Hope Springs (Longing for Home - book 2, A Proper Romance)

by Sarah M. Eden

  “I didn’t know you two were on the verge of making things permanent.”

  How could he have thought otherwise? “I was prepared to go back to Ireland for her, Finbarr.”

  He didn’t look convinced, but didn’t offer an argument.

  “Spill your budget,” Tavish insisted. “I can see there’s more you’re wishing to say.”

  Finbarr only shook his head.

  “’Tis a long road home, brother. You might as well start talking.”

  Finbarr slumped on the seat, his eyes focused ahead. There was nothing belligerent in his posture. ’Twas something far more thoughtful.

  “Miss Macauley hasn’t ever come for Sunday cake with the family,” Finbarr said. “Keefe came nearly every week once he and Ciara were serious about one another.”

  “Until recently, Katie was working Sunday evenings for Joseph,” Tavish pointed out. “Since then, we’ve not had many Sunday gatherings, what with Ian still not well.”

  “That’s true.” Finbarr still looked thoughtful.

  “Is there something else weighing on you, lad?”

  Finbarr looked uncomfortable, but pressed ahead. “Do you love her?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Why would Finbarr wonder about that? Everyone in Hope Springs knew Tavish’s feelings for Katie.

  “Mr. Archer is mad in love with her as well,” Finbarr said.

  Tavish rolled the tension from his shoulders. He’d never been jealous of any man except for Joseph Archer. The feeling had actually started long before Katie had arrived. Joseph had everything. He had a fine family, a fine house. He had more money than he knew what to do with. The only thing Tavish had that Joseph didn’t was Katie’s affection. Curse the man for making him unsure of even that.

  “He told you that, did he?”

  Finbarr shook his head. “I can just tell. He always built the fire for her because being near the flames made her nervous. And Mr. Archer ordered her a pair of thick woolen stockings. He said she takes great comfort in having warm feet.”

  Tavish didn’t know that.

  “It must be an odd thing for her to have two men in love with her at the same time,” Finbarr said. “And, I’d guess, a bit strange for the two of you as well.”

  “For a lad who rarely speaks a word, you certainly have plenty to say today.”

  Finbarr crossed his arms over his chest. “You asked,” he muttered.

  His younger brother had always had a strange knack for shifting between being wise beyond his years and being the very picture of the child he actually was. In that moment, Tavish didn’t particularly appreciate either one.

  Tavish flicked the reins, setting his horses at a faster clip now that they’d reached the edge of town. As the wagon rolled, Tavish’s thoughts spun as fast as the wheels. He’d taken his future with Katie as a given thing. ’Twas a hard thing realizing that wasn’t the case. Winning over Bridget had been easy. They’d simply fallen in love with nothing to come between them, and no one to tear them apart. Even with that promising beginning, she’d been taken from him. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Katie as well.

  Finbarr sat quietly, his gaze focused straight ahead. Their conversation hadn’t ended well. Tavish knew they would pass an awkward week or more if they spent it in uneasy silence.

  “Is that little Emma still sweet on you?” he asked.

  A smile returned to Finbarr’s face. “That she is.”

  “But she’s rather like a sister to you, I’d wager.” Tavish had watched his youngest brother interact with the Archer girls enough to know how Finbarr saw them. “Someday when you’re both grown and married, you’ll look back on her puppy love of you and laugh.”

  A brotherly fondness filled Finbarr’s expression. “I am going to enjoy watching both those girls grow up. They are sweet little ones.”

  “Aye, that they are,” Tavish said.

  Finbarr gave a nod and slouched comfortably on the wagon bench. Quick as that, they were on good terms again. If only he could settle the matter of Katie’s feelings so easily.

  Chapter Twenty

  Katie took Biddy’s advice to heart. Time had come and passed for sorting out her terribly confused feelings.

  Joseph had come by a handful of times since returning to town. He always brought the girls, then spent the evening sitting with her. They talked about any number of things: his worries, her difficulties, amusing stories from their pasts. He’d talked to her about the situation with Mr. Johnson, and they had decided between them that this was a rare opportunity to help the shopkeeper see her countrymen in a different light. Joseph asked her each night to play her fiddle. She wondered if he really liked the music as much as he seemed to or if he simply knew she needed it at the end of a difficult day.

  She valued his company. She looked forward to seeing him. Her heart even flipped around the few times he’d held her hand.

  But she felt all those things for Tavish. Did she feel them for him still? Who did she feel them for most? She couldn’t know without seeing Tavish again. Aside from all that, she wanted to see him again. She missed him.

  What a complete and utter mess she was.

  Katie watched the wagons roll back into town from her vantage point at the mercantile. Tavish and Finbarr wouldn’t be back for at least another week.

  “The return of the wagons,” Mr. Johnson muttered. “That always means winter is coming.”

  He’d taken to grumbling and mumbling over the week or more since Katie had sewn his bleeding head back together. But he didn’t insult her or belittle her anymore. She didn’t point out the change, didn’t press it. She and Joseph had talked through it and decided that, if left to his own thoughts, Mr. Johnson might very well change his own mind in light of what she’d done. Katie hoped that was true. If even one person on the Red Road could learn to let go of their hatred for the Irish, Hope Springs might begin to put the feud behind itself.

  “I’ve heard the winters are bad hereabouts,” Katie said, wondering if he’d take up the try at conversation.

  “Bad? They’re brutal,” Mr. Johnson said. “It’s so cold the snow begs to be let in out of the weather.”

  She couldn’t help laughing at that. Mr. Johnson even smiled. But the moment his eyes met hers, his lips pulled down once more. Her chuckle died abruptly.

  Mr. Johnson set back to piling shoe blacking neatly on the shelves near the counter.

  Katie continued cleaning the glass jars that held the sweets. She watched Mr. Johnson as she worked. He glanced at her furtively. His frown remained firmly in place.

  For a moment things had been almost friendly between them. She wasn’t foolish enough to think they could truly be friends, but she thought at least they’d moved toward something better than enemies.

  Mr. Johnson absentmindedly rubbed at the skin around his sewn-up wound. Thought about it, did he? She hoped so.

  A few townspeople wandered in over the course of the morning, mostly the men looking to begin gathering supplies for the coming winter now that they had money from selling their crops.

  “Hello, Katie.”

  “And a good day to you, Mr. Scott.”

  He looked tired, no doubt from days spent riding in a wagon on the rough trails of Wyoming. Mr. Scott had always been a kind man, slow to anger. He moved up to the counter, placing his order with the quiet and humble voice many Irish had adopted when doing business at the mercantile. Katie hated seeing good people reduced almost to begging in a place of business.

  Mr. Johnson quoted him the price of the things he’d ordered. Mr. Scott looked surprised.

  “The price hasn’t gone up, then?”

  For the briefest of moments, Mr. Johnson’s eyes met hers, then quickly returned to his customer. “No, the prices have not increased.”

  Mr. Scott stood silent, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Clearly he’d expected to return to Hope Springs and find the Irish prices soaring to the heavens. Katie knew a moment of deep relief, pr
ide even, at this new proof she was making a difference.

  Mr. Scott spoke low and quick to her as he made his way out. “Prices have always increased after the harvest run. Always. Thank you for this, Katie. Thank you.”

  The next moment brought another customer.

  “That’s Archibald,” Mr. Johnson said. “Get in the back.”

  She hadn’t been sent into hiding in days. But she knew Mr. Archibald could be counted on to cause problems. While she wanted to think Mr. Johnson was saving her from the insults she’d have to endure, ’twas far more likely he only wanted to avoid earning the displeasure of the Reddest of Reds in Hope Springs.

  Katie followed his instructions without comment. For the next twenty minutes she sat on a crate in the storage room, listening to the conversation outside. ’Twas a very one-sided discussion, with Mr. Archibald lodging complaint after complaint.

  “The blacksmith’s prices are still outrageous.”

  “The crops didn’t sell for as much as we wanted.”

  “The Irish beat us to the depot. Our depot. They knew the higher bidders would be there. The filthy cheats beat us to them before we even had a chance.”

  Didn’t the two men have anything else to talk about other than the feud? How could they possibly be friends if there was no other connection between them?

  “Is that girl-Paddy still working here?” Mr. Archibald asked.

  “She is,” Mr. Johnson said.

  “I’m warning you, Jeremiah. The Red Road put up with her being here because you were the one on the better end of the bargain. But after that trick the Irish pulled—taking the horses’ shoes, rushing to market, stealing our profits—the Reds won’t like seeing her face here every time we come to town.”

  “She stays in the back,” Mr. Johnson said. “And she doesn’t talk, so y’all won’t have to hear her Irish voice, either. It will be fine.”

  ’Twasn’t exactly a compliment nor a defense of her value. She shouldn’t have expected more than that, but she had hoped for it.

  I sewed up the man’s head, for heaven’s sake. And he can’t be bothered to tell his neighbor that he’s glad to have me here.

  “You need to fire her, Jeremiah,” Mr. Archibald said. “Fire her before this gets out of hand.”

  Katie held her breath and listened.

  “She’s keeping the place clean so Carol doesn’t have to. I’m getting a lot of work out of her.”

  He was, indeed. If Katie could say one thing for herself, it was that she knew how to work hard.

  “So you’ve found yourself an Irish slave,” Mr. Archibald summed up.

  “More or less.”

  For Katie, sitting on the crate, tucked away in the back, those words cut painfully deep. She was his “Irish slave.” For all the progress she thought she’d made, that declaration hurled her back to the moment when Mr. Johnson had declared her a “filthy Irishwoman.” Despite all she’d done for him and his family, the work she tirelessly undertook, her efforts at tending to his injuries when she might as easily have left him bleeding on the floor, she was still worthless in the man’s eyes. Nothing more than a bit of Irish garbage to be tossed aside and never thought of again.

  She tried to clear those words from her mind, but they echoed within her, piercing her heart with each repetition. Irish slave. She thought her time at the mercantile was making a difference, that she was beginning to change Mr. Johnson’s mind, perhaps even softening his heart a bit. Disappointment sat heavy on her shoulders.

  She offered Mr. Johnson a quick and silent nod of farewell as she left, unwilling to meet his eyes and see hatred sitting there. Perhaps this feud could not be ended after all. Perhaps she was a fool for even hoping.

  The children were still out in the schoolyard as she passed by. Emma waved and quickly walked over to her. The hug she received was a desperately needed balm.

  “Thank you for this bit of loving, my sweet Emma,” she whispered, returning the embrace.

  “You look sad today, Katie.” Emma studied her face.

  “I am only weary.”

  Her forehead creased. “Does that mean ‘tired’?”

  “Aye, that it does.”

  Marianne Johnson, who’d stood nearby watching Katie and Emma with quiet curiosity, spoke up. “Why do you say ‘aye’? What does it mean?”

  “’Tis a very Irish way of saying ‘yes,’ and quite common across the way in Scotland as well.”

  Marianne smiled and two adorable dimples showed on her rounded cheeks. “I always thought the Irish people were saying ‘eye.’” She pointed at her own eye. “It seemed silly.”

  Katie nodded. “That would be very silly indeed.” She winked at Emma. “Emma, here, had to explain to me about ‘cookies,’ as I’d been calling them ‘biscuits’ and sounding like a regular chicken-head.”

  Marianne laughed. Emma joined her. Katie hoped Marianne was always such a lightening influence on Emma. The somber little girl needed it.

  Katie took Emma’s hand and the three of them walked along the road where it ran along the schoolyard. “How are you adjusting to your new housekeeper?”

  Emma hesitated, her mouth turned down. She knew Emma was not fond of changes in her life. The response was more than that, though.

  “She is old,” Emma finally said.

  When Katie had first arrived, Joseph hadn’t liked that she was so young. He’d obviously been quite careful not to make that mistake again.

  “Though she’s older than you expected, does she keep you fed and the house kept up?”

  Emma nodded. Katie’s worries eased. The girl was simply learning to accept change.

  “Does she comb your hair in the mornings?” Katie truly doubted Joseph had managed the two tidy braids hanging down Emma’s back.

  Another silent nod answered her question. Katie wondered at that. Emma had always been quiet and reserved, but less so of late, at least with her. She couldn’t entirely shake the feeling that something else was weighing on Emma.

  The sound of the school bell signaled the end of their little walk.

  Marianne took Emma’s other hand. “The bell, Emma.”

  Katie smiled. “Have a lovely day at school, sweet one.”

  She received a tiny smile for that. Marianne waved once before the girls, in perfect unison, turned and ran back toward the school. Why was the Johnson family like that? Taken one at a time, they could be surprisingly friendly. The moment they were in company with the Red Road or even one another, though, that bit of civility flew right out the window.

  She continued down the road, feeling every bit as weary as she’d told Emma she was. Life was hard sometimes. Other times it was nothing short of exhausting. Her mind hardly noted the scenery as she walked. Before even realizing how far she’d gone, she stood at the fork in the road, looking directly at Joseph Archer’s home.

  She hadn’t realized until leaving the place behind just how fond she’d grown of the dormer windows with their lovely shutters, the tall tree in the yard, and the porch that spanned the full length of the house. ’Twas the first home in which she’d felt valued and welcomed and cared about. Even in her childhood home, the strain of starvation and the threat of eviction had tempered any show of affection. Behind every expression of love and welcome was the sure knowledge that each mouth to feed was a burden.

  “I need a moment in your home, Joseph Archer,” she whispered as she stood alone. But she knew it wouldn’t be the same. She no longer belonged to this home where she’d once felt loved.

  Loved. The word struck her. ’Twas, indeed, loved that she’d felt. Loved like a family member. Loved like a friend. And more than that, even. There’d been more than that in Joseph. She needed to discover just how much more.

  The prospect frightened her more than she had expected it to. But she’d never been such a coward. She’d given up far too much in choosing this new life. She did not mean to live it ruled by fear.

  You’ve a mess of a heart to sort out. Now’s
the time to be brave, Katie girl.

  She scrubbed the last few tears from her face and rolled back her shoulders. She’d courage enough for this.

  Katie marched herself with purpose around the back of the house. She fully intended to step onto the porch and knock at the kitchen door. She knew better than to think herself a front-door visitor. Only the properest of people came to the front door. She wasn’t anything more than a servant.

  A queue of men spilled out of the barn, all of them dressed in the humble clothing of working farmers. Joseph, more likely than not, was in there. She turned toward the barn. As she drew closer, she recognized the gathering. Irish, every last one of them. It was like a céilí, but with no songs or dancing and quite a bit more somber expressions.

  “What’s this, then?” she asked Mr. MacCormack.

  “Land payments.”

  That made sense. Joseph owned the entire valley. With their crops newly sold, the farming families would have money on hand to make a payment against their note.

  Their usual chatter was noticeably subdued. They stood with uncertain looks, drawn mouths. Care sat heavy on their shoulders. These were people worried for their families. Poverty and the fear of losing his land had made her own father hard. She could see the beginnings of it in these good people as well.

  Katie slipped around the queue at the door. Joseph stood at a high, roughly hewn, narrow desk, with an account ledger, much like the one Mr. Johnson used, open in front of him. He was speaking to Mr. O’Donaghue. The men exchanged nods and handshakes. Mr. O’Donaghue stepped away, slipping his hat back on his head. Joseph leaned over his ledger, writing something.

  She’d clearly chosen a bad time to drop by.

  Joseph looked up and saw her. He said something to the next man in the queue, Mr. Murphy, then walked over to her.

  “Good afternoon, Katie.”

  Tavish had always been the one with the melting smile. Why was it Joseph’s small one flipped her heart about?

  “You are hosting quite the fancy party here, Joseph.”