Chapter 3
Maeve woke up early her first morning in Owl Flats, and the quiet felt almost strange, pressing softly against her ears. Boston mornings never started this way.
She was used to shouting dockworkers, carts clattering over cobblestones, and seagulls screeching overhead. Here, everything was slow and steady, like the whole world was catching its breath.
She lay there for a moment in her bedstead, allowing the gentle hush of the Idaho morning to settle into her.
Her bedchamber was small and sparse, but neat. The quilt was stitched with care, and the wooden bed frame shone, polished smooth.
Maeve ran her fingers along the headboard, admiring the work. Each joint snug, and each edge sanded down. Whoever built this, she thought, did it with heart. Someone who wasn’t in a rush, someone who cared about getting it right.
Someone like Jonas Webber.
She got up, dressed quickly, and smoothed her skirt out before stepping into the main room. Jonas was already up, busy at the stove frying eggs. His shoulders went a little tense when he heard her, and he turned, offering a shy nod.
“G-good morning,” he stuttered, catching on that first word.
“Good morning,” Maeve said, her voice warm. “Smells wonderful.”
“It’s n-nothing fancy,” he blushed, keeping his eyes on the pan.
“Fancy doesn’t matter,” she replied, finding it charming that his cheeks remained rosy in color. “Kindness does.”
Jonas froze for a second, glancing her way. He seemed surprised. She smiled gently, and he looked away fast, but she saw the hint of a smile on his lips.
They ate together, mostly quiet, but comfortable. Maeve watched him when he wasn’t looking. He kept his shoulders hunched, almost as if trying to disappear.
He focused on his food like it was being judged and was afraid to be found guilty of something. She wondered how long he’d lived that way, always so guarded. Who had made him feel “less than?”
When their morning meal was done, Jonas cleared his throat. “I th-thought we could v-visit town today. M-meet some folks.”
“Aye, let’s,” Maeve nodded, her stomach fluttering. She knew she couldn’t hide out in Jonas’s cabin forever, although she wanted to until her nerves settled from being here.
Within the hour, Jonas had the wagon ready, and they headed off under the bright morning sun. Owl Flats wasn’t big, but it buzzed with life. Kids darted between buildings, ranch hands led horses through the main street, and Maeve saw women sweeping porches or hanging laundry on lines.
Maeve felt eyes on her as they rolled through town. Each one was curious and measuring. Still, she kept her chin up.
“Mrs. H-Harper runs the mercantile with her husband. She’s…k-kind,” Jonas said outside the business as he stopped the wagon near the boardwalk.
Moments later, Maeve followed Jonas inside. The bell chimed softly overhead as they passed the threshold. Shelves lined the walls, packed with flour, cloth, and jars of preserves. Behind the counter, a sturdy woman with streaks of silver in her hair looked up.
“Jonas Webber,” she greeted him, smiling. “And you must be Miss Gallagher.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am. And it’s actually Mrs. Webber.” Maeve stepped closer offering a smile. She missed the surprised look that Jonas shot her, his face reddening.
“Glad you’re here. Jonas has worked himself to the bone on that church hall. He could use some help,” Mrs. Harper’s eyes got friendlier.
Jonas ducked his head, seemingly embarrassed. Maeve felt a pinch of affection for him. He never seemed to know what to do with compliments. She noticed that moments after stepping off the stagecoach.
Just then, two other women strode in, talking loudly. Once they spotted Maeve, they stopped.
“Oh,” one of them said, her voice bright but a little sharp. “You must be the new girl Jonas brought in.”
“Maeve Webber,” Maeve forced a smile, and bowed her head in a polite manner of greeting.
“I’m Mrs. Turner,” she said, gesturing to herself. “And this is Mrs. Caldwell.”
Mrs. Caldwell looked Maeve up and down, more curiously, but not unfriendly. “Jonas says you’ll help with the church hall. Do you sing in church, dear?”
Maeve hesitated. She could have lied. She could’ve said she sang hymns every Sunday, told them her voice was meant for reverent spaces. But honesty slipped out first.
“I sang in an alehouse,” she said softly. “In Boston.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. For some reason Maeve felt the need to hold her own with these two women.
Mrs. Turner’s eyebrows jumped. Mrs. Caldwell’s lips pressed tight. The mood in the room shifted just enough that Maeve felt it. It reminded her of a cold wind under the door during a Boston winter.
“Oh,” Mrs. Caldwell said after a pause. “Well. I suppose…I’ve never heard a saloon girl sing before.”
Maeve’s cheeks burned. She wanted to reel the words back in. She’d known better. She knew exactly how people reacted to alehouse singers, and how quick they were to judge.
She looked over at Jonas.
He was still. Not angry, not judgmental. Just...worried, maybe? Or disappointed? She couldn’t tell. Whatever it was twisted something in her chest.
She’d come west to escape whispers, not stir up new ones.
Mrs. Turner cleared her throat. “Well, I’m sure Pastor Whitcomb will decide what’s fitting for the church hall.”
“Of course,” Maeve replied, her voice stiff.
Jonas stepped forward, his voice low and steady. “Maeve is h-helping with the b-building. That’s all that m-matters.”
Mrs. Turner blinked at him, almost aghast at his firmness. Maeve blinked, too. Jonas hardly spoke unless he had to, and when he did, he was quiet and hesitant. But suddenly, there was real strength in his words.
“Well, we’ll see you around, Miss Gallagher,” Mrs. Caldwell gave Maeve a thin, almost polite smirk.
With that, she and the other women walked away, their skirts swishing as they left. Maeve let out a slow breath. Her hands shook.
“Don’t let them bother you. They’re a bit nosy, but really, just harmless,” Mrs. Harper said, giving Maeve a kind look.
Maeve managed a nod, even though her throat felt tight. She thanked Mrs. Harper and followed Jonas outside. The sunlight felt too bright, too sharp.
“I’m s-sorry,” Jonas suddenly said.
“For what?” Maeve blinked, surprised.
“For them. For h-how they acted,” he stumbled through his words.
“Ya don’t have to apologize. It wasn’t your fault,” she shook her head.
“I d-didn’t want ya to feel unwelcome,” Jonas looked at her then, really looked. Worry flickered in his eyes, and he fidgeted.
“I don’t. Not exactly. But…maybe I should’ve been more careful with what I said,” Maeve swallowed hard.
“Ya d-didn’t do anything wrong,” Jonas frowned.
But Maeve felt the sting. She’d forgotten how people judge so quickly, and how fragile a reputation can be. She saw that quick shadow cross Jonas’s face, and it hurt more than she wanted to admit.
For a while, they walked in silence down the boardwalk in silence. Maeve had no idea where they were going, but she appreciated Jonas’ silent strength.
Jonas stopped near the postmaster’s office and turned to face Maeve. He opened his mouth to speak, then clamped his lips shut and continued walking.
Maeve frowned and didn’t know what to do or say. She followed him back to the wagon. Once they were both seated on the bench, Jonas guided the horses back up the main street.
The wagon creaked softly, wheels and horses moving steadily beneath them. Maeve tried to calm herself. She came here to start over, and she wasn’t about to let one awkward moment ruin that.
After a moment, Jonas cleared his throat. “W-would ya like to see the hall?”
Aye…very much,” Maeve said, almost instantly.
He steered the horses toward the other side of the town, where the new church hall stood out against the sky. It was bigger than she expected, built solid and strong from what she could tell. The scent of fresh lumber drifted on the breeze as they approached.
Jonas helped her down from the wagon and led her inside. Sunlight poured through the unfinished windows, painting bright lines across the floor. The hall stretched wide and open, rafters soaring overhead, and at one end, a raised platform.
"A stage," she whispered, breath caught in her throat.
“F-for gatherings. P-Pastor Whitcomb w-wants music, stories, celebrations,” Jonas nodded.
Maeve stepped onto the platform, her footsteps echoing. She closed her eyes, imagined the hall full of people, families, neighbors, and kids, all listening, laughing, and singing.
It wasn’t a smoky saloon or alehouse in Boston, and definitely not a place for shadows and secrecy. But somewhere made for hope.
A tiny spark warmed her, a real sense of possibility.
“I could help with this,” she said quietly. “Really help, I mean.”
“That’s w-why I asked ya to come,” Jonas watched her, his expression unreadable.
“Even after what happened in the store?” She hesitated.
“Maeve… I d-don’t care where you sang. I care that you’re h-here. That ya w-want to help,” he met her gaze.
Her throat tightened. Kindness like that she hadn’t expected. Boston men always covered their discomfort with charm or never showed it at all, but Jonas, he didn’t hide. He just stood there, awkward and honest, nothing fraudulent.
“Thank you,” she said softly as she stepped down from the stage.
“There’s a lot left to do. If ya still want to,” Jonas dropped his eyes to the floor.
“I do,” Maeve said. “More than ever.”
They spent the next hour walking through the hall, with Jonas pointing out where benches would go, where windows still needed frames, and where shelves and lantern hooks would hang. Maeve listened closely, asked about the plans, and pictured the place finished in her mind.
When they finally stepped back outside, the sun was high and Maeve felt lighter. The sting of gossip hadn’t disappeared, but it didn’t hang over her anymore. She had work ahead.
Something real to look forward to.
As they climbed into the wagon, Maeve glanced at Jonas. He stared straight ahead, jaw set, and lost in thought.
“Jonas?” She spoke quietly.
“Aye?” He glanced at her.
“I’m glad I came west.”
“Ya are?” He was surprised.
“I think this place could be good for me,” Maeve nodded, certain now.
“I h-hope so,” Jonas’s shoulders dropped as a shy smile tugged at his lips.
Maeve smiled back, warmth filling her chest. She shifted in her perched position, held her satchel to her chest and knew this was the perfect place to start her new life.
Owl Flats wasn’t perfect. Folks would whisper and watch. But she wasn’t the scared girl who’d fled Boston to save her reputation. She was Maeve Gallagher-Webber. Irish-born, stubborn-hearted, and ready to build something new.
As the wagon rattled back toward Jonas’ cabin, Maeve felt, for the first time in ages, like she might really belong.