Mail Order Sweetheart Page 3

  “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.

  “What about the rooms?” Fiona headed for the staircase without removing her cloak. “We’ll need to warm the beds and have something hot for them to drink.”

  “All taken care of, dear. Louise has already begun preparing the rooms, and Pearl and Amanda are on their way. Come with me to the linen closet, and we’ll grab the extra blankets.”

  Fiona took a deep breath. There wasn’t anything she could do right now. Mrs. Calloway had said the ship was in trouble, not that it had sunk. “The ship is still afloat, then?”

  “Aye, bobbing like a cork, I understand.”

  Fiona breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. “Is it a large ship?” Maybe if it was very small, Mary Clare wouldn’t be aboard. Lillibeth had said something about a group of orphans.

  “From what I hear, it’s like the one you came in on.”

  Oh, dear. There had been scores of passengers on the Milwaukee. If rescued, where would they go? Mary Clare could join her, but the rest? “We’ll never have room for everyone.”

  “We’ll squeeze them in. Some can sleep in the parlor or on the dining-room chairs.”

  As Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway upstairs, she recalled all too clearly the crowded conditions when she was growing up. Parents, two grandmothers, seven siblings—one with a husband—and a baby all squeezed into the tiny tenement apartment. She and three sisters and the grandmothers shared a single bed—three facing one direction and three the other. She’d been kicked in the back and shoulders numerous times, but the boys had it tougher. They’d line up the wooden chairs for beds—three chairs per bed. Ma and Pa gave up their bedroom to her oldest sister’s family, while they slept atop the kitchen table.

  Mrs. Calloway was suggesting the same sort of discomfort, except this would be temporary. Fiona hadn’t known relief until she began getting paid to sing and moved to a boardinghouse room of her own. It had felt like the height of luxury, and she would never go back.

  At the linen shelves, Mrs. Calloway grabbed a stack of blankets and handed them to Fiona. “Is that too much, dear?”

  “I can carry more.” Fiona had always been strong. As a girl, she’d prided herself on the ability to lift more than boys her age. Contrary to common belief, she did not shirk manual labor.

  Mrs. Calloway added a few. “No more, or you won’t be able to see in front of you. Come now, let’s get these downstairs and then head over to the lighthouse.”

  After Mrs. Calloway donned her outerwear, they trudged through town. The wind howled off the lake, filling the streets with sand and whipping those particles through the air so they stung every inch of exposed skin. Fiona lowered her head against the wind. Thankfully she’d thought to pull the hood of her cloak over her head, or her hair would be filled with grit.

  The drifts of sand made progress through town difficult, but fear for Mary Clare drove Fiona on. Climbing the dune taxed her limits. She gasped for breath and had to pause several times while Mrs. Calloway plodded on, apparently oblivious to the exertion. Maybe Fiona wasn’t as strong as she’d thought. The years on the stage had apparently taken their toll.

  She pressed onward.

  At the top of the dune, the lighthouse flashed a signal in a repeating pattern, but her attention landed on the men standing near the lighthouse entrance. One form was unmistakable. Sawyer. Relief flooded her. She’d never known a stronger man. He could do anything. He would save Mary Clare.

  “Sawyer!” The wind shoved her cry back at her.

  He would never hear. She must wait until she reached him.

  Mrs. Calloway had gained the top of the dune and was talking to an older man bundled in oilskins. Fiona didn’t recognize him. Then again, it was dark except for the flashes of light from the tower above. Sawyer joined them, and the older man handed him what looked like a large coil of rope.

  Fiona pressed for the summit. Her pulse pounded as a foot slid backward in the soft sand. The lake roared, and the stinging grit got worse with each step. Unlike Louise, she had never climbed the dunes or gone to the lakeshore. From sailing into the harbor, she recalled that the lighthouse sat high on the dune that separated Singapore from the lake, but she could not recall if there was much of a beach on the other side.

  “Sawyer!” she called out.

  This time he turned toward her. After giving the coil of rope to another man, he loped down the short distance and relieved her of the blankets.

  “Take my arm,” he said.

  The security of his strength washed over her. He would help her. He would ensure Mary Clare was safe.

  “Must help,” she began, but could get no further before gasping for breath.

  They managed the last few yards to the top of the dune, near the man clad in oilskins and Mrs. Calloway. There Sawyer released her and returned the blanke
ts to her care.

  “There you are,” the boardinghouse proprietress said to Fiona. She didn’t display the slightest shortness of breath. “We ought to put the blankets indoors in case of rain.”

  The man in the oilskins pointed to the keeper’s house. “Jane’s inside.”

  He must be the lighthouse keeper, for Jane was the lightkeeper’s wife. Though Mrs. Calloway turned to go to the lighthouse, Fiona had to make sure Sawyer knew about Mary Clare. He had stepped away to talk to the rest of the men.

  She nudged his arm. “You need to rescue them.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know if we can with those waves.”

  “You must.” She fought desperation. “My niece. She’s only seven. She could be on that ship.”

  His expression, highlighted in the eerie light of the lighthouse, twisted with concern. “We’ll do what we can.”

  But she could see the doubt in his eyes before he rejoined the men. Poor Mary Clare! Fiona knew no fear when she could take charge, but this was beyond her control. Lord, please save little Mary Clare.

  She looked toward the water but couldn’t see anything. The beam from the lighthouse didn’t illuminate the landscape directly below. It pierced the sky above them, a beacon to the ship. Beyond and below the dune, she glimpsed occasional dots of light bob up and then disappear. The beam from the light briefly revealed the tossing tempest.

  How could anyone survive those seas?

  Mrs. Calloway nudged Fiona with her shoulder, directing her toward the keeper’s quarters. “Come.”

  Fiona couldn’t drag her gaze from the unfolding situation. Her feet stayed rooted to the spot even when Sawyer and the men headed down the dune toward Lake Michigan.

  “We need to be ready,” Mrs. Calloway urged. “The survivors will need warm, dry blankets.”

  Only then did Fiona notice the first spits of rain. Somehow she followed, her legs moving though her mind was still on the embattled ship. Surely they would survive. God would not take the life of one so young. Yet, she could name many who had died even younger. Mama had lost a boy who lived less than one day on this earth.