Love Unexpected (11 page)

Tears slipped down her cheeks, falling upon his red hair.

She sat up and sniffed the air, catching the bitterness of something burning. “Oh no!” she cried, setting Josiah aside on the bed. “My biscuits!”

With a frantic burst, she dashed out of Josiah's room into the kitchen to the oven. “Please, please, please don't be burned,” she said. But when she opened the oven door and looked inside, she let out a wail. “They're burned. Every single one of them!”

Using a rag, she yanked out the pan and flung it on top of the sideboard with a clatter. A dozen smoking black lumps leered at her. Her beautiful biscuits. Ruined.

The ache in her chest expanded into her lungs. A sob burst out, but she caught it in her palm. Bertie had been right when she'd said Emma had taken on a job as wife and mother that she couldn't handle. Another sob tried to escape, but she forced it back.

At the sound of Josiah's broken cries, Emma's shoulders slumped, and she retreated to the bedroom where she'd left him. She couldn't bear to look at the charred biscuits. All she wanted to do was gather the boy into her arms again and cry with him.

She lay down next to him on the bed, cuddled him and stroked his hair and cheeks, letting her tears mingle with his. He nuzzled closer, and his cries gradually tapered. His eyelids grew heavy until they fell. His breathing turned steady with the rhythm of slumber, and his sucking became jerky around his thumb.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss against the softness of his hair. She started to pull away from him when he grasped her
hand and snuggled his fingers against hers, as if he didn't want her to leave him.

She closed her eyes and let her body sag into the mattress. A tiny breath of peace settled over her.

Josiah didn't hate her for disciplining him. He hadn't pushed her away. In fact, just the opposite had happened. He wanted her there with him. No matter how hard it was being a parent and a wife, maybe there was still hope.

H
oping to get a few hours' sleep, Patrick opened the door wearily. A smoky haze and the odor of burnt food greeted him. That wasn't anything new. Emma had a knack for burning just about everything she cooked.

A grin tugged his lips at the remembrance of the first time she'd attempted to fry griddle cakes. Even something as simple as that had ended up charred and inedible.

What had she tried to cook today?

A strange silence hovered in the house. His grin faded, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. It was too quiet.

What if she'd left? What if she'd somehow figured out the truth about him and run away?

He headed straight for the kitchen and stopped abruptly at the disaster that greeted him. Water on the floor, flour on the table, and the source of the haze—burned biscuits on the sideboard.

The mess didn't concern him. He was immaculate with the tower and the light, because the
Instructions for Light-Keepers
manual spelled out strict regulations for its daily upkeep. But when it came to the house, he was much less organized. He just didn't have the energy to worry about it.

He'd tried to sweep and wash and maintain some order, but it had always been low on his list of priorities. And housekeeping had been the last thing Delia had wanted to do.

Emma, on the other hand, had worked hard to clean up the place. Every time he came in, he could see new evidence of her womanly touch: a new bunch of flowers on the table, colorful rocks on the windowsill, a wreath on the sitting room wall she'd woven from sea grass, cattails, and Queen Anne's lace.

She'd decorated the house more in one week than Delia had done in a year.

No, he couldn't condemn Emma for a messy kitchen. But after such a short time living with her, he realized the mess was uncharacteristic of her. Combined with the silence, it left him even more unsettled.

He made his way around the spilled water to the back door and peered outside. The clothes she'd washed yesterday hung on the line and flapped gently in the breeze. The newly turned soil of the garden was dark and well tended. The chickens strutted about their fenced-in area, pecking at the grass. But there were no signs of Emma and Josiah.

His pulse raced faster, and he spun away from the back door. Through the doorway of Josiah's room he caught sight of the familiar floral print of Emma's skirt, and relief washed over him. He went to the bedroom and halted at the door.

The two of them were asleep on the bed. Josiah had curled into a ball against Emma's body. Her arms surrounded him like a blanket, and her chin rested against his head.

For an eternal moment he couldn't tear his attention from
them. The sight was so precious it caused his breath to hitch in his chest and tears to sting at the back of his eyes.

If only Josiah's real mother had been as loving and sweet . . .

The splotchy red spots on Josiah's face were the telltale signs that he'd thrown another crying fit and given Emma a hard time—which would explain why she'd had to leave the kitchen in such disarray.

Emma's delicate lashes fanned out against her pale skin. Her lips were parted slightly with the soft breathing of slumber. And the long curve of her neck was exposed, an expanse of fair, beautiful skin. He had the sudden desire to graze his fingers along its curve, to test for himself how soft it was.

But he held back and instead allowed himself to look upon her—her face and her very womanly form. She was lovely, and she was his wife. Longing stirred in him.

She must have sensed his presence because her eyes flickered open and connected with his, and he found himself sinking into their warm brown depths.

He didn't say anything but took a small step back, chastising himself for being too bold. “How are you?” he whispered.

She lifted a finger to her lips and glanced sideways at Josiah. The slight protective action on her part reminded him of the good mother she already was, even though the lad had been making life difficult for her.

Patrick nodded and waited silently as she attempted to extricate herself without waking the boy. But at the movement of her arm, Josiah yawned and his body stiffened into a long stretch.

It took only a moment longer for him to open his eyes and see Patrick in the doorway. “Daddy home?” he asked in a sleepy voice.

Patrick smiled at the innocence of the boy's expression. Looking at his angelic face, it was hard to believe he was the cause of all the trouble in the kitchen. But he had no doubt that Josiah had misbehaved for Emma again.

“I'm home, lad.”

Josiah pushed himself up and away from Emma, crawled over the edge of the bed, and flung himself at Patrick. He caught the boy and drew him to his chest.

Emma stood and looked past them into the kitchen. She gave a barely audible sigh as she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I'll take Josiah with me for a little while,” he offered. “It looks like you could use a break.”

She nodded, but before she could speak, Josiah pulled back and said, “Me naughty.”

“I can see that,” Patrick replied, “and that makes your daddy sad.”

“Me 'pent on bed.”

“Pent?” Patrick glanced at Emma.

“Repent,” she said. “I had him sit on his bed to repent.”

He nodded his understanding and then held Josiah by his shoulders so he could look him in the eyes. “I'm glad you repented. That's what God wants.”

Josiah stared up at him. Patrick wasn't sure how much the boy grasped, but he'd decided it wouldn't hurt to start teaching the boy while he was young to walk in the ways of the Lord. That way the boy would have fewer regrets when he grew up.

“Repentance is important, lad. But you need to listen to your mamma the first time.”

Josiah's shoulders sank, and his face fell. Then he did something that surprised Patrick. He turned to Emma and said quietly, “Me be good boy, Mamma.”

She smiled at him. “Aye, you will.”

Patrick was tempted to ask her if she wanted help cleaning the kitchen, but he sensed he'd help her more if he took Josiah outside for a while and gave her a rest from his boundless energy.

For at least an hour, he kept Josiah occupied with chores. Finally, Patrick's stomach couldn't resist the gurgling and rumbling for food. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

He cracked open the back door and peeked inside. The kitchen was spotless now, as Emma had made quick work of bringing the house back to order. The table was set for supper, and she was busy at the stove, stirring something in a kettle.

When she saw him, she swiped at her cheeks. Was she crying?

He didn't know what to say or whether he should back away and return later.

Then Josiah squeezed past him and dashed to the table. “Hungry!”

“Good,” she said too cheerfully, “because dinner is ready.”

The two of them sat at the table as she placed what appeared to be a bowl of soup before Patrick, though he wasn't sure since it was covered with a film of black flecks as if it had burned to the bottom of the kettle. She then brought a plate of tiny brownish lumps and set it on the center of the table. He suspected the lumps were the burned biscuits, and that she'd cut away all the blackened parts, leaving only the middle.

After they prayed, Josiah eagerly took one of the lumps and ate it in one bite. “More?” he asked Emma through a mouthful.

“More,
please
,” she instructed him.

“More please,” he repeated.

She gave him several more, since they were hardly big enough to feed a mouse.

Patrick stirred his soup and found that it contained more
black than any other color. But he was too hungry to care. He sensed her attention upon him, and he didn't want to take his first bite while she was inspecting him, just in case he grimaced.

Instead, he reached for his steaming mug of coffee and took a sip. He savored the strong flavor, just the way he liked it. “That's good coffee.”

At his words, a sob slipped from her lips. She pushed away from the table, her chair scraping and falling backward in her haste to get away. She covered her face with her hands and rushed out the door, letting it slam behind her.

Patrick stood. All he'd said was that the coffee was good. Wasn't that a compliment? He stared at the door, not sure if he should go after her or give her time to calm down first.

“Mamma sad?” Josiah paused in devouring another biscuit and strained to see out the kitchen window that overlooked the backyard.

“Yes, lad.” Patrick watched Emma cross the grassy lawn to the clothesline, where she began to take down and fold the items with jerking motions. Her back faced him, but he could tell she was still crying by the way she brushed at her cheeks.

Every time she swiped, his heart squeezed. He had an overwhelming urge to run outside and pull her into his arms.

“Mamma?” Josiah called to her through the window, his brow wrinkled in worry.

“She'll be all right,” Patrick said, praying that was the truth but knowing somehow he'd hurt her. “Let's eat, and we'll give Mamma some time to herself.”

They ate their meal in silence, and even though the soup was speckled with burned fish, he had to admit it was tasty. He tried one of the miniature biscuit centers and realized it was moist and delicious too.

She'd obviously tried hard to make a nice meal, her first attempt at something besides leftovers. Even if it hadn't turned out perfectly, he could have made an effort to praise her for the effort.

That was why she was upset. He was sure of it. And now he wanted to hit himself across the head for being such an idiot.

He just hoped it wasn't too late to apologize and make it up to her.

Emma kneeled in the garden and pulled the weeds that had sprung seemingly overnight. She'd cried herself out and was now feeling drained. She knew she should go back inside and clean up dinner, but she couldn't muster the strength to do it.

She was embarrassed by her outburst. What must Patrick think of her? She'd not only proved her inadequacy in the kitchen, but she had served him a nearly inedible meal. To top it off, he'd seen the messy kitchen and her inability to control Josiah. If he hadn't regretted marrying her yet, he surely would after today.

She paused in her weeding and brushed her sleeve across her forehead. A sudden swell of longing rose for her brother. It was so sharp she nearly lost her breath. She hadn't seen him in a week, which was the longest she'd ever been apart from him.

“Oh, Ryan,” she whispered through trembling lips, “I miss you.”

Maybe she should ask to stay with the Burnhams. Then she could return to the previous plan of moving to Detroit with Ryan. If she left voluntarily, she would save Patrick the unpleasant chore of having to broach the awkward subject. After all, he was probably too polite to say anything about her inadequacies. The kind thing—the right thing—was to give him a way out
of their marriage now that he knew exactly what he'd gotten in the bargain.

With a sigh, she dug her fingers into the soil, letting the cold damp earth crumble against her touch.

“Emma . . .” His voice came from behind her and startled her. She hadn't heard the back door open or his footsteps. She glanced over her shoulder and found him standing at the edge of the garden, his hands in his pockets.

“How's Josiah?” she asked, keeping her face turned away from him, so he couldn't see her puffy eyes or splotchy cheeks.

“He's asleep now.”

“Oh. Thank you for laying him down.” She should have gone in to kiss Josiah good-night. But then why make things harder if she was leaving? Because if she were honest with herself, it would be hard to say good-bye to the little boy. As difficult as he could be at times, he was still adorable and she'd already grown attached to him.

Patrick was silent, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see him wade through the rows until he stood in front of her and blocked her path forward. She didn't dare look up at him. She was too afraid of what she'd see in his eyes.

“Emma,” he said again softly.

She sat back on her heels and let the dirt sift through her fingers.

He lowered himself until he was kneeling in front of her.

She bit her lip.

He lifted his hand to her chin and tipped up her head, so that she had no choice but to look at him.

One glance into the beautiful green depths was enough to remind her of what she would lose, and she couldn't prevent her lip from trembling.

He brought his hand to her cheek. His eyes wouldn't let go
of hers, and she wished desperately she hadn't disappointed him, that she'd been able to please him.

“Come here,” he said. And without waiting for her permission, he tugged her near and slid his arms around her. He'd long past shed his coat and wore only his light cotton shirt. It was cool against her cheeks, and his chest beneath was solid.