Even so, the afternoon’s long shadows were deepening into dusk before she finally finished with her work.
Tara was up earlier than usual the day of the gatherin’ in order to get her chores out of the way. She pulled the goose down quilt up over his shoulders, put out the kerosene lamp and went through the dark house to her own bed. She leaned over and kissed him on his smooth cheek, marveling at the long, feathery eyelashes that seemed like such a waste on a boy. Tara closed the book and put it on the stand next to his bed. In repose his usually mischievous face looked relaxed, serene. “…and at last the leprechaun jumped over the hedge and was never seen again.” Even though he knew all of the stories by heart, he insisted on listening to her read them.
Tara supervised Padraig’s unenthusiastic washing-up and prayers and then, even though it was long past his bedtime, indulged him in his favorite nighttime ritual.īy the light of the kerosene lamp next to his bed, she read to him from “The Fairy Bell.” It was a book of children’s stories he’d gotten for his last birthday. Tara and Padraig left the cows in their stalls for the night and hurried to the house. The scant bit of hay she consumed would scarcely mean the difference between survival and disaster for them. As long as old Molly drew breath, she’d have a home here.
The trusting brown eyes that followed Tara’s movements in the barn strengthened her resolve.
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