Mrs. Tyrrell shook her head, her golden curls shining even under an overcast sky.
“I appreciate the thought, Mr. Wallin,” she said, her voice soft yet firm, “but you know nothing about me. How could you possibly understand what would suit?”
“He may not know,” Beth said, “but I do.” She tugged on her brother’s shoulder to get him to glance back at her. “I told you she enjoys reading, John. You should hire her for your library.”
That Mrs. Tyrrell liked books was certainly a mark in her favor. Indeed, as John faced front once more, he saw a light spring to her eyes, making the lavender all the brighter.
“A library?” she asked, and he could hear hope in the word.
“John is building a free library at Wallin Landing,” Beth said, “so everyone has a chance to improve.”
“Admirable,” Mrs. Tyrrell said, eyeing him as if he had surprised her.
Did she think everyone in Seattle illiterate? He’d seen articles from the newspapers back east that talked of the primitive conditions, the dangers from natives and animals, when they hadn’t had a problem in years.
“Our family is committed to building a town at the northern end of Lake Union to honor our father’s dream,” John explained. “We have a school, a dispensary, a new store, a dock on the lake, decent roads and soon a church. We’ve even applied for a post office. A library seemed the next most important civic improvement.”
“That’s why John came into Seattle to ask the Literary Society to donate funds,” Beth told Mrs. Tyrrell, and John nearly cringed at the proud tone. She tugged on his coat again, and he glanced back at her.
His sister’s dark blue eyes sparkled with interest. “How did it go? Did they see the logic? Agree to support you?”
The six women of the Literary Society, which included his longtime friend Allegra Banks Howard, had seemed more interested in quizzing him about why a fine upstanding gentleman like himself hadn’t married. He had been no more ready to confess his shortcomings to the most influential women in Seattle than he had been to the lovely lady beside him.
“Suffice it to say it will be some time before I have funds enough to build and staff the library,” he told his sister. “I’ll have to find some other occupation for Mrs. Tyrrell.” He turned to Dottie. “Do you have enough money to see you through the next few days while I ask around?”
Her step quickened, as if she would distance herself from the very idea. “I can’t take any of your money, Mr. Wallin. Now that I know we will not be married, it wouldn’t be proper.”
At least she wasn’t a fortune hunter, not that he had all that much fortune to hunt. He leaned closer to her, catching a scent like fresh apricots over the salt from Puget Sound. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to damage your reputation, ma’am. But my sister’s promises that I would marry you are responsible for bringing you here. You must allow us to see to your needs.”
She slowed her steps, body stiffening, until she reminded him of one of those golden-haired wax dolls on display at the Kellogg brothers’ store. She had every right to be offended by this entire affair. She was likely questioning his character, and Beth’s sanity.
At last she nodded. “Very well. I would appreciate it if you were to pay my room at the hotel for the next week, and I could use ten dollars for food and sundry.”
It was a reasonable number, but he hadn’t brought that much money with him to Seattle. “I’ll return with the funds tomorrow, along with a report on my progress.”
They were approaching the hotel, and she seemed loath to even allow them to enter the lobby with her. He supposed that was wise. Neither her future employer nor husband would approve of a rumor that she had received a gentleman caller in her room.
“Give your name at the front desk, and I’ll come down to meet you,” she told him. Then she dipped a curtsy. “Good day, Mr. Wallin, Miss Wallin.” She straightened, then swept into the hotel.
Beth sighed as she and John turned for the livery stable, where their wagon and team were waiting. “I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” John agreed. “You meant well, Beth, but I wish you would have consulted me first.”
“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.
