Maeve's Song of Hope (Irish to Idaho #4)

Chapter 1

Maeve

Boston had never sounded so overwhelming to Maeve Gallagher as it did the morning she ran away. The wagons rattled, fishmongers bellowed, the shipyard bells crashed, and every noise felt like it was trying to squeeze the life out of her.

Maeve barely glanced at anyone as she hurried down the street toward the train depot. Her head was held high, and she was determined to make this work, even though her heart beat wildly in her chest.

She didn’t see people staring, but she swore she could feel their eyes anyway.

It was like every whisper about her curled up and was made known.

Her gloved hand squeezed the old newspaper clipping in her pocket.

It was so worn out from her constant reading that the ink had started to blur beneath her thumb.

Wanted: A woman of good character to help build and organize a new church hall in Owl Flats, Idaho Territory. Room and board provided. Must be willing to work with a carpenter and join community gatherings.

Inquire by letter to Jonas Webber.

Good character. The words felt like a taunt at first, but Maeve wrote anyway, desperate to disappear into a place where nobody knew her name or the lie nailed to it.

The train whistle screeched through the air, bouncing off the depot walls, causing Maeve to flinch.

It forced her to breathe and not look back.

Not at the Irish Alehouse where she sang for meals, not at Mulligan’s, where she scrubbed tables and joked with the other girls, and definitely not at the man whose lies sent her packing from the city she’d loved.

Boston was all she had ever known. Singing was what she had loved. Cleaning and scrubbing is what she did. But ever since the allegations of her crime came out, Maeve had nothing.

Nothing but a reputation. A slew of accusations and lies.

“Accused of stealing,” she murmured with bitterness in her voice. As if she’d ever taken a single thing that wasn’t hers.

But when a wealthy man, a spoiled one, who was used to getting his way, had cornered her in the alley behind Mulligan’s, his breath thick with whiskey, she had to shove him off.

The next morning, he swore she’d stolen his pocket watch.

The watch “turned up” in the alley, basically right where she’d been, and that was enough.

Enough to ruin her reputation. Enough for the alehouse owner to suggest she leave before the constable started poking around.

Maeve swallowed hard. She’d cried that night, but she wasn’t crying now.

No. She held her head high and did her best to ignore the glances and whispers, but when it became too much, Maeve knew she had to make a change.

She climbed onto the train with nothing but a trunk and a satchel with her sheet music inside, though she hadn’t dared open it lately. Ever since the allegations began, Maeve felt her music and singing were shameful.

Settling into her seat, Maeve pushed her back against the threadbare upholstery and shut her eyes as the train jerked forward.

The city whipped past, brick buildings and narrow alleys and the gray water of the harbor vanished.

All lost to distance and steam. She hoped the bad memories wouldn’t drown out the good ones

Maeve sat stiff and tense for that first hour with her hands gripped in her lap.

But as the train’s rhythm steadied, her shoulders started to loosen up.

She went for her notebook, the one she used for lyrics, melodies, whatever came to mind.

The pages in this book were mostly empty.

She hadn’t written a new song since the scandal.

Whenever she tried, her throat locked up as the words felt weighty and wrong.

But she hummed anyway, soft at first, her voice shaky. She tried again, this time letting the tune of an old Irish lullaby fill the space. Her mother sang it to her when Maeve was little, before they crossed the Atlantic. Before Boston’s cramped tenements and endless chores.

The song steadied her. It reminded her of who she was before the world tried to decide for her.

The woman across the aisle caught her eye and smiled. Maeve returned the gesture, then quickly looked away. She wasn’t ready for attention. Not until she made it to Owl Flats and proved herself. She didn’t want to give anyone reason to doubt her, or who she would become next.

The train rolled on. The city faded into prairie, then prairie into wide empty stretches. Maeve watched it all. She was struck by the wild openness of the west. She had never been this far from home.

She pictured Jonas Webber. His letters had been short with just a few sentences, written in neat, and careful script. He apologized for not being eloquent. He said fancy words never suited him. Maeve liked that. His honesty made her feel safe.

She hoped he wouldn’t regret sending for her.

By the second day, dust filled the train car and the heat pressed down.

Careful not to fall, Maeve wandered out to the space between cars, letting the wind whip her hair as she stood on the small platform.

The sky was so big and blue it made her chest tighten to realize just how small she really was.

She sang again, louder now, letting the wind snatch away her notes. Nobody could hear her here. Nobody could judge.

But even with the music carrying her, the doubts lingered and nagged at the edges of her soul.

What if Owl Flats is no different? What if they know of the rumors? What if they look at her and see only what HE said she was?

“Nay,” she murmured, pressing her hand to her bosom. “I won’t let them.”

Honestly? She’d lived through worse. She’d crossed an ocean as a hungry kid, worked herself ragged, and somehow made a place for herself in a city that didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for Irish girls. She could handle this, too.

On the third morning, the conductor called out that they were almost at the Idaho Territory station, which was her stop. From there, she’d take a stagecoach for the remainder of her journey.

Maeve gathered her things, smoothed her skirt, then pinned her hair back tight. She saw her face reflected in the window. She was pale, and her eyes seemed gaunt. But she knew deep down, she was also determined.

The train slowed with the metal screeching against the rails, and Maeve’s heart started thumping harder. She slid the newspaper clipping into her bodice, like the words might hold her in place, and give her strength.

The station appeared ahead of the dust swirling around. It was a plain wooden platform, with a couple wagons hitched nearby, and folks scattered around. They were either waiting for travelers or hauling freight.

Past all that, the land just opened up to pine trees, hills in the distance. Nothing like Boston. Kind of quiet and simple, but also a little intimidating.

When the train came to a complete stop, she strode to the door, and she sighed. Maeve stepped onto the platform, her boots making the boards creak. Pine and dust filled the air. It was sharp and clean. She took a big breath.

Across the platform, she noticed a stagecoach waiting. Maeve walked over, keeping her chin up, and took the driver’s hand to climb aboard. She settled into her seat just as the driver told his partner they should reach Owl Flats in about an hour. Relief hit her that her journey was almost over.

Not long after, the driver called out to her as she was the only passenger. Owl Flats appeared on the horizon. Maeve peered out the window, spotting a tiny town popping up with buildings scattered across the prairie, people on wagons, some on horseback and others walking around town.

She grinned, thinking how tiny this place was compared to Boston. Maybe she’d get used to the slower pace. Maybe she’d be able to escape the swirling gossip and leave all that behind.

As the conveyance came to a halt, Maeve scanned the people on the platform. Suddenly her eyes locked onto a man standing by the edge and near the little building she assumed was the ticket station.

He shifted from foot to foot, with a hat in hand, and appeared pale and nervous. He had broad shoulders with sandy hair curling at the ends. He wore clean, but plain clothes. He looked strong, but almost too shy to be real. When he saw her, he straightened up a little startled.

Maeve’s heart fluttered…this must be Jonas Webber.

She waited for the stagecoach driver to open the door, and stepped out, still staring at Jonas. He walked up slowly, careful not to scare her.

“M-M-Miss Gallagher?” he stammered quietly.

The stutter caught her off guard but somehow made him feel more genuine. Nothing like those polished Boston men who always hid their flaws behind their haughty smirks.

“Aye,” she replied, fighting a smile. “You must be Mr. Webber.”

“W-welcome to Owl Flats,” he said, relief flashing across his face.

They stood there for a bit. Just two strangers, both hoping for something new. Maeve felt old wounds pressing at her back, and whispering she should run, hide, protect herself. But then the sunlight warmed her skin, the land stretched wide, and she saw real sincerity in Jonas’s eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, straightening up. “I’m glad to be here.”

“I’ll t-take this for ya.” Jonas reached for her trunk, lifting it like it weighed nothing.

She hadn’t noticed the stagecoach driver had removed her trunk from the carriage and laid it behind her.

Maeve followed Jonas to the wagon, holding her satchel close. Every step felt like leaving one life behind and inching closer to another life she might actually build and live.

The stagecoach driver shouted that it would leave in ten minutes, but Maeve refused to look back. Boston was full of all those whispers and lies, all that shame, and she wouldn’t let it follow her unless she welcomed it.

She rested her hand on the wagon, steadying herself.

This time she wasn’t staying silent. This time, no one would decide her worth for her. This time, she’d fight.

Jonas helped her climb in, giving her a smile so warm it almost rivaled the sun. Maeve let herself believe, for real, that second chances existed. Maybe Owl Flats was where she could finally find hers.