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.