Love Unexpected (10 page)

P
retty rock, Mamma?” Josiah held up a gray plain-shaped rock like all the others he'd found.

“Aye.” She gave him a nod before digging through the assortment of more colorful rocks at her feet.

The waves crashed nearby, constantly weathering the smooth stones that lined the shore. She picked up a rock that was oblong and a shade of pink. She turned it over, brushing off the sand before dropping it into her pail with the others.

“Here, Mamma.” Josiah dumped several of his rocks into the bucket. Next to the vibrant and unique ones she'd collected, his looked like lumps of dirt.

She couldn't hold back a smile of amusement at his definition of pretty. “Thank you, little love. You're a big helper to Mamma.”

He smiled and stuck his thumb in his mouth, even though his hands were coated in sand. She waited for him to spit it out and make a fuss about the sand, but his mouth worked furiously around the thumb while he stared off into the distance, in the direction Patrick had gone when he'd left to go fishing a little while ago.

Josiah had wanted to linger like usual on the beach after watching his daddy row away. Emma didn't mind. She enjoyed the cooler morning air before the heat of the day set in. And she never turned down the chance to explore, to hike farther up the isthmus. She always seemed to find something she could use to decorate the house.

She settled Josiah's hat on his head more squarely, noting his tired eyes. He'd woken up crying during an early morning thunderstorm and hadn't gone back to sleep. She could only hope his tiredness wouldn't make him too difficult that day, because Patrick would be gone longer than usual.

After cooking breakfast for them all, he'd left for his fishing as he usually did, but he'd told her not to expect him back until later in the day, that he had some business he needed to tend to. He hadn't told her where he was going or what he was doing.

As he prepared to leave, he appeared distracted and even nervous. She couldn't stop thinking about Bertie's insinuation the previous afternoon that Patrick was involved with another woman. Then she quickly swept the thought from her mind. The Patrick Bertie had described didn't match with the man she was beginning to admire.

What about Bertie's advice to wean Josiah of his thumb-sucking? Should she try it? She imagined Bertie would expect her to have accomplished something by the time they met again.

Gently she tugged the boy's thumb out of his mouth. “You're getting to be a big boy now, Josiah. Maybe it's time you stopped sucking your thumb.”

He stared at his thumb and then up at her. “Me not a big boy.”

“Aye. Even your britches are getting too small.” She'd noticed they were above his ankles and had thought about asking Patrick to buy her material to sew him a new pair.

Josiah stared down at his trousers and shook his head. “Me suck thumb.”

She started to correct him, but when he stuffed his thumb back in his mouth, she stopped. Standing before her on the wide open beach with the lake spreading out to the horizon, he appeared so small and forlorn in his tiny cap and freshly laundered shirt and pants that she couldn't muster the wherewithal to argue with him or force him to give up his thumb-sucking.

If it brought him comfort, who was she to challenge that? Not when he must still need it, and not when she'd only been his mamma for such a short time.

“Daddy?” Josiah's face lit up, and his thumb fell out of his mouth. He stared up the shore and pointed to a boat that had moored to the north of them.

Emma frowned. It was much too early for Patrick to return. And besides, there were several men milling about the rocky area, hauling something ashore and poking about the brush.

They didn't appear to be fishermen. They didn't have rods or nets or crates or anything else remotely related to fishing. They weren't wearing the usual gear. If they weren't fishermen, then who were they and what were they doing?

She glanced back over her shoulder in the direction she'd hiked. She'd wandered far enough north that the tower and keeper's house were out of sight. A rustling of wind in a patch of sea grass nearby made her jump.

Josiah raised a hand. “Daddy!” he called, waving. “Daddy, Daddy!”

“Nay, Josiah,” she said. “That's not your daddy.”

But he bolted forward. At his calls, the men swiveled to stare at her and Josiah.

Emma couldn't make out their faces, but there was something
about them that tightened her muscles and sent her racing after Josiah. She easily caught up with him and swooped him into her arms.

He protested with a cry and attempted to wriggle out of her grasp. She locked her arms around him and cupped a hand over his mouth. “That's not your daddy!” She spun and stalked away as quickly as she could, which was no easy feat on the rocky shore while holding a boy who was squirming like a slippery fish.

“Stop!” someone shouted.

She looked over her shoulder. One of the men had broken away from the group and was running toward her.

Emma picked up her pace. By the time she reached the keeper's house, her legs and arms burned and her breath came in heaving gasps. She stumbled inside, slammed the door closed, and collapsed to her knees.

Thankfully, Josiah had ceased struggling and was sucking his thumb and staring at her with large frightened eyes.

“Mean guys?” He spoke with his thumb in his mouth.

“I don't know, little love. But we're safer here. Until your daddy gets home.”

Josiah didn't answer except to suck his thumb again.

She smoothed a hand against his freckled cheek. She knew then she wouldn't—couldn't—make him stop sucking his thumb. The poor wee one had experienced too much loss lately. And he didn't need any more.

Emma dropped the last biscuit onto the baking pan. Her fingers stuck together with the mixture, flour dusted every inch of her apron, and she couldn't see the table through the smears
of dough that remained where she'd attempted to roll it out and cut the biscuits evenly.

Josiah was covered from head to toe in flour and sticky dough too. When she started her new baking adventure, she thought she'd keep him occupied if she let him help. But he was only interested in helping for a few minutes, and after making a disaster of the kitchen and himself, he decided to make handprints on the wall. Then he'd thrown flour into the air to pretend it was snowing. And when she'd promptly put an end to his wasting food, he'd started to cry.

She attempted to occupy him by filling a pail with water and showing him how to wash the walls, hoping he'd have just as much fun removing his handprints as he had putting them there.

“All done,” he said through a big yawn. He stood by the pail, his shirt and sleeves dripping wet.

“Now you can wash the table for Mamma.” She stepped over a puddle and carried her pan to the oven.

“No.” His voice was sulky. The day had been more difficult than she'd anticipated. She'd stayed inside, wanting to avoid a confrontation with the men who'd landed down the beach. But Josiah had too much energy to be inside for any length of time.

She blew out a weary sigh and focused on the cast-iron stove. She still didn't know much about using it, but slowly she was figuring out how to heat the stove so it wasn't too hot to burn everything or too cold to do much good.

“Me wash floor.”

“Not now, little love.” She opened the oven door and slid in the pan of biscuits.

She'd done it. She'd created her first pan of biscuits. A sweet sense of accomplishment engulfed her. Lifting the lid of the fish chowder she'd made earlier, she breathed in the steaming
aroma of the fresh trout, sage, and potatoes. She'd made her first real meal all by herself. Wouldn't Patrick be surprised when he walked in and found biscuits and soup? She hoped he'd be pleased.

Warmth spilled through her stomach at the thought of earning another of his smiles, the same kind of smile he'd given her last night when they were in the tower together. The weathered skin at the corners of his eyes had crinkled, his lips had turned up with an adorable quirk, and he'd seemed genuinely happy to be with her. She craved another smile just like it.

“Wash floor,” Josiah said again.

She replaced the kettle lid in time to see Josiah tipping the bucket. “Josiah, Mamma said
no
. We're not washing the floor right now.”

He looked at her with his mouth set while continuing to tilt the bucket so that some of the water dribbled onto the floor.

“Please obey Mamma, little love.”

More water spilled out, and his eyes flashed with defiance. Dark circles under his eyes testified to how tired he was. Even so, she couldn't let his tiredness be an excuse for outright disobedience, could she?

She hesitated. How would an experienced mother like Bertie handle the situation? Emma forced her mouth into what she hoped was a stern frown and then she made her voice sharp. “No more, young man. I want you to put the bucket down this instant.”

Josiah's chin lifted higher, and in one swift motion he dumped the bucket the rest of the way, sending water in a web across the floor.

Apparently she hadn't imitated Bertie well enough.

She had no idea what she should do next. Clean up the spill? Make Josiah clean it? Discipline him? Ignore his misbehavior?

She felt positive Bertie would have disciplined Josiah, perhaps punishing him with the switch. But she couldn't make herself do that.

“Oh, Josiah.” She breathed out all the anticipation she'd felt only moments ago. Her shoulders sagged with the discouragement that had been building over the past week of trying to be a good parent to him but never quite knowing how. “I wish you would have obeyed Mamma.”

He ignored her, squatted and slapped his hand in the water, which sprayed up into his face. He gasped and jerked his head back. It would have been almost funny had the situation not been so serious. For a moment, he didn't say anything, and she was afraid he'd burst into sobs.

But he surprised her by slapping the water again and sending another spray into his face. He sucked in a breath as he did before, but this time it was quickly followed by a giggle.

Emma was tempted to laugh too, and she smothered her smile behind her hand. Everything inside her told her she had to do something to chastise him for dumping out the water. If she didn't, he would think he could always disobey her.

“Josiah . . .” She went to him, her mind scrambling to find the appropriate discipline.

“Me 'plash water.” He looked up at her with a delighted smile.

She crouched next to him. “Josiah,” she said, in a stern but kind voice she'd heard Patrick use, “Mamma told you not to dump out the water, and you disobeyed.”

“Me 'plash!” He hit the water with both hands this time. “'Plash, 'plash, 'plash!”

“And now because you disobeyed, you'll need to . . . you'll need to . . .” She paused and glanced around the kitchen for any solution to her problem. She saw the open door of Josiah's closet
bedroom and his tiny bed. “You'll need to sit on your bed for a little bit and repent for not doing as Mamma said.”

He kept his head down and waved his hands sideways in the water, causing the puddle to spread out across the floor.

This was going to be hard.

She took a deep breath and reached for his hands. “Come with Mamma to your room.”

He shook his head and tried to pull away from her. “Me play in water.”

“Nay, little love. You must sit on your bed now.”

The moment she steered him away from the water, he started crying. He fought her every step of the way into his room, his cries growing louder until he was screaming. When she tried to lift him to his bed, he arched his back. And when she finally plopped him amidst the feathery mattress, he climbed off.

She hefted him back on, only to have to repeat the process several times, until finally she sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapped her arms around him and held him on her lap, even though he struggled against her and sobbed hoarsely.

A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead, and she was breathing as heavily as if she'd been climbing up and down the tower stairway. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered, her heart aching more than her body, “why is this so hard?”

Now that she'd started the battle with Josiah, she had the feeling she needed to finish it. She couldn't give in and let him have his way, or things would only get worse with his disobedience.

He wrenched against her, but she didn't budge her hold. He gave a deep, angry growl.

“Lord,” she cried, this time louder. She'd never felt more alone or inadequate in her life. “What am I doing wrong?”

For several long moments, he strained and thrashed. Then
slowly, as if someone had pricked a hole in his anger, it began to leak out, his body was less rigid, and his crying grew softer. Finally he stopped fighting her altogether and just lay in her arms, resting his head against her shoulder, sobbing.