Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine Johnson

that possibility remained, though it would get much more difficult once Mary Clare arrived. She had not set aside the fare for two to travel to Chicago.

      The women all stared at her as if she were mad.

      Clara vocalized their response. “Why would we leave? It’s better than what we got now.”

      Fiona recalled the newspaper that had so gripped their attention. “Then why the interest in the advertisement for a wife?”

      The women looked at each other and giggled.

      This time the one with the chestnut-colored hair answered, her jaw thrust out. “A girl’s gotta dream, don’t she?”

      “Well, I can tell you for certain that this advertisement is only a dream. There’s not a man in this town who fits that description.”

      Instead of solemnly nodding, like she’d expected, the ladies grew quiet, their eyes wide, and stood as one, smoothing their plain skirts as if they wore silk. A hush came over the room.

      A man cleared his throat behind Fiona.

      She 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.