Love Unexpected (15 page)

P
atrick's head pounded with a ferocity that nearly blinded him. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his body sagged with weakness. He felt as though he'd been banged around, punched in the face, and finally knocked down in the last round.

His breath was shallow, just like it had been after his last fight, the night he'd thought he was a goner, the night he'd been rabbit-punched in the back of the head, supposedly by accident.

He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was caved in, almost as if his opponent had launched several hooks into his gut. He'd sworn he would never fight again, not for any reason, and certainly not for any amount of money.

So what had happened to him?

He started to raise a hand to his head when he realized someone was holding it.

His eyes flew open to the sight of someone slumped half on the bed and half on a chair. The glow of the lantern on the bedside table revealed it was a woman. Blond hair spilled around her
face, but through the tangled tresses he glimpsed a pert nose and mouth, such sweet features.

Emma.

She was asleep with her cheek resting against his hand, which was intertwined with hers. He didn't move but was content to watch her, to bask in the revelation that she was by his side. No one except Holy Bill had ever stayed by his side, not even his mother.

She'd always been overworked and harried. And he'd just been another mouth to feed and body to clothe among his ten brothers and sisters. In fact, he'd been the one to raise his younger sister, the baby of the family, because his mom and older sisters were working twelve-hour days in the coat factory, and his dad and brothers were busy working in the sawmills that lined the Saginaw River Valley.

From his earliest recollections, even before they'd moved to Michigan, he'd been left home to watch the baby. At the time, he was only a young boy himself and had done what he could to keep his sister content. But now that he was full grown, he cringed when he thought of all their escapades. He wished he'd been a more responsible big brother. Thankfully, God had since gotten ahold of him, and he could make up for some of his mistakes by being the kind of father Josiah needed.

Emma sighed, and the warmth of her breath sent a tremor up his arm. He had the urge to brush the hair away from her face so he could get a better view and watch her sleep.

Sleep?
He pushed himself up and glanced toward the window. What time was it?

At the slight movement, pain ripped through his head and forced him to fall back against the pillow with a moan.

Emma sat up with a start. She released his hand and flipped
the tangled mass of long hair out of her face. She was on her feet in an instant and hovering above him. “You're awake,” she said, relief in her voice.

“What happened?” he croaked, trying to make sense of why he was lying in bed and feeling as if he'd just been soundly beaten in a boxing match.

“There was a storm.” Gently, Emma touched his forehead, and he could feel the tight roll of a bandage. “I think you were knocked in the head with a piece of metal from one of the tower windows.”

His mind spun back to the last moments he remembered, when the rain had been spraying into the lantern room too near the light. He'd gone out to cover the broken window and was trying to nail one of the corners of canvas.

He lifted his hand to his head, to the aching spot on his scalp where he'd taken the hit. He'd slipped, fallen backward, and hit his head against the rail. That was the last thing he remembered.

Once again he looked to the bedroom window and saw the faint light that peeked through a slit between the curtains. From what he could tell, it was now dawn. An urgency compelled him to sit up in spite of the pain. He struggled to move his legs to the edge of the bed.

“You should lie still,” Emma quietly admonished.

“I'll need to turn off the light soon.”

“It's already off.”

“It is? But how . . . ?” His hands turned clammy. “How long have I been out?”

“More than twenty-four hours.”

His chest tightened. He didn't want to ask, but he had to know. “And the light?”

Only then did she look him in the eye. Her expression radiated distress. “Some men stopped by yesterday and helped turn the light off. But when I tried to get it started again last night, I couldn't.”

Fighting dizziness, he fell back against the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut against the throbbing in his head. He'd failed in his sacred duty as keeper of the light. And the pain of that overwhelmed him more than the pain of his wound.

“I'm so sorry, Patrick,” she whispered. “I tried several times to get the light going, but I couldn't manage to make it work.”

“It's not your fault,” he said.

Her shoulders slumped. “But I should have been able to do more—”

“No.” He reached for her hand and tugged her closer to the bed. Even in the dimness of the room, he could tell she had dark circles under her eyes. “You did all you could. I should have prepared you better.” He squeezed her hand.

“I kept waiting for help.”

“Help?”

She nodded. “The fishermen said they'd fetch the doctor and also find someone who could come out and give me a hand with the lantern. But no one came.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“Maybe the doctor will come today.”

“There's no doctor in these parts.” Dread settled deep in his aching bones. “When someone's injured, it's the widow Burnham who is called.”

Who had Emma talked to? If the fishermen were from the area, they wouldn't have given her false hope about a doctor and help with the light, would they?

“Maybe the visitors were the ones who set up a light north of here,” she said.

He jolted up, and his head rebelled against the quick motion. “What? There was another light?”

“Aye. I saw one beaming over the lake just to the north.”

“Near the shoals?”

“I don't know.”

Ignoring the hammering in his head, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Did these men give you their names?”

“Nay. They said they came because they saw the lantern was still on and wondered if there might be trouble.”

“What did they look like?”

“One had curly black hair and walked with a limp.”

No
 . . .
His breath snagged in his chest. The description could only apply to one man, Mitch Schwartz—a man he'd hoped never to see again.

“The other had a hard face,” she said. “He wasn't as friendly.”

Patrick wiped a hand across his eyes, praying she wouldn't see just how shaken he was. “I'm afraid the men didn't come to help.” He needed to take a hike up to the shoals, yet he was afraid of what he might find.

“Why did they come, then?”

“They're pirates.” He swallowed the bitter taste of bile that rose to the back of his throat. “They wanted my light to stay dark so they could set up a decoy.”

Her brow creased.

“It's called moon cussing,” he explained, hoping she wouldn't ask him how he knew. “The pirates make sure the lighthouse is out of commission, and then they place a false light in a dangerous area. The beam fools the ships' captains and causes them to sail into rocks—making it easier for the pirates to rob them.”

Her eyes grew wide. “That's awful. Maybe they were the same men I saw on the beach north of here a few days ago when I was hiking with Josiah.”

His head pounded harder. “Why didn't you tell me you saw men on the beach?”

She shrank back at the anger in his voice.

“Never mind,” he said, swallowing his frustration. He wasn't angry at her. He was angry at Mitch. He had no doubt that she'd caught Mitch hauling a makeshift lantern ashore in preparation for setting up a decoy light. It was a common tactic for pirates, one he knew all too well. “Don't go hiking too far from the house again.”

She nodded.

“I'm just relieved they didn't hurt you or Josiah.”

She glanced in the direction of Josiah's room, as if more concerned about the boy's safety than about herself. Except for the patter of more rain against the roof, the house was silent. She visibly trembled and lowered herself to the chair again.

“So the men went into the lighthouse?” he asked.

She nodded.

Mitch had probably tampered with the light so that Emma wouldn't be able to turn it on. But did Mitch know that Patrick was here? That was the most important of his unanswered questions. Mitch had left him for dead after the knockout in his last boxing match.

His old friend had no reason to believe he was still alive. And if Mitch knew he'd survived, he wouldn't believe Patrick had given up his wicked ways and turned into a God-fearing man. In fact, he'd laugh in his face if Patrick ever mentioned the fact that he was clean.

Patrick wouldn't blame him. Anyone who'd known the man
he'd once been would find it difficult to believe he'd changed. There were still times he found it hard to believe that God had given him a second chance at life.

He had a new wife, a healthy son, and a steady job he liked. He didn't deserve any of it. Yet he aimed to live the rest of his life doing the best he could with all that God had given him.

He'd just have to pray that Mitch would sail away before the pirate stirred up more trouble. Or before Emma learned the whole truth about the man Patrick had once been and the awful things he'd done.

M
e bunny,” Josiah said as he hopped in the grass near the garden. “Watch, Mamma.”

Emma straightened and gave the boy her attention. He grinned and hopped some more. “You're a very sweet bunny,” she said while biting back her complaints about the real rabbits that were destroying her new bean shoots.

She'd been so excited to see them poking through the soil a couple of days ago, their tiny leaves unfurling. And now most of the plants were leafless, sticking up like thick blades of grass, completely useless. She needed a fence around the garden plot before she could replant—if Patrick would spare her the cost of the fencing.

Her eyes moved to the top of the tower, where Patrick was perched precariously on the roof, cleaning the wind vent. After almost a week since his injury, he'd taken off the bandage and his gash was healing. Of course, he hadn't stayed in bed beyond a few hours.

After hiking up the shore, he'd discovered a shipwreck as a result of the pirates' moon cussing. The steamer had been
robbed, but besides springing a leak in the hull, none of her crew had come to harm.

Patrick found that the pirates had indeed disabled the light. She felt slightly better knowing she wouldn't have been able to get it going no matter how hard she'd tried. He'd easily fixed the misplaced gear. The very next night he showed her again how to turn the lantern on and also off.

She helped him with repairs to the window, as well as fixing some of the crumbling caulking. But through all of their time together over the past week, he'd never once made another move to initiate any intimacy between them. He'd become distant again.

Emma turned back to the garden. She tipped her hat against the afternoon sunshine, reached down and tugged on a weed. Maybe she ought to try Bertie's advice about making herself look pretty. Or maybe Bertie had been right about his reason for marrying her. What if he'd only been interested in her because he needed an assistant and a mother to Josiah?

She swallowed the disappointment that surfaced every time the thought crossed her mind. She couldn't let herself dwell on the possibility. For now, she had to hold out hope that in his own time, he'd be ready to embrace her as his wife.

Josiah hopped through the dirt toward her. “Bunny eat beans, Mamma?”

“Aye, little love. They've been eating all my beans.”

He bent his head and pretended to nibble at the bean shoots. “Me eat.”

She laughed, and he flashed her one of his impish grins and then took a bite out of the remains of a bean plant.

“Oh, wee one, don't really eat it. Just pretend.”

He chomped on the piece of green for a moment. Then he frowned and began spitting it out as fast as he could. “Yucky!”

Shaking her head, Emma laughed again.

“Hey, Em!” came a call from across the yard.

Emma's heart leaped at the familiar voice. At the sight of Ryan striding around the house, she squealed with joy. Tossing aside her hat, she raced across the yard and threw herself at her brother.

He dropped what he'd been carrying and embraced her. “It's good to see you too.” He planted a kiss on her cheek.

She pulled back but didn't completely let go of him. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said with a grin. “Working hard, building up my muscles. I know it hasn't been that long since we've seen each other, but I miss you.”

“I've missed you too.” She hugged him again.

“I'm glad Patrick convinced Fred Burnham to give me the afternoon off,” he added after he'd extricated himself from her hug. His smile faded, and he glanced up at the tower.

Patrick had paused in his work and was looking down at them. Ryan waved at him in greeting.

Her husband tipped his hat before turning back to his work.

Ryan studied Patrick for a moment and then stooped down to retrieve the roll of wire he'd brought with him. “He said he needed supplies delivered for a fence, and a man to help build it.”

Emma grew silent. Patrick had noticed her rabbit-eaten garden. And he'd given her the help she needed in the form of the one person she most wanted to see—her brother. A lump swelled in her throat.

No matter his past, Patrick Garraty was a good man. A very good man.

She wanted nothing more at that moment than to throw herself into his arms and hug him and tell him thank you. She
couldn't keep from looking at him again, taking in the solidness of his arms and back, the strength in every movement. She wished he'd turn around again and see her gratefulness.

“I wasn't so sure about this quick marriage of yours,” Ryan said. “But now that I've had the chance to talk with Patrick a few times, I have to admit I like him.”

She nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in her throat. She had to agree with Ryan. She liked Patrick too. In fact, she liked him a lot.

The afternoon passed all too quickly. With Ryan's help, the fence went up much faster than if she'd had to attempt it by herself while caring for Josiah.

When they finished, Ryan tousled Josiah's hair. “You're a good helper, little man.”

Josiah held up the small hammer Emma had found for him at the bottom of the lighthouse toolbox. He went to the nearest stake and with a serious expression began pounding on it, just as he'd watched Ryan do moments earlier.

Emma shared a smile with Ryan.

“He's cute,” Ryan said. “He doesn't look a thing like Patrick, but still he's cute.”

Josiah's face was the color of beets from the hot afternoon, and his red hair stuck to his forehead from underneath his cap. She studied the boy's features, trying to see Patrick there. Ryan was right. Except for his eyes, Josiah didn't resemble his father. Yet even the eyes were a different shade from Patrick's. It made her wish she'd known Delia, that she could have met her at least once.

Ryan began to pick up the leftover wire.

“You're staying for supper, aren't you?” she asked, not ready for her time with her brother to come to an end yet.

“Who's cooking?” Ryan asked.

“I am.”

“I don't think I'll be able to stay.”

She gave him a playful shove. “I'll have you know I haven't burned anything the past two days.”

He cocked one of his brows.

“Ryan Chambers, I dare you to try my cooking. It's much improved, believe me.”

“I'm a daring man most of the time. But with your cooking?” His tone was skeptical, though his eyes twinkled.

“You'll be amazed,” she assured, tugging him inside.

She'd already made Bertie's johnnycake that morning when Patrick had been out fishing. Thankfully she hadn't burned it this time. She also had a pot of rabbit stew simmering from another of Bertie's receipts, a rabbit Patrick had trapped and dressed for her yesterday.

When the coffee was done perking, Patrick stumbled into the kitchen wiping the sleep out of his eyes. She guessed the aroma of the fresh brew was his evening alarm clock. He stopped short at the sight of Ryan at the table in the extra chair she'd dragged in from the sitting room.

“I invited Ryan to join us for supper,” she said, pouring him a mug of coffee.

“Good,” Patrick replied. He took a seat in the chair next to Josiah. His hair was scraggly from sleep, his eyelids still drooping.

She didn't know how he did it night after night, working so hard and getting so little sleep. She wished there was more she could do to ease his burden.

“She twisted my arm into staying,” Ryan said with a wink.
“I wasn't so sure I should eat anything Em cooks, but then I figured you're still alive, so I've probably got a good chance of surviving too.”

Patrick's lips quirked into a half smile at Ryan's jest.

She handed Patrick his mug. He gave her a grateful nod, took a sip, and sat back in his chair. “Ahhh . . . that's good coffee.”

Her heart warmed at the words he spoke every evening when he took his first sip. Only then did she turn back to the stove and begin to ladle the stew. As she served the men and listened to their conversation, her heart swelled even more.

Seating herself between the two men, she held both of their hands while Patrick prayed. Contentment seeped through her. Who would have guessed a month ago that she'd have her own home and be serving her brother and husband a meal she'd made herself? It was a dream come true.

As they ate, she listened to the men talk about fishing and other matters. Ryan was as talkative as ever and shared about the last hard winter they'd spent on Mackinac after their dad had died.

“Now that I've told you a bit about our family,” Ryan said, scraping the last spoonful of stew from his bowl, “please, tell us about yours.”

Patrick's spoon halted halfway to his mouth. A shadow fell across his face, and he lowered the spoonful back to his bowl uneaten.

Emma stiffened. Part of her wanted to tap Ryan's arm in warning. But the another part wanted to learn more about this man to whom she'd pledged her life. He'd shared so little about himself, and she longed to know more.

Oblivious of the storm brewing within Patrick, Ryan sat back in his chair and reached for his coffee. “Well?”

“What do you want to know?” Patrick said in a low voice.

“Everything. What part of Ireland is home? When did you leave? Where is your family now?” Ryan took a sip and fastened his attention on Patrick expectantly.

Patrick stared into his nearly empty bowl and twisted the spoon, letting it clank against the side. “Most of my family lives down in Saginaw, working in the sawmills.”

Ryan nodded. “What got you interested in light keeping?”

Patrick didn't say anything for a long moment. At last he set down his spoon and locked eyes with Ryan. “Holy Bill saved my life. Once I was recovered, he helped me get the assistant keeper position down at Fort Gratiot.”

Emma could sense that each word he spoke was forced.

“What happened?” Ryan continued, apparently not noticing how difficult his questions were for Patrick to answer. “Did you get hurt in one of the mills?”

Patrick shook his head, then looked down at his thick knuckles. For the first time, Emma noticed the scars there.

“I was in a boxing fight,” Patrick finally said.

At Patrick's confession, Ryan's brow rose.

But before Ryan could ask any more questions, Patrick pushed away from the table. “I best be heading up to the light. I've a few more repairs to make.”

Emma jumped up and darted for the coffeepot. “Would you like to take a cup of coffee with you?” she asked as she'd gotten into the habit of doing after the evening meal. Her coffee was the one thing she'd been able to make consistently without ruining.

He nodded and held out his cup.

She sensed his inner turmoil. After she poured the coffee, she wanted to reassure him that she cared. So he'd been in a fight.
Maybe the fight had even gotten him into trouble. But what did it matter anymore?

He'd shown her such kindness, with the chickens, and now today by providing the fence for her garden and inviting Ryan out to help her build it. The least she could do was to offer him some encouragement.

Before he could move away, and before she let her bashfulness stop her, she reached over and touched his arm.

He looked up.

She smiled, hoping he could read her gratefulness.

He gave her a tired smile in return and then crossed the room and disappeared outside into the evening.

“Not much of a talker, is he?” Ryan said once Patrick was gone.

Emma sighed. “Nay. But I couldn't ask for a better husband.”

“Then you're happy here, Em?” Ryan stood and put his hat back on. “You're really happy?”

She knew she couldn't tell Ryan that Patrick had a criminal past. It would ruin all the positive feelings Ryan had developed for her husband. But should she tell Ryan that Patrick hadn't consummated their marriage? Should she tell him she was worried that perhaps Patrick didn't want her as a wife? Maybe he'd be able to give her some advice.

Ryan looked at her intently. “What is it?”

Her cheeks burned, and she couldn't make herself ask.

“I don't want to leave until I know for sure you're happy here.”

“I'm happy, Ryan.”

He didn't look convinced. “But—”

“Mamma, me all done,” Josiah said from the table.

She bustled to the boy, wiped his faced and hands, and lifted him onto her hip, all the while sensing Ryan's eyes on her.

When she turned again to face her brother, she buried her face in Josiah's hair. She didn't want Ryan to see her hesitation. If he did, she knew he'd stay. One of the reasons she'd gotten married was so that she could give her brother his freedom. She wanted him to pursue his dreams and make a new life for himself in America now that they didn't have Dad to worry about.

“I'll be fine, Ryan,” she said, hating to admit there was still part of her that wasn't ready to let go of him yet.