Page 61 of A New World for the Irish Daughter

Friends.

The word struck a dismal chord, but Maggie managed a nod. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Friends. I’ll… I’ll always be your friend, Brendan.” She tried to smile, even though she wanted so much more than friendship.

He stared at her for another moment, and although she couldn’t make out his expression, she thought—she hoped—that he was going to say something more. Something, maybe, that she wanted him to say.

The moment stretched on, the only sound the rustle of the wind through the trees, the lonely hoot of a barred owl—Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?—echoing through the night.

“Goodbye, Maggie,” Brendan said finally, and he turned to go. She watched him walk away until he was swallowed up in the darkness, the sounds of his footsteps fading into silence.

Maggie leaned against the door and tilted her head to the sky, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She stared at the cold, distant stars so high above and felt more alone than she had in a long, long while.

CHAPTER 32

September 1896

As she gazed at the black cottonwood and trembling aspen in the meadow at the back of the cabin, their leaves already turning a bright, vibrant yellow, Maggie could hardly believe an entire year had slipped by.

The days had blended into one another, each season experienced in its turn—the endless days of summer sliding into the crisp and brisk days of fall, the leaves turning crimson and gold, and then into a stark and empty winter that was darker and drearier than the snowy wonderland one might have hoped for in Alaska. And then came spring, bursting into vibrant, messy life with its mud and beauty, and somehow it had been fifteen months since she’d arrived in Juneau, and a year since she’d taken in Sheetka as her own.

In that year, her little girl—for Maggie truly felt now that Sheetka was her daughter—had blossomed in many ways, but she still didn’t speak. She smiled though, and sometimes she would laugh, a sound that reminded Maggie of the burbling waters of Gold Creek rushing behind their cabin and filled her heart with joy but still happened too rarely.

Her days at the hospital continued to be busy as she brought Sheetka along, and in August Sister Mary Zeno had said the girl could start at the school, since she was likely to be at least four years old and needed an education.

Danny and her father had settled down, Maggie hoped, seeming to abandon talk of striking out for gold when they realized how far they would have to travel, and how much an outfit would cost. Maggie liked to think her da at least enjoyed the comforts of a pleasant home—the meals Maggie made, the welcoming hearth, the peacefulness of being settled in one’s family.

Danny, she feared, was another matter. Nineteen years old now, his scrawny frame having filled out although he remained lean and rangy, her brother was restless, always seeming to hanker after more, whether it was a raucous night drinking or something she feared was more nefarious.

Her father, somewhat to her surprise, did his best to keep a restraining hand on his son’s excesses, but it was with a light touch, and Maggie feared the rough-and-ready atmosphere of Juneau—although that was settling down, too, as the town grew—wasn’t good for her brother.

Her da, however, seemed to like nothing more than sitting by the wood stove with Sheetka on his knee, playing his harmonica or telling her a tall tale, which the little girl seemed to love, although she still didn’t say anything. And, truth be told, Maggie liked nothing more than sitting next to him, sewing Sheetka a new dress or mending her own, smiling and shaking her head at her father’s exaggerations.

“Dramatic license, my girl,” he would exclaim with a wink. “Dramatic license!”

In the midst of all the contented busyness, Maggie only occasionally felt a pang for what might have been. She had seen Brendan in the distance several times—once on Seward Street,another coming out of the hardware on Front Street—but they hadn’t spoken since she’d told him she loved him back at the supper after the dance, and so it seemed they wouldn’t be friends, after all. At this rate, Maggie thought, they never would speak together again, and even if they did, it wouldn’t matter.

Brendan’s silence had been his choice, and she’d made peace with that, too. It was a difficult peace, and on lonely nights as she listened to the wind whistle outside through the trees, the barred owl giving its mournful hoot the way it had the night he’d walked away, she felt the loss keenly.

But otherwise, she was happy. She let herself be, even if sometimes it took some effort. Sheetka had started school, and she seemed content, if still silent; Maggie had become more confident in her nursing abilities, and her brother was mostly staying out of trouble. Maggie knew she couldn’t ask for more.

And then one day, as she was hurrying to the hardware to buy some nails to fix a loose board in their cabin, she came to a shocked halt as she saw the new sign that had gone up over a freshly built wooden building with a little porch out front.

O’Donaghue Dry Goods.

Amazed, incredulous, Maggie opened the door and stepped inside. It was a small space, just one little room, the way it had been back in New York, with shelves to the ceiling, and barrels of pickles and nails by the front door. The merchandise was a little different—ice picks and axes, shovels and saws, as well as sacks of flour and sugar, tins of bacon and beans. Everything, she supposed, that a prospector would need to set out.

“May I help—?” Brendan fell silent as Maggie turned to face him.

She hadn’t seen him except at a distance for a year, and she saw now that his skin was more weathered, tanned from the summer, his hair cut a little shorter. He was in his shirtsleeves, an apron swathed around his lean, whip-cord waist. For asecond, she felt as if she’d tumbled back in time and had just stepped into his store in New York, lugging her case and feeling completely lost and alone in the world.

“You did it,” she said quietly, and he smiled, his eyes creasing in a way that was so familiar, sobeloved.

“I did.”

“It’s just like back in New York…”

“The merchandise is a little different,” he said wryly. “I have to cater to the clientele, after all.”

Maggie shook her head slowly in wonder as she looked around the crammed space. “Where did you get it all?”