Hearts Made Whole (4 page)

For a fraction of an instant he allowed himself to feel hope. Hope that he might actually find peace here, that he might be able to hold down a job, that he might start earning the money he desperately needed in order to repay the debt he owed.

He couldn't mess things up this time. He had to prove that he could do the work. And then maybe finally his demons would stop chasing him.

He pulled his hand from his pocket and forced himself to look at the red, mangled skin that had finally grown back over the spot where he'd lost half his hand that awful day in July of '63 at Gettysburg. A shudder ripped through his body, and the movement nearly sent him to his knees with pain. He'd long since guessed he still had a piece of shrapnel embedded in his arm somewhere that caused him these bouts of pain. The surgeon had claimed he'd gotten it all out, but Ryan had seen how overworked and sleep-deprived most of the doctors had been. He'd seen the extent of his injuries and knew that even a well-rested doctor would have had trouble fixing him.

And now that his flesh had closed around the shrapnel wounds, he tried to get by the way he had during the last months of the war, by dulling the pain.

He patted his leather satchel, exhausted beyond endurance. For a moment he almost considered dropping into the shade with his horse. But the stillness of the house beckoned him. Along with the fact that it had been so long since he'd found comfort in a real bed.

Finding the front door unlocked, he stumbled inside. For a moment he was taken aback by the cozy furnishings, the pastel painting on the wall, the colorful knitted afghan draped across the rocker, the brightly woven rug in front of a couch.

If he didn't know better, he'd almost believe someone still lived here. But the man who'd hired him had assured him the occupants would be gone when he arrived. Besides, didn't most keepers' dwellings come furnished?

He pulled off his boots and discarded them by the door before plodding silently across the room and tossing his cap onto the couch. He dug through his satchel for one of his treasured pain pills and popped it into his mouth. Not only would it dull the pain in his hand and arm, but it would help him sleep without the nightmares that had become all too common since that fateful night when he'd sold his soul for food.

With a weary sigh he shrugged out of his suspenders, untucked his shirt, and slipped his good arm out of the sleeve before carefully sliding it off his injured arm. He dropped it in the hallway and at the same time let his trousers fall down and pool at his feet. He kicked them aside and jerked off first one dirty sock, then the other.

Finally down to his muslin undershirt and drawers, he glanced at the two doorways on either side of the hallway. One was closed, but the other was open a crack, revealing a bedroom. Though the room was darkened from thick curtains, he could see the outline of a double bed.

Every muscle in his body ached for the comfort the bed would afford. Without another thought, he pushed open the door, trudged to the bed, lowered himself carefully to the edge, and then sank into the mattress with a low moan of contentment.

His mind blurred, blocking out everything and everyone just
the way he liked. He shifted only slightly and threw his arm across a mound of soft pillows next to him.

To his surprise, the mound moved. In fact, it rose like an apparition.

There was a gasp. Then a long, terrified scream, followed by a hard thump against his face and head, almost as if the pillow next to him had decided to have a pillow fight.

Or kill him.

T
error pummeled through Caroline. All she could think to do to defend herself was thwack her attacker with her pillow over and over as hard as she could.

When finally the person lay motionless, Caroline scrambled off the opposite side of the bed, her breath coming in gasps. She held the pillow above her head ready to defend herself again if necessary, although she knew she ought to open the bottom dresser drawer and locate her father's pistol instead. But fear rose in her chest and paralyzed her, so that she could only stand and stare at the bed.

Through the darkened room she made out the lanky form of a man. Her muscles twitched with the desire to bring the pillow back down on him, but when he didn't move she hesitated. For a long moment she held her breath.

“Caroline?” came Sarah's faint call from her bedroom across the hallway. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything's fine,” she called back. At least everything would be fine in just a few moments when she'd driven the intruder from her home.

At the sound of her voice, the intruder sat up so fast that Caroline jumped at the bed again and brought her pillow down against the man's head.

“What in the name of all that's holy?” came a muffled voice.

“Get out of my house,” she demanded in a low voice.

The man bolted out of the bed and in the process tangled himself in the covers, tripped off the side, and tumbled to the floor. He groaned, not making a move to rise.

Holding her pillow above her head in readiness, Caroline inched toward the curtain. When she reached the window, she yanked open the thick coverings she'd made for her father long ago so that he could sleep during the days in some semblance of darkness.

Sunlight cascaded into the room at an angle that told her it was midafternoon and that she hadn't slept nearly long enough, especially since she'd had such a difficult time clearing her mind of her worries when she'd first lain down after Mr. Finick had ridden off.

The brightness fell across the bed and onto the bent head of the man in her bedroom. His sandy-blond hair was tousled and bore the ring of his hat. He gave another moan before pushing himself up slowly, as if each slight movement cost him dearly.

When he finally stood, Caroline gripped her pillow tighter and lifted it higher, ready to whack him again if he took even the tiniest step toward her. “Get out now,” she said again, this time louder.

The man lifted his head, and brown eyes peered out from behind strands of overlong hair that dipped over his eyebrows. Surprise radiated from a handsome face shadowed in a layer of dusty whiskers. He was staring back at her, speechless, and there was something sad, almost haunted in the depths of his
eyes. There was also a vulnerability in his expression that told her he was no criminal intent on hurting her. He seemed almost as bewildered by her presence in the room as she was by his.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, still holding up her pillow in defense.

He gave his head a slight shake to shift the hair out of his eyes. “I could ask the same of you.”

“I live here. And this is my bedroom.”

Confusion flickered through his eyes. “This is Windmill Point Lighthouse, isn't it?”

She nodded. “Of course it is.”

“Then I live here.”

“No, you don't,” she stated adamantly. “I've lived here for the past seven years with my family—” She stopped. Understanding began to thread its way through her mind. “I suppose you're the veteran Mr. Finick hired?” she asked, studying his face. The strong lines along his jaw and around his mouth hinted at an aging beyond his years. The war had done that, had caused them all to grow up too soon.

“Aye. I'm Ryan Chambers. Who are you?”

“I'm Caroline Taylor. The keeper of this light.” She knew her answer was a tad boastful and not completely true. The superintendent of Detroit Lighthouses had only named her as
acting
keeper. Nevertheless, she couldn't resist making sure this man knew she was experienced enough to run the light by herself.

Without responding, he glanced around the room, first to the mussed bed, then to the partly open dresser drawers, and finally to the heap of clothes on the bedside chair. Her clothes.

His attention shifted back to her, to her body clad only in a nightdress. With her arms still above her head holding the
pillow, and the sunlight seeping through the flimsy linen, she could only imagine the view she afforded him.

Heat rushed through her, and she rapidly lowered her arms and shielded the front of her body with the pillow. At the same time she took in his grayish-colored underclothes and the loose linen of his knee-length drawers, the top button undone, revealing a spot of his muscled stomach. His undershirt was loose too, testifying to the days and weeks of hunger he'd faced or the ravages of disease that had left him a shell of the man he'd likely once been.

At her stare at his own unclad body, he flushed, averted his eyes, and fumbled at the bedcover. Using only one hand, he tore the top quilt off the bed and tossed it to her. “Please forgive me. I didn't realize . . . I didn't mean to invade your privacy.”

She wrapped the quilt around herself, shrouding her nightgown and protecting her modesty. Meanwhile, he retreated from the room into the hallway. He bent over and picked up a discarded pair of trousers and made quick work of jerking them on over his drawers, still only using one hand, which made the movements awkward and slow.

“I had no idea you were in the bed.” His voice was tight with pain or embarrassment—she couldn't tell. “Who sleeps in the middle of the day anyway?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

He ducked his head and reached for a shirt. And that was when she saw his hand, the hand he'd been trying to hide. It was mangled, three fingers were missing, and his wrist and lower arm were laced with white scars that stood out against his sun-bronzed skin.

When he saw where her attention was directed, he wrapped
his shirt around the wound, grabbed a pair of dirt-streaked socks from off the floor, and stumbled down the hallway away from her.

“Caroline?” Sarah called again from the other bedroom.

“Everything's fine,” Caroline assured. Actually
nothing
was fine, but she couldn't worry Sarah. Instead she followed Ryan into the kitchen.

He stopped at the table, swayed, then grabbed onto a chair to steady himself.

She wanted to ask how he'd been injured, but she guessed he'd already gotten enough questions from everyone else he met and didn't need any more from her.

His back stiffened, and he seemed to be waiting for her barrage of questions about the war. She stood silently, forcing herself not to look at his injured hand wrapped in his shirt.

His knuckles were white where he gripped the chair. After a few minutes, he glanced at her sideways. She met his gaze head on. She wouldn't let this awkward situation intimidate her.

He cleared his throat. “I should have knocked. Or at the very least I should have made sure the bed was empty.”

“That would have been helpful.”

He straightened and turned to face her. In the bright light streaming in the kitchen window, she could see even more clearly that he'd been a handsome man at one time, that with a haircut, shave, and the addition of several pounds, he'd be a striking man again.

“I hope you'll forgive me,” he said, his eyes pleading with her.

“Of course.” Maybe she could forgive him for crawling into her bed with her, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to forgive him for barging into her life and taking away her job.

“You sure do pack a punch with your pillow.” He glanced
at the pillow she was still holding. “I hope you're not planning to hit me again.”

Exactly how many times had she whacked him? Embarrassment seeped through her. She started to lower the pillow to her side, but a teasing glimmer in his eyes stopped her.

“I suppose I should be grateful you didn't reach for a shoe,” he added with a half smile.

From the sadness swimming in the deep brown of his eyes, she had the feeling he hadn't had much to smile about lately. She offered a tentative smile in return. “I've been known to pack a good punch with an oar.”

“An oar?” His grin inched higher on one side.

“Once, my father startled me when I was in the boathouse putting away supplies.” Her smile widened at the memory. “I should have put the oar down before turning.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes, I knocked him flat on his back.”

“I'll have to remember to stay away from you when you're handling an oar.”

Her smile faded. He wouldn't have to remember to stay away from her. He wouldn't have to remember anything about her. Not when she was being forced to leave.

As if sensing her thoughts, he glanced away, first to the wood-burning stove in one corner, then to the tall cupboard along the wall, and finally settling back on the long oval table with its mismatching of wooden chairs.

“Where's your father now?” he asked, shifting awkwardly.

“At the bottom of Lake St. Clair.” She said the words flatly without emotion.

His eyes jerked up, the haze in them disappearing for a moment and filling with genuine remorse.

She waited for him to give her the usual platitudes that members of the community had given her, the trite “I'm sorry” that did nothing to ease the ache in her heart.

But instead of words, his expression filled with tenderness and understanding that reached across the room and enveloped her. It was the empathy of someone who had lost a loved one too, the kind of look that said he knew her pain, had felt it himself, and that she wasn't alone.

It was too tender, and she had to look away to the tin washtub and the stiffly dried towels hanging over the edge to hide a sudden surge of tears—tears she'd thought were long gone.

How dare this stranger come into her home and be so entirely likable and sweet?

She didn't want to like him. In fact, she wanted to be angry at him for being the one to take her job and home away. But she couldn't muster any anger, not even slight irritation. It wasn't his fault that she was losing everything. It wasn't his fault that she was being forced from her home—simply because she was a woman and not a man.

“I wasn't expecting you to arrive today,” she finally said, hugging the quilt around her shoulders and pinching it closed up to her chin.

“Aye, that's clear enough.”

“Mr. Finick said you'd be here by the end of the week.”

“I take full responsibility for any mix-up.” He leaned heavily against the table. “I have no doubt I misunderstood his instructions. I'm not always thinking clearly these days.”

“Then you'll allow me to stay here at the light a few more days so that I can pack?” She held her breath, praying he would be agreeable.

“I have no problem with that.” Weariness had settled on his
face like a haggard mask. He glanced with longing down the hallway toward the bedroom.

If he insisted on staying in the house, she'd have to move out right away. It wouldn't be appropriate for her to be under the same roof with an unmarried man—if he was unmarried.

“I suppose you'll be wanting to move your family in?” she asked, pushing for some clue to his situation.

He gave a short laugh. “It's just me. Thank goodness.”

Her mind whirled as it had since Mr. Finick had made his visit earlier that day. What would she do with Sarah? She and Tessa and the boys could make do for a few days, but she couldn't move out Sarah until she located a place to stay. “I could pitch a tent outside or stay in the boathouse.”

At her suggestion, his brows rose.

Her heart quavered, and she rushed to finish before he told her no. “I don't mind for myself, not in the least. But my sister . . .” She nodded toward Sarah's bedroom. “If you'd let her stay inside until we leave . . .”

He regarded her with wide eyes for a long moment, confusion playing across his features. The haziness in the brown reminded her of Sarah's eyes when she was under the full effect of her pain-killer medicine, which she didn't have often enough lately.

The sourness of alcohol wafting around him told her that he was likely under the influence of more than just pain-killers.

“Please let Sarah stay in her room,” she whispered.

Before Ryan could say anything, the front door of the dwelling banged open, and the patter of footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor of the other room.

“We're home!” called one of the twins.

“I'm hungry,” called another.

“Take off your muddy shoes first” came Tessa's voice, scolding her brothers.

Ryan spun and stared through the doorway that led into the living room. His brows disappeared altogether under his shaggy hair.

We're home. Home. Home
. Her brother's innocent greeting jarred Caroline all the way to her bones. All she could think was that her brother wasn't home. This was no longer home.