LITMIR.BIZ

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sand made progress through town difficult, but fear for Mary Clare drove Fiona on. Climbing the dune taxed her limits. She gasped for breath and had to pause several times while Mrs. Calloway plodded on, apparently oblivious to the exertion. Maybe Fiona wasn’t as strong as she’d thought. The years on the stage had apparently taken their toll.

      She pressed onward.

      At the top of the dune, the lighthouse flashed a signal in a repeating pattern, but her attention landed on the men standing near the lighthouse entrance. One form was unmistakable. Sawyer. Relief flooded her. She’d never known a stronger man. He could do anything. He would save Mary Clare.

      “Sawyer!” The wind shoved her cry back at her.

      He would never hear. She must wait until she reached him.

      Mrs. Calloway had gained the top of the dune and was talking to an older man bundled in oilskins. Fiona didn’t recognize him. Then again, it was dark except for the flashes of light from the tower above. Sawyer joined them, and the older man handed him what looked like a large coil of rope.

      Fiona pressed for the summit. Her pulse pounded as a foot slid backward in the soft sand. The lake roared, and the stinging grit got worse with each step. Unlike Louise, she had never climbed the dunes or gone to the lakeshore. From sailing into the harbor, she recalled that the lighthouse sat high on the dune that separated Singapore from the lake, but she could not recall if there was much of a beach on the other side.

      “Sawyer!” she called out.

      This time he turned toward her. After giving the coil of rope to another man, he loped down the short distance and relieved her of the blankets.

      “Take my arm,” he said.

      The security of his strength washed over her. He would help her. He would ensure Mary Clare was safe.

      “Must help,” she began, but could get no further before gasping for breath.

      They managed the last few yards to the top of the dune, near the man clad in oilskins and Mrs. Calloway. There Sawyer released her and returned the blankets to her care.

      “There you are,” the boardinghouse proprietress said to Fiona. She didn’t display the slightest shortness of breath. “We ought to put the blankets indoors in case of rain.”

      The man in the oilskins pointed to the keeper’s house. “Jane’s inside.”

      He must be the lighthouse keeper, for Jane was the lightkeeper’s wife. Though Mrs. Calloway turned to go to the lighthouse, Fiona had to make sure Sawyer knew about Mary Clare. He had stepped away to talk to the rest of the men.

      She nudged his arm. “You need to rescue them.”

      He shook his head. “Don’t know if we can with those waves.”

      “You must.” She fought desperation. “My niece. She’s only seven. She could be on that ship.”

      His expression, highlighted in the eerie light of the lighthouse, twisted with concern. “We’ll do what we can.”

      But she could see the doubt in his eyes before he rejoined the men. Poor Mary Clare! Fiona knew no fear when she could take charge, but this was beyond her control. Lord, please save little Mary Clare.

      She looked toward the water but couldn’t see anything. The beam from the lighthouse didn’t illuminate the landscape directly below. It pierced the sky above them, a beacon to the ship. Beyond and below the dune, she glimpsed occasional dots of light bob up and then disappear. The beam from the light briefly revealed the tossing tempest.

      How could anyone survive those seas?

      Mrs. Calloway nudged Fiona with her shoulder, directing her toward the keeper’s quarters. “Come.”

      Fiona couldn’t drag her gaze from the unfolding situation. Her feet stayed rooted to the spot even when Sawyer and the men headed down the dune toward Lake Michigan.

      “We need to be ready,” Mrs. Calloway urged. “The survivors will need warm, dry blankets.”

      Only then did Fiona notice the first spits of rain. Somehow she followed, her legs moving though her mind was still on the embattled ship. Surely they would survive. God would not take the life of one so young. Yet, she could name many who had died even younger. Mama had lost a boy who lived less than one day on this earth.

      “Mary Clare,” she whispered into the windy night. “I failed you.”

      If she had found a husband sooner. If she hadn’t gotten entangled with that vindictive Evanston in New York. If only she had cast caution to the wind and taken in Mary Clare at once rather than head off on this quest to find a husband well off enough to give her niece all she deserved. What did it all matter now, when the little girl was sick and frightened on a sinking ship?

      She looked back but could see only darkness cut by the beam of the lighthouse. This fretting was useless, borrowing trouble from the future. She had to trust Sawyer and the men. She needed to trust the ingenuity of the officers aboard the imperiled ship. Most of all, she needed to trust God. Turning back to the task at hand, she hurried to catch up to Mrs. Calloway.

      They covered the distance in little time, pushed forward by the steady wind. Mrs. Calloway stomped her feet on the lighthouse stoop to knock off as much of the sand as possible. A coiled rope mat helped remove more before they stepped inside.

      “Jane! We’ve brought blankets,” Mrs. Calloway called out.

      A girl of perhaps twelve appeared. “Mother said to leave them on the hall chair.”

      “Thank you, dear. Is there anything else you can use?”

      Fiona set her stack of blankets on the chair, which was situated opposite the entry table. A simple pewter card receiver sat on the end of the table nearest the door. She couldn’t help wondering how many callers Mrs. Blackthorn got. The tray was empty. The hall stand was not. It bristled with coats, hats, scarves and gloves. A number of umbrellas filled a brass urn beside it.

      Mrs. Calloway handed her the rest of the blankets. Fiona had to rearrange a bit to keep the stack from toppling.

      “Mother said there could be dozens of passengers,” the girl said. “She’s making soup, but we don’t have enough bread.”

      “Don’t go begging these kind folk,” came a voice from the back of the house.

      “It’s no bother at all, Jane,” Mrs. Calloway called back. “I’ve got plenty left over, and we can get more on the rise in no time.”

      Fiona wondered why Mrs. Calloway didn’t just go back to the kitchen, but then she looked down and saw the sand coating their skirts and coats. No woman wanted that tracked through her house. A considerate visitor stayed in the entry. Fiona recalled all the times she’d barged straight into the boardinghouse parlor without shaking out her skirts. Mrs. Calloway never said a word, but it must have made her sigh with frustration.

      “Anything else we can bring after we get the dough ready?” Mrs. Calloway asked loudly.

      Jane Blackthorn appeared at the end of the hall, hands covered in flour. “No need to go to that trouble, Mabel. I’ve got a batch ready to go. We might need bandages.”

      The two women proceeded to discuss preparations while the daughter returned to the kitchen and Fiona waited. Her thoughts drifted back to Sawyer and the men. What had they encountered at the lakeshore? The waves must be huge in this wind. Their crashing could be heard inside the keeper’s quarters.

      “Do you know what they plan to do?” she blurted out.

      The two women stared at her.

      “Some of the men went down the dune toward the lake,” she added.

      Mrs. Calloway looked to Jane before answering. “I expect they wanted to have a closer look-see at the situation.”

      Fiona prodded. “What will they do?”

      Mrs.

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