Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

March 21, 1784

A gust of wind brought a small tree branch crashing to the ground near John's feet as he latched the corral gate behind the mare. The aged animal snorted but continued to graze. He shivered against the cold rain that blew against his face and pushed his hat lower on his head. While the weather may not be cooperating with his and Muireall's plans for travel, at least that was one task completed. With most of his funds depleted, the old horse was all he could afford. But his wife would not have to walk the distance to the station.

His middle tightened. Within the next few days, he would be a married man. Though he had never wished to marry, John had yet to come up with a satisfactory alternative to their situation. And he would do the best he could by his wife. Muireall's face flashed into his mind, with her porcelain skin and hesitant smile, and he set his feet in the direction of her cabin. He crossed the fort and followed the path to the last cabin on the right.

John knocked on the wooden door and waited.

Within moments, Muireall appeared before him. "John. Good afternoon. Come in out of the rain." She stepped aside and motioned him in. The corners of her mouth were tipped up, but she busied herself with the kettle hanging over the fire. "Care for a cup o' tea?"

"Oh. No, thank you. I cannot stay long. I only wanted to let you know that I have acquired a horse to aid in our travel. Her name is Sugar, and though she is fifteen years old, she seems to have a level head."

"Wonderful." Muireall kept her gaze averted and focused on pouring herself a cup of tea. "Do ye know when we might leave?"

John shifted. Was she regretting her decision? "If the weather turns for the better, I do not see why we could not leave in a couple of days. Do you believe you could be ready by then?" He watched and waited, gauging her reaction.

Muireall nodded and looked to him, her cup of tea nestled between her hands. "Aye. I can be ready anytime. An'…we will be married then, before we leave?"

He swallowed. The one task he had avoided thus far. "Yes. I will speak with Reverend Patterson tomorrow." Now John found himself avoiding her gaze. He rubbed at a crack in the top of the straight-back chair next to the door. "You are sure of your decision?" He had to ask.

"Aye." Muireall's response came quick and sure and drew his attention back to her. Her slender chin tipped upward as she looked at him square on. It stole John's breath. Here this woman stood, unwavering and unafraid to tie herself to him. Without knowing his past and despite the repellant nature of his face, she stood firm. Her dedication to her sister must be profound. It could be the only explanation. Still, a strange sensation crawled across the top of his shoulders.

John cleared his throat. "Then I will speak with the reverend tomorrow and let you know what he says."

"Thank ye." Her voice softened then, and he was unprepared for the way it affected him.

It was time for him to retreat to his own tiny cabin nestled in the woods outside the fort. He gave a polite nod. "Have a good night, Muireall." His tone rasped as he spoke.

As soon as she had returned the salutation, he ducked through the door and out into the cool rain. Wind gusseted his body, but he plowed down the path toward the open gate. Why had he not been clearer on the terms of their marriage? Demanded that, without a shadow of a doubt, it be in name only?

March 23, 1784

M uireall pushed the needle through the fabric and pulled it out through the back, expecting at any moment that a shadow would fall over her. Outside, water dripped from the roof of the cabin into the puddles below, but sun streamed in through the open door. The rain had finally come to an end, and bright rays of light worked to push out the remaining clouds. That meant she would be married and set on a different path the next day. She did not need John to stop by and advise her so for he had already disclosed as much. When he spoke with Reverend Patterson the day before, it was agreed upon that as soon as the weather broke, he and Muireall would be married the next morning and set out directly after. Butterflies took flight in her middle as she considered embarking on the new adventure, and she refocused her attention on the steady rhythm of her sewing. In and out she drew the thread, in and out.

Just when she had lost herself in the peace of it, the shadow came. A rapid knock sounded on the doorframe, and her spine went straight as she whipped toward the sound. Rather than her betrothed, Betty stood in the doorway. Her ever-present smile was in place, and she carried a large basket filled with what appeared to be an assortment of goods.

Muireall's mouth twisted to the side, and she raised a brow at her friend. "What have ye been up to?"

As Muireall deposited her project in her sewing basket, Betty set the basket on the table. "I know you did not want to announce that you were leaving because you did not wish everyone to come knocking on your door. But I know how much you mean to everyone here, and I wanted you to know what an impact you have made. So I made the rounds on your behalf. And this is the outpouring of love shown by your neighbors." Betty turned and beamed at her, her chest puffed with pride.

Muireall's mouth fell open as she looked from her companion to the contents of the basket. "This is for me?" She fingered the edge of a quilt that poked out from the plethora of gifts. While the fabric was well-worn, it meant that it had kept someone warm on many occasions and had been proffered out of love, not because it was superfluous.

"Yes. You will be deeply missed." Betty gave her arm a squeeze.

Tears welled in Muireall's eyes. Though the people of Harrodstown had kept her in steady work with need of her skills, she had never stopped to consider what an affect her presence had on the community. And yet, piled before her was a deluge of adoration and respect. It did not matter that she had remained a recluse outside of her daily constitutionals with Betty. Still, these people gave that which they did not have to give.

It was time for her to exhibit such selflessness, to step from what was comfortable into that which would stretch her capacities. She glanced around and her stomach dropped. Despite several days of warning, she had barely begun to pack. Each time she had made an attempt, fear that she might need one item or another had crept in. The overwhelming desire to keep all as it had been had paralyzed her.

Betty's gasp at her side revealed that she had followed Muireall's gaze…and her thinking. "You have yet to begin packing? Are you having second thoughts? Have you changed your mind?"

"Nay. Nay." Muireall's protest came too quickly and adamantly. Betty scrutinized her, and it was clear her friend saw straight through to her heart. Her shoulders sagged, and she sighed as she flopped into the chair beside the table. "Well…how well do ye know Mr. Browne? Truly?"

Betty took the other of the two straight-back chairs that sat at the square table in the corner. She scooted close and took Muireall's hands into hers. "I only know that when my husband was down with broken leg, he saw to it that we had meat every night. I tried to wave him off and explain that we could easily live off of bread and fresh vegetables. But he would not have it."

"Ye do make the best bread." Muireall chuckled.

"See?" Betty flashed a grin before she continued. "He also takes food and wares to Widow Kline each day. She told me once when I went to visit her."

Muireall glanced toward the door, her mind reeling. Widow Kline was a blind woman who kept a homestead a couple miles from the fort. She and her husband had been some of the first to settle the area, and even after he passed and her eyes failed her, she refused to leave the place she called home. If John provided for her, would that mean he would be amenable to providing for a woman who was only half blind? But a spirited, elderly widow was such a different story. Her name was known all around, and Muireall doubted Mr. Browne was the only one tending to her needs.

Muireall, on the other hand, was just broken but without the widow's stalwart reputation.

"Muireall, you know if I did not believe him to be an honorable man, I would tell you."

She had to smile then. Betty was not one to mince words or withhold the truth. "Aye. Ye would."

"Do we have some packing to do, then?"

"Aye." The tension eased from Muireall's shoulders as Betty slapped her knees and rose to her feet. Together they took on the challenge of packing her belongings as well as the new supplies.

After folding her clothing and tucking them into a carpetbag, Muireall turned to the basket atop her table. She frowned as she lifted a bag of dried beans. "Should John an' I have separate packs of food stores, or should they be combined?"

Betty came up behind her. "Well, I suppose it would make more sense to combine all you can."

A form appeared in the doorway, and Muireall's heart seemed to stutter and skip a beat as she laid eyes upon her soon-to-be-husband. "John. I suppose ye can assist with our dilemma."

He withdrew his hat as he stepped into the room. He gave a nod to Betty and turned his attention to Muireall. "How can I help?"

"We have been given many generous gifts, an' I wondered about the best way to pack them. I know my personal items will be stowed separately, but what of these food stores? Should our wares not be combined?"

John nodded as he peered into the basket. "That would be advisable." Then he glanced between the two women. "All of this is for us?" He seemed as bewildered as Muireall had been, and it warmed her to see.

"It is," Betty declared from behind them, a smile in her voice.

"I will take all of the food stores with me, then, if I may borrow this basket to transport them. I…I only came to let you know that we will be married the morning after next." With his arms atop the basket, he seemed hesitant to look Muireall's way. He turned his head only slightly in her direction.

She placed a hand on his arm to set him at ease. "Verra well."

Finally, John turned and lifted the corners of his mouth, at least for her sake. "Well, I will leave you to your preparations. Do you need anything?"

When their eyes met, Muireall's mouth went dry. The concern that was reflected in her betrothed's gaze went well beyond if she was in need of thread or beans or some other item. The man before her cared, and cared deeply, regarding her welfare.

"I am quite well." She breathed out the reply. In that moment, she had no doubt that John's intentions were benevolent and that he would see to her every need on the trail. Every need that she disclosed to him, that was.

T his could not be how most men spent the afternoon before their wedding. "Now pull the hammer back," John instructed Muireall from where he hovered precariously close to her shoulder. When his wife-to-be had done as he advised, he added, "Look down the barrel to your target and squeeze the trigger when you are ready."

Their chosen target was the knot on a large oak tree behind Widow Kline's cabin. The elderly woman was more than glad to sit on her back porch and act as a chaperone of sorts while John attempted to acclimate Muireall to shooting his pistol away from the general populace. As he had run through his mental list of the preparations that needed to be made, ensuring that his wife could defend herself on the Kentucky frontier was one task that had slipped through the cracks. Now, she stood before him taking an inordinate amount of time to aim. Finally, the pistol fired.

"Didn't hit it, did she?" Widow Kline called from her rocking chair. The rhythmic creak of wood upon wood never faltered.

"Nope." How had the blind woman known that Muireall had not even touched the tree? John gentled his voice before he spoke again. "That is perfectly normal for your first attempt. Now, this time, is there one eye that seems stronger than the other?"

Muireall swallowed and glanced away. In someone like Hodges, it would have been a tell that he was lying. From this slender woman, though, it surely meant she was uncomfortable discussing such matters with him. In fact, it was likely a detail she had never considered. "When you are writing or sewing, do you ever close one eye to see better?"

Muireall seemed to think it over. "Maybe me left."

"Good. So, this time, try closing your left eye when you shoot."

After a timid nod of her head, she followed his instructions again, paying special attention to each detail. He took a step back and allowed her some space. Still, her shot went wide, rustling through some leaves on the tree next to her target. Jude's brows furrowed.

"Missed again," called the leathery voice from behind them. Muireall's shoulders slumped and John glanced around. Widow Kline meant well, but her scrutiny would make even a seasoned hunter nervous. She offered a faint, knowing smile. "You know, you could help her along. Show her how to hold it and all."

He withheld a groan and instead, rubbed the back of his neck. Yes, she could certainly crawl under even a grown man's skin and make them self-conscious.

"She does have a point." John ventured closer to Muireall. "If you do not mind, I can help you aim this time."

Her blue eyes widened, and her lips parted, but then she gave him another dip of her chin. "I am sure that would be acceptable. Considering the circumstances..." Muireall's gaze flitted to the back porch.

John chuckled. "Yes, after all, there is a chaperone present." With the mood lightened, he stepped up behind Muireall. Her slender body tucked nicely into his as he placed his hands over hers on the gun. With such dainty fingers, it was a miracle she handled the gun as well as she did. As soon as she learned to aim, she could be a formidable foe. He forced his mind from the soft scent of soap that lingered on her hair and how it tickled the side of his face as he lowered his head next to hers. His heart beat much too rapidly as he looked down the gun to the knot on the tree. "There," he breathed. Then, he eased his finger down over hers on the trigger.

The bullet landed just above the knot, but that was understandable considering his distraction. Muireall cleared her throat. He turned toward the sound, and his nose grazed over the softest of cheeks. John leapt backward, and the pistol clattered to the ground.

"Oh, I am so sorry. I can be so clumsy."

Despite her lame excuse, he was not a blind man. Far from it. Their closeness had flustered her as much as it had him. This woman was certainly dangerous, with or without a gun. At least when it came to his heart.