Mail Order Sweetheart

The petite woman’s chin lifted. “An experiment, shall we say?”

“Can’t say I like the sound of that.”

“Oh, it’s not trying. I simply wished to inquire about your thoughts on a particular topic.”

“What topic?” He had the suspicion he was stepping somewhere he shouldn’t go.

“A topic of which you are particularly well versed.”

“Oh?” This definitely sounded like trouble, but he couldn’t imagine what she thought was his area of expertise. Sawing logs, sure, but no woman had any interest in that. Mrs. Smythe couldn’t possibly know about his past. Or did she? He steeled himself.

She cast her gaze down. “Which would you say a man prefers—a practically dressed woman or one in all her finery?”

At first Sawyer breathed out in relief. Then he figured there must be a trap in her question, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Unless she was fishing for compliments. He had to tread carefully.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh, appreciate both. At the right time.”

She lifted her face, which wore a frown. “That doesn’t answer the question. If all extenuating circumstances are the same, which would you prefer?”

First she threw a word at him that the Sawyer Evans he’d carefully crafted wouldn’t understand. Then she insisted on an answer. Fine. He’d give her the one she wanted.

“You look good, Mrs. Smythe.”

A sigh of disgust escaped her lips just as Fiona glided into the room. Relief flooded over him until he recalled what he must tell the beautiful redhead.

“Sawyer, I’m surprised to see you.” Fiona always made a grand entrance, and today was no exception. Her right arm floated through the air as if scooping the entire world into her domain. Her hair, her gown, that gaudy necklace, everything about her was designed to make a stunning impression. But her talent impressed him more than all of that put together.

“Fiona.” He crossed the room, took her extended hand, just like before their concerts, and kissed it. “You look lovely this afternoon.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Louise roll her eyes and heard her snort of disgust. So, the widow was jealous. The idea made him grin. It had been a long time since women competed for his attention. Before the war, he’d drawn his share of female interest even though Father and Mother had long planned for him to marry Julia Spencer. When he courted her, Father had congratulated him on following the plan. Then he learned what sort of man his father truly was, and the world shifted abruptly. He enlisted. Julia abandoned him and married another man. His father opposed him in every way. It was war at home as well as on the front.

“Louise said you had an important message for me.” Fiona’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Has a ship arrived?”

“A ship? Why would you care about a ship’s arrival?”

She seemed to relax. “Then none has docked?”

“Right. No ships.” He glanced at Louise, who was still perched on the edge of the sofa, at least pretending to read a book. He didn’t want to break the important news with anyone else present, so he rattled on about the other news of importance. “Stockton wants the schooner finished as soon as possible, so Garrett asked me to take over his duties at the mill.”

He puffed up a bit at the confidence the sawmill manager had shown in his abilities. Sawyer hadn’t been raised for hard labor. Father always said that was reserved for the lower classes. But Sawyer liked the good, honest feel of aching muscles and a job well done.

“That’s why you insisted on speaking to me? Because you’ve been promoted?” Fiona didn’t look the slightest bit impressed.

He should have known. “I thought you might be happy for me.”

“Of course I am.” Her lips curved into a smile, but her eyes darted toward Louise with the obvious intent of sending the widow scurrying.

Louise gathered her book and rose. “Please excuse me. Mrs. Calloway must need help in the kitchen.” She left the room.

“There.” Fiona breathed out. “I thought she would never leave.”

Sawyer hadn’t been mistaken. Fiona definitely had more than the usual sense of purpose this afternoon.

She strolled toward the parlor entrance. When he didn’t follow, she returned and threaded her arm around his. “Now tell me the real reason you called on me today.”

Sawyer swallowed. This wasn’t going to be easy, and he didn’t relish that she was standing so close when he delivered the news.

“Well?” she demanded.

He cleared his throat and said a quick prayer that he didn’t botch this. “Uh, word about Mr. Blakeney arrived at the store.”

“Word.” Any hint of merriment drained from her voice.

“Uh. Yes.”

“And they sent you to tell me.” She let go of his arm.

He nodded, his throat as dry as sawdust.

“It’s not good news, is it?”

Sawyer blew out his breath. Best to get it out. “He’s gone. He headed upriver to Allegan.”

He couldn’t miss the dots of color on her cheeks.

“Carson left,” she said bluntly.

“I’m afraid so.”

“When will he return?”

“Uh, he didn’t leave word about that. He just paid his hotel bill and left.”

It took a moment for understanding to settle in. Then her eyelids blinked rapidly. Oh no, she was going to cry. She never cried. That was one thing Sawyer loved about Fiona. She was a strong woman not prone to fits of emotion.

“Well, then. That’s that.” But there was bitterness in her voice. “I should have known.”

Sawyer wished he could find the right words. Blakeney was all wrong for her. Fiona needed a strong man who could match her energy and wits. Blakeney was one of those slippery types who made promises he never kept. It had taken all of Sawyer’s will to hold his tongue around them.

“You deserve better,” he said.

She gave him a sharp look. “Who? You?” Her hands braced her hips. “Why should a woman set her sights on a man who hasn’t two pennies to rub together?”

Chapter Two

Fiona was left empty-handed with her niece due to arrive any day. She couldn’t raise the girl in a boardinghouse. Without a reliable income, she couldn’t raise Mary Clare at all. Though she fumed at Blakeney’s cowardice, she did so in the privacy of her room. By evening, she was able to set aside her anger and work on a solution.

She spread out every newspaper she could find on the dining-room table. Chicago. Holland. Grand Rapids. Even one very old paper from New York that must have been brought in by a lumberjack stopping on his way upriver to the camps. Even though it was almost three months old, she couldn’t discount any possibility.

“What are you doing?” Louise ducked in, book in hand.

“What I should have done long ago.” Fiona shot the widow a forceful glance. “Something we both should have done. Find a husband.”

“Oh.” Louise dropped her book on the table.

“Pride and Prejudice?” Fiona had heard of that novel. “I would have thought you’d read that one by now.”

“Several times. It’s one of my favorites. Elizabeth misjudges Darcy so.” Louise sighed. “And yet it all works out in the end. Love conquers all.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows at Louise’s romantic wistfulness. The quiet widow apparently still harbored hope for a loving marriage. She had shown no interest in Garrett Decker, the man looking for a bride, but had swooned over Garrett’s younger brother, Roland. They all had, but Roland had settled on the schoolteacher, Pearl, putting an end to their hopes. When the Decker brothers married Pearl Lawson and Amanda Porter in January, the most eligible bachelors in Singapore were taken.

Only lumberjacks and mill workers were left until Carson Blakeney made an appearance. He’d seemed the perfect gentleman with his fine manners and expensive suits, but he’d turned out to be a coward. Once again, the area offered only unsuitable bachelors. Sawyer Evans was intriguing. She’d never met anyone with more natural musical ability, but he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—provide the sort of future she had in mind for Mary Clare. That was proved by his shocked expression when she flatly suggested it. Then he’d gone and spit out some nonsense about it having to be the right time. Yet another coward!

“Love might win out in storybooks, but real life isn’t nearly as tidy,” Fiona pointed out. “Now that the Decker brothers are married and Carson left town, there isn’t a decent prospect in the area.”

“Mr. Blakeney left town?”

“Isn’t that what I just said? He apparently had business to attend to elsewhere.” Fiona pretended to search the newspaper, though it was not opened to the advertisements.

“I’m terribly sorry.”

Louise truly was. Fiona wasn’t accustomed to sympathy. Most women held her at arm’s length, as if she wasn’t good enough to associate with them.

“Well, what’s done is done,” Fiona asserted, “and there’s nothing that will change it.”

“Thus the newspapers.”

“Thus the newspapers.”

“Mr. Evans likes you,” Louise stated.

“Humph.” The memory of Sawyer’s stammered response still hurt. She’d practically asked him to marry her. “Well, I’m not interested in him.”

“Oh.” Louise sank into the chair beside her. “He’s doing well. Amanda said he’s now the manager at the sawmill.”

“That’s what he told me.”

“And you’re still not interested? Garrett Decker was mill manager when he advertised for a wife.”

“He didn’t advertise,” Fiona pointed out. “His children—with the help of Mrs. Calloway—placed the notice in the newspaper. Speaking of which, I intend to locate another prospect at once.” She scanned the first column. No personal advertisements.

“Because the hotel hasn’t reopened yet?”

“That’s part of it.” The occasional concerts at the boardinghouse this winter reduced the cost of her room and board but didn’t give her money to send home. When the hotel closed in January, they’d all been shocked, but Mrs. VanderLeuven told Fiona that she couldn’t make ends meet in the winter once the lumberjacks left for the camps. “It will reopen soon.” It had to.

“I hope so.”

Fiona looked to Louise. The widow had been out of work all winter also. That’s why they were now sharing a room—which would soon include Mary Clare. Three wouldn’t do, not with one being a child. Another room would be required, preferably for Louise. “Did you plan to seek employment there?”

Louise lowered her gaze. “It was a possibility.”

“You could also remarry. That was your plan when you came to Singapore.”

Louise shook her head. “It was the only option at the time. Now?” She sighed. “I still hope for a loving husband who follows the Lord. I can only marry a man of strong faith.”

Fiona mulled that over. She had once felt the same, but circumstances had destroyed that hope. No man of faith who heard the vile and unfounded rumors about her in the New York newspapers would ever accept her for a wife.

“I hope you find him.” But the issue of Mary Clare’s pending arrival weighed on Fiona. Neither she nor Louise could wait for a husband to drop in her lap.

“It’s just a dream.” Louise’s eyes misted, and Fiona wondered what had happened in the widow’s marriage to leave her so reluctant to reenter the institution. Direct inquiry had gotten Fiona nowhere, so she stated the obvious.

“Then you must find employment. You might tutor students, I suppose.”

Louise brightened. “I would like that.”

“Talk to Pearl. She’ll know which students need extra help—and which parents can afford to pay for it.”

“Thank you.” Louise leaned close and lowered her voice. “You don’t need to resort to marrying a man you’ve never met. You could give vocal lessons.”

Fiona laughed. “Have you noticed the type of families in the area? Farmers. Mill workers. Lumberjacks. None of these place a high value on musical prowess, not enough to pay for lessons. No, my course is set. I must marry.”

“Why not go back to New York?”

No doubt that was the question all the women had wanted to ask her since they first arrived in August, but only quiet little Louise Smythe had actually done it. Maybe that woman had more gumption than Fiona had credited to her.

“There is only heartache in New York.” Fiona wasn’t ready to reveal more. The men there had courted her either for show or for their own purposes, never with marriage in mind. Fortunately, she always discovered the truth before it was too late, but rumors still threatened. By active involvement with her church and charity, she’d managed to stop most of them. Until last spring. Mr. Winslow Evanston wooed her with gifts and charm that blinded her for a time. When she discovered his lies and refused to become his mistress, he vilified her in the newspapers. Never again would she trust a man without a ring on her finger. “I doubt I’ll ever go back.”

“Me either.”

Fiona really looked at Louise. Her features were nondescript, but she had a strong chin and surprising inner fortitude. “Your husband died in the war, right?”

Louise looked away. “Yes.”

Heartache. Fiona could recognize that from miles away. And it wasn’t just because he’d died. No, that marriage hadn’t been a happy one. It couldn’t have been, or the family would have taken her in.

“Well, then. We both need a good husband.” Fiona ran her finger down the second column. “Here’s one—‘Handsome man seeks pretty, vivacious wife. Must cook.’”

“That fits you but not me.”

“You can cook.”

“Not as well as you. The bread and rolls you make melt in my mouth.” Louise shook her head. “I don’t fit one single criteria. Besides, I’d rather not marry a handsome man.”

“Why on earth not?”

“They tend to think too highly of themselves.”

Fiona snorted out a laugh. “Honey, they all do, and I can guarantee you’ll never find an advertiser that admits he’s homely.”

“Maybe I won’t turn to an advertisement.” Once again Louise had squared her shoulders and set her jaw. “Maybe God will send the right man here.”

“To Singapore? You’ve seen the kind of men who come here. Rough lumberjacks and mill workers. There’s not a one who cares about book learning. I doubt many of them can read. You’ll never find a gentleman here.”

Louise looked crestfallen.

Fiona regretted her rash words. “Then again, you never know. Anything could happen.”

“It is possible. Roland and Garrett Decker are gentlemen.”

“Married gentlemen.”

“Yes, but not when we first arrived. Another might step off the next ship. I must hope for it.” Louise trembled as she picked up her book. “I believe I’ll go to the parlor and read. Best wishes on your search.” She rose.

The windows rattled, drawing both ladies’ attention. They’d heard it often enough since arriving. First the wind. Then the rain or snow. But this was particularly vicious, considering the calm earlier that day.

Louise left for the parlor, and Fiona tackled the advertisements again. She circled the one she’d read to Louise, even though the part she hadn’t read aloud wasn’t nearly as promising. ‘Willing to work hard to build a new life.’ That sounded like a homesteader. Fiona wasn’t opposed to hard work, but she couldn’t bring Mary Clare into that sort of life, not when the girl displayed such vocal talent.

She crossed that one off and resumed the hunt.

* * *

Sawyer noted the increased wind when he left the boardinghouse kitchen after getting an early supper. He trudged to the mercantile, still irritated over Fiona’s jab. She clearly didn’t think him worthy of her, but she knew nothing about him. He would have defended himself if she’d stayed in the room. Then again, what could he say? He couldn’t admit his past. He’d broken all contact with his manipulative, philandering father. Even though he ached for his mother, Sawyer would never return home. He wrote his mother and prayed for her, but he wouldn’t risk encountering Father. Without that parentage, he could never impress Fiona. She wanted a man with money. He didn’t want a woman to love him for his father’s money. He wanted a woman to love him. But not yet. That’s why he had to talk to Roland.

The wind tore at his open coat and bit into his neck. He hopped up the steps to the mercantile and pushed open the door. The bell rang. He looked around. The place was empty except for Pearl Decker, who stood behind the sales counter.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Evans. May I help you?”

Pearl had come to Singapore as the new schoolteacher, but it didn’t take long for Roland Decker, the mercantile manager, to fall for her. The big fire last November that leveled the schoolhouse had sealed things between them. He proposed. She accepted. And in January, when the itinerant preacher came around, they married.

Sawyer stepped a little farther inside and looked toward the back. No one was gathered around the stove. No one was shopping. “Where’s Roland?”

“He headed up to the lighthouse. Word arrived that there’s a ship headed for trouble. Mr. Blackthorn lit the light early, trying to warn them off. Naturally, every able-bodied man went to have a look.”

“You don’t say. Maybe I ought to go too. But first I need to ask you something.”

“Oh?”

His palms sweated. Why did he get nervous around women? It had been that way ever since his fiancée, Julia, rejected him.

He cleared his throat. “That, uh, advertisement we were joking about earlier this afternoon... I, uh, wondered if I could have it?” The few scraps of paper in his pocket didn’t contain any of the words.

Pearl blinked. “Oh! Of course.”

She moved the ledger, then looked under the counter. Then she disappeared from view.

Sawyer moved to the counter and peered over. She was on her hands and knees.

“What are you doing, Mrs. Decker?”

She looked up, her faced flushed. “I don’t know where it went.”

“It? There were just scraps.” He pulled the few he had from his pocket.

“Well, uh, not exactly.” She stood, squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I owe you an apology, it seems. I rewrote the advertisement, hoping to persuade you, but now it’s gone.”

Sawyer got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Gone where?”

She swallowed. “There’s only one place it could have gone. It must have gotten mixed up with the advertisements for the store that I gave to Mr. Hennigan earlier.”

“What?” Sawyer gulped as his mind spun with possibilities. “Are you saying that it will be printed?” But he knew the answer. The presses would already be whirring at this hour. By morning, all of Singapore would think he was in the market for a wife.

“I’m so sorry,” Pearl said again. “Perhaps nothing will come of it.”

“I hope so.” Scowling, he tipped a finger to his hat and hustled back out into the wind, where he could concentrate on something much easier to handle. The biting cold was real. That advertisement wasn’t. He’d just ignore it. It didn’t give his name, after all. Maybe the whole thing would blow over in a few days.

A mournful whistle drew his attention toward Lake Michigan. What was a misplaced advertisement compared to a ship in trouble? One or two vessels had lost propulsion since he arrived in Singapore. Most got into port safely, but some had grounded on the shifting sandbars. With the southwesterly gale blowing in and the sandbars that formed over winter, a ship could easily find itself aground.

He squinted at the lighthouse and made out the light. The sun must be near the horizon by now, but heavy clouds obscured it. Soon enough it would get dark. Hopefully the ship would reach the river mouth before then.

The lighthouse was perched atop the big dune that separated Singapore from the shores of Lake Michigan. Since the first lighthouse had been undercut and toppled into the river, this one was built farther from the water, and the dune had been reinforced with slabs of limestone to stop the seas from eroding the sands beneath it.

The town was nestled between the growing lakeshore dunes and older ones that had once been covered with trees. These days, any gale filled the streets with sand. It even worked its way into the buildings and had to be swept out and shoveled away constantly.

He hurried up the dune. Roland Decker and a handful of men were gathered near the lighthouse, peering at the lake. Already the waves were crashing onshore. Six to eight footers, he’d judge, and they would only build. A passenger steamer rolled in the trough maybe a quarter mile offshore. No smoke trickled from the stack.

“Engines must be down,” Sawyer noted to the group, which included mill workers Edwards and Tuggman plus Ernie Calloway from the boardinghouse and Roland’s brother, Garrett. The lighthouse keeper, Blackthorn, must be up in the tower, but two of his boys had gathered with the men.

“That’s what we figure,” Roland confirmed. “Mr. Blackthorn says there’s a sandbar about a hundred yards from shore, directly in their path. If they ground, the waves will tear them apart, and that water’s too cold for anyone to survive.”

Sawyer whistled. “Better hope they get their engines going.” How many people were aboard? It looked like the ship that had brought Fiona to town. The thought of women and children going down made him ill. “Have they put up any sail?” He couldn’t see if the ship had masts, not without looking through the glass.

“Don’t think they got any,” Edwards muttered.

Sawyer clenched his hands, visions of Fiona flailing in stiff seas flashing through his mind. “They need something to generate enough power so they can steer toward the river mouth.”

“That’s something we can pray for,” Roland said. “Let’s do it.”

Sawyer hesitated. Like most, he tossed up the occasional plea, but the barbarities of war had dimmed his belief that God answered every prayer. This was crucial, though, so after Roland led the prayer, Sawyer answered amen.

God often worked through men, so he pointed out, “We need to be ready to rescue them.”

The keeper appeared at his elbow. “Too dangerous. We can’t go risking people’s lives when there’s not much chance we could reach ’em.”

Sawyer couldn’t accept that. “What boats are available?”

Roland shrugged. “We could launch a rowboat.”

Even the strongest men couldn’t row into that sea. “We need sail or steam. Anything around?”

“My mackinaw boat,” Blackthorn offered.

Sawyer was familiar with the small sailing craft. “That’s got an awfully shallow draft. It’ll struggle to make any headway in these waves.”

They all knew it.

“We need a deep-draft sailboat or, better yet, a steam tug,” Sawyer pointed out. “Can we get the Donnie Belle down from upriver?”

“She must be all the way up to Allegan by now,” Edwards said. “She left here Monday and don’t come back this way for another week.”

Sawyer frowned. Singapore didn’t have a steam tug. Neither did Saugatuck, not one that was running this time of year. Without a tug, the people on that steamer didn’t stand a chance.

Chapter Three

“There’s a passenger ship in trouble,” Mrs. Calloway announced to Fiona as she hurried through the dining room on her way to the kitchen. “We’re going to need every bed in the place made up and every spare blanket brought over to the lighthouse.”

A passenger ship! Fiona’s heart leaped into her throat. Mary Clare. What if her niece was on that ship? She pushed aside the newspapers, husband-hunting forgotten, and raced to the entry hall. In a second, she donned her cloak.

“Where are you going?” the boardinghouse proprietress asked.

“I have to do something to help.” Fiona couldn’t bring herself to mention the fear that was building in her chest. A seven-year-old girl. A sinking ship. Icy water. What if?

“You can help right here. We need to carry blankets to the lighthouse.”

The lighthouse would do. From there she could see what was happening and learn what would be done. If the passengers were brought ashore, she could then bring Mary Clare here and warm her up.