Would-Be Mistletoe Wife

A strangled sound drew her away from the window.

Priscilla thrashed wildly.

Louise ran to the bedside. The compress was gone. She pressed her hand to the girl’s forehead. It was on fire.

Louise panicked. Guilt followed on its heels. Why had she let Jesse’s movements draw her from her charge? She must help Priscilla, but how? No one else was at the school. They’d all gone to the church supper. She couldn’t leave Priscilla, yet to get help she must leave. What if a doctor was needed? What if time was crucial?

She started for the door, but the girl’s murmuring changed her mind. First she must calm Priscilla.

Louise found another cloth and dampened it in the cool water. She placed it on the feverish girl’s forehead with little hope that it would remain.

Lord, watch over Priscilla. Heal her of this fever. And show me what to do.

The distant bang of a door woke her from the panic.

Of course. She would go to the hotel. Whoever was on duty would be able to fetch help.

Louise took Priscilla’s hand. “I must leave for a few minutes so I can send for the doctor, but I’ll be right back.”

The girl gripped her hand with desperation. Her eyes opened a slit. “Don’t!”

The plea reached deep in Louise’s heart, but there was no other way. She pried Priscilla’s fingers from her hand.

“I’ll be right back.”

Priscilla’s wail followed her out of the room and down the stairs.

* * *

Though Jesse was hungry, he was not going to attend the church supper. Mrs. Blackthorn had insisted too strongly that he attend. Every excuse he could devise—didn’t have a dish to pass, wouldn’t know anyone, didn’t want to deprive the Blackthorns—was met with an answer. She had sent a dish ahead with her daughter. Mr. Blackthorn must attend the light. Jesse would know Mrs. Evans and Roland at the very least, and it would give him an opportunity to get to know others in the community.

He knew perfectly well who she had in mind. Louise Smythe.

So he headed in the direction of the church but cut back toward town when he was out of sight of the keeper’s quarters. First he headed for the hotel. The dining room should be serving. Yet it looked dark when he stepped into the lobby.

“Closed,” said the lad at the desk. “Everyone’s gone to the church supper.”

Everyone likely meant the Evans family. Had the entire town conspired against him? Jesse put up his collar against the cool evening breeze and stepped back out on the porch. Darkness had set in. A few buildings had a light or two, and the hotel burned a lamp outside the door, but to make his way along the boardwalks without stumbling, he needed to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

With the hotel dining room closed, that left the boardinghouse or no supper at all. His stomach growled. Jesse could go without. He had often enough during the war, but hunger had a way of eating at the mind as well as the body. He loped down the steps and nearly ran into a woman hurrying toward the hotel with her head down.

“Oh!” She started and jumped backward, losing her footing.

Jesse grabbed the petite woman’s shoulders to steady her, and knew at once that all the matchmaking efforts in the world couldn’t have planned this better. Once again he’d ended up holding on to Louise Smythe.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, stepping out of his grasp. “But I need to get help.”

She rushed up the steps and flew across the wooden porch. Before he’d turned around, she burst through the doorway and entered the lobby.

Jesse shook his head. She was likely looking for Mrs. Evans. She wouldn’t find her here. Though getting entangled with Louise once more was not at all in his plans, she seemed unusually agitated. Perhaps this wasn’t just a momentary crisis, like where to find a clean blanket. Maybe the girl who had fallen earlier needed a doctor.

So he climbed the stairs and entered the lobby.

“But I need help,” Louise was pleading.

The lad of perhaps fourteen or fifteen shook his head. “Mr. Evans said I wasn’t to leave my post for any reason.”

Louise blew out her breath and rubbed her forehead, eyes closed. “I need someone to fetch a doctor.”

Just as he’d thought.

Jesse stepped forward. “I’ll go.”

Louise lifted her gaze. Concern melted into relief. “Thank you. It’s Priscilla. She has a fever.”

Jesse racked his memory for what Mrs. Evans had said and, surprisingly, came up with the peculiar town name. “Where in Saugatuck can I find the doctor?”

He must have pronounced it reasonably well, for Louise didn’t give him an odd look.

“Mrs. Calloway will know.” Louise paced before him. “I will run over there and ask. She can send her husband to fetch the doctor.”

“They might be at the church supper too.”

“Not with guests at the boardinghouse.” Louise pushed past him, all business once again.

Yet Jesse could only see delays. He looked to the lad. “Do you know where to find the doctor?”

Louise paused at the door.

The lad hesitated. “Aye, but I’m not supposed to leave the hotel.”

“How about if I take over for you here, and you run to get the doctor?”

Jesse could see the tension release from Louise’s shoulders.

“A perfect solution. Will you, Charlie?” She gave Jesse a grateful look before stepping toward the registration desk. “It would save a lot of time and could save Priscilla’s life.”

Charlie looked uncertain. “But Mr. Evans—”

Louise had regained her confidence. “If Mr. Evans gives you any trouble, you tell him to talk to me.”

Instead of continuing to resist, Charlie grabbed his jacket and was out the door before Jesse could say anything.

Louise then turned to him. “Thank you, Mr. Hammond. That was an excellent idea.”

He warmed in her smile of gratitude. It had been a while since a woman looked at him with such appreciation. It felt good. It felt almost normal. Maybe the nightmares wouldn’t return tonight.

“Glad to help. But please call me Jesse. We are going to work together, after all.”

The familiarity made her blush. “I thought I only needed to take attendance and monitor from the back of the room.” She brushed a hand over her hair, though it was perfectly in place, still pulled back in that dour bun. What he wouldn’t give to see it loose. But a widow, especially one like Louise Smythe, would never wear her hair down.

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