Chapter 4
Lanterns flickered in the community hall, spilling uneven light over the crowd.
Jonas hung back by the wall, his shoulders hunched with his hands clasped behind him.
People drifted from group to group. They were grinning, trading greetings, passing platters of cornbread, and swapping jars of homemade preserves.
It was just another spring gathering, nothing fancy, but more folks showed up this year. Maybe it was because Maeve had arrived. Maybe everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of Jonas’s new wife.
He tried to push that thought aside.
The room was filled up and this reminded Jonas why a new church hall was necessary.
He kept smoothing the tablecloth nearby, running his fingers over the familiar weave. Jonas never liked crowds. They made his throat squeeze tight, and his words stick. He’d rather be tucked away in his workshop, where the blows of hammer and saw drowned out all conversation.
But Maeve had asked if he’d go tonight, and he’d nodded before thinking it through.
Now he watched her from across the room.
Maeve stood near the hearth, chatting with Mrs. Hartley and a handful of others. The lanternlight made her hair glow brightly, and she moved her hands as she spoke. He knew every word she shared was elegant and full of confidence.
She wasn’t loud, but people leaned in, drawn to her as if her warmth radiated from within, like a fire on a bitter night.
Jonas felt something shift inside him. It was a combination of relief and worry.
He still didn't get how she agreed to marry him. They’d barely spoken before the wedding. But when she said, “I do,” her voice was steady. He’d squeezed her hands and hope had stirred, just a little. But he’d also caught that shadow in her eyes of some kind of sadness she tried to keep hidden.
He wished he knew how to deal with that.
Laughter spilled from Maeve’s circle. Maeve smiled, but Jonas could see her shoulders were stiff. She was working hard to be gracious, to become what these people expected. Jonas wanted to help her, ease the pressure, but he just couldn't figure out how.
“Thank you for coming tonight. Before we wrap up, Mrs. Turner has a request,” Pastor Whitcomb clapped for attention.
“We hear Miss Gallagher has a lovely voice. Would you sing something for us, darling?” Mrs. Turner stepped forward, her smile sharp as glass.
Maeve froze.
Jonas saw her tense up straight away. Her fingers curled, and how she almost stopped breathing. He watched her scan the crowd for a way out, but people waited. All eyes were on her.
“Maybe just a hymn?” Mrs. Turner’s grin stretched wider.
Maeve glanced at Jonas.
He wasn’t sure what she saw in his face. Maybe encouragement, maybe an apology, or maybe just worry. He tried to look gentle, to let her know she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want.
Still, after a second, she nodded.
“If it would please everyone,” she said, barely above a whisper.
People murmured approval. Someone offered a chair but Maeve shook her head and walked toward the middle of the hall. Jonas held his breath as she lifted her chin, then fussed with her skirt, and her hands trembling the entire time.
She started to sing.
The first note floated out, hesitant, like a bird trying its wings. Then her voice grew steady. It was warm, clear, almost threaded with sorrow and something wild.
It wasn’t a hymn. And Jonas couldn’t place it. Irish, he thought—old and carried from far away.
The crowd hushed.
Maeve’s voice filled the hall, soft at first, then rising, full of longing, and roads lost and found. She folded everyone into her song, weaving stories Jonas couldn’t name.
The music sank into him.
He’d heard plenty of Irish songs before at barn dance fiddles, Sunday hymns, but not like this. Maeve didn’t just sing. She gave them a piece of herself. It was delicate and fierce at the same time.
The lantern light sparked in her eyes, and Jonas wondered if she sang for Boston, for some past, and for the ghosts that trailed her.
Jonas couldn’t look away. He was mesmerized not just by her voice, but also by how she held her head high and allowed the lyrics to take her to a place of comfort.
When she finished, the silence felt almost holy. Nobody moved or breathed for a moment. Then, slow applause started, swelling louder with cheers following.
Maeve bowed her head, her cheeks pink and her eyes luminous with something Jonas couldn’t quite define.
Pride. Relief. Hurt. It could have been all three.
He wanted to cross the room, tell her she was extraordinary. But people crowded her, asking questions, and praising her. Jonas backed off, giving her space, though his heart stayed tugged toward her.
He moved outside for air.
The evening was cool with stars scattered overhead. Jonas leaned against the railing, letting quiet fill him up. His hands still shook.
He’d never heard anything like Maeve’s singing. It was as if her voice had reached straight into his chest and uncovered something he didn’t even know he had.
Footsteps crunched closer. Jonas tensed, thinking it was Maeve. But it was just two men from town… Mr. Caldwell and Roy, a ranch hand. They didn’t spot Jonas tucked away in the dark.
“Pretty voice on that one,” Roy said, letting out a low whistle.
“Boston girls always do. That’s how they get by,” Caldwell let out a short laugh.
Jonas’s stomach twisted. He knew the implication, and what the man meant.
“Stage women, alehouse women…no real difference, if you ask me,” Roy chuckled.
“Jonas probably has no idea who he’s brought home,” Caldwell lowered his voice. “Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Quiet men, they get desperate.”
Jonas held his breath, as every muscle flexed.
The men kept walking, their words fading out into the night. Jonas stood there, stuck in what he overheard. Those snide voices rattling around in Jonas’ head. Boston girls. Stage women.
They said it like Maeve was marked. As if no matter what she did, the stain wouldn’t wash off.
He gripped the railing until his knuckles showed pale in the dark.
Deep down, he’d known Maeve had secrets. He’d seen it in her eyes, or in the way she flinched when folks asked about her singing. But hearing it like that, out loud, with that smirk curled in their voices, hit deeper than he’d expected.
A knot of fear settled in his gut. Not fear of Maeve. Never her.
It was the town he was afraid of, and how gossip turned sharp overnight. How a whisper could turn to poison. Worse, he was scared he couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
Inside, people laughed and talked, oblivious. Maeve’s voice filtered out. Quieter now, probably just saying thank you to someone.
Jonas swallowed. He wanted to march in there and stand next to her to block out every unpleasant word. But his feet wouldn’t budge. Doubt kept him nailed to the spot.
What if he wasn’t enough?
Closing his eyes, he thought of his stammer, his silence, and how awkward he always felt. What if all that made him useless when she needed someone to stand up for her?
He pressed a hand to his chest. That ache was real.
Tonight Maeve had sung her heart out, braver than he could ever dream of being. She’d offered the town something fragile and true.
Sadly, the talk had started.
He opened his eyes and looked toward the doorway. Maeve stood there now, searching the crowd for him.
Jonas straightened, forced his breath to steady.
Whatever came next, whatever shadows followed her from Boston, he’d face them. Even with fear grinding at him. Even with all his doubt.
Because when Maeve sang, something had shifted inside him. Maybe it was just a small flicker of hope, but for once he wasn’t ready to give it up.