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  A lot. “You are a mystery to me.”

  She snorted with disgust and shook her head.

  Before she could condemn him, the words burst out of his mouth. “I’d like to court you.”

  That stopped any retort. She stared, clearly dumbfounded. Then, as realization sank in, she sighed. “With marriage in mind?”

  “One day, if all goes well between us.” It was the best he could offer.

  Her lip trembled ever so slightly before her fortitude reined it in. “I see.” She gathered her music. “I believe I would like to return to the boardinghouse now.”

  That was it? No answer? He stood with his jaw slack. “Then you...?”

  “I’m sorry, Sawyer.” She looked out the window, her cheeks dotted with red. “Time is the one thing I don’t have.”

  And he couldn’t give up time. They were at an impasse.

  * * *

  Fiona still felt horrible long after she went to bed that night. While Louise slept soundly, she stared into the darkness, looking for confirmation that she’d made the right decision. Instead, doubts crowded near. She had prayed for God to lead her to the proper husband. Yet when Sawyer asked to court her, she questioned that it was an answer to her prayer. She needed a husband now, not “perhaps one day.”

  Then again, she had feelings for Sawyer. Turning him down might have ruined any chance for happiness?

  Selfish fool! Her happiness was unimportant. All that mattered was Mary Clare’s future. Then, why did her decision feel like she’d condemned her niece also?

  Mr. Stockton might return looking for her.

  Sawyer might change his mind and promise a future.

  Or she might have ruined her only chance at marriage, no matter how far in the future it might be.

  How could she be certain she’d made the right decision?

  Fiona’s mother hadn’t faced such questions. Back in Ireland, she’d faced crushing poverty and few choices.

  “Can’t afford to be choosy,” she’d often told Fiona. “God wills what He will, and it’s our lot to accept with grace whatever may come.”

  For Ma, that meant leaving Ireland for the hope of a new country, only to find that poverty dogged America’s streets just like back home. What sorrow and disappointment that must have brought. Yet Ma carried her head high.

  Surely it wasn’t wrong to want the best for Mary Clare. The girl had a beautiful, clear voice that was always on pitch. Fiona could only dream of such a voice. Her niece had little chance of ever using that God-given gift if she remained in the tenements. Fiona had wanted to take her in a year ago, but Winslow Evanston had destroyed that possibility. He had smeared her reputation across the gossip pages, calling her a woman of loose morals—all because she insisted on exactly the reverse.

  Where was God’s will in that?

  Surely He did not enjoy seeing His children treated unfairly. Then again, had not Jesus endured false accusations? So too Paul and the apostles?

  She heaved a sigh. They accepted the insults as proof they were furthering God’s kingdom on Earth. She couldn’t claim that noble purpose. No, her goals had been practical. For Mary Clare’s sake, she had sought a husband in Singapore, Michigan, far from the vultures circling the bright lights of New York. Thus far her attempts had failed. Where could she turn now?

  She flipped onto her side, frustrated.

  “Are you awake?” Louise whispered.

  Fiona fought back a pang of guilt. “Sorry I woke you.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve had trouble sleeping lately too.”

  Fiona lay on her back again. “You seemed to be sleeping well to me.”

  Louise shifted to her side and rose on one elbow. “I can’t help thinking about Clara and the rest of the ladies. I nearly walked into just such a marriage.”

  “Are you talking about Garrett Decker?” Fiona didn’t recall Louise having much contact with the man beyond their first meeting.

  “Yes. It would have been all wrong.”

  “You didn’t know that then.”

  “I was desperate. I think they are too. There has to be a way to help them.”

  Fiona couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You think that too?”

  At Louise’s affirmation, Fiona explained her idea for a school for young ladies.

  Louise instantly warmed to the idea. “I could teach reading and the natural sciences.”

  Those weren’t the skills that Fiona had in mind, but now was not the time to mention that. “It’s just a dream. The fact is that I don’t have the money to make the school a reality.” Sawyer’s quick dismissal of the subject still stung. “Nor am I likely to ever get such funding.”

  “Oh. Maybe Captain Elder would invest in it, if they return this summer.”

  That was as far-fetched as anything Fiona had dreamed up. Dreams were all well and good, as Fiona’s mother had often told her, but living meant taking things as they were, not like you wished they could be. Fiona couldn’t make her dream a reality without money. The only way to get that kind of income was to marry into it. Her attempts thus far had fallen short. If Mr. Stockton had truly been considering her for his future wife, he would not have left town so suddenly nor treated her like a chambermaid. What was left? She’d already turned down Sawyer. No other prospects were in sight.

  “I suppose we’re back to marriage as the only solution,” Louise whispered with obvious disappointment.

  “I suppose we are.” Fiona sighed. “If only I had more time.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Fiona regretted not telling Louise sooner. “My niece is coming to Singapore.” She paused but Louise didn’t reply. “She’s my late sister Maeve’s only child. I promised to raise her.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “She’s just seven years old.” Fiona felt cold and callous, but there was no way around the fact that another person would need the bed soon.

  Louise understood. “Perhaps I’d better answer that advertisement that Clara and the rest are all stirred up about.” But she said that with resignation, not hope.

  Then Louise hadn’t written yet. Perhaps Mr. Stockton had intended to reach out to Fiona after all. She couldn’t understand his behavior around her, but no doubt he would explain everything once they met. She should be excited. Instead, the dread returned, followed by resignation. The time for hopeful dreams was over. As Ma said, she couldn’t afford to be choosy. She must care for her niece. That meant making every effort to marry Mr. Stockton. First thing in the morning, she would write a second letter.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sawyer whistled as he strolled from the sawmill to the mercantile. The VanderLeuvens had been so eager to close the deal that they’d agreed to his terms and arranged for the banker from Saugatuck to join them at the mill at the end of the workday. Minutes later, Sawyer had signed the paperwork.

  The hotel was his.

  The keys to the main entrance nestled in his pocket, making a comforting jingle when he walked. He now owned a business. What would Father think of that? More importantly, what would Fiona think? It might be enough to change her mind and accept his suit. Given her limited options, she could well see him in a new light.

  There was a bounce in Sawyer’s step. He nodded at every passerby, greeting him or her with extra friendliness. It never hurt to cultivate goodwill.

  He mentally made a list of things that needed doing. First, he would clean the lobby, dining room and kitchen. The dining-room wallpaper could be ordered. He would go over Fiona’s plans for the lobby and order necessary materials. Once the dining room and kitchen were ready, he would have to hire minimal staff. That all cut into what he could spend on renovations, but the income could more than make up for that shortfall. He hoped.

  The terms of the
bank loan made it impossible to leave his foreman position at the sawmill right now. He would need to hire someone to staff the registration desk on weekdays. The VanderLeuvens had agreed to do that while they packed their belongings, but they wouldn’t be here more than a week.

  His excitement slipped down a notch. Now the hard work began. He would need to lay out money before he got back a return. He had to hire help before any income came in. This was risky, but it was the leap of faith all entrepreneurs had to take. Sawyer had studied the options and had come up with some reasonable possibilities.

  Fiona had turned down his offer yesterday, but she might change her mind if he asked for her help rather than suggest it as a solution. She refused anything that looked like charity. He would pay her well, of course. She deserved it. The other lady at the boardinghouse, Mrs. Louise Smythe, might be eager enough for work to accept a housekeeping position at a lower wage—once he had paying guests.

  Sawyer pushed through the mercantile door, eager to tell Roland his news, only to hear the familiar voice of Mrs. Calloway. Her voice was always so loud that he suspected she had a hearing problem.

  “I tell you, I know who it is.”

  “All right,” Roland replied calmly, “but I don’t listen to or pass on rumors.”

  “It’s not a rumor. It’s fact, and either he comes out and tells those poor women or I’m gonna.”

  All thoughts of his good news evaporated. Sawyer had a bad feeling this little discussion was about him and the newspaper advertisement. Mrs. Calloway could have overheard just enough to piece together that he was the prospective groom. He sure didn’t want the boardinghouse proprietress spreading this around town.

  He hurried toward the counter, ready to intercede, but Roland, spotting him, held up a hand.

  “Now, there’s no use upsetting anyone,” the store manager told her calmly. “I have been assured that the gentleman in question will respond to each woman who writes.”

  Sawyer’s spirits bottomed out. He’d written those difficult notes to Clara and Dinah, but he still didn’t know how he was going to tell Fiona that he was the man in the advertisement. If she got upset when he asked to court her, what would she do when she learned the truth? Maybe he’d better wait until she accepted his suit. Until it was safe to tell Fiona, he had to do something to stop Mrs. Calloway from springing her news on her.

  He approached the counter. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Calloway.”

  The woman whipped around, her expression so much like a girl caught sneaking candies from the jar that Sawyer had to steel himself so he didn’t laugh.

  “Oh. Hello.” She ran a hand along the counter. “I was just tellin’ Mr. Roland about how I heard the other day that rutabagas are good for rheumatism.”

  Sawyer knew a last-minute explanation when he heard one, but he didn’t let on. “That’s interesting, but I’d have to try it before passing that on to anyone. We wouldn’t want to harm anyone, no matter how innocent our news seems.”

  “Right. Right.” Color dotted Mrs. Calloway’s cheeks, revealing she understood his hint. “I think I will, now that you mention it. My Ernie’d feel a lot better if it works.” She edged away from the counter and shot a glance at Roland. “Just send Jimmy on over with my order.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.”

  She hurried out of the mercantile, leaving Sawyer alone with Roland.

  “Close call,” Sawyer muttered.

  “I doubt she’ll stay silent for long. Have you written back to everyone?”

  “All but Fiona. Writing seems too impersonal, but the right moment to tell her hasn’t come up yet.”

  “You might want to hurry it up.” Roland turned and leafed through the cubbyholes he used to sort the mail. After checking several envelopes, he set one on the counter in front of Sawyer. “She wrote again.”

  “She did?” Sawyer picked up the envelope, though it felt like carrying hot shot between the furnace and the cannons. Dangerous. He glanced at the address. Sure enough, that was her handwriting. He let out his breath slowly. “Maybe she felt the need to express her feelings.” The thought of her and Stockton didn’t set well. “Or maybe she’s writing to say her affections lie elsewhere.” He hoped.

  “Could be.” But Roland sounded skeptical. “I, uh, need to find Jimmy out back. If you don’t mind, tell anyone who comes in that I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The store manager disappeared into the back room. Even though Sawyer had heard Mrs. Calloway ask to have Jimmy deliver her order, he suspected Roland had chosen to leave so Sawyer could read the letter. He sure didn’t have any privacy at the bunkhouse.

  Sawyer ripped open the envelope. The same fine paper, lightly scented, slipped from inside. He unfolded it. The note was longer than he’d anticipated, but then it usually did take a woman longer to get to the point.

  He focused on the words.

  Dear Sir,

  Under no circumstances do I mean to hurry you. An important businessman has far greater concerns than answering what must be a multitude of letters arriving in answer to your advertisement. I would like to reiterate my interest...

  Sawyer’s stomach turned. She wasn’t writing to withdraw her interest, she was confirming it. Fiona thought Stockton had placed the advertisement. That’s where her interest lay. She would not be reconsidering Sawyer’s offer to court her. He should be pleased. He couldn’t afford a wife and child, not with the debt he’d just accepted. But the memory of Julia’s betrayal resurfaced. Julia had broken her engagement to him in order to marry a wealthier man. Fiona was doing the same.

  His blood boiled as he crumpled the piece of paper.

  Again the mercantile doorbell jingled. This time Fiona herself swept toward the counter.

  Sawyer stuffed the crumpled letter into his coat pocket.

  “Sawyer! How delightful to see you.” Yet her attention shifted at once to Roland, who fortuitously popped out of the back room. “Did Mrs. Calloway stop in with her order?”

  Roland covered the distance between them in seconds. “She just left. You should have crossed paths on the boardwalk.”

  “I didn’t. Isn’t that odd?” Fiona tilted her head just so, showing her profile to good advantage.

  Wasn’t that exactly what Julia had done when Sawyer was courting her? Except she didn’t limit that flirtatious glance to just him. No, she’d cast her gaze on every man whose prospects surpassed his. That wouldn’t happen this time.

  Fiona once again turned to him. “I’ll see you at the hotel tonight.”

  “Not tonight.” He didn’t trust himself to say more.

  “Is something wrong? I thought you wanted to meet.”

  “Not tonight.” Sawyer slapped his hat on his head. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening...”

  Her voice trailed off as he strode through the store, eager to get as far away from her as possible. He needed quiet. He needed somewhere to think this through. He needed to get away from her before his temper caught fire and he blasted a hole in his future.

  What had possessed him to think Fiona, of all women, would be different? She didn’t hide her interest in climbing the social ladder. Her dresses were so brightly hued as to be considered gaudy. No doubt she’d drawn the adoration of men during her time on the New York stage. Men. Not just one. She was accustomed to getting whatever she wanted from a man. He’d been a fool to fall for her.

  * * *

  Fiona sat in the writing room attempting to read, but she couldn’t stop puzzling over Sawyer’s peculiar behavior. He’d been abrupt, almost as if he didn’t want to see her. Fear stabbed through her. She’d seen that sort of behavior before. Men who’d previously doted on her suddenly wouldn’t look her in the eye or would cast furtive glances toward the door. Invariably it meant they’d lied to her about their marital stat
us and feared imminent discovery. That wasn’t the case with Sawyer.

  Something must have happened to upset him. Perhaps the purchase of the hotel didn’t go through. Her chest tightened, making it more difficult than usual to draw a breath. He’d put everything and more into that venture. It had to work out. If there was anything she could say to the VanderLeuvens...

  She rose, intending to march over there right now.

  “Where are you heading off to?” Mrs. Calloway remarked as she swept through the room.

  Fiona sat back down. “Nowhere.” She’d reacted without thinking. Sawyer’s distress might not have anything to do with the hotel at all. He might be sore that she’d refused his offer. In that case, their friendship was shattered.

  “Haven’t seen you wear that dress before,” Mrs. Calloway said. “Did you borrow it?”

  “No, it’s mine.”

  “Imagine that!”

  Fiona could see how people might not believe that she owned such a plain, poorly sewn gown. The old gray dress was a remnant from her days before the stage. She kept it as a reminder of how far she’d come. She also donned it whenever she got tired of the attention and wanted to vanish in the crowd.

  Today was just such a day. She picked up the book again and tried to read.

  The words blurred as doubts and regrets overwhelmed her. Writing to Mr. Stockton had taken great resolve. Each word burned, for the truth she’d so carefully guarded all those years in New York had been thrown away. She wasn’t eager to meet him. She didn’t want to marry him. She had to marry, and that was a lot different. If only Sawyer had proposed or promised marriage. She would have gladly accepted, but he had not. So she’d written to Mr. Stockton. Now the letter was in his hands. Roland had confirmed it when she inquired after Sawyer stormed out of the store. There was no turning back.

  She set down the book and rubbed the bridge of her nose where a headache was forming. One of the girls plunked out a tune on the piano with painful results. Every measure included a wrong note, and the tempo was so uneven that no one could decipher what tune was being attempted.