Mail Order Sweetheart Page 17

  Fiona took a deep breath and attempted again to focus on her book. Instead, her mind drifted. Perhaps something had happened at the mill and Sawyer wasn’t angry with her at all. She hated to lose his friendship. That must be why her heart ached so much. But she’d had no choice. She had to write again to Mr. Stockton. She’d made the right choice. It had to be right. Mary Clare could arrive any day.

  Please, Lord, for Mary Clare’s sake if not for mine.

  Her niece needed a real home, not a tenement and not a boardinghouse room.

  “There’s a ship coming into port!” The excited shout sounded like Linore’s voice.

  The squeals that followed were undoubtedly those of the rest of the young ladies, except perhaps Dinah, who still hoped to catch Sawyer’s attention.

  Mary Clare. Fiona’s niece might finally arrive. She set the book aside and made her way to the front hall, where she found the girls and their escorts clustered. Mr. Adamson was attempting to quiet the group, who had pulled on coats and hats, presumably because they intended to go to the docks to see the ship for themselves. Linore, cheeks rosy from the cold, was still bundled in coat and bonnet and mittens. How she’d managed to leave the boardinghouse at this hour was a mystery. The Adamsons kept a close watch on their charges.

  After holding up a hand for a good twenty seconds, Mr. Adamson was able to slow their eagerness. “First we must wait for any passengers to disembark.”

  Fiona’s heart pounded. Was she ready for the added responsibility of a little girl? Louise had not yet moved out of their room, though she had packed her belongings.

  “At the proper time we will walk together to the dock,” Mr. Adamson was saying. “Mind you, I will escort only those young ladies who are quiet and well-mannered.”

  That sent the group into the parlor to sit quietly for Mr. Adamson’s direction and cleared the way for Fiona. She donned her cloak and swept from the boardinghouse. If that precious little girl was on board the incoming ship, Fiona needed to be on the dock. Mary Clare must see a friendly face, even if it was only in the glow of the lanterns lining the wharf.

  * * *

  Sawyer’s bunkmates left the cabin to meet the incoming ship. Doubtless they hoped to snag a treasured commodity at a cut-rate price or dazzle any incoming young ladies. Their initial hopes for the Harmony-bound brides had been cut short by the Adamsons’ vigilance. Chester had apparently managed to see Linore earlier tonight before she had to run back to the boardinghouse. Though he bragged about it, Sawyer suspected the couple had been interrupted by Mr. Adamson.

  “You’re better off without her,” Sawyer had counseled the young lumberjack.

  Maybe he’d better take his own advice. He’d taken a risk by asking Fiona if he could court her, and she’d refused him. Not only that, she’d written again to the advertised groom that she believed was Stockton. Fickle woman! Just like Julia. Inconstant as the breeze. He couldn’t trust any of them.

  In the light of the oil lamp, Sawyer smoothed out her offensive letter. He held a corner to the flame. Fiona’s elegant hand was perfectly straight, as if she’d used another sheet of paper as a guide for each line. The corner caught on fire. The flame burned downward, toward her beautiful script. He suddenly had a vision of Fiona cornered by fire and blew out the flame.

  His hand shook. What was wrong with him?

  He held the letter up to the lamp again. This time he let the flames devour her letter, just as her single-minded focus on marrying a wealthy man had destroyed his love for her. Love? Was it possible this hurt so much because he’d come to love her?

  A ship’s whistle blew, and he shook off the unwelcome thoughts. Dwelling on the past would get him nowhere. An incoming ship meant passengers. Passengers could be hotel customers.

  His romantic life might be in a shambles, but he could take pride in the fact that he was the new owner of Astor House. He wasn’t just a saw operator or mill manager any longer. He owned and ran a hotel. Yes, the VanderLeuvens were still there, but he needed to take the lead, not sulk in his cabin over a woman.

  He took off at a brisk pace for the hotel.

  * * *

  Fiona peered into the gloom of dusk. Night was falling faster than the ship could get moored at the dock. It would be dark before any passengers disembarked. She scanned the railing, looking for any sign of a young girl.

  Would she recognize Mary Clare? It had been over a year since she’d last seen her. First, the family agreed that the girl needed both a mother and a father. Fiona would support Mary Clare while seeking a husband. Then Lillibeth claimed Fiona kept disreputable company. Considering the way things turned out with Winslow Evanston, Lillibeth had a point. Fiona thought Singapore would be the answer, but more than seven months here had not produced a husband.

  She focused on the incoming ship. The girl had dark hair, like Maeve’s husband, who’d disappeared shortly after the girl was born. Mary Clare was short—or had been—for her age. The child might have grown over the past year.

  Many passengers stood at the promenade railing, watching those ashore as intently as the residents of Singapore watched them. The lamps cast them as featureless silhouettes. Fiona couldn’t spot any who appeared to be children, and Lillibeth had said she was sending Mary Clare west with a group of orphans. If they were still together, Fiona should see several children. They might have parted company, though. Her sister had not explained if the orphans were proceeding north by ship or west by train.

  She blew out her breath in frustration.

  The ship slowly came alongside the dock. Thick lines were cast ashore, and men from the mill wrapped the lines around heavy pilings. Only after that long process was complete did the ship extend a gangway.

  At last passengers began to disembark.

  Fiona moved toward the gangway with the rest of the crowd, but she couldn’t get close or see over the men.

  “It’s always exciting,” said a familiar voice at her elbow. Pearl Decker. “It was when we arrived.”

  “Yes, it was,” Fiona said absently. She searched the scant number of people disembarking. “Looks like more workers for the sawmill.” Sawyer would be busy. An ache settled into her heart.

  “Yes, it does. Roland said he expected an influx about now. The bulk of the spring rush should be here soon, and they’ll get the second mill up and running.”

  The words floated over Fiona’s head. She scanned the gangway over and over. No children. None at all.

  “She must not be on this ship,” she murmured.

  “Who?”

  Fiona had forgotten that Pearl was still at her side. “My niece. My sister is sending her here, but she didn’t say when.”

  “How exciting. Is she of school age?”

  Naturally, Pearl’s thoughts would wander that way since she was the schoolteacher. Fiona supposed Mary Clare would need to attend school here, though that thought hadn’t crossed her mind. My, oh, my, how was she ever going to be a decent mother when she couldn’t recall the most basic things?

  “Yes, she is,” Fiona admitted. “She’s seven.”

  “Perfect. We’d be delighted to have her join us. She can tell us about growing up in the city.”

  That was exactly what Fiona did not want Mary Clare telling people. No one needed to hear about the cramped quarters, the rats, the filth and the illness. She would have to school her niece on what was appropriate to say and what was not.

  A woman appeared at the top of the gangway. With her was a small girl. Fiona’s heart leaped in her chest. Was it Mary Clare?

  She stumbled forward. Now that the bulk of passengers had disembarked, the crowds ashore had thinned. The new mill workers had met their cohorts. After introductions, they’d left to settle into their new quarters or to whet their thirst at one of the saloons. Fiona could walk all the way to the base of the gangw
ay.

  “Auntie!” cried the girl.

  Fiona extended her arms, overwhelmed by a wave of affection for the little girl. “Mary Clare!”

  The girl left the woman and ran down the gangway, straight into Fiona’s arms.

  Fiona knelt, oblivious to the wet, dirty docks. What was a little dirt when her darling niece had arrived safely?

  “Let me look at you.” Fiona held the girl at arm’s length.

  In the light of the lanterns, she could make out the dark, straight hair and an impish smile.

  “My, you’ve grown.” Fiona again embraced the girl, who soon squirmed so much that Fiona released her from the hug. “Where is your bag?”

  The girl shrugged. “I got lots to tell you. There was this huge horse that brought me to the ship.” The little girl chattered on, hopping from one marvel to another without much connection other than that all these wonders had occurred during her trip from New York to here.

  A man dressed in a long, black coat tapped his cane impatiently on the gangway. “Do you plan to block the way all night?”

  Fiona’s blood ran cold. That voice was painfully familiar. Winslow Evanston. The man who’d ruined her reputation after she refused to become his mistress. The railroad tycoon was rich enough and influential enough to sully her name in a large city. Here he could destroy her. She instinctively drew Mary Clare away from the lantern light and wrapped her arms around the little girl.

  Please God, don’t let him recognize me.

  “Do you know that man?” she whispered into the little girl’s ear.

  “No, Auntie.”

  “Quiet now. We don’t want him to see us.”

  “Why?” This time in a whisper.

  This was not something Fiona could explain to a little girl. “He’s a wicked man.”

  Fiona had left New York to get away from this man. What was he doing in Singapore?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The ship’s arrival had not brought a rush of guests. Sawyer saw men heading for the saloons and bunkhouses, but no one stopped at the hotel. He didn’t need the light from the lanterns hanging on the porch to know the new arrivals were sawmill workers.

  “Afraid that’s the way it is most times,” Mrs. VanderLeuven said as she wiped a season’s dust from the nearly empty bookshelves in the small lobby.

  “You could have passed along that piece of information before I bought the hotel.”

  Mrs. VanderLeuven burst into laughter. “You’re a funny man, Sawyer Evans. Right funny.”

  That lightened his mood a little but didn’t solve the problem at hand. He couldn’t afford to pay the VanderLeuvens for the week, least of all hire basic staff if there weren’t any guests or diners. Worse, with the influx of mill workers, he wouldn’t have much time to devote to the hotel. Things were going from bad to worse.

  Trust no one. Father’s words echoed in his head. Father had repeated them daily, like a creed. Sawyer couldn’t live that way. He needed to trust someone. In spite of Father. In spite of Julia’s betrayal. In spite of the heartache of war. Somewhere there was a person he could trust.

  Fiona.

  Except she’d pursued another relationship rather than accepting his suit. The refusal crushed him. Couldn’t she see how much he’d given? He wasn’t prepared to provide for a family, and she came with a child attached. Offering courtship had been a big step, one he couldn’t afford. It should have touched her. Instead she’d gone after Stockton.

  While Sawyer grumbled to himself, Mrs. VanderLeuven removed cobwebs from the windows. He couldn’t stand to look at the empty boardwalks, so he flipped through the registration book. Far too few guests stayed here. Based on the dilapidated state of the place, it wouldn’t garner many recommendations or repeat stays. Those who returned to Singapore probably stayed at the boardinghouse. Except Stockton. That man consistently frequented Astor House. Unfortunately, he visited only in the spring and fall.

  “Oh!” Mrs. VanderLeuven said with a great deal more excitement than usual. “Someone is coming our way, and he looks like he has money.” She practically rubbed her hands together with glee.

  No wonder guests preferred to move on. Sawyer had never seen this side of the former hotel owner.

  The woman crossed the lobby until she stood directly before Sawyer. In a low voice, she instructed, “Charge four dollars a night.”

  “That’s more than double our usual rate. Does it include meals?”

  “Of course not.” Mrs. VanderLeuven looked shocked that he would even think such a thing.

  Sawyer was appalled. “Well, it’s my hotel now, so the fees are up to me.”

  Mrs. VanderLeuven shook her head and moved away from the registration desk. “Won’t be my fault if you fall short before summer shows its face.”

  Movement past the hotel drew Sawyer’s attention. That looked like Fiona, and she had a child with her. Her niece must have arrived.

  “That man stopped to watch Miss O’Keefe,” Mrs. VanderLeuven reported, her face nearly flattened against the window.

  Though Sawyer couldn’t see much beyond the lit hotel porch, he could make out the gentleman’s lean figure. Sure enough, the man, dressed in a long coat, had paused to watch Fiona pass. She was a lovely woman. Anyone could see it, but the thought of another man watching her sent a stab of jealousy through Sawyer.

  Surprised by the reaction, Sawyer drew in a deep breath and shook his head. He needed to concentrate. His first customer was on his way. He couldn’t afford to be rude to the only passenger wanting a room.

  He tugged his waistcoat into place and made sure his cuffs were proper.

  The front door flew open with a rush of cold air. The man halted without closing the door behind him.

  Mrs. VanderLeuven hurried to shut it.

  The man pulled off his top hat and stared. “Paul?”

  Sawyer stared back, his mouth dry. Impossible. What was Father doing in Singapore?

  Mrs. VanderLeuven bustled toward the counter. “Ain’t no Paul here, but I can ask Sawyer here to run out and ask around.”

  “Sawyer.” Father’s lip curled into a sneer. “How...pedestrian.”

  Sawyer’s gut knotted. Not only was Father here, but he hadn’t changed. He was still the arrogant, self-serving autocrat he’d always been. That meant he was just as morally corrupt. And he’d cast a long look at Fiona. Sawyer fisted his hands. If Father so much as touched Fiona, Sawyer would knock him senseless. The command to honor one’s father couldn’t possibly apply to a man who squashed people like flies.

  Father surveyed the surroundings. “So you’ve lowered yourself to working a menial position in a moth-eaten hotel.”

  “Astor House isn’t moth-eaten,” Mrs. VanderLeuven protested, apparently forgetting she no longer owned said moth-eaten establishment.

  Sawyer was just glad she didn’t look closer at his wealthy father’s impeccable attire and Sawyer’s comparatively threadbare suit. He’d taken the most worn pieces of clothing with him when he left home, but a practiced eye would still recognize the fine stitching of an expert tailor.

  Father walked past Mrs. VanderLeuven without even a nod in her direction. As usual with those he deemed beneath him, he thoroughly and ably ignored her. Hopefully Fiona had slipped from Father’s mind too. The idea of his philandering father anywhere near Fiona made Sawyer’s skin crawl.

  “Are you going to say anything, boy?” Father’s jaw worked, the only sign that his temper was flaring.

  Let it. Sawyer was no longer the young boy who’d cowered under Father’s rages. After years wielding an ax and leveraging logs onto the log carriage heading into the circular saw, he was strong enough to defend against any physical attack, but that wouldn’t protect him or anyone else against Father’s spite.

  A hundred que
stions raced through his mind. How had Father discovered that he was here? If so, why come now, ten years after their parting? He must realize Sawyer would never reconcile, even for Mother’s sake. Mother. Had something happened to her? No. Filby, the family’s butler, would have sent word. Father must have come for another reason.

  As much as Sawyer wanted to ask the questions and demand the answers, he would not cause a scene in front of Mrs. VanderLeuven, who stared at him with jaw agape. She looked from Sawyer to Father and back again. Thankfully Sawyer resembled his mother, not his father.

  Father glared at him. “Have you lost your voice?”

  Sawyer tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “Would you like a room?”

  “Of course I want a room. I also want to know what you’re doing here when you should be home learning the business.”

  Sawyer turned the registration book so Father could sign in while he considered what to say. The secret was already out. Mrs. VanderLeuven had heard every word, and by morning the entire town would know the truth unless he tried to cover it up.

  Father signed the register. Though Sawyer was tempted to give the man one of the rooms needing repair, he heeded his conscience and chose the best room.

  He set the key on the counter, not wanting their hands to touch. “Your room is at the top of the stairs. We will bring your baggage to the room when it arrives from the ship.”

  “I only have this small bag. Don’t plan to stay long. Once you see sense, we’ll be on the first ship headed back to Chicago.”

  Sawyer would not “see sense,” nor would he be on a ship to Chicago. Ever. But he didn’t want to say that in front of Mrs. VanderLeuven, who pretended to dust but was listening to every word. So he stuck to business.

  “Breakfast will be served in the dining room at seven o’clock unless you prefer to be served in your room. Dinner is at noon and supper at six.”

  Father stared at him. “Stubborn fool.”

  Sawyer took that as a compliment.

  He kept the smile frozen on his face. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Evanston?” He spun the registration book around. Father’s handwriting was as atrocious as always.