James rose to his feet, her words echoing through him. He wanted to be sure he heard her correctly before he grabbed hold of her and held on for dear life. “You’d wait for me?”
“Isn’t that what a faithful wife would do?”
“But you waited before.” The bleak realization that she would have to live through those feelings of abandonment all over again sliced through him, leaving him aching for the years she suffered, not knowing what had become of her husband. He didn’t want to put her through that all over again.
She smiled at him. “James,” she said, “you are nothing like the man I married. You’re an honest man with a gentle heart.” She took a step closer to him.
He backed away, shaking his head.
“You never turn from anyone in need, whether it be a man lying bleeding on your land,” she said with a shy smile, “or a young boy rustling your cattle.”
This time, she took three steps closer. “ ’Tis past time you decided to do something for yourself.”
The slow smile gliding across his handsome face had her entire body tingling. The jolts of pleasure increased when she took another step closer.
He stood perfectly still. “But you’ve a kind heart as well, lass,” he said, finally taking that first step toward her, closing the distance between them.
She smiled and the lines of worry between her gracefully arched dark brows softened.
“I’ve never known a woman to work as hard as you, or one willing to give up her life in order for her own son to live.”
“When is the daft man going to ask her?” he heard Reilly ask.
“He’s workin’ up to it,” Flynn answered. “Don’t rush the man.”
Marshal Justiss stepped into the kitchen as Ryan pulled Bridget into his arms. “ ’Tis time ye took something for yourself as well. We’ve both needed to shelter and protect those we care about, but I’m thinkin’ we can find a way to add in what we both want and need for ourselves. I need you. I love you, lass,” he said with a sigh of resignation. “If ye’d be willing to wait for me, I’d be honored.”
“That’s not how to ask her!”
“Not now, Reilly,” Flynn said.
“But he didn’t ask her proper!” Reilly wailed.
“Ask me,” Bridget urged, her lips a breath away from his.
James hesitated, for a heartbeat, then smiled. “Will ye marry me and share your life with me, Bridget O’Toole?”
“Oh, James!” The rest of her reply was crushed beneath his urgent kiss. He didn’t need to hear the rest of it; he needed to kiss her. His next breath depended upon feeling her warm and giving mouth pressed against his own.
“I love you, James Ryan,” she finally managed.
“Seamus,” he said with a smile. “Me name is Seamus.”
“Are you ready, Flaherty?”
He drew in a painful breath and set Bridget away from him. “Aye. I am.”
“Then have a seat.”
Seamus looked confused. “But I thought—”
“I know you what you thought,” the marshal said with a grin, “but you never stood still long enough to listen to what I had to tell you.”
Seamus grudgingly sat.
“Rebecca Lynn Trainor came forward recently and confessed that she and one of the ranch hands, a big man by the name of Beaker, robbed her father’s safe, but set it up to look as if you had.”
“Why did she change her mind and confess now?” Seamus needed to know.
The marshal gave him an intense look. “It seems Miss Trainor found out Beaker had another woman.”
“A woman scorned,” Bridget whispered.
Seamus could believe that of Rebecca now, but five years ago…
“What about poor Jed?”
“Beaker admitted to panicking when the old man wandered into her father’s study.”
“Then he admitted to killing Jed?”
“No, he said it was an accident, but Rebecca Lynn swore on a stack of Bibles that Beaker pushed the old man.”
“Then why do I have to go back to Amarillo?” Seamus demanded.
“It seems Big John Trainor wants to make it up to you.”
Bridget rose to her feet and placed her hands on her hips. “Well then the man can just get on his horse and ride up here to Colorado and make it up to James…er, Seamus. My future husband will not be doing much traveling for the next few months.”
Bridget turned toward Seamus. She was taking his advice, and holding out for what she wanted in life: him. “Will he?”
Seamus rose to his feet and hugged her tight. Before she could say another word, he placed his fingertips against her lips and shook his head at her.
She nodded.
He took her hand in his and got down on one knee. “Ye didn’t answer me yet, lass.”
“Aye, James—er, Seamus, I will marry you. I wish I could keep it straight in my head what to call you.”
After a glance at the men gathered around the kitchen table, he smiled at her. “Seamus Ryan Flaherty, but you can call me ‘darling.’ ” He swept her back into his embrace.
“Well now, the lad finally got the words out,” Reilly said with a grin.
“Took a bit of time over it, but I’m thinkin’ he has style,” Flynn added.
“A toast!” the men cried in unison.
“To the prettiest bride-to-be,” Reilly said, placing a kiss on Bridget’s cheek.
“And the luckiest man in town,” Marshal Justiss said, pulling her into his arms for a kiss.
“Here now, Jamie—er, Seamus,” Flynn said. “Ye can’t have anyone stealin’ kisses from yer intended.”
“I owe Justiss my life,” he said simply, as the marshal released a blushing Bridget. “If he hadn’t ridden into town hoping to pick up O’Toole’s trail, I never would have found out that I don’t need to hide behind a false name anymore. I’m a free man.”
“Not any more, boy-o,” Reilly said with a nod toward the bride-to-be, as he pulled the cork from the bottle of Irish he had been saving for a special occasion.
“He’s slow to catch on,” Flynn said, setting an assortment of glasses on the table.
“Slainte.”
“They started without us!”
Bridget laughed at the look on Joshua’s face as he pulled a laughing Maggie into the room. She threw herself into her brother’s arms and demanded, “Why didn’t ye tell me?”
“And add to your worry about caring for Da?”
“ ’Tis no excuse!” she said, pushing far enough out of his arms to smack him on the back of the head.
He rubbed at the sting of it. “What was that for?”
“Aye, lass, save yer smacks for yer husband,” Reilly said solemnly.
“ ’Tis up to Bridget to smack some sense into yer brother,” Flynn said, raising his glass.
“Ma?”
“Mick!” Bridget breathed a sigh of relief as she watched her son walking toward her. The bandage around his head was clean, with only a bit of dried blood on it. He was in one piece and, in fact, carried little Emma on his hip.
“What have we here?” Maggie demanded.
“Mama!” Emma squealed, launching herself into Bridget’s arms.
“Do you think Pearl would mind if Emma came and lived with us?” Bridget looked hopefully at her husband-to-be.
He shook his head and smiled. “Don’t you want to know what I think?”
Bridget surely hoped he was teasing her. She didn’t think her heart could take being separated from little Emma after all they had been through together. “I’m thinking I like having my way,” she said with a grin.
The heated look Seamus sent her curled her toes. Getting what you want out of life is far better than leaping out of the way and letting life pass you by.
Marshal Justiss held out his hand, taking Seamus’s in his own and shaking it heartily. “You’re a lucky man, Seamus. You have your freedom, the love of a good woman, a strong son, and pretty daughter. What more could you ask f
or?”
“Not a thing,” Seamus answered, pulling Bridget back into his arms and kissing the breath out of her. “The day Mick O’Toole decided to rustle my cattle was the second luckiest day of my life.”
“And the luckiest?” Bridget urged, though she thought she knew the answer.
“I’ve yet to have it,” he said slowly. “But do you really want me to talk about such things in front of our children?” he asked, a devilish grin on his handsome face.
“I do love you, Seamus Flaherty,” Bridget whispered, pressing her lips to his.
“I couldn’t ask for more than that, lass.”
“He didn’t tell her he loved her!” he heard Reilly mutter from somewhere behind him.
“Ye weren’t paying close enough attention,” he heard Flynn assure Reilly.
“But—”
The voices slowly faded away, until it was just the two of them alone in the kitchen.
“I love you, Bridget O’Toole. Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”
“About letting you going to Texas, or marrying you?” she teased.
“Never mind,” he whispered, burying his face in her hair. “So long as you love me, nothing else matters.”
Bridget reached up and placed her hands on either side of his face. “I plan to spend the next fifty years here on the ranch with you. Aren’t you afraid people will talk if you don’t marry me?”
“Maybe we could get married and not tell anyone in town for a week or two. That would give the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson something to talk about!”
“Just kiss me, Seamus,” Bridget demanded.
“My pleasure, lass.”
PEARL’S REDEMPTION
Book Three
By C. H. Admirand
Book Three ~ Pearl’s Redemption
Dedication and Acknowledgements … Page 422
Prologue … Page 423
Chapter 1 … Page 424
Chapter 2 … Page 433
Chapter 3 … Page 440
Chapter 4 … Page 452
Chapter 5 … Page 464
Chapter 6 … Page 474
Chapter 7 … Page 482
Chapter 8 … Page 490
Chapter 9 … Page 496
Chapter 10 … Page 504
Chapter 11 … Page 514
Chapter 12 … Page 522
Chapter 13 … Page 528
Chapter 14 … Page 544
Chapter 15 … Page 551
Chapter 16 … Page 562
Chapter 17 … Page 574
Chapter 18 … Page 585
Chapter 19 … Page 591
Chapter 20 … Page 606
Chapter 21 … Page 615
Chapter 22 … Page 624
Chapter 23 … Page 640
Chapter 24 … Page 651
Chapter 25 … Page 657
Chapter 26 … Page 669
Chapter 27 … Page 680
Chapter 28 … Page 691
Chapter 29 … Page 699
Chapter 30 … Page 709
Dedication
For Dad: there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss you or think of you.
For Mom: for still being proud of me after all these years.
For DJ, the love of my life, and our three awesome “adult” children, Phil, Jessi, and Josh, thank you for understanding and allowing me the freedom to pursue my dream.
Acknowledgments
To the three generations of feisty Irish-American women in my family: Garahan, Flaherty, Daly, and Purcell. Your sharp tongues, hard heads, and big hearts have kept our family strong.
Prologue
“The committee has voted.”
Silence filled the newly finished church, while all in attendance waited to hear the results.
“In keeping with our solemn pledge to ensure only the best for our growing community, the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson, Colorado, has voted ten in favor of and two against to solicit buyers for The Ranch.”
“But Pearl doesn’t want to sell!” a voice called out from the back of the room.
The exalted self-appointed head of the committee rose to her feet and turned her glacial glare on the newcomer.
“That will not be a problem. The committee has seen what becomes of allowing an establishment such as hers to remain in business.”
“You can’t blame Pearl for your son’s infatuation with young Amy,” another voice called out.
The tall imposing figure drew in a deep breath, enlarging her considerable girth. “You either stand with the committee’s principals and tenants, or you are no longer welcome.”
“But—”
The crack of the wooden gavel against the pulpit echoed through the church.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
“The advertisement will run in the next issue of the Denver Chronicle.”
Chapter One
RANCH FOR SALE
Prime acreage. Plenty of grazing land,
with a two-story frame house in good condition.
Barn needs roof. Stock negotiable.
Contact Samuel Jones, Esq., Box 24CBE
c/o The Denver Chronicle
“Madam, you do not seem to understand.” Davidson Smythe took one step closer to the raven-haired vision in faded calico standing on the front porch steps of what should now be his home.
“One more step, and I’ll blow your brains out the back of your head.”
Bloody hell. The woman actually sounded as if she’d do it. Smythe’s gaze raked her from head to toe. Tall for a woman, but curvy; the kind of curves that made a man’s hands itch to settle around her waist.
He glanced beyond her at the two-story structure with its peeling paint and sagging porch and, remembering the wording of the advertisement, wondered what exactly constituted poor condition if this was considered good.
Out of his element, thousands of miles from Boston’s elite society, Smythe faltered. Women out West were definitely of a different ilk altogether. Should he heed the woman’s words and lethal-looking rifle aimed at his head?
Mindful of the long barrel pointed at him, he decided to test his theory that women in general were the weaker sex, and he took another step. The thunderous blast from the gun had him freezing in his tracks while heat seared across his scalp, burning it.
He reached for the hat that was no longer there. “Damnation! You could have killed me!”
The woman’s face lost every ounce of color, and she swayed on her feet. She’d shot at him and now it looked like she was going to keel over. Watching her closely, her finger trembling on the trigger, he took the second biggest gamble of his life and moved closer to catch her if she fainted.
He was near enough now that he could see the way her eyes drifted shut, long dark lashes resting against pale-as-flour skin. He watched the rifle waver and nearly moved to catch it before it hit the porch floor and fired, but a pain-filled moan of agony stopped him.
“Madam?”
The woman’s eyes shot open. “Don’t call me that. I don’t run that kind of place.”
God, please either send me a handbook on women or just let her kill me and be done with it. He looked around him; if this was the Colorado equivalent of a brothel, then business must be very slow. The location was expected, a few miles outside of town. Pretty enough land, wide open with lush green grass, good for grazing, with a tall oak standing near the side of the house.
Another soft moan called his attention back to her. Tilting his head to the side, he let his gaze drift from the top of her head down to her toes. Something about her just didn’t fit the persona usually associated with houses of ill repute.
Unwilling to upset her further, he tried another tack, suggesting, “Perhaps you should sit down.”
He did not want to see the fragile-looking female end up hitting the ground face first. And wasn’t that perverse of him? He smiled. His good friend, Runyon, would have needled him no end if he were here. Runyon would l
augh telling him that only he, Smythe, would allow a woman to shoot at his head and then feel sorry for her when she looked as if she’d faint at his feet.
His smile deepened as he remembered their last foray into the seamier side of life near the docks at Boston Harbor, but a soft rustling sound brought his attention back to sharply focus on the defiant woman still standing on his front porch.
Rather than reply, or heed his suggestion, she steadied the rifle, narrowed her eyes, and aimed at his trail-weary, but still new, boots.
Not again. Stubborn female. Hoping to distract her, and save his feet, he reminded her, “Your aim’s just a bit off. Maybe you should try again when you’re feeling better.” Praying she would listen this time, he waited for her to take her finger off the trigger.
For a split second, he thought she would, but then she smiled at him, right before she shifted her aim slightly and shot at a stone two inches to the right of his left foot. The hard-packed dirt formed a small cloud of dust that rose to his knees.
“What was that about my aim?”
Smythe tried to swallow to ease the dry-as-dust feeling in his mouth, but looking down at the bits of rock that were left after the shot obliterated it only added to the dryness. He’d later swear every ounce of spit in his mouth was gone.
He shook his head. What to do? He’d never been in this sort of situation before. Moving about in society had never been this tricky. She still looked awful: pale, pasty, and weaving on her feet. But Lord above, she was now aiming at his manly parts. If he had doubts about her ability with a gun, he certainly wasn’t going to take a chance that she’d hit what she aimed at now.
“So far only your hat’s been mortally wounded.” She paused. “Are you a betting man?”
She was toying with him. The realization angered him, but he couldn’t afford to let his temper rise. The time called for rational thinking. It would be best just to meet her volatile anger with his own calm, clear reason. It had certainly won the day on many a previous occasion.
“Now then, madam, you don’t really wish to shoot an unarmed man. Do you?”
Her gray eyes blazed with anger as her lips curved downward in a sneer. “I don’t normally like to kill men on a Monday. Sort of starts the week off all wrong, but in your case, I’ve a notion to change my mind. I’d start saying my prayers if I were you, stranger.”
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