“How was your day, lad?” Maura asked.
He shrugged a bit. “Fine.”
“You meant to try a different corner. Had you any luck?”
“Another boy was on that corner already. Corners aren’t shared. Had to go back to my usual one.” Though he had two Irish parents, Aidan sounded almost entirely American. They didn’t live in an Irish neighborhood, and he had no extended family nearby. His days were spent on the streets. It was a wonder any bit of Ireland remained in his words and mannerisms at all.
“Lydia is visiting.” Maura motioned to the sleeping baby. Being older brother to the children of the Tower always lifted his spirits.
“Where’s Mrs. Porter?” he asked.
“At the market.”
Aidan nodded. “The Connellys upstairs have the measles. I thought maybe she’d got it.”
“Oh, heavens. I hope not.”
Posture still slumped and voice low, he said, “With how cramped we all are in this building, the whole Tower’ll have it by week’s end.”
“Not us,” Maura assured him. “We’ve had it already.”
“Aren’t we lucky?” he muttered.
He was not usually so despondent. He’d been discouraged a lot of late and, as Eliza had noted, his spirits had been a bit low. But today he looked utterly defeated.
Someone knocked at the door. Maura crossed the room and opened it. Tara Upton from the top floor stood on the other side of the threshold.
“Have you a minute, Maura?” she asked.
“Aidan’s having a difficult bit just now.”
Tara’s expression grew more anxious. “I’ll be only a moment, I promise.”
Maura hesitated. Aidan needed her attention, but so did a lot of other people. Telling herself that she would return to her son as quickly as possible, she nodded.
Her neighbor motioned into the corridor. Apparently, this was to be a private chat.
Maura looked over at her boy. “Keep an eye on the baby for me. I’ll be but a moment.”
Once in the relative privacy of the corridor, Tara began. “Have you heard if there might be a tenement coming available in the Tower soon? I’ve a friend at the factory needing a safer place to live. The man who owns the building where she’s living now is . . . taking a bit too much notice of her.”
An unfortunately too-common problem.
“I haven’t heard of anything, but I’ll let you know if I do.”
Tara appeared dissatisfied with that answer.
“Is she needing something immediately?” Maura guessed.
“I think it’d be best.”
“Does she have no family she could turn to?” ’Twould be the best solution.
Tara shook her head. “She came to America alone.”
“What about her late husband’s family?”
That did not appear to be a satisfactory answer either. “They really tolerated her only while her husband was alive. Now that he’s passed, they’d rather forget she’d ever been anything to them.”
How well Maura knew that feeling. The letters she’d exchanged with Grady’s family out West had stopped after she’d sent word of his death. She’d been forgotten, and Aidan with her. That hurt more than she could bear to think about. She had, until then, felt a part of their family, welcome and wanted.
“I’m afraid for her, Maura.” Tara’s words pulled her back into the moment. “What can I do?”
So many in the Tower had come to expect Maura to have all the answers. What would they think if they knew she hadn’t answers enough to even save her own life?
“Could your friend stay with you for a bit? Something’s bound to come available, if not here, then at least somewhere safer than where she is.”
Tara thought a moment. “We’d be tight as Dick’s hatband, but I think we could manage it.”
“Then I suggest you go fetch her,” Maura said. “But don’t do it alone,” she quickly added. “It mightn’t be safe.”
Tara nodded. “That’s wise.”
“I wish you luck on your mission of mercy.” Maura stepped toward the ajar door.
“Thank you, Maura,” Tara said. “I just knew you’d help me sort it.”
Maura had been doing the same for the other widows in the Tower for years. Being useful kept the despair at bay. Being part of their lives relieved some of her loneliness. Yet when her own world was crumbling, she faced her crisis more or less alone.
She returned to the warm confines of the room she and Aidan called home. He stood with his back to the door, bent a bit over the bureau. She could just make out the corner of a leather frame, no doubt taken from the drawstring bag she’d left out. She blinked and swallowed and breathed shallow, knowing the photograph he was looking at.
Every inch of that image was burned into her memory. Grady, with hair dark as the midnight sky, eyes as light as that same sky at midday, a face so handsome he’d drawn attention everywhere he went. In the photograph, he wore his Union Army uniform, tattered enough to tell he’d passed through some agonies in the weeks and months before it was taken.
At Aidan’s request, she’d brought out the photograph earlier that year, only to discover that her boy, who was quickly becoming a young man, had grown into the very copy of his father. The resemblance had caught her unprepared and hurt too acutely to hide her reaction. She very much feared that Aidan had seen her response and had been disheartened by it. He hadn’t asked to see the picture again, though she’d caught him looking at it now and then.
“I hate it here, Da.” His whispered confession floated to her. “I hate this city. I hate the noise and the dirty air. There’re too many people everywhere, so close I can’t even think. I hate shining shoes while my own feet are pinched and blistered. I hate it.”
Maura stood like one at a mark. His words, filled with such desperation, were completely unexpected. She knew he’d been feeling low, but his broken words went far beyond mere discouragement.
“I’ve heard about the West,” he continued, still whispering, still speaking to the unmoving, unhearing image of his long-departed father. “There’s space, and it’s clean and quiet. People have land instead of just a room. Why didn’t we go there? Why’d we have to stay here?”
A fist delivered directly to her jaw couldn’t have stunned Maura more.
Why hadn’t they gone West with Grady’s family? Because she hadn’t wanted to. Because she’d been so sure that leaving behind her own family members in this city would be too much to endure.
But they were all gone now. Grady’s were on the other side of the continent. She and Aidan were alone, and he was miserable, stuck in a city he, she now knew, hated. But she couldn’t afford doctor’s visits and medicines, so she certainly couldn’t afford to find them a new home.
“We should’ve gone with them,” Aidan said. “We shouldn’t have stayed here.”
Maura’s heart silently broke for her boy. Did he realize how often she regretted that very decision, how often she wondered how their lives would be different now if they hadn’t stayed in New York all those years ago?
Aidan would be happy.
Grady would still be alive.
And she would not be dying.
We should have gone with them. But it’s too late now. We’re stuck.
Chapter Two
Hope Springs, Wyoming Territory
Three times in his life, Ryan Callaghan had experienced a moment of breath-snatching premonition. First on the day his father died, again in the days before the family left Ireland, and once more in the weeks before the invitation to move West came. Not in any of those instances had he known what was coming—his was not the second sight—but had, rather, been filled with a feeling, unshakable and unrelenting, that something hovered on his horizon, something of such significance that it would change his whole life. Each time, the feeling had proven correct.
As he lay awake on a cold April morning, he felt it again, undeniable, and unspecific, clutching at him, nagging
him. Somewhere, the winds of life had shifted. He felt it as surely as he felt the cot beneath and the quilt atop him. He felt it as real as the nip of cold air on his face. Yet he hadn’t the first idea what the coming storm would bring.
He closed his eyes for long moments, trying to shake off his uncertainty. Please, he begged the heavens, let it be a good omen this time. He’d long-since earned a bit of good fortune.
Ryan rolled off his rickety cot, dressing quickly. He had a lot to accomplish that day. He could not allow an unanticipated jolt of forewarning, especially one so frustratingly vague, to distract him. Whatever was coming his way would come, regardless. He’d do well to be as prepared as he could possibly be.
He climbed down from the low-ceilinged loft where he slept. His sister-in-law, Ennis, stood at the far end of the room pouring oats into a cast-iron pot. Ryan made his way to the near corner and the hanging quilt Ma slept behind. A smile pasted on his face, he drew the blanket back. “A fine good morning to you.”
She sat on the edge of her bed, waiting. As always, she’d managed to dress herself up until the point of fastening buttons and tying ribbons. Her hands were a bit twisted. Buttons weren’t impossible, but they were a struggle, one that inevitably left her fingers pained the remainder of the day.
Ryan sat beside her and did up the buttons of her dress. “Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough.” Hers was a hopeful disposition, but it had grown heavy these past two years.
He hoped, prayed, the vague omen he was wrestling didn’t mean he’d soon be losing her. Surely the heavens didn’t mean to snatch away the only parent he had left.
“What of you?” she asked. “You don’t look terribly rested.”
“I’ve a bit on m’ mind,” he confessed. He tied the ribbon at her waist, then moved to sit on the floor. “I mean to make my proposal to Mr. Gallen today.” He slid her right boot on her foot; she struggled with her shoes as well. “I’ve practiced m’explanation dozens of times, imagined every argument he might make. I think I’ve a good chance of convincing him to do business with me.” He tied her laces, then took up the other boot. “If he agrees, the other ranch owners will as well, though perhaps not this year. But once they see I grow good-quality hay and can save them money compared to buying at market, they’ll all want to buy it, I’m certain.”
“’Twould be a fine thing, Ryan. You’d have an income. And a fine future.”
He tied off the laces then looked up into her wear-worn face. Voice kept low on account of the rest of the family being not far distant in this tiny house, he reminded her of the best bit of all. “We’d have a home of our own, too.”
A wistful smile touched her lips. “That’d be grand, wouldn’t it?”
“More than grand, it’d be a godsend.”
They lived with Ryan’s older brother, James, and his family, an uncomfortable arrangement for everyone. Ma missed having a household of her own and a say in how that household was run. Ennis had lived her entire married life in a home she shared with her mother- and brother-in-law. There was no privacy for any of them. And, though it pained Ryan to acknowledge it, resentment had been growing among them all for years.
Maybe that was the premonition he was feeling. A fruitful meeting with Mr. Gallen would certainly change Ryan’s future, Ma’s, as well. So would a disastrous one. His premonitions never came with enough flavor for him to know if the winds of change meant to be merciful or cruel.
He stood and held his hand out to Ma. She took hold of it. Slowly, carefully, painfully, she rose to her feet. A moment passed before she had herself balanced.
She moved fairly well for one with such extensive rheumatism. The pain and stiffness she’d spoken of for years had begun to manifest itself in the twisting of her hands and feet. But with a bit of help when rising and sitting, she got about. He was grateful for that, yet how much longer until she couldn’t move around on her own at all?
He walked at her side around the hanging quilt. The house had but one bedroom, now used by Ennis and James. Ma had a corner. James’s wee one had another. Ryan slept in the narrow loft. They were beyond snug, packed in nearly as tight as in the steerage section of the ship that had brought the family to America. And with an addition to James’s family soon to arrive, they’d only grow more so.
“Where would you like to sit?” he asked Ma.
“Set me down at the table. We’ll see if Ennis has something for me to do.”
His sister-in-law was bent over the fire, stirring the pot she’d earlier poured the oats into. Her little one, Ryan’s niece, sat on the floor nearby, fully occupied with her whittled horse.
“Good morning, Ennis,” he said as he took hold of Ma’s arm and steadied her as she lowered herself onto a chair at the table.
“Good morning,” she answered, tapping the spoon against the side of the pot. “Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough,” he said. “And Ma looks quite bright eyed, so I’d wager she passed a fine night.” He knew perfectly well she hadn’t, but he had quickly learned after Ennis and James had married, that any complaints about one’s sleep were taken as a complaint about the accommodations, which always seemed to prick at Ennis. Early on, Ryan had assumed it was a matter of wounded pride. He’d come to suspect, though, it was more a matter of doubt: in herself, in her place, in her ability. ’Twas a difficult thing living under the watchful eye of one’s mother-in-law, no matter how good a soul that mother-in-law was. “Is your husband out making trouble, then?”
Ennis turned toward them both, eying him with weary confusion. “You know perfectly well he’s milking the cow.”
Four years she’d been in this family, but Ryan still hadn’t sorted her sense of humor. He’d heard her laugh—James had a knack for amusing his wife—but she never seemed to find Ryan the least bit entertaining. Ma no longer even tried teasing or jesting with Ennis. Laughter had always filled every house Ryan ever lived in. That had been a defining feature of their family: laughter, happiness, joy in each other’s company. Now they were mostly uncomfortable, James included.
“I’m passing the mercantile today.” He spoke to both women. “Can I fetch anything?”
“I’m running a touch low on sugar,” Ennis said. “Let me gather a few coins.”
“Keep your coins, Ennis. I eat the food in this house. I can contribute to the pantry.”
She looked at him. The aloofness that usually marked her expression slipped a bit, replaced by an uncertainty he saw there now and then. “James wouldn’t like it,” she said quietly.
“I won’t tell him. You won’t either, will you, Ma?”
“Tell him what?” she asked innocently.
Ryan motioned toward his little three-year-old niece. “Nessa isn’t paying us the least heed. She won’t say anything.”
“He doesn’t like when you pay for things.” Ennis wasn’t saying anything they didn’t already know.
“He also doesn’t like when I eat things, so I’m in the muck no matter what.” He smiled at his sister-in-law, hoping to take any edge out of his words. “I’ll fetch you some sugar, and none of us’ll say a word to James about where it came from.” He bent and pressed a kiss to his ma’s cheek. “I’ll be home in time to help you prepare for bed,” he assured her.
“A bit earlier than that wouldn’t be unwelcome, lad.”
He, too, wished they had more time together. But his fields required a great deal of work, and they weren’t exactly conveniently located. “I’ll do m’best.”
In that moment, James stepped inside. “Are you off to the Claire place again?” He tromped across the room, sparing Ryan only a brief glance.
“I am.” Soon enough the Claire place would be Ryan Callaghan’s place. That was the plan, at least.
“I’m telling you, if you’d put that time and effort in here, we’d be able to grow more crops and expand some fields. We’d have enough yield to be living easier.” James always grew noticeably annoyed when Ryan spoke of his pl
ans.
“And I’m telling you that your growing family needs a house of your own, and I’d like my own corner of this world to claim.”
How the man couldn’t understand a longing for one’s own land, Ryan couldn’t say. They’d come West together, along with Ma, chasing that very dream. They’d eagerly claimed this humble farm, built this small but sturdy home together. Then James had found a wife and started a family, and Ryan and Ma had been reduced to interlopers in the house they’d once had claim on as well as on the land they’d all intended to put their mark on.
“This year’s crop will be enough for me to finally begin buying the land.” Ryan held up one hand and marked his list one finger at a time. “Make my arrangements with Gallen. Buy the extra seed. Plant m’ crop. Tend and harvest. Sell it.” He moved to the other hand. “Negotiate terms for buying the farm on time. Move into the house. Start m’ own life.”
“You always have a plan,” James muttered.
Of course he had a plan. How could he expect to claim a future for himself if he hadn’t any direction? James always acted as if there were something horribly wrong with that. He, of course, had managed to secure the life he wanted almost by accident
Ryan stepped past his niece. He bent and kissed the top of her head. “See you tonight, sweetie.”
“See you too, Uncle Ryan.” She was a gem.
Ma loved the little one deeply. ’Twas a bright spot in their current arrangement. The new little baby would be as well.
Oh, saints. Don’t let the premonition be anything bad regarding the baby. Or Ennis.
He stepped out into the morning sun and the unending Wyoming wind. Shutting the door behind him always brought a sense of relief, which in turn brought a heavy dose of guilt. For the hours he spent away from the house, he felt free. Ma had no such escape.
Ryan stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and walked down the dusty road, whistling and taking in the scenery. No matter that he’d been surrounded by the beauty of the Hope Springs valley for five years now; he was still awed by it. He’d grown up in the city of Cork, then lived a number of years in Boston. Until coming to Wyoming Territory, he’d never known such open spaces and distant horizons. He’d even learned to love the muted greenery here. And he’d soon have his own land to lay claim to.
Long Journey Home (Longing for Home Book 5) Page 2