John Reilly is expecting a package from home, something light as a feather and twice as sweet. Little does he realize the package isn’t the baked goods he’s been dreaming of (never thinking they’d be spoiled from all those weeks on the boat and traveling cross country) but a grownup version of the thirteen-year-old girl who used to follow him every where.

When John Reilly doesn’t return to County Cork, Ireland, Jessi Fahy boards a ship and tracks him down. She arrives in Emerson, Colorado, hot, tired, and dusty, but he doesn’t recognize her. Five and a half years of waiting in vain, combined with a horrendous voyage and the realization that John doesn’t remember her, have Jessi fisting her hand and testing Mrs. Reilly’s secret weapon. With a wicked right cross, big John Reilly goes down like a stone.

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Excerpt:

"Reilly. Reilly!"

The insistent calling of his name broke through the haze of pain fogging Reilly's brain, but it was the splash of cold water in his face that brought him the rest of the way around.

Sputtering, he sat up and wiped his face, wondering what had happened until he opened his mouth to speak and a sharp pain lanced through his jaw. It all came back to him. The beautiful young woman, a perfect stranger, punched him in the face! No. He shook his head. She wasn't a stranger. 'Twas little Jessi Fahy.

How could he not know her?

And weren't those her last few words to him?

"Maybe we should get Doc over here," one of Burnbaum's sons mumbled. "He went down pretty hard."

Harder than you know, lad.

"Mr. Reilly." The shrill voice could only belong to Sara Burnbaum, former head of the temporarily disbanded Committee for the Betterment of Emerson.

The back of his head started to pound in time with the throbbing in his jaw. He rubbed at it and felt the knot growing there. And wasn't it just his luck for his hard head to hit the only rock in the middle of the road?

"Are you all right?"

He didn't answer right away, even though past experience told him he couldn't escape the woman if she wanted to speak to him.

Levering his weight against his hands, he pushed to his feet, and much to his embarrassment, swayed. Did the lass have a bit of brick hidden in her hand when she'd punched him, like he'd taught her to all those years ago?

"You're not well," the older woman crooned, taking him by the arm. "Did you swoon?"

The group of curious onlookers turned as one and stared at him with looks that ranged from wonder to horror on their faces. His temper snapped. "If ye'd been here, ye'd know I did no such thing."

He hated the way she dropped his arm and backed away from him in fear, but he couldn't stop himself. His masculinity had been challenged by both the blow and the accusation. "I've never in me life swooned."

"Well, then, what were you doing on the ground with your eyes closed?" she demanded, getting some of her formidable temper back.

Reilly fingered his aching jaw and another unwelcome memory assailed him, that of his older brother Aiden straddling him shaking his fist at him. They couldn't have been much more than five and six years old at the time. Damned weak jaw. It had failed him then, and it had failed him now. Ever since that time, in a fight he always protected it. But against a slip of a lass with honey-colored hair, he hadn't thought he had to.

"I lost me footin' and tripped, strikin' me jaw on the boardwalk."

Not one person contradicted him as he made his way over to the wagon, but give them all five minutes with his back turned, and the fresh tale of a slip of a lass fresh off the stagecoach knocking him flat on his back would be making headlines in the Denver Chronicle.

Where was Flynn? Where was Jessi?

He had to find her; unless her brother had traveled with her, she'd be all alone here in America. He'd never want that for her. The journey had been hard as hell on him until he'd found his sea legs. When he'd arrived in New York City, there had been the fear of not finding work, once he realized not all employers were willing to hire an immigrant from Ireland. Then there had been the nights when he'd gone to sleep on an empty belly, too many to count, until he'd been befriended by Seamus Flaherty, who'd been traveling under the name of James Ryan at the time.

Fighting against the noxious roiling in his gut, Reilly concentrated on the faces of the townsfolk slowly walking past the wagon. He'd come to know them all so well over the last few years. Not a stranger among them, or his redheaded friend. Where the devil was Flynn?

The deep laughter he'd grown to appreciate rumbled from nearby. His brain cleared instantly. Swenson's. Where else would Flynn take a stranger, other than back to the ranch?

Making his way on unsteady feet, Reilly walked up the front steps and into Mrs. Swenson's Boarding House. Having been inside over the years, he knew the way to the kitchen. As his steps brought him closer, he heard the familiar lilting voice he should have known anywhere.

He paused and closed his eyes to listen and was swept back in time. Skinny as a rail, heart in her tear-filled eyes, Jessi Fahy begged him not to leave. His gut had clenched in terror that day. But he couldn't stay. The ship had been about to set sail, and he was determined not to be left behind.

He'd had to leave then. But he didn't have to leave now.

Why was she here? What had happened back home to make her travel all the way across the Atlantic and half the continent of America to find him? It had to be bad.

He opened his eyes; purpose renewed, he walked to the back of the house and straight into hell. Jessi, his Jessi, was smiling at his former friend, Flynn. Rage bubbled up and mixed with the hurt churning through Reilly as he watched his best friend in the world laugh with the girl he'd never thought to see again.

Flummoxed, he came to a halt. Why should he care? Why should it matter that Flynn was befriending Jessi, instead of chasing after the Widow Dawson and her never-ending list of things that needed a man's attention, or that Jessi had been crying.

Crying? "Jessi, lass, are ye all right?"

She turned, and her smile disappeared, leaving a cold mask of hurt behind on her pretty face. She'd never looked at him like that before. What had he done to deserve it? All he'd done was ask if she was all right?

"As if ye'd care."

Stunned, he stood there, hat in his hands, jaw aching, head pounding, stomach roiling, and knew without a doubt, that he did care. More than he should, given the difference in their ages.

He hadn't thought about her often over the last five years, and when he did, it was only a fond memory of her trailing behind him wherever he went, asking dozens of questions every step of the way. Now and again, at night, when he was too weary to stop himself, the image of her laughing face would fill his mind.

Looking at her now, he remembered the times he'd been ill and she'd kept him company. When he'd come home to find her in the kitchen with his ma, baking berry tarts. She'd always managed to lighten his heart, but in all of his memories she'd been child, not a woman grown.

Lord above, had she grown.

"I care, lass." And that thought alone scared the bejeezus out of him. He had no business caring about what happened to his childhood friend, especially in the direction his thoughts were heading, straight into trouble.

She stood and walked over to him. Tilting her head back, she stared at him, winced, and reached a shaking hand to gently cup his jaw. The ache lanced through him, but it wasn't pain from where she touched his jaw. It was need, sharp and sweet.

"I've a fearful temper, John." The tears gathering in her eyes spilled over, trailing a path from the corner of her eyes along the curve of her cheek and down behind her ears.

He was struck by the overpowering need to draw her into his arms and hold her close, whispering words he'd no right to even think, let alone use, where Jessi was concerned.

What was the matter with him? She was too young. Well, not quite that young . . . and she'd certainly grown up since he'd seen her last. He stared down at her upturned lips and felt his gut clench.

Just grab the lass, pull her into yer arms and kiss her!

He battled against the overwhelming need to give in to what his heart wanted, telling himself it wouldn't be right or proper. I can't do that to Jessi.

Dazed from the blow and confused from striking his head, he stepped back from her as if he'd been burned. Desperate to put some space between them and rein in his thoughts, he shook his head to clear it of inappropriate thoughts about her. Hoping he could make amends, he said, "I apologize for not recognizing ye, lass."

He spun on his heel and walked away from the enchanting woman his childhood tag-along friend had become.

Distance would help.

Ireland might just be far enough away.