by Karey White
Shannon would give almost anything to understand Patrick better. She couldn’t at all piece together the puzzle he presented her lately.
“He made absolutely certain you would have a room of your own and that the position paid enough for you to be comfortable so, as he put it, you would ‘feel no pressure to make hasty decisions.’” Mrs. Houston’s expression turned thoughtful once more. “I do believe, Shannon, he worries that you have changed your mind in his absence these past months, or that you would do so after seeing how humble the life he had to offer you truly is.”
For a moment Shannon couldn’t formulate words to express her thoughts. In fact, she couldn’t entirely formulate her thoughts.
“He thinks— he believes my heart would grow cold because we were apart? Or— or that my heart was so fickle as to close itself off to a man because he wasn’t destined to be wealthy?”
“I do believe that is the crux of the trouble,” Mrs. Houston answered. “Though I am certain that in his mind, it isn’t a matter of fickleness. I imagine he fears you think he is a failure or not worthy of you, or that you’d dreamed of better things than he can offer.”
Shannon stood and paced away from the bed. “Of all the mule-headed things! I told that featherhead I wanted to marry him. The least he can do is give me the courtesy of believing me.” She spun about, shaking a finger in frustration. “I’ve half a mind to throttle him until he’s forced to admit that I love him.”
Mrs. Houston laughed out loud. “I can honestly say I’ve never heard of a woman employing quite that method, but it may be necessary in this instance. You have chosen a very stubborn man.”
“He’s Irish,” Shannon answered. “They’re all stubborn.”
“Are the women just as stubborn?” Mrs. Houston asked the question in a tone that indicated she knew the answer perfectly well.
“Stubborn enough not to let that man throw away both our happiness. I’ll just march myself back out to his house and let him know what is what.”
But Mrs. Houston held up a staying hand. “He needs to learn to talk with you about the things that worry him. Otherwise you’ll spend the rest of your life fighting this fight.”
“How do I convince him of that?” She was willing to try almost anything.
Mrs. Houston’s smile turned decidedly mischievous. “Brace yourself, my dear. Tomorrow evening will be one you’ll not soon forget.”
Patrick dragged his feet all the way to the Houstons’ home on Sunday evening. He felt utterly at loose ends where Shannon was concerned. She’d left his land Saturday morning quite obviously dispirited. He didn’t know if she’d given up on him, changed her mind, or was simply angry about something. He’d probably done a poor job of explaining things, but words had never been his strong suit.
He made his way up the front walk. Beneath his uncertainty was the usual flipping in his heart at the knowledge that he’d have Shannon’s company again. No matter that he felt unsure of his footing; her very presence was a balm. He spent every week looking forward to that one evening.
As he made to knock at the door, the sound of voices inside stopped him. Twas more than the sound of young children. Twas more than the three adult voices he usually heard. From the sound of it, the Houstons were hosting half the town.
He knocked, but no one answered. Twice more he attempted before admitting he probably couldn’t be heard over the din. He let himself in and froze at the sight that met him. The house was nearly full to bursting. With men.
Patrick stood, unnoticed, in the open doorway of the parlor. He recognized most of the visitors, but couldn’t think of anything they had in common that would explain their presence there. He’d wager it wasn’t a society or club meeting of any kind— their interests and professions were too varied. The only thing he could think of that they all had in common was bachelorhood.
Bachelorhood. They’re unmarried. Every last one of them. The realization was followed immediately by an urgent question. Where is Shannon?
The children often kept her busy during his Sunday visits. He certainly hoped they were occupying her time this evening as well.
No such luck. Patrick spied her standing in the middle of the parlor, chatting quite friendly like, with a gathering of admirers. Men far outnumbered women in the West. An unmarried lass never lacked for attention. Until that moment, Patrick had never seen any bachelors hovering about Shannon. He’d assumed they’d kept a distance because of his prior claim. Perhaps Shannon herself had warned them off. If so, she clearly wasn’t doing so any longer.
“We’d almost given you up, Patrick.” Mr. Houston appeared seemingly out of nowhere and slapped a friendly hand on his back. “Quite the gathering, isn’t it?”
“Yes, quite.”
Robert Mills winked at Shannon. Gregory Hanson smiled at her. Bill Duarte eyed her with clear interest. Patrick glared at the lot of them. So help him, if any of them so much as touched her, even by accident, he’d toss the blackguard out the door quick as lightning.
Mr. Houston looked out over the crowd with more than a hint of amusement. “My wife happened to casually mention to someone at church this morning— I can’t remember just who— that our dear Shannon hadn’t been asked to the social this coming Friday,” he said. “Next thing we know, our usual quiet Sunday evening turned into this.” He waved at the room, shaking his head. “She’s a sweet girl and pretty as a picture. I’m only surprised the men didn’t swarm sooner.”
“Do you suppose she’s enjoying the attention?” Patrick’s heart dropped at the realization that she might very well be. He’d given her time and space for just that reason, so she could be sure of what she wanted. But in his heart of hearts, he’d still believed he was what she wanted, dugout home and all.
“Why don’t you go find out for yourself, son?” Mr. Houston suggested.
“I believe I will.” With that declaration he felt the fight in him growing in a way it hadn’t for weeks. He’d felt little beyond utter defeat. What a fool he’d been to think himself willing to give up his lovely, wonderful Shannon.
He crossed the room, forcing his way through the pressing crowd directly to where Shannon stood. “A good evening to you, Shannon,” he said.
She turned her head quickly— he flattered himself that she turned eagerly— in his direction. “Is that you, Patrick?” She sounded happy to see him, even a touch relieved.
“Tis myself, indeed.”
Hanson elbowed his way back to Shannon’s side and took up immediate conversation. The crowd continued jostling, each eager for his turn filling Shannon’s ears with flattering, honeyed words. Her cheeks were a rosy pink, her eyes sparkling with lantern light. Even as the pressing throng forced him farther from her side, he could hear her lilting voice and see the spell it wove over all around her.
After several fruitless attempts to regain his previous position at Shannon’s side, he admitted defeat. He’d not have so much as a moment of her time that night; he knew it well enough.
He’d simply wait them all out. Eventually the Houstons would push Shannon’s throng of admirers out the door and he alone would be left. He’d stand outside the back door if need be.
Patrick stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and made his way to the kitchen. It was as good a place as any to bide his time. The kitchen was not, however, empty. Little Hannah Houston rushed to his side the moment he entered.
“Are all those men still here?” she asked.
“They are,” he muttered.
“And are you going to punch them all in the nose?” She sounded positively giddy at the possibility.
“I think your parents would rather I not start a brawl in their parlor, dearie.”
Hannah was clearly unimpressed with his logic. “If I were going to marry someone, and he let a whole group of men court me instead of tossing them all out, I’d positively die.”
He’d learned during the weeks he’d known Hannah Houston that she lived her life in a constant state of dr
amatics. Still, he could appreciate the sentiment. “I don’t know that Shannon is unhappy with the attention she’s receiving.”
Hannah rolled her eyes and moved to the kitchen door, pressing her ear against it. “She was sure put out when they all started arriving. She kept asking Ma how long they’d be here and if she could just lock herself in her bedroom until they all left.”
“She wasn’t pleased about it, then? Wasn’t she hoping one of them would invite her to the social this weekend?” Patrick had debated extending the invitation himself, but he meant to stand firm in his decision to not pressure her into anything.
“Hush.” Hannah waved him off as she pressed her ear ever harder to the door.
He moved up beside the door himself and lowered his voice. “Has nobody asked her yet?”
“Oh plenty just tonight, but she’s turned them all down.”
Excitement bubbled inside. “Did she truly?”
Hannah shot him a look of utter annoyance. “Why would she go to the social with someone other than you? What kind of a person do you think she is?”
“She’s a fine person,” he answered, his tone more heated than it ought to have been. Though he knew Hannah liked Shannon, even a hint of disparagement against his beloved’s character was enough to ruffle his feathers.
“Then I suppose you’re only interested in people who aren’t fine, since you don’t even kiss her goodnight when you’re here.” Hannah looked him up and down dismissively. For a ten year old, she could certainly put a man in his place. “Maybe one of these men will kiss her good, and then she won’t look so sad all the time.”
“They won’t if they know what’s good for them.”
“Good grief.” Hannah pressed her ear to the door again.
So did Patrick, but he couldn’t make out a single word, only the ongoing dull roar of so many conversations. You don’t even kiss her. She looks so sad all the time.
Shannon did often look sad— when she wasn’t spitting mad at him. Could that truly be laid at his feet? He was doing the right thing by her. He wasn’t forcing her to accept what little he had to offer. He was sacrificing for her happiness and hoping, in the process, to secure his own.
Why, then, did they both seem so miserable?
Chapter Six
Mrs. Houston’s plan hadn’t worked. Patrick had stayed for not more than a moment Sunday evening before leaving as though it bothered him not at all seeing his intended surrounded by would-be suitors. She’d not seen him even once the past two days. Mrs. Houston told her not to fret, but she was fretting. So help her, she was fretting. Perhaps throttling the man really was her best option.
Shannon returned to the Houstons’ home after a brisk walk with the children. The wee’uns had so much energy, she couldn’t expect them to remain inside all the day long simply because her aching heart wished for a quiet corner in which to mope.
“Go wash up for lunch, loves,” she instructed them.
The youngest two rushed up the stairs. Nothing motivated them more than the promise of food. Hannah remained behind.
“Is your heart so, so broken?” Hannah asked.
The dear girl was living every one of her tragic romantic fantasies by watching Shannon’s life fall to bits.
“I have full confidence I will survive, Hannah.”
“But Mr. Patrick is never here.”
“Believe me, I have noticed.” Shannon pressed on, cutting off Hannah’s continued emoting. “Up the stairs with you, girl. Wash up like you’re supposed to.”
“Yes, Miss Shannon.” Hannah hmphed all the way to the first floor landing. She stopped and looked over the railing down at Shannon. “If Mr. Patrick does something truly tragic, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“I will invite you to witness the tragedy for your very own self.”
“Oh, good!” Hannah clapped her hands together and spun around in a gleeful circle.
Shannon left the girl to her celebrations and headed to the kitchen. Mrs. Houston was there already, preparing lunch. “May I help?” Shannon asked.
“You have helped so much these past weeks.” Mrs. Houston smiled at her over the pot of soup. “In Cleveland, we had a nanny and a cook. We’ve had to live more frugally since coming here, at least until the paper is more successful. I confess, doing all of this myself is far harder than I expected it to be.” A flush of embarrassment touched Mrs. Houston’s face. “You probably think I am unforgivably incompetent.”
“Nonsense.” Shannon pulled a small stack of bowls from a cupboard and set them on the table. “Tis never an easy thing to adapt to a life so different from what one has always known.” She set out spoons as well. “I remember very little from our first years here in America, but I clearly recall how much my parents struggled. Nothing was the same as it had been.”
“And America didn’t exactly make things easy for your people, did we?” Only someone as kindhearted as Mrs. Houston would feel compelled to apologize on behalf of her entire country.
“One thing you can say for the Irish, we do rise to the occasion.”
“Oh, speaking of which” —Mrs. Houston moved to the kitchen door and pulled a folded bit of paper from a basket hanging there— “this arrived for you.”
“What is it?” But she knew the answer the moment she took it from Mrs. Houston. “Someone’s sent me a letter?”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Houston wiggled her eyebrows. “And I am entirely certain it is a love letter.”
“Which of the beaux you arranged for on Sunday is writing to me?” How she wanted the letter to be from Patrick!
“You can’t fool me, dear girl. It is a letter from your Patrick, just as you’re hoping.”
Shannon pressed the very edge of the letter to her lower lip and closed her eyes. Her Patrick. “I lived for his letters the past six months. I felt closer to him when looking over his letters than I have since coming here.”
She felt Mrs. Houston’s hand rest on her shoulder. “Go read your letter, Shannon. Take as long as you need.”
She didn’t need convincing. She sat on her bed, laying the letter on her lap. It was quite a bit thicker than any of the others had been. What have you sent me, Patrick? She needed this letter to be one of healing and love. She needed to know he still cared.
She nervously unfolded the letter. She had, on occasion, received two drawings from him at once. This appeared to be at least a half dozen. Her breath caught at the sketch on the very top of the stack. Though her memories of Ireland were extremely vague, she’d heard enough stories of her homeland to have a clear picture in her mind of what it looked like. The sketch Patrick had made of a thatched cottage set against a background of rolling hills and stone fences was Ireland. She knew it was as surely as she knew the beating of her own heart. Standing in front of the cottage was a small girl, likely not more than four years old, her dark hair hanging in braids.
Shannon carefully set the drawing on the bed beside her and studied the next paper in the stack— a boat with tall sails, making its way across a rough sea. Shannon had made the awful voyage across the Atlantic when she was only five years old. She’d never forgotten the sounds and smells of that journey. Looking closer, she noted the same little girl from the cottage sketched on the deck of the ship.
The next sketch brought a smile to her face. Though she and Patrick hadn’t grown up in the same Irish area of Boston, she knew from his stories that their childhoods had been remarkably similar. He’d drawn what she would guess was the overly crowded, rundown neighborhood of his early years, one that looked startling similar to her own. And there again was the young girl, looking much the same but older.
Her heart fluttered as a warm wave of understanding rushed over her. This was her life. Patrick had sent her drawings of her own life, a connection to her past and to the people and places she missed. Twas precisely the kind of tenderhearted gesture she would have expected from him before the odd aura of indifference of the past few weeks.
Next wa
s a sketch of the boarding house where she’d lived while he was away. And there she was, looking out the uppermost window. Oh, how I missed you when I was there. Somehow he had captured that forlorn expression even without having been present to see it.
He drew her in the window of the passenger car of the train she’d ridden on her way west, on her way to him. Only one paper remained. What had Patrick drawn there? The Houstons’ house with her, once again, standing alone? That would be fitting, though heartbreaking.
She took a breath, rallying her courage, and looked down at the final page of his letter.
Twas Patrick’s house, the one he was building out on his land, the one he’d not let her set foot inside. But he hadn’t drawn anyone alone at a window. He’d drawn himself— she recognized his face in an instant— standing with his arms around her, holding her as though she was the greatest treasure in all the world. He’d sketched his home with the two of them together and placed the picture at the end of her journey.
She jumped from her bed, clutching the final drawing, and rushed back out to the kitchen. “I need to borrow your horse.” Her voice was nearly frantic.
“I can do better than that. The buggy is hitched up and ready to go, and Mrs. Green is here to watch the children.” Only then did Shannon realize Mrs. Houston had her jacket on and stood at the ready.
“You knew?”
“Not any particulars,” Mrs. Houston said. “But my husband did say Patrick requested the day off. I had a feeling that letter was him finally coming to his senses and showing you what was in his heart.”
“I need to go out to his home,” Shannon said. “I think he is there, waiting for me, probably wondering if I’ll even come.”