Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine Johnson

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ