Chapter 32
32
Saoirse had to remind herself to relax her shoulders and unclench her jaw as she made her way to the weaving shed the next morning. Not only was she anxious about getting the weaving done on time—the deadline loomed dangerously near—but she also felt anxious about working with Owen again. Would she be able to stay strong and keep her mind—and heart—on the task at hand and nothing more? Granted, they had made much more progress with the tweed than she had expected. They’d completed far more in their all-night weaving session than she thought possible before the storm blew out the window.
As the thatched roof of Owen and Aileen’s home came into view, a relieved smile slid up her face, followed immediately by a pang of sadness. It felt so good, so familiar, to be back up here. But her heart broke anew realizing just how much it had come to feel like home but would never be so again.
Focus, Saoirse.
She pulled in a deep breath, drawing strength from the fresh scent of the grass anchored by the earthy aroma of the smoke from the turf fire that curled languidly overhead. The brisk morning was cool but calm—standing in stark contrast to Saoirse’s mood. She paused and let her gaze sweep the horizon. A multitude of green patchwork squares spread before her, leading to jagged mountaintops in the distance. So much beauty and light even amid the pain and hardships she knew were scattered across this land. And in her own heart.
Sighing, she started for the weaving shed but stopped short and decided to head to the house and say hello to Aileen first. She knocked three times, then waited. No answer. She slid the door open and pressed her eye to the small crack of an opening.
“Hallo?”
When no response came, she peeked her head around the door. The aroma of their breakfast still hung in the air, but the fire in the grate was little more than a low smolder. Swallowing the familiar pang of guilt that always accompanied thoughts of fire, she pulled the door shut and headed to the shed.
The ground was still fairly soaked and soft, so she opted to follow the road up and around the barn rather than climb the small but steep hill behind the house. As she rounded the north end of the barn, Stout came bolting toward her, his happy yips and yaps echoing in the breeze as he ran.
“Oh, there’s a good dog!” Saoirse crouched down to greet the pup. He skidded right in front of her and raised up to put his paws on her shoulders as if he was giving her a hug. The force nearly knocked Saoirse onto her rump.
“Oof! How are ya, Stout, huh? How’ve ya been?” Saoirse crooned over the dog as she scratched his head, ears, and back. Stout responded with several licks to her cheek and tail wags that wobbled his whole body. Laughing, Saoirse rose and brushed the dirt from his paws off her shoulders and skirts. Stout trotted a few steps toward the weaving shed, then stopped and turned back to her. His mouth hung open, making it look like he was smiling as he panted. Then he continued to trot happily toward the shed, peeking over his shoulder every few steps to make sure Saoirse was following. She smiled as she trailed behind him. As they neared the building, the loom was silent allowing Owen’s voice to drift out through the open door. His deep baritone singing warmed Saoirse to the core. It was the same song he’d taught her, and it instantly filled her with equal parts delight and heartache.
As she approached, she noticed the piles of small logs flanking either side of the door, stacking nearly halfway up the wall. She stood in the doorway for a moment before entering. Owen had his back to the entrance and was winding light yellow thread around a shuttle.
“I see ya got the tree moved,” she said, stepping just inside.
Owen stilled, then finished wrapping the last couple of inches onto the shuttle before setting it in the basket at his feet. Then he turned. “Mornin’.” He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, which fairly glowed in the morning light. “Hugh did that fer me.” He swallowed hard. “While I was out searchin’ for ye.”
An awkward silence enveloped them as her gaze drifted to the floor. At length, Saoirse cleared her throat and hitched her thumb in the direction of the house. “I stopped by to say hello to Aileen, but she wasn’t there.”
Owen nodded. “She and Hugh went down to work on the schoolhouse. They’re gettin’ it cleaned up.”
She fidgeted with her hands. “Ah.”
After another awkward pause, Owen said, “Eh, thanks for comin’.”
Saoirse nodded and licked her lips, which had suddenly gone very dry. She’d seen him just yesterday, but somehow, standing with him now, it felt like ages since they’d been face-to-face. She tugged her cloak from her shoulders, more for a distraction than anything else, as it almost felt colder inside the shed than outside. After hanging it on the peg, she crossed over to the loom. “Same place we left off?”
Owen nodded, his intense blue gaze boring into hers, shining with an emotion she couldn’t read. She forced her attention to the stack of finished rolls of tweed in the corner and stepped over to them. Running her fingers along the edges, she marveled at what they’d been able to accomplish in such a short amount of time. “I didn’t realize we’d finished so much.”
“I can scarcely believe it myself,” he said. “But I have you to thank for it.”
Her head spun back to look at him, heat flashing in her cheeks. “I have no doubt you’d have found a way.”
His mouth twisted up to the side, and he made a clicking sound as he wagged his head. “I don’t think so.” He busied himself moving the basket of weft spools to the end of the loom. “When you first offered to learn the trade and Aileen was pesterin’ me to let ya, I thought ye’d both lost yer minds. That plan made absolutely no sense, and I couldn’t see any way it would work.”
Saoirse’s brows lifted and she nodded. “I’d had the same fear.”
He slid his hands into his pockets, his shoulders rising then falling with a deep breath. “But it’s been made very clear to me—and to you too, I think, based on our conversations—that God’s plans very often seem foolish to those He asks to carry them out.” He closed the distance between them until only a foot or so was left. “But I’ve come to see that it’s in those times that He is able to show himself more faithful and powerful. And that experience would be lost if things were to be done any other way.”
Saoirse wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to stay the fluttering that his nearness set loose there. “That’s ... that’s very ... insightful.” Her eyes flitted up to his face, then fell to her hands as she pretended to pick at a jagged nail. His gaze was too intense. Too inviting.
A soft chuckle slipped through his lips, and he moved half a step closer. “You still don’t see it, do ya?”
She turned away, not wanting him to see the fresh tears that stung her eyes. She didn’t even know why she’d been moved to tears. There was just something about the tenderness in his voice, the faith drenching his words. It was too much.
“You think that you brought a curse when you showed up on my doorstep, but it’s not true. It was never true.”
Saoirse squeezed her eyes shut and pulled her arms tighter around her waist. How could he still not see?
Gentle hands warmed her shoulders. “You were never a curse, Saoirse.” His voice hitched, and he cleared his throat. When he spoke again, it was a hoarse whisper. “You were the answer to my prayers.”
A sob choked out and she clapped a hand over her mouth, shaking her head. It couldn’t be. His hands tightened on her shoulders protectively, and warmth spread across her back as he moved so a mere handbreadth separated them.
“After all that’s happened, I’m absolutely convinced ...” He paused again as his breath shuddered. Tears laced his voice as he finished, “I’m utterly convinced you were God’s plan for me all along.”
Saoirse’s eyes slid open as she let his words wash over her and sink in like rain on a parched desert land. She turned her head to finally look back at him. His sapphire eyes were brimming with unshed tears and alight with something Saoirse couldn’t bring herself to name. “Really?” she whispered.
He lifted one hand and brushed a stray ringlet from her face, then tenderly grazed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. He nodded slightly. “None of it made a lick o’ sense. And then suddenly it did.” His arm slipped around her waist, and he pulled her closer still.
Saoirse’s eyes drifted closed, and she leaned her head back against his chest. “Owen?”
“Mm?” He was pressed so close, she felt his hum rumble in his chest.
“I’m scared.” The statement came out in a small, timid whisper.
“Oh, Saoirse.” He released his embrace and turned her to face him. Cupping one of her cheeks, he held her gaze and said, “I can’t begin to imagine what ye’ve been through. My heart aches for the loss you carry. But I’ve come to believe that no tear is ever wasted in God’s economy, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that He meant for you to come here.”
He reached up and held her face with both hands, one thumb tracing gentle arcs on her cheek. Saoirse’s skin came alive at his touch, and her heart thudded in her chest. She searched his face for any hint of jest or doubt but found only confidence and—dare she believe it?—love.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’d be lost without you.” He trailed his fingertips along her jaw, sending chills skittering down her arms and spine. “In absolutely every way.”
His face blurred as fresh tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away, not wanting to miss one second of gazing at his face. She slid her hands onto his waist. “So would I,” she replied, her voice barely audible.
A small smile lifted the corners of his lips, and Saoirse found her gaze tracing the outline of them. Finally, she forced her eyes to meet his again, and the intensity she found in them electrified her. The air between them stilled, and her fingers curled to grip his shirt. Slowly, he lowered his head, his own gaze now dipping to her lips and back up. Just as he was so close she could feel the warmth of his lips on hers but not yet their touch, her eyes fluttered closed. She held her breath, eagerly anticipating the feel of his kiss. Suddenly, Stout’s head burst up between them as he pawed at her apron, then Owen’s stomach.
Disappointment flooded Saoirse’s soul even as she burst into laughter.
Owen’s face reddened beneath the stubble of his beard, and he ran his fingers through his hair. “He never was one for sharing,” he said, his head wagging.
Saoirse’s cheeks burned. She reached down to scratch the dog’s head.
“I, uh,” Owen said, rubbing his jaw, his whiskers scratching against his skin, a sheepish glint replacing the intensity in his eyes. “I s’pose we should get to work.”
“Right,” she said, dipping her head, hoping to hide the disappointment that he didn’t suggest they pick up where Stout had interrupted them. And yet, she had to let him know she’d heard him. His words had soothed her raw and weary spirit like a cup of tea after a trying day. Already, she felt lighter. Freer. As she brushed past him to get to the foot of the loom, she reached out and took his hand. Slowly raising her eyes to meet his, she said, “And thank you.”
He smiled softly and his stance relaxed. Lifting her hand, he pressed his lips to the backs of her fingers and held for a long moment. “Ye’re welcome.”