Page 97 of Valley of Dreams

Chapter Twenty-four

“Ican’t drink any moretea.” Patrick eyed the cup Ian held out to him. He’d been drowning in tea the last two days.

“’Tis tea or water I have for you,” Ian said. “You said you were thirsty.”

“Not for either of those.”

“I know.” Ian set the cup on the ground beside him and walked back to the stump he’d been using as a stool since they arrived.

Patrick rubbed at his forehead. “You’ve grown malicious in your old age.”

“You didn’t used to make so many jokes about how old I am.” Ian took up his whittling.

“You didn’t used to be so ancient.” Patrick took up the cup of tea.

Far from offended, Ian smiled. He’d done that a few times since they’d made camp out here in the mountains. Patrick was seeing more and more glimpses of the brother he’d known and the connection they’d once had.

A sip of tea proved as unsatisfying as Patrick knew it would. “This isn’t quite the same as a pull of whiskey.”

“I know it. And I know it won’t ever be.” Ian, to his credit, sounded sympathetic. “Uncle Archibald had a weakness for whiskey as well. But when it started pulling harder than it ought, he swore off it.”

It’d been two days since Patrick had confessed his struggle, and this was Ian’s first mention of Uncle Archibald. Ian remembered far more of Ireland and the family they’d left there than Patrick did. He wasn’t entirely certain which of Ma’s brothers was his uncle Archibald. If he’d known a neediness for alcohol had clutched someone else in the family, Patrick might not’ve felt so hopeless.

“Whenever he felt the pull back to the bottle, he’d have tea instead.” Ian shaved a long curl of wood from the block he was working on. “He said tea never was quite the same, and it didn’t make him stop longing for whiskey, but it gave him something to do with his hands and mouth and something to put in his belly. That helped, he said.” Ian kept his eye on his work as he spoke. “Uncle Archibald said that, after a time, when he’d get thirsty for liquor, he’d reach for tea without hardly having to think about it. He’d traded one habit for another, one that wouldn’t be the death of him.”

Patrick swallowed another mouthful. He didn’t bother to hide his grimace. “Uncle Archibald wasn’t drinkingyourtea, apparently.”

“Watch yourself, lad. I’m the only friend you have right now.”

“Well, there aren’t a great many options nearby just now.”

Again, Ian allowed the smallest bit of a smile. Patrick was glad to see it, even if he wasn’t particularly pleased with being sobered up. The doing of it would only grow more miserable, he knew that. But he knew he’d never have managed this much without his brother helping him navigate it.

“How much tea do you reckon Uncle Archibald drank every day?”

“Gallons.”

Patrick snorted out a laugh. “Saints, you’re not comforting me in the least.”

Ian sliced off another curly shave of wood. “He drank more tea than anyone I ever met, Patrick. That’s what I remember about him most. I asked Ma once why he was forever drinking tea. She told me.”

“She wasn’t ashamed of having a brother who’d once been a drunkard?” Patrick had worried a great deal about what Ma would think ofhim.

Ian shook his head. “She said that, near as she knows, he never drank another drop of whiskey once he switched. I’d wager she was proud of him. For slipping free of that noose.”

“And she and the rest of the family didn’t hate him for having it around his neck to begin with?”

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