The Wedding Journey. Cheryl St.John
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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 [email protected].
For a selection of collectable mini-bookcover cards, send a SASE to: BOX 390995, Omaha, NE 68139.
The Wedding Journey
Cheryl St. John
MILLS & BOON
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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
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.