Chapter Eight
In Farraday country, Sunday was family day. Every week. Fifty two weeks a year. Without fail. Today was no different, except that there was an extra houseguest. While Ryan pulled out the leaf extenders for the already ginormous dining table, Owen came beside him to help pull the table.
Paxton tugged from the other end. “Morgan says this may have been the first full work week with no surprises.”
With a groan at the weight of the solid wood table, Ryan nodded.
“And the new guy, er girl? How’s she working out?” Owen asked.
“Fine,” Ryan grunted, finally fully extending the table and lifting the first heavy leaf.
“What about Jet?” Paxton reached for the other leaf. “He behaving himself?”
Ryan resisted the urge to bite down on his back teeth at the mention of Jet. Other than a few leering stares, the guy had kept his distance and minded his manners. That in itself was a surprise. “Surprisingly, yes.”
“Good. Then Mike was worried for nothing.” Owen slid the last leaf into the table.
“Maybe,” Ryan shrugged, “or maybe not. I’m still watching him.”
The three men shoved the table back together more tightly.
“At this rate,” Paxton brushed his hands together as if he’d just cleaned out an attic and not stretched a clean table, “we’re going to have to knock a wall out soon and make the dining room even bigger.”
“I was just thinking that.” Owen slapped his brother on the back and led the way into the kitchen where people were maneuvering around, getting dishes, silverware, slicing bread, filling bowls and platters with savory selections. Just another family dinner at the Farradays.
“Here.” Aunt Eileen handed Ryan a massive bowl of mashed potatoes. “Take this and sit down.” She turned to Nicole, handing her a basket with warm rolls. “Please put these on the table too and go ahead and take a seat next to Ryan.”
Accepting the basket, Nicole nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Of all the things Ryan loved about living in Texas, Sunday supper at the ranch topped his list. The family had settled into that sweet spot between good food and good conversation when Adam’s phone dinged in his pocket.
“Now that’s odd,” Adam muttered.
Conversation around him dipped. Aunt Eileen paused mid-pour with the gravy boat. “What’s odd?”
“Just got a notification from that DNA app. Says I have a fourth cousin. Or maybe third cousin once removed?” Adam squinted at his screen. “In Colorado.”
“Once removed?” Paxton looked up. “What does that even mean? Like they moved?”
“Or,” Morgan’s fork froze part way to his mouth, “removed as in someone got kicked out of the family.”
Laughter filtered around the table. Nicole dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
“That’s not what removed means. It clarifies generations.
A first cousin once removed could be your parent’s first cousin, or your first cousin’s child.
It means you’re one step away from being on the same level of the family tree. ”
Impressed with her handle of the information, Ryan faced Nicole. “How do you know that?”
She shrugged. “Used to love genealogy as a kid. My friends and I spent hours trying to figure out if we were descended from royalty or something exciting.”
“Any luck?” Eloise smiled.
“Only if you count a horse thief in Kentucky.” That got more laughs around the table.
Ryan bit back a grin. The woman had a good sense of humor. Or maybe, she really did have a horse thief in her family history.
“So fourth cousin,” Adam looked heavenward as if he’d find his thoughts written on the ceiling, “that has to go back how far?”
“To find the common ancestor you’re probably talking a great-great-great grandparent.” Her food forgotten, Nicole leaned forward in her seat. “Think someone born in the mid to late 1800s.”
Uncle Sean ran his hand behind his neck, frowning. “The original Seamus O’Farredeigh was born around 1850, but we were told that he had no siblings.”
“Are you sure?” Aunt Eileen asked.
“As sure as I can be. The story goes that Seamus O’Farredeigh’s only family was his bride Bridget Nixon and he wanted a better life for his family than what Ireland could provide. I’m assuming no family means no siblings or cousins.”
“Wasn’t that around the time of the potato famine?” Aunt Eileen waved a fork.
Uncle Sean nodded.
“If this Colorado connection were a descendant from Seamus’ cousin, that would change the link to maybe a fifth cousin once removed, or even a sixth cousin,” Nicole explained.
Uncle Sean shook his head. “That fits. We were specifically told when he got word his wife had died before he could save enough money to bring her to the States, that he was terribly depressed. With no other family left in Ireland, there was no point returning. So, he stayed in the United States the way he and Bridget had planned. Eventually, after some crazy dream that he interpreted to be Bridget’s way of telling him to move on with his life, he fell in love with a woman from New England and moved here. ”
“That’s right.” Aunt Eileen smiled. “From Boston. It’s why our house and Connor’s are so close together. So the women could visit easily. We’re the only ranch houses out here within walking distance.”
Ryan wasn’t sure what was more entertaining, the story, or the way Nicole followed the conversation, her gaze bouncing from person to person, her eyes alight with interest as if waiting for someone to score the final point in a tennis match.
“Does it say the person’s name?” Meg leaned over to peek at her husband’s phone.
Frowning, his finger swiped up, then down, then up again. “Don’t see it.”
“Let me look.” Ryan extended his arm. “Here.” He found the detailed view, scrolled down, then stopped, staring at the information.
“What does it say?” Adam leaned forward.
Ryan read it again to be sure. “You’re related to Seamus Aiden O’Farredeigh.”
Rolling his eyes, Adam shook his head. “We already know that. He’s our however many greats grandfather. What I want to know is who is in Colorado?”
Not sure what to make of any of this, Ryan gave his brother back the phone, glanced at Nicole who looked even more curious about the answer than anyone else at the table, and repeated. “Seamus Aiden O’Farredeigh is alive and living in Colorado.”
The half-eaten slice of brisket forgotten, Nicole set her fork against the edge of her plate.
A good portion of her teenage years had been spent hunched over microfilm and ledgers in dusty libraries, but her own family tree had been a series of spreadsheets as exciting as a tax audit.
Her grandfather had been a career accountant who married a librarian; their most scandalous act had been a late fee on a book about bird watching.
“Let me get my laptop.” Ryan pushed back from the table. “The website’s easier to navigate than the phone app.”
He disappeared toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. Around the table, conversations erupted in overlapping speculation. Uncle Sean looked thoughtful, Aunt Eileen’s brow furrowed. Adam kept scrolling through his phone like the answer might materialize if he stared hard enough.
“Could be a mistake,” Meg suggested. “Database error or something.”
“With that exact name?” Quinn shook his head. “Spelled the old way?”
Ryan returned, laptop open, already typing as he settled back into his chair beside Nicole. She shifted closer without thinking, watching the screen as he logged into the DNA website.
“Okay, here’s the match.” Ryan clicked through menus. “Seamus Aiden O’Farredeigh, fourth cousin to Adam, living in—” He stopped.
“What?” Adam leaned across the table again.
“Says he’s only ten years old.”
Silence dropped like a stone.
“Ten?” Uncle Sean frowned. “What is a ten year old doing on an ancestry website? Is that even legal?”
“Look there.” Nicole pointed to the screen. “It says ‘Account managed by Seamus Patrick O’Farredeigh.’ Click that.”
Ryan clicked. The page shifted to a man in his early thirties, standing in front of what looked like a vintage train in a snowy landscape. He had the same high cheekbones and the same stubborn set to his chin that Nicole saw every time she looked at the men around this table.
“Seamus Patrick, occupation: Cattle.”
“Another Seamus?” Declan’s wife Becky chuckled. “You Irish really like your family names, don’t you?”
“Apparently.” Ryan’s smile faded, his voice softening. “Widower.”
A soft, collective Aww rippled through the women at the table.
“Oh, that’s so sad,” Meg spoke quietly. “A boy that young without his mother.”
“And the father raising him alone.” Valerie’s hand found Morgan’s.
Nicole watched Uncle Sean’s gaze meet Aunt Eileen’s across the table.
Something passed between them—understanding, maybe.
Shared grief. The original Farraday brothers all went quiet, their expressions sobering.
She remembered Ryan mentioning Aunt Helen, how Eileen had helped Sean raise the kids after her sister died.
“Maybe you should reach out to him,” Aunt Eileen’s voice reflected her matriarchal strength. “If he’s family, he shouldn’t be sitting in a cold mountain town without knowing he’s got a whole pack of cousins down here.”
“Does it say how to contact them?” Adam squeezed his wife’s hand. “Usually there’s a messaging feature.”
Ryan started to navigate toward the inbox, but his hand stopped over the trackpad. A small icon in the corner was already flashing.
“Holy cow,” Ryan whispered.
“What?” Morgan and Quinn asked in unison.
“The kid beat us to the punch.” A grin slowly spread across his face. “There’s a message here from four hours ago.”
“What’s it say?” Morgan leaned in.
Adam read aloud. “Hi! The DNA site says we’re cousins. That’s cool! I’ve been working on my family tree for a school project. My dad helped me. Do you know about Seamus O’Farredeigh from Ireland? He’s my great-great-great-great-grandfather. Maybe we’re related through him?”
“Smart kid,” Quinn murmured.
“Does he have his tree posted?” Nicole asked before she could stop herself. Everyone turned to look at her. Heat crept up her neck. This wasn’t any of her business. “Sorry, I just—if he’s been working on it for school, he might have details you don’t.”
“Good thinking.” Ryan clicked back to the main profile. “Yeah, here. He’s got a public family tree linked to his account.”
The screen filled with names and dates, branching connections spreading like actual tree limbs. Nicole’s pulse quickened. This was the stuff she’d dreamed about as a kid—real mystery, real connections spanning generations.
Ryan scrolled through the tree, moving up through generations. “Father Seamus Patrick. Mother Jane Parker—” He paused on her name. “Died two years ago.”
More soft sounds of sympathy.
“Paternal grandfather is Aiden Michael O’Farredeigh,” Ryan continued. “Great-grandfather Liam Francis O’Farredeigh—”
“Okay,” Adam raised a hand, “we can skip the every-generation blow by blow marriage registry. Does it show how he connects to our Seamus?”
Ryan kept scrolling, moving up the tree. Nicole watched the dates roll backward—1980s, 1950s, 1920s, 1890s. Her breath caught as they approached the mid-1800s.
Ryan went very still.
“What?” Uncle Sean’s voice was quiet.
Nicole saw it the same moment Ryan did. Her hand came up to cover her mouth.
Ryan swallowed, blinked, then nodded slowly. “The kid’s great-great-great-great-grandfather is listed as Seamus Aiden O’Farredeigh. Born in Ireland, 1850.” He scrolled to show the spouse information. “Married to Bridget Nixon.”
The dining room fell into a silence so absolute that Nicole could hear the hum of the laptop’s fan. The history of the first Farraday had just been rewritten. Bridget Nixon hadn’t just died in Ireland; she had left behind a son who had carried the original family name all the way to Colorado.
“This makes no sense.” Sean Farraday shook his head. “Everything I’ve ever heard about my multi-great grandfather Seamus was that he was devastated when he received news his wife had died. I can’t fathom how he could leave a son alone and not go to him.”
Aunt Eileen was shaking her head too. “It doesn’t fit. This household was raised on the importance of family, as were the generations before it. I’m with Sean. Something’s not right. Mistakes are made all the time. People write down wrong names—”
“Like O’Farredeigh to Farraday,” someone muttered softly.
“Exactly.” Aunt Eileen’s head bobbed. “In my own history my mother always told us that her great grandmother died giving birth to the youngest in the family. When my mom went to Ireland to visit the cemetery, she learned that her grandmother had actually died from typhoid fever two years after the youngest was born. Poor little Katie grew up thinking her mother had died because of her. Then there was my Great Uncle Michael. His gravestone said he was born the same year as his sister Katie. Two months apart.”
“We get your point,” Adam nodded. “So the kid could be wrong.”
“Or,” Uncle Sean sighed, “he could be right and we’re the ones who have lived under a delusion all these generations.”
“So how do we find out?” Ryan looked to his Uncle. “Short of flying to Ireland to search for ourselves.”
Sean Farraday’s expression was hard as stone. “We answer young Seamus.”