The wagon lurched as the wheels slipped in and out of
another rut in the sun–baked roadbed.
Ryan heard the soft intake of breath of the woman he
held and cursed under his own. "Easy!"
The slender wisp of woman moaned softly.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. O'Toole." Could she hear him? Would his
words penetrate the fog of pain surrounding her and ease the
worst of it?
Ryan pulled her close, hoping his gentle but firm hold
would prevent any further jarring. By the saints, she was thin!
"Hang on, Ma!" Mick flicked the reins again, signaling
the sturdy plow horse to keep moving.
In a bid to distract the boy, Ryan prompted, "Are you
ready to tell me why you were with those rustlers last night?"
Mick's gray eyes widened, and he opened his mouth as if
to speak. But one sidelong look at the frail woman Ryan held
had the boy clamping his jaw shut.
Probably just as well. The poor lad's probably still
wondering just how far to trust me. "We can talk about it
later. I made a promise to Marshal Turner last night that I
intend to keep."
Mick didn't give any indication that he'd heard, but
Ryan suspected the lad had.
The realization that he now had two more mouths to feed
hit him two miles south of his ranch. He couldn't have
chosen a more difficult time to take in more strays. His
sister Maggie was still missing, and only Marshal Turner's
assurance that he was out looking for her kept Ryan from
trying to track her down himself. Anything could have
happened to her stagecoach, with delays at any one of the
scheduled stops. He'd just have to be patient a while longer.
A soft puff of air blew across his throat. Startled by
the feel of it, he looked down at the thin but lovely face.
His sigh was loud; his thoughts distracted. Now here was a
sight worth seeing. He shook his head. Fine time to notice
her beauty. The poor woman felt as if she weighed no more
than a bird, but worse, looked as if she were wasting away.
A bleak thought struck him right between the eyes.
Heaven help Mick if she were dying. Dying . . . the word
wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed tight. Such a
waste of life. The poor lass couldn't be as old as his
sister, could she?
One way to find out, "How old are you?"
Mick didn't look away from the horse or the reins he
held when he answered, "Thirteen come winter."
That would put Mick's mother somewhere around
twenty–nine, if she got married and had Mick at
seventeen or so. Maybe younger.
As the wagon made its way across the rough roads, ever
closer to his ranch, Ryan thought about what life must have
been like for the boy, protecting his mother from a young age.
"You said your pa left?"
Mick's sharp glance could have cut through steel. Good
for you. Don't let any man cow you.
"Yeah."
"Do you remember much about him?"
Mick sat stone silent for so long, Ryan thought the boy
wouldn't answer at all.
Giving the lad time, he focused on their surroundings,
rather than on the silent young man at his side or the
dangerously thin woman in his arms. Ryan stared up at the
white puffs of clouds still off in the distance.
He could just imagine old man McMaster saying that
weather was moving in. A slice of pain slid through him.
He'd give his right arm if it would bring the old curmudgeon
back.
Glancing down, he realized that some things were beyond
his wishes or control. He owned the ranch now, just as
McMaster had decreed as the old man lay dying. There wasn't
a blessed thing he could have done to save his mentor. But
as God was his witness, he'd do his damnedest to save this
woman.
"I don't remember my pa."
Ryan looked over at the boy. Infinite sorrow flowed from
the boy in waves. "Ah, well, sure an' that's a shame."
Caught up in the boy's emotions, Ryan told Mick about
his father, slipping back into his childhood brogue as the
memories returned. "My da was a big man. Hands and voice
rough by turns, or gentle, whatever the situation warranted."
Mick nodded. If Ryan closed his eyes, he could still
remember how it felt to stand at his da's side. His much
smaller hand tucked securely in his father's, certain that
the world would be safe so long as the man with a heart as
big as Ireland stood tall and proud at his side.
When Mick stubbornly remained silent, Ryan added, "My
da's gone too."
Mick's tongue loosened enough to share just a bit. "My
ma says I look like Pa."
Ryan nodded, not wanting to interrupt the boy now that
he was beginning to open up.
"He left before I was born. My ma says he just never
came home." Mick's eyes were flint–hard when he turned
toward Ryan. "But they were married. He must have gotten
ambushed by outlaws or stampeded by cattle, or caught in a
twister, or—"
Moved by the boy's story and fierce defense of a man
he'd never met, Ryan reached out a hand and laid it on the
lad's shoulder. "You've no need to justify yourself or your
father's existence to me. I believe you."
Satisfied with that small tidbit, Mick nodded and
relaxed his hands on the reins enough that the horse looked
over its shoulder as if to see just what Mick wanted him to
do now.
"I think Finn needs you to grip the reins with just a
bit firmer hand, lad." Ryan nodded toward the horse pulling
their wagon.
Doing as Ryan bade him, Mick glanced first at his mother
then focused all of his considerable attention to the rise
in the road up ahead.
Guessing their conversation was over, Ryan told him, "My
land begins just 'round the bend. By that oak tree."
Shifting Mrs. O'Toole in his arms, to better point out
the tree, Ryan felt the slight swell of her hip brush
against his lap. Damned if his body didn't stir itself just
enough to be embarrassing. He'd better concentrate on
something else before they got to the ranch house. It had
certainly been a long while since any woman stirred his
interest.
Why now? Why this woman?
Desperate to shake himself free of those dangerous
thoughts, wracking his overtired brain for something to say
or do to distract his growing physical awareness of the
woman in his arms, he finally remembered Mick saying
something about squirrel stew last night on the ride home.
Hoping to get the boy to focus on something other than worry
for his mother, while Ryan dug deep for the will to control
his soon–to–be–obvious interest in the
woman, he blurted out, "So you can cook squirrel stew?"
He hoped it would work, since the last thing he intended
to do was scare the boy into thinking the man who had come
to their rescue would take advantage of his very ill mother.
"Yeah," Mick finally answered. "I can cook Irish stew,
too. But we haven't had mutton in a long time. Costs too
much. Last year wasn't a good one for carrots, or anything
else we planted. They just rotted off at the dirt. We
thought we'd have such a fine crop—well at least
enough for a summer's worth of good eatin'."
Mick paused, swiped a hand across his brow and nodded
toward the steadily shining sun. "Too much rain put an end
to our plans. We lost the potatoes too."
"Last year wreaked havoc on our garden too," Ryan
offered, hoping to help the boy realize he was not the only
one who had suffered from the weather. "But we had enough
seed left over to plant again, once the blasted rains let up."
The knowledge that he had had to dig into the reserve of
money he always set aside for his sister and their mother
had kept him awake more than one night. But the knowledge
that his men, and the townspeople who depended upon their
vegetables, would starve without it went a long way toward
easing his guilt.
"Not everyone is blessed with a big ranch and lots of
money."
Ryan took in the clenched jaw and flinty eyes and
realized the boy was burdened by that guilt as well. Poor
lad. It wasn't enough that he was too young to have to
provide for his mother, but knowing he hadn't had the money
to pay for her doctor's bills and food must have nearly
killed the boy.
"Well, I'd suggest you make the best of a good
opportunity then, lad. I've a mind to sign you on as a ranch
hand. But you've got to pull your weight."
Mick's eyes narrowed. "Just what do I have to do?"
Ryan smiled. "For starters, you can get rid of that chip
you're haulin' around on your shoulder."
Mick's look was subdued, but he managed to nod his head
in agreement.
"We always rotate chores around the ranch house.
Tonight's Sean's turn to cook, but Sean burns more than he
cooks." Ryan paused, "If you feel ready to tackle the
cooking, we'd be mighty grateful for stew and biscuits . . .
but we're fresh out of squirrel."
Mick's grin was lightning fast. "Got any beef?"
Ryan chuckled, thinking of the cattle he'd nearly lost
to rustlers the night before. "We just might find some for
you, lad."
Thinking of how many head of cattle he'd added since his
former boss, Ian McMaster, bequeathed the ranch to him had
his mind turning toward the rest of his mentor's last
wishes. As he, Flynn, and Reilly had stood around the dying
man's bed, Ryan vowed that he would never turn away anyone
in need of a job, a meal, or a place to stay. McMaster had
taken them all in, and they owed it to his memory to do the
same.
The vow had never been hard to keep, and four of his
more talented ranch hands had wandered onto his land in need
of feeding and doctoring. Ryan had gladly taken them in. The
obligation had always been a pleasure; the responsibility
had helped him to keep his connection with the tough old
Scot alive.
Looking down into the nearly translucent, but
porcelain–perfect, face of Mick's mother, he sighed.
Had he taken on more than he could handle this time?
His thoughts turned back to McMaster and how the wily
old Scot had tricked the truth out of him. The old man's
threats to turn Flynn and Reilly out if Ryan didn't tell him
who, what, and where he was running from had him smiling
now, but he hadn't smiled at the time. He might have to do
the same to Mick. He sensed there was more to the young
boy's story, too. The lurch of the wagon brought his
thoughts back to the present.
"She'll be all right, Mick." He hoped the boy believed
him, although Ryan could not look the lad in the eye when he
made that promise. The boy's mother was literally skin and
bones, with not a spare ounce of fat on her slender frame.
"I'm sure we can figure out what ails your mother. If
not, Doc—"
"No!" The strangled rasp was close to a whisper, but
Ryan heard her just the same. He bent his head closer and
asked, "No what?"
"Doctors."
"But, Mrs. O'Toole—"
"No."
He straightened back up at the same moment she opened
her eyes. A shadow flashed in their velvety brown depths. He
felt so helpless, unable to ease her pain. The soft light of
the early morning tinted the pale blue sky with slashes of
rosy pink, adding a hint of that same color to her pale,
sunken cheeks. Ryan's gut clenched in fear.
Would he be able to save this woman? Would he be able to
discover the strange sickness she suffered from in time?
"Promise me." Though weak, the determination in her
voice came through clear as glass.
"No doctors," he vowed. Would he burn in hell for making
a promise he would have to break? If he or Reilly couldn't
help Mick's mother, then he'd be fetching the doctor out to
the ranch, come hell or high water!
Though slight, the weight of the woman in his arms
seemed to meld and become a part of him the longer he held
her. Waves of protectiveness toward the needy pair swept
over him, threatening his sanity. First desire had
threatened to swamp him, now protectiveness.
The homeless pair certainly pulled at him. He relaxed
slightly and wondered who had been putting food in the boy
and his mother's mouths these past few weeks while she lay ill.
His head started to ache at the base of his skull as he
thought of someone else he needed to protect but could not
even find. Damnation! Where was his sister?
A hideous thought followed the last one, driving the
breath from his body. Would Big John and the posse out of
Amarillo finally track him down? Five years' time passing
went a long way toward making Ryan feel safe and secure in
his new life with his new identity. But for the sake of his
sister, and now Mick and his mother, he'd best be on the
lookout for trouble.
"They're here!"
Ryan heard Reilly's shout from the bottom of the lane,
as Mick drove the wagon up past the dilapidated barn he
hoped someday soon have the time and money to
rebuild—if his sister arrived in time—if not
then he would no longer have a claim to the land, the ranch,
or the herd he worked so hard to expand.
The woman in his arms stirred then whispered, "Mick?"
"Yeah, Ma?"
"Don't let anyone fuss over me."
"You're in need of fussing over," Ryan stated flatly.
"I don't need—"
"Aye, you do," he interrupted. "You need someone to take
care of you. God obviously has a sense of humor, as he's
dropped you and Mick into my lap. Even so, I intend to do my
best for the both of you."
His heart clenched at the thought of taking care of
another woman. He'd gone down that road five years ago.
Well, this time he'd not put his trust or his heart in the
woman's hands, no matter how badly he was tempted. Placing
his fate in the hands of the woman he loved was a risk he
couldn't take, a mistake he couldn't make twice.
"Jamie?"
He looked over at his foreman. "Aye, Reilly?"
Reilly's gaze met his. "No word yet from Turner."
The worry that his sister would not arrive in time was
driving him crazy. He needed the papers he'd entrusted to
her care to help prove he owned every one of the precious,
blessed acres McMaster had deeded to him two weeks before
the old man died.
If the bloody crooked banker hadn't destroyed the other
copies, Ryan wouldn't have had to send for his sister. She'd
still be safe and sound back in New York instead of missing
somewhere in eastern Colorado. God, he hoped she was missing
and not—
"She'll turn up." Reilly looked so sure of it, Ryan
swallowed the knot of fear and nodded.
"What have we here?"
Reilly's question helped snap Ryan's focus back on the
immediate problem at hand. Today Ryan would focus on making
Mick and his mother feel welcomed and cared for. Tomorrow he
would have time to worry about Maggie's whereabouts.