Hearts Made Whole (9 page)

She met his eyes, an expression of pure sincerity. “I guess we can give your idea a try then.”

He stuffed his other hand into his pocket and rocked on his heels, the tension rolling away and a smile tugging at his lips. “Good.”

“Thank you.” In spite of the temporariness of the plan, she was still grateful to him for his sensitivity and kindness.

He nodded and said, “Your beau will be disappointed.”

“I don't have a beau.”

“Could have fooled me.” His tone was teasing. “Arnie Simmons sure has it bad for you.”

“Arnie's just a friend.”

“It's obvious he doesn't think of himself as
just
a friend.”

“I've never encouraged him in anything beyond friendship. I've only shown him the courtesy and kindness that others neglect to give him.”

“But he's still a man.” Ryan grinned. “And a man would have to be blind not to notice how pretty and sweet you are.”

Ryan thought she was pretty. Even though his words were spoken lightly, they made something warm flutter to life in the pit of her stomach, something she'd never felt before but that she liked.

“I guess you're just going to break his heart,” Ryan teased.

She wished she knew how to banter with a man. But the fact was, even if there had been suitors available, she wasn't sure she could have flirted. She wasn't like Tessa. Making eyes and joking didn't come naturally to her.

Even so, Caroline couldn't resist returning Ryan's smile. “Arnie was only trying to help me. I don't think he really wants to marry me.”

“Oh, he wants to marry you,” Ryan insisted, his eyes dancing with a light that sent another flutter through her middle, this one warmer than the last.

She wasn't sure how to respond. There was something honest and clear in his eyes, something that beckoned her to banter with him. And there was also a frank appreciation of her as a woman—something she hadn't experienced before either.

His gaze held hers, bold and unswerving, until she squirmed and looked away toward the rocky beach. The warmth inside spread in a pleasurable trail to her limbs.

She needed to go. Needed to keep her dignity. Before she made a fool of herself and ended up acting silly like Tessa. She spun to leave, but then stopped. “You'll join us for meals in the house, won't you, Mr. Chambers?”

“Nay. I can't.”

Her lips stalled around her sentence.

Seeing her surprise, he fought back a smile. “I won't join you unless you promise to call me Ryan instead of Mr. Chambers.”

“I can't.” It was her turn to try to hold back her smile. “I'll only use your given name if you bring your dirty laundry up to the house tomorrow and allow me to wash it. Ryan.”

He laughed, giving her a smile wide enough to reveal the full power of his attractiveness. The humor and laughter in his eyes transformed his face into one of the handsomest she'd ever seen, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Do I stink that bad?” he asked too innocently.

She flipped her hair over her shoulders and started back to the house. “Perhaps on the morrow I'll draw water so that you can take a bath. I'm not sure which needs the scrubbing more, you or your clothes.”

His low chuckle followed her.

And it wasn't until she was inside the house, her back pressed against the closed door, and her knees trembling, that she realized she'd done it. She'd flirted.

For the first time in her life, she'd flirted. And she couldn't deny that she'd rather liked doing it.

“You will absolutely not lose your keeper job simply because you wear skirts and have the ability to bear children.” Esther Deluth's voice boomed over the town square, making Caroline want to jump into one of the large barrel flowerpots that dotted the corners and burrow under the dirt.

Esther stood at the base of a ladder, staring up at a banner that read,
Help build the library. Help build a
better tomorrow
. One of the assistants from her husband's office wobbled at the top of the ladder.

Esther had one hand on her plump abdomen and the other shielding her eyes. “It's hanging down on the left,” Esther called to the man, who was sweating profusely under the Indian summer sunshine of midday.

The man moved the sign higher.

“I won't stand for this.” Esther turned to face Caroline. “This is absolutely the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Deluth,” the assistant replied, raising the banner again, apparently not realizing that Esther wasn't speaking to him but had shifted her attention to other issues.

Without another glance at the man on the ladder, Esther bustled forward, taking hold of Caroline's arm and steering her toward a basket filled with pamphlets and signs. “This is 1865, not the Dark Ages. Men like Mr. Finick need to realize
that women are quite capable of doing more than acting as bed partners to their husbands.”

Caroline stumbled at the bluntness of Esther's statement and chanced a look around to make sure no one else had heard her friend. There were several other women standing nearby and chatting, their young children playing together on the grass of the square. They weren't paying any attention to Esther. Neither was the group of men seated in front of the general store, many of their wagons parked in front, empty but for a scattering of grains that hadn't made it to the mill.

At midday Grosse Pointe wasn't anything like the busy metropolis of Detroit, which lay six miles to the south. But for a small town it had more than its share of activity, especially with Esther Deluth living here. Her father had recently been elected to the Michigan State Senate, and her husband was the town mayor. And Esther was never without one political cause or another, particularly women's suffrage.

Caroline increased her stride to keep up with her friend. “So what do you think I should do?” she asked, knowing Esther would have advice for her. She always had, ever since they'd first met after Caroline had moved to Windmill Point as a young girl of twelve.

Though Esther had gotten married last year and was now expecting her first baby, Caroline still counted Esther as her closest friend.

“What should you do?” Esther's voice rose with incredulousness. “What should you do? I can't believe you're even asking me that.” She stopped in front of the basket of flyers, picked it up, and looped it under one arm.

Next to her, Esther stood a head shorter and was stocky. Caroline wouldn't have known Esther was six months pregnant
from looking at her abdomen. The baby blended in well with Esther's well-endowed form.

After all of Esther's declarations when they'd been growing up about how she didn't want to get married and have babies, that she wanted to have a career instead, Caroline thought it was rather ironic her friend was married and expecting before Caroline had even given marriage a second thought.

She hadn't been opposed to it the same way Esther had. In fact, she'd always dreamed of finding a godly man like her father and working alongside him. She wanted someone she could love and take care of, someone who would feel the same way about her. And of course she wanted babies too.

But during the past several years, she'd had little time to think about marriage. Since her father's death, she'd decided she couldn't leave her siblings. She'd never abandon them for a man. And she couldn't ever ask a man to shoulder the responsibility of caring for her family.

She hadn't expected that any man would ever want to take on such a heavy load, which was one of the reasons she knew she had to seriously consider Arnie Simmons's offer of marriage. Even if he acted somewhat like a child, he was nearing thirty, had a steady job, and could provide her a home. What more did she need at this point?

“Esther, please.” Caroline latched on to her friend's arm to keep her from charging to wherever she was going next with her basket of flyers. “Please tell me what you think I should do.”

Esther finally came to an abrupt halt and turned her flashing eyes upon Caroline. “Okay. I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to stay out at the light. That's what.”

“But Mr. Finick won't let me—”

“He's discriminating against you based upon your gender,
and we won't stand for it. We just fought a war to end slavery against our black brothers and sisters. Now it's time to fight the war to end oppression against women.”

Caroline gave an exasperated sigh. She was used to Esther's political tirades, but that wasn't what she needed now. “How can we stop him, though? The Lighthouse Board has given him the power to hire and fire.”

“We'll find a way.” Esther patted her arm firmly. “I'll talk with my husband, and we'll think of something.”

“But I need to have a backup plan,” Caroline insisted. “I can't afford to be homeless and without a job, not with Sarah's condition.”

“You said yourself that the new keeper is willing to let you stay on. And if that doesn't work, you know you can always stay with Paul and me.”

Caroline glanced at Esther's bungalow across from the courthouse. With a fresh coat of white paint, it was pretty from the outside, but Caroline had been inside often enough to know it was tiny, having only two bedrooms. With the baby on the way, Caroline knew she couldn't impose on her friend, at least for very long.

“I need to find another job, Esther.”

Esther pursed her lips and glanced around Main Street to the smattering of little shops and businesses—the smithy, the tailor, the butcher, and others. They were all largely family-owned and operated. They wouldn't need help from a young woman like Caroline. And even if they did, she doubted they'd be able to pay her what she'd need to support her siblings.

As if drawing the same conclusion, Esther patted her arm again. “We'll think of something. But in the meantime, you dig in your feet and stay at the light. It's your home and your
job. And no one has any right to take it away from you because you're a woman.”

Caroline nodded and pushed down the growing frustration. She'd come to town hoping Esther would offer her a viable solution. But Esther was apparently just as helpless as she was.

Was her only solution to travel down to Detroit and hope she could find a job in one of the factories there?

She loathed the idea of having to move her family into the squalor of the rentals. It certainly wouldn't be a healthy environment for Sarah or a proper place to raise the twins. She could only imagine the trouble they'd get themselves into running loose in the slums reserved for factory workers.

Esther handed Caroline a stack of flyers from the basket. “Now, you can help me distribute these flyers to raise support for a new library.”

Caroline sighed and took the papers.

“Don't worry, Caroline,” Esther said over her shoulder as she started toward the men gathered in front of the general store.

Telling her not to worry was like telling a rain cloud not to release any rain.

“And remember to come back to town on Saturday for my protest rally against cockfighting,” Esther called. “If four other states can outlaw such barbarism, then we can outlaw it here in Michigan.”

Caroline only nodded. She hadn't told Esther about Arnie's proposal. She knew Esther would scold her for considering it. Esther detested Mr. Simmons and made no secret over how much she opposed not only the cockfighting but also the sale of liquor at his establishment.

Though Caroline didn't approve of Mr. Simmons's activities either, she'd been trying to convince herself that Arnie was
different. He wouldn't hurt a soul. He was one of the kindest men she knew. In light of her current situation, he was still her best option.

Even so, she couldn't make herself ride out to the inn and accept his proposal . . . not quite yet.

R
yan scraped the razor down a fraction and flinched as the blade nicked his skin again. He pulled back and was tempted to toss the steel down into the grass and trample it in frustration.

He peered into the broken triangle of glass, which was all that remained of his shaving-kit mirror. He'd shaved less than half his cheek, and it was so shredded he looked as if he'd been showered with shrapnel.

The slap of a door closing told him one of the women had stepped outside the house.

He hunkered closer to the small mirror leaning against the outer sill of the boathouse window and pretended to be busy. He wished he hadn't decided to act upon the unusual urge to shave. He'd gotten by without shaving for many months. Why had he felt the need to start again today?

He gripped the razor with his good hand and smoothed the shaving soap with the other. Now that he'd started, he would have to finish. He certainly couldn't walk around with half of his face shaved smooth and the other half hairy. Although he
wasn't sure which was worse, the half shave or a cut-up face that resembled Frankenstein's monster.

“We missed you at dinner last night” came a voice from behind him.

He angled the piece of mirror so that he caught a glimpse of Caroline's reflection. Her hair was tied into the usual knot she wore at the back of her head. For a fleeting second he remembered the way it had flowed down her shoulders and back the first day he'd met her, when she'd been full of fire and horror at finding him in her bed.

The memory brought a swift smile to his lips.

“Did you find the plate that Tessa left for you?”

“Aye,” he answered. “Many thanks for the delicious food.” When he'd awoken from his medicated sleep that morning, he'd found the food waiting for him outside the boathouse door. It was cold and covered with ants, but once he'd picked off the insects, he'd enjoyed every bite.

After all, he'd grown up in Ireland during the potato famine. His mother had died of starvation, giving up her portions of food to save him and his sister. Even though those days were a distant memory, he'd never forgotten the hunger spasms, the weakness, and the frantic need for food.

The war hadn't been nearly as bad. He'd even been grateful for the pieces of hardtack that were full of weevils and maggots. Aye, he'd had a constant ache in his stomach day in and day out during some of their toughest campaigns. But no matter how hungry they'd been, they shouldn't have stolen from the civilians.

The admonition burned through him as it had a hundred times since the war. Of course, at the time, he and the others in his regiment had justified their pillaging by saying they were
taking from their enemies. The Southerners were the reason for their hunger in the first place. If only they hadn't started the war, then he and his buddies wouldn't have been so hungry and so far from their homes.

Maybe they'd been able to make excuses for taking the food, but Ryan knew there was no justification for what they'd done that fateful night.

He blinked hard and started to sink beneath a crashing wave of despair.

“The boys told me you got the well filled about halfway.” Caroline's voice pulled him back to the surface.

Ryan nodded and dragged in a breath. “They're hard workers.” In the several hours he'd shoveled dirt and rocks into the well with the twins, they hadn't once complained. They'd worked steadily and followed his instructions without question. “They're good boys,” he added. “They just need a firm hand once in a while.”

He'd dreaded spending time alone with them, expecting memories of the dead boy to taunt him. But surprisingly he'd found himself enjoying the twins' presence and listening to their conversation.

While he'd spared his injured hand the brunt of the shoveling and lifting, he'd come back to the lighthouse with so much pain in his arm that he'd been unable to do anything but collapse onto his bedroll and swallow a couple of pills.

He was ashamed that he'd been incapacitated through dinner. Even worse, he hated that he'd failed once again to attend to the lighthouse. He'd resolved then to stop being so useless and make some effort to do his keeper duties.

Maybe that was why he'd wanted to shave—to give himself a fresh start.

But it was a feeble attempt, and he'd only managed to mangle his face. Was that the way it would be with everything he tried to do?

Her footsteps on the gravelly path crunched closer, until she stood next to him and he caught the whiff of something sweet, like flowers. The fresh scent wafted around her. She picked up the half bar of shaving soap he'd left near the broken piece of mirror.

She wiped off the lather he'd made and ran her finger over the coarse grains of the soap. She glanced to his cheeks and then to the blade he gripped with ever-whitening fingers.

He tensed as he waited for her to say something about his useless arm, his failed shaving attempt, and how inept he was at everything. He deserved it.

“Your soap's no good,” she said matter-of-factly. “It isn't lathering well.”

They both knew the soap wasn't the problem, but he appreciated that she wasn't making him feel more inadequate than he already did.

“I have a bar of my father's soap inside that you can use,” she offered. “In fact, I used to shave my father's beard, and I'm quite accomplished at it. Or at least I used to be.”

Was she offering to give him a shave? He wasn't sure whether to be mortified or flattered.

They made eye contact but only for a second or two. Her summery blue eyes reflected only shyness and not the pity he'd grown accustomed to.

“I'd be obliged,” he said. “Maybe you can save me from skinning myself alive.”

He tried to form his lips into a smile but only managed a twitch. But she'd already spun away from him and was walking toward the keeper's cottage.

“I have a few minutes now,” she called over her shoulder, “while I wait for my laundry water to boil.”

He watched her retreat, her movements graceful even though each step was firm. Caroline Taylor was a strong woman. He could see it in the stiffness of her back and in the way she held her shoulders. She'd weathered his coming and losing her job with much more decorum than he would have.

Even after all the frustration and uncertainty his coming had caused her, she was kind to him—kinder than anyone had been in a long time, maybe even since the last time he'd visited his sister at Presque Isle before he'd enlisted.

He watched Caroline until she disappeared into the house. His heart welled with gratefulness. She was being considerate toward him, though she had no reason to.

The steam from the kettle rose in the air, and the heat from the wood-burning stove radiated throughout the kitchen. Even with the window open, letting in the cool fall breeze, the room felt hot and humid.

The back of Caroline's dress stuck between her shoulder blades, and a loose piece of hair was plastered against her neck. But she swirled the brush in circular motions vigorously anyway, working it around the shaving soap to create a thick lather.

She'd laid out her father's shaving supplies on the worktable near the window—the tin and the soap made from goat's milk, the four-inch stainless steel blade, like new still, and the badger-bristle shaving brush. She'd even found a bottle of the lotion he applied after a fresh shave, but she wasn't sure she had the nerve to uncork it. One whiff of the spicy, woodsy scent would only send her into a lapse of melancholy.

It was better not to think too much about losing her father and the repercussions that were now coming as a result.

At a creak of a floorboard in the other room, she knew it was Ryan entering the house and crossing the front room. His footsteps were hesitant, and when he reached the doorway of the kitchen he stopped, his brow raised, showing the uncertainty in his eyes.

She nodded toward the chair she'd placed directly under the window so that she could have the maximum amount of light to aid her efforts. “Have a seat. I promise I won't cut you.”

“You can't cut me any worse than I've already done myself,” he said wryly.

“True.” She offered him a small smile of encouragement.

He plodded to the chair and lowered himself, leaning back and stretching his long legs in front of him. He kept his injured hand in his pocket as usual.

His presence in the kitchen seemed to make the heat rise a degree or two. He wasn't an overly large man, but his masculinity seemed to fill the space around the large center table and attune her to the knowledge that he was a handsome man, and she a naive young woman, just as naive as Tessa.

Except for her father, she'd never touched another man before. What had made her believe she could touch Ryan with such familiarity?

A tremor of nervous anticipation rippled through her. She reached for a hot towel she'd hung above the steaming pot, and then she forced herself to approach him.

When she stood above him and he looked up at her with his brown eyes so full of trust and gratefulness, she tried to ignore the whispers of warning about being too friendly. Maybe if she tried to picture her father sitting in the chair instead of Ryan?

She laid the warm, moist towel over his face, covering all but his eyes, which followed her every move with bright interest.

“Tell me about your family” came his muffled voice from behind the towel. “Where are you from? How long have you been light keeping?”

She pressed the linen firmly against his skin, cleaning it and blotting away the blood from his earlier attempts. While answering his questions distracted her a bit as she prepared for his shave, her stomach still did strange flips every time she briefly touched him.

After she removed the towel, he answered her questions freely in return about his past. She learned that at ten he'd emigrated from Ireland with his older sister and father in order to flee from the famine. Once they arrived, he'd never lived in any place for very long but had spent most of his years before the war fishing in northern Michigan and then in the Detroit area.

“So you're a man of the sea,” she said as she scooped the lather onto the end of the brush and then transferred it into her cupped palm.

“Aye. It's been in my blood since I was a lad, fishing with my dad back in Ireland.”

She wanted to ask if he'd ever return to fishing, but at the sadness in his tone she held back her question. Instead she rubbed her hands together to mix the cream and create an even richer lather, and she turned the direction of the conversation to something safer. “With your seafaring background, you'll make a good keeper.”

She supposed that was one of the reasons Mr. Finick had hired Ryan, even though he obviously didn't know much about lighthouses.

“Do you think so?” Ryan asked, his voice hopeful.

“I'll show you everything you need to know,” she assured him. If she had to move out of the lighthouse, then at least she could make sure she left it in capable hands. “I promise.”

“You're an angel,” he said softly, and the intensity of his gaze burned into her.

The creamy texture of the soap finally felt full enough for application. She bent over his face and raised a hand, but then hesitated. Before she lost courage, she slipped her fingers over his scruffy skin, smoothing the soap in gentle waves across his cheek.

He stiffened and closed his eyes.

She halted. “Am I hurting you?”

“Not at all,” he said, his voice somewhat strained.

After another moment's hesitation, she continued lathering his face. His Adam's apple rose up and down, and his fingers splayed across his thigh tightly.

“Are you sure I'm not hurting you?” she asked.

His lips curved into a grin, and his eyes flashed open to meet hers. “Rest assured, Caroline, the last thing you're doing is hurting me.”

There was something in his eyes that sent a wave of heat pulsing through her middle and up into her face. She quickly averted her eyes and hoped she wasn't blushing as much on the outside as she was within. And she prayed that Tessa would stay in Sarah's room awhile longer. She didn't want her sister seeing her flustered and flushed as she shaved Ryan's face.