by Regina Scott
“You would only have tried to dissuade me,” she said, her chin coming up as they passed the mercantiles on Second Avenue. “You persist in seeing me as your little sister, John, for all I’m a grown woman.”
She was wrong there. John and all his brothers knew she was grown. So did the gentlemen they were passing. Their smiles were appreciative as they tipped their hats in her direction. Beth paid them no heed whatsoever.
“Maybe you should think about your own wedding,” John suggested with a smile, “instead of mine.”
Beth’s lips thinned. “My wedding is years off, if I even consent to marry. You, however, have been pining away. Oh, but I could shake Caroline Crawford!”
“She is entitled to marry a man she can love and respect,” John said, finding his strides lengthening. “I am not that man.”
“Then she is foolish and temperamental,” Beth declared, scurrying to keep up.
Caroline hadn’t seemed so to him. Indeed, when she and her parents had first moved out near Wallin Landing, John had thought he’d at last met the perfect wife for him. Petite, delicate, with great gray eyes, sleek raven tresses and a slender figure, Caroline Crawford had hung on every word of advice she requested from him after driving with him into Seattle for church services each Sunday for a month, her parents in a wagon just behind. Her attentiveness and bright smile had made him begin to hope for a future together.
But when he’d emboldened himself to propose, on bended knee in the moonlight no less, she’d refused.
“Oh, I could never marry a man like you, John,” she’d said, as if surprised he’d think otherwise. “You have no gumption.”
No gumption. No drive. No willingness to claw his way to ever greater achievements. He had built a farm from the wilderness, managed it well, assisted his brothers and Beth where he could, helped his neighbors, tithed to the church and supported the school, but apparently that was not enough.
Heroes did more.
Heroes put their own needs aside to raise their fatherless siblings, as Drew had done when Pa had died. Heroes protected ladies across wilderness areas as James had done for his bride, Rina. Heroes fought off dastardly relatives as Simon had done for his wife, Nora. Heroes braved the next frontier, like Levi.
A hero did not sit safely at home, reading adventure novels and the latest scientific and engineering theories while his cat purred in his lap before the hearth.
Yet that seemed to be his role in the family—the scholar, the peacemaker. When Pa had died, John had been all of ten, old enough to feel the loss, to recognize the pain in others. Drew had assumed leadership as Pa had directed him with his dying breath, but Simon and James hadn’t sat well under it. Watching his brothers argue had just made John want to curl in on himself. And Ma had seemed so sad when her children didn’t get along, as if it was somehow her fault she was raising them all alone.
Surrounded by sorrow and strife, John had done everything he could to make sure everyone got along. He encouraged the best in his brothers, helped them through the worst. He pointed out things that made Drew think about how James must be feeling, pushed James to see things from Simon’s more logical perspective, reminded Simon that following Drew was what Pa wanted and tried to be an example to little Levi. Keeping things peaceable was how he contributed.
The trait was still with him. Now when John saw a problem, he was more likely to find a way to solve it quietly than to leap into the fray. He was the one who suggested compromises rather than demanding capitulation. A shame that habit kept him from living up to his image of a hero. Mrs. Tyrrell must have recognized that he lacked certain qualities, for she’d not held him to Beth’s promise to wed. He had no need to drag his bruised heart out of hiding.
Still, he seemed to hear it whispering encouragement as he and Beth reached the livery stable. It would take more than a pretty mail-order bride to get him to listen.
Chapter Three
Dottie climbed the stairs to her second-floor hotel room, feeling heavy. How could she have let this happen? Why had she believed what Beth Wallin had written to her? Had she learned nothing from her terrible experience with Frank?
Of course, none of the letters Beth had sent her or the conversation with John had been anything like talking with Frank. A salesman for a manufacturing firm in Cincinnati, with clients all over the state, he’d had a way of making people feel important. She’d needed that fifteen months ago when she’d first met him.
Her uncle, who worked for the same firm, had brought Frank home for dinner to meet Dottie. Frank hadn’t been the first fellow foisted upon her that way. Uncle Henry and Aunt Harriot lived in a manner her parents had found worrisome—drinking with friends most nights, holding their own riotous parties at least twice a month, saying vulgar words upon occasion and never attending church.
Though she tried not to complain, she could not bring herself to act the way they did, causing her uncle to dub her “Dottie Do-Gooder.” By word and action, they had made it very clear they wanted her out of the house as soon as possible. Only by doing all the cooking and cleaning had she convinced them to allow her to stay past her sixteenth birthday.
Every other man they had brought home to meet her had been just like them, favoring cheap cigars and alcohol. Frank had seemed different—polished, polite, friendly. Small wonder she’d begun to fancy she had found love. Frank had known just what to say, how to act, to get her to go along with his wishes and feel terribly happy about it as well.
Beth had also said all the right things, promising a kind, considerate husband well able to provide for Dottie’s needs. That part hadn’t been a lie. If anything, John Wallin was an even better man than his sister had described, if the way he had responded to Beth’s interference was any indication. Yet what sort of man needed a sister to fetch him a bride?
John seemed neither stupid nor lazy. He was not crippled, and he appeared to be in good health. If he was intent on building a library, surely he wasn’t the illiterate Dottie had feared. Most women would account him handsome. Even in Seattle, where there were far more men than women, he would likely be considered a catch.
So why did he lack a wife? Had he some flaw she hadn’t noticed on first meeting?
She was still wondering as she let herself into the narrow hotel room with its single window looking down toward Puget Sound. Mrs. Gustafson rose from the chair as Dottie shut the door behind her. A heavy woman with button-brown eyes and a wide mouth, she exuded motherly warmth, even in the somewhat Spartan conditions of the hotel room.
“A little darling he was,” she proclaimed in her thick German accent, looking fondly at the blanket spread on the floor. “Never once did he cry.”
Dottie’s son gurgled at her as she kneeled beside the blanket. He waved pudgy arms and begged to be picked up. She obliged, cuddling him close and feeling the soft tufts of his white-blond hair against her chin.
This was why she must stay strong. This was why she could not give up.
“Thank you for watching him,” she told the older woman.
Mrs. Gustafson waved a beefy hand. “Ach, he is no trouble. And your young man, how did you like him?”
Dottie had confided her purpose in coming to Seattle, though she had let Mrs. Gustafson, like Beth, think she was a widow instead of a woman shamed. Now she considered how to answer. In truth, had she met John Wallin before she’d known Frank, she would likely have been willing to let him court her. Now she needed a man ready to take a chance on a woman and an illegitimate baby, a man willing to fight for family. John Wallin, for all his gentle ways, did not seem likely.
“He decided we will not suit,” she told her friend.
The German lady recoiled. “Vas? Is he touched in the head? Such a lovely lady you are. And who could resist little Peter, eh?” She bent closer and stroked the baby’s cheek. Peter watched her, wide-eyed.
“I’ll simply have to find another way to support Peter,” Dottie said. “Surely someone here needs a worker and wouldn’t mind having a baby along.”
Mrs. Gustafson nodded as she straightened. “You could work on the railroad. I saw pictures all along the street here, asking everyone to come help on May Day.”
Dottie had seen them as well, posters plastered to any bare spot on the wall along the streets of Seattle. Come all ye adults of mankind. Nor let there be none left behind. It seemed Seattle had lost its bid to be the terminus of the Northern Pacific Railway, which would be coming to Tacoma, to the south, instead. Now Seattle was determined to build its own railroad.
“I doubt they are planning to pay the workers much,” she told her friend. “And I don’t know how I’d be much help carrying Peter around. If you hear of anything else, though, please let me know.”
“Oh, yah, of course,” Mrs. Gustafson promised. “But I don’t know of any places that will take a mother with child. And we leave tomorrow for the Duwamish. I would ask you to come, but it is my brother’s place, and he only has room for me and my Dieter.”
It was the same story every place Dottie tried that afternoon. Either the business did not want to take on a woman, or they needed her to work long hours away from Peter. The shops in Seattle, it seemed, were open by five in the morning and did not close until nearly ten at night. One of the owners even suggested that she give up her son, claiming many of the farmers in the area would be interested in adopting a baby that would grow into a strong young man. Clutching Peter close, she had hurried from the store. Peter was hers, not Frank’s, not anyone else’s. He was the one good thing to come from her bad marriage.
“You are a blessing,” she told him as she carried him back to the hotel. A passing gentleman favored her with a gap-toothed grin as if he thought she was addressing him. Peter snuggled closer.
That night, after she’d settled her son to sleep beside her on the bed, she allowed herself a moment to pray, asking for help finding work, a safe place for her and Peter to live. But still she found no peace.
Her mother and father had always prayed before bed and at mealtimes. They’d attended church services as well, read to her from the Bible. All that had changed when they’d been killed in a train accident. Her uncle had taken her Bible away from her, told her it was just a book of nonsense. She hadn’t seen the inside of a church in years. She shouldn’t be surprised she no longer felt God’s presence. She’d been the one to move away.
All Dottie could hope was that John Wallin had better connections in the frontier town than she ever would, and that he’d find something that would work for her and Peter.
* * *
John returned to Seattle the next day on horseback, leaving his mount at the livery stable while he canvassed the town. But it seemed Dottie had been unwilling to wait for his help, for most of the places he tried reported that she’d already been in.
“Lovely lady,” the tallest Kellogg brother said when John asked at his store about a clerk position, “but we simply could not accommodate the hours she wanted.”
He heard similar stories at other shops he tried. Dottie seemed determined to work as little as possible. He couldn’t understand it. Had she been so tenderly raised that she had no idea what employers expected? Surely if she’d lived on a farm she knew that work went on from before sunrise to after sunset most days.
He wished he knew more about her. He’d asked Beth as they’d ridden back to Wallin Landing yesterday, but his sister had obviously recovered her usual buoyancy and determined that he was the villain in all this.
“Oh, no, John Wallin,” she’d declared with a toss of her head. “You didn’t wish to heed my advice and marry Dottie Tyrrell, so don’t think you can get back into my good graces by appearing interested in her now. If you want to know more about her, I suggest you talk to her directly. I am quite finished playing matchmaker.”
He didn’t believe that for a minute. Beth had taken great delight in helping all their older brothers fall in love. She wouldn’t stop until every last Wallin male was wed.
But John wasn’t about to help her. He would find a better situation for Mrs. Tyrrell than marrying him.
Now he followed each lead to possible positions and talked to everyone with whom his family had built connections over the years. His quest eventually led him to the home of one of Seattle’s founding families, the Maynards. Doc Maynard, who had first hired Drew’s wife, Catherine, as a nurse years ago, had passed on last spring, leaving his wife as one of the area’s most notable widows. An advocate for literacy, she had been one of the women to whom John had presented yesterday. Today she listened more intently and handed him her card to give to Dottie. Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he hurried to the hotel.
He had to cool his heels awhile as Billy Prentice, the porter, went up to tell the lady she had a caller. John had stayed at Lowe’s a time or two when he was needed in town, but looking around the plain white walls of the lobby, the hard-backed benches and brass spittoons, he wondered now whether it was the best place for a lady. As close as the hotel was to the businesses that catered to the workers at Yesler’s mill, the noise at night could be considerable some days. If only Dottie would take the situation with Mrs. Maynard, all her problems would be solved.
Billy came back down the stairs. “Sorry, Mr. Wallin. Mrs. Tyrrell says she cannot see you at present. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
What was wrong with the woman? She came from a farming background. She had to know he had chores waiting for him, animals to feed, fields to till for spring planting. Wallin Landing was still several hours round trip from Seattle. He couldn’t just make the jaunt when it suited her.
“Tell her I have urgent news,” he insisted. “A position she’ll want to hear about.”
The porter raised a brow, but up the stairs he went again.
John tapped his hat against his thigh. She hadn’t seemed so persnickety yesterday. Indeed, given the magnitude of his sister’s mistake, Dottie Tyrrell had been remarkably calm. Besides, Beth surely would have noticed a high-handed manner in the letters they’d exchanged. Any woman desperate enough to answer an ad for a mail-order bride couldn’t afford to put on airs.
“I’m sorry,” Billy said as he came down the stairs. “But Mrs. Tyrrell cannot see you now.”
John drew in a deep breath. Here he was, known for his patience, and it was about to desert him. “Tell her that if I do not see her now, she will forfeit this opportunity, and I will bear no further responsibility for helping her.”
Billy sighed. “If it wasn’t you, Mr. Wallin, I wouldn’t be going up the stairs again. But I never forgot how you helped me carry that luggage in out of the rain last winter. I’ll try to get you a better answer from the lady.” He turned and trudged up the stairs yet again. John was very glad when he returned with the news that Dottie would see him after all, even if it was in her room.
Odd, when she’d hesitated to be seen in the lobby with him yesterday. What had changed?
He climbed the stairs, then rapped on the door, hat in one hand. Though she had to know he was coming, Dottie took her time answering. When she did open the door, it was the merest crack, as if she expected him to come armed.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Tyrrell,” he said, trying for a smile that he hoped would put her at ease. “I’ve brought the funds as promised and what I hope is good news. One of the greatest ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Maynard, is seeking a companion. She has a fine house right here in Seattle and is well respected by all. I’m sure she’d be thrilled for your company.”
He had hoped for delight at the announcement, but if anything she looked sad, mouth dipping.
“I doubt a companion post will do, Mr. Wallin. I cannot be available the hours that would likely be expected.
”
That again. Once more, he felt the temper he hadn’t known he had threatening. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but most places expect a day’s work for a day’s pay.”
“So I am coming to learn, but I’m afraid I must insist on it.” Behind her came a coo, as if a dove had been let loose in the room.
John frowned, but she thrust out her hand. “If I could have the funds you promised?”
At least he could do that much for her. He dug into the pocket of his coat and offered her the money. “I wish you would reconsider,” he told her. “I sincerely doubt you’ll find another situation like this in Seattle. Folks who come here generally aren’t afraid of hard work.”
The coo had become a whine, accompanied by the sound of material rustling. Were there rats in the room? Perhaps he should find her somewhere else to stay.
“I’m not afraid of hard work, Mr. Wallin,” she said, fingers tightening on the door. “I am simply unable to provide it at present. Thank you for your help, and good day.” She started to shut the door, and a howl erupted behind her.
John’s hand caught the door. “Wait. What was that? Are you all right?”
For a moment she hesitated, her gaze on his as if determining how easy it would be to refuse to answer him. Then she released the door and stepped back. “That, Mr. Wallin, is the reason I was willing to become a mail-order bride.”
She turned and headed for the bed, and John stepped into the hotel room. Now he could see two chubby fists waving in the air above the bed. She bent down and swept up the baby.
“There now,” she crooned. “It’s all right. Mommy has her little man.”
She had a child.
He drew in a breath. That explained so much—her reason for seeking a husband so urgently, her need for additional funds, her stringent requirements for a position. But it also meant his job of finding her a situation had just grown exponentially harder.
The baby calmed in her arms, blinking his eyes as he stuffed one fist into his mouth.