Chapter 12
Jonas spotted it first. The way Maeve’s hands shook just a little. Normally, her fingers moved with such confidence, sanding a board or measuring a plank without a trace of hesitation.
Now, holding the edge of the window frame, they were unsteady. No one else would notice, but Jonas caught everything about her.
“Maeve…are ya cold?” He set his hammer down.
“Cold? No. Just tired,” she jumped, like she’d been somewhere else entirely.
Her smile came quick, but too quick, and never touched her eyes.
A knot twisted in Jonas’ stomach. She’d been like this for days. Those fast, empty smiles, or laughing at things that held no humor, and even glancing behind her back when she thought he wasn’t looking.
“If something’s wrong… ya can tell me.” He stepped closer, brushing sawdust off his hands.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Maeve’s shoulders tensed.
But her voice, lighter than usual, sounded rehearsed. Jonas tried to swallow down his worry. “I want to help.”
“Ya already do,” she turned away, eyes on the window frame.
He hesitated. The words wouldn’t come out right; they jammed up and felt raw.
“Maeve… you don’t have to pretend with me.”
She stopped moving, just for a heartbeat. He hoped she’d turn, let him in, and finally say something real. Instead, she drew a long breath, lifted her chin, and said, “I’m fine, Jonas. Truly.”
He nodded, disappointment stinging like a honeybee on his finger. He never felt angry at her. Just this quiet ache, an ache that was a small echo of the old doubts he’d carried since childhood.
She doesn’t trust you enough.
He tried pushing the thought aside, but it stuck, sharp and persistent beneath his skin.
Maeve went back to sweeping, humming under her breath. It sounded more like armor than music. Jonas watched for a second, then returned to his work.
Normally, hammering and nailing was his way to settle his mind. Not today. His hands fumbled, his thoughts ran wild.
Something was wrong. Maeve was lying about it, and he had no idea how to break through.
The rumors started two days later.
Jonas was at the mercantile for nails and lamp oil, nodding to Mrs. Hartley as he went in. The place was crowded with ranch hands buying feed, Mrs. Turner flipping through bolts of fabric, and children begging for candy.
He was grabbing a tin of oil when the voices reached him.
“—said she’s not who she claims to be.”
A woman’s voice. Cold and sharp.
Jonas stopped. Waited.
Another woman answered, talking low and fast.
“That’s what I heard, too. A man just passing through told me. Said she ran from trouble in Boston.”
Jonas’s heart hammered. Maeve. They were talking about Maeve.
He edged closer, acting like he was picking over the nails.
“He said she got mixed up with the wrong men,” Mrs. Caldwell leaned into Mrs. Turner. “That she caused a scandal.”
“I always thought so,” Mrs. Turner sniffed. “Women like that don’t land in towns like Owl Flats for no reason.”
Jonas’s grip tightened on the tin of oil.
Heat flashed in his chest, rough and fierce. He wanted to cut in, to speak up for Maeve, tell them how wrong they were. But the words jammed up, that familiar fear rising and choking him.
What if they ignored him? What if he just made it worse? What if Maeve really didn’t trust him with the truth?
He forced himself to just breathe.
“The stranger said she stole something valuable. That’s why she left,” Mrs. Caldwell kept on, her voice almost gleeful.
The word echoed in Jonas’s mind. Stole. Cold and hard.
A thief?
He knew Maeve. He knew how kind she was, how honest, how she’d work her fingers raw and sing with everything she had. She wasn’t a thief. She’d never lie. But doubt, tiny and unwelcome, started eating at him.
Why wouldn’t she just tell him what was wrong?
“And Jonas? The poor man,” Mrs. Turner dropped her words to a hush. “He has no idea what he’s gotten into.”
The words hit Jonas in the gut.
He backed away, nearly knocking a crate of flour to the floor. Mrs. Hartley glanced over, worried, but he managed something that sounded like an excuse and hurried out, the bell clanging way too loud above him.
Outside, the sun looked too sharp. The sounds on the street felt agitating. His mind spun.
Maeve wasn’t who they said she was. He knew her. He did. But strangers can poison a whole town with just a handful of words, and Jonas had no clue how to stop it.
He found Maeve at the hall, sweeping the last of the sawdust into a pile. She looked up when he came in, her smile loosening the knot in his chest just a bit.
“There you are,” she said. “I wondered where you’d gone.”
“The mercantile,” Jonas forced himself to answer, his voice tight.
“Oh?” Her smile faded.
He hesitated. He almost told her what he'd heard. He almost asked about the stranger. He wanted to ask why she wouldn't just trust him, why she kept things hidden. But when he tried to speak, nothing came out.
So instead he mumbled. “We n-needed more nails.” He held up the little bucket of nails he’d just purchased.
Maeve nodded, and he saw a flicker of relief on her face. That hit harder than any rumor. She didn’t want him to pry. She didn’t want him to know. She didn’t trust him with it.
Jonas turned away, staring at a wooden beam to keep his hands steady. They still shook.
Maeve watched him, silent for a while. Her face gave nothing away. Finally she set the broom down and came closer.
“Jonas,” she said, voice quiet, “I…I’m grateful for you.”
He looked up, surprised.
“Truly.” She offered a small, fragile smile.
Something eased in Jonas’s chest. The ache didn’t go away, but it softened a bit. The shadow in her eyes stayed, though.
Deep down, Jonas knew whatever haunted her wasn’t done with them. It was coming closer.
That evening, walking home together, Jonas kept glancing over his shoulder. The street felt too quiet. The sky streaked with purple and gold guiding them towards the cabin. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling they weren’t alone.
Maeve walked next to him, her hand brushing his a couple of times, almost reaching for him, but never quite holding on.
Jonas wished he was brave enough to just take her hand.
But the rumors wouldn’t let go. They clung to him. They whispered, “You can’t protect her. She’s hiding things. She doesn’t trust you.”
He tried to push the voices aside, but they stayed.
When they got to the cabin, Maeve stood at the door and looked back toward town. The dusk made her look even paler.
“Jonas,” she whispered, “do you ever feel like…like something’s coming?”
“Aye,” Jonas’ heart skipped.
She looked at him like she hadn’t expected that.
“But whatever it is…we’ll f-face it together,” he swallowed hard.
Her eyes softened, but he could still see fear flickering.
“Together,” she nodded, just once.
Jonas wanted, desperately, to believe that.
She went inside. Jonas stayed on the porch, watching as the town faded into darkness.
Somewhere out there, the stranger was still talking. Somewhere, Maeve’s past was catching up. Somewhere in the shadows, danger waited for them.
Jonas…quiet, stuttering Jonas, didn’t know if he could stop any of it.
But he knew one thing:
He was going to try.
Even if it broke him.