Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine Johnson
whirled to see Sawyer standing in the doorway, hat in hand. “Sawyer! Mr. Evans, that is. I’m glad to see you’re well.”
His complexion reddened as if—no, it wasn’t possible—he were blushing. He stepped from foot to foot, clearly uneasy. “I’m fine.”
“So I see.”
The ladies giggled behind her.
Fiona left the room and led Sawyer to the front porch where they might have a bit of privacy. The chill air bit into her, and she hugged her arms close for warmth.
“You had something to tell me?” she prompted.
Sawyer cleared his throat again, though his eyes darted toward the parlor windows. “I just wanted you to know that the VanderLeuvens are back in town and are opening up the hotel. We can begin the concerts again.”
Fiona breathed out. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss the income she’d received from her concerts. Almost three months without pay had stretched her funds very thin. “That’s wonderful. An answer to prayer.”
“You’ve been praying to have a concert?”
“I’ve been praying for an income.”
The color left his face. “An income?”
“I do need to pay for room and board,” she pointed out.
“Of course.” His color returned, this time to a bright red. He avoided looking directly at her.
“All right. What’s wrong? Spit it out.” Fiona hated when a man wouldn’t express himself outright.
“Um.” Again he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to say that at least for now we’ll have to do them without pay. Mrs. VanderLeuven said she needs to start turning a profit first.”
Fiona’s temper rose. Under that rationale, the VanderLeuvens would never pay them. She’d heard the rumors of unpaid debts and heavy loans on the property. But it did no good to rail at the messenger. It also wouldn’t help pay the bills when Mary Clare did arrive. She needed steady employment. The thought of cleaning rooms or scrubbing dishes at the hotel left a foul taste in her mouth. She’d clawed her way out of poverty. She would not descend back into it.
“I see.” The terse reply was the best she could manage.
“Then you’ll do it?” The hint of hope in his voice gave her pause.
He wanted her to sing at the hotel again. Maybe he looked forward to it. She did too, and not just the singing. Sawyer was surprisingly handsome and charming. And his piano and violin playing made her want to close her eyes and drink it in. Too bad he was only a sawmill foreman. Still, a concert couldn’t hurt. Maybe she could persuade Mrs. VanderLeuven to give them a percentage of profit from the meals ordered that night.
“I will,” she confirmed. “For now.”
The faint sound of women’s giggling reached her ears. She turned to see the ladies glued to the parlor windows. They weren’t watching her. No, every eye was fixed on Sawyer. No wonder he’d looked so uncomfortable. It wasn’t her at all. Drawing the attention of six women left him unnerved.
She glanced back at Sawyer. Granted, he was a fine specimen of masculinity with his broad shoulders, height, muscular build and shock of dark brown hair. Brunette for brunette. That’s how Mr. Adamson had matched the girls. Under that criteria, Clara would go with Sawyer. The woman did have a proprietary gleam in her eye.
Sawyer looked away. “Are those the women we rescued? I didn’t realize they were so young.”
He didn’t say they were pretty, but he thought it. She could tell.
Something fiercely protective rose in Fiona’s breast. “Yes, and they are all engaged to marry. Every last one.”
There. That ought to douse the spark of interest in his eyes.
Sawyer had never been nervous before a concert in the past, but Saturday he tugged at the collar of his good shirt. The tie was choking him. Or was it the fact that the whole town knew about the advertisement? Fiona was bound to say something, and he had no idea what he’d tell her. He couldn’t come right out and reveal that he was the bachelor supposedly seeking a wife. He certainly couldn’t tell people that he hadn’t placed the advertisement and had no intention of marrying right now. That hadn’t worked for Garrett Decker, and it wouldn’t work for him.
Still, as the days passed without a single response, he began to wonder what was wrong. Was it the advertisement or him? Had Fiona figured out that he was the prospective bridegroom?
As always, he stopped at the boardinghouse an hour before they performed. The brief walk to the hotel left them plenty of time to warm up before many guests and diners arrived.
She wore the emerald green gown—her favorite and the one she seemed to think most like those worn by the upper class. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that those born to wealth most often chose conservative colors and styles. The worst of them would look down their noses at Fiona’s exuberant attire. He found it refreshing, for her gowns matched her temperament perfectly.
“I expect a large crowd,” she said as they walked the boardwalk between the two businesses. “It’s been a long winter, after all.”
“We did perform a few times at the boardinghouse.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it. The hotel is roomier and more...professional.”
Sawyer was again reminded of the talent and perseverance that brought her to the New York City stage. Many dreamed but few reached that lofty goal. Fiona had. Again he wondered why she would leave her blossoming career to answer an advertisement for a mail-order bride in a lumber town. According to Pearl, Fiona still searched the personal advertisements. Yet she had not responded to his.
He held the door of the hotel for her and escorted her into the dining room. A smattering of applause greeted them, and she flitted from one table to the next, thanking them for their gracious response to her return.
That left Sawyer to warm up on the piano. After a couple months of inactivity and icy temperatures, it was slightly out of tune. He could fix that but had forgotten to bring the tools with him. He’d been preoccupied with the looming catastrophe caused by that advertisement. Even if Fiona wrote to him, he couldn’t mislead her into thinking he wanted a wife. Not now. And she seemed determined to marry as soon as possible.
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