Page 13 of Valley of Dreams

He needed to think of a way of supporting himself in this tiny town. He didn’t know enough of Hope Springs to have any answers. But Maura had found work for Eliza. Perhaps she’d be willing and able to point him toward employment, too.

When he climbed down the next morning, the smell of eggs washed over him like a welcome rain. The past years, his breakfasts had come from a glass. So had many of his meals. He was trying to change that. Heaven knew he was trying.

“Come eat, lad.” Ma waved him over to the large table near the stove and shelves.

“I’ll not eat your food until I can replace it.”

She popped her fists on her hips, eying him with the look of scolding, which he remembered all too well. “Are you refusin’ my cooking, Patrick Duncan O’Connor? And turning your nose up at m’hospitality as well?”

Emotion thickened in his throat—not at the scolding, but at the wave of memories. Rest him, he’d missed his ma. His heart had ached to have her hug him or scold him or laugh with him again. He’d longed to matter to her once more. A fellow couldn’t be entirely contemptible if his mother still loved him.

She motioned him to sit. He knew better than to argue.

He sat and, with a word of thanks, tucked into the generous plate of eggs and toast she’d set in front of him. For that morning, he’d indulge in being a child again, letting himself simply accept his ma’s fussing and tending. There was time enough for pulling himself up and carrying his own burdens. He needed just a moment to rest his soul.

“Your da’s out tending the fields. I’m certain he’d be pleased to have you help him.”

“I’ve not ever done farm work.”

“You have so.” She tipped her head a bit, eyeing him with confusion. “Back in Ireland.”

He could smile at that. “I was eight, Ma. I suspect I’ve lost most of my no-doubt impressive farming skills these past twenty-three years.”

She set her palm against her apron bib, pressing it against her heart. “I forget sometimes how little of Ireland you must remember. Ciara recalls nothing at all of it. And Finbarr, of course, was born here.”

Patrick took another bite of his breakfast, his enthusiasm for the meal slowing. Though his stomach begged each morning for nourishment, he found it grew displeased more quickly than it ought, a consequence of too many years filling his belly with whiskey instead of food. Too many regrets hung in his mind; he needed a new topic to distract himself. “You said Finbarr works somewhere in town?”

She nodded as she crossed to the kitchen wash basin. “For Joseph Archer. Finbarr has worked at his farm for years now.”

“And Maura worked for Mr. Archer as well?”

“Aye.” Ma scrubbed her frying pan. “He’s a well-off man, owns most of the valley.”

That was promising. A man of means and property might have some work needing to be done. “His was the house we were at yesterday?”

“Finest in the valley.”

He’d be the one to petition for work. “Will Maura be there again today?”

“I’d imagine so. Her friend’ll be taking on the housekeeper’s role, but our Maura’ll be teaching her how.”

“I’ve a hope she might have a job in her pocket for me as well,” Patrick said.

“She might,” Ma said. “And if not, Ryan has connections at the ranches.”

“Ryan?”

“Maura’s husband.”

She’d remarried? How long ago? Did this Ryan treat her well? Was she happy? Grady’s death had ricocheted through the family with such force that no one had been spared the agony of it. His death, they knew all too well, could be laid at Patrick’s feet.

Patrick finished off his eggs and rose, carrying his empty plate to the basin where Ma scrubbed dishes. “I’ll wash it up.”

“Nonsense.”

He’d eventually have to insist on doing for himself, but he’d not launch into an argument so soon into his stay. “I’m after wandering down the road to see if Maura’s heard of any jobs here about.”

“You don’t mean to stay and gab? Spend the day here?”

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