The Man From Tipperary POD Print

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The McCoy Series Book 3

By Toni V. Sweeney

Padraig McCoy is the Bad Boy of the McCoy family.

Up to now, his father’s money has gotten him out of scrapes …until the day Padraig commits one offence too many and finds himself a remittance man, paid by his father to leave home and never return.

Still in shock, the young exile finds himself on a boat to America where he comes to rest in the Nebraska Great Plains. Knowing nothing about cows doesn’t stop Padraig from hiring on as a ranch hand, however, and on a trail drive to Sedalia, Fate steps in and changes his life forever.

It takes a few years, but, thanks to a cattle stampede, an influenza epidemic, and a determined young woman arriving on a Wells Fargo stage, the ne’er-do-well from Tipperary is about to become the man he should be.

Genre: Western Romance, Family Saga

Sensuality rating: 3

Cover Art by James Robinson

This book is available in the following formats:
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Author: Toni V. Sweeney
Description

Chapter 1

Tipperary, Ireland

1850

The clip of the horse’s hooves pierced Padraig’s lust, jerking him from his desire as well as the woman in his arms.

“What was that?” He glanced to the mullion windows opened to the night air.

“What was what?” she asked, reviving from eye-glazed passion.

In a flash, he was out of her arms as well as her body, and off the bed. Naked flesh gleaming palely in the lamp light, he darted to the open casement.

“I thought you said your husband was gone for a fortnight.” Padraig peered through the window.

“He is.” She sat up, brushing back tousled hair.

“Does he ride a dapple with black points?”

“Yes.”

“Then he lied.” He hurried back to the bed, searching. “Where’d I leave me clothes?”

Bending, he scooped up the garments, tossing them onto the bed.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Leavin’.” He hopped on one foot, then the other, pulling on his stockings.

“But…you can’t,” she protested.

“’Fraid I can, darlin’.” He brushed a quick kiss against her lips, dodging her grasping hands. “It was good, acushla…what there was o’ it, don’t get me wrong…but not enough for me t’ risk a bullet.”

He wrapped his cravat around his neck.

The clomp of boots on the stairs told him he didn’t have time to dress further. Clothing in hand, Padraig dashed to the window, peering out again. He didn’t hear the faint metallic tinkle as the threads on a button broke and the little object fell to the floor.

The front wall of the manor was densely covered with generations of ivy. Thinking he’d be exiting the same way he entered, he hadn’t bothered to check for an escape route when he came to the manor an hour earlier. It was climb out the window and trust the strength of the vines or face Lord Cornwell’s pistol.

“Will I see you again?” Her Ladyship asked.

“Extremely doubtful,” he flung over his shoulder.

Wrapping his garments around his neck, he seized a branch and swung up and out the window, silently praying it would support his weight. The ivy vine gave, stretched, and held. Breathing a quick sigh of relief, Padraig went hand-under-hand down it as His Lordship burst through the bedroom door.

~ * ~

“Clarence, you’re back.” That inane statement was startled out of his wife.

“Obviously. Where is he?” he demanded, gaze darting around the room.

“Where’s who?” His wife clutched sheets to her bosom and attempted nonchalance.

“Your lover.” He started to the window, raising his pistol.

You’re here, my darling,” she said, holding the sheets tighter.

“Don’t try to cozen me,” he accused, whirling to look back at her. “I’m no cony and I won’t be a cuckold. Where’s that McCoy bastard?”

“Mr. McCoy?” Somehow she managed not to show how startled she was that he remembered Padraig’s name. “The young man who came with his parents to our dinner party?”

      “The young man you flirted with the entire meal,” Cornwell corrected.

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