To Love A Wild Irishman

Prologue: Hanged

"Rye whiskey, rye whiskey I need ya so bad

                My mouth is so dry; I'm a thirsyt ol' lad

                Rye whiskey, rye whiskey you're better than the rest

              Just now ya sound better than a big set of breasts."

Finnegan tipped his empty flask and sent up a prayer to God to send him on a path to a brothel full of willing women and barrels of whiskey.

He'd run out of whiskey two days ago and Finnegan's blood hadn't been this pure since he'd begun drinking at the age of eleven. His mama had damn near had a fit but his pa had thought it was great fun and had encouraged it for his own twisted amusement.

That's what happened when your papa was an Irishman. Finnegan was glad for his Irish heritage even though the Brits that had settled this fine country called America well over a hundred years ago still looked down on him for it.  It was because he was Irish that he had such luck with the women. His accent wasn't as thick as his papa's but it still drove the womenfolk crazy.  He had Irish charm and with just a "Hello pretty lass" and a wink they were falling all over him.

                Though it was also his Irish heritage that had him wandering through the middle of nowhere without a drop of whiskey left in his flask. He had inherited more than just good charms from his papa. He had also inherited a strong bond with the whiskey and a love of a good bet.

                One too many bets on a buggy race that had gone south had led to Finnegan being forced to leave the race just as soon as the thundering hooves and bouncing wheels had crossed the finish line. And he'd been forced to leave in a hurry.

                Amsten Texas had been such a nice town—but now it was off limits to the likes of Finnegan; just the same as a long list of towns before it.

                The sun was beginning to set and Finnegan could see the faint flickering of a campfire not too far off in the distance. Maybe they'd have some whiskey to spare. Finnegan had a canteen of water but that was strictly to avoid death by dehydration and he wasn't quite far enough gone yet to find it appealing.

                He rode a bit closer and two old men came into view. Their heads snapped up and whipped around sharply when Finnegan's faithful appaloosa gelding, Theo, let out a snort.

                "Who the hell are you?" One of the men demanded in a gravely voice.

              Finnegan slid from the saddle and winced as blood flow returned to his backside. He shook out his legs and grinned, "My name's Finnegan, gentleman, and I was hoping ya might have a bit of space around your fire for me."

                "Sure don't," the first man ground out. "Get on out of here now and be on your way."

                "I mean ya both no harm," Finnegan assured them. "I simply need a place to rest a while and perhaps a bit of whiskey if ya have some."

                "We don't cater to no Irishman," the first man grumbled.

               The second studied Finnegan a moment, "I reckon we've got room to spare around our fire, LeRoy. Might as well let this man take it up."

              The men shared a look and then the first man sighed and waved him over, "Alright then. You can hitch your horse over there." He nodded toward a tree where two horses were already tied off and grazing. "We got some beans heated up and there's a bottle of whisky in that sack yonder."