“The whole family lived here for a time until each of the children moved on to their own land.”
Patrick couldn’t imagine a family as poor as the O’Connors owning enough land for all the brothers and sisters to have their own. That would’ve been impossible both in New York—there wasn’t land to be had—and back in Ireland, where the land was not actually owned by those working it. Da had come west all those years ago chasing this very dream, and he’d found it.
Ma stepped out of a door against the far wall, smiling at him as though he were a full larder in the midst of a famine. She moved quick and sure, her step as nimble as that of a woman half her age. Hope Springs had been good to both his parents.
“You can use the loft,” she said. “With Finbarr gone, it sits empty, aching for someone to move in.”
Worry gripped his heart on the instant. “What’s happened to Finbarr?”
Ma patted his arm. He did his best not to flinch. “He lives with Tavish. ’Tis a better arrangement for the lad.”
There was a story there, but Patrick didn’t mean to pry into his youngest brother’s reasons for not living with their parents. He knew perfectly well how personal one’s reasons could be. “Will Finbarr have his own land too?”
“Already does.” Da beamed with pride. “Worked for years to purchase it. He’s kept at his job, so he’ll have money enough for building a house there.”
Odd. “Do children often buy land out West?”
Ma and Da exchanged drawn-browed looks. After a moment, Da’s expression cleared as if he’d pieced something together.
“Finbarr’s grown,” he said. “Nineteen now. He’s not been a child in years.”
Tiny Finbarr. Nineteen? Simple logic told him the little bean sprout wasn’t so little anymore, but the reality of it struck him with force. He lowered himself onto a nearby chair. Thirteen years had passed. Thirteen years of his family’s lives. Of their struggles. Their joys. Thirteen years, and he’d missed every moment of it. They’d gone on without him, as he’d wanted them to. But facing the reality still hurt.
Ma sat nearby. “I’ve no doubt he’ll come by and offer you his greetings. He remembers you, you know. Not in great detail, but enough. He’s a quiet lad, but I think you’ll enjoy coming to know him again.”
Quiet. Not a word he would’ve used to describe the little boy he’d once known. “Is Ian still quiet?”
“Aye.” A heavy bit of hesitation hung in Da’s voice. He couldn’t be blamed. After Ian’s reaction to seeing Patrick, no one in his family could doubt that these two brothers, once the closest of them all, were now irreparably estranged.
Ian didn’t want him there. Finbarr hardly remembered him. The entire family had created lives for themselves that Patrick didn’t want to disrupt. He ought to do them all a favor and return to the empty dirt road and climb on the stage when next it passed.
But he knew what would happen if he did. Death had been dogging his heels for years. If he left now, it would catch up with him once and for all. And, though Da and Ma would’ve been better off if he’d stayed away, making them mourn his death again, as any parent would no matter the worthlessness of their child, would be cruel. He couldn’t do that to them.
“I’ll be needing a job,” he said. “Is anyone hiring in a town this small?”
“Mostly we’re farmers here,” Da answered. “But the ranches are sometimes looking to take on hands.”
Patrick knew nothing of farming or ranching.
“Finbarr and Maura—now Maura’s friend, Eliza—work for the Archer family, but I can’t imagine they’d be hiring anyone else on just now.” Da rubbed at his chin. His stubble, once nearly as dark as Patrick’s, was now silver. “The mercantile isn’t likely to be taking anyone on, but you might ask. They hire now and then.”
None of this was promising. He’d not intended to come and be a burden. More than that, even, he needed to be busy. He had to be. Idle hands, as the saying went. Heneededto be busy. He had to be.
Again, Ma patted his arm. He couldn’t help tensing but didn’t pull away. “We’ll find you a job, never you fear. You worked so hard at the factory and were always so skilled with those complicated machines. We’ll find you something.”
He hadn’t loved the factory in New York, but he had liked the role he’d had there. Every job he’d had since the end of the war had been similar: repairing things, building things.
“I’ll find something,” he promised them.
She hugged him. He fought between discomfort and relief. How long had he been grappling with the contradiction? It felt like a lifetime.
He climbed the ladder to the loft, where he had a degree of privacy and room to breathe. He welcomed both. The low bed creaked beneath him as he sat. He’d not had a bed since he sold his furniture in Winnipeg. Light poured in through the small window, illuminating the space.
Patrick felt a brief moment of rare peace.
He pushed out a heavy breath. If he could build a life in Hope Springs, maybe he could finally escape his demons.
But that night, he wasn’t strong enough to outrun them. He took one of the bottles of whiskey from his trunk and set a glass beside it. A single sip calmed his worries. A second relaxed him enough to lie down.
