CHAPTER 23

James knelt next to a row of saddles and rubbed the lanolin into the darkened leather, his hand soft as a baby’s from the oiled cloth. The sound of boots drew his attention to the path and his brows pulled. Father McIntyre’s form was tall and dark against the blue sky. This was a man he did not know. The priest who used to laugh and smile at the wind had disappeared. James pushed the cloth faster against the saddle.

Father McIntyre stooped and inspected the work. “Isn’t this Hugh’s job?”

James stopped and bit his cheek, his brow tightening further. Hugh had been adopted three months ago. “I don’t mind,” he answered coldly.

Father McIntyre touched his shoulder. “I need to talk to you, son.”

Son. He wasn’t his son. He wanted to smack the hand off. “Yes, Father.”

Father McIntyre sat upon the ground, clutched knees against his chest, his face gray and drawn like a lamb soaked in the rain. “I just want you to know,” the Father began. “I just want you to know that I’ve always tried to make the right decisions for you and the children.” He looked far away, his lips pale pink, nearly white. “Especially for you, James.” The priest paused, held up his neck, blinked past grass and sky. “I lied about the letter.”

James didn’t understand. The letter? The letter. Recognition finally entered.

“You have an aunt, James,” Father McIntyre sighed. “Your father’s sister.”

Sweat beaded down James’s neck and along his forehead. He was too shocked to be angry, too shocked to feel anything except the pounding of his heart.

“They’ve come to take you home.”

“To Ireland?” The question fell out.

“No. Australia. They moved here for you.”

James’s skin was live and pulsing. Hope and relief expanded his rib cage. The windows opened, the doors thrown wide, and only one thought formed in the breeze—I’m going home.

“James,” Father McIntyre interrupted. “There are things you should know.” The priest tried to look past the hope in the boy to the part that needed to think clearly. “They are poor people.” And then he whispered, “It may be a hard life, James.”

James didn’t care about money. He didn’t mind work. He didn’t understand any of the tone in the Father’s voice.

“You don’t have to go, James,” the priest pleaded.

“I want to go.” His voice was unwavering. “I want to go home.”

Father McIntyre bowed his head. “You leave tomorrow.”

At this, a hand seemed to grab James’s throat; his heart sped again and did not leave lightness in his chest. Without thinking, he pulled at a goldenrod bloom, the bright pollen falling between his fingers, staining them yellow. Yellow. Gold. Sun. Light. His stomach went inside out. Leo.