Love Unexpected (16 page)

“I'm in no hurry to leave,” Ryan said. “Chopping cordwood has been a nice change from fishing, and the Burnhams haven't kicked me out yet.” He gave her a good-bye hug and kiss. “Don't worry. I'll be here for you if you need me.”

After he left, she sighed in frustration. If only she'd answered him more cheerfully when he questioned her. As she cleaned up after supper and prepared Josiah for bed, a sense of relief settled over her nonetheless. She'd get to see Ryan again. Maybe by then she wouldn't hesitate when he asked if she was happy.

After she tucked Josiah into bed and kissed him good-night, she was surprised when Patrick stepped quietly back into the kitchen. The sky was still bright, and it would be another hour before sunset when he needed to turn on the light. Even so, she hadn't expected his return.

He went into Josiah's room. While she swept the floor, she could hear his deep voice mingling with Josiah's as they talked and prayed together. She loved the way Patrick interacted with the boy. He was always loving and yet stern when he needed to be.

When Patrick returned to the kitchen, Emma kept herself busy sweeping. She expected him to simply walk past her and return to the lighthouse.

Instead, once he closed Josiah's door, he turned and leaned against the frame. Her insides squirmed. She propped the broom
into the corner and fingered one of the smooth rocks in the windowsill, one she'd collected during her hike on the beach with Josiah. She peeked at him over her shoulder.

“I forgot to tell you that supper was good,” he said softly.

She smiled. “Nothing burned this time.”

He smiled back. “It was real good.”

The words warmed her. “And I forgot to tell you how much I appreciated you inviting Ryan to help me with the garden fence.”

“It was selfish on my part. I don't want the rabbits eating what belongs in my belly.”

She doubted he could be selfish even if he tried. “It was wonderful to spend the afternoon with him. I can't thank you enough for that.”

He glanced down at his boots. “Your brother's a decent man.”

“Sorry he was pestering you so much after dinner.”

Patrick lifted his eyes, letting her glimpse his shame. “I'm not proud of some of the things I've done.”

She longed to go to him and wrap her arms around him and reassure him. But touching his arm earlier was about as brave as she could get. “Your past doesn't matter. It's who you are now that counts.”

He held her gaze as if testing her words. Finally he nodded. “Thank you, lass.”

She nodded back, her body aching with the need to hold him.

For a second, something flickered in his eyes, and she almost believed he'd cross the room and gather her in his arms.

She held her breath.

When he started toward the door, she released her disappointment slowly.

He paused halfway out and looked at her again. “Will you come up to the tower tonight?”

There was a shyness behind his question, and she wasn't sure why he was asking. Maybe he only wanted to test her knowledge of the lantern or teach her more about his keeping duties. Whatever the case, he'd invited her, and she didn't want to say no.

“Aye. I'll come.”

“Good.” He closed the door behind him and was gone.

P
atrick jotted another number into the logbook, tallying the amount of oil he'd used in the past week. Then he glanced toward the open hatch and the top rung of the ladder for the hundredth time since night had fallen.

Where was Emma? She said she'd come.

He scratched another number down into the next column on the half-filled page.

What had gotten into him anyway to invite her? Of course, he'd had her come up after his accident to make sure she was comfortable with lighting the lantern in case something should happen to him again. But now that she knew how to operate the light, what need did she have to come to the tower with him? Why would she want to spend time with a man like him?

With a sigh, he jabbed the pen back into the bottle of ink. He should have left things alone. They were doing fine.

It's just that she hadn't been disgusted by his admission about his boxing. She'd even touched his arm. She'd initiated the contact, just like she had that day on the beach. And then again when he'd been injured in bed and she'd held his hand.

She wasn't repulsed by him the way Delia had been.

His chest pinched at the thought of how Delia had cringed whenever he made the briefest of contact with her, even by accident. And she hadn't known the worst about him—about the other woman, about what he'd done. Delia would have abhorred him if she'd ever found out. And Emma would too.

Even if Holy Bill had told him some things about his past weren't worth dragging into the future, he couldn't help but wonder if Emma deserved to know everything. Then while Ryan was still in the area, she could leave with him if she wanted to.

“Patrick?” her soft voice sounded behind him.

He spun around. At the sight of her climbing through the hatch—her cheeks flushed, her eyes warm and curious, and her hair flowing down to her waist—he almost forgot his promise to her that he wouldn't pressure her. He was tempted to heft her up and crush her in his arms.

She hesitated halfway up.

He held himself back and smiled. “You came.”

“I didn't know,” she said. “I mean, I wasn't sure if you'd be busy.”

“I have all night to get my work done.” He couldn't tear his eyes from the waves of her hair that fell down her shoulders. It gleamed as if she'd recently brushed it. He'd seen her with her hair loose before, but only when it had been tangled and wet, nothing like this in all its glorious beauty.

“I'd like the company,” he said, meaning it. He didn't mind the solitude of the keeper's life. After years of living in a big, noisy family and then on crowded ships, he relished having the space to himself.

He loved the quiet hours before dawn when he could talk to
God out loud without the worry of anyone else hearing him. He could pour out his worries and fears and know that God was there, listening.

But tonight, with her standing there glowing like an angel by the light of the lantern, he realized he wanted to be with her, that he craved the companionship.

“If you're sure I won't be a bother,” she said as she climbed up the rest of the way.

“You'd never bother me, lass.”

“You're kind to say so, but I've been known to annoy Ryan quite often with my talking.”

“Ryan's a good man.”

“Aye. I'll be sad to see him go.”

After spending time with Ryan today, was she having second thoughts about staying at Presque Isle? Did she want to leave?

She looked past him to the open door. “It's peaceful up here tonight.”

“The stars are all out. It's a sight to behold.”

She followed him out onto the gallery to the west, opposite the beam of light. The air was warm and humid, while the cool breeze blowing off the lake was soothing, one of the pleasures of being up on the balcony at night.

He'd learned a great deal about the night sky during his years navigating the Great Lakes. For a while she asked him about the stars, and he pointed out the different constellations to her, enjoying her nearness and the way strands of her hair would blow into him.

“So is this what you do at night?” she asked. “Stargazing?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I pray.” He didn't look at her for fear of seeing humor on her face. He wasn't used to talking about his new faith, except with Josiah.

She was silent for several long seconds. “I think I stopped believing in the power of prayer after my mam died.”

“She died from starvation?” he asked hesitantly.

Emma nodded. “I prayed and prayed and prayed for her. But in those days, people everywhere were praying to stay alive. They were praying just as hard as me. And God couldn't save everyone, could He?”

Patrick stared at the black sky, alight with countless stars. It always amazed him to think that the God who created the universe cared about a sinful mortal like him, that He chose to save him when he didn't deserve anything but condemnation. “I find it incredible that God saves any of us. He doesn't have to, but sometimes He chooses to.”

He could feel her full attention on him, and he uttered a silent prayer that God would give him the right words to say. He wasn't wise like Holy Bill, and he wasn't eloquent either.

He forced himself to continue. “Maybe we should stop looking at why God doesn't answer every prayer the way we think He should. But instead we should count it a blessing that He hears our prayers at all.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way,” she said.

He shifted, and her shoulder brushed against his arm. “Holy Bill told me that God sometimes answers
yes
to our prayers, but sometimes in His wisdom He answers
no
or
wait
.”

Whatever the case, Patrick always prayed. Through praying he found peace for his anguished soul, and this alone was enough for him no matter how God answered the prayer.

“You're a wise man, Patrick.”

He turned to look at her upturned face. She was smiling. Her hair swirled, the light from the lantern reflecting hints of red amidst the gold. She was beautiful.

Don't look down at
her mouth,
he admonished himself. If he let himself glimpse her lips, he'd only want to kiss her. It was too tempting not to kiss her now that they were alone, in the dark, on the gallery.

With self-control he didn't know he had, he reached for her hand, and slipped his fingers cautiously around hers.

She didn't pull away but wrapped her fingers around his and clasped his hand. For a long while they stood there quietly holding hands, gazing out at the starry night.

When she shuddered from the cold, he led her back inside and didn't have the nerve to reach for her hand again, though he wanted to keep holding it. She was easy to talk to, full of eager questions. He found he enjoyed her company much more than he should.

“I'll let you get back to work,” she finally said, heading back toward the hatch.

He thought about asking her to stay longer, but he knew she needed a good night's sleep. As she started down the ladder, he watched her leaving with a momentary swell of panic. “Will you come tomorrow night?”

“Aye,” she said softly. “If you want me to.”

“I do.” He ached to bend down and pull her back.

But he held himself rigid until she disappeared. Only then did he release a pent-up breath. “I do want you to,” he whispered into the empty room. “Very much.”

The next day was Sunday, and since Holy Bill had ridden into town, everyone for miles around gathered for a church service at Burnham's Landing. Afterward, Patrick invited Holy Bill to come out to the lighthouse and join them for Sunday dinner.

He didn't know what Emma had planned, but she was agreeable to his suggestion. Before leaving Burnham's Landing, she'd stopped to get instructions from Bertie Burnham for what he guessed was another meal.

“Emma's a nice young lady,” Holy Bill said as they walked along the shore a short distance from the keeper's cottage.

“That she is,” Patrick said, watching Josiah run along ahead of them, at home among the rocks and tall weeds. He paused to poke at a decaying fish head.

“Praise God for His answer to prayer.” Holy Bill had taken off his hat, and a sticky breeze teased the thin white hair left on his balding head.

Patrick agreed. Maybe God's way of answering prayer would always be a mystery. All he knew was that prayer was his lifeline. He needed it more than the air he breathed.

Holy Bill rubbed at his bushy white beard. “Emma seems a bit more agreeable than Delia.”

Patrick stopped behind Josiah. He didn't want to speak ill of Delia, but the truth was that living with Emma was like a breath of spring warmth and sunshine after a long, hard winter. “Emma's a sweet lass,” he admitted.

“And she's obviously sweet on you,” Holy Bill said with a smile curving his bristly mustache.

“You think so?”

“I can tell by the way she looks at you that she admires you.”

Patrick's heartbeat picked up a pace. “How?”

One of Holy Bill's bushy eyebrows shot up.

Patrick reached for a rock and tossed it into the water. He could kick himself for sounding as eager as a young lad with his first love and sweetheart.

“What's going on between you and Emma?” Holy Bill asked.

Patrick toed a big rock stuck deep in the sand. He could always count on Holy Bill getting right to the point. And he knew it wouldn't do any good to try to change the topic. Holy Bill would only come back to it.

“After my troubles with Delia,” Patrick said, nudging at the unmovable rock, “I'm trying not to pressure Emma.”

“I see.”

Patrick could tell Holy Bill knew exactly what he was talking about, that he hadn't consummated the marriage yet.

Holy Bill was quiet for a moment before giving Patrick a pat on the back. “So, since you had one wife reject you already, you're afraid of that happening again?”

Was he afraid of rejection? Afraid that Emma would decide she didn't like being married to a convicted criminal? Would his past eventually embarrass and shame her too?

Holy Bill knew how difficult his marriage with Delia had been. The reverend had seen the problems firsthand every time he'd visited. Delia had never cared for him, had married him mostly because that was what her father had suggested. Then after the baby and the move, her apathy had turned to resentment.

“As I said, I think Emma's different from Delia,” the reverend said. “Perhaps your fears are unfounded.”

“I told her I was a criminal.”

Holy Bill grew motionless. “How much did you tell her?”

“Nothing more or less than I told Delia.”

“Well, then apparently your past isn't too off-putting. She still seems to really like you.”

He hoped so. “But should I tell her everything?”

Holy Bill stared out over the waves toward the few puffy clouds that dotted the horizon. “Maybe you should tell her more. Eventually.”

Patrick sighed. He'd hoped the reverend would tell him to stay silent.

“I've always thought that once you're set free from the past,” Holy Bill continued, “there's really no reason to keep bringing it up. But pray about it. See what God wants you to do. Maybe He'll give you opportunities to share in bite sizes so that Emma can digest it a little at a time.”

The sun beat down on Patrick's navy cap, heating his scalp. He swiped off the hat, dipped his hand into a cold wave, and rubbed the water into his hair to cool himself.

Josiah scooped a handful of water and did the same, giggling as the water coursed down his face.

“Besides, there's no rush,” the reverend said. “Maybe you should court Emma first, win her love proper-like, and then you can tell her more.”

Court her
?
Patrick placed his hat back on his head. He'd never considered courting her. In fact, he'd never courted any girl before, not even Delia.

“How do I court?” he asked.

Holy Bill chuckled. “You're asking the wrong person on that one, sonny, considering I'm sixty years old and never been married.”

Patrick glanced back at the house, barely visible beyond the tower. A strange yearning squeezed him. He liked Emma more than he'd expected he would, beginning with when he stood beside her on the harbor beach and took his vows.

And now he wanted to see if maybe he could have a normal family, a normal life. Maybe he could be the kind of husband and father God wanted him to be. Maybe he could give Emma and Josiah everything he'd never had when he was growing up—stability, love, and godliness.

Holy Bill slapped him on the back again. “I'm sure you'll find ways to woo her. Give her things, compliment her and treat her real sweet. And maybe someday you'll be able to tell her the truth about Josiah too.”

Patrick turned his attention to the boy. He was in the process of dumping another handful of water over his head, heedless of the fact he was soaking the front of his shirt.