Page 11 of Valley of Dreams

Life didn’t merely withhold miracles; it punished him at every possible turn. “I’d need to fetch m’trunk,” he said.

“Our wagon’s out back o’ the barn. I’ll drive you out to fetch your trunk.”

“We’lldrive you out to fetch your trunk,” Ma corrected.

Da’s smile emerged on the instant. Oh, how Patrick had missed that smile, that face, this family.

“She’s grown fierce,” Patrick said.

“She was always fierce,” Da tossed back. “It simply echoes more out West.”

Patrick bid Maura farewell, then followed his parents out the back door. ’Twasn’t quite as chaotic as it had been before. Some of the family had, it seemed, made their way home again. Still, there were people enough to make him uncomfortable and wary. He kept near the side of the house, hoping not to draw too much attention. He managed to get to the wagon without more questions or embraces or studying gazes.

Even as he kept his distance, he looked for Ian. He knew his brother likely hated him, but found comfort in knowing that man who’d been beside him through so many difficulties in the first seventeen years of his life was nearby again.

But he didn’t see him.

Ma didn’t stop talking all the way back to where the stage had left him off. Patrick didn’t mind. He’d spent two days, after all, with the constant chatter of Eliza Porter. And he’d spent thirteen years without hearing his mother’s voice.

When Da stopped the wagon beside Patrick’s waiting trunk, he didn’t hesitate to hop down, wanting to grab the trunk before his father could. He lifted it slowly, careful not to set the contents shifting around. They were soon situated again, Patrick tucked between his parents on the wagon bench.

He suspected he needed to grow accustomed to the closeness. He wasn’t in the wilds of Canada any longer. He’d chosen to join his family here; he couldn’t avoid being around them.

If the heavens chose to be kind, something he hoped for but didn’t truly expect, he’d find his salvation in this tiny corner of the world and not, as he had for so long, in the contents of that trunk.

Chapter Four

Standing in his parents’home, Patrick couldn’t help comparing it to the tiny flat they’d all shared in New York. They’d been packed in tighter than meat in a pie. He and Ian had slept in one corner of the flat behind a quilt hanging from the ceiling. Tavish had slept in another corner, Ciara another. Finbarr, the youngest of them all, no more than six when they’d left, had slept on the floor beside Ma and Da’s bed. This house, while far from luxurious, was larger than that flat had been. No quilts hanging. No bedrolls in the corners.

“’Tisn’t a mansion,” Da eyed Patrick rather than the room. “But we’re pleased with it.”

Da had misunderstood his scrutiny.

“You’ve more room than you did in New York.”

A hint of relief crossed the man’s features. Had he truly thought Patrick meant to think ill of his home, the home they meant to let him stay in? But then, why would he think his prodigal son was anything but heartless and rejecting? He had no reason to think otherwise.

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