by J. Rosemary Moss
Genre: Fan Fiction (Bonanza)
Rating: PG
LINK TO PART ONE
~
The carriage ride back to Mr. Harris’s office was torture for Liam—but although Adam gave him a sympathetic smile, Liam knew that he wasn’t about to cancel the trip. One way or another, Liam was going to have to apologize to Mr. Harris. Well, he’d make it a convincing apology. Liam closed his eyes and started piecing together the words he wanted.
Mr. Harris seemed surprised to see them. He must not have noticed that his figurine was missing. That must be something—to be so rich that you lose something valuable and don’t even realize it.
Adam set Liam down on a chair near Mr. Harris. Liam forced himself not to squirm as he held out the figurine to the hated blue-blood.
“I stole this from your office yesterday,” Liam explained, making sure to present Mr. Harris with a pair of repentant eyes as the man took the figurine back. “I don’t really want it—I think it’s ugly. I only stole it because I was angry with you for saying that stuff about the Irish. And I was angry with Adam because he didn’t make you give me a real apology.”
He paused and took a deep breath. “But I am sorry that I stole it from you—not for your sake, but because I got tanned over it. You’re so rich that you didn’t even notice it missing, so I’m not sure why I’m here. But I promised Adam that I won’t thieve anything again. Now please don’t set the law on me.”
Mr. Harris seemed almost amused by his words. “That wasn’t a very sincere apology,” he commented.
“Neither was yours,” Liam pointed out.
“Quite true,” Mr. Harris acknowledged as he exchanged glances with Adam. Both men seemed to be having trouble keeping a straight face.
“I’ve never liked the Irish,” Mr. Harris continued after a moment of reflection. “Sorry about that, Liam. But that distaste was bred into me, you know. If your whole family rants and raves about the papist drunks who are overtaking our country, sooner or later some of it sinks in.”
“But that’s not fair!” Liam said, folding his arms over his chest, just as he’d seen Adam do.
“No, it’s not,” Mr. Harris agreed. “Tell me something, Liam. Did your father or mother ever rant and rave about the Orangemen of Ireland?”
Liam shrugged. “Of course. That’s different. They’re all filthy Scotch-Irish—Ulster Scots, I mean—who steal our land and bleed our people to death.”
“Really?” Mr. Harris responded. “It might interest you to know that Adam’s an Orangeman by heritage. His mother’s whole family were, ah, Ulster Scots. And a fine family it is, I might add.”
Liam twisted around to face Adam. “Is that true?” he demanded.
“’Fraid so,” Adam said with a wink. “My family has helped squash many an Irish uprising. And we fought alongside the likes of William of Orange.”
“And against every Jacobite rebellion,” Mr. Harris added.
“Of course,” Adam agreed cheerfully. “My family always knew how to pick the winning side.”
Liam didn’t know what all that meant. He had no real understanding of Irish history—he just remembered his father blaming the Orangemen for all the troubles. According to him, the Ulster Scots were worse than the English.
But did any of that matter in San Francisco?
“Well,” Liam ventured at length, “I don’t care that you’re Orange, Adam. I like you anyway.”
Adam tousled his hair at that while Mr. Harris laughed softly.
“You’re not so bad, Liam, for an Irish papist,” Mr. Harris commented.
Then Mr. Harris paused and looked at the figurine, which was still in his hands. “It is an ugly piece,” he owned. “But it was a gift from my brother-in-law so I’m forced to display it somewhere. Do me a favor, will you?” he asked, handing it back to Liam. “Smash it against the wall.”
Liam stared at him. “Why?”
“So I can tell my brother-in-law the terrible news that someone broke it.”
Liam narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you going to say that some Irish-papist street rat broke it on you?”
Mr. Harris considered that. “No,” he said at length. “That would require me to admit that I allowed some Irish-papist street rat into my office. I’ll blame it on some anonymous Orangeman instead. Will that suit you?”
“Yeah,” Liam said with a grin. Then he hurled the piece against the nearest wall, careful to miss the paintings that hung there. He was amazed at how much better he felt once he saw the figurine shatter into a million pieces.
“Well, that’s done,” said Mr. Harris, regarding the shattered remains with an appreciative eye. “Now lets get something to eat, shall we?”
“What do you have in mind?” Adam asked.
Mr. Harris gave Liam a teasing look. “I don’t know—let me think of someplace where I won’t mind being seen with the little papist.”
LINK TO PART NINETEEN
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