Chapter Twenty-eight
For the first time since the blizzard, Finbarr was alone in his home. He set his cane against the wall by the door. Madra abandoned him for the comfort of her fireside blanket. This was a space he could navigate without the help of either.
And it was quiet.
He had loved making the acquaintance of his newest niece.
And, with Emma’s help, he hadn’t been quite as overwhelmed by that family gathering as he usually was.
And the céilí Eimear’s siblings and Sybil had held in the little girl’s honor had been delightful as well, especially since his sweet Eimear had spent the party cuddled on his lap, giggling and singing and, in so doing, setting his mind at ease regarding her recovery.
He hadn’t disliked the busyness and ceaseless company of the past week, but he was grateful for the quiet peacefulness of his home. He had no unexpected obstacles in his path. There were no voices to sort out or people moving about.
Finbarr made his way to the fireplace. He needed only a moment to build a fire. And, after a few moments more, the room began to warm up. It was night, so there was not nearly enough light, even with a fire, for him to see anything at all.
But he didn’t need to. It was one of the things he valued most about his home. He could rest and breathe and not worry.
Finbarr gathered up his carving things and crossed to his usual chair.
He pulled the little table over. He had long since perfected his process.
His knives and files and chisels had set places on the table.
The item he was carving he kept directly in front of him.
The table, itself, caught the shavings. It was all so familiar that he could focus entirely on what he was creating.
His worries lessened, his mind lightened.
Whittling was more than a lucrative undertaking; it was a much-needed refuge.
He ran his fingers along the half-carved dog, reacquainting himself with its proportions and what he’d managed already. And, though he concentrated on the feel of the wood and the placement of his knife, the repetitiveness and familiarity of the task let his mind think about other things.
And, as he’d been attempting not to do the past few days, he thought about Aidan and St. Louis.
Aidan had a chance to be a doctor. He could learn to heal people, to help people.
Aidan might even discover a way to cure Eimear of her fevers and save her sight.
He could, perhaps, discover new treatments to improve his mother’s health, her lungs having been damaged by the years she’d spent working in a New York factory.
He could look after not just Hope Springs, but people throughout Wyoming Territory.
But none of that was possible if Finbarr didn’t take the job in St. Louis. He was supposed to be spending these two weeks as he would if he were staying. But he’d not been able to keep from the back of his mind what Finbarr staying in Hope Springs would mean for Aidan. For all of them.
A sleepy bark sounded from where he knew Madra was lying. She sometimes barked and whined in her sleep. What was it she dreamed about, he wondered.
I always dream about the fire, ever since it happened. Emma’s heart-wrenching words returned to his thoughts. She dreamed of the fire. Every night.
He’d sat near her while she’d been there at his house so he could wake her before the nightmares grew too horrible. Would anyone wake her that night? Would she be left to the mercy of her terrifying memories?
I’m always afraid they won’t get you out. They don’t always. Her dreams weren’t just memories, but her mind lying to her, telling her that the horrors of that day were even worse than they had been.
Finbarr set his carving down, turning his head in the direction of the bench, where she’d been sleeping both times he’d awoken her from her nightmares. And she’d sat there afterward, talking with him, listening to him, caring about him.
And he’d held her in his arms. Shared this space with her.
No one had ever lived here with him. It was quiet in a relieving and peaceful way. And he had always cherished that about it.
This home he’d made for himself had never before felt so . . . empty.