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Annie’s soft kiss was, in many ways, a turning point in Daniel’s life. He stood watching the door for a moment, while her smile carved itself into his heart and the warm spot her lips had left on his cheek lit a fire along his veins. He lifted a finger to his face, but didn’t quite dare to touch it. Though they’d been betrothed for several months, she’d rarely spoken of love, never before offered a kiss.
His smile grew broader until it seemed to split his face, then he leaped straight up. He turned in the air and came down running, his rifle held high over his head in both hands. He wanted to shout, to laugh, to roar like a lion. Instead he ran.
Down the trail and away from the town, he sped toward home. As his feet hit the ground in virtual silence, his heart pounded with the truth that one little kiss had revealed to him. She loves me! She really loves me! She will be mine!
He hadn’t realized the doubt until it was gone. He ran for almost two miles before slowing to a jog. At the gates to the Donovan ranch he finally stopped, bending double to catch his breath. He leaned against one of the two massive posts holding his family’s brand aloft—the letter “D” encircled by the Celtic symbol of eternity. It stood high enough and wide enough to allow the passage of any covered wagon. His grandmother had designed it and a smith in Abilene had made it for the family’s ranch there. When they moved to Arizona to escape the influence of what his father called “the neighbors’ war”, Daniel had attached the brand to two pair of oxen, using the sides as a yoke. Their westward drive had been slowed by the pace of the oxen, but there’d been no question of leaving it behind. When they arrived, it had taken twelve men to hoist it into position.
He looked beyond it now, to a night sky alive with glittering stars. Sometimes you can almost believe there are those beings up there—out there—who watch over us. The sisters, the bear, the king on his throne. The hunter. Do they understand us? Do they know us? Do they understand what brings us together? What makes us love?
I don’t know what makes me love her. Except that she’s so beautiful. So pure and so gentle. She’s like a small doe in the forest. Natural. Unspoiled. Shy. I love her. I love her.
I must be patient. Gentle. She’s too beautiful to spoil. But how much I want her! Annie. My precious Annie. I will wait as long as I have to. It will be easier, now that I know you will truly be mine.
Rifle in hand, he padded toward the big white house. It stood silhouetted against the night, the lantern that hung by the door shining in perpetual welcome. It was a huge house, three stories high, constructed of sawn boards painted white. The doors and windows were trimmed in emerald green. There were those in the town who considered the Donovan home an insult, a brag of the good fortunes the family had been blessed with. But John Patrick, with his older sons, had built the house for his Molly—to try to ease the burden a pioneer’s life imposed upon an Irish-born girl. To try to assuage some of the sorrow and pain she’d suffered: her parents and her younger brother, like most of her small village, had been victims of starvation, and her longing for her native land still sometimes overwhelmed her.
This house is an act of love. As much as Annie’s kiss. We built this house from the ground up. The work went slowly at times, and stopped altogether when there was no money. But we didn’t give up. We dreamed of it always, and finally realized the dream. This house is like my parents’ marriage.
The thought stirred him profoundly. He hadn’t recognized the poet, the spiritualist in his nature, believing this gift belonged to his brother Adam. But the thread of realization wouldn’t be broken, and his heart told him that having Annie for his wife wouldn’t be enough. It would make him happy, but he’d need to make her happy, too. Like the building of this graceful home, it would take more than love to accomplish—their marriage would require strength and patience, and commitment to the dream. They’d have to work together to build their own home. And we’ll build a home such as this world has never seen. Just Annie and me. We’ll build it together. We need a piece of land. We need a plan.
He climbed the front steps, checked the fuel level in the lantern—part of his father’s dream was that the light should never be out, and no one ever turned away. He headed in to find his parents and youngest sister, along with his three younger brothers, in the small parlor behind the stairs that had been his grandmother’s favorite retreat. He stowed his rifle in a corner and settled into a chair by the hearth. His parents sat together on a chaise lounge, his mother, as usual, leaning against his father’s arm.
They built this home in spite of the pain and the fear and the hardship. We’ll be luckier, Annie and me—we’ll be able to find happiness in our own world.
But he hadn’t before stopped to consider that Annie might suffer the same longings his mother did. I wonder if she’d want to go back to Wales? I’ll have to ask her. And I will do whatever she wants.