Free To Mend a Dream by Tamera Alexander Page B

him, and for reasons he understood, he didn’t see disagreement. Only fear.
    â€œWhat if”—her voice faltered—“when you look at yourself more closely, you don’t necessarily like who you see?”
    He smiled. “Then know you’re not alone. But also know that it’s recognizing your faults and being honest about them that’s the first step to overcoming them. To changing who you are, becoming who you want to be.”
    She returned a feeble smile.
    â€œI’m selling the brownstone, Priscilla. I’m wiring my broker as soon as I leave here.”
    She nodded. A tear slipped down her cheek. “I never did want to live in this city, Aidan.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œBut I also don’t want to be alone.”
    â€œAnd knowing you”—he pressed a parting kiss to her forehead—“and all the single men in Boston, I don’t believe there’s the slightest chance of that happening.”
    Now if only he could muster the same hope for himself.
    Leaving the telegraph office, Aidan headed to the mercantile only to find his way blocked by a freight wagon. He was maneuvering around it when someone across the street caught his eye. He slowed his pace, then finally paused.
    A young boy was unloading crates of potatoes, one at a time, from the back of the freight wagon, his progress slowed by the braces on his legs. But Aidan read unwavering determination in the boy’s halting stride.
    Another boy about the same age and with a shock of red hair worked alongside him, carrying two crates at once but more slowly, even stopping occasionally to jaw with some buddies who stood off to the side. But not the crippled boy. Back and forth he went, in and out of the store, unloading goods, steady and right as rain.
    One of Red’s friends said something to him on his way out, and Red and his buddies laughed. The tallest one in the crowd held a forefinger to his mouth, then followed him to the wagon, and—
    Realizing what the bigger boy was about to do, Aidan tried to get there in time. But couldn’t. A shove from behind sent the lame boy sprawling, and the crate of potatoes went everywhere.
    As Aidan reached the scene, another man strode from the store and the instigators took off. All except for Red. The man grabbed the coworker by the arm, apparently having seen it all unfold.
    â€œYou’re done, Walters! Now get yourself out of here. And don’t be askin’ me for another job!”
    The lad wisely obeyed, and the man, his Irish accent thick, reached down to help the boy to his feet.
    â€œI’m all right.” The boy waved off his help, but the clank of metal against metal as he tried to straighten his braced legs suggested otherwise. His face and neck were a deep crimson. “I’ll pick them all up and wash them, Mr. McGrath.”
    The man hesitated, then nodded. “Good man, Andrew. We get knocked down, but we get right back up.” The man tousled the boy’s hair, which drew the ghost of a smile.
    Andrew righted the crate, and a few passersby helped toss some potatoes in. And despite sensing the boy’s desire to make his own way, Aidan couldn’t resist helping too.
    â€œCatch,” Aidan said, tossing a potato his way, already guessing at the lad’s dexterity.
    With quick reflexes, Andrew caught the spud in his grip. And smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
    â€œThese for sale?” Aidan eyed the potatoes, impressed. Scarcely a bad mark on them.
    â€œYes, sir.” The boy pointed. “You can get them by the crate here. Or out at Linden Downs by the wagonload.”
    Aidan nodded, recognizing the name of the farm from dealings in town. “I’ll remember that.”
    â€œYou’re not from around here, are you, sir?”
    Aidan smiled, appreciating the respect in the boy’s voice, while clearly hearing an opinion. “No, I’m not. I’m from