Chapter Twenty-eight
For thirteen years, there’d been a hole in Patrick’s life. Working alongside his family in their fields at harvest over the next weeks, he came to truly recognize the shape of it. He was no farmer and didn’t want to make a lifelong pursuit of it, but he’d’ve given near anything to have spent any of the past harvest seasons with them.
“That oldest boy of yours is a hard worker,” he told Ian as they brought in the last of his grain on an autumn afternoon. “Is he wanting to farm as well?”
“He has more interest in horses. ’Twoudn’t be surprising in the least if he worked out at one of the ranches.”
“He’d still be nearby, though.” Patrick knew that would matter to Ian.
“Biddy’s particularly happy about that.”
“Which,” Patrick said, “I’d wager makes you particularly happy.”
Tavish came up even with them on their walk to the house. “Eliza’s here sewing with the womenfolk. I’d wager that’ll makePatrick‘particularly happy.’”
The rest of the men were, apparently, near enough to overhear, as the laughter and jesting that followed was immediate and thorough.
Ian tossed Patrick a look that was equal parts amusement and sympathy. “Tavish told them.”
“Didn’t have to,” Tavish said. “’Twasn’t precisely a mystery.”
Patrick knew his family too well to trust they’d not embarrass him in front of Eliza. To all the group, Patrick said, “I’d be beholden to all of you if you’d keep your jesting to your own selves. I’ve made a wee bit of progress with the lass these past couple of weeks, but she’s skittish still. You’ll frighten her off.”
“If your ugly mug hasn’t already done that,” Finbarr said, “I don’t think anything will.”
“I’ll have you know,” Tavish tossed back, “Patrick looks almost exactly like me.”
Finbarr wasn’t deterred. “As I said . . .”
All the O’Connor men, those born to the family and those who’d married in, laughed heartily. Patrick’s attention, though, remained on Finbarr. He often kept to himself, a little distanced from his brothers and da. But in that moment, he grinned and laughed right along with them.
Ian slapped a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “You’ll never have the appeal of us ginger lads, but Finbarr and I’ll try not to mock you too much for your homeliness.”
“How generous of you and the bean sprout,” Patrick said dryly.
He’d missed his brothers these past years. A fellow’s spirits couldn’t be low for long with them nearby. He oughtn’t to have stayed away so long.
They reached Ian’s house, having been working his fields that day, and the whole lot of them poured inside.
“You’re done earlier than I’d expected,” Biddy said as she approached Ian.
“We’ve extra hands this year.” He set his arm around his wife and held her to his side.
Biddy turned her sights on Patrick. “You’ve made them more efficient. Impressive for a man who’s not ever been a farmer.”
“’Tisn’t true,” Da said, passing by. “He worked the land in Ireland.”
“Da, I was eight years old when we left.” Patrick had more vivid memories of the boat journey to America than he did of Ireland herself. “I can’t say even a bit of those skills crossed the Atlantic with me.”
“It’s in your blood, lad. We belong to the land no matter where we live. It calls to us.”
Patrick did like being in a place with more land than buildings. He’d liked that about Canada, as well. But farming didn’t call to him in the way it did the others. He wanted to stay in Hope Springs, but it’d be a struggle to support himself in a valley of farms.
“Pa-ick!” Lydia was getting better and better at saying his name. He loved hearing it.
She rushed to him, her little canvas shoes on and her beloved doll in her hand. Patrick scooped her up and spun her around.
