Long Journey Home (Longing for Home Book 5)

by Sarah M. Eden

  A boy, likely quite near him in age, looked at him repeatedly, but made no effort to introduce himself. Another small group of boys, younger, but not by too much, eyed him while whispering among themselves. The older girls noted him and watched him with unabashed curiosity—and an obvious reluctance to bridge the gap. Mrs. Hall was occupied with fixing one of the student’s long braids.

  Please, someone speak to him.

  A little girl, likely half Aidan’s age, skipped over to him, her braids bouncing against her back. “You look like Mr. Tavish.” Another American voice. Perhaps Hope Springs wasn’t entirely Irish.

  Aidan nodded silently. He’d heard the declaration often enough the day before to not be the least confused or surprised. Seeing him standing beside Tavish in the barn that very morning had driven home to Maura how very true it was. Tavish looked so much like Grady had, though he was older now than his brother had lived to be. ’Twas an odd thing seeing a version of her Grady that would never exist.

  “Mr. Tavish gives me butterscotch,” the little girl told Aidan.

  “I don’t have any.” Aidan sounded disappointed not to have something to offer her. He’d always had a soft spot in his heart for young ones. Though he hadn’t siblings of his own, he’d been an older brother to many children over the years.

  The darling little girl offered him a gap-toothed smile. “Mr. Tavish will give you one. He always does.”

  That sounded like the Tavish that Maura had known: thoughtful and tenderhearted.

  “Do you like peppermints?” the girl asked.

  “Never had one.” Aidan spoke to with less misgiving now. Bless the dear little child’s heart, she was easing the way for him.

  “Finbarr always has peppermints,” the girl said. “He’ll give you a peppermint. He gives them to us, but Emma won’t take them. Emma’s my sister. She’s quiet too. She likes peppermint, but she doesn’t like Finbarr so much anymore. He got angry at her, and she’s still sad at him.”

  Most of that made no sense to Maura, but the name “Finbarr” held her attention. No doubt the name belonged to Finbarr O’Connor, the youngest of the family. He’d been only six years old when last she’d seen him, about the same age as this little girl. He would be grown now. Eighteen or nineteen years old.

  “I’m Ivy. You can be my friend.”

  Aidan shot Maura a look of amused helplessness. She did her best to return the expression with one of empathy. Being forced into a friendship with a child so much younger than he was could not be how he’d hoped to begin his time at this school, yet the offer gave Maura such a feeling of relief. In time, he would find his footing. And for now, this dear little Ivy would help him at least feel wanted.

  “I’ll see you after school,” Maura said.

  “See you then,” he answered.

  “Be safe.”

  “I will.”

  Ivy took Aidan’s hand and pulled him toward the youngest group of students. Maura slipped away, heading toward the mercantile. They were in need of food and supplies, and she meant to have the house set to rights, with a warm meal ready when Aidan returned that afternoon. She would make a home for him.

  The shop was not as busy as it had been the day before. In their corner of New York, the shops had predictable times of busyness and quiet. Maura would eventually learn the pattern of this one. Once she did, she could come when it wasn’t busy. A quick trip would be less exhausting than one during which she had to wait in long lines.

  A man stood behind the counter. “Good morning, ma’am. Welcome.”

  She couldn’t place his manner of speaking. He was absolutely not from Ireland, but neither did he sound like anyone she’d encountered in New York. His words were slow without dragging, slipping smoothly one into another.

  “You must be the newly arrived Mrs. O’Connor.”

  She nodded. “I am.”

  “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Jeremiah Johnson, proprietor here. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m needing a few things.” She made a quick accounting. Her list was longer than she’d have liked, but she and Aidan had not been able to bring much with them, and the house was empty of even the most basic of necessities.

  One by one, Mr. Johnson set her requests on the counter, or, in the case of the barrel of flour, nearby on the floor. Bacon and beans would make a perfect supper that night; they were one of Aidan’s favorite meals.

  After a bit of quick adding, Mr. Johnson said, “That’ll be twelve dollars and three bits.”

  Her heart sunk. Twelve. She couldn’t spend so much on her first day, not when she didn’t have an income yet. “I cannot spend more than seven dollars.” Embarrassment burned hot in her cheeks.

  Mr. Johnson simply smiled with an expression of familiarity and empathy. She, apparently, was not the first customer unable to pay for everything she needed. “Is there anything you want to remove entirely? The rest we’ll just cut back on.”

  She thought it over as she eyed her much-needed items. “I can manage without the coffee.” She’d miss it, but she could get by without coffee far easier than flour or soap. “And perhaps we might reduce the bacon by half.”

  He nodded and made adjustments to the receipt. In like manner, she evaluated and adjusted each item. She would have to work hard to make these supplies last as long as possible; she could not allow herself to spend her money too quickly, or she would run out before she had income to replace it.

  “That brings you to seven dollars, ninety cents.”

  Still too much. She shook her head. She’d sold the most important item in the world to her, and she wouldn’t waste a single penny she’d received for it. “How much if we take out the bacon entirely?”

  Aidan would be disappointed not to have their beans cooked with bacon. But what could she do?

  “Still over seven dollars, Mrs. O’Connor.”

  She rubbed her temples, trying to ease a breath through her tense and uncooperative lungs. Food and goods were surprisingly expensive out West.

  They made more adjustments, more cuts.

  Mr. Johnson added it up again. With a pleased smile, he said, “Six dollars and fifteen cents.”

  She might have felt relieved, but the remaining collection of foodstuffs and supplies looked so small. How long would it last? She’d thought her money would see them through a few months, if they were careful. At this rate, she’d be penniless in a matter of weeks. Yet, she couldn’t scrimp any further.

  “Could I increase the bacon to bring the total to seven dollars?” Aidan was a growing boy. He needed something more substantial to eat.

  While Mr. Johnson set a crate on the counter and began arranging her things inside it, Maura counted out her precious coins. Not far distant, she spied a grouping of jars with sweets inside. She recognized anise candy and what she felt certain was butterscotch. The small white ones were likely peppermints. In the schoolyard, Aidan had admitted to never having one.

  “Are the white candies peppermints?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Four for a penny.”

  Four for a penny. Aidan would love the candy, but she couldn’t justify it. Not out of Grady’s money. Once she had a job, perhaps she could save enough to get him a peppermint for Christmas. That was more than half a year away. Surely she’d have a job and an income by then.

  The crate was full to bursting. The sack of flour was too large to fit.

  Mr. Johnson eyed it. “You cannot possibly carry this all the way back the Claire place,” he said.

  He was right, of course. How was it, even living with this disease day after day, she still sometimes needed to remind herself of the limits it placed on her? “Could I leave the items here and find someone with a wagon to return and fetch them?”

  “Of course.”

  “I thank you, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Any time.”

  She set her stack of coins carefully beside the crate. Mr. Johnson counted them into his own hand as she put her remaining money back in he
r drawstring bag. It grew lighter all the time. She began her slow walk back toward her new home. Children were no longer outside the schoolhouse. How she prayed that Aidan was happy inside. New York had been destroying him, but would Hope Springs give him the new start at life that he so needed?

  The day’s excursion was taking its toll on her, and it was still early. She held out hope that the longer she lived away from the city, and the longer she spent not breathing heavy factory air, the more she would improve.

  How long she’d debated during her final visit with Dr. Dahl whether she ought to spend even more of their funds on a bit of medicine he said might help her when the disease progressed nearer its final stages. In the end, she’d opted not to. Nothing would prevent the brown lung from reaching its inevitable conclusion. She couldn’t justify spending money they desperately need to simply prolong what could not be avoided. Once in Hope Springs, she’d reminded herself, Aidan would have family. Her time could be cut short, yet he would not be alone.

  She’d not think on her difficult future now. She had a house to set in order, a supper to cook. A boy to raise and to prepare for whatever lay ahead of him. She had an income to secure. Meager supplies to stretch as long and as far as possible.

  And a town she hoped would eventually feel like home.

  Chapter Seven

  After his discouraging conversation with Tavish outside the barn, Ryan found no joy in working his fields. ’Twas an odd experience for him, who’d loved most every moment he’d spent on his land— rather, the Claire land.

  He’d been so sure of his future right up until Tavish unknowingly snatched it away. How confidently Ryan had told Ma again and again that he’d have a home for them both soon enough. He’d made plans, and now, as always, he was adjusting those plans to account for obstacles he’d not seen coming. And adjusting meant he and Ma would have to undertake an uncomfortable conversation that evening.

  “Forgive me, Ma,” he’d have to say. “A woman with a pitchfork stole our house.”

  Four years he’d worked this land. Four. And on the very day he’d intended to truly claim it, the land was snatched out of reach once more.

  Early in working the Claire land, Ryan discovered a large, flat rock along the riverbank. He’d made a habit of taking his midday meal there, listening to water flow past, watching the occasional townsperson cross the bridge, feeling the breeze rush over him on its way to rustle branches of the sparsely clumped trees, and, as it turned out, insufficiently grateful for the years he’d passed without having had any of his blasted premonitions.

  He sat there now, unenthusiastically eating his thick-cut sandwich. If a man had to have “insights” they ought to at least come with enough detail to avoid disaster.

  All he’d done to change out his fields and his crop, his arrangements with two of the ranches with the hope of eventually convincing more—his original plan depended on all of it, and now he faced losing the land and the house and his entire plan, curse it all. Now what was he to do?

  Across the river and up a piece, schoolchildren were outside, running and chasing one another and eating their lunches. He’d often sat in this spot and imagined having little ones of his own at the school. He pictured himself coming to this spot each day at the very time they were outside, enjoying a bit of play. They would look out across the river and wave, and he’d wave back. It’d be their own little moment of connection. He could see it so clearly in his mind.

  His father died when Ryan was only five years old. He’d spent the twenty-two years since imagining his da being part of the important moments of his life. If Da had lived, the family might not have left Ireland. And if they had left, they might’ve found more success in Boston with Da working too. And, in the end, if they had still come to Hope Springs, the house Ryan and James had built together would have belonged to the entire family. Ma wouldn’t’ve been reduced to the role of interloper. Ryan wouldn’t be racing a clock so he could continue to pursue his own dreams and Ma’s well-being and happiness.

  He wanted his one-day children to have a da. He wanted them to have the things he never did: stability, certainty for the future, their father nearby to hold them when they were afraid, to share their happiness, to love them.

  You can’t sit here all day moping. You’ve work to do. He sat only a minute longer before shaking off his heavy mood. The best way to face any trouble was directly and with a strategy. He needed to think of a new one.

  He walked along the edge of his fields, reassessing the situation. Tavish said that their arrangement with him, as far as the land was concerned, would continue. So Ryan would move forward as planned for this year, excepting the bit about moving into the house. By harvesttime, Maura ought to know what she meant to do. He simply needed an expanded approach to prepare for two possibilities: Maura staying, and Maura going.

  He reached the front of the house just as Maura herself approached. “Good afternoon to you, Maura O’Connor.”

  She didn’t immediately reply, but stood silently on the path leading to the house, just breathing. She wasn’t flushed like she would be if she’d been running. Why, then, was she so out of breath? He recalled her bad cough that morning.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked.

  She shook her head but still didn’t speak. Frustration pulled at her features. She coughed like before. The sound of it would worry any person who heard it. ’Twasn’t a simple tickle in the throat or a need for water. Again she insisted she wasn’t ill, but he doubted that.

  “Truly, lass. Let me fetch you a bit of water.”

  She summoned her voice at last. “I need chickens.”

  He’d’ve laughed if he weren’t so confused. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard that particular cure for a cough.”

  “My mind is running so many directions at once.” A quick cough. An even quicker few breaths. “I find myself forgetting to explain where a thought’s come from.”

  He leaned against the post of the front porch. “I’m full dying to hear where chickens originated.”

  “Chickens come from eggs. Hadn’t you heard?” She spoke with enough cheek to pull a partly-formed smile from him. She coughed again, then pressed onward. “I think I’d do well to have chickens. I’d rather not spend money buying eggs if I don’t need to.” She paused for air. “But I haven’t the first idea where to obtain chickens, how to keep them, what to feed them.”

  No matter that she stood between him and everything he’d worked for, the woman had a dilemma to solve. He’d not refuse to help. “If you’ve neighbors with a rooster and hens, you could get yourself some chicks to raise. If you’re wanting eggs sooner, though, you’d need to buy mature laying hens.”

  She nodded. “Where would I keep them?”

  “In a coop.”

  Her eyes darted to the barn. “There isn’t one.”

  “No.” ’Twas on his list of improvements he meant to make around the place—for himself. “One would have to be built.”

  A breath wheezed from her. The sound was worrisome, yet she’d made quite clear she didn’t mean to discuss it. “What else do I need?”

  “A henhouse for them to lay in and stay warm. And feed.”

  She rubbed at her pressed lips. “That is a great deal of work for eggs.”

  “It’s an investment,” Ryan said. “’Twould be worth the cost in the long run.”

  “But one must have the money in the short run.”

  And the first idea how to raise chickens. “Have you never lived on a farm before?”

  “Not since I was a tiny child in Ireland.”

  She might, then, not be interested in claiming this farm for her own. A little bubble of hope expanded in his chest. He kept his expression and tone calm, though. “Is it your dream, then, to live on a farm again?”

  She watched him for an unexpectedly long moment. The woman was clearly trying to sort out something about him. Her brow pulled steeply, and she let her gaze wander away out to the distant horizon. “It’
s been a long while since I let myself dream.”

  He’d not expected that response at all, nor her tone of weariness. This was a woman carrying a burden, and one, he’d wager, she carried alone.

  He found himself wanting to pull her into a reassuring embrace. ’Twasn’t a romantic inclination in the least, but a strictly human one. She was hurting, and in that moment, she looked rather desolate.

  “You’ve come to the right town, then, Miss Maura. Hope Springs is a place for dreamers.”

  She met his eye again. “Is it?”

  He nodded. “The dreams don’t come easy, and they aren’t promised, but they’re possible here.”

  She smiled briefly—minutely, but sincerely. “At the moment, my dreams are centered on chickens.”

  “Those chickens are known to break a person’s heart, though. Always strutting around, promising a person eggs then changing their wee little minds. The worst of all the birds, they are.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” She coughed again. After a wheezing breath, she returned to her more earnest tone. “I’m sorry about the pitchfork this morning. If I’d been warned that you would be in the barn, I wouldn’t have—”

  “I wasn’t offended, Miss Maura. In fact, I’m tempted to have you teach my ma your pitchfork technique. Seems an efficient way of defending oneself.”

  Again, she smiled. The expression suited her far better than the pensive one he’d seen most during their two brief interactions. “I do need a job. Perhaps I should offer to teach all the women in town to use pitchforks as weapons.”

  “That would be a new one in Hope Springs,” he said with a laugh.

  She stepped up onto the porch. “I really am sorry about the pitchfork.”

  “And I’m really sorry my being in the barn gave you such a fright.”

  With a nod, she disappeared inside the house.

  Though there was work enough to be done, Ryan couldn’t force himself out to the fields again. Rather, he stood there, thinking. Maura seemed a decent person. She also seemed more than a bit desperate. He rubbed at the back of his neck.