Chapter 2
Jonas
Jonas Webber had been waiting at the Owl Flats stagecoach stop for close to an hour, though it sure felt longer.
He kept fussing with his Sunday shirt front, even though he’d ironed it twice already.
Crisp fabric, and polished buttons, but still his palms were sweaty, and he worried he’d leave marks.
He came early so as to not be late, but now he was regretting his decision to give himself so much time. The sun was high in the sky, causing him to perspire too much. He worried his dishevelled appearance would cause Miss Gallagher to think ill of him.
He shifted from foot to foot, then back again, trying to ignore the twisting knot in his stomach.
He kept mumbling the greeting under his breath. He’d lost count but assumed it to be near the twentieth try now.
“W-welcome to Owl Flats, M-Miss Gallagher.”
The words tripped over his tongue. Almost every first letter snagged like a thorn. Jonas winced. He tried again, slower, but the stutter clung tight. It always did when nerves crept up on him, and right now…he was more nervous than he’d been in years.
Maybe ever.
He wasn’t much for meeting strangers. Never hired anyone before, either. Not that placing an advertisement for a wife and helper could be considered hired help. But the church hall needed finishing, and Pastor Whitcomb had made it clear that Jonas couldn't pull off this whole thing alone.
“You need someone who can help with the organizing,” the pastor had said. “Someone who can bring people in. Someone with a bit of spark.”
When Pastor Whitcomb continued speaking of how a man of Jonas’ age should be married, and what better way to commit to a union of nuptials than to also have a work helper at his side, Jonas knew the man of the cloth was correct.
But then Jonas began looking inwardly at what he had to offer a young lady. He knew he didn’t have much spark, but he had steady hands, quiet habits, but also a stutter that pushed him into the corners at gatherings.
Still, he wrote the advertisement, and when Maeve Gallagher’s letter arrived it was polite, hopeful, and neatly written. He felt something shift inside. Maybe, just maybe, this could work.
Now, with the stagecoach rumbling closer and throwing up dust, that possibility pressed on his chest…almost heavy as a stone.
He wiped his hands on his trousers and tried to straighten up. He could do this. He’d built barns, houses, and the church’s new steeple. He’d handled storms, rattlesnakes, and even the odd surly ranch hand.
He could greet one woman, couldn’t he?
Jonas swallowed hard as the stagecoach grew clearer. He stepped to the very edge of the platform, clutching his hat as his heart drummed in his chest.
He realized he had no idea what she looked like. Her letter hadn’t said. In his head, he’d pictured someone plain, maybe quiet…or someone who wouldn’t mind a man who struggled to get his words out.
There was no mistaking Maeve Gallagher, as the carriage carried only her.
When she stepped down, he lost his breath for a second.
Ignoring the travel dust on her dress, he focused on the way she moved.
She acted like the dirt and distance couldn’t touch her.
Her hair, a deep auburn that caught the sun, was pinned neatly at the back.
Her eyes, a sparkling green, he thought, though he wasn’t sure from this far, scanned the platform, with a mixture of caution and determination.
She was nothing like he’d imagined.
Jonas’s throat went tight. His careful greeting vanished, scattered by the wind in his mind. No amount of practicing his greeting would have prepared him for this moment.
Maeve’s eyes found him, and she gave a small, nervous smile. Jonas could feel the heat rising to his ears. He willed himself to move, but every step felt awkward.
“M-M-Miss Gallagher?” He barely got it out.
“Aye. And you must be Mr. Webber,” her smile brightened.
“W-welcome to Owl Flats,” he managed, nodding faster than he meant to.
The words tumbled, rough and uneven, with the stutter hard on the first syllable. Jonas flinched inside. He hated that sound. That stumble always reminded him he wasn’t like other men.
He waited for the usual look of pity, or discomfort. He’d seen it plenty. But she didn’t even blink. She just met his eyes, steady as could be, like she hadn’t noticed at all.
Jonas blinked, caught off guard.
“I’m glad to be here,” she said gently.
He had to clear his throat. Relief spread through him, surprising and warm.
“C-can I take yer t-trunk?”
“Aye, thank you.”
He grabbed the trunk, grateful for something to do. It was heavier than he expected, but his arms handled it just fine. Years of carpentry had left him with plenty of strength, even when his voice wouldn’t cooperate.
Maeve walked alongside him to the wagon, her steps light despite the long trip. Jonas tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help noticing how she looked at everything. From the hills, the pine trees, and the few little buildings that made up Owl Flats.
Her face showed a mix of wonder and uncertainty, like she was still deciding if this place would welcome her.
Jonas knew that feeling by heart.
He set the trunk in the wagon bed and turned to help her up. She placed her hand in his, her fingers warm and delicate against his rough palm. Jonas felt his breath catch, and he hoped she didn’t notice.
Once Maeve climbed into the wagon, Jonas moved around to the other side and hoisted himself up next to her. The horses tossed their heads and blew out soft snorts, sensing the shift. His hands shook a little as he picked up the reins.
“Is it f-far?” Maeve’s voice was gentle, easing into the quiet.
“N-not far,” Jonas told her. “Just outside of town.”
“It’s beautiful here. I adore it,” she nodded, folding her hands in her lap.
Jonas couldn’t help but look at her. Most folks who landed in Owl Flats said it was too small, too slow, and at times, too rough. But Maeve gazed at the wide, open land the way someone gazes at a gift they didn’t expect.
“I’m g-glad ya think so,” he said.
They rolled on, wagon wheels crunching over the dirt. Jonas searched for something else to say. Something that would make him look more put together, or more like someone deserving of help. But the words kept tripping over each other, and got lost somewhere between his chest and his throat.
“You mentioned the church hall in your letter. How’s that coming along?” Maeve’s voice broke the silence.
A thread of tension slipped from Jonas’s shoulders. This was a topic he knew and could talk abou easily.
“The f-frame’s finished. Walls, too. But the inside’s s-still empty…it needs b-benches, a stage, w-windows. Pastor Whitcomb wants it ready for the summer gatherings.”
“A stage?” Maeve’s eyes lit up.
He nodded, then glanced over at her. Her smile had grown, and she seemed to sit taller on the wagon’s bench.
“For c-community events, music, readings, h-holiday celebrations—the usual,” he neglected to mention marriage ceremonies.
“I haven’t stood on a stage in weeks,” Maeve admitted, then she turned and stared out at the horizon, her profile softening.
Jonas hesitated. All he really knew was she’d worked in a Boston alehouse and had a way with music. But a shadow slipped into her voice now, almost a kind of loss he hadn’t expected.
“Ye’ll h-have one again,” he said, surprising himself.
She turned to him, caught off guard. Her smile was small and grateful, and it made his chest ache in a way he didn’t quite understand.
“We’ll have to see about that,” she murmured.
The wagon clattered past the general store, the blacksmith’s, and the tiny schoolhouse. A handful of folks watched with eyes curious at the sight of Jonas with a stranger. Jonas felt his whole body tense. He wished he could shield Maeve from their eyes and make her first day easier, quieter.
“My h-home’s just up the r-road,” he said, clearing his throat.
Maeve nodded, but the way she straightened told Jonas she’d noticed the stares. He wished he were the kind of man who could introduce her with ease, maybe tell a silly joke to fill the space with warmth instead of awkward silence.
But he wasn’t. He was Jonas Webber. He built things. Words, not so much.
They pulled up to his cabin which was a neat little place, sturdy, with a bit of porch and an overgrown garden tucked off to one side. Maeve looked around and her face softened more.
“It’s lovely,” she said.
“Th-thank you. I b-built it m-myself,” heat crept up Jonas’s neck.
“I can tell. It feels...cared for.”
He swallowed, unsure what to do with a compliment like that. No one had ever called his place that before.
He jumped down, helped Maeve from the wagon, and swung her trunk to the ground. She followed him inside, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor.
The cabin was simple with a main room and a small kitchen corner, a table and two chairs, and a narrow hall leading to the two bedchambers.
“I h-hope it’s comfortable enough,” he managed as he placed her trunk by the bed. “If ya n-need anything—”
“I’ll be sure to let you know,” she assured him, her voice gentle. “Thank you, Mr. Webber.”
He nodded, not sure what to do with the warmth behind her words. Backing up, he tried to give her space.
“I’ll l-let ya settle in. Supper’s at s-six, if that suits ya.”
“It does.”
Jonas slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him. He leaned against the wall, let out a shaky breath, feeling his heartbeat trip and stumble. Still nervous, still awkward. But there was something else blooming underneath it…a hint of hope.
Maeve Gallagher was nothing like he’d pictured. She was brighter, braver, and more alive than any woman he had ever laid his eyes upon. Standing next to her, Jonas felt small, and afraid he wasn’t enough, but also bigger. Because for the first time in a long time, he wanted to try.
He glanced at her closed door.
Maybe building a life took more courage than hammering together a church hall.
Maybe he was ready to learn how.
By the time Pastor Whitcomb and his wife Martha reached Jonas’ cabin, the sun was already sinking low behind the trees. Jonas hadn’t expected them yet as he’d just sent a note letting them know Maeve had arrived safely.
Still, the pastor showed up with a big smile and a hearty clap on Jonas’s shoulder.
“Figured we’d save you two the wait,” Pastor Whitcomb said. “A home feels steadier when it starts with a blessing.”
Jonas paused, his breath stuck in his chest. He glanced at Maeve, unsure if she’d be nervous or maybe relieved. She stood quietly on the porch, hands folded with her eyes wide but steady. When she met his gaze, she nodded.
If Maeve was ready, so was he.
They went inside. Pastor Whitcomb and Martha made their way to the hearth. Martha led Maeve next to Jonas, fussing a bit with Maeve’s sleeve in that gentle, motherly way.
“It doesn’t have to be grand,” Martha whispered. “Just true.”
True. Jonas figured he could manage that.
Pastor Whitcomb opened his Bible, though he barely looked down.
“Marriage joins two souls, and they choose to walk the same path,” he said. “Not because it’s easy, but because it’s shared.”
Maeve’s presence beside Jonas felt solid. When the pastor asked them to hold hands, Jonas hesitated for half a second, then reached for hers. Her fingers were cool and fine, but steady.
He turned to face her and was lost in her green eyes. She blinked, and Jonas thought he saw a glimmer of hesitation. But it was gone before he could focus on it better.
“Jonas Webber, do you take Maeve Gallagher as your wife, to honor and keep her, in hardship and in blessing—all your days?”
Jonas looked into Maeve’s eyes. His throat went tight, but he forced the words out, shaky but real.
“Aye. I d-do.”
Maeve’s lips curved, gently and her eyes shone with something he couldn’t name.
“Miss Gallagher,” the pastor went on, “Do you take Jonas Webber as your husband, to walk beside him in trust and hope?”
“I do,” Maeve answered, soft but clear.
Jonas felt something unwind deep inside him. It was a knot of loneliness he’d been carrying for years. He’d never pictured this moment, never thought someone would choose him just because she wanted to.
“You may seal your vows,” Pastor Whitcomb said.
Jonas didn’t try for a kiss as that was bolder than he was. Instead, he held her hands and didn’t look away. For just a moment, he felt happier than he ever had.
But in Maeve’s eyes, underneath the calm and kindness, he caught a glimpse of sadness, perhaps a shadow she kept tucked away.
It left Jonas wondering, quietly aching, what ghosts Maeve had dragged west with her.
Instead of being too assertive, Jonah raised one of her hands to his mouth and brushed his lips over the top of her knuckles.
Maeve didn’t pull away, nor did she appear repulsed, and Jonas took that as an affirmation.