“I was injured at Gettysburg.”
“You were?” Obviously he’d not been told that before.
Patrick nodded. “Likely the reason I was wrongly reported killed at first. The injury wasn’t fatal or disfiguring, but it was painful, terribly so. The sawbones gave soldiers laudanum to ease the pain, but I’d seen too many men destroyed by it. They needed it even after their wounds were healed. They needed it enough to betray one another and desert their post in search of more. I was afraid of falling prey to it.”
Ian kept his gaze on the path.
“So I wouldn’t take the laudanum, but we were marching again soon, and I wasn’t yet healed. The pain was too much. I couldn’t keep up.”
“What’d you do?”
He hated admitting to any of this, knowing where it had lead. “A little whiskey took the edge off. After a time, some helped me sleep. For the rest of the war, that was enough. But a few months back in New York with Maura and Aidan, and things changed. I needed more. I thought about it more. The grip grew tighter.”
“Is that why you left? Because you were drinking?”
The weight of shame on his lungs made answering more and more difficult. “That’s a big part of it. Seemed best for them if I stayed far away. I did better for a time, but then the pull of the liquor grabbed me again. It pushed people away, and I knew only one way to deal with the pain of losing them. The same thing happened in every town I tried to live in. And over the years it’s gotten worse.”
On they walked. Ian hadn’t abandoned him yet. “And have you been drinking again?”
“‘Again’ isn’t the right word.”
“I’ve not seen you raging or violent.”
Patrick shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “Liquor numbs me. But it also makes me not arrive for work or do things I’ve promised to. It’s a wall between me and everyone else. After a while, that wall becomes too much for me to get over or anyone else to see past. It gets harder and harder to tear down. I—don’t think I can do it again.”
Ian stopped and turned toward him but didn’t speak. He was waiting, listening. Patrick stopped as well.
“I can’t get out from under it. I’ve been trying for so long, and I can feel m’self giving up.” He forced himself to hold his brother’s gaze. “I’ve no right to ask anything of you, but I’m here begging. If I can’t beat this, it’s going to beat me for good this time. I know it.”
Ian didn’t turn away.
Patrick pushed ahead, a desperate variety of hope pulling the words from him. “I need the Ian who told me he wouldn’t let our ship sink on the voyage from Ireland. I need the Ian I shared a corner of our New York flat with. The Ian who told me before anyone else that he’d met an angel and was desperate to learn her name. The Ian who, thirteen years ago, would’ve saved me from anything. The Ian I’ve missed ever since. I needthatIan. He’s the only hope I have left.”
“You have liquor here in Hope Springs, then?”
He nodded. “At Finbarr’s house.”
“So, we won’t be going back there.”
Did this mean Ian wouldn’t abandon him?
“I don’t think Jeremiah Johnson has any at the mercantile,” Ian said.
“He doesn’t.”
“You’ve looked.”
“Every time I’m in there.” Patrick was finding honesty easier to manage. “I don’t go in with that purpose, but I always check.”
Ian’s gaze narrowed. “When was the last time you were in a place where you couldn’t get a drop to drink no matter how hard you tried?”
“Never, probably.”
Ian motioned him back toward the house, but he hadn’t given an answer to Patrick’s pleading.
“What now?” Patrick asked.
“We’re for Finbarr’s place. We’ll toss out your bottles and pack up some supplies. We’ll head out at first light.”
