Bridget was shocked, but Maggie didn’t seem to be. Her blue eyes narrowed on her brother. “Oh, aye. No one was harmed a bit.”
The two women looked at one another, then at James. “Have a seat, boy-o.”
When he simply stood there, they took matters into their own hands. “Always the difficult one,” Maggie muttered as she moved to the left and Bridget to the right. They reached up and gently pushed down on a shoulder until he was sitting.
“There now, let’s have a look.” Maggie lifted the tail of his shirt out of the back of his jeans.
“Here now, Maggie darlin’,” Flynn said, coming in through the back door. “Ye’ve got yer hands on the wrong man.”
“Flynn—” Ryan began, only to suck in a sharp breath when Bridget touched his back again.
“Me brother seems to have run into the wrong end of a bit of wood, Flynn.”
The other man nodded his head in agreement. “That he has, lass.”
“Oh, James!” Bridget couldn’t keep the shocked sympathy from her voice. His back had to hurt dreadfully. The bottom of his shoulder blade was scraped raw and bruised a nasty shade of blackish purple.
Maggie moved quickly, snatching her healing basket off the sideboard, and began preparing a poultice to keep the wound from bruising further. While she did, Bridget dipped a clean, soft bit of cloth in warm soapy water and carefully cleansed the area.
Turner stepped through the back and demanded, “Is your injury so great you need two of the prettiest women in all of Emerson to tend you?”
Bridget was about to say something, but noticed the twinkle in Maggie’s husband’s eyes. She also noted the way they narrowed on Maggie before settling on James, who squirmed in his seat. “They didn’t give me a choice. They just starting prodding and poking until I had to give in.”
“Oh, aye.” Flynn laughed. “His eyes crossed when the lovely Mrs. O’Toole started tending him.”
“Flynn—” Ryan warned, but the Irishman laughed right in his face, “Ye should have seen yer face, Jamie boy.”
Maggie swept past Flynn with the poultice, silencing the man with a hard look. “Now, ye can just sit there for a bit while the comfrey root does its work,” she instructed her patient.
“Maggie—” He took her hand. “Thank you, but I don’t have the time to sit. I need to get back to the barn-raising.”
“It’ll do ye no good to argue. ’Tis me turn to win,” Maggie announced.
“I believe it is.” Turner chuckled. “Why, just this morning, she lost the argument we had about who would get to be on to—”
Maggie flew across the kitchen and clapped her hand across her husband’s mouth. “That’ll be enough from the likes of you!”
Bridget had a feeling she knew what the man had been about to say, but agreed some things were best said in private.
Maggie took him by the elbow and steered him toward the back door, “Ye can just make certain that those poor Burnbaum boys keep out of trouble until their papa can uncross his eyes enough to drive their wagon home.”
“Here’s your hat.” Turner started to mumble before Maggie pulled him back for a satisfying kiss. They broke away, with Maggie blushing and her husband whistling.
“Flynn,” Turner called, holding the door open, “give me a hand, won’t you?”
“And miss this?” Flynn demanded.
Maggie’s pointed look had the redheaded man moving.
“How do you do that?” Bridget demanded.
“Do what?”
“Get any man to do your bidding.”
Maggie shrugged, then wiped her hands on her apron, before turning back to the stove to grab the steaming teapot. “From watching me mother.”
“Let me,” Bridget offered. “You’re looking tired.” She poured the hot water over the tea leaves. “How do you feel?”
Maggie eyed her brother before answering, “Wonderful.”
“Margaret Mary,” he said evenly.
“ ’Tis not every day that a woman can be helpin’ her brother feed the neighbors that’ve come to help him raise a new barn.” Her blue eyes softened as she looked at her brother.
When Ryan smiled, Bridget felt her lips curving upward of their own volition. In spite of her smile, she felt strangely empty inside. She placed the steeped cup of tea in front of James. The sudden sense of loneliness added to the hollow feeling already spreading through her chest. She missed being here at the ranch, helping with chores, being a part of their extended family.
Dear Lord, she missed the comings and goings of the friendly ranch hands, and the generous compliments they always had for her cooking. But most of all, she missed James. She hadn’t had a solid night of sleep since moving back to town.
“Margaret Mary—”
“Oh hush, Jamie,” Maggie interrupted. “I feel fit as a fiddle, and cannot wait to hold me babe in me arms. I’d not do anything to risk having a healthy little one.”
Understanding filled Bridget, and her heart went out to Maggie, remembering just how miraculous the connection had been between herself and Mick when he was born. The years hadn’t diminished the feeling. She still felt tied to him. When he was troubled, she was troubled. When Mick hurt, she hurt.
As if testing her belief, a twinge of pain arrowed up her back, and Bridget rushed over to the window to look out. She couldn’t see Mick, and unease spread through her. Stepping out on the back porch, she turned when Mick called out to her and waved as he passed by on his way from the pile of logs to where the men were waiting.
Mick wasn’t hurt. Then why the phantom pain? She waved and walked back inside.
The look of intensity in James’s beautiful eyes matched what she was trying so hard to ignore. Ever since James had stepped in to protect the Burnbaum boy from his own father, she’d felt the connection to James, an invisible bond that linked her heart to his. From the first, she’d felt it whenever he spoke to Mick, but she’d buried the feelings, knowing she’d never be able to act on them.
The sudden realization that the pain in her back meant the connection to James was still strong and true shot through her. Perhaps they were connected by more than just what they felt for her boy.
“Are ye headed back outside then?”
“Just checking on Mick.” Turning her back to the door, she added, “Let me finish rolling out those crusts for you, Maggie. Then you can have a bit of a lie down.”
When Maggie glanced over her shoulder at the cast-iron pot on the stovetop, Bridget offered, “I’ll keep an eye on the stew.”
Ryan had been quiet for the longest time. She thought he’d been trying to get a handle on the pain he must be feeling. She turned to him now, intending to enlist his aid in getting his sister to take a short nap.
Before she could ask, he spoke. “I could carry you into the parlor and sit on ye until yer eyes closed, Margaret Mary.”
Bridget nearly swallowed her tongue to keep from commenting on the look Maggie threw at her brother. It was without price and definitely promised retribution.
“But,” Ryan continued, “I know ye’ll lie down because it will be good for the baby, as well as yerself.”
Bridget noticed the way James’s brogue had become more pronounced. It had in the barn when Burnbaum had threatened trouble, too. Now it came up again when he was upset with Maggie. She wondered why most of the time he didn’t have the musical lilt to his words. Did he try hard to cover it up? Was there was more to James Ryan than she’d originally believed? More than one mystery seemed to be a part of him. His disappearing brogue was one. The brutally efficient way he’d knocked Burnbaum down with just two punches, and the way he stepped in to help the young Burnbaum boy, were a couple of others.
Separately the actions didn’t add up to what she thought she knew about James Ryan. There was definitely more to be discovered, if she were brave enough to admit she wanted to spend more time with him. But what of the gossips? What of his reputation?
Confused and unsure of what to
do next, she thrust those unsettling questions aside for now. She turned toward Maggie. “Your brother is right. Think of the baby and lie down for his sake.”
Maggie grinned. “All right then, but maybe I’ll be lying down for her sake.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Do ye think it’s truly over?” Maggie stood on the back porch surveying the new structure. She seemed refreshed from her short nap.
“Yes, and I’m not sorry to see it done.” Bridget rubbed at the ache in her lower back. It was a good ache. She’d been able to pull her own weight all day.
“How many smashed thumbs do ye think we bandaged today?”
“I wrapped five, but that’s not counting fifteen mashed fingers.” Bridget desperately needed to sit. Exhaustion coupled with little or no sleep last night was taking its toll on her. “What about Cyrus Jones’s arm?”
“ ’Tis wrenched, I’m thinkin’.”
Bridget nodded. “I thought so, too, but I’m not as experienced with doctoring as you are, Maggie.”
“Lucky for us she is.” James’s smile was a bit ragged about the edges.
Bridget wondered if his back was paining him again. “Do you need another poultice on your back?”
James waved her away. “I’ll be fine. Just need to sit for a bit.”
Maggie smiled over at him. “ ’Tis a grand barn, Jamie.”
Bridget happened to look over at Joshua and noticed that when his wife smiled, he smiled. His entire face seemed to light up when Maggie was smiling.
Her throat tightened and her breath snagged. Had Michael ever looked at her like that? Like his entire existence depended upon her happiness? She shook her head; she’d never know whether he had or not. Her parents were long gone, and she had no one else to ask. There was no one to remind her of the loving looks Michael had sent her way, no one to chide her when she was too tired to carry on.
Maggie and Joshua were so wrapped up in each other, they didn’t notice how upset Bridget was. She could feel the blood leaching from her face and neck down to her toes.
At least she and Mick had each other. An awful thought hit her. What if James Ryan hadn’t happened along the night Mick tried his hand at being an outlaw? Good God, what if James hadn’t taken them into his home and nursed her back to health?
If she’d died, what would have become of Mick?
Desperate thoughts hurt her head and made the room start to spin.
“Here now, Bridget.” Flynn took her elbow and started to lead her back inside the ranch house.
“She’s exhausted.” Bridget heard Maggie’s voice from far off. “Have you an extra bed upstairs, Jamie?
Bed? Bridget’s tired mind struggled with why she shouldn’t just accept James’s hospitality and lay her head down on his bed. His bed! Her head snapped up, miraculously clear as glass. She could not sleep under the same roof as James now! Not with the women in town making nasty comments all day long. If she stayed here tonight, things would just go from bad to worse.
Struggling with the combination of inner turmoil and just plain exhaustion, she answered, “Thank you, but no. We have to get back to Swenson’s.”
It wasn’t a lie, more of a fib for a good reason. She took a step and felt her knees give way as a wave of fatigue swept up from her toes, robbing her tired limbs of every ounce of energy. Her head felt fuzzy. She’d definitely pushed herself harder than she should’ve. But there had been work to do, and she couldn’t let Maggie handle the burden all alone.
“Drink up.” A steaming cup of tea was thrust into her hands. She looked down at it and wondered why the cup was blurry. Blinking, she couldn’t remember when she’d sat down. Closing her eyes to rest, just for a moment, she felt a bit better.
“Jamie, if ye don’t carry that woman upstairs before she whacks her head on yer kitchen table, I’ll tell everyone about yer scar!”
“I’ve plenty of scars, Margaret Mary,” he answered evenly.
Bridget tried to follow the conversation, but only caught the mention of James’s scars. She’d seen the wicked-looking sickle-shaped one that slashed across his lower back, when she’d come upon him washing up at the well pump by the back of the house.
“Aye, that ye do, laddie,” she heard Maggie agree, “but not all of them are visible with yer clothes on.”
Bridget thought of her own scars and wondered if James would ever have the chance to notice them. At that dangerous thought, her eyes shot open, and she found herself staring into the deep blue of James’s eyes. Funny, she hadn’t heard him move.
“I can walk,” she mumbled. “You’ll do more damage to your back if you carry me.”
He grumbled something under his breath that she didn’t quite hear. Slipping an arm beneath her knees, and the other around her back, he gathered her close and lifted her into his arms. All thoughts of protesting died on her tongue. Pinpricks of heat seeped into her weary muscles, relaxing her. Leaning against his broad chest, with her head nestled in the crook of his arm, had her wondering if this was what heaven felt like.
If not, she’d have to rethink the wisdom of wanting to go there. Reveling in the feeling of being taken care of, feeling as close to cherished as she ever had, she closed her eyes, thinking to steal just a bit of time for herself. An hour. She yawned. Maybe two.
All of the worries she’d carried since sunup faded away as she melted into James’s arms. Such broad, capable shoulders, she thought, letting the tiniest moans of pleasure escape. Sure he hadn’t heard, she snuggled closer to his heat and finally let go, falling into a deep sleep.
* * *
Ryan wondered if a man could die from lack of pleasure as easily as he could from too much. He heard every sigh, every tiny little sound the woman in his arms made as he carried her upstairs. Instead of putting her in the guest room, as he had in the past, he put her in his bed.
He might regret it later, but he had to see her there. Ever since that night he’d seen her illuminated by the moon, he’d imagined her here in his bed. Her dark hair and darker eyes such a contrast to the pure white of the bed linens.
“Eedjit!” he muttered. If there was trouble brewing, it was bound to find him. Slipping Bridget onto his bed, he stood back and stared. Such a beautiful woman. How could he keep away from her? How would he live with himself if he didn’t? She’d made her choice. She’d left the ranch. Left him. Turned him down flat. No explanations, just “no.”
Tucking the sheet over her shoulder, he ran the tip of his finger along the line of her jaw. “Never could walk away from a woman in trouble. Either you’re in trouble, or you are trouble, Bridget. Either way, I’m sticking until I can find out which.”
* * *
“I didn’t know you were married, O’Toole,” Sam Paige muttered into his fourth glass of whiskey.
“Was,” O’Toole mumbled. The Irish always went right to his head faster than the cheap red-eye whiskey most places served. “She’s dead.”
He looked over at the owner of The Ranch and narrowed his eyes. Pearl was a looker all right. She had curves in all the right places and then some. The food she served was some of the best grub he’d had in months. But where were all the ladies she kept? After all, he was thinking a little feminine companionship would just about top off the evening.
“Where’s the women?” he demanded, rising up out of his chair, making his way over to where she stood.
“What women?” Pearl’s voice sounded strained.
“The ones you pay by the hour,” Nick Paige said, his bloodshot eyes telling O’Toole his back-up man was in no shape to guard the door, let alone find it.
“I told you before,” she said, “I don’t run that kind of place.”
“I saw women in the kitchen!” O’Toole took a step closer to the now-pale Pearl.
“I hire women to cook, clean, and take care of the livestock. You want food? I’ll serve you.” Her voice quivered slightly as it rose in volume, but she didn’t back down. “You want whiskey, I’ll serve you.”
“What we want is willing women!” Sam Paige thundered, taking up a position right next to O’Toole and Paige’s younger brother, effectively boxing Pearl against the back wall near the bar.
“Then I suggest you head on over to the Desert Rose. It’s just three miles outside of Emerson. Shouldn’t take you long to find it.” Pearl turned away from the men, hiding her shudder. Just thinking about any one of these brutes coming near her girls made her feel sick. Her hands shook, but she managed to pull out a deck of playing cards and offered them to O’Toole and his men.
“Why not play a few rounds of poker? The drinks are on the house.”
The shouts of agreement sliced through her already aching head. While the men settled down to play cards, she angled her head so she could see the door to the kitchen. As she’d hoped, it was not quite shut. She gave the signal, nodding her head once. The door closed without a sound.
Pearl breathed a sigh of relief, filled the last glass, and brought the tray over to the disreputable-looking lot of cowboys. Face the truth, she thought, they’re outlaws. Hopefully, help would be on its way soon. She surely hoped Sheriff Roscoe hadn’t hung up his gun belt just yet. Pearl had a sinking feeling she’d need all of the help, and fire power, she could get, come closing time.
Sam leaned over and pitched his voice to barely a whisper. “You ever find that missing mine payroll?”
O’Toole shook his head. “I told you before. When I got back to the cabin, there was nothing left but a pile of ashes.”
“A key wouldn’t burn,” Sam insisted.
“That fire was so hot, there wasn’t anything left—” O’Toole stopped and drew in a breath. Even after all these years, he did regret that she’d died. He hadn’t loved her, but she didn’t deserve an end like that. “My wife suffered the same fate as the O’Toole family Bible. Nothing left but ashes.”
“Why worry about a Bible?” Sam sounded amazed.
O’Toole clenched his jaw tightly, thinking of the safe deposit box key he’d sewn into the back cover flap of that Bible. Damn his luck, and the woman he’d thought of far too often for his sanity.
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