“I know it. But I’m offering just the same.”
“Why don’t you put your effort into helping Da and Ma set up for thecéilí?” Ian asked. “They’ve a lot to do and no one to lend a hand.”
It was an unfair criticism. He’d helped with everycéilísince his arrival. He’d helped without question, without hesitation, without needing to be asked. He was hardly an ideal son, and he didn’t deserve the love and acceptance his parents had shown him, but he wasn’t a terrible person.
“Before I left, I carried out all the tables and chairs and put ’em where Ma asked. I washed all her dishes last night. I helped Da gather what he needed for the fire. This morning I did all Da’s chores, so he’d have time to prepare. Theydohave someone ‘there to lend a hand,’ and that someone lends it all the time.”
Far from softened or impressed, Ian’s jaw remained set. “Well, bless me, that makes amends for the last ten years, doesn’t it?”
Was this to be their relationship from now on? Tension, distrust, accusations? From the moment the reality of Grady’s death had settled on him, Patrick had known his connection to his family would be forever changed. But even in his darkest moments, he hadn’t fully believed that Ian would toss him aside so completely.
He snatched his hat off the table and, with a quick nod to Joseph and Eliza, stepped out. It was best to keep a distance. He needed to remember that.
He left behind the Archer home and made for the mercantile. He needed a few things there for Finbarr’s house. The lad had an account there, something Joseph had suggested, something that had certainly simplified things for Patrick. He had a little money of his own, and meant to snatch up a couple of things for himself on the same trip.
A little bell rang as he stepped inside. The shop wasn’t overly busy but also wasn’t empty, which Patrick preferred. Crowds were a little exhausting. So was being the focus of attention. A man couldn’t hide as long as Patrick had and not be unnerved at the prospect of being so fully seen.
He hesitated a moment near the doorway, telling himself to quit being such a chicken-hearted milksop. Land’s sake, he’d fought in a blasted war; he could certainly walk into an empty mercantile. He moved to the counter.
Mr. Johnson greeted him. “What can I get for you, Patrick?” The first few times they’d spoken, the man’s southern accent had set him a little on edge. War did that; it made enemies of strangers.
“I’m needing two dozen nails and two spools of twine on Finbarr’s account.”
Mr. Johnson nodded. “Anything else?”
“I’m hoping you have a spanner.”
“On the far table.” He motioned toward the opposite side of the shop.
Patrick dipped his head in acknowledgment. It wasn’t a large mercantile, but the variety of items was impressive. Fabric. Foodstuffs. Shoes. Buttons and thread. He paused at the table of shoes. A pair likely Lydia’s size caught his eye.
“How much are you askin’ for shoes?”
From behind the counter, Mr. Johnson answered, “I don’t think we have any even close to your size.”
He couldn’t exactly admit he was shopping for someone else’s child. “I mean, generally.”
“Two dollars for the children’s sizes. Five for adults.”
Two dollars. He didn’t have an extra two dollars. He didn’t know if the shoes would fit her anyway, so it was likely for the best. Still, he was disappointed in himself. He’d let down so many people these past years; he hated having to add the sweet girl to that list.
A shelf on the wall held a few child’s toys: carved wooden figurines, a top, and a little doll. How he wished Lydia had something other than a raggedy, knotted handkerchief to play with. A small sign declared each toy was four bits. He couldn’t manage that much yet, either.
But the little doll was just perfect—small enough for a child Lydia’s age to carry about without difficulty, but not so tiny that it’d get easily misplaced or outgrown too quickly. Eliza had so many pulls on her finances. If she was to make her dream of an inn a reality, she’d not have four extra bits to spend.
He’d do best to focus on what he’d come for. Though he told himself he was looking only for a very particular type of wrench, his eyes swept the store for the same thing they did every time he was inside the mercantile: whiskey. He’d never seen a single bottle, and he was grateful for it. Not having any near at hand was making breaking free of it easier.
The pull was far weaker than he’d seen in some. But he couldn’t risk giving his thirst greater power than it already had.
He snatched up a spanner. He’d sold his, along with most of his tools and all his furniture, to pay for the journey to Hope Springs. He’d hoped to replace them all in time. His feet, troublemakers that they were, took him the roundabout way to the counter. Past that little doll.
Four bits.Surely, he could come up with four bits.
He set the spanner on the counter. “Tell me what I owe you.”
Mr. Johnson narrowed his gaze on Patrick. “Do you do work other than building houses?”
“Aye. I’ve done a little of everything. Do you have something you need done?”
