Page 20 of Valley of Dreams

With that, she turned and picked up Lydia, hiding her discomfort in the busyness of mothering.

Patrick left as quietly as he’d arrived. And in the emptiness of that room and that moment, she did something she’d not allowed herself to do in the year since Maura had left her behind in New York.

She cried.

* * *

Eliza Porter was acomplication Patrick did not need. He’d learned from a decade of hard experience that people were best kept at a distance. Eliza didn’t play by that rule.

Her joyfulness and easy smile kept pulling smiles to his face. She’d even made him laugh. And he never laughed. Not anymore. The sudden tears shimmering in her eyes had tugged at his heart in ways he hadn’t expected—and couldn’t afford to allow. No one was ever better off for having him in their lives, and the casualties list was already too long.

He’d come to the Archer farm with a task in mind. Allowing himself to be distracted by Eliza had been a mistake. She hadn’t really needed his help. The woman was clearly comfortable and capable with tools. Help him if that wasn’t intriguing. He’d not ever built anything with a woman before; none had seemed interested. Perhaps she’d allow him to build something with her again.

“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” he warned himself as he walked towards the Archers’ fields. Enough people in this town were disappointed in him without adding to the number.

He walked through the fields for quite a time before finally hearing what he was listening for: voices.

Finbarr and Maura’s boy, Aidan, were working together, an arrangement he suspected was necessary on account of Finbarr not being able to see well enough to get himself about.

“Howdy, Uncle Patrick,” Aidan said. The lad didn’t sound the least Irish. ’Twas a shame, really. Ireland was as much a part of the lad as it was any of the rest of them.

Finbarr turned toward his nephew, but clearly spoke to Patrick. “Is something the matter?”

“No, lad. It’s you I’ve come to talk to.”

Finbarr took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a ragged handkerchief. Patrick was certain that in time, he would grow accustomed to this grownup version of his baby brother, and his heart wouldn’t seize every time he saw the burn scars on the boy’s face. How long had the rest of the family needed to adjust?

He pushed on. “I’d like to start building your house, lad. But I need you to show me where exactly you want it.”

Finbarr shook his head. “I told you, I don’t have the money to pay you to build it.”

“I don’t need you to pay me, boy. I enjoy building things. It’d be a nice challenge.”

He popped his hat on his head once more. “Don’t you need apayingjob?”

“I’ll keep looking, but I’m wanting something in the meantime to keep me busy and out of Da and Ma’s house.” He realized after the words emerged how ungrateful they likely sounded. “Not that I’m not thankful for the roof over my head and food to eat.”

Finbarr held up his hands. “You don’t have to explain. I moved out years ago. There’s something to be said for breathing room.”

“And for conversation with a brother who doesn’t want to hit me in the face.”

Finbarr smiled, his scars making the expression a little lopsided. “I don’t know you well enough to want to belt you.”

“Yet,” Aidan tossed in.

Even Patrick had to admit these two were pretty funny.

“Go show him your land,” Aidan said. “I can keep working here.”

“Who put you in charge?” Finbarr shot back.

“Fate,” was the cheeky answer.

Finbarr stepped toward Patrick. “We better go before he declares himself King of Wyoming.” And yet, he stopped, seeming to be waiting for something.

Aidan, through hand motions and mouthed words, managed to explain. Patrick guided Finbarr’s hand to his arm. They walked out of the fields, Finbarr walking beside him and a bit behind, holding fast to Patrick’s arm, Patrick serving as guide.

“When you get to the river,” Finbarr said, “you’ll go left, in the opposite direction of the Archers’ home.”

---