He shook his head. “I don’t have a paying job, Eliza. I couldn’t scrounge up even a nickel to pay a barber to hack this mess off my head.”
“I don’t think Hope Springs has a barber anyway.”
“Hope Springs hardly has a town,” he answered dryly.
An idea popped into her head and slipped out before she could stop it. “I used to cut my husband’s hair. I’m quite good at it, really. I could cut yours.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Oh, your hairneedsto be cut. There’s no argument on that score.”
He still held Lydia’s hand, though he’d turned a little, facing her more directly. “What makes you so certain I don’t like my hair just as it is?”
“Those things that bring us joy, we take care of them. But when it’s something we’re merely hiding behind, it weighs us down.”
“So, if I combed my hair, you wouldn’t be threatening me with scissors?”
“Let me cut your hair. If you hate it, it’ll grow back. And then you can return to pretending you don’t know what a comb is.”
Lydia stirred at the low rumble of his laugh. Patrick smoothed his hand over her hair, easing her back to sleep.
“I’m coming back with scissors, Patrick,” Eliza warned as she stood. “You’ll look presentable by the time you leave here. Mark my words.”
She slipped out before he could say anything more. Her excitement grew as she gathered what she needed. Somehow, Patrick had become her friend. She couldn’t explain it, considering how gruff and off-putting he’d been early on, but she liked him. He’d shown her and Lydia kindness. He was considerate and compassionate. He was funny when he chose to be. He was even friendly now and then.
Eliza grabbed a pair of sharp scissors from the kitchen drawer, a small piece of twine, a towel, and clothes pin. On the way back to her room, she picked up a chair from the kitchen table.
“All ready,” she said, stepping back inside. She set the chair in the empty space at the foot of her bed. “Have a seat.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit like a steam locomotive?”
“No.” She laughed at the picture he painted. “Why would anyone say that?”
He adjusted Lydia’s blanket before standing and crossing to the chair. “This is for me, is it?”
“Sit. I’ll have you looking like a person in no time at all.”
“A person,” he echoed in a mutter. “I don’t know why I keep coming back here.”
She pulled his hair back and tied it up with a piece of twine. “Because you like me.”
“I make a point of not liking anyone.”
Eliza pulled the towel around his neck like a backward cape and held it in place with a clothespin. “You like Lydia.”
“She didn’t give me a choice.”
She stepped in front of him. “I’m also going to trim your beard. Did I mention that?”
“You’re something of a dictator, aren’t you?”
“I’m efficient,” she corrected. “And I’m applying that efficiency first to your scraggly beard.”
He pushed out a near-growl of a breath. “Do what you must, lass.”
She very carefully began snipping away at the man’s scraggly beard. They talked as she worked, not about anything of consequence, but of little nothings as if they were old friends. The Canadian towns he’d lived in. Friends and neighbors they’d had over the years. In no time, she had his beard trimmed down close to his face, giving him the look of a man who’d neglected to shave for a few days rather than one who hadn’t been informed of the invention of razors.
“Do I look like a person?” he asked.
