Chapter 13
Maeve only needed flour. That was it.
She was planning on making some biscuits for Jonas and her morning meal tomorrow. She’d been practicing all week long, and was running low on flour.
The sky was spotless blue, sunlight pouring down, and for once she let herself believe today could be just an ordinary day. She pulled her shawl tight on her walk to the mercantile, humming under her breath, trying to keep her nerves from fraying. The tune drifted around her, full of hope.
But hope never lasted long.
She caught sight of him before she made it to the building.
Patrick O’Malley, lounging by the hitching post as if the place belonged to him.
His hat was low, but Maeve could spot that cruel smirk and that too-casual stance anywhere.
The second their eyes met, he straightened up.
That grin of his widened, like he was reaching for a knife, not offering a greeting.
“Well, well,” he called out, loud enough for everyone to hear. “If it isn’t Maeve Gallagher.”
Maeve stopped short. Breath lodged in her throat. Heads turned. Mrs. Turner with a basket of apples, a ranch hand by his wagon, even Mrs. Caldwell across the street, who had a broom in hand, were all pausing to watch.
“Patrick.” her voice barely carried, but she made herself keep walking. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Shouldn’t I? Looks to me you’re the one out of place,” he barked out a laugh, sharp and mean.
“Leave me alone,” Maeve’s stomach flipped.
But Patrick stepped closer, making sure the growing crowd could hear every word. He actually spread his arm, like he was welcoming everyone to the show.
“Folks, you might want to know who you’ve let into your pretty little town.”
“Mr. O’Malley, stop,” Maeve’s pulse pounded in her ears.
“This woman was run out of Boston for immoral behavior,” he just smiled, basking in her shame.
A shudder of gossip rolled through the crowd.
Maeve felt the world lurch.
“Oh, she seems sweet enough. Lovely singing voice, charming smile. Don’t be fooled. She got tossed out of Mulligan’s Alehouse for indecency. For stealing. For…”
“That’s a lie,” Maeve managed, though nobody seemed to hear her. The whispers started were harsher now, more urgent.
“Stealing?” Mrs. Turner’s eyes popped wide.
“Immoral?” Mrs. Caldwell pressed a hand to her chest, and Maeve thought the woman may faint.
“No, that’s not…” Maeve shook her head, desperate to make them understand.
“Ask anyone in Boston. Her old boss, the constable who chased her down after she bolted,” Patrick barreled over her, loud as ever.
“I didn’t run,” she whispered, her heart sped faster.
But she had. She’d run because she’d had to, because the lies spread so fast nobody even asked for her side, and Patrick had let it all happen.
“Think you can just disappear out here? Start again? Harridan wants you found,” he leaned in almost close enough to touch, voice dropping to a whisper only she could catch.
Maeve’s blood went cold.
“I’m just being neighborly,” he straightened, turning his voice back up for everyone. “Folks have a right to know.”
Shame…it came in a thick, choking wave, washed over her, squeezing her chest tight. The crowd’s whispers bit into her, sharper with every word.
“Is it true?” someone asked.
“She stole?”
“Why else would she come all the way out here?”
“Please…please just stop,” Maeve edged backward, shaking.
“She’s not who you think. Best keep away.” But Patrick wasn’t done.
That broke her.
Maeve turned and ran. She didn’t stop to grab her shawl when it slipped away. She just ran off the road, away from the eyes, and away from the voices.
Her feet pounded the dirt until she reached the far edge of town, where the land opened up and no one was watching. There, finally, she collapsed. Knees in the grass, hands pressed to her face, sobs coming so hard she could barely breathe.
It was all happening again.
Boston.
The ugly lies, the shame, everyone ready to believe the worst. All her work to make something new, to become someone was gone, unraveling in an instant.
Maeve curled forward and tried to breathe through it. Patrick O’Malley’s words echoed. The doubt in the townsfolk’s eyes lingered. That old, crushing weight of judgment settled back on her shoulders, heavier than ever.
She’d wrecked everything.
Jonas.
The name hit her like a punch to the gut. Jonas, with those patient hands and that steady, quiet strength. The one who’d shown her how to sand a table, measure a board right, and who looked at her like she was something rare.
Now he’d hear the stories. He’d catch the whispers, and all the lies. He’d wonder why she kept the truth from him. He’d regret asking her to come here. There was no question of that.
Maeve pressed her hand against her chest, fighting to steady the sharp ache spreading through her. She couldn’t stomach the idea of Jonas looking at her with disappointment, or doubt. The way people had in Boston.
She couldn’t stay. Not after this. Not when it meant dragging him into her mess.
She stood, slow and stiff, scrubbing at her cheeks. The wind tangled her hair and brought the sharp scent of pine and dust. Overhead, the sky looked huge, impossible. But Maeve felt boxed in and trapped by a past that clung to her like shadows.
She glanced back at Owl Flats, the town she’d started to love, the new friends she’d made, and the man she’d married. Her heart gave way, just for a second.
“I have to leave,” she whispered, the words burning in her mouth.
She turned from the town, legs shaky but carrying her away all the same.
If she left tonight, before the gossip settled in for good…
before Jonas could hear the ugliest parts, she might spare him the shame.
Spare him the weight of having to defend her.
Spare him the regret of having picked her out of everyone.
She’d pack a bag. She’d wait for dark and go. Just disappear, like before.
It was all she could do. She needed to keep Jonas safe. Keep what was left of her heart from shattering.
Maeve straightened and blinked her tears away.
She’d leave Owl Flats. Even if it broke her.