“A few months. Sold out to return to Buckley Place. It was time.”
Tom nodded. “So you finally returned to the woman in Briarstead? Did her husband meet an early end?”
Owen flinched. His grip tightened on the back of the chair. “My uncle died. I was needed in order for the will to be read…he left it all to me. Snubbed his wife and put the bulk of his fortune and his estate in my possession.”
Tom whistled. “Sit down, Captain. Will you take a drink?”
“I think I need one.”
“Annie—”
“Already pouring them,” she called. “The moment he stepped through the door, I knew you’d be askin’ it of me.”
Affection flashed over Tom’s face. He gestured to the chair. “Sit down, Captain,” he repeated.
“Didn’t think I would see the day I’d be taking orders from you.” Owen released his grip, tension radiating through his hand. The chair creaked when he settled in it. “Have you adjusted well?”
“Annie is a strong woman. She has kept me from falling into the doldrums more times than I can count.”
She came around then, setting two tin cups on the table between the chairs, then leaning over and pressing a kiss to the scarred side of Tom’s face. “Won’t allow him to give up on me, he means.”
Tom picked up a cup and drank a long swallow. “I suppose you didn’t come to admire my face.”
“No, that is merely an added benefit of my visit.”
Tom chuckled. “Out with it.”
Annie squeezed her husband’s shoulder. “I have mending I can take upstairs. I’ll give you some privacy.”
“You needn’t leave on my account,” Owen promised.
She shook her head, fetching a work basket from the corner of the room. “I don’t mind. You can speak freely. It is nice to meet you, Captain Buckley. Try to excite him a little. He rests too much.”
“I’ve beenhealingfor two years.”
“Precisely. You remain in here day after day. Perhaps the captain might convince you to go out in search of employment again?”
Tom frowned.
“I’ll be upstairs,” Annie said, disappearing up the narrow stairwell.
Owen lifted his drink and took a sip to give himself amoment to collect his thoughts. He’d come here for two reasons. The first of which, to ascertain that Tom was well enough, he’d almost convinced himself of—though it was clear something had kept him sequestered in his home, and it probably wasn’t a physical ailment. The second was burning a hole in his pocket.
“Where are your sons?” Owen asked.
“They spend their evenings out after dinner these days. After working hard to provide for us, I can hardly blame them, can I?”
Owen tried to read his expression. “But you wish it were different?”
Tom shrugged. “Any man would prefer to have his lads in his home rather than wasting the extra blunt at the pub, wouldn’t he?”
“Neither of them married?”
“Not yet. Peter had a sweetheart, but he waited too long and she married someone else.”
Owen reached for his cup and drank a few long swallows. The story rang too familiar—too much like his reality.
“Ah,” Tom said, nodding. “You and Peter can commiserate.”
