She squinted through the sight, aiming at a spot in the middle of his forehead. “Your brains scattered across my front yard would be a mess I don’t want to have to clean up.” She paused. “But sometimes a woman has to get her hands dirty.”
How had he lost control of the situation? No longer amused by her gun-waving antics, he eyed the woman carefully. He’d played enough hands of cards to know when a person was no longer bluffing. There was not a doubt in his mind that she was capable of blasting his brains across her flower garden. People back East were much easier to deal with.
“Madam, if you’d just listen—”
“I told you not to call me that!”
Damn, she had, but his mother’s training was not that easy to forget. Just then something in her eyes dried up the pitiful bit of spit left in his mouth and had him hitting the dirt a heartbeat before she fired again.
“Where I come from,” Smythe snarled, “people have civilized conversations. They do not point rifles at one another.” He stood, brushing the dust from his knees, wincing where he’d connected too hard with the ground.
The woman’s sneer curved upward into a grin, and her grin slid into a dimpled smile. “Well, mister. Out here, where I come from, strangers don’t come traipsing up to your front door pretty as you please after they’ve been warned not to.”
“If you’d let me get a word in edgewise, I could clear up this whole misunderstanding.”
“I’m thinking you’re the one not understanding. I warned you not to take another step or I’d shoot.” She nodded her head, and a thick dark curl slipped free from her topknot, sliding down in front of her left eye.
Then the blasted woman swayed again, and he could swear even more color leached out of her face. What the hell is wrong with her? He tried to ignore the tiniest bit of sympathetic feelings struggling to surface, all the while wondering how someone so obviously dead on her feet could continue to fight him?
Not taking her eyes—or her rifle—off of him, she steadied herself and blew the curl out of her eye. “You stepped,” her eyes brimmed with laughter as she added, “I shot. Seems pretty straightforward to me.”
It hit him with the force of a blow. She was laughing at him! If there was one thing he refused to tolerate, it was being laughed at. He was tired, his feet hurt, and she’d shot at him—three times. Smythe felt the hot lick of temper surging up from the tips of his too-tight Western-style boots.
He didn’t even try to hold it back. His temper let loose, anger pouring through his veins like the boiling tar they used in the shipyards back home.
With one swift leap, he grabbed the rifle from her shock-stiffened fingers, tossing the weapon toward the corral, then captured her hands in his ironclad grip.
Her laughter died, and her cool gray eyes widened with fear. It was only then he noticed the yellowing bruises along the length of her jaw, and corner of her right eye.
“I won’t hurt you,” he ground out. “I just want to know why you are standing on my front porch waving a rifle in my face as if you have the right to be standing here, protecting what is obviously mine.”
* * *
His words were like salt on an open wound.
“Your porch? Protecting what’s yours? This is my place now.” John’s gone—and so are the last of the upstairs girls.
Pearl couldn’t remember the last time she’d been tied up in knots over a man. Anger twisted around the icy fingers of fear scraping in her gut, until she thought she’d go mad waiting for the fair-haired stranger to either throw the first punch or somehow prove his claim. Whichever action he chose, she’d be ready for him. This was her place now, and she was halfway to redeeming herself and her home. She couldn’t stop now.
His brows lowered, and his eyes darkened to an impossible shade of deep chocolate. Forget his eyes, Pearl chided her spinning brain. Concentrate on his words . . .
“Your porch?” she asked for the second time.
“Precisely.” He nodded as if to emphasize his ownership and his words.
“You come waltzing up my lane, trespassing on my land, and you have the grit to say it’s yours?” Pearl struggled to free her hands from his grasp, but couldn’t, so she kicked him in the shin.
“Ouch!” He bent forward, but didn’t release her. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m running short of patience.”
“You’re running short of patience? You blue-blooded horse’s behind,” she spat out. “Get off my land before the law gets here and arrests you for trespassing.”
The dratted man actually smiled at her. “We shall see who owns the land then, shall we?”
Fear, bold and ugly, curdled the buttermilk she’d tossed down an hour ago instead of taking the time to eat breakfast. She swallowed against the rising nausea and shouted, “This is my land, and I’ll thank you to get your squirrelly behind off of it.”
He let out a snort of laughter. “That’s twice in the last five minutes you’ve made reference to that particular part of my anatomy.”
“Why, you overgrown—”
“No, please. No more insults.” He was staring at her oddly.
His deeply intense look worried her. No one had looked at her like that in a long, long time. Not since the night—no, she would not let herself dredge up the past.
“If I let go of your hands, do you promise not to try to shoot me again?”
Feelings she thought long dead started shimmering to life. Drat the man for capturing her interest. Now was not the time to have those confusing thoughts bubbling to the surface.
Angry with herself first and him second, Pearl fought against the tinge of respect blossoming inside of her. She bit out, “I never make a promise I can’t keep.”
He got the better of her and her new Winchester rifle without raising his fist or using a gun. Hell’s fire, he didn’t even have a gun on him. “And I don’t make it a habit to lie,” she muttered.
“Really?”
He didn’t believe her. Well, she thought, he wouldn’t be the first man who doubted her before ending up surprised by what she could handle. “Let go of my hands,” she asked, her earlier anger beginning to simmer all over again, “and I’ll show you how good a shot I really am.”
“I think I’d rather introduce myself.” His voice had gone all polite on her. She wasn’t sure if she trusted this side of the stranger. His angry side was easier to react to, more like what she was used to.
He let go of her hands and surprised her by bowing low. “Davidson Smythe, formerly of Boston, Massachusetts.”
Struggling not to show how the action affected her, she rasped, “You’re a long way from home.”
He was silent, as if waiting for something; then it dawned on her, he was waiting for her to tell him her name. “Name’s Pearl.”
“Pearl what?”
“Just Pearl.”
“Well, Miss Pearl, how long will it take you to pack your things?”
Fear speared an icy bolt straight through her heart. She fought to ignore the pain and the need to shiver and won, boldly answering, “I’m not packing, and I’m not leaving.”
“I have proof.” He grabbed her by the elbow and steered her over toward his horse.
“You don’t have my signature on any papers.” She yanked her arm free and spun around. “So you don’t have proof, and you don’t own spit.”
Her breath snagged in her breast. First her husband, then the outlaws breaking into her place, and now this? Was she destined to be a target for greedy men her whole life?
“Miss Pearl, if you’d just—”
“I told you, the name’s Pearl. Just Pearl. I don’t need to see any fancy papers you’ve got tucked in your saddle bags.” Her eyes narrowed, pinning him to the spot. “I’ve got the deed.”
* * *
Smythe shook his head; the woman was beyond stubborn. He unwrapped the papers he’d used his half of the inheritance to pay for. A twinge of guilt-laced sorrow moved through him, remembering all
that had brought him all the way from Boston. He closed his mind to those thoughts, setting them aside, and shuffled through the lawyer’s letter with directions to the ranch.
He found the proxy signed by one Sarah Burnbaum, along with the deed to the ranch. Everything was in order and perfectly legal. He smiled and handed the papers to her.
The woman certainly seemed reluctant to take the papers from him. He urged, “Please, read them. I assure you all is in order.”
Her hands shook as she scanned the papers, shuffling through them so quickly he wasn’t sure she even read them. Troubled gray eyes met his. Sorrow, deep and painful, shifted through their smoky depths before she started shuffling through them in earnest. Was she sorry she had authorized this Sarah to sell her ranch?
Smythe cleared his throat and looked away to give her time to read everything. He owed her that much. The bright summer sun showed the ranch’s every flaw. The barn’s roof really did need replacing. Judging by the hole near the center of the ridge, he figured last year would have been best. The nearby corral was missing a few top fence rails here and there, and the front porch steps sagged a bit, but on the whole, it wasn’t all that bad.
He let his gaze scan the horizon before looking to the left and then the right. His sigh was deep and the emotion welling up inside of him hard to explain.
Realizing that she was about to lose all that surrounded him, he felt sorry for the woman. Her land was breathtaking. Not one cloud marred the endless expanse above him in a sky so brightly blue it hurt his eyes to look up.
She mumbled beneath her breath, calling his attention back to this inconvenience and her ranch.
His ranch, he amended. It was his to repair, paint, or set fire to, whatever he wished. Satisfaction swept through him like a clear, cool wind from Boston Harbor. Mentally ticking off all the changes and improvements needed, he reached deep for compassion for the woman who clearly had not thought to sell her ranch too quickly.
“If you need more time—” he began, then stopped. “Why, you’re shaking.” Without thinking, he clamped his hands about her waist to steady her. Her simultaneous cry of pain cut right through to his bones.
“Bloody hell.” He dropped his hands, then had to reach for Pearl as she fainted. Cradling her head and shoulders against him, he sighed. “You’re too pale, Miss Pearl,” he said, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. “And just how did you come by those bruises?”
The cocking of a pistol hammer broke through the silence.
“Lay Miss Pearl out on the grass and step back real slow, Mister.”
Chapter Two
Dread curled in the pit of his stomach. Without looking up, he eased Pearl onto the grass, brushed a curl off her forehead, and stepped back. The faint and haunting scent of roses mingled with that of crushed, sun-warmed, blades of grass.
“You mind telling me what you did to Pearl before I haul your ass off to jail?”
Smythe tore his gaze away from the still-unconscious woman at his feet and looked up. The man holding the gun was big and, from a glance, looked as if he ate rusty nails for breakfast. Damnation, this just wasn’t his day. “We were having a conversation.”
“And, I suppose, she just keeled over,” the man with the star pinned to his vest ground out. “Step back and reach for the sky.”
Smythe did as he was told and slowly raised his hands.
“If you’d just let me explain—”
Before he could get the rest of the words out, his hands were tied behind him, and he was being spun back around to face the grim-eyed lawman.
“Save it for the judge.”
“Now wait just a moment.” Smythe held fast while the lawman tried to yank him toward the horse he just noticed standing by the corral. He hadn’t heard the man or his beast arrive; he’d been distracted by the dark-haired beauty regaining consciousness.
“Ben? What are you doing here?”
The husky timbre of her voice shot a bolt of heat straight to his belly. He shifted from foot to foot ignoring the blisters from boots that he’d yet to break in, or the uncomfortable creases in his too stiff Levi’s, concentrating on the lawman—and his gun.
“I heard from Maggie Turner that a stranger has been hanging around town, asking for directions out to your place.” He glared at Smythe. “I thought I’d just ride on out and check up on you.”
Smythe watched the tall man stride over and lift Pearl to her feet, keeping a loose supporting arm around her waist, as if she were fragile as spun glass.
It hit him right between the eyes—her face might not be the only thing bruised. Had her ribs been injured as well? It was the only thing he could think of that would have caused her to cry out in pain when he’d barely touched her.
As the lawman slowly led Pearl back to the front porch, an emotion too close to jealousy for Smythe’s peace of mind started to curl through him.
He clenched his teeth and swallowed the angry words poised on his tongue at the sight of the other man’s arm holding the woman who’d sparked Smythe’s interest from the moment he laid eyes on her. He was in no position to demand the lawman take his hands off Pearl. He didn’t even know Pearl. All he knew was that she’d stirred him up quicker than any other female had in a long, long time.
He noticed the way she leaned against the other man, as if she’d done so many times before. Grinding his back teeth, he wondered if the two of them had an understanding. He shook his head. Why should he care? He just wanted to settle down on his ranch, with his stock—bloody hell, he never got around to asking what kind of stock there was.
Come to think of it, he hadn’t noticed more than one horse. The huge gray beast looked to be big enough to haul two plows at the same time, which might come in handy if he decided to plant anything.
“Just what kind of stock do you have here, Miss Pearl?”
A bit of color tinged her cheeks. “For someone who claims to have bought my land, you ought to know, Mr. Smythe.”
Her grit returned with a vengeance and damned if he didn’t admire her for it.
“What’s this about selling, Pearl?” the lawman asked. “I thought you were staying.”
Pearl turned and pointed a finger at Smythe. “He claims to have purchased my ranch,” she bit out. “But I’d never sell. Where would the girls go?”
“What girls?” Smythe had to ask. “This place is deserted.”
The lawman turned his steely-eyed stare on Smythe. “Maybe you ought to take a real close look at the windows on either side of the front door.”
At Smythe’s blank look, the other man chuckled. “I’d be willing to bet your every move has been followed by more than one gun barrel.”
Smythe spun around nearly losing his footing with his hands tied behind him. Sure enough, a shotgun barrel and a the barrel of a handgun were poking through the flour-sack curtains on either side of the door.
“Come on out, girls,” Pearl said. “Marshal Justiss has everything in hand.”
The door opened and four girls stepped out. The tallest one had a death-grip on a double-barrel shotgun aimed at Smythe’s belly, while the middle one held a pistol aimed at this left kneecap.
“Who’s he, and what’s he want with our home?” a wisp of a girl demanded.
“You’d never sell without telling us, would you, Pearl?” another girl asked.
* * *
Pearl raised her eyes to the man who’d been there for her more times than she could count. Hard to believe he had only been in town a month, and already she had come to depend on him, to trust him. “I’m all right now, Ben,” she whispered. “Thanks.”
His gaze inched along the line of her jaw, settling on the bruises there. She knew he was remembering how she’d come to be on the receiving end of more than a man’s fist.
“What did he do to you?” he demanded. “And what does he mean, buying your ranch?”
“I can straighten this whole matter out, if someone would just listen to me,” Smythe ground out.
Her cracked ribs still ached and her stomach continued to churn—although whether from the nearness of the light-haired stranger or the anger swirling around inside of her, Pearl couldn’t say.
When she nodded, the marshal nodded toward the prisoner, “I just want to speak to Smythe alone for a moment.” The marshal’s gaze swept up from her toes, before meeting hers. “I’ll let you know when we’re leaving.”
Pearl didn’t want to hear any more, right now, she had more important things on her mind right now, the least of which would be settling her girls down before reassuring them.
She straightened slowly, pausing to smooth her skirts, then brushed her hair off her face. “Thank you, Ben.” Lord, she desperately needed the ability to take a good, deep breath. Doc had been wrong; she wasn’t as quick a healer as he promised.
Bedridden for a time at the Flaherty’s ranch, she’d been itching to come home. Now that she was started to gain some of her strength back, she’d been confronted by a handsome stranger claiming to have bought her ranch.
“Amy, bring the girls on back inside.”
They followed her into the kitchen.
“You didn’t sell. Did you?” Amy sounded desperate.
“No,” Pearl reassured her. “I promised you’d always have a home with me. Besides, where would I go?”
Pearl had no one. Once John had died, she’d slowly begun to make the biggest change to their business, helping the upstairs girls find new places of employment or new homes. It didn’t matter which they chose, so long as it was their decision. She’d never wanted any part of what her husband insisted was one of the biggest draws to Pearl’s Place. Once the men came inside, hers was the face John insisted they stayed for, willing to spend their hard-earned money on promises he had no right to make.
The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Page 43