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As spring advanced, the lawn in front of the ranchhouse wore its green velvet once more. The orchard was in bloom, and the tulips on either side of the wide porch steps nodded their brilliant heads in the soft breeze. Fuchsia leaves peeked out between the flowers, and tiny purple cabbages lined the drive. Looking out across his land, John Patrick could almost see the verdure of Ireland.
On a Saturday, just a year after the passing of his mother, the old man took himself to town. The village bustled along. Farmers and ranchers shopped for tools and feed, young mothers congregated at the mercantile, their offspring jostling each other for first chance at the sourballs. Matrons and spinsters alike pawed through the fabrics beneath a huge sign promoting a sale; hunters and traders sorted their goods or gazed longingly at a fine watch or rifle. Young girls stood on the porch in giggling cliques, while boys strutted up and down on the opposite side of the street or in front of the town hall, pretending not to notice them.
A smile played on John Patrick’s face as he climbed down from his buggy. He loved this village, and the liveliness meant prosperity. Not for all, perhaps, but for most. And he knew that those who had more would find a way to spread it among those who were not as blessed—his village was populated with men who knew the value of neighbors. Men who, like himself, hadn’t been born here. Families whose children might have some ultimate claim to the land. And natives who lived peaceably enough with the white man and the black man, the Chinese and the Mexican.
It was an unusual town in this place, in this time. A town that took pride in itself, in its own, making work for those less fortunate than others, standing together through the bad times. In a way, an intolerant little town. For the influential among them had seen enough of war, famine, hatred and spite, and worked hard to eliminate the lingering traces of prejudice from their lives.
There were those, John Patrick would admit, without whom the village would be a better place. Robert Taylor for instance—a smarmy, manipulative man who’d inherited the Trading Post and hadn't learned the value of working with his own hands. Worse than the merchant was his wife, Sarah, a sharp-tongued, vicious gossip who didn’t care if the words she spoke were true. But there were many more who belonged heart and soul to the community, and it was the many who drove the town to prosperity and saw that all were treated fairly, regardless of wealth or talent.
John Patrick intended to bestow some small reward on two of its citizens. He went first to the bootmaker’s cottage and found Annie there.
From his vest pocket, he drew a tiny parcel wrapped in muslin, tied with white string. Her hands fumbled with the packaging, then her eyes lit up at sight of the tiny filigree stick pin in the shape of a lily, with seed pearls to represent the pistils.
“’Twas my mother’s,” he said. “I want you to have this, colleen, in thanks for all you did for her. In remembrance. Ah, don’t cry, colleen.”
“Thank you. It’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it.” Annie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. He kissed her cheek and left her standing in the doorway, looking down at the gift.
He turned next to the livery and found it crowded with horses. The blacksmith wiped his hands off to give John Patrick a proper greeting.
“Busy enough?” the old man teased.
Tommy’s rich laughter split the air. “I swear every pony for two hunnerd miles around needs a new shoe! But I’m not complainin’!”
“Is your boy here?”
“He jus’ went home t’ get me somethin’ t’ eat. Haven't had a bite since breakfast. So don't keep ’im too long, hey?”
John Patrick answered with a salute and made his way to the cottage next door. He arrived just as Alec came out.
“Looking for me, sir? Could you wait a moment? I’ve got this lunch to deliver.” At the old man’s nod, he hastened away to return in less than a minute asking, “How can I help you?”
In answer, Donovan held out another muslin-wrapped package. “A thank you,” he said, “for going to Flag for the priest last year, and allowing the family to stay together.”
“But I didn’t do that for pay.”
“This isn’t pay, boy-o. It’s a remembrance—something of Mother’s I want you to have.”
“It was hers? That’s different then.” Alec opened the box and stared at its contents. “It looks...” His voice broke and his eyes filled, for the cameo had his mother’s pure profile.
John Patrick clasped the silversmith’s shoulder. “Mother always told me it looked just like her. I thought you’d appreciate it.”
Like Annie, Alec could only nod. Again John Patrick left him there, staring at the brooch, knowing the gift would grow more precious as the years went by.