“Have you greeted the cow yet?” he asked Aidan.
The lad’s brows shot up. “Greet the—” His mouth dropped open. He turned wide eyes to the cow before looking at Ryan once more.
Ryan must’ve had a bit of the devil in him that morning; he couldn’t resist teasing the boy a bit more. He nodded solemnly. “The cow, lad. She’s a cow.”
A tiny smile made a fleeting appearance on Aidan’s face. “Is she?”
“She is, and a fine animal.” Ryan spoke more seriously again. “Taking a moment for a kind word shows her you acknowledge that she’s a living creature with concerns, and that you’re grateful she’s providing your family with something you need.”
Aidan eyed him a bit sidelong. “Cows don’t understand words.”
“You certain of that?”
“Yes . . .” But Aidan’s statement tipped up at the end in a hint of a question.
Ryan waved him toward the animal. Aidan followed but at a slower pace. He eyed the animal through narrowed eyes, his mouth pulled in a tense line of uncertainty.
“Cows are simple beasts,” Ryan acknowledged, “but they’ve hearts and minds like people do. They know when they’re being mistreated. They can feel worried, unsafe. Speak soft and kind to her, and approach with words so she knows you’re coming, and offer a gentle pat on her side. That tells her she’s nothing to fear from you.”
Aidan nodded, but looked ever warier. He kept his distance from the cow, just as his ma did from the chickens in the yard. Heavens, but they were ill-suited to life on a farm.
Ryan approached the cow to demonstrate. “A fine good morning, love. Have I kept you waiting too long, then?”
The cow turned her head enough to give him the look of annoyed impatience she always did. He patted her flank, then, keeping his hand on her so she’d know where he was and not be scared, he passed to the side of her stall, snatching the milk pail off its nail and the stool from the corner.
He looked over at Aidan. “Come wish the girl a bit of a good morning, Aidan.”
“I’d rather not.” ’Twasn’t stubbornness punctuating the words. The bit of a wobble in his voice, and the careful distance he kept from the cow, spoke far more of nervousness.
Da had laughed whenever Ryan was afraid. Not to mock his fear, but to cheer and reassure him. That laugh was one of his most clear memories of the man who’d died so long ago. “You either need to greet the cow, or undertake a druid sacrifice. Those are your only options.”
Aidan’s shock quickly gave way to a small twinkle in his eyes and a shake of his head. His posture relaxed a bit “Cows don’t understand words, but they respond to pagan rituals?”
“Odd creatures, I’ll admit.”
Though the lad still looked wary, he approached, with his hand out in front of him, clearly hoping to give the obligatory pat without getting too close. He gave the cow the briefest tap Ryan had ever seen. The cow couldn’t possibly have felt the touch.
Aidan would warm up in time.
Ryan set the milking stool in position. “You need to sit near enough to reach the teats,” he said, “but not so close that you’re under the cow. That’d be a misery for both of you.”
“I imagine.” To Aidan’s credit, he remained in the stall.
“The bucket goes directly beneath the udder.” Ryan placed it there. “There’s a bit of a trick to milking. Give us a watch.” He leaned back so his hand and the udder were fully visible. More slowly than he usually milked, he grasped, pulled, and squeezed the teat by rolling his fingers from top to bottom, sending a spray of milk into the bucket. “You’ll not want to pull hard or sudden. She’ll not like that, and you’ll not get much milk from her. But you do need a firm squeeze.”
He repeated the motions a few times, pointing out some of the small little tricks he’d learned the hard way over the past years. Aidan watched, leaning a bit away. His features turned into a nervous grimace. Hoping to give the lad at least a sense of how milking should look and sound when done properly, he picked up his pace. Thwank. Thwank. Thwank.
Aidan’s mouth pulled tight. “Couldn’t I just make the pagan sacrifice?”
Ryan laughed. Aidan’s was a subtle sense of humor, one a person might miss if he weren’t paying close attention. One Ryan liked. ’Twas like a quiet gift, but those wanting to enjoy it had to work for it.
“I’ll not make you milk today,” Ryan said. “But tomorrow morning, I expect you out here before school. I’ll make certain I’m here early enough, and I’ll have you try your hand.”
Aidan shook his head and backed up. “I’m not ready to try. I’ll just watch for a few more days.”
Ryan had been where Aidan now stood: fatherless and facing uncertainty. Others had been firm with him, insisting he learn what he needed to survive. Ryan could do the same for Aidan. He could offer that to the boy, one fatherless child to another. So he held firm.
“It’s not a skill you learn from watching,” Ryan said. “You’ll master it only if you do it.”
Aidan released a tense breath. “Ma’s always saying I have to learn things, and I won’t learn if I don’t do them.”
“She has the right of it. Life, especially life on an arid farm, asks a lot of us. We have to work hard.”
“I do work hard.” He watched Ryan’s movements closely. Studying. “I shined shoes on the streets in New York for years. If you don’t work hard there, you don’t make any money. I always made money.” Aidan reached out and gently patted the cow. A show of bravery and determination. “I won’t be good at milking for a time.”
“I know,” Ryan said. “But, given some work and practice, you’ll be able to do this.” He tilted a teat and shot a stream of milk at Aidan’s shoes. He jumped backward. His wide, shocked eyes stared at the wet tip of his boot before returning to Ryan’s face.
“Learn to do that,” Ryan said, “and I’ll consider you as having put in the work you need to have learned.”
Aidan appeared intrigued. “And if I do, then I won’t have to milk anymore?”
He couldn’t make that agreement with the lad. Milking was one chore that never went away. Aidan lived on a farm, so he’d have to get used to that. “Squirt my boots, and I’ll trade you milking a few days a week. You’ll get to sleep late now and then.”
The boy smiled at him, a look of comforted reassurance. “Do you know how to bake bread?” Aidan posed the question hopefully and hesitantly.
Ryan took up the milking again. “I can make a soda bread, and what our American neighbors call johnnycake.”
“Cake?” He whispered the word, almost like a prayer. What fourteen-year-old lad could resist the idea of cake?
“’Tisn’t truly cake, but cornbread.”
“We need bread for the week,” Aidan said, “but Ma’s too ill to make it.”
The last of the milk splashed into the pail.
“I thought I’d try making some bread, but I don’t know how.” Aidan had never spoken to him so much. “Ma will try to get it made, but she’ll wear herself thin and be even more ill than she is now.”
Ryan stood, taking up the pail. He made the mistake of looking into the boy’s tired, worried face. He knew that expression. He’d worn it for twenty-two years himself, ever since his father died and left the whole family without the tiniest bit of stability.
“Your ma didn’t come to the ceílí last night.” Though he’d not admit it, even to himself, Ryan had looked for her.
“She starts her job tomorrow. She’s worried she won’t be well enough.”
Ryan’s ma had often been in similar straits. Her health had never been good, even before Da died. She’d lost a few positions because of days missed to illness. Ryan knew all too well the weight sitting on Aidan’s mind. He’d borne it too.
“Let’s go check on her,” he suggested. “We’ll make certain there’s nothing she needs.”
He gave the cow his usual pat and word of gratitude. Aidan stepped from the stall first. Ryan followed
and closed the door behind them.
In silence, they walked to the house and through the front door. They were greeted by a chest-rattling cough. That didn’t sound good at all.
Ryan set the heavy milk pail on the table and crossed to the open doorway of an adjacent room. Sunlight spilled in from a small window, illuminating Maura, curled in a ball on the bed, a quilt tucked firmly around her.
She looked up when he entered. “Oh, saints have mercy,” she muttered.
“Your coughing disturbed the cow,” he said. “You’d best keep it down, unless you’re wanting sour milk.”
“And you had best make your way to church, Ryan Callaghan.” She took in a wheezing breath. “Those lies are falling too easily from your lips.”
She closed her eyes once more and pulled the quilt more tightly around her shoulders. She coughed. Ryan’s chest hurt simply listening to it.
Aidan stood outside the room, just to the side of the doorway. Ryan looked at him. The boy shrugged, but not with dismissal. He didn’t know what to do.
I really should leave and go to church, he told himself. Yet looking at Aidan, a young lad helplessly worrying over his mother, Ryan saw himself at that age, younger even. Though he wished he could say otherwise, he saw himself now.
“Let’s make your ma a bit of broth,” he said. “And we’ll make a soda bread you can eat for a few days.”
Aidan exhaled. “Thank you.” He spoke almost silently.
Ryan didn’t leave for church like anyone with any degree of self-preservation. Rather, he stayed and helped Aidan make food from the painfully meager supplies on hand.
Through it all, Maura’s coughs filled the house. How long would she be ill? Did Aidan have what he needed to feed himself, and to look after her? What if Maura couldn’t start her job in the morning? Where would she and Aidan go if they hadn’t any money? This home was theirs to use through their family’s generosity. Going anywhere else would require a significant income. How could they fill their almost-bare cupboards if Maura didn’t have employment?
And how, he silently demanded of himself, was he to keep focused on his plans for his own future now that he’d let himself come to care about this widow’s son?
Chapter Nineteen
Maura felt ghastly. She’d coughed too much and too long the past two days to rest at all. Her throat and lungs were raw. Every time a new tickle began, her heart seized, terrified that this would be the cough that brought up blood. In the end, the past days had proven exhausting and frustrating, but nothing worse than that.
Except for Ryan Callaghan.
The day before, he’d spent hours at the house. Several times she’d attempted to get out of bed to go see what he was doing, but she’d been too weak. Her son had been left to shoulder the burden of the household, and she’d been so frail. Yet the man meaning to steal her home had been the one Aidan had received support from.
The past ten years, she’d stood tall as her world crumbled again and again. After surviving what would have felled someone less determined, her body was betraying her. And she could not let anyone see it. Mrs. O’Connor had come by after church to look in on them, allowing Ryan to return to his brother’s home. Maura had done her utmost to convince her mother-in-law that she needn’t be overly concerned, an impression she hoped to convey everywhere she went. She needed everyone to believe she was equal to the life she’d come to claim.
Aidan had been out at the barn early that morning, where Ryan was teaching him to milk. ’Twas difficult to be fully angry with the man when he was helping with something desperately needed. She, however, intended to find someone to help her sort out how to care for the chickens. None had produced any eggs, and she hadn’t the first idea why.
Maura pushed all these heavy thoughts from her mind as she approached the Archer home. Making a show of being equal to whatever task she was assigned would go a long way on this first day. In her, they would see competence. They would see ability. She would keep her lingering feebleness hidden as much as she possibly could.
She went directly to the back door, through which she’d always entered the fine houses she’d cleaned in New York. Her knock was not quickly answered, so she tried again. She felt certain she heard little Sean crying inside. Perhaps Katie couldn’t hear her knock.
Ought she to simply go inside? In time, expectations would be established between them all. But for today, she was at a loss as to what to do. She stood on the back porch, thinking. The sound of her own wheezing filled the air around her. There’d be no hiding the fact that she was ill, but she’d do her utmost to make it seem a small thing, the lingering effects of a common bit of a cold.
And if that doesn’t work, what am I to do?
She spied Finbarr stepping from the barn. He held a cane in his hand, but didn’t use it in the typical manner. The tip rested at an angle, sweeping the ground in front of him. She’d seen Cecily do the same with her cane. Surely some kind of aid for those with limited vision.
“Finbarr.” She called, grateful she had the air to do so.
He paused. His head tipped to one side. Too much of his face was hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat for his expression to be readable. “I’m not sure who you are.”
He did not yet recognize her voice. That realization ached her heart. He had once known her so well. Did he remember that in the weeks before the family left New York, she and he had developed between themselves a secret knock? Back then, he knew when she had arrived before the door was even opened.
Perhaps, working here for the same family, they could reclaim some of that connection.
“It’s Maura,” she said. “I’m here for my first day of work, but no one’s answered my knock.”
Finbarr didn’t hesitate to motion her over. “Joseph’s in the barn. We can ask him if he knows where Katie might be.”
Mr. Archer. Though Maura knew she’d be working for Katie more than for Katie’s husband, the prospect of meeting Joseph made her nervous. Approaching the barn, she felt as though she were about to find herself on trial. He, after all, would be the one setting her salary. He would also have a say in whether she continued her employment; she knew he would.
She smoothed the front of her dress, attempting to neaten herself a bit as they stepped inside. The dim barn was very large inside, far larger than hers. Did she need a bigger one? Was that an expense she ought to anticipate? How was it possible that Hope Springs could prove to be more expensive than New York City?
“Maura’s here,” Finbarr called from behind her.
A man stepped to the edge of the hay loft above, looking down at them. “Good morning, Mrs. O’Connor.”
“Maura will do, sir,” she said.
He climbed down with the swiftness of familiarity, then turned to face her. He held out a hand for her to shake. She accepted it, keeping her grip firm enough to convey that she had the strength to do the work asked of her, and hiding the fact that her hands had not fully healed from her difficulty with the wire mesh the week before.
“A pleasure to meet you, Maura,” he said. “I despaired of ever convincing Katie to hire on a housekeeper again.”
“And I despaired of finding a job in this town,” Maura said.
Joseph nodded. “Katie had the same difficulty when she first arrived. Farming or ranching are nearly the only sources of income here.”
“Other than being the Archers’ housekeeper, that is,” Finbarr quipped from the doorway. ’Twas the first lighthearted comment Maura had heard from the lad since her arrival in town and far more like the young Finbarr she remembered.
“We are doing our part for the good of the community.” Joseph’s was a dry response, but a humorous one.
“I’ll fetch the tools you were wanting,” Finbarr told Joseph.
“When you grab the plainer from the lean-to, search around for the bag of nails. It wasn’t where it ought to be.”
“I’ll try,” Finbarr muttered. Quick as that, the lighthearted version was g
one.
Joseph watched Finbarr step out of the barn. His lips set in a grim line, and his brow wrinkled.
Maura looked back to the empty barn door, feeling a bit worried herself. “Did something happen today? You look suddenly more concerned for him.”
Joseph nodded slowly. “Cecily has helped him a great deal. He is functioning now, which was not the case for a long time. But he’s not happy. He has moments of lightness, moments of hope, but overall . . .” Sadness filled his voice as it trailed off.
Finbarr had been the happiest child she’d ever known. She best remembered his cheerfulness more than anything else. Hearing of his struggles broke her heart.
“I’m not certain what Katie will want you to do today,” Joseph said, changing the subject. “In my experience, it’s usually best just to ask her what she wants, as she always has very firm ideas on that score.”
Maura smiled at the picture he painted. “You have yourself a very Irish wife, then.”
“That I do.”
They walked into the bright sunlight of the outdoors.
“I knocked at the back door when I first arrived,” Maura said, “but no one answered. I could hear your youngest fussing inside, so Katie likely couldn’t hear me.”
“Likely not,” Joseph said. “That child is louder than Ryan Callaghan on his pipes.”
“That is mighty loud.”
Joseph nodded solemnly. “And now you know why Katie is so near her wits’ end.” He pushed open the back door and motioned her inside ahead of him. His were the fine manners of one born to a degree of comfort above anything Maura had known.
The door led directly into a kitchen, one finer and larger than any she’d worked in before, though smaller than the one that had graced the large house in which she’d been an upstairs maid. She could accomplish a great deal of work in a room so large. But this kitchen had a cast-iron stove, not a fireplace. The home most certainly had a fireplace somewhere, but not in the kitchen. Maura didn’t know how to cook on anything but a fire.
Long Journey Home Page 16
