Long Journey Home

by Sarah M. Eden

  A cold draft sliced through the air. Ryan had found most of the cracks and holes in the soddie’s walls, but clearly not all of them. Some, like the edges of the greased-paper windows, couldn’t be fully sealed. It was going to be a long night.

  And a quiet one.

  He felt rather like a hermit, tucked up in the fields as he was. No matter that James’s house was overly crowded, he found living in this soddie took things too far in the other direction. He was, in a word, lonely.

  Someone knocked at the door. The sound was so unexpected that at first, he couldn’t convince his brain that his ears weren’t playing tricks on him. No one ever visited here. Not ever.

  “Ryan?” As surprising as the knock had been, Maura’s voice proved even more so.

  She wouldn’t have come so far for no reason. Something must’ve happened. Had Ma grown ill or terribly pained?

  He pulled the door open, his heart pounding an anxious rhythm.

  She stood there, uncertainty in her expression. Her hair hung down in waves, something he’d not seen before, and a sure sign that this was not truly a planned visit. She held a pile of what looked like two folded quilts.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve brought you blankets.” The wind kicked up, a mighty gust nearly blowing her off balance.

  “You came all this way to deliver blankets?”

  She shrugged as if her efforts didn’t matter, but she was shivering enough to tell him with certainty ’twas a sacrifice to bring the quilts out to him. “You’ve mentioned that the air gets quite cold in here. We’re a bit cold up at the house, so I assumed you’d be miserable.”

  “It is a chilly night,” he acknowledged. “You’d be cozier if you weren’t out in it.”

  “That, I would be,” she said, “so let me come in and set these down rather than leaving me out here in the wind.”

  He motioned her inside. Another gust pushed its way in with her, setting both their teeth to chattering. He popped the door shut. “Thaw out a moment before braving that again,” he insisted. “It’s not toasty in here, but it’s better than being out in Mother Nature’s embrace.”

  She set her armful of blankets on the bed in the corner.

  Her presence upended him more than he’d’ve expected. She looked softer with her golden-brown hair hanging loose, and the sight tugged at him.

  “Is Ma keeping warm enough?” he asked. “She aches terribly when it gets cold. Can’t hardly move for the pain and stiffness.”

  Maura nodded. “Aidan and I searched out every blanket we could find in the house. Your mother has several. Aidan has an extra—he insists the loft is fairly warm—and I’ve an extra two in my room. You were the only one without.”

  He motioned to the stack. “I have plenty now.”

  She looked around the humble, nearly empty sod home. “You don’t have a fireplace.”

  No, he didn’t. “The Claires used the cast-iron stove when they lived in here. But then it was moved to the house.”

  Her deep brown eyes turned to him, real concern in their depths. “You can’t live in a place without heat. When winter comes, you’ll freeze to death, quite literally.”

  Did she not realize? They’d been getting along so well of late. He hated to bring up the topic most likely to push them apart again. Yet, she needed to understand. “This’ll not be our situation that long. A decision will have to be made before winter sets in.”

  “Oh.” Her countenance fell a little. “For a moment, I’d forgotten about that.” Apparently, she wasn’t entirely certain of the outcome of that decision. He wasn’t either. “How soon do you think Tavish and Cecily will make their choice?”

  He shrugged. “Likely not until after harvest.”

  She nodded a bit absentmindedly. Her gaze remained unfocused as she turned and sat on the edge of the bed. The only other bit of furniture in the soddie was a single spindle-backed chair.

  “I understand why you need this land, Ryan, and the house for your ma. I truly do. But”—she turned pleading eyes on him—“we need it too. Aidan and I have nowhere else. I can’t afford to buy us a home. I can’t afford to purchase land for him to one day make his own. And I simply cannot live on the charity of my relations. You, of all people, must know the misery of living in someone else’s house.”

  “You mean because Ma and I have been living in James’s house?”

  She nodded.

  How little she understood the situation. He sat in the chair, turning it to face her. “The house isn’t his. Not really. Ma and I and James all put every penny we had into buying the land and the materials for the house. I spent as much time as he did building it. I put in as much effort. The house was all of ours. It should be still.”

  She watched him with growing confusion.

  “Then James married and started a family, and, somehow, it all slowly became his. I’m not sure he even remembers that it wasn’t always.”

  “The cruelty of fate has forced you from the home you always meant to be your own?” Maura asked.

  That hit closer to the truth of the matter.

  “I always meant to stay in New York,” she said. “The tenement we lived in was poky and a bit rundown, but I never imagined living anywhere else. Fate forced us away as well.”

  He didn’t know what, precisely, had made her decide to come to Hope Springs. “What was it fate tossed at you?”

  “Aidan was slipping away.” Her gaze dropped to her fingers, fidgeting with the ties on the quilt beside her. “He was so very unhappy. I could tell that the life we were living—one of poverty and hopelessness—was changing him. He felt broken by it already, and he was so young. I had to get him out of that place. I had to give him something to believe in and a place to belong.”

  “A lot of people in Hope Springs, the Irish especially, came here looking for a future they could believe in.” That same optimism had brought Ryan and his family west. “Aidan does seem very happy here.”

  A tiny, fleeting smile lightened her heavy expression. “Just as I hoped he’d be. He has family here, and he is making friends. And, thank the heavens, he’ll not ever have to work in a factory like I did.”

  Ryan had heard terrible things about the mills and the toll they took on people. Maura said that only she had worked there, but she’d indicated ’twas Aidan’s future that had weighed on her mind. Had she not wished to escape their circumstances as well?

  She coughed, that same deep, rattling one he’d heard from her so often. As always, the attack seemed to drain strength from her, as if the simple act was exhausting. Her shoulders drooped and her posture grew heavy.

  “You’ve been here weeks and weeks, Maura, and that cough’s not gone away yet.”

  “I’ve a bit of something in my lungs, is all.”

  He watched her taking one shallow breath after another, her open palm pressed to her chest. “You’d be on the mend if it were so simple a thing.”

  She rose abruptly. “I’d best begin walking b—” The sentence ended in the middle of a word as another coughing fit seized her. She tried to take a deep breath, but that only made things worse.

  He moved to her, rubbing her back as he’d done a few times lately. He didn’t know if it helped, but hoped the gesture at least brought her some comfort. Ma had often said that being ill made her feel alone.

  Maura’s breathing settled a little, though not entirely. He continued to rub her back, standing beside her, unsure of what else he might do. “If you wanted to stay a bit longer in the soddie, love, I’d’ve let you. You needn’t attempt coughing up your very lungs to avoid going out in the cold and wind.”

  His teasing quip did not have the effect he’d hoped. She looked up at him, and, to his horror, a tear fell from her eye, another threatening in the other.

  “Merciful heavens, Maura. What’s this?”

  For the first time since he’d met her, she looked truly defeated. In all their sparring, in all the moments o
f struggle he’d seen her pass through, she’d never looked anything but determined. Even when she’d teared up during the O’Connors’ visit, she’d not looked this broken.

  She stepped closer to him. He set an arm gingerly about her, ready to withdraw it if she objected. Maura leaned into him, so he pulled her into a true embrace. Her breathing still hadn’t fully settled.

  “This isn’t a cold,” she said quietly.

  His heart clenched, concern creeping in faster by the moment. “What is it, then?”

  “The doctor called it brown lung.”

  Ryan didn’t at all like the sound of that.

  “People get it from working in the textile factories,” she said between lingering coughs. “Bits of cotton get stuck in the lungs and eat away at them. I had to leave. We had to leave.” A wheezing breath followed. “Staying would have made it all worse.”

  “But you’ll get better now? Now that you’re away from the factory?”

  She held very still in his arms, her head tucked enough to hide her face. Wind whistled through the cracks in the walls, mingling with her labored breaths to fill the silence that stretched out between them. A long moment passed. He waited for an answer, one he grew increasingly nervous to hear.

  “Brown lung doesn’t get better,” she whispered.

  His mind refused to make sense of her words. They jumbled about, crashing against his heart with unexpected force. She isn’t going to get better.

  “Will you—will it grow worse?”

  “There’s some hope that I’ve not left too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “Brown lung kills.” She spoke from within his embrace. “I’ve seen it my own self. There’s no way to know for sure if a person’s time will be short except to wait and watch for the signs.”

  He couldn’t tell if his head was spinning or simply empty. No solid thoughts formed.

  She took a surer breath than she had in a few minutes’ time. “The coughing will grow worse. Breathing becomes permanently belabored. Blood comes up with the coughing. When that happens, there’s no stopping it. There’s no outrunning it, no matter how far from the factories a person’s gone.”

  His heart thudded a fear-filled rhythm against his ribs. “Have you been coughin’ blood?”

  She shook her head against him. “Not yet.”

  Not yet. Those weren’t words of encouragement.

  “I’ve seen this before,” she said quietly. “I can’t ignore the symptoms I already have.”

  He was reeling. Maura was dying. Dying. “Aidan’s never mentioned it.”

  He felt her tense in his arms. “He doesn’t know.”

  “Maura—”

  She stood fully straight, pulling back to look him in the eye. “Don’t you dare tell him, Ryan Callaghan. It’ll be clear enough to him in time. Worry eating at him beforehand will do him no good; it certainly won’t heal me. Let him have his childhood while he still can.”

  “He needs to know.”

  She stepped back, forcing his arms to drop away. “He’s seen it, too, Ryan. He likely has his suspicions. But so long as I’m not in a panic, he won’t be. Once my lungs take that turn—that final turn—he’ll know well enough what it is.”

  Good heavens. She was looking death in the face. He could hardly comprehend it. “Do the O’Connors know?”

  Again she shook her head. “Once it’s certain and coming fast, I’ll talk to them. Aidan will need them then.”

  “Until then?”

  “I’ll not be a burden, and I’ll not be defined by this illness. I’ve strength enough to hold out a bit yet, and I’ll make this journey on my terms.” She moved to the door. “Let me know if the blankets are enough tonight. If not, we’ll try to scout out more for tomorrow.”

  “Maura, wait. You can’t simply tell a person you’re dying then walk out the door as if nothing has changed.”

  She held his gaze firmly, unapologetically. “Nothing has changed. I’m no sicker now than I was before you found out; I’ll be no less sick now that you know.”

  “Maura.” He reached out and gently touched her face, unsure if she’d pull away or let him hold her again. Not knowing which he’d prefer.

  She closed her eyes, both pleasure and pain in her expression. The burdens she carried too often went unseen and unacknowledged. ’Twas little wonder she looked so crushed by them in that moment.

  He closed the gap between them. “I’m sorry, Maura. I’m sorry the factory took such a toll. I’m sorry your Aidan was so unhappy. I’m sorry the future isn’t as bright as you deserve it to be.”

  “And I’m sorry our arrival ruined so many of your plans for the future.” She spoke without opening her eyes or pulling away.

  His griping and grumbling had all but guaranteed she would blame herself for that. It wasn’t fair of him. “That’s the way of life: we make plans, and then we adjust.”

  She set a hand softly on his chest, looking up at him at last. “Have you done a lot of adjusting, then?”

  “Heavens, yes.” He set his hand atop hers. “When I was a lad, I’d planned to live out my days in Ireland, but that changed. In Boston, I worked as an assistant gardener in a fine house and had plans to one day be head gardener.”

  “What changed?” Her thumb rubbed absentmindedly along the edge of his button. “Coming here?”

  “No. The butler caught me sleeping in the servants’ stairwell when I was supposed to be working.”

  She smiled. “How old were you?”

  He made a show of pondering. “Twenty-four. Twenty-five.”

  She raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing him.

  He set his arms around her, entwining his hands behind her back. “I was eleven.”

  Empathy and amusement filled her gaze. “I’d wager you never napped in a servants’ stairwell again.”

  “You’d make money on that bet, Maura.”

  “Does it bother you?” she asked. “All the plans you’ve had to change?”

  “I’m feeling pretty content with things at the moment,” he said.

  The smallest hint of a blush stole over her cheeks. “I’m not entirely discontented myself.”

  How excruciatingly tempting it was to kiss her. She was in his arms, smiling, sharing with him her hopes, her worries . . . herself. This was everything he’d dreamed of for so long. A strong, dependable, loving woman who pulled fiercely at his heart strings, in what was, at the moment, his home, and who had found an inarguable place in his affection. How easily he could let himself fall more deeply under this spell that was being woven between them. How very, very easily.

  She said his name. Quietly. Earnestly. Hopefully.

  He bent closer. His pulse pounded in his head, his heart thudding punishingly against his ribs. Her hand slid up his chest, her fingers brushing his neck. His next exhale trembled from him. He turned his head enough to feel the warmth of her breath against his lips.

  “This is likely a bad idea,” she whispered. “We’re simply lonely.”

  It was just the splash of cold water he needed. “You’re not wrong.”

  He stepped back. His arms felt immediately bereft without her. He hadn’t even the briefest moment in which to bid her farewell or to express the hope that he’d see her in the morning, or to mourn the need for her to go. She was simply gone, out into the brutal wind and cold.

  Ryan dropped onto his bed and pushed air from his tense lungs. “What are you doing, man?” he asked himself. “You can’t go making up sweet to her like that. It’ll only complicate things further.”

  Yet, when he closed his eyes, willing sleep to quiet his uncertainties, thoughts of her saturated his mind. The feel of her in his arms, the sound of her quiet voice saying his name. He flipped over onto his side, trying to force himself to think about his crops or his ma or any number of things. He didn’t manage.

  No matter that he and Maura had sworn to not be enemies, they were rivals. That would change only after one of them was declared the
victor. Not even mutual loneliness would be enough to bridge the chasm that fast-approaching day would create between them.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Ryan’s thoughts were in a jumble and had been ever since Maura visited the soddie. The state of her health weighed on him, as did the state of his heart. They were rivals, but they were also friends. The first hint of something more had grown between them, but too many questions remained unanswered for either of them to move forward. A couple of weeks had passed, and still he hadn’t the first idea what to do.

  Aidan returned home at suppertime on a drizzly summer day, but his mother was not with him. The rain had let up enough that he hadn’t been soaked on his walk. He carried a basket, one Ryan had seen Maura carry to and from the Archer home. Aidan set it on the table. He pulled out two large jars of what appeared to be soup.

  “Ma says if we put a pot over the fire and pour these in, it’ll warm up quickly and make a good supper.” He then pulled out a cross-cut loaf of soda bread. “And we’re supposed to eat this with it.”

  “She’s not expecting to be home for supper?” Ma asked from her rocker, watching Aidan with concern.

  He shook his head. “It’s laundry day.”

  Ah. Maura did laundry at the Archers’ once a week, and on those days, she always came back late. Late and exhausted. Ryan had tried to tell her that she didn’t need to worry over fixing supper here at home, as well. She, however, had wrapped her stubbornness around herself like a battle cloak and told him she would do precisely what she felt she ought, and he’d best have nothing contrary to say about it.

  Ryan would have argued with her, but, knowing what he knew of her struggles, he simply nodded. She was a woman coming to terms with a very unkindly dealt hand. Clinging to her ability to feed her son and the people with whom she shared a home was not a matter of contrariness. She was, rather, showing strength in the face of overwhelming difficulties.

  He admired that. He admired it deeply.

  “Do you know how to build a fire, Aidan?” he asked.