Page 25 of Valley of Dreams

Not know him? “He’s the best friend I ever had.”

“And you let him think you were dead for ten years. You let him mourn you. You let him walk about with a crack in his heart and a crushing ache in his soul.” More pain than anger was in her words. “You were also the best friend he ever had, and you let him suffer. I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive you for that, Patrick. The past years have not been easy for him, and you’ve added to his burdens. Intentionally.”

Biddy had grown bold since he’d last seen her. It was good to see. He’d worried about her over the years, wondering if life was treating her well, if she’d found her fire.

“I didn’t mean—” He stopped before the lie escaped his lips. He was sick to death of telling untruths. “Would it be better for Ian if I kept some distance between us?”

“Might be,” she said. “For now, at least.”

He nodded. “I’ll do it, then. I’ll not press myself on either of you.”

She stepped closer and set a hand lightly on his arm. “He’s angry with you, Patrick. But he’s also glad that you’re alive. We all are. We prayed for your soul, of course, but not one of us would’ve even thought there was any point in praying for the miracle of you returning to us still living.”

“I’m— I’m sorry you couldn’t have had that miracle with Grady.”

Her expression turned sadder, heavier. “He’s certainly missed and mourned. If only he and Maura and little Aidan had come west or he’d not fought. Of course, nothing would’ve convinced him to even consider leaving New York with Maura wanting to stay.”

There was so much the family didn’t know about that brief time between their leaving the city and Grady and Patrick joining the Union Army. He hadn’t meant to open old wounds; he’d caused enough pain.

“Have you been happy here, Biddy? All of you?”

She smiled with quiet sincerity. “We have been. There’ve been difficulties aplenty. But we’ve been happy.”

They’d not been plagued by the loneliness and heaviness that he had suffered the past years. He’d only ever wanted them to be happy. It seemed they had been. He found a bit of solace in that.

“Do you think there’s a place for me here?” he asked.

The tender-hearted Biddy emerged in that moment, the sweet, caring version of her that he remembered so well. “There’s always been a place for you.”

He looked out over the quickly growing crowd. “And that place, at the moment, is apparently in the middle of this mess of people.”

“Oh, just you wait, dear brother. You will be very much ‘in the middle of this.’”

His heart dropped. “What’re you meaning by that?”

She laughed softly. “No one arrives in Hope Springs quietly.”

That was all she told him. Then she simply walked away, pausing only long enough to toss a smile back at him. Oh, he’d missed Biddy. She made a person feel peaceful just by being present. It was little wonder Ian had always described her as an angel.

He popped his hands in his jacket pockets and wandered back into the fray, his heart a little lighter than it had been. He’d worried very little about his appearance the past few years. Ragged clothes and a scraggly beard had suited him just fine in the wilderness. They’d been an easy way to disappear. But here, those things made him stand out. These people, he suspected, lived in humble circumstances, yet they were neat, and, he’d guess, proud in the best sense of the word.

So many Irish voices filled the space. He’d not heard the like since his days in the New York Irish Regiment. A bittersweet sound. His brothers-in-arms had been precisely that: brothers. One in the most literal sense of the word. So many of them had not survived the war. And yet, he could think back on their nights around the fire, playing the fiddle he worked so hard to master, the long days of marching side by side with a smile and an unmistakable fondness for the friends he’d gained and their time together.

His wanderings took him past an extensive spread of food. Eating hadn’t always been a guarantee the past ten years, certainly not the delights he saw here. Turnovers. Sweet biscuits. Cakes. And dessert wasn’t the only order of the day. Plates of fried chicken sat next to an enormous bowl of colcannon. At the sight and aroma of it all, his stomach made its years of emptiness known.

And then he spotted, at the very end of the table, his ma’s shortbread. She’d always cut it in triangles and sprinkled sugar on top. She’d now and then added cardamom when it was available, on account of Grady preferring it that way. No matter how she made shortbread, Patrick loved it. To him, it was the taste of home.

He’d craved it, even dreamed about it at times. The shortbread was far from luxurious. It would never have been served at the table of the wealthy or important. Yet, he would have chosen Ma’s shortbread over anything prepared by the finest chef.

Patrick didn’t look away as he moved toward the platter. Ma’s shortbread. Right there. After all these years. His place among the family was still shaky, but having a bite of that personal delicacy would give him a much-needed sense of being home again.

“Friends! Friends!” An eager Irish voice broke through the cacophony. “Gather ’round. We’ve newcomers to welcome.”

Newcomers.That included him. They’d all be searching him out, watching him. Being spotted growing sentimental over a piece of shortbread wouldn’t help things at all. He stepped away from the table and made his way hesitantly toward the spot where everyone was gathering.

Biddy intercepted him at the edge of the crowd. “I did warn you.” With that, she led him through everyone and directly toward the center of the group, right where everyone was facing.

“I’m not wanting to be the focus of attention,” he said earnestly.

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