Hearts Made Whole (6 page)

During the past months, since he'd mustered out of the army, he'd only thought of himself, his nightmares, and the debt he owed. But now, standing next to this pretty young woman at the edge of the lake, with the lighthouse towering behind them, he couldn't keep from thinking about her plight and wishing he could help her come up with a solution.

He wanted to tell her to stay here. That she didn't need to move her family out of their home for him. That he would go back to Detroit and find another job. That she could keep hers.

But he couldn't squeeze the words past the burden weighing upon his chest.

He needed the job too desperately. He'd failed at everything else he'd done so far. With the condition of his hand and the recurring pain in his arm, he hadn't lasted but a couple of days out fishing with the company he'd worked with before the war. And he hadn't even made it past a week in the Detroit fisheries doing women's work. He'd tried a dozen other things over the summer, but all of them had required the use of two good hands and the brawn behind two strong arms.

The truth was he was crippled now. And he always would be.

When he'd heard the Lighthouse Board was hiring war veterans, he realized work at the light was his last option to earn the money he needed. He hadn't really expected the Board would
give him a full keeper's job, not with his disability. Apparently, though, his connection with his sister and her husband at the Presque Isle Lighthouse was enough to get the job.

He'd assumed the keeper at Windmill Point Lighthouse
needed
replacing. But now he wasn't quite sure why Mr. Finick had hired him so quickly. Not when Caroline had been handling the light fine these many months. Or had she?

“I don't understand why Mr. Finick hired me to take your place,” he said.

Her features hardened. “He's never liked our family being here,” she said bitterly. “And ever since my father died, he's been looking for a way to replace me.”

“Why?”

The blue of her eyes turned the color of an icicle. “Because I'm a woman.”

Ryan shook his head. “What difference does that make?”

“It doesn't. I've been running this light for months without any trouble. Every vessel and captain that passes through these waters can attest to my efficiency.”

Ryan glanced at his injured hand, his shirt still wound around it. Would he be able to do the same? Could he run the light as efficiently? Of course, he'd told Mr. Finick about his injury and the loss of his fingers, even if he had kept his hand squarely in his pocket during the entire meeting. But the man hadn't seemed to think it would impede with his keeper duties.

“I'm sorry it's come to this,” Ryan offered. He wished he didn't have to be the one to displace her and her family. But the job was his now, and he couldn't just let it go.

A wave of weariness rippled over him, and once again all he could think about was sleeping. He needed to find a spot where he could lie down and let himself escape into the oblivion where
he wouldn't have to think about all the nameless people he'd hurt. And where he could forget about how he was now hurting another family, including this beautiful woman.

He spied a small shed near the keeper's dwelling. The boards were gray and warped, long overdue for a coat of paint that could protect them from the weather that blew in from the sea. Several shingles on the roof were crooked or missing. And with the door hanging open, he could see the interior was packed with an assortment of equipment: oars, life jackets, buoys, ropes, barrels, and crates.

How would he find space to sleep in there? Maybe it would be easier to pitch a makeshift tent.

She had followed his gaze to the boathouse. “Thank you for letting us stay in the house for the week,” she said softly. The breeze rippled the edges of the quilt, revealing the white linen of her nightgown and flattening it against her legs.

“Don't thank me.” Agony swirled through him. “I'm obviously not good for much other than causing trouble for everyone I come across.”

At his harsh words, her eyes widened. But before she could say anything, a horse and rider came trotting around the house.

Ryan couldn't keep from reaching for his side, for the revolver that was no longer there. After months of living on edge, of not knowing who was friend or foe, he couldn't shake the foreboding he felt every time he was startled.

Caroline offered a warm smile to the newcomer. From the boyish clean-shaven face, childlike eyes, and blushing cheeks, at first Ryan thought perhaps a friend of the twins had arrived to play.

But when the young man dismounted and removed his bowler, Ryan recognized the receding hairline and big ears. It was Arnie,
the tavern owner's son, the one who'd been sweeping the floor and hiding in the shadows at the Roadside Inn. Upon closer examination, Ryan could see aging lines around Arnie's eyes and guessed him to be at least twenty-five, if not thirty years old.

Arnie took several quick steps toward them before stopping and clutching his hat in front of him. He rolled the brim in shaking fingers and looked at Caroline.

Ryan caught sight of pure adoration shining in Arnie's eyes before the man lowered them and continued to fidget with his hat.

“Hi, Arnie,” Caroline said kindly. “How are you doing this afternoon?”

“I-I'm fine,” he stuttered, his cheeks and ears flamed a bright red. He stood a head shorter than Ryan. He was even smaller than Caroline by a couple of inches. Obviously the man's giant of a father hadn't passed along to his son any of his impressive height and strength.

“What brings you out to the light?” Caroline asked, almost as if she were speaking to a child rather than a full-grown man.

Arnie folded and unfolded the brim of his hat and stammered for several seconds. Finally he got his words out. “I came to ask you to . . . to marry me.”

M
arry you?” Caroline almost burst into laughter. The thought of marrying Arnold Simmons was about as silly an idea as marrying the uptight Mr. Finick, or the grumpy Jacques Poupard, the old hunchbacked Frenchman who lived on the marsh beyond the ruins of the windmill. Even though Monsieur Poupard was their nearest neighbor, Caroline knew he wouldn't shed a tear to see them leave.

Yet Arnie's expression was entirely too serious and his face too red for him to be joking. Besides, Arnie wasn't one to say things without his meaning it, especially since almost every word he spoke took incredible effort.

“Why, Arnie,” she said, forcing down her humor at his earnest proposal, “you're very sweet to make such an offer.”

Next to her, Ryan snorted.

She was tempted to elbow him as she would Tessa, but she held herself back from the overly familiar gesture, considering she had just met the man.

“Since you have to . . . m-move from here,” Arnie said
hurriedly, which only caused him to stutter all the more, “I c-can give you a . . . a home now.”

What kind of home?
she wanted to ask.
A
room above his father's tavern?
She could only imagine such a life. The noise, the raucous laughter, and the constant coming and going of patrons. Not to mention the cockfighting, which turned her stomach every time she thought about the poor roosters bloodied and battered and fighting to the death.

On top of it all, her father and Mr. Simmons had never gotten along. It was no secret that the tavern owner brought over his cocks, alcohol, and even drugs by way of the Canadian border that ran through the middle of Lake St. Clair. Mr. Simmons had asked her father to turn off the light on several occasions so that he could do his smuggling in the dark without fear of detection. But of course her father had always refused, had in fact threatened to alert the sheriff.

Her father's refusals and threats had always angered Mr. Simmons. And everyone knew what a bully Mr. Simmons was when he was angered. He'd roughed up her father, thankfully nothing beyond a few bloody noses and black eyes. But even if Arnie's father hadn't been a brute, the fact remained that she didn't love Arnie—not romantically, not in the least.

Arnie's inky eyes lifted to meet hers finally, but only for a second before dropping again in shyness. But it was glimpse enough to see the sincerity of his proposal, his affection, and dare she say
attraction
?

Her heart gave a disquieted lurch. She hadn't known his feelings for her went so deep. She'd assumed that he considered her a friend, just as she did him. Most of her kindness to the young man had stemmed from the fact that no one else regarded him with any respect, least of all his father. She hadn't been able to
bear the cruel and calloused way so many people treated him. And she'd gone out of her way to make sure he felt safe and welcomed whenever he visited the lighthouse.

But what if in her kindness she'd led him to believe she cared about him beyond friendship?

She swallowed hard before she could speak. “You're very thoughtful for thinking of me, Arnie.”

He dipped his head bashfully.

She was being truthful. Arnie had always been considerate of her needs, especially since her father had died. On more than one occasion he'd brought her sacks of food when her supplies had run low. He'd given her chickens, and she'd even found skinned possum and muskrat on the front step once in a while.

But just because Arnie was thoughtful and caring didn't mean she should consider marrying him. Even though he was a couple of years older than her, he was like a little brother to her.

“Oh, Arnie,” she said, releasing a long sigh. “I appreciate your offer, but I can't leave my family to fend for themselves. I have to stay with them and take care of them. They need me now more than ever.”

He lifted his head. His expression was earnest, almost pleading. “They c-can come too. I'll build you a . . . a house b-behind the inn. They can . . . live with us there.”

His statement stopped her ready reply. She straightened and stared at him. “You'd build me a house?”

He nodded and gave her one of his lopsided grins. “I'll give you the b-best. I've been s-saving for it.”

“What about Sarah?” she asked. Arnie had a big heart, but taking in Sarah was too much to ask of any man.

“You can p-plant another garden for her at . . . at our n-new house.”

Caroline was drawn by the earnestness lining Arnie's boyish face. Even as her heart protested the thought of uniting herself in marriage with someone she didn't love, she knew she couldn't spurn him, not when it meant she'd only have to move Sarah a mile or so. After all, many people married for convenience and not love. Why shouldn't she?

“You can't seriously be considering his offer,” Ryan whispered, his brown eyes wide with disbelief.

Arnie's ears were apparently big enough to hear Ryan's muffled words. The young man glanced up at Ryan, and for the first time he seemed to notice that Ryan was unclad down to his suspenders and undershirt, and that Caroline was wearing nothing but a quilt and nightgown. A rush of fresh red crawled up Arnie's neck and ears.

Caroline hugged the quilt closer, inwardly berating herself for not having the foresight to put her clothes back on before stepping outside with Ryan. She hastily retreated to the stone steps of the house. “I'll
seriously
consider your offer, Arnie,” she told him over her shoulder, though she was looking at Ryan rather than Arnie.

Ryan's brows shot up.

“You're a sweet man for caring what becomes of me and my family.” Her attention flitted back to Arnie. He stared at Ryan again, and this time there was the glint of a knife blade in his eyes. The hostility flashed for only an instant before getting lost in the usual simplicity of his expression.

It gave her pause since she'd never seen anything but kindness in Arnie. “Could I have a little time to think about your proposal, Arnie?”

He ducked his head and nodded. “I'll d-do anything for you, Caroline.”

At least someone would. She gave him a smile before letting herself into the house. Once the door closed behind her, she sagged against it, and a sob welled up and drowned her smile.

The sob unleashed a flood of anxiety so strong it rose into her throat and choked her. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to calm herself before she lost the ability to breathe.

“Oh, Father,” she whispered, “why did you have to leave us?”

If only her father hadn't gone out that day in the storm. If only she'd been born a boy. If only she had more time to make plans . . .

Helplessness washed over her, making her want to slide to the floor and curl up into a ball.

At the voices of the others in the kitchen, she swiped at the wetness on her cheeks and straightened her shoulders. She had to stay strong for everyone else. They depended on her. They wouldn't be able to survive without her.

“God is good.”
Her father's gentle voice seemed to whisper the words in the dark recesses of her mind.
“All the time.”

If her father could believe it, even with all he'd suffered, then she could too. Couldn't she?

Caroline paced in front of the boathouse and glanced again at the darkening sky. Now that summer was over, the nights were growing cooler and longer. Darkness was settling earlier each evening.

It was past time to light the lantern.

She halted and attempted to peek through the boathouse door, open only inches, but it was too dark and crowded inside for her to see anything clearly.

Where was Ryan, and why wasn't he coming out to light the lantern?

She'd considered going up and lighting it herself, but she hadn't wanted to overstep her bounds. She wasn't the keeper anymore. He was.

She couldn't chance angering him, not now, not when she needed to stay in his good graces so that they could continue living in the house temporarily.

“Mr. Chambers,” she said into the crack. “Are you awake?”

The only sounds were the low chirps of the crickets beginning their nightly chorus and the rattling of the wind among the long marsh grass. She looked up at the dark tower windows and nibbled her lower lip. She couldn't wait much longer.

Had something happened to the man?

“Mr. Chambers,” she said louder, giving the door a shove. It creaked open. The mustiness of damp wood and the staleness of lake water greeted her. She raised her lantern over the interior of the shed.

Squeezed between crates and buoys, Ryan lay on a tattered army bedroll, his shirt bunched up for his pillow. He was on his back, one arm thrown across his eyes, with his injured hand resting gingerly next to him, draped over a wooden cross made out of driftwood.

She moved the lantern closer, casting light over his unmoving frame. The sleeve of his undershirt had risen up to his elbow, showing a dozen slashes and scars scattered across his arm above the puckered skin of what was left of his hand.

Her breath caught, and her own arm pinched with phantom pain at the thought of what he'd experienced. She couldn't even begin to imagine the torture he'd suffered with his injury. From the stories she'd heard, she knew Ryan was relatively
unscathed compared to many of the men coming home from the war.

Even so, she had to swallow and look away from his arm to quell the churning in her stomach.

“Mr. Chambers,” she said softly, focusing on his face instead of his arm.

He didn't budge.

She pushed at his bare foot with her boot. He gave a soft moan but didn't awaken. “You need to get up. It's time to light the lantern.” She glanced around the tiny shack. Should she whack him with an oar? Maybe that would wake him.

Her attention landed upon his leather satchel lying on the pallet next to his injured hand. The flap was open, revealing a dark bottle.

She crouched, picked it up, and sniffed. At the pungent scent of whiskey, her nose wrinkled. She sloshed the bottle, guessing from the feel that it was more than half gone.

Her heart plummeted with a growing sadness she couldn't explain. She returned the bottle to the satchel, and in the process her fingers grazed a smaller vial. Too curious to resist the temptation to pry, she slid it out and examined it.

The bottle had no label. But it rattled as if about half full of pills. She slid a glance toward Ryan's sleeping face covered with his arm. Then she popped the cork off the vial, tipped it, and let several pills spill into her palm.

Opium pills.

Ryan gave another moan and removed his arm from his eyes, his hand automatically going to the cross at his side and clutching it, as if he were in the habit of holding it. But his eyes remained closed. And she could only surmise that he'd lost consciousness from the combination of whiskey and pain pills.

He would obviously not be waking up any time soon.

She stared at his unshaven face, at the blond strands of hair that fell across his forehead. On the one hand, she had the urge to smooth the hair back. From the brief encounter she'd had with him, she guessed he was suffering from more than just physical wounds, that his pains went much deeper.

But on the other hand, she had the overwhelming urge to slap his cheek and give him a rude awakening. It was his sacred duty to light the lantern each night. If he couldn't manage to pick himself up off the ground and do his job, then he shouldn't have agreed to take it.

She dropped the vial of pills, not bothering to put it back in his satchel, not caring if they spilled all over his bedroll. She pushed down the anger that had been building inside her all day.

It wasn't fair. She'd done a nearly flawless job lighting the lantern. She'd taken care of it with the tenderness of a mother with her babe. Everyone for miles around could attest to her unswerving duty these past months. And here was this newcomer, this intruder, who couldn't get himself up the tower steps to light the lantern the first night on the job.