Would-Be Mistletoe Wife. Christine Johnson

She held out her own magnifying glass. Sure enough, the sun’s rays reflected and concentrated on the surface in a bright dot. “That’s what happened. The sun must have reflected off the glass at just the right angle to set the leaf ablaze.”

      “Carelessness,” Jesse Hammond stated. “Unchecked, it could have damaged one of the outbuildings or even spread toward town.”

      Louise was about to counter that statement with the obvious truth that a sea of dry sand lay between the burnt leaf and any building, but the girls had begun murmuring amongst themselves again.

      Priscilla smiled coyly at Mr. Hammond. “What would we have done without your assistance, Mr. Hammond? We are ever so grateful.”

      Louise gritted her teeth. Pointing out that she had put out the fire would not endear her to Priscilla or Mr. Hammond. Since the girls’ attention was lost, nothing more could be learned today.

      “Very well, ladies, we shall shorten our study today.”

      That drew a grudging nod from the man. “I will hold you to that, Mrs. Smythe.”

      “And I will speak with Mr. Blackthorn at first opportunity.”

      He nodded again. “Please excuse me, ma’am. Ladies.” He then strode off toward the lighthouse without a single backward glance.

      Louise didn’t know what she’d expected. The warmth of his hand and moment of compassion had vanished under the weight of his adherence to regulation. Jesse Hammond was a most unreasonable man.

      “Isn’t he about the most handsome man you ever saw?” Linore sighed.

      “Too tall,” Priscilla noted, as if she hadn’t done her best to attract his attention.

      Certainly he had towered over Louise. Now that he was gone, her limbs set to trembling. The sheer force of the man brought back terrible fear. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, telling herself to forget the past. Jesse Hammond was not her late husband. Other than stature, they likely shared nothing else. Moreover, she had no connection to this man. She need have no dealings with him.

      In the future she would avoid any possibility of crossing Jesse Hammond’s path.

      * * *

      Jesse had never been so skillfully outmaneuvered, especially by a tiny slip of a woman. He could appreciate that she’d stomped out the burning leaf rather than cry out like the girls, but that sensible act had only reminded him of his failure. He hadn’t leapt into action—not six years ago and not now.

      Moreover, Louise Smythe had managed to counter every argument he put forth. She was probably right that the keeper wouldn’t mind. Blackthorn didn’t follow every regulation exactly as written. Sometimes, he didn’t follow them at all. That was a problem. A keeper was responsible for lives.

      The smallest missed detail could lead to disaster, as Jesse well knew from that horrible night on the Sultana. The steamboat had left Vicksburg and then Memphis severely overloaded with soldiers eager to return home. They’d ignored the crowded conditions and sagging decks. After all, they’d endured the horrors of the prisoner of war camps. What was a little temporary discomfort when they soon would be home? Then came the explosion.

      The memory still shook him from deep sleep, drenched in perspiration. Why had he survived when so many had died? He, above all, should have perished. Jesse asked God for an answer, but he’d received none. The best he could do was save others. In the lighthouse service, he could warn ships of danger and rescue people from foundered vessels.

      Blackthorn’s indifference to regulation rubbed him wrong. Such callous disregard had cost lives six years ago. Jesse would make sure that never happened again. So, even though allowing a few ladies to walk across government property seemed innocuous, that burnt leaf pointed out how something small could lead to disaster.

      Jesse located the keeper in the oil shed, drawing oil for the lamps. There wasn’t enough room for two small men inside the shed, least of all someone his size, so he waited outside.

      Blackthorn capped the brass transfer can he used to transport oil. “What can I do for you, Jesse?” He rose with the exaggerated groans of a timeworn elder. “Bones are getting creaky.”

      Jesse hoped that meant Blackthorn was considering retirement. It had surely led to the placement of an assistant, though Blackthorn had refused to relinquish many duties thus far.

      Jesse returned his attention to the matter at hand. “I found some women walking on the dune just below the lighthouse.”

      “Any pretty ones?”

      Jesse felt the heat rise and coughed to hide his discomfort. “They’re young. Students.” And thus far too young for him. Mrs. Smythe, on the other hand, was rather attractive, though he could never condone her disregard for rules.

      “Must be the girls from the boarding school.” Blackthorn exited the oil house and pulled the door shut. He then reached above the door, where he kept the key on a hook, and locked the door before putting the key back on its hook.

      Jesse had tried to change this procedure, saying it didn’t do much for security to keep the key within reach. By now, the whole town must know it was there. But his pleas had been met with a laugh and an assurance that “we’ve always done it this way.” Blackthorn was too set in his ways. The lighthouse needed fresh eyes willing to see things in safer and more efficient ways.

      “Was their teacher with them?” Blackthorn asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Mrs. Smythe.” Blackthorn shook his head. “Odd sort, that one. She’ll spend hours staring at a clump of dune grass, making notes in some book of hers.”

      No doubt that was the journal she’d waved at her students. It looked well-used. Louise Smythe was not the type of woman he’d expected to find in a town like Singapore.

      “She has an unusual interest in science.” That had intrigued Jesse.

      Blackthorn squinted at him. “You don’t say. The lady hardly says a word.”

      “That’s not my experience. She said plenty to me.”

      “Maybe she’s getting more like the rest of the women she came here with.”

      “The rest? There’s more like her?”

      Blackthorn chuckled. “In a manner of speaking. Back, oh, I’d say a year ago, Mrs. Smythe arrived in town with Pearl Lawson, Amanda Porter and Fiona O’Keefe. They were answering an advertisement for a bride.” Again he laughed.

      “That’s humorous?”

      “It was at the time. Seems they all thought Roland Decker was the prospective groom when in fact it was his brother Garrett. You should’ve seen them running from one man to the other. Fact was, neither brother wanted to get married.”

      “Then why place an advertisement?”

      “They didn’t.” Blackthorn began walking back to the tower. “Turns out Garrett Decker’s children did. They wanted a new mama. Got one too. And Roland Decker and Sawyer Evans claimed two of the other three. There’s only Mrs. Smythe left. Of course, she’s the oldest. Must be around thirty.”

      Then Jesse hadn’t been mistaken about her age. “What else do you know about her?” When Blackthorn gave him a quick look, Jesse regretted his question. “I need to know how to deal with her,” he added, feeling the heat again creep up his neck. “She’s...difficult.”

      “Is she? Always seemed quiet as a mouse to me. Would rather poke her nose in a book than speak to anyone. Skips most of the church suppers and the like. Maybe the missus knows more.”

      They’d reached the lighthouse. Rather than enter the tower, Blackthorn stuck his head into the door to the keeper’s quarters.

      “Jane!”

      Jesse waved his hands, trying to get Blackthorn to stop.