Then she skipped up the stairs of her house, and the door rattled behind her, leaving Davin to himself and many peering eyeballs.
He moved over to the bucket and was about to splash water on his face, but he paused to look at his wavering reflection. Davin hardly recognized the man smiling back at him. How long had it been since he felt . . . this happy?
“Hurry.” Muriel took off her sandals and was now in bare feet. She lifted the hem of her dress as the waves crashed around her.
Davin stood on the shoreline and watched as she moved her way out to a large rock, dodging waves and giggling as they splashed against her.
She spun and beckoned him to follow. “Come quickly, Davin.” Then she vanished behind a large island of craggy rocks.
He bent down and removed his boots and his socks, then set them in the cool sand. He followed the path she took in the rough waters and discovered the ocean bottom to be lined with jagged coral and boulders covered with sea moss. It was only with a clownish wave of his arms that kept him from tumbling in on a couple of occasions.
After taking the broadside of a few chilling waves, he finally turned the corner and climbed up the shell- and-barnacle-covered rock to where she was sitting on a perch, perfectly aligned to face out to the ocean. Muriel reached her hand down to him and tugged, and soon they were sitting beside one another, nestling to keep warm.
“This is . . . marvelous.” He rested his back against rock and extended his legs, with his toes curling in open air.
“I try to never miss the sunset.” Muriel took his hand and covered it with both of hers. “See, we have arrived just in time.”
The yolk of the sun burst in hues of red and orange and gold and filtered through the low-lying clouds, spread far on either side of the horizon.
“Look.” Muriel pointed out to where the silhouette of a great ship could be seen in the foreground. “I would come here every night and listen to the gossip of the sea lions and the laughter of the gulls and wait for the ships, hoping that one would be bringing you to me.”
“I came by train,” Davin said.
“I believe a ship would have been so much more romantic.”
“I could try again.”
“Oh no. You mustn’t leave now.”
“Muriel?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know I was coming?”
Muriel reached down and pulled a starfish from the moist rock and held it in her hand. “Your brother told me.”
“My brother?”
She handed the orange starfish to him, and he accepted it without disguising his discomfort. “When I was caring for Seamus, I pried him for details about you all of the time. I am sure he knew of my feelings for you. He told me the story of how he had journeyed across the West, through desert and mountain snow, all in pursuit of a woman in a photograph. A woman he had never before met.
“And then he told me of how you had stowed away on a ship and traveled by sea a thousand miles, just to be with your brother again. And your sister Clare, travelling twice across the ocean, all to care for her family. So I knew. Such foolishness was in your blood.”
Davin handed the starfish back to her, all too happy to return it, and he watched her lovingly place it back down in a small pool of brackish water. “I suppose that is somewhat of a Hanley tradition.”
“Besides, I knew you would return to California to find your gold.”
He took her hand again and pressed his lips against it, and they listened quietly for a few moments to the soothing rhythms of the ocean’s ebb and flow.
“Muriel?”
“Yes, Davin?”
“What do you suppose it would be like . . . you know . . . being married to a spy?”
She laughed loudly, as it could barely be heard above the waves and Muriel didn’t seem to care if someone else heard anyway. “Well. There will be no secrets between us. Because I will know them all.”
“Then, you must know what I am thinking now.”
“Yes.” Muriel’s eyes lowered and her dimples showed, her red hair blowing gently against her cheek.
Davin lifted her chin to face him, they leaned into one another, and their lips met. They kissed tenderly as the sun tucked under the horizon, the stars appeared, and the two were misted by the cool, evening splashes of the sea.
Chapter 61
Shenandoah Mountains
The colors of autumn were splattered across the magnificent landscape of Shenandoah Valley. As they made their way up through the trail he once shared with Pastor Asa, Seamus believed he could not have chosen a finer day.
He put his arm around Ashlyn. “You know, I never thanked you properly.”
“Thanked me for what?” Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief.
“If it wasn’t for you wanting to return home, I would have never come out to this beautiful country. These beautiful people.”
“Perhaps I did not choose the best of times for us to return to Whittington Farms.”
The trees opened in the trail, allowing a partial view of the valley far and wide below. “I don’t believe that. Not at all.” Seamus pointed. “See how the land has healed so nicely already?”
“I was surprised at how well it recovered. It’s almost as if there never were fires.”
He nudged her and they started along again, this time beginning a gradual climb on the dirt path. “I believe the timing of our arrival was exactly what was intended. How could we minister to these families, these people of ours, if we hadn’t shared in the darkness of their experiences? And what if we had never met Asa? What a right shame that would have been. No. It was you, Ashlyn. It was your doing.”
She paused for a moment and bent over to breathe. “How much farther is it, Seamus? This place that Pastor Asa shared with you.”
“Not far at all.” He embraced her and swayed with her gently. “But we should wait a bit for the others. The sermon I have today is for all to enjoy.”
They turned, and now they could see far along the trail behind them, a bobbing of heads, as people made their way up the mountainside behind them. Entire families—children, parents and grandparents, widows and bachelors. There was Grace and Anders, and Fletch and Coralee. The entire congregation save for but a couple of the oldest members.
Ashlyn kissed Seamus on the cheek, then adjusted his white collar and dusted off his shoulder. “What do you think Asa would say about all of this?”
“That I can’t be sure.” Seamus looked across the valley and listened closely as the wind winnowed the brown leaves from the trees. “I suppose, as long as we don’t lose any of his faithful on the climb, then he’d be thankful for seeing his dream come to life.”
They turned and continued up the hill, with their hands clasped.
“Do you think Clare will follow through with all of her grand plans?” Ashlyn asked, her voice laced with tenderness.
“Clare?” He laughed. “When my sister shares her intentions, you can consider it as good as done. Besides, she’s already accomplished all she set out to do.”
“And what would that be?”
“To tend to her brothers and sister. Didn’t matter any if we were ten or fifty, she wasn’t going to give up on any of us. But her job is well done now. She’s rested her siblings in God’s hands. The only reason she ever came here was to take care of all of us. That’s Clare. And now it’s her time and I couldn’t be any happier for her.”
They rounded a corner and arrived at the vantage point. They walked to the edge and watched an eagle glide with the wind.
“What about you, Seamus? Do you believe you will ever go back?”
“That’s why we’re coming up here. To seek our answers.”
Ashlyn squeezed his arm. “Yes I know, Pastor Hanley. That is the sermon you intend to share with the congregation. But I was requesting to
hear your thoughts.”
Seamus glanced over the valley. “This is my home now as much as anywhere else. I am fond of it here. With you, Gracie, and all of these folks I have been trusted to care for. If it’s all right with Him, and you, I might intend to stay awhile.”
“Ha! You planting your feet somewhere.”
“Well. At least I don’t see myself leaving soon. But Ireland? Now that’s a land you never do leave. Those of us who have lived there and even those who merely carry the thought of that place in their hearts, we are all heirs of Ireland.”
They both watched the eagle fluttering gracefully, allowing itself to surrender to the patterns of the wind.
“Oh, Seamus. I have something for you.” Ashlyn reached into her pocket and pulled out a small photograph and handed it to him. “There was a photographer who came through town a few weeks back, and I thought it was time. To replace that old, tired picture of me you carry everywhere.”
What? Get rid of one of his most valued possessions? His chest tightened. “This new one of you is very beautiful, Ashlyn.” He withdrew his faded photograph of his wife from his shirt, the one he had found in a letter among the stagecoach wreckage so many years prior. He held the two pictures side by side.
“Now, my dear Seamus, you appear as if you are going to cry.”
He stared at both for several moments before tucking them together neatly and placing them in his pocket. “I will keep both.” Seamus placed his hand on her cheek. “One of a young lady who rescued a lonely, desperate mountain man. And the other of a most-precious woman who so faithfully climbed the mountain with the man.”
He put his arms around her and they swayed together, together and inseparable, even as the others began to gather around them.
Chapter 62
Hanley Farms
Branlow, County Roscommon, Ireland
Spring 1867
“Where are the buildings?” Garret had his head out of the flap of the carriage window.
As Clare listened to her son, she marveled at how quickly his voice had lowered, at how he had grown and matured into a proper gentleman. “We left those in New York. They will be there when you return.”
“And how long are we here for?” He sat on the bench near Ella, who was sleeping with her head resting against a blanket.
Clare turned to Andrew, who was dozing in and out himself. “Your father and I haven’t decided. It could be for the summer. It might be forever.”
“Forever?” Garret’s voice droned. “That is a long time. Forever.”
“Not you. We already told you we wouldn’t commit you to a life of being a potato farmer until you are gray and withered. There are fine colleges in England, and we can always return to America if you become too terribly bored.”
“We’ll make certain you won’t be bored.” Andrew stretched his arms. “Are we close?”
Clare glanced outside and a rush of emotions swept over her. She bit her lip as she didn’t want to cry in front of them all. “What your father is saying is there will be much to do. We haven’t been to the Hanley Farm since . . . oh . . . nearly twenty years ago. Why it will be all in tangles and brambles. We may have to use this summer just clearing it all out. It’s very possible we won’t even be able to plant until next year.”
“Next year?” Garret rolled his eyes. “I thought we weren’t staying that long.”
“This will be good for you, son.” Andrew put his arm around Clare. “There is much to savor in the simplicity of life. It will do well for all of us to slow things down and to spend more time with one another. You and I will work the fields while your mother will be composing her novel.”
Clare chuckled. “Well, we’ll see how that goes.”
Garret ran his hand through his black curls. “I don’t understand. We get rich all of the sudden, and then you want to go live on a farm. In Ireland.”
“Not just any farm,” Clare said. “This is the Hanley Farm. The farm of your family for many generations.”
The wheels of the carriage jarred and then they bounced steadily.
Clare gripped Andrew’s arm. “Oh, we must be on the road leading to the house. We have nearly arrived.” She began to cry, and Andrew pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her.
“Why are you crying, Ma? I thought you were supposed to be happy to be here.”
“She is crying,” Andrew said, “because she is remembering how in a carriage much like this, on a day when the skies pounded down with rain, the man who was to be her husband came house by house, seeking to find his princess.”
“And Uncle Davin and Aunt Cait were young, and they were with me.” Clare dabbed her eyes. “We were all terrified because we thought it was robbers when your father pounded on the door.”
“You know how many times I’ve heard this story?” Garret raised his eyes.
Andrew gave his son a playful look. “We’re in Ireland, son. You better get used to hearing the same stories over and over.”
The carriage stopped and Clare let out a yelp and clapped her hands. “We’re here. Oh my, Andrew, we’re here.” She leaned across and gently shook her daughter. “Ella darling. We’ve arrived.”
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Garret was glaring out the window.
“We gave good directions to the driver,” Clare said. “Why?”
“There are all these people out in the fields. It would seem . . . the whole village.”
“What?” Clare went to look, but the carriage man opened the door.
“Welcome to Hanley Farm,” he said, with a sweep of his arm.
Clare stepped out the door and then took the man’s hand as he guided her down the step.
“What are you doing here?” The voice in front of her was forceful.
She looked up and Garret was right. This was Hanley Farm, but dozens of people were on the property, scrambling about, laboring with hoes, shovels, and wheelbarrows. Others were on ladders against the roof, while still more were walking inside and out the door of their shanty.
“You are two days early, and have all but ruined my surprise.” The man before her was wearing priest’s clothes, and his face was quite familiar, although his head was as bald as an egg.
“Father Quinn?” Clare was overwhelmed with all of the activity before her.
“None other. And who are these young ones?” He glanced back to those working behind them. They had begun to put down their tools. “Keep at it, all of yous, until we get the job complete, and not a moment before.” He bent down to Clare’s daughter and held out his hand, which she shook meekly. “And who is this little flower?”
“Ella.” She leaned up against Clare.
“Ella. Is that so? You must have been named after your grandmama. Actually, your great-grandmama. And a finer woman there’s never been. And you, sir.” He held out a hand to Garret.
“This,” Clare said dramatically, “is Garret Connor Hanley.”
Father Quinn perked up. “Well, I’ll be. And I don’t suppose you know my full name is Father Quinn Connor. I must have been named after you, then.”
Andrew laughed. “Why the man who married us deserves some honor.”
“Shhhh!” Father Quinn put his finger to his lips and looked behind him. “Don’t share a word of that around here. They’ll string me up for marrying the two of you before having you properly converted.”
“What is all of this?” Clare started to recognize some of the faces, although it had been so long since she had seen so many of them.
“Come. Let’s have you see it with your own eyes.” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Tommy, Angus, come and fetch this luggage. Margaret, you’ll need to get some ladies together and start the stew. It’s time for the fatted calf. And tell your sons to bring their fiddles, and we shall have song and dance.” He clapped his hands. “Today is a
day of celebration. Our dear Clare has come home and brought these treasures with her.” He put his arm around Ella, who had already warmed up to him.
Father Quinn pointed to the fields. “When I got your letter, I knew this land needed a good turning.” He gave a mock grimace at Andrew. “And we remembered what a fine farmer this fellow was the last time. So we gathered a few friends around the village, and your spring tubers are just about planted. The folks were more than pleased to help out the famous reporter for the New York Daily.”
“Oh, Father Quinn, they don’t even know what the New York Daily is.” Clare tucked her arm under Andrew’s.
“They don’t, do they?” Father Quinn winked at Ella. “Well, you shall see about that. There, we re-thatched the roof and reset a few of the stones. The chimney had a few breaches, but we mudded that well. Now inside.”
Clare took a deep breath before she entered. The entire stone hovel was the same size as the living room in their New York home. She gave Garret a glare to keep him from saying anything that would embarrass them, but he seemed as captivated by Father Quinn’s charisma as she always had.
When she entered, Clare covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh my.” They had laid wooden boards along all of the walls and painted it a bright blue. The chimney looked as clean as the first day it was built and was already burning two logs of peat. She took in the smell as if it were perfume of a rose and with it poured in memories of her youth.
They somehow had managed to extend the loft so there were two beds and a new larger one against the wall.
“And here is the best part of it all.” He held his hand out to a desk against the wall. “This is where you’ll write your novel, Clare. And if you need any stories for inspiration, we’ll be sharing them around the fire tonight. Here is some paper, and we even got you your own quill and ink.”
Clare started to sob and Andrew pulled her in tightly.
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