He cringed at that non-question. After Gettysburg, he’d been wrongly reported as killed in battle. He hadn’t told his family in Hope Springs that he’d actually survived.
It had been better that way. If Maura hadn’t told them the truth, they’d still have believed him dead, and everyone would have been better off.
Eliza stood near the table of food as he was tugged there. She smiled at him, something like laughter in her eyes.
“Enjoyin’ this, lass?” he muttered.
“I’m simply glad to have a name to put with you.” Her accent marked her as English. He’d spent the hours listening to her talk, attempting to sort her origins beyond that general location. In the end he decided she’d come from whichever corner of England produced the chattiest women. She’d talked ceaselessly through the journey here and now was present for this uncomfortable reunion. And why shouldn’t she be? He’d made a fool of himself in front of strangers for years.
“Where will you stay?” Maura asked him.
Before he could admit he’d come hoping to impose on the family he’d neglected for more than a decade, Da spoke. “With us, of course. We’ll not hear of him going anywhere else.”
How little he deserved such generosity. He’d do far better to find somewhere else to lay his weary bones.
The group parted a bit. From among them came the person Patrick had been watching for. Ian was older—they all were—but Patrick knew him on the instant.
Seeing him again, a lifetime of memories flooded over him with a hint of the hope he’d once had.
Ian. His older brother. His best friend in all the world. After more than a decade apart, there he was.
Patrick hadn’t cried in years, but seeing Ian again brought his emotions perilously close to the surface. He wanted to say something but struggled to find the words.
Ian didn’t embrace him like Ma had, nor offer words of welcome like Da. He hit him, belted him right in the gob.
The blow left Patrick sprawled on the ground, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
Ian’s hard, unyielding eyes extinguished the tiny flicker of hope he’d had. Patrick wiped the trickle of blood from his lip.
He ought to have expected this. He certainly deserved it. But, like a fool, he’d let himself believe for one glorious moment that the brother who’d always looked out for him wouldn’t hate him.
But he did.
And Patrick deserved it.
* * *
Maura held her handout. Patrick set the wet, bloodied kitchen towel in her palm.
She leaned in close, eying his split lip. “Ian belted you proper.”
“Seems he was none too happy to see me.” Patrick gingerly touched his fingertips to his lip.
“You shouldn’t’ve let him think you were dead.” Maura had always been a very direct sort of person. “If I’d known you hadn’t sent the letter you said you had, I’d have told the family myself . . . immediately after belting you so hard it’d make Ian’s effort look like a mother’s kiss.”
“Violence, Maura?” He clicked his tongue as he shook his head. “I’m shocked.”
She sat in the chair nearest him. “They’ve mourned you all these years, Patrick. You shouldn’t’ve put them through that.”
He regretted that they’d been pained by his “death,” but it had been for the best. He’d done them a favor, really. Maura was the one who’d undone it all, telling them not only that he was alive but where he’d been living.
“Your parents’ll insist you live with them,” Maura said. “That’ll put you nearest neighbors to Ian. Might want to work on an explanation or an apology.”
“Or ducking.”
She smiled at him. “I’ve missed that humor of yours, Patrick. It began disappearing right beforeyoudid.”
“Life ain’t always funny, Maura.”
