Chapter 32: Five Years On
The morning sun streamed through the windows of Michael Clarke's house, casting warm light across the polished wooden floors. The home, nestled on the edge of town, was a testament to the success he and his family had achieved over the past five years. The two-story structure was sturdy, with a whitewashed exterior, a welcoming porch adorned with Abigail's favorite flowers, and a chimney that whispered of warmth within.
Inside, the house was a blend of practicality and elegance. The sitting room was lined with bookshelves—many of the volumes gifts for Sarah, whose love for reading had only deepened. A large dining table dominated the adjoining room, where family meals were shared whenever the Clarke family visited from the farm. Upstairs, the bedrooms were cozy, filled with handwoven quilts and wooden furniture crafted by James and Thomas Turner.
Michael stood in the doorway of his study, gazing out the window at the bustling town below. Marietta had grown significantly in the past five years. The once-sparse settlement was now a lively community, with cobblestone streets, a growing marketplace, and new businesses lining the main road. The sound of blacksmiths hammering, merchants shouting their wares, and children playing filled the air, a melody of progress and prosperity.
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A Ride Through Town
Michael saddled his horse, a sturdy chestnut mare named Belle, and mounted her with practiced ease. He adjusted his hat, the leather worn but reliable, and began his ride through town.
As he passed the bustling market, townsfolk waved and called out to him. He was well-known and respected in Marietta—not just as a successful farmer and businessman but as a man who had helped the town weather its challenges.
"Morning, Michael!" called Mrs. Porter, the baker, holding a tray of fresh bread.
"Morning!" he replied, tipping his hat.
He hadn't gone far when he spotted two familiar figures walking toward him. The first was Mayor Franklin, a rotund man with a jovial demeanor and a penchant for grand speeches. Beside him was Sheriff Collins, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a no-nonsense attitude and a tin star that gleamed in the sunlight.
"Michael!" Mayor Franklin called, waving a hand. "Just the man we were hoping to see!"
Michael slowed Belle to a stop, smiling down at them. "Good morning, gentlemen. What brings you out so early?"
"Town matters, as always," Sheriff Collins said gruffly. "But more importantly, we heard some news about next week."
Michael's smile widened. "Ah, so word's gotten out."
Mayor Franklin chuckled. "Of course it has! A wedding between two of Marietta's finest? It's the talk of the town. Abigail must be thrilled."
"She is," Michael said warmly. "And so am I. I was just on my way to the bar to finalize some arrangements. But since I've run into you, consider this your formal invitation. Next Saturday, at the farm."
The mayor clapped his hands together. "We wouldn't miss it for the world. Congratulations, Michael."
"Thank you," Michael said, nodding.
Sheriff Collins tilted his hat. "You'll have my best wishes, but I'll also be keeping an eye out. Big gatherings like that can attract trouble."
Michael's expression grew serious. "I appreciate that. But I've made sure we'll have plenty of protection."
The sheriff grunted in approval. "Good man."
With that, the two men continued on their way, and Michael urged Belle forward, the bar now in sight.
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The Bar and Inn
The Clarke Bar and Inn was a cornerstone of the town. Built three years ago, it was one of Michael's proudest ventures. The two-story building had a welcoming facade, with large windows and a sign painted in bold letters above the door. Inside, the bar was warm and inviting, with polished wood counters, sturdy tables, and a crackling fireplace in the corner.
The inn upstairs had six cozy rooms, often filled with travelers passing through Marietta or merchants staying for business.
As Michael entered, he was greeted by the familiar sounds of laughter and conversation. Jacob, the bartender Michael had hired last year, was polishing glasses behind the counter.
"Morning, boss," Jacob said with a grin. "You're up early."
"Morning, Jacob. Just checking in," Michael replied, glancing around the room. "Everything running smoothly?"
"As smooth as the whiskey," Jacob said.
Michael chuckled. He walked over to the counter, discussing plans for the wedding reception and ensuring there was enough stock to keep the guests happy.
Before long, he was back on Belle, heading out of town and toward the farm.
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The Ride Home
The ride to the farm was peaceful, the landscape a patchwork of vibrant green fields and blossoming trees. The Clarke farm came into view, its sprawling land bordered by a wooden fence.
The barn stood tall, freshly painted, and the mill nearby hummed with activity as James and Thomas worked to grind grain. Abigail's garden flourished beside the house, a riot of colors and scents that spoke of her care and dedication.
As Michael approached, he felt a sense of contentment. The past five years had been challenging, but they had built something enduring—something worth fighting for.
He dismounted and tied Belle to the fence before walking toward the house. Abigail stepped out onto the porch, her smile lighting up his world.
"You're back," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"Of course," Michael replied, climbing the steps. "I couldn't stay away for long."
She laughed softly, and for a moment, everything else faded away.
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