Book 1: Contemporary Irish Westerns
Dear Readers
I hope you enjoy reading Tom and Emily’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I believe in love at first sight, second chances, sharing our gifts to make a difference, and the ultimate healing power of prayer.
For those who’ve read my Irish Western Series, the Claddagh Ranch originally belonged to Ian McMaster who bequeathed it to Seamus Ryan Flaherty (aka James Ryan) in book two: The Rancher’s Heart. Folks around the town of Emerson, Colorado, always referred to it as the Ryan Ranch or the Ryan Spread. It was officially renamed the Claddagh Ranch in honor of Ian McMaster who never turned away a cowboy down on his luck…even the Murphy brothers who rode double on a sway-backed horse, wearing their long red underwear—no hats, no boots, no saddle. Ah but that’s another story…
The Irish Claddagh symbol, two hands holding a heart with a crown on top of the heart and hands, dates back to the 1700s, but it wasn’t until the 1830s that it was called the Claddagh Ring. The hands stand for friendship, the heart for love, and the crown for loyalty. Though Ian McMaster was a Scotsman, he embodied the symbol of the Irish Claddagh.
The ranch is still in the Flaherty family and run by Seamus Ryan Flaherty, the great, great grandson of the first Seamus Ryan Flaherty.
Chapter One
Tom McNally was a mean son of a bitch when he was riled, and he was riled on behalf of his best friend, Clint Jones. Damn Tammy Sue for pulling a stunt like this.
Tom knew his buddy needed to anesthetize the shock of Tammy Sue’s leaving. Nodding to the bartender, he held up one finger. When another longneck appeared, he murmured, “Put it on my tab.”
Clint drained half the bottle before setting it back on the bar.
“You sure she’s gone?”
Clint lifted the longneck to his lips and paused to answer, “Yeah.”
Tom tried to think of something to say. Hell, it wouldn’t matter what he said when his buddy was drinking Coors like it was water. In Clint’s place, Tom would have a bottle of Jameson—no glass—in front of him.
One of his mom’s favorite Pink Floyd tunes started playing in his head as he realized it’d take Clint longer to get comfortably numb drinking beer. Settling in to wait until his friend got to that point, he forgot about his busted ribs, drew in a deep breath, and ended up panting through the pain.
Tom held a hand to his side and struggled to catch his breath. Tiny black dots danced in front of his eyes. “Damn,” he blinked to clear his vision. “At least it’s not stars.” Stars reminded him of his dad’s favorite cartoon character getting bashed in the head and seeing that perfect circle of stars.
He could almost see that animated character riding a bull, and nearly smiled. Instead, he grunted. There wasn’t anything humorous about that damned bull he drew. His ride was almost perfect—one half second more, and he’d have heard that eight-second buzzer. Just his luck, the bastard bull tossed him off and tried to stomp the life out of him.
Clint glanced at Tom and shook his head. “Widowmaker almost made one outta you.”
His vision had cleared, but his ribs still ached. “Not possible,” he grumbled. “Not married.”
“Me neither.” Clint sighed before adding, “Thought Tammy Sue was the one.”
Tom had needed a lucky bull draw; he’d only been back on the circuit for a month or so, but his luck ran out yesterday. It must have for Clint too, because something had happened between his friend and the woman who’d been glued to Clint’s side since Amarillo.
Tom knew Clint planned to ask her before the competition last night. But that was before Clint’s winning ride and Tom’s drawing Widowmaker—a Brahman bull with a ten and zero record. No one had managed to ride him all season. That blasted bull lived up to his name and reputation for grinding cowboys into the dirt.
“You gonna tell me what happened?” Tom asked, signaling the bartender. “Two shots of Jameson—up.”
The bartender nodded, smoothly poured and served two shots, then moved on down the bar to where a group of attractive women were signaling for another round.
The curvy redhead in the group smiled at Tom, but it was his turn to be the designated driver, and until he got to the bottom of what happened to his friend while he was getting patched up, he couldn’t let the pretty little filly turn his head.
Tom acknowledged the look with the tip of his Stetson and turned his attention back to his friend. He lifted his glass, “To John Jameson—sláinte.”
Clint raised his glass and tossed back the whiskey, signaling for a refill. When his friend slid a shot in front of Tom, he shook his head.
Clint grinned and tossed back both shots, “Ah…whiskey, yer me darlin’—” He shoved to his feet, but caught the heel of his boot on the barstool.
Before Clint’s long legs got tangled up in the barstool rungs—busted legs could signal the end of a bull rider’s rodeo career—Tom caught Clint and his friend’s elbow to the rib cage.
His grunt of pain had Clint kicking free and getting to his feet. “Hell,” Clint mumbled as he swayed, “sorry, man.”
Tom conquered the pain, grateful that he hadn’t heard another crack echoing in his head, signaling another busted rib, and that Clint hadn’t broken out in song. They’d been kicked out of more than one bar over the years for an SWI—singing while intoxicated—Tom had a decent enough voice, but Clint was tone deaf.
Tom paid the tab and grabbed hold of his friend, steering him toward the exit. It wasn’t easy maneuvering his loose-limbed buddy over to Clint’s pickup. Ribs screaming, head pounding, he finally got him in the passenger seat.
“She wanted to fly to Vegas.”
“When?”
Clint grunted, “While you were in the emergency room getting patched up.”
“Didn’t you want to marry her?”
“Hell yeah,” Clint answered. “But I couldn’t just leave without knowing if you’d broken something important this time.”
Tom shut the door and rounded the hood to the driver’s side. “She didn’t want to wait?”
“Naw,” Clint said. “Got all pissed off at me, cussed me up one side and down the other.”
“And,” Tom knew there was more.
Clint shrugged, “Asked her if she kissed her momma with that mouth.”
Tom swallowed a chuckle, Clint was miserable enough. “Sorry, man.”
“Hell,” Clint said, “she was itching to go once she knew I wouldn’t leave my best friend.”
“Friends are hard to come by on the circuit,” Tom admitted. “Glad we still are.”
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