Gail Martin - Family in His Heart

To my sister, Jan Hoffman,

who was my research companion for this book.

Thank to Capt. James Shutt of Dream Seaker Chapters who agreed to a spur of the moment three-hour tour of the Les Cheneaux Islands and provided me with tremendous information. If I erred or distorted facts, accept it as an author’s prerogative.

Thanks also to Officer Troy Johnston of the Mackinac County Sheriff’s Department in St. Ignace for his assistance.

I am very grateful to the booksellers at Safe Harbor Books and The Book Nook for welcoming me, and to the Les Cheneaux Community Library and to Betty Bailey and her husband at the Drummond Island Tourism Association information center.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

“Oh, no!”

The cry jarred Rona Meyers from her contemplation too late to escape the hot liquid that seeped through her pant leg as the waitress hit the floor along with the silverware. With customers’ exclamations ringing in her ears, Rona scooted from the bench to help with the mess, but a man in a nearby booth had scrambled up first.

Of all the men present, he’d been the only one to come to the waitress’s rescue and Rona admired the man’s gallantry. The more she looked, the more she admired him. His rugged handsomeness, his tanned face and his brawny stature caused him to stand out among the others present.

With his help, the waitress rose, her face glowing the color of a ripening apple while she still clutched the empty tray. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she ran behind the counter and through the door into the kitchen, leaving behind the mess of broken china and uneaten food.

Feeling distress for the young woman, Rona watched the intriguing man return to his booth before focusing on the dark spots soiling her otherwise clean beige pants. She grasped a paper napkin and daubed the stain, grateful the coffee had only been hot and not scalding.

When she looked up, the gentleman was eyeing her as if to acknowledge she’d tried to help the waitress, too. Rona gave him a feeble grin and looked away, uneasy with his obvious attention and hoping he hadn’t noticed her gaping at him.

The kitchen door remained closed and Rona watched it to see what would happen now. Would the young woman regain her composure and return to clean up the mess, or would she sulk for a while in the back room?

Rona had experienced the same feelings. Being a waitress wasn’t easy. The recollection settled into her mind—the hard work, low wages and the sometimes tip-less tables that she’d found so discouraging.

Ridding herself of the memory, Rona gazed out the window at the sun glinting against Lake Huron on Michigan’s north shore. The muted silvery gold streak rippled like the yellow line on the highway through the rain—or through tears.

A short distance across the lake one of the Les Cheneaux Islands rose above the water, its shoreline thick with trees and dotted by an occasional home—large homes with elaborate two-storied boathouses. She’d noticed the island on trips to the area with her friend Janie, who’d come to Hessel to visit her aunt. The memory had remained and had drawn her back here now when she needed to get away from her disturbing life.

Distant voices came from the kitchen; Rona watched the door, but the voices only grew louder. She looked away and noticed the stranger watching her again. He sent her a wide smile that made his eyes crinkle. His hair looked tousled. If he’d stop looking at her, she would enjoy looking at him.

Finally the kitchen voices silenced. The door swung open and a tall, lanky man charged behind the counter pulling meals from the serving window and scanning the crowded tables. He studied the tickets, then gave a nod as if he’d discovered his answer and slid the dishes up his arm and headed to a table across the room. He wore an apron, so she assumed he was a cook. This appearance brought an obvious question into her head. Where was the waitress?

Rona followed the man’s journey with her eyes, watching him hand over the dishes with skill, then head back toward the kitchen. As he passed, the good-looking man’s hand shot out and nabbed the cook.

Curious, she leaned closer, hoping to hear the conversation, but his soft voice didn’t carry.

The cook’s did.

“She quit, Nick,” he said, his arm swinging toward the kitchen door. “Walked out the back door screaming that she hated the job. Now I’m really shorthanded. No busboy today, either.”

Shorthanded. The word skittered down Rona’s spine, worked its way into her head. Her throat tightened with the words that formed in her mind.

Nick gave the cook’s arm a pat along with what appeared to be a look of encouragement, then his gaze captured hers again and her stomach twisted.

Nick reminded her of a lumberjack. She could picture his broad shoulders and wide chest pivoting as his powerful arms swung an ax. She couldn’t help but think of Michigan’s legendary lumberman Paul Bunyan. The name Nick “Bunyan” came to mind and she grinned.

When she focused, Nick Bunyan was smiling back at her. She wanted to sink into her seat. Instead, she turned her eyes on the cook as he headed her way.

“Sir,” she said, keeping her voice low while hoping he heard her.

The cook glanced at her without really looking. “I’ll get your bill in a minute. I’m short a waitress.”

Though she’d tried to hold them back, her need caused words to fly from her mouth. “I’ve done waitressing.”

Her comment jerked him to a stop. “You what?”

“I’ve been a waitress. If you need someone, I’ll give you a hand.”

His surprised look shrunk to a frown. “You’re willing to fill in for Gerri? You’re pulling my leg.”

“No. I’m new in town and need a job. One day’s work is better than nothing.” Her heart rose to her throat.

His jaw sagged as he seemed to contemplate what she’d said.

Looking at his expression, she wondered why she’d opened her mouth. Waitressing wasn’t her favorite work, but if he liked her, it could mean a start in the new town. She’d look for something more suitable after she had settled. Her meager bank account wouldn’t last forever.

“Butcher,” he said.

“Butcher?”

“My name. Bernie Butcher. Quite a mouthful, don’t you think?” He motioned for her to follow without giving her a moment to introduce herself.

Rona grabbed her shoulder bag, rose and dropped the paper napkin on the table. She stepped around the mess on the floor, not wanting to find herself flattened against the abandoned burger and ketchup-laden fries.

The kitchen door had begun to swing close, but she caught it and stepped inside, assailed by the odor of grease and heat from the griddle and frier.

Bernie—Mr. Butcher—gestured her across the room to a doorway. He followed, pushing open the door of a small storage area. “Put your belongings in here and grab an apron.”

She tucked her handbag into a niche and pulled an apron from a hook, then tied it around her waist. As she turned back and reached for the doorknob, she spotted a floor plan of the Harbor Inn’s seating arrangement and table stations. She studied it a moment, hoping she could remember which table was which.