Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 87

Uncharted Waters.

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Ma finally eased back, her hands cupping Sage’s face like she’d been hers all along. She studied her for a moment, sharp eyes softening just a fraction, then smiled.

“Welcome home,” she said simply.

1 swear I felt Sage’s breath catch against the morning air. My chest pulled tight all over again, because if anyone could break through her walls, it would be Ma with three words and a hug.

Then, just like that, Ma turned, her apron flaring as she faced the rest of us, the whole battered crew standing there in the sun, road- dusty and half–dead but alive. She clapped her hands once, loud and brisk.

“Alright, lads, lasses,” she called, voice thick with that Irish bite that could cut through a storm. “Everyone in the food hall. Let’s get

bellies filled before we work.”

The men straightened like recruits before a drill sergeant, even the cocky ones. Some of them grinned, some groaned, but every last one moved when she told them to. That was Ma. No crown, no gun in her hand, just a fierce presence that commanded dangerous men twice her size.. And she’d already wrapped Sage into it like she belonged.

The food hall wasn’t fancy, never had been, but Christ, it was something. A giant barn Pa had built for Ma years back after she’d had her fill of feeding half an army out of her own kitchen. She’d stood in the dirt with her hands on her hips, told him exactly what she wanted, and he’d given her just that. Wide wooden floors stretched from one end to the other, scuffed from boots and chairs but polished smooth by years of use. The ceilings soared high above us, heavy timber beams arched overhead like the ribs of some great beast, dark–stained and strong enough to last another hundred years. Massive barn doors sat open at either end, the iron rollers groaning as the wind drifted through, carrying the scents of cut grass and horses with it. Rows upon rows of long wooden tables and benches ran the length of the hall, enough space to seat every man, woman, and stray who found their way here. The tables were scarred, etched with initials and knife marks, stories written in grain and gouge. Along one wall, polished baine–maries lined up in a row, steam already curling out of them, keeping platters of food hot, stews, roasts, potatoes swimming in butter, bread still warm from the oven. At the back stretched the open kitchen, big enough for a brigade but ruled by one woman alone. Cast–iron pots swung from hooks overhead, pans gleamed from their racks, and the wide stone fireplae at the centre burned bright, the heart of it all. The smell, Christ, the smell, was enough to make even the toughest bastard here sit up straighter: rich meat, fresh herbs, yeast and flour baking into something golden. It wasn’t just a hall. It was a sanctuary. A place where stomachs were filled, where laughter was loud, where Ma kept her army fed before sending them back out

into the world.

Ma stood at the front of the hall, apron dusted with flour, hands on her hips like a general surveying her troops. “Right,” she said, voice carrying easily under the high beams. “The girls and I did a bit of everything, breakfast, lunch, dinner, all in one. With the time difference, I wasn’t sure what your bellies would be wantin‘, so dig in. There’s enough for every last one of ye, so don’t be shy.”

That was all it took. The men moved as one, boots thudding over the wooden floors, benches scraping as the line formed quickly along the bain–maries. Lids clattered open, steam spilling up into the air, and voices rose in rough laughter as plates filled. The smell hit harder than the jet fuel had earlier: rich meats, warm bread, spiced stews, potatoes swimming in butter, rashers of bacon, and eggs scrambled with chives, roasted carrots, and something sweet baking still in the ovens. I took Sage’s hand and guided her up with me. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Just followed, eyes darting everywhere, over the rows of tables, the laughter, the way men clapped each other on the back like no one had nearly died hours before.

At the start of the line, I grabbed two plates and held them both. We moved together, shoulder to shoulder, and I filled them as we went. A ladle of stew, a slice of roast, bread with butter melting into the crust. Each time I set something on the plates, I caught her expression out of the corner of my eye, an almost invisible twitch of her mouth, a slight raise of her brows. She didn’t say what she liked, but I read her all the same. If she leaned in closer, I added more. If she gave that faint scrunch of her nose, I skipped on. She stayed quiet, her gaze sweeping the hall as she walked, studying it like a puzzle. Watching how the men talked with their mouths full, how Ma barked at one of them for reaching straight into a pan with his fingers, how Pa just sat at the head of the long table, silent and steady as a stone pillar. It hit me then, she wasn’t used to this. Not the food, not the noise, not the family woven into every board of this place. She was soaking it in, memorising how it worked, like someone who’d never seen it before. When our plates were heavy, I shifted them both into one hand, reached for hers with the other, and steered her through the tables, straight to where Pa sat, watching with that same quiet judgment

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Uncharted Waters.

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he’d given every man since the day I was born. I set the plates down, slid one in front of her, then took my seat beside him, with my girl at my side where she belonged.

We hadn’t even lifted our forks yet when Pa finally moved. The old man had been silent since we rolled up, hands folded over the table, face carved out of stone. Then his gaze cut sharp across the bench, locking on Sage.

“So,” he said, voice low and gravel–thick, his Irish lilt carrying the weight of a hammer. “You’re a Yakov ghost, eh?”

The table nearest us went still. Even Ma, bustling at the far end, slowed just enough to glance over her shoulder. Pa didn’t waste words, so when he spoke, everyone listened. Sage didn’t flinch, but I felt the way her spine went taut beside me. She lifted her chin, eyes steady on his, no retreat in them. The entire hall might as well have disappeared; it was just the two of them, her steel against his stone.

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