Long Journey Home (Longing for Home Book 5)

by Sarah M. Eden

  “They have children?” Maura felt an utter fool after the question slid from her lips. Ian and Biddy were her family: Grady’s brother and sister-in-law. She had once been very close with them, yet she hadn’t even heard about the birth of any of their children.

  Katie didn’t press, though she did appear a little surprised at her ignorance. “They’ve three who are living and one they lost a few years ago to a fever.”

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”

  A sadness touched Katie’s eyes as they walked on. “This town has lost a great many.”

  A town that had known tragedy, the O’Connors included. Maura was bringing them more of it, though they didn’t realize as much. In her letters, she hadn’t said a word about the troubles marring her future or that the O’Connors would likely be the ones seeing Aidan through the grief of losing his only remaining parent. Dr. Dahl hadn’t left her entirely hopeless, but she’d seen enough people succumb to brown lung. She knew what awaited her.

  The dirt path led them farther from the three buildings of town. Maura could spy houses spread out in either direction, separated by sprawling fields. A tidy farm house sat just ahead at a fork in the dirt road.

  “This is my home,” Katie said, “if you’re ever in need of anything.”

  “Thank you.” ’Twas an unlooked-for but much-needed bit of kindness.

  “The O’Connors all live down the road to the right.” Katie made her way that direction. “Across the bridge.”

  “Though I hate to ask, I’m needing to.” Maura set a hand against her rasping chest. “Could we walk a pace slower? I’ve something in m’ lungs, and I keep finding myself out of breath.”

  Aidan’s eyes were full on her again. Would the lad live in a fret for the rest of Maura’s life? ’Twasn’t how she wanted him to pass his childhood.

  “Of course.” Katie didn’t sound the least put out by the request. “Travel takes such a toll on a body, doesn’t it?”

  If only her weariness were merely a matter of travel.

  True to her word, Katie continued on at a much slower pace, which eased some of the burden on Maura’s weary lungs.

  “Ciara’s is the first house after the bridge,” Katie said. “From there, you can knock on one door after another and find an O’Connor behind it.”

  Aidan would be surrounded by family. He would never be alone. He would be cared about and cared for. He might have a happy future yet. The first flickers of hope warmed her heart. Aidan could be happy here.

  They crossed the wooden bridge, the river running swiftly beneath their feet. Trees grew in clumps along its banks. A valley spread out in all directions, farmland reaching the river’s edge as it flowed away from the tiny town. In the distance were tall, snowcapped mountains. Snow. In May. Spring, it seemed, came late to Hope Springs’ mountains.

  Below, the river splashed against rocks and the posts of the bridge. She’d not have been able to hear the rush of water in the midst of the ceaseless rumble of New York. It was peaceful. Calming. The air smelled of earth and the approach of rain. It tasted of nothing at all; not soot, not chemical-laden steam from the mills, not the press of too many people in too small a space. The air was clean.

  She looked to Aidan. His face was filled with wonder. Though questions still hung in his eyes, they held excitement, too. Enthusiasm. Seeing that change in him already, after mere minutes, put to rest many of her doubts. Moving to Hope Springs would be good for him. This would bring Aidan back to life. It would be worth the sacrifice.

  In little more than a moment, they reached the first house past the bridge. Aidan stopped beside Maura. The house wasn’t made of wood or bricks or anything else Maura could easily identify, neither was it built in the style of the cottages seen all over Ireland. Flowers didn’t grow along the front path. No moss-covered stone walls covered in moss dotted the land nearby. The version of Hope Springs that she’d created in her mind’s eye looked nothing like this.

  Katie stepped up near the door. Her little one began to fuss. “Hush now, Sean. You’ve been an angel ’til now.”

  Little Sean looked over his mother’s shoulder, facing him. Aidan pulled a silly face. Sean stopped his fussing, clearly intrigued. Aidan scrunched his features in a different humorous expression. A baby giggle answered the effort.

  An unexpected surge of comfort filled Maura’s heart. Aidan was nervous, even a little afraid, yet he’d already warmed to a tiny someone in this place. Her flicker of hope was growing.

  Katie gave a quick rap on the door. Maura took a breath, triggering yet another cough. She held it back with every bit of strength she had until the seizing stopped. Aidan eyed her, no longer distracted by his new little friend.

  “You don’t need to be afraid,” Maura whispered.

  “What if they stare at me?” The curious looks in town must have unnerved him even more than she’d thought.

  The door opened. Aidan tucked himself a little behind her.

  “Katie,” the woman in the doorway said. An Irish voice. “Are you joining us today?”

  “I’d not planned to, but I’ve come with such news that I couldn’t help m’self. I simply have to watch this play out.”

  Maura leaned the tiniest bit to the side to see better. She knew the woman in the doorway as soon as she was afforded a good look: Mary, the O’Connors’ eldest daughter and the sibling nearest in age to Grady. In the months before the O’Connors left New York, Maura had come to think of Mary as her own elder sister, a mentor, a friend.

  “You’ve tickled my curiosity,” Mary said.

  Katie stepped to the side, revealing Maura and Aidan and motioning to them. “I found these two in town, asking if there were any O’Connors about.”

  Mary’s eyes all-but popped out of her head. “Maura! As I live and breathe.” Her gaze moved almost immediately to Aidan. “Oh, mercy,” she whispered.

  Poor Aidan, stared at again.

  Mary spun about, calling into the house. “Ma! Only look who it is!” She turned back again. “Come inside, both of you.”

  Maura had to give Aidan a nudge before he’d move. He dragged himself forward, but stopped only a step inside the door. That would have to be good enough. For her part, Maura faced the room with all the courage she could muster.

  Mrs. O’Connor was impossible to mistake. Hers were the same happy eyes and warm expression Maura remembered so clearly. Time had aged her, as Maura was certain it had her, as well. The curiosity in Mrs. O’Connor’s face slid away as her eyes settled on Aidan.

  “Saints above,” she whispered.

  “He looks like Tavish,” Mary said, still standing in the doorway, with them.

  “No,” Mrs. O’Connor said, emotion crackling in her voice as she shook her head. “He looks like Grady.”

  Maura had seen the resemblance in Aidan to her late husband, but she’d not seen Tavish in ages. Had he grown to look so much like his eldest brother?

  “My dear boy!” Mrs. O’Connor crossed to Aidan and put her arms around him.

  He stood frozen, still holding a large traveling bag in each hand, eyes pulled wide in shock. He looked to Maura, silently pleading with her.

  They are strangers.

  “This is your grandmother,” Maura said quietly, gently.

  Mrs. O’Connor pulled back, though she didn’t look away from Aidan. “I ought to have introduced myself first. Of course, you’d not remember me. You were but a wee thing last we saw each other.”

  Maura waited, watching for some indication of her own reception. An embrace. A smile. A kind word. Mrs. O’Connor, however, seemed unable to look away from her grandson.

  “Saints be praised.” Mrs. O’Connor set her hands on either side of Aidan’s face. “Only look at you. I can hardly believe this is our little Aidan, grown and tall as you are.”

  He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  His grandmother was undeterred, unhurt by the cold reception. She took his hands in hers. “You’re the very image of your
father. The very image. And, oh, so grown. I can hardly countenance it. Mary, is he not so very much older than he was?”

  Mary laughed. “You’d not expect him to arrive still a baby, would you?”

  Mrs. O’Connor swatted at her playfully. “Stop, now. I’m allowed a moment of shock at how grown he is.” She turned her attention back to Aidan. “Are you hungry, lad?” Mrs. O’Connor shook her head in amusement. “You’re a growing boy. Of course you’re hungry. Your aunts Ciara and Biddy have gone up the road to fetch a bit more thread, but they’ll be back in a shake. We’ll feed you while we wait for them, then chat a piece when they return.”

  Maura likely should have agreed. She could have offered some help either with quilting or preparing the food. And Aidan would have been able to spend time with his grandmother and aunts, getting to know them better. But she was exhausted. Her lungs ached even more than usual. She absolutely had to lie down and rest before she simply collapsed.

  “We’ve walked a far stretch today,” she said. “I’d be grateful if we’d a chance to lay our heads somewhere and rest first.”

  Mrs. O’Connor turned and faced her fully for the first time. “Maura.” The kindness, the fondness with which she filled Maura’s name eased some of the weight on her heart and mind. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “And you as well.” No matter her nervousness in this uncertain situation, she truly was grateful to see her mother-in-law. Maura had always been shown kindness in her home.

  Mrs. O’Connor took her in a gentle, quick embrace. “You’re most welcome, you know. Most welcome.”

  Maura closed her eyes and allowed some of her ever-present anxiety to lessen. How she needed those words. This was not the overwhelming expression of pleasure Aidan had received, nor a return to the full comfort she’d once known amongst her husband’s family, but she and her son were welcome; they were wanted.

  “I thank you for making room for us. I hope we’ve not put anyone to too much trouble.”

  “Not at all.” Mrs. O’Connor motioned to the two bags Aidan carried and the smaller one in Maura’s hand. “Is this all you have?”

  She nodded.

  “We’ve a house for you to use for a spell,” Mrs. O’Connor said. “I’ll show you to it.”

  “A house?” She must’ve heard wrong. “All to ourselves?”

  She fully expected laughter at the absurdity of her misunderstanding. But Mrs. O’Connor just smiled and nodded.

  “All to yourselves,” she said, “while you settle in.”

  A house they’d not need to share. A place of their own, however temporary.

  A regular miracle.

  Chapter Five

  The countryside was dark as Ryan walked along the road toward the home he meant to make his own later that day. Word had spread of his arrangement with the Gallen ranch and, in the end, he’d forged an agreement with a second of the nearby ranches to provide their winter hay as well. Come autumn, he’d harvest and sell it. He’d have more money to his name than he’d ever known.

  But today, he would be asking Tavish and Cecily O’Connor to sell him the land and home he’d thought of as his own the past four years. He couldn’t imagine they’d say no. Once the property agreement was settled, he’d return to James’s house, pack his and Ma’s belongings, and claim this place for their own.

  He’d left for his fields earlier than usual. A great deal of work awaited him, work he did on his own. The cow at the Claire place needed milking, and he needed to be done sooner than usual, so he’d have time enough to go make his proposal to Tavish and Cecily.

  No one was outside as he passed their homes, though lantern light peeked out from the barn at the senior O’Connors’ place. Morning chores were a necessity at any farm. They’d all be seeing to them in the quiet of morning. Once Ryan lived on the land where he worked, he’d not begin his day already behind schedule, owing to the long walk he had to make before beginning.

  And Ma would be able to sleep later, save her strength. Ryan would likely even have time enough to take her to neighbors’ houses for regular visits. He might, in time, have enough money to purchase a wagon and team of his own instead of relying on James’s.

  Everything would be better after he and Ma were in their new home. Everything would be calm. They would have pleasure instead of merely surviving.

  Not enough light illuminated the landscape for his fields to be truly visible, but he knew them well enough to be perfectly certain at what point his land stretched out beside him. He could sense it—that undeniable feeling of coming home. A few moments later, the outline of the house broke the dimness of dawn.

  Ma will be happy here. So many years of struggle will be behind her at last. They will be behind both of us.

  He stepped into the tiny barn. The lantern waited for him on the peg where he always hung it. The metal box of matches sat on the stool beneath. He pulled the match. The snap of the flame lighting echoed in the space around him. He lit the wick, turned it up, and looked over this corner of his domain.

  The cow gave him the same look she did every day, one of annoyance at the interruption but relief at knowing she’d be milked soon.

  “I’m not late,” he told the beast, “so don’t give me that disapproving look.”

  He hung the glowing lantern on the stall wall and pulled down the milking pail and stool. Whistling a very jaunty version of “Sly Patrick,” he set to his work. How long had it been since that particular tune had been played at the weekly ceílís? He’d have to suggest it. ’Twas a difficult tune to keep up with on his pastoral pipes if the other musicians chose too fast a tempo, though he enjoyed the challenge of it.

  Thomas Dempsey was possibly the most talented tin-whistle player Ryan had ever encountered. The two of them enjoyed doing their utmost to out-play each other, whether it be in terms of the complication of a tune or the speed of it. They’d not yet competed over “Sly Patrick.”

  At the thought of proposing a new tune to try their hands at, a grin pulled Ryan’s mouth, making continuing to whistle it rather impossible. He’d come to love the ceilís over the past years. Ma loved them even more. ’Twas her opportunity to be surrounded by people, to join in laughter and gladness. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, not when so much about this place brought both him and Ma such joy.

  With the milk in the pail, he patted the cow on her flank, thanking her as he always did for her generosity. “How’d you like a bit of hay, ol’ girl?”

  Again, a look of annoyance. The cow had a mind of her own; there was no denying that.

  He set the pail on a small table he’d placed in the barn for things: the food he brought each day sat there as well, easy to find and grab. He took up his thick slice of bread and allowed himself a few generous bites before turning to fetch the cow her breakfast.

  When he was only a step shy of the hay pile, the dim lantern light glinted off something metal high off the ground, not at all where he expected one to be. He looked up to find the dual tines of the pitchfork. Pointed at him.

  “What are you doing in here?” a woman’s voice demanded. Irish. And angry.

  He held his hands up in a show of innocence. “I’d ask the same of you, but I’ve a good idea what it is you’re doing.”

  The fork inched closer. “And what would that be?”

  “Taking a prisoner.”

  “Mighty brash for one facing the sharp end of a pitchfork.” The woman didn’t lack for grit, he’d give her that.

  “And you’re mighty forceful for one standing unannounced in another person’s barn.”

  “I’d say that boot’s on the other foot, stranger.”

  This back-and-forth was getting them nowhere. “I don’t know where it is you think you are, miss—”

  “Ma’am,” she corrected, sounding just a touch out of breath.

  “Ma’am,” he acknowledged. “But this is my barn, sure enough. And you’re keeping me from doing my chores.”

  She stood to
o much in the shadows. The pitchfork remained all he could see clearly of the madwoman holding him captive. “Aidan,” she said.

  Just as Ryan opened his mouth to tell her that she had his name wrong, he heard rustling a bit to the side, over by the door. How many people had snuck in without him noticing? He pivoted a bit in that direction. The lantern light vaguely illuminated a figure: a lad not quite grown but no longer a child.

  “You remember where Tavish’s house is, don’t you?” the woman asked Aidan.

  “I remember.” His voice was not Irish like hers.

  “Run over there and ask him to come here straight off.”

  “I won’t leave you here with—”

  “She has the upper hand, lad,” Ryan said. “A pitchfork can make quick work of a fellow. You’d best fetch Tavish. He’ll straighten this all out.”

  The lad’s footsteps moved quickly and not at all silent this time.

  “You know Tavish?” the woman pressed.

  “I do. Quite well, in fact.” Most everyone knew Tavish. He was a friendly sort, personable. And Ryan’s position on Mrs. Claire’s land meant he’d had ample opportunity to interact with Tavish over the past years. He considered them friends. Indeed, Ryan considered himself on friendly terms with most everyone in Hope Springs. “Do you know him?”

  “I did.” An odd way of phrasing things.

  “Do you mean to tell me your name, at least? I think most captors do as much.”

  “I don’t mean to do anything but wait.” She took a few steps to the side, the pitchfork never wavering. The movement placed her directly between him and the door. There’d be no escaping until Tavish arrived and explained things.

  Ryan didn’t truly feel threatened; he simply had no desire to make their situations more difficult than necessary. He suspected that underneath her bravado the woman was a little scared. He couldn’t begin to guess at the cause of their current misunderstanding, but he’d grant her the security of not pressing her for answers to his growing list of questions.