Chapter 9
Maeve hadn’t planned to sing. It just slipped out, the way breathing does. It came easy, unnoticed, and naturally. One minute she was sanding the edge of a window, and then out came a melody, soft as the hush between heartbeats.
The tune was one her mother used to hum while baking bread back in Ireland. It was a song that always made Maeve feel safe.
Her voice drifted into the warm afternoon, weaving through the building as the sunlight spilled across the room.
At first, she kept it low, barely louder than the sound of sandpaper scraping wood.
But the steady rhythm of her work gave her confidence, and her singing grew fuller, richer, like the room itself was asking for more.
Jonas stopped, his hammer raised in mid-air.
She could feel him looking before she saw it. He stood close by, one hand on a beam, the other still clutching a nail he’d forgotten to use. His face looked soft, almost grateful, as if her song hit some quiet part of him.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to distract you,” Maeve blushed.
“Yer not! It’s…nice,” Jonas shook his head.
His stutter faded, as if smoothed out by her singing. That small warmth spread through Maeve, blooming in her chest.
She went back to sanding, letting the melody carry on. Jonas started working again. She noticed his shoulders relaxing and his hammer moving steadier, more sure. Her singing settled him, and that gave her a gentle pride.
Outside, someone’s footsteps crunched on the dirt road. Maeve barely noticed until voices, curious and low, had drifted through the open door.
“Is that singing?”
“Sounded like it came from the hall.”
Maeve’s heart skipped. She hesitated, but Jonas gave her a small, encouraging nod. The steadiness in his eyes was quiet and solid. She kept singing.
A few townspeople wandered over, peering in. Mrs. Hartley smiled at her. A ranch hand leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, listening with a thoughtful look. Even Mrs. Caldwell, who’d always eyed Maeve with suspicion, stopped on the road, stiff but drawn in by the sound.
Maeve’s voice wavered for a second, then steadied. She wasn’t singing for them. She was singing for herself, and for the girl who’d run from Boston bruised and broken. For the woman who wanted to build something new in a place that didn’t quite know her.
Each note she sang loosened something tight inside her. She could feel herself healing.
When the last note faded, the hall fell silent. Mrs. Hartley clapped softly, and a few others followed. Maeve’s cheeks grew hot, but she dipped her head in thanks.
“That was lovely, dear,” Mrs. Hartley said. “You’ve got a gift.”
“Thank you,” Maeve smiled.
After the crowd drifted away, Maeve let out a shaky breath, her pulse fluttering.
“Ya sound…beautiful,” Jonas walked over, brushing sawdust from his hands.
That caught her off guard. Jonas almost never praised people directly. When he did, it was rare, precious.
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice quiet.
He nodded, lingering a moment longer, then returned to his workbench.
Maeve glanced after him with her heart tugging in a way she hadn’t expected.
Jonas’ quiet strength settled her more than words ever could.
He never tried to change her, never told her how to feel.
He just stayed beside her, steady as the beams he built.
She found herself drawn to that steadiness, and to him.
The afternoon ticked by, peaceful, the two of them working in easy silence. Maeve hummed now and then, and Jonas smiled, so she knew he didn’t mind. Sunlight slanted low, shadows stretching across the floor. The smell of pine and fresh wood filled the air.
Maeve stepped outside to shake her skirt free of sawdust. The breeze lifted her hair, cooled her neck. She closed her eyes and let the wind carry off the last scraps of tension.
When she looked up, she stopped cold.
Across the road, a man stood half-hidden behind a wagon. His hat was pulled low, shadowing his face, but she could feel him watching. His gaze prickled her skin. He didn’t move or speak.
He just watched.
Maeve’s breath caught.
She blinked, and the man stepped back, vanishing behind the wagon. She hurried to check, but he was gone as if he’d been swallowed by the busy street.
Her heart thudded.
It’s nothing, she told herself. Just a stranger. Just nerves.
Still, unease twisted in her stomach.
She slipped back into the hall, trying to steady her breathing. Jonas looked up right away, sensing something had changed.
“Maeve?” he asked, quiet. “Are ya alright?”
“Just thought I saw someone I recognized. Guess I was wrong,” she forced a smile.
“If yer sure,” Jonas studied her, concern etched in his brow.
“I’m sure,” she lied.
But she wasn’t sure at all.
As they finished their work for the day, Maeve tried to shake the feeling of eyes on her. She tried to focus on the rhythm of the hammer, the scent of wood, the warmth of Jonas’s presence beside her.
But the memory of the man’s silhouette lingered like a shadow at the edge of her thoughts.
When they stepped outside to head home, Maeve glanced over her shoulder one last time.
The street was empty, but the fear remained.
Her past was not as far behind her as she had hoped.
And someone… somewhere, knew exactly where she was.
Days later, Maeve brushed sawdust off her skirt and stepped out of the church hall, squinting as the afternoon sun hit her face. Jonas stayed inside, still fussing with those last window frames, but Maeve had made a promise.
Today was Miss Daisy’s first real cooking lesson. After last time’s burned biscuits and the half-cooked stew, she was determined to pull it off.
The walk through town was quiet. Pine scents mixed with far-off woodsmoke drifted in on the breeze. Maeve hummed to herself, barely a whisper at first, then a little louder.
Who knew? Singing felt easier today. Like she wasn’t carrying something heavy around for once.
Miss Daisy’s Eating Place sat right on the corner of the thoroughfare, with its windows wide open against the humid air. The familiar rattle of dishes and the homey smell of roast chicken met her at the door.
Maeve slipped inside. Miss Daisy glanced up from behind the counter and her whole face lit up.
“There you are, sweetie. I figured Jonas had you hammerin’ boards clear until dark.”
“He tried, but I’m a decent escape artist,” Maeve laughed.
“Back here, then,” Miss Daisy beckoned. “Got work waiting.”
The kitchen barely had room to breathe with pots bubbling, dough rising under cloth, and steam everywhere. Miss Daisy handed Maeve an apron and pointed at the counter.
“We’re making chicken stew and real biscuits, not coal chunks,” Miss Daisy teased.
“I’ll never live that down,” Maeve groaned.
“Not in this lifetime,” Miss Daisy grinned, already turning toward the sink. “Go wash your hands.”
Maeve rolled up her sleeves and got to it.
Miss Daisy showed her everything from chopping veggies to the same size to seasoning broth without drowning it, and how to touch dough without beating it into submission.
Maeve made a mess or two, including nearly dropping a spoon and sloshing broth on the stove.
Miss Daisy just laughed it off and nudged her back on track.
“Cooking’s like singing,” Miss Daisy said, kneading dough. “You can’t force it. Gotta let it come.”
“I never thought about it like that,” Maeve blinked at her.
“Most good things are that way,” Miss Daisy said.
Warmth poured into Maeve’s chest. By the time the stew finished, the whole kitchen smelled incredible. It was a rich and savory aroma, with a little touch of home. The biscuits were golden and soft, steam rising as they came out.
“I actually made those,” Maeve stared down at them in shock.
“With a little learning,” Miss Daisy winked. “Now take this basket home for your husband. He’ll be proud.”
Maeve blushed at the word. It was still strange, still new, but she took the basket. Inside was a clean cloth-wrapped bounty with stew in a jar, biscuits tucked in a cloth, and a honey pot for good measure.
“Thank you,” Maeve said, her voice soft. “For all of it.”
“You’ll be just fine here, Maeve Webber. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise,” Miss Daisy patted her cheek.
Maeve stepped outside, with the basket tucked against her side. The street stretched out in long golden shadows. A trio of women stood by the mercantile. Maeve recognized most of them. Mrs. Turner, Mrs. Caldwell and someone else. Their conversation stalled. All eyes turned to her.
Maeve felt their gaze, the pinch of old judgments. But today, she didn’t let herself shrink or turn away.
She lifted her chin, kept her shoulders back and walked right past. She was steady, sure, and humming. That old Irish tune, light and bold, threading behind her as she went.
Mrs. Turner’s eyebrows shot up. Mrs. Caldwell frowned. Maeve didn’t miss a beat.
She walked all the way home with the tune floating beside her, with the basket swinging, and each step she took was lighter than the last.
For the first time since arriving in Owl Flats, she let herself feel it… something like pride.
She’d made something worthwhile with her hands. She stood up straight against the gossip. She stepped forward instead of hiding.
When her cabin peeked through the trees, she saw the smoke curling from the chimney where Jonas still worked. Maeve’s heart just about soared.