Page 43 of Steadfast

“You all know I can hear you going on about me,” she said, making a face at Abel as she walked into his open arms and squeezed him tight.

“You missed a little something.” He grinned as he looked down at her. He licked his thumb to wipe a rogue dusting of flour from her cheek.

“Don’t you dare,” Maeve gasped, slapping his hand away playfully.

With a grin, he caught her hand, interlocked his fingers in hers, and softly kissed her.

“All right, enough of that,” Ruth interjected. “Get your coffee and stop flirtingwith my barista.”

Maeve felt her cheeks burn hot as she went to work. Filling a paper cup with steaming black coffee, she scooped in several heaping spoonfuls of white sugar and plenty of cream.

“One coffee—that doesn’t taste like coffee,” she said, presenting the drink to Abel as though it were a masterpiece.

“Just the way I like it,” his eyes smiled at her as he took a long drink. “This might even rival Mom’s coffee.”

“Abel Callaway, I heard that!” Ruth hollered from the back kitchen.

Maeve grinned. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

This time, however, she was met with a captivated expression as though he were carried away for a moment in thought. He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, his gentle touch sending electricity through her.

“I was wondering if you’d like to ride out with me this evening?” he asked, barely over a whisper.

“Need help checking fences?” Maeve replied as she distractedly picked up a dishtowel and began sweeping crumbs off the counter.

“No work tonight,” Abel said. “I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Sure, sounds great,” she responded, the tone in her voice edging higher. Despite her wildly thumping heart, she attempted to sound casual.

Abel responded with an unrestrained smile. “See you then.”

He gave her one last peck on the lips. With his coffee in hand and a little pep in his step, Abel headed out the door to his truck.

The bustle of the loud conversations, and the clanking of porcelain mugs evaporated in the loudness of her spinning thoughts.

“Maeve?” Ruth remarked, stepping out of the kitchen. “You okay, hun?”

Snapping to attention, Maeve steadied herself.

“I’m great,” she stuttered. “Fine—totally fine.”

Maeve and Ruth worked together to close up the shop. Maeve pulled the sopping wet mop across the smooth linoleum floors, swiping away the dust and hay that their clientele had tracked in that day.

“Why don’t you go ahead home,” Ruth said, offering to take over the task. “Lord knows I can handle a little mopping.”

“No, it’s fine,” Maeve’s words shook as her anxiety unintentionally slipped into her voice. Looking down as she went, she whisked the mop handle even faster across the slick floor. She never paused for even a moment until she pushed the mop against an immovable obstacle, which happened to be Ruth Callaway’s shoe.

“Will you just tell me what’s wrong?” Ruth asked pointedly.

Maeve was never any good at hiding things from Ruth.

A soft sploosh of water went over the side of the bucket as she put the mop down hard. She struggled with just what to say without risking revealing too much of herself. “He’s going to ask me to marry him, Ruth.”

“I know he is.” Ruth shrugged. “Don’t you want him to?”

“I do,” Maeve replied, tears puckering the corners of her eyes. “More than anything.”

“So then, what’s the matter?” Ruth asked. She pulled up a stool and took a seat at the counter, exuding her usual patience as she allowed Maeve to collect her thoughts.

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