Love Remains

by Sarah M. Eden

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Love Remains (Longing for Home)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Hope Springs Series

  Longing for Home

  Hope Springs

  Love Remains

  My Dearest Love

  Regency Romances

  The Kiss of a Stranger

  Glimmer of Hope

  An Unlikely Match

  For Elise

  All Regency Collection

  British Isles Collection

  The Jonquil Brothers Series

  Friends and Foes

  Drops of Gold

  As You Are

  A Fine Gentleman

  The Lancaster Family Series

  Seeking Persephone

  Courting Miss Lancaster

  Romancing Daphne

  Timeless Romance Anthologies

  Winter Collection

  Spring Vacation Collection

  European Collection

  Summer Wedding Collection

  Love Letter Collection

  Historical Westerns

  The Sheriffs of Savage Wells

  Old West Collection

  Mail Order Bride Collection

  Dedicated to John and Mary,

  I’ve stood where you once worshiped and walked where you once walked. Though your lives remain a mystery, I’ll not give up searching until I know you better.

  Chapter One

  AUGUST 1871

  HOPE SPRINGS, WYOMING TERRITORY

  On the night of his thirtieth birthday, Tavish O’Connor resigned himself to a life of eternal bachelorhood. A man could only fall in love so many times. The best birthday gift he could give himself was to quit hoping that fate meant him to be anything other than unattached.

  He certainly wouldn’t be the first, nor the last, poor Irishman to live out life as a hermit. He had his land, his work, in addition to an ailing brother and broken family to occupy his time and thoughts. Those, he silently declared between bites of chocolate cake, were more than enough.

  Convincing the women in his family of that truth, however, would be about as easy as convincing a cat to keep away from the cream pitcher.

  Long after his siblings had returned to their respective homes, he sat at his parents’ table, leaving only him and his da to listen while his ma continued her unrelenting mission of finding him a wife by whatever means necessary.

  “The Macmillians have a daughter only two or three years younger than you are,” she said as she dried a stack of plates.

  There were no Macmillians in Hope Springs. Tavish could think of none back in New York, either.

  “Have you reached all the way back to Ireland, then?” Tavish asked. Their tiny town hadn’t many unwed women. Ma’s efforts had turned international.

  “The Macmillians were our dearest neighbors,” Ma said. “What was their daughter’s name, Thomas?” she asked Da. “Elizabeth or Mary or some such thing. You remember, the little one with red hair.”

  “She’s likely married by now, dear,” Da answered. “Provided she survived the Hunger. Few of our neighbors did, you’ll remember.”

  Ma’s eyes dropped to her clasped hands. For a moment, she didn’t speak, didn’t look at either of them. Tavish knew that expression of remembered sorrow. The dark years of the Famine had left many scars.

  He reached out and patted her hand reassuringly. “I’d wager the Queen’s jewels themselves that young Miss Macmillian is happy and healthy, and, I’ve no doubt, quite, quite married.”

  Da crossed to the sideboard and slid another slice of cake onto his plate. “No doubt.”

  Ma rallied quickly, though not entirely. Never entirely. “The Buchanans in New York,” she said. “They had two or three daughters near Tavish’s age. And though they aren’t Irish, they are Scottish, which would have made my father tremendously happy.”

  “Two or three daughters, you say?” Tavish whistled long. “I’d have m’ pick, wouldn’t I? Perhaps you might root out a family with a full half-dozen daughters. That’d be a grand thing, wouldn’t it?”

  Ma swatted at him. “None of your cheek, lad. I’m helping you.”

  “Why don’t you help me to another slice of that cake? I’d rather have that than all the redheaded Scotswomen you could dig up.”

  “She doesn’t have to be a Scotswoman, nor a ginger,” Ma insisted.

  “Grand.” Tavish grinned as broadly as he could manage. “I think I’ll find m’self a golden-haired Englishwoman.”

  “Bite your tongue,” Da said.

  “You’ve objections to golden hair?”

  Both of his parents leveled him looks of dry scolding. He assumed his most innocent expression, knowing perfectly well that the proposed hair color wasn’t at all what his parents disliked.

  Ma pointed at him with the last of her washed plates. “Despite your sass, we will find someone.”

  He didn’t doubt she fully meant to try. He also knew perfectly well that no objections on his part would put her off the scent.

  There was only one thing for him to do: set her on another scent altogether.

  “I think it’s time and past we decided what’s to be done about Finbarr.”

  On the instant, his parents grew quiet. Finbarr, the youngest of Tavish’s siblings at barely seventeen, weighed heavily on the minds of the entire family.

  Seven months earlier, the lad had lost nearly all his sight in a horrific fire. Desperate to help him, Tavish had left his crop unharvested—his only source of income, knowing it would be ruined by the neglect—and had taken him to a specialist in St. Louis, who declared Finbarr’s condition inarguably permanent. His sight would not return; neither would it improve. This was Finbarr’s new life, and something had to be done to help him live it. The doctor provided the name of a school for the blind in St. Louis, as well as directions for contacting a tutor he highly recommended, should they choose that route instead.

  Ma sat at the table across from Da. “I cannot countenance the idea of sending him away,” Ma said. “He’s far too young.”

  “He’s seventeen years old,” Tavish reminded her.

  She shook her head. “It’s too much to ask of him. And of us.”

  “Aye.” Da’s nod was more one of acknowledgment than agreement. “But he cannot go on as he is now. He spends too much time wallowing and fretting and pitying himself.”

  The lad was, in that moment, sitting out on the
porch, alone, something he did far too often.

  “If we’re not to send him away,” Tavish said, “we’ve no choice but to hire a tutor to come here as the doctor recommended.” Tavish didn’t care to push his parents, especially knowing how fragile they’d been of late, with worries pressing on them so heavily. But something had to be done.

  Ma’s shoulders drooped. “How are we to pay for a tutor?” Money was ever on their list of struggles.

  “I’m taking Joseph Archer’s crop to market for him, he being across the country.” They’d made the arrangement before Joseph and his family left Hope Springs to see to his business concerns back east, as well as to visit the family of his new bride.

  New bride. Still an odd phrase for him to digest in regards to Joseph.

  He and Tavish had once been rivals for the affections of a particularly fiery Irishwoman. She was now Mrs. Archer, and Tavish was, once again, alone. Traveling with Finbarr meant he’d not been able to see to his own crop. Without Joseph’s offer to leave his crop to Tavish’s care in exchange for a percentage he sold it for at market, Tavish would’ve had almost nothing to live on until the next year’s harvest.

  “If I get enough for his grain, I’ll have a bit left over we can use to pay a tutor,” Tavish said. “If not, I’ll send a telegram to Joseph, explaining the situation. I’m certain he’d lend us a bit.” ’Twas a great risk, further mortgaging his land, but he refused to lose any more of his brother than he already had. “While I’m there, I’ll send another telegram to Lincoln. That’s where Dr. Jones said this Cecil Attwater is currently living.”

  Da rested his forearms on the table, his expression heavy. “If Mr. Attwater takes on the job, I’d wager he will prefer to live in the same house as Finbarr. Seeing as the lad lives with you, Tavish, housing the newcomer will fall to you.”

  “We’ll be tight as Dick’s hatband,” Tavish said, “but we’ll make do.” He mentally compiled a list of things he needed to do in preparation for Mr. Attwater to live in his small home. Tavish’s first duty, the one he least relished, would be making Finbarr aware of the decision that had been made.

  “I am sorry so much of this burden has fallen on your shoulders.” Ma clutched her hands more fiercely. “Perhaps we could make a try at having Finbarr back home again.” She made the offer with a catch in her voice.

  Da shook his head. “The lads will get on well enough.”

  A measure of tension left Ma’s expression, a hint of guilt taking its place. Tavish ached at the sight of it. Convincing her to send Finbarr to his home months earlier had required every ounce of persuasion he could muster. She’d been falling to pieces trying to care for Finbarr. Her deterioration had only sped up his. And Da, watching the two of them slip farther away, had worried himself into a fitfulness that had quickly been eating away at his health, too. There’d been no other option.

  Tavish made the journey every day or so to his parents’ home to look in on them, as he did with the rest of his family. He’d two sisters in Hope Springs, both of whom had passed through difficulties of late. He’d an older brother in town as well. Ian had sustained a horrific injury the year before, from which he’d never fully recovered. Tavish’s granny lived a pace down the street. Time was rendering her frailer with each passing year. Each passing day, it seemed. Tavish helped them all in any way he could, but they all needed so much. He was only one person.

  He’d kept them all going, had kept them together, through some of the darkest moments of his life. He was tired. Exhausted. But they needed him. There was, indeed, no rest for the weary.

  “We’ve room enough for a tutor,” he assured his parents. “Mr. Attwater’ll set the lad to rights. I’m certain of it.”

  He bid his parents farewell and stepped out onto the porch where Finbarr yet sat. “Come along, then, you lazy bum. Time to head home.” He kept his tone light and teasing. Though doing so hadn’t managed to bring a smile to Finbarr’s face these past months, Tavish didn’t know what else to do.

  Finbarr rose and, as was their custom, grabbed hold of the arm Tavish offered. They moved off the porch slowly and carefully, Tavish warning Finbarr of each obstacle that might give him difficulty. They did this every day—Tavish walked him from bed to the parlor, from the parlor to the table, and anywhere else he needed to go. And though he was more than willing to do whatever his brother needed of him, Tavish could see that needing help at all grated on Finbarr.

  Tavish waited to bring up the topic at hand until they’d reached home and Finbarr was settled in a chair near the fireplace.

  “I’ll not tiptoe around things,” he said. “A decision’s been made regarding your situation.”

  The expression on Finbarr's badly scarred face hardly changed. Only the slightest drop in his coloring told Tavish that his brother was even listening. “You’re sending me away?” His voice hardly rose above a whisper.

  “No.” Tavish pulled a chair up. “No one is sending you away. No one wants to. Not anyone.”

  Finbarr didn’t look relieved. He wore the same expression of vague worry and weariness he’d carried since the fire that had taken his sight.

  “We’re sending for the tutor Dr. Jones recommended. He’ll come here, stay with us, and work with you. That’ll be a fine thing, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t need a tutor,” Finbarr muttered. “I’ll sort this out on my own.”

  “You’ve had a half a year to sort this out without managing it.”

  “You try living in the dark, Tavish.” He spoke louder and with increasing frustration. “Then I wouldn’t be the only failure in this family.”

  These were the moments that pierced Tavish the deepest. Finbarr had once been a cheerful sort of lad. He’d been quick with a smile, the first to reassure others that things would work out for the best. All of that had been left in the ashes.

  “Maybe Mr. Attwater can teach you enough for you to get your old job back,” Tavish said.

  Finbarr shook his head. “What good would I be to Mr. Archer? I’d get lost out in his fields. He’d spend all day trying to find me.”

  “That’s the sort of thing Mr. Attwater can teach you,” Tavish reminded him.

  “He can’t teach me to see again,” Finbarr snapped. “Nothing he does could change that.”

  “I know it. And I’m right sorry, I am.” Tavish was, indeed. More than he could possibly say. “I’d much rather be arranging to take you somewhere to have your eyes made new again. But Dr. Jones said there’s nothing to be done. This is all we can give you.”

  With a deep breath, Finbarr’s shoulders rose and fell. Resignation filled his features, something Tavish saw happen on a daily basis. The lad had to reconcile himself to his condition over and over again, mourning anew with each unseen sunrise.

  “How long before he comes?” Finbarr didn’t sound at all pleased at the prospect.

  “I don’t know. He’s in Lincoln, on another job.” Much would depend on how much money Tavish received for Joseph’s crop.

  Finbarr only nodded.

  They sat in silence as the minutes dragged on. Tavish watched his brother wrestling with demons. His brow furrowed deeply then smoothed out in a look of acceptance. His mouth alternately pulled in a tight line and tugged down in a frown. The hardest of all, however, was looking into the blue eyes that once sparkled with life and happiness, now empty. Was the change from the loss of sight, or from the loss of hope? Tavish couldn’t rightly say. Whatever the cause, his heart broke to see it.

  “I’d like to go to bed now,” Finbarr said after a time.

  Tavish guided him to the alcove behind the fireplace where he had slept before Finbarr had come to live with him. He pulled out Finbarr’s nightclothes and set them on the straw tick then helped his brother change and dress for the night, something they accomplished every evening in silence.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, lad,” he said once Finbarr was lying down and under his blankets.

  “I’ll be here.” F
inbarr always gave that response. It made sense. The lad wouldn’t be seeing anyone the next day. Still, something in the phrase and downtrodden tone cracked Tavish’s heart clean in two.

  He stepped back into the parlor, sparing only a parting glance for the closed bedroom door he passed. He’d built that room the previous fall, fully expecting to share it with his new bride. But his Sweet Katie had chosen someone else. The room he’d had such plans for, such hopes, sat empty and unused. Finbarr slept in the alcove. Tavish slept in the loft.

  He sat in a chair near the fireplace and slumped low, listening to the deafening silence. Nights were long and difficult, and had been more so these past months. Without the distractions daytime provided, he could not keep his worries tucked away.

  Less than a year ago, Hope Springs had been a town at war. The American townspeople had resented the presence of so many Irish immigrants, who, in turn, had resented the misery and injustice they’d endured at their neighbors’ hands and had returned the treatment in kind.

  Tavish didn’t care to think on those times. Too much had been lost: livelihoods, property, even lives. His older brother Ian had nearly been one of those lost to violence. Try as he might, Tavish couldn’t forget the sight of Ian, bloodied and beaten, fighting for his very life.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his legs, and dropped his head into his upturned hands. Ian still wasn’t truly well. His wife and children were struggling.

  Their older sister, Mary, had worries of her own. Her husband had begun speaking of leaving Hope Springs, but all her family was here. A worrisome rift had grown between the couple.

  His younger sister, Ciara, was now spending far less time with her siblings and parents than she once had, and no one knew why.

  The town might have stopped tearing itself apart, but his family was still falling to pieces. He worked tirelessly to hold them all together, yet this was how he spent his nights: alone in his empty home.

  It was always empty. Always had been. And that day he’d finally admitted to himself that it always would be. Fairy-tale endings were just that: fairy tales. The time had come to pull himself out of the clouds.

  Falling in love never ended particularly well for him. How many women had he lost? He’d courted a couple of young lasses back in New York, though, none, he later admitted to himself, had been truly a serious attachment. Then he’d courted dear, kind, tenderhearted Bridget, who died of a fever six years back, mere weeks before they were to be married. A heart simply didn’t recover from such loss.