Free A Bride for Donnigan by Janette Oke

exhausting.”
    The coffee began to fill the room with its steamy aroma, and Donnigan moved to shift it farther back on the stove.
    “One thing for sure,” he murmured, surprising even himself. “I hope she’s not sulky and silent. I couldn’t stand that. I don’t want to have to still talk things over with Black once she gets here.”
    And Donnigan moved restlessly to the window to see if Wallis was making an appearance on the country road. He did wish the man would hurry.
    His eyes dropped to the flowers he had just planted.
    “Those are for you, Miss O’Malley,” he said softly, and it gave him an odd sense of connection. He felt his cheeks warm. But he could not help himself from continuing—from changing his little statement. “For you—Kathleen.”
    The name felt new and strange on his tongue, but somehow, in the saying of it, Donnigan felt a stirring of sweet possession.

Chapter Seven
    Passage
    The troubles on the Atlantic crossing began on their second day out. After the raucous celebrating by the band of women on board, a time of illness followed. Kathleen could have felt that it served them right, but as she observed their intense suffering, she could feel only pity for them as they held their heads and groaned with each roll of the ship. It kept both Erma and Kathleen running to empty the chamber vessels and wipe the brows with cool wet rags.
    By the time the women were once again on their feet and ready to take to the decks for walks in the open air, the winds became brisk and the ship began to toss and roll. Even Kathleen had to take to her bunk. Erma was the only one in the little band who did not become seasick.
    At long last the storm subsided and the women began to stir and search for fresh air. The cabins were so small—so crowded—that even on the good days the air became stale and close. But on the days of the illnesses, Kathleen had often wondered if she would be able to endure. She longed, at times, for the cold, damp streets of London, where she could at least draw a breath of fresh air.
    Though she became acquainted with many of the women heading for America, she really only learned to know well those who shared her own cabin and her own dinner table. She soon discovered that even though they shared the same future destiny, they were varied and different in their personality, background, and outlook. Some of the opinions expressed shocked and horrified the young Kathleen. She found that more and more she chose to walk alone about the decks or share the time with Erma rather than be a part of the chatter of the other women.
    Many of the women from the Continent she did not get to know at all. The fact that some of them spoke very little English was of course one factor—but there were other differences, though Kathleen wouldn’t have been able to put her finger on them.
    “Some of them are farm women,” Erma had explained, “and shy.”
    Kathleen had never lived in the country—at least since she had left Ireland at the age of two. Her father had spoken of the farm. To his dying day he did not cease to grieve that he had lost family property at the time he had fled his country. Always his dream had been to return—to reclaim; and though Kathleen knew nothing of the circumstances, she claimed his dream as her own after he had been taken from her.
    “Sure now—and ye’re an O’Malley,” he used to tell her. “Ye’ve nothing to be ashamed of and plenty to be proud of, so hold yerself tall. And maybe someday—when God himself rights the wrongs in the world—ye’ll get back what truly belongs to an O’Malley.”
    Kathleen wished later that she had asked more questions. Talked more to her father of his beloved homeland. Now, as the ship bore her to America, she reasoned that she would never have opportunity to see the land of her own roots again.
    Perhaps other girls were grieving over lost homelands as well, for as the days passed, tempers became short and occasional