Looking up from where he had been checking an ear of corn, he waved to the boy. He smiled as Brendan rushed up to him. “You’re just the person I wanted to see. Can you—?” “What did you say to my mother?” he asked, his arms clasped over his chest. “She’s looking so sad.” “I don’t recall saying much to her other than good morning.” He tossed the ear into the half barrel he was using to collect the corn until his wagon was repaired. “What did she say before she started looking sad?” He shrugged. “What were you talking about?” “Oh …” He gulped. “My Grandpa O’Shea.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and said, “I’ll see what I can do to cheer her up.” “Samuel, I’m sorry.” Brendan stared down at his bare feet. “I shouldn’t have accused you of upsetting her, but you and she—you, well, you know.” “I know.” He pointed to the row of corn, not wanting to discuss the uneven course of every conversation between himself and Cailin. “Start here and see if you can finish the row before lunch.”
