Cheryl St.John - The Wedding Journey

Bound for Boston Harbor

The mysterious inheritance is the answer to a prayer. Now Irish lass Maeve Murphy and her sisters can come to America! She’s sure happiness awaits her, even if it won’t—can’t—come from widowed ship doctor Flynn Gallagher. Yes, he made her his assistant, but she’s not foolish enough to fall for the man all the eligible, wealthy female passengers admire.

Flynn Gallagher may have his pick of ladies, but only one cares as he does for the sick and poor. Flynn vowed never to marry another woman who could break his heart. With Maeve, has his heart found safe harbor at last?

CHERYL ST.JOHN

love for reading started as a child. She wrote her own stories, designed covers and stapled them into books. She credits many hours of creating scenarios for her paper dolls and Barbies as the start of her fascination with fictional characters. At one time, Westerns were her preferred reading—until she happened upon LaVyrle Spencer’s Hummingbird in her local store. After that, she couldn’t read enough romance, and the desire to create stories of hope and forgiveness was born.

Cheryl loves hearing from readers. Visit her web-site, http://www.cherylstjohn.net, or email her at SaintJohn@aol.com.

For a selection of collectable mini-bookcover cards, send a SASE to: BOX 390995, Omaha, NE 68139.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble. Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.

—1 Peter 5–7

“My dream is of a place and a time

where America will once again be seen

as the last best hope of earth.”

—Abraham Lincoln

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

June 1850, Castleville, Ireland

Lilting over the roar of the ocean, the haunting notes of a flute raised goose bumps on Maeve’s arms. There were no men in the Murphy family to carry the plain wooden box holding the remains of their father on their shoulders, so she and her two older sisters followed behind as the men of the village proceeded from the small stone church up a grassy incline to the cemetery.

The gathering reached the crest. Here the sound of thundering waves far below the cliffs grew to a crescendo, nature’s hymn as familiar as the expansive sky and the salty tang of the ocean.

Beside Maeve, her sister Bridget wept into her handkerchief. She’d worn a somber secondhand brown bonnet, fashionable some ten years ago, yet still serviceable. “What’s going to become of us without Da?”

Maeve comforted Bridget with an arm around her shoulders. “Shush now, ma milis,” she said, calling her sister my sweet in their native Gaelic tongue.

“We’ll come up with a plan.” The eldest of the three, Nora, always had a plan. The sisters were stair steps in height and age, Nora being tall, Bridget in between and Maeve petite.

Most of the simple graves were marked with stones, others with weathered wooden crosses. Goat’s-beard grew in thick patches throughout the grass, the yellow blooms a cheerful contrast to the mood. A hole had been dug in the rich black soil, and Maeve had only to glance about the crowd to note which of the young men’s hair was damp from exertion. She spotted two familiar heads of curly red hair. She would thank the Donnelly brothers later.

Reverend Larkin had prayed over members from every household represented at the graveside today. The famine that had taken its toll on their countrymen had spared no family. Hunger, sickness and poverty were all these people knew, but the believers of Castleville clung to their faith. Now the reverend stretched his hand toward the pine box as six farmers dressed in their Sunday clothing lowered it by ropes down into the earth.

“Jack Murphy, your daughters long for one more day spent at your side. When we lose someone we love, it seems that time stands still. What moves through us is a silence, a quiet sadness, a longing for one more day, one more word, one more touch.”

The ache in Maeve’s chest threatened to cut off her breath. Security had been whipped out from beneath her with the death of her father. The pain of never seeing him again, of never hearing his thick brogue, was almost more than she could bear. She worked to hold back the grief and fear bearing down on her—and to steady Bridget, who swayed on her feet.

Their female friends and neighbors wept softly into their handkerchiefs and shawls. The men stared at the ground and worried the brims of their hats as a red-billed chough flew in a lazy circle overhead.

“We may not understand why you left this earth so soon,” the reverend continued. “Or why you left before we were ready to say goodbye, but little by little we shall begin to remember not just that you died, but all the days that you lived. We will see you again some day, in a heavenly place where there is no hunger or sickness. No rocks in the fields. Now, Lord, bless the daughters of Jack Murphy. Keep them safe from harm and provide for them by Your bounteous grace and mercy.”

Reverend Larkin turned and nodded at Nora. “You first, dear.”

Maeve’s oldest sister seemed taller than her already admirable height while she kept her back straight and stepped forward. She wore her chestnut-brown hair fashioned as she always did, in a practical bun, so not even a single strand of hair caught in the breeze. Kneeling, she picked up a handful of earth and dropped it into the grave. The clods hit the coffin with a dull thump. Bridget followed, her dark wavy hair hidden by her bonnet, with Maeve going last.

She performed the task quickly, without thinking, without gazing upon the pine box, but still she imagined her father laid out in his frayed suit. He wasn’t in that lifeless body, she reminded herself again. He’d gone onto glory and was right this moment looking down from beside her dear mother. They were together now in a place where there were no potatoes to dig or mouths to feed.

Scully and Vaughan Donnelly rolled back their sleeves over beefy forearms and shoveled dirt upon the casket.

Maeve watched for a few minutes until Mrs. Donovan, who’d been a dear friend of her mother’s, pressed a coin into Maeve’s hand and hugged her soundly. “I’ll be prayin’ for ye, I will.”

Maeve swallowed the sob rising in her chest and pressed her fisted hands to her midriff. She accepted condolences and pennies from her neighbors. Her fellow countrymen were poor, so these modest offerings were sacrifices they couldn’t afford. Their gifts humbled her. The fact that so many had come to the funeral at all was enough to touch her heart.