Chapter 6

Sean McFadden stood outside the schoolhouse, memories of beloved old Miss McGinley—who was like a grandmother to him—swimming in his heart. Having spent countless hours after school with the teacher, poring over old books and discussing their favorite authors and stories, he had developed a close relationship with the older woman. Once finished with school, Sean would stop by during the day, as he had time, to help out with whatever he could. Whether it was lighting the fire or reading with the young ones while Miss McGinley presented a more challenging lesson to the older students, he was eager to do anything that would make the sweet teacher’s day easier.

He had returned to Ballymann in January after completing his apprenticeship in Donegal Town. Other than being outdoors all day, he had never really enjoyed thatching, but his uncle had arranged for the opportunity. As there had been no other option for him after completing school—other than joining the country’s fight for independence—he’d had no choice but to accept it. Although he had enjoyed his time in Donegal Town, he had been anxious to return home and settle down in the quiet seaside village of his youth. When he saw a strange woman walk into the school, he had to investigate. Must be the new teacher, he thought. He approached slowly but followed her inside.

Having had such an affinity for his childhood teacher, he had a right to be protective of the school she had run and felt compelled to ensure her replacement was someone worthy of the position.

The woman before him now looked at the classroom as though it were her own. Tenderness shone on her face, as if she were admiring a work of art rather than an old, musty schoolhouse.

He closed the door behind him, flinching as it latched with a click.

The woman jumped and whipped around to face him. His stomach dropped as he stood face-to-face with the woman from down near the beach. He wasn’t sure what on earth he had done to earn such a vehement response to his help yesterday, but she sure hadn’t hesitated to inform him of her annoyance. It both irked and delighted him.

Unencumbered by fear, her beauty was even greater than he’d remembered. The woman’s eyes grew wide. Sean pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.

“Ya won’t last a second ’round here with nerves like that, now,” he taunted. Nice one, eejit. Although he fancied himself as known about town for his roaring sense of humor, Sean usually saved sarcasm for his better acquaintances. Yet when his eyes had met hers, her simple beauty shook him so deeply, he’d blurted out the first thing that popped into his head.

The woman glared at him. She didn’t seem to appreciate being startled or the way Sean enjoyed her discomfort at his presence.

“Let’s hope these wee ones have a few more manners than to be sneaking up on people.” She planted her fists firmly on her hips and narrowed her eyes.

“Whoa, now.” He held his palms up as though soothing a wild horse. “Why do ya spew venom on me? Is that yer customary response when someone comes to yer aid?”

“It was you that night on the road, wasn’t it?” Her eyes narrowed again, and he suspected if her hands weren’t in fists they would be trembling. “Is it your customary response to hurl sarcasm and insults to a young lady struggling with her rig? Is that how this village welcomes visitors? God help us all if the rest of the village has manners like yours!”

Sean took a step back, shocked by her vehemence but equally charmed by her stance and the way the bridge of her nose crinkled when she scowled at him.

“Really, Miss? You’re speaking to me of manners? Don’t ya know any better than to be gallopin’ full speed ahead in the dark o’ night—in the middle of a gale, no less? Manners, ya say? Humph! If ya don’t know how to handle a cart and pony, don’t drive one.” He crossed his arms over his chest in his best imitation of obstinance. Part of him wanted to smile at her. But as feisty as she was, she’d probably think he was taunting her. Part of him hoped she did.

Sean let a smile tip his mouth. He was who he was, after all, and she was a snippet of a lass from America who couldn’t drive a wagon to save her life. “And I suppose where ye come from, it’s perfectly polite to run off when asked a question?” He jutted a thumb toward the view of the shoreline out the window.

Her face flushed and she chewed her lip. Her gaze fell to the floor, losing a bit of its determined sparkle.

Remorse rushed through Moira from top to toe. Overwhelmed by the desire to swallow her harsh words, she softened her stance and stepped forward with her hand extended—a gesture of peace. No matter how he had treated her, she had no right to respond in kind. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: When someone seems bent on making your life miserable, heap coals of kindness on their head.

“Maybe we could . . . start over?” She cleared her throat. “I’m Moira—Moira Doherty. I’m sorry if I was rude just then. It seems I’m still recovering from the long voyage over and balancing my anxious thoughts about starting my new role here.”

The man extended his hand and shook hers gently, lingering in the hold just a second too long.

“I’m Sean McFadden,” he said. “So, either you’re the new schoolteacher or you’re the oldest student in Donegal.” He chuckled while rubbing the back of his neck absently. Moira wondered if the action served to soothe his nerves.

“Your observational skills are very keen. I am indeed the new teacher. While I’m thankful they’ve given me the week to settle in, I admit I’m anxious to get started. I have so much planned for the wee dotes,” Moira said.

“Ah, yes the ‘wee dotes.’” He imitated her American twang and gave an exaggerated nod. “They’re wee dotes, alright. You just tell ’em that if they give ya any trouble, Muinteoir Sean’ll be after ’em. I’d be derelict in my duties if I let them run off the new girl in town.”

Sean’s eyes locked with hers and he winked. Heat seeped across her cheeks. Why was she so shaken by this man? Until a moment ago, he’d done nothing but give her a hard time. He’d practically insulted her. And now she was blushing?

“Well, it was lovely meeting you, eh, John, was it?” Like a precocious schoolgirl, she pretended not to remember his name. “And thanks for the help yesterday, but I’d best be off.”

Sean blanched and blinked hard. “Well, yes, it was my pleasure.” He removed his hat and swept it in an arc as he bowed low, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “And the name’s Sean.”

Satisfied that her playful blow had hit its mark, Moira headed for the door, her footsteps echoing in her ears. The blast of the fresh breeze stung as it hit her flushed cheeks. The door latched and relief washed over her once she could no longer feel the man’s gaze boring into her back. Life here was certainly going to be more interesting than she had expected.

You’d better steer clear of Mr. Sean McFadden, Moira Girl. The last thing you need is some lad distracting you every time you turn around.

Heading down the main road, she stopped to admire the sea view once again.

You’re a long way from Boston.

She loved the city life, to be sure. With a skyline like no other, the buildings of her hometown mingled together to make an impressive work of art. However, the streets around the city were muddled and so terribly crowded with people, carts, and traffic.

The seaside here was secluded, quiet, grand. The view stretched for endless miles, making Moira feel very small. The magnitude of it all stirred her soul to life. And humbled her.

She turned right onto the main road and continued north, taking in what appeared to be the center of Ballymann. She passed the pub she had seen on her way into town. That night in the storm and wind, it had appeared inviting and alive. In the quiet light of morning, however, the run-down building looked every bit as aged and hunched as the figures in the window had.

Just beyond the pub stood the market—a small, square building with whitewashed walls and double doors at the main entrance. Fruit and vegetable stands were being rolled out into the sunshine. The aroma of fresh delicacies from the bakery wafted on the gentle morning breeze.

A few people were beginning to mill about the town now. Moira was keenly aware all eyes were on her. Even the buildings seemed to have eyes and ears straining to see the newcomer and hear if any gossip had yet begun to circulate as to her identity.

You’re being paranoid, Moira Girl. I’m sure they all have better things to worry about than your life history. She plastered a shaky smile on her face and continued on her self-guided tour.

The road carried her past the market, up the line of the coast, and around two S-shaped curves. The rolling hills, the churning sea, and the endless fields dotted with white sheep presented a feast for her eyes. Moira struggled to pay heed to the path upon which she was walking rather than gazing at the immense, ever-changing view.

A sharp rise loomed before her. She took a deep breath. Body still sore and joints aching from weeks of travel, trudging up the hill proved quite difficult.

She finally reached the crest and was rewarded with yet another spectacular view.

To the west, the land gradually sloped and ambled down to the tumultuous waves of the Atlantic, framed in wispy, rustling sea grasses. Ahead of her lay the rolling hills atop which sat her viewpoint from the night she’d arrived in town.

Scanning the scene, Moira pictured all the details from her mother’s stories aligning with the shapes on the maps she had studied in preparation for her journey, and she immediately recognized the unique landscapes greeting her. The red beaches of the Bloody Foreland loomed in the distance. Toward the east rose the pinnacle of Mount Errigal peeking over the top of the quaint valley where sporadic houses, hemmed in by farmland and sheep pastures, nestled among rock walls and gorse bushes. The smoke from turf fires hung close to the hills and blanketed the valley in a sweet, earthy-smelling fog.

It was clear she’d reached the end of the town center. Continuing on would take her farther into the remote edges of the community.

“Where’s the village hall?” she asked the wind. Moira’s favorite stories were the ones her mother would tell about the old village hall; how everyone in town would gather on cold nights and heat up the thatched building with their dancing, laughter, and craic—better known to those in the States as fellowship.

For twenty-three years, Moira had heard her mother’s tales, and dreamed of seeing the place with her own eyes. But for all her wanderings that day, she hadn’t found it. Its absence left a story-shaped hole in her heart. While the road beckoned her ever onward, sensibility won the argument for the time being. “You’d best not get lost today, there’s much work to be done yet. Back to the schoolhouse with you now,” she told herself.

As she started down the hill, grateful for the ease of walking in agreement with gravity rather than against it, her thoughts were both nowhere and everywhere. Ideas, questions, and uncertainties pirouetted in dizzying circles.

What if this is a horrible mistake? What was I thinking, coming all this way, alone? Who am I to think I can take over an entire school’s instruction? What if . . . ?

From somewhere deep within, a quiet voice echoed, For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.

Once again, the words allowed a sense of peace to settle over Moira’s heart. She might not know what the future held, but she knew the One who did, and she knew of His love for her. Lifting her chin and walking confidently back toward the center of town, she offered a prayer of thanksgiving.

At the sound of a twig snapping behind her, she whipped around and searched for the source. The breeze through the trees seemed to whisper her name. But no matter where she looked, no culprit could be seen. The hairs on her neck crept upward, and she had the inescapable feeling she was being watched. Willing a neutral look back on her face, she turned and hastened to the schoolhouse.