Life has never been fair. This was especially true for the MacEilan family.
Once upon a time they were happy and complete- a small house in Galway, just enough of everything to keep them satisfied. It was more than many had, and they were grateful. Of course, when life sees even the littlest hint of success, life gets jealous...
So here, in the rolling hills of Colorado Territory, five thousand miles from Ireland, lay a little cottage that nobody in the sleepy town nearby knew of. Four of the MacEilan children lived there now- well, three, since the eldest had gone to the city of Denver. But the three young women that inhabited the house still hid, and they lived in perfect seclusion from the world. They had gone to school a few times, but not for long. People had other things to worry about in the wild hill country, and so the little, broken family was forgotten.
Mary was the eldest at eighteen. Anne could hear her from the kitchen as she pranced around outside, talking loudly to anything that would listen- the chickens, the trees, her unhearkening sisters. On that March day there was still winter's cold breath lingering in the air and a layer of snow still laying in patches on the ground.
Anne let her hands move on autopilot as she kneaded the dough inside the one- room cottage, her mind wandering past the walls of their little home, back to Ireland and beyond. She was thirteen, but had been the woman of the house for years. Mary didn't want the heavy responsibility, and so Anne had taken it meekly and firmly. She had a twin, Emma- but she was an island of her own in the turbulent world. Emma saw neither reality nor reason unless she found it necessary.
With the oven red- hot, Anne slid the newly formed loaves into its gaping mouth and brushed the flour from her hands, leaving a powdery smear on her apron. She moved towards the washbasin to wipe the flour from the table- but a knock greeted her at the door instead.
"I'm not expecting anyone..." she muttered. "So who on Earth could it be?"
Her sisters, after all, would never knock, unless Anne had locked the door on accident. That had happened more times than Anne would like to admit. Yet the door was not locked as she turned the knob with one still- floury hand.
Outside stood a tall and humbly dressed man, standing a respectful distance from the door. Anne's green eyes widened.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked. Who was this? Anne became nervous- she'd heard the stories of robbers and vagrants in remote areas of the West.
"I wish to speak with the head of the house," said the man. He had a strong voice, but one shaking with something- and in his eye was a kind of sadness that Anne knew all too well. He'd lost something, something very precious.
She nodded and gestured to the yard. "You'll be needing to speak with my sister. The elder one, with the darker hair."
He nodded and turned in the direction of her gesture. "Thank you, Miss-"
She hesitated. To give the man her name was to give a level of power over her, but she decided to risk it. Nobody knew them anyhow. "MacEilan."
"Steven Jones." He nodded again, bowing his head towards her just the slightest bit. "Thank you, Miss MacEilan."
With that he walked away. Quickly Anne shut the front door and went to the window, curious, and watched Mr. Jones walk down towards Mary and Emma, who were in the yard tending the chickens.
There were three little brown- haired girls following him. Anne's breath came in sharply- three little girls, trailing behind the man that could only be their father.
Anne couldn't hear the words being spoken clearly, but she saw Mary's auburn head turn with Emma's vivid red one. The three little girls clustered around Mr. Jones, and Anne burned with curiosity as to what this man was doing in the little town, and what he was looking for at the hidden cottage with hidden people.
After a moment that seemed a great eternity, it overcame her. Deciding that the flour could wait to be wiped up, Anne went into the breezy, cloudy day and waved over Emma.
The two girls, alike in their appearances as twins could be, watched the exchange.
"What's he doing here?" asked Emma in a whisper. "Who is he? I've never seen him before."
"I've got as much an idea as you have," Anne replied. "But, he seems nice enough, and terribly sad."
"I just saw your farm," he was saying in a soft and melancholy voice, "and, well, I thought it'd be a better home for my girls than what I could give." Mary looked up at him. She seemed to Anne a bit flattered by the compliment to the farm, but still had her arms across her chest and a very determined look on her freckled face.
"I don't know if we can. I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, truly I am and sometimes I think I know your pain, but I really don't know if we could take them." There was an empathy in Mary's voice, as if she was truly sorry. Anne had known poverty, and she would wished her father would have taken his children to a calm little farm, rather than do what he did.
Slowly Mr. Jones nodded. "I understand. Thank you, Miss MacEilan, for your time."
Dejected, Mr. Jones took the littlest girl by the hand and turned from Mary, turning towards the road and the twins.
"Wait," said Emma. "Stay there, Mr. Jones, please." Emma had remembered the plight of the MacEilans, and wouldn't it have been nice if our father tried to give us a good home, instead of the leaving us behind that he did?
She saw herself, and Anne, and Mary, in the little girls. Emma was determined to give them any hope they could have- any at all.
"Mary, we have everything we need, and they don't- can't we, please? Don't you remember how lost and how alone we felt after- well, don't you? Let us take them, Mary; after all, we may be rewarded for it."
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