The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Read online

  The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

  C. H. Admirand

  Toshiba (2013)

  * * *

  Rating: ★★★★★

  Tags: Literature & Fiction, Romance, Western, Westerns

  C.H. Admirand's Bestselling Historical Irish Western Series in a boxed set.

  For those of you who are wondering if you've read the entire series to date, here are the first four books bundled.

  THE MARSHAL'S DESTINY (Bk 1)

  THE RANCHER'S HEART (Bk 2)

  PEARL'S REDEMPTION (Bk 3)

  A GIFT FROM HOME (Bk 4)

  Other series by C.H. Admirand:

  The Secret Life of Cowboys/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  TYLER (Bk 1)

  DYLAN (Bk 2)

  JESSE (Bk 3)

  Contemporary Small Town/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  A WEDDING IN APPLE GROVE (Bk 1)

  ONE DAY IN APPLE GROVE (Bk 2)

  WELCOME BACK TO APPLE GROVE (Bk 3)

  Medieval Trilogy/DCL Publications

  THE LORD OF MEREWOOD KEEP (Bk 1)

  THE SAXON BRIDE (Bk 2)

  A SCOT'S HONOR (Bk 3)

  MEDIEVAL TRILOGY boxed set

  THE MARSHAL’S DESTINY

  Irish Western Series

  Book One

  By C.H. Admirand

  ©2013 by C.H. Admirand

  All rights reserved ~ Irish Westerns

  Boxed Set August 28, 2013

  Previous Editions Published:

  The Marshal’s Destiny ~ 2001 and April 2013

  The Rancher’s Heart ~ February 2007 and May 2013

  Pearl’s Redemption ~ June 2008 and June 2013

  A Gift From Home ~ August 2010 and July 2013

  “Off to Amerikay” by Dean M. Dobbs, copyright © 2001 by Dean M. Dobbs. Lyrics reprinted by permission of the author.

  C.H. Admirand

  57 Lakeview Drive, W. Milford, NJ 07480-4278

  ISBN#: 978-0-9897099-2-7

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the USA

  © 2013 Cover by P and N Graphics, LLC

  The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

  Dedication … Page 4

  Acknowledgements … Page 5

  Book One ~ The Marshal’s Destiny

  Chapter 1 … Page 6

  Chapter 2 ... Page 16

  Chapter 3 … Page 23

  Chapter 4 … Page 32

  Chapter 5 … Page 39

  Chapter 6 … Page 51

  Chapter 8 … Page 72

  Chapter 9 … Page 86

  Chapter 10 … Page 99

  Chapter 11 … Page 106

  Chapter 12 … Page 117

  Chapter 13 … Page 124

  Chapter 14 … Page 138

  Chapter 15 … Page 148

  Chapter 16 … Page 157

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my great-grandmother, Margaret Mary Flaherty.

  Acknowledgments:

  A very special thank-you to Sahara Kelly and P and N Graphics, LLC for designing such fabulous covers for my Irish Western Series.

  And 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.

  Chapter One

  Indians!

  Her hand froze, clutching the heavy flap designed to keep dust from coming in the open window. Eerie high-pitched yells sent shards of fear splintering through her. Chills skittered up and down her spine.

  “Close the flap!” the other passenger ordered.

  But she couldn’t move—she was in shock.

  The stagecoach driver had warned it would be dangerous riding through Colorado’s Indian Territory, but Margaret Mary Flaherty didn’t believe him. She’d thought the tales were simply exaggerations made up by some dime store novelist. After all, these were modern civilized times—the late 1870s.

  The attack came out of nowhere. One moment, she was admiring the deep blue of the cloudless sky and endless open plain; a heartbeat later, swarms of painted natives on horseback charged out of the landscape churning up a cloud of dust.

  “Hurry—the flap!”

  An odd whistling noise sounded close by, followed by a distinctive thunk. White-hot pain seared through her upper arm. It was stuck—she couldn’t move. Blessedly the pain gave way to numbness.

  As if from far away, she heard a keening sound—the tortured cry of the wounded. Maggie focused on one thought; she had been wrong—dead wrong.

  The long wooden arrow shaft, a testament to her foolish decision to ignore the warnings, lay imbedded in the fleshy part of her arm. She stared down at it, wondering why she still didn’t feel any pain. Then all at once, the numbness receded. Excruciating pain radiated up from where the arrow pierced her flesh. Horror set in. Bright-red blood flowed freely from the wound, drenching the sleeve of her new blue-and-white gingham dress.

  A second arrow flew in the open window, skewering the window flap to the wooden door frame. Maggie had never been so afraid in her life. She’d survived Rory’s death. Near-starvation at the hands of the English. A perilous journey across the Atlantic—but never in her life had she seen anything as terrifying as the red-skinned warriors swarming closer to the stagecoach with deadly arrows. Surely even Cromwell himself would have been deterred by these savage people.

  The driver cracked his whip. Maggie heard the man loudly cursing a blue streak, coaxing the last burst of energy from the exhausted team of horses. Off to the left, she heard the crack of rifles being fired.

  “Hang on!” the driver shouted down from above them. “Help’s coming!”

  A ripple of pain snaked through her. She shivered.

  “Be still,” her traveling companion pleaded.

  “The bloody arrow’s pinned me to the seat!” Maggie groaned. “I can’t move.”

  Compassion transformed the other woman’s face briefly, before a grave look filled it once more. Maggie decided to ignore the look, forcing herself to concentrate on something—anything but the pain swirling around her.

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she rasped, “can ye tear a few strips off me petticoat—to soak up the blood?”

  “No need for that,” the woman answered. “I came prepared.”

  Maggie could feel her strength ebb as the coach hurtled across the dry-as-dust country she had wanted to adopt as her own. She wondered if it was too late to rethink her decision.

  She watched the large, rawboned woman sitting across from her dig deep into the carpetbag she carried and produce a rolled-up length of pristine white cloth.

  Trying to keep the pain at bay took most of her strength, but her will was still strong—as was her curiosity. She had to ask, “Now why would ye be carrying around material for bandages?”

  “Six months ago, I traveled this same route,” the woman answered quietly.

  “This happened before?”

  The woman nodded, but offered no further explanation. Maggie sensed the other woman’s reluctance to discuss the matter. Needing to talk to distract herself, she changed the subject. “With me mind on me troubles, I’ve forgotten me manners entirely. I’d like to thank ye, but never asked your name.”

  “Annie—Annie Brown.”

  “Thank
ye for yer kindness,” she whispered. “Me father named me for his mother. I’m Margaret Mary, but ye can call me Maggie—Maggie Flaherty.”

  The coach careened wildly as one of the wheels bounced in and out of a deep rut in their path. Her weight shifted, tugging at the arrow. She bit her bottom lip, tasting the coppery tang of her own blood. Darkness threatened to pull her under—consume her whole.

  Annie worked quickly, folding the cloth into a thick wad. “It won’t be long now,” she soothed.

  Gunfire cracked nearby. Miraculously the hideous cries of the Indians started to fade away. She looked up into eyes as pale and bleak as a midwinter morn back in County Clare. While she watched, Annie placed the thick makeshift bandage around the base of the wooden shaft and hesitated.

  She knew what Annie had to do—remove the arrow. Maggie drew in a breath and braced herself. A bolt of pain seared through her. It felt as if her arm were being flayed open to the bone. Annie bore down, putting pressure on the bandage to staunch the flow of blood.

  A moan of agony ripped from between Maggie’s tightly pressed lips. “Do ye have a wee drop of English blood in ye, then?”

  The other woman’s snort of laughter almost made Maggie smile, but the effort required far too much energy. Hers was rapidly draining away.

  “You’ve got more than enough grit to see you through the doctoring.”

  “Doctorin’?”

  A vision of her Da lying, bleeding, on their scarred oak table flashed through her mind. She felt a bubble of panic start to form down low in her stomach.

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “ ‘Tis far better to know what is to come, than to worry over it.”

  Another memory flashed of her mother digging the pistol ball from her Da’s side while her older brother and neighbor held him down. The bubble of panic burst and began to roil.

  Annie’s pale gray eyes softened. “One way is to push the arrow through until the head is visible on the other side—”

  Bile rushed up Maggie’s throat.

  “—then whoever does the doctoring, chops off the arrowhead, grabs a hold of the feathered end, and yanks it back out.”

  It was all she could do not to disgrace herself by losing the dried beef and biscuit she’d eaten hours before. Swallowing back the foul taste in her mouth, Maggie reached down deep for strength, calling upon the strong stock her Da had always bragged about.

  “Well then.” She swallowed hard—twice. “Since I’m skewered to the seat, I don’t guess whoever does the doctorin’ will have to push it through too far.”

  “Don’t worry—” Annie’s words were abruptly cut off, as the stage came to a bone-jarring halt. In the aftermath of the battle, the sudden silence was deafening.

  “Anyone hurt?” the voice was deep—his tone curt.

  “Am I glad to see you, Marshal,” the driver answered. “One o’ the women’s hurt. I heard one of ‘em wailing ‘bout five miles back.”

  The door to the coach burst open. A dark form filled the opening, blocking out most of the mid-afternoon sunlight. Maggie tried to focus on the figure, but the loss of blood was making her head swim.

  “I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  The man grabbed the doorframe and pulled himself into the confines of the coach. His considerable weight rocked the coach, causing the team of horses to pull against their traces. “Ashamed of what?”

  Tiny dots danced before her eyes, and a low-pitched buzzing sounded in her head. She gripped the edge of the seat to keep from crying out.

  “Hold the team!”

  The snorting and stamping miraculously stopped.

  “Easy, miss.”

  The stranger’s voice called to her on an elemental level, forcing her to ignore everything but the sound of his voice. It pulled her back from the comforting darkness to the chaos and pain.

  Maggie swallowed against the lump in her throat, nearly releasing the tears she fought to hold back. “I may have made a wee bit o’ noise when the arrow—”

  The words dried up on her tongue when she looked up and locked gazes with the stranger sitting across from her. Had she died already then? Was this her guardian angel come to take her to heaven? The sunlight pouring in through the open door framed his head, gilding the edges of his tawny-blond hair, setting off his gorgeous eyes—brilliant deep-green eyes. She was awestruck by the rugged beauty of the man’s face.

  She watched his eyes harden, as his gaze dipped down to the arrow and back up again. The intense color of his eyes, so like the rolling hills around her family’s small plot of land back home, enthralled her.

  He used his thumb to push the hat farther back on his head, the movement releasing a lock of wavy sun-kissed hair. It fell into his eyes. He brushed it aside with a hand that was every inch as big as her brother Seamus’s. He’d need to be strong to remove the arrow, but she could barely handle the pain.

  He inched closer and placed his hands on his knees, but before he could speak, Annie blurted out, “She’s pinned to the seat.”

  He looked away from Maggie for the first time since entering the coach. She felt her control waver as she watched him nod to the other woman. He understood. The moment he looked back, his confidence washed over her. ‘Twill be all right then.

  Watching his face for a clue as to how bad her injury really was, she saw his jaw clench and a muscle under his left eye leap twice before he ground his teeth together. The sound grated across her already frayed control. Not good—not good at all.

  “I’m wonderin’ if it would be easier to remove the seat—”

  “Hold still.” Waves of heat poured off his body as he scooted closer.

  She could use some of his warmth—she was so cold. Trying to calm her racing heart, she breathed deeply. His masculine scent enveloped her. Her head reeled as the potent combination of body-warmed leather, sandalwood soap, and a hint of horse washed over her.

  Her gaze swept over the breadth of his broad chest and the star pinned to it. His shoulders were massive, and he definitely looked strong enough to pull the arrow free. Would he be gentle removing it from her swollen flesh?

  She looked back up at his face and his grass-green eyes locked on hers.

  “I have to get an idea of how deeply the arrow embedded itself in the cushion.” He paused.

  Was he waiting for her to say something? “Should I try to lean forward?” Lord she hoped he wouldn’t ask her to.

  “Can you do that?”

  Maggie silently cursed her tongue for moving before her brain could think things through. Heaven help her. Was she daft altogether? If it hurt not to move, it was certain to be worse if she did.

  “She’s lost a lot of blood,” Annie began, “I don’t think—”

  She watched his gaze swing over to Annie’s. The look that passed between the two did not bode well at all. She shivered, then stiffened her resolve and screwed up her courage. She could handle anything—she was a Flaherty!

  “What do ye want me to do?”

  “Can you lean forward?” The low rumble of his voice soothed her. “Even an inch would help.” Like a healing balm the deep timber of his words spread across her aching muscles.

  “I’ll give it me best,” she answered honestly, “but I won’t be promising I can.”

  The grim visage before her softened as the man’s face relaxed into a lopsided grin. A dimple formed along one side of his mouth, drawing her eyes that spot. She couldn’t help but notice his strong, whiskered jaw, or the dark blond mustache framing his beautifully sculpted lips.

  The sudden urge to trace them with the tips of her fingers jarred her. She hadn’t been tempted to look at another man—much less touch one—since she’d held her darling Rory close as he breathed his last.

  “She’s got a bucket of grit to spare.”

  “Ye say that like it’s a bad thing, Annie.” As the words were leaving her lips, another wave of pain came out of nowhere, hitting her right between the eyes. She couldn’t ho
ld back a low moan of agony.

  All traces of his grin disappeared as the man clenched his jaw. Did he feel her pain? Were they linked somehow?

  “Ready?”

  She nodded and slowly eased her body toward him. As the arrow moved, her arm felt as if it were being ripped apart and set on fire. She began to doubt her body’s ability to absorb any more of the pain. Fresh blood spilled from the wound, adding a bright crimson to the already bloody bandage.

  He reached around behind her, deftly slipping his fingertips beneath her. His gaze locked with hers. “Trust me.”

  It wasn’t his demand to trust him that decided her. Raw emotion poured from the very depths of the man’s soul as his loneliness and need called out to her, pleading with her to save him. Flahertys believed in fate—good or bad. Without a doubt, this man would play a part in her future. Though whether he would kill her, or save her, would depend on the man’s skill at removing arrows.

  Closing her eyes, she gathered her courage. When she opened them, she had to steel herself to accept the bold challenge in his gaze. Did he know he was her destiny?

  “Might I be knowin’ yer name, Marshal?”

  In a flash the naked pain and longing in his eyes was gone, replaced by a grave look of concern.

  “Joshua,” he said softly.

  “Me name’s Maggie,” she whispered, “and I do.”

  “Do?”

  “Trust ye.”

  She could feel the muscles in his arm go taut a second before she guessed his intention. Gritting her teeth, she silently prayed for strength.

  Joshua’s gaze never left hers as he jerked the arrow from the cushion—the motion pulling her flush against the broad wall of heavily muscled chest. His heat seared right through to her backbone. She gasped as blinding pain brought tears to her eyes.

  Finding her voice, she asked, “Can ye just leave the rest be till tomorrow then?” She was desperate not to let the tears fall—once they started, she wouldn’t be able to stop crying.