke. At the time, it had been a matter of life and death. It still was.
“Now, Seamus.” Maggie used the Gaelic form of Ryan’s name. “Why don’t ye finish yer coffee? The scones’ll be comin’ out of the oven in a moment.”
“Scones?” Masterson stood in the doorway to the kitchen with his head tilted up, and his nose theatrically sniffing at the air. “Do I truly smell just-baked scones?” The big man whipped his head around and pinned his gaze on Maggie. “I knew you’d come back and save us from your brother’s cooking! We haven’t had a decent scone since Mrs. O’Toole…”
The mention of her name had Ryan’s blood boiling. He was ready to throttle the man, but one look at his sister had the dangerous need subsiding. What was wrong with Maggie?
He turned his attention back to Turner and demanded, “I asked you a question.”
He took a menacing step closer to the man who’d helped him save his ranch. Damn, if it wasn’t for Turner—he swiftly set that thought aside and concentrated on his sister. Her well-being was paramount. “What’s wrong with me sister?”
His brother-in-law seemed unmoved by Ryan’s rising anger. He brushed a fingertip down the line of Maggie’s jaw and touched it to the tip of her nose. “I think Maggie has something to tell you.”
“Seamus, why don’t ye have a seat?” She drew her brother over to an empty chair. Head pounding, body weary, and mind confused, he let himself be led.
Her face was too pale. Dear Lord, don’t let her be seriously ill. He couldn’t face that.
“Joshua and I are going to start on that passel.” She flushed a delicate pink.
“Yer fixin’ a passel?” Reilly asked, his perplexed expression comical.
“What’s a passel?” Flynn demanded.
“I didn’t know it was broken,” Masterson added, a decidedly wicked gleam in his eyes.
What does he know? Ryan wondered, watching the way Masterson spun Maggie into his arms hugging her.
Flynn and Reilly watched with identical blank looks on their faces. Ryan could all but imagine the way their like minds were furiously working to figure out the Gaelic equivalent to the word. He wasn’t sure he knew what a passel was himself, until his brother-in-law’s hand slid from Maggie’s waist to rest protectively on her stomach. Then it hit him, right between the eyes. Before Rory died, Maggie had wanted a houseful of kids.
A passel must mean a lot! “A baby?”
He stood up and walked slowly over to where Masterson had left his sister standing. “Are ye certain?” He didn’t quite know whether to hug her close and spin her around, or bundle he
r up in a blanket and demand she stay in bed for the next nine months.
One look at his sister’s glowing face, and he knew he was going to be an uncle. “How? When?”
Turner’s burst of laughter filled the room. “Well now, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the how. As to the when, late winter—we think.”
While Ryan watched, Turner drew Maggie against his side and settled her there.
“Are ye goin’ to let those scones burn?” Reilly’s question broke through Ryan’s scattered thoughts. A baby. His little sister and her husband were going to have a wee little babe.
“I’ll take care of it.” Flynn picked up the towel draped across the edge of the dry sink and doubled it over. Opening the oven door, he reached in and grabbed the tray. He lifted it closer to his nose and breathed deeply. “Perfect!”
Ryan managed to get his emotions back under control, and his speech as well. “Maggie, are you feeling well?”
Turner frowned. “Wakes up sick as a dog every morning.” His brother-in-law’s statement was met with silence.
“I’m fine,” Maggie insisted. “Just a bit of an unsettled stomach when I wake.” Smiling at her brother, she started lifting the scones off of the tray onto wire racks to cool.
“If you’re pregnant, why are you here hours before the rest of the women?”
“Do ye think I’d trust any one of them in yer kitchen?” she demanded. “How do I know they’ll feed the likes of ye properly?”
“But you should be resting—” Ryan started to protest.
“If Bridget were still here—” Maggie bit down on her lip to stop the flow of words.
Probably bit her tongue as well. Ryan watched the way his sister scrunched up her face. Though now that the words had been spoken, the need he hadn’t succeeded in suppressing surfaced. He wished Bridget and Mick were here, too.
It hadn’t been a full two weeks, and he missed her like crazy. There were fistfuls of dead wildflowers in bone-dry mason jars throughout his house. No one else thought to replace the flowers, or the water in the jars, since Bridget had gone.
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