AFTER FOUR DAYS IN the haunting silence of his father’s empty house, Patrick brooded about how long it might take, precisely. By Tuesday, January 22nd, the night wind whining across the roof sounded like a woman crying. Patrick as a grown man of twenty-five years lay awake in his bedroll on his father’s bed. The night wind reminded him of a four-year-old boy's wide-eyed memory of the sounds his mother had made when Liam was born at first light. He knew that a sane man living alone should be dreaming about another kind of woman. At Sean’s side on the long ride across desert and mountains toward Lincoln, Patrick could ride a hundred miles without exchanging a single word. But that was a different kind of silence. It was not at all like the loneliness of an empty ranch house creaking with memories and ghosts. Monday had marked only the third day of the brothers’ separation. But it was the third day after nearly three months of riding together.
