Love Unexpected (17 page)

Patrick nodded. The reverend's counsel seemed sound. Maybe once he'd courted Emma and won her affection, he'd tell her more. He didn't want to chance her rejecting him now, though, not when things were so new between them.

For the time being he'd have to figure out how to woo his wife. As embarrassing as it had been to discuss the matter with Holy Bill, the prospect of courting Emma was more than a little appealing.

P
atrick kneeled in front of his desk and slid the bottom drawer open. He reached into the deep recess, and his fingers grazed grainy wood and a folded sheet of paper underneath. He pulled both out and sat back on his heels, examining the wood—two pieces of ship wreckage that had been nailed together in the shape of a cross. The longer piece was only about a foot long, and both were dark and roughhewn around the edges.

There wasn't anything extraordinary about the cross itself. It was simple, made by someone who didn't have much skill in woodworking. Rather, it was the sheet of paper that came with the wooden cross that transformed it into something beautiful and hopefully something worthy of giving to Emma.

The late evening sunshine slanted through the window above the desk and illuminated the yellowing paper in his hand. Even now, just looking at it filled him with hope.

He'd discovered the cross during the long days of winter when the blowing snow had buffeted the house and a howling blizzard kept them inside. He'd been rummaging through the
desk, sorting through the assortment of items left in it from previous keepers.

That was when he'd read the story for the first time. The story seemed too personal, even though there was a note at the end from the writer encouraging the reader to pass the cross along to someone who needed it. Patrick had carefully tucked the cross and letter back in the drawer where he found it.

Over the remainder of the winter he'd returned to the desk on several occasions with the intention of rereading it and sharing it with Delia. But every time he reread it, he was only able to kneel in front of the desk and that was all.

Now Patrick was glad he hadn't shared it with Delia, because somehow he knew the cross belonged to Emma. With the cross and letter in hand, he stood and moved to the door and then stopped. The house was silent. He'd already tucked Josiah into bed. Only the melody of the crashing waves could be heard in the distance.

Holy Bill's words of the previous day had rolled over and over in his mind that he should court Emma and win her love proper-like. The problem was he didn't know how to start courting her. But he decided he couldn't put it off any longer; he had to set aside his reservations. He needed to show her he liked her and thought she was special.

He hid the cross behind his back and forced himself to make his way out of the house and around the corner, where Emma sat in the grass next to the open cellar door, counting empty canning jars. They were coated in dust and cobwebs. Delia had certainly never used them.

At the sight of him, Emma looked up and smiled. “Is he already asleep?”

“The moment his head hit the pillow.”

“I guess all the sunshine and fresh air wore him out.”

“And he has a good mamma who keeps him busy.”

She shifted her focus back to the jars, but not before he caught sight of the creeping flush on her cheeks.

He leaned his shoulder against the house, did a quick calculation of the number of jars. If her garden did well, she wouldn't have nearly enough for preserving the vegetables. Next time he went to Fremont, he'd see if he could purchase some more.

She traced a finger around the mouth of one of the jars as if waiting for him to speak. Loose hair stuck to her neck, damp with the humidity that wouldn't give them relief even in the evening.

He longed to bend down, push her hair back, and let his fingers feel the skin of her neck. Instead, he held out the wooden cross. “I want you to have this.”

Her eyes widened at his offering. Immediately he wanted to kick himself for not thinking of something more romantic to say with the gift. How would she know he was attempting to court her if he acted like a bumbling idiot all the time?

“The cross comes with this.” He held out the folded paper.

Her brows rose as she took the sheet.

“I thought it might give you hope,” he added.

She twisted the cross in her hands and then studied the paper. “Should I read it now?”

“If you want.”

She made quick work of wiping her hands on her apron before carefully unfolding the sheet of paper. She began reading it silently. The slanted strokes of ink were meticulous. A few moments later, she lowered the paper. “What a beautiful story.” Her voice wobbled, and her eyes glistened. “Is it true?”

“Stephen Thornton was the Presque Isle lightkeeper about five years ago. I believe Isabelle was his daughter.”

She scanned the paper again.

Having read it many times over, Patrick could see the words in his mind, telling the story of Isabelle Thornton, the lightkeeper's daughter. She and her father had rescued a young man from a shipwreck. He was the only survivor and the wealthy heir of Cole Enterprises, a copper mining and lumber magnate in Michigan.

Due to the nature of his injuries, Henry Cole had been stranded at the remote lighthouse, in the days before Burnham's Landing had come into existence. Henry had been rich, spoiled, and carefree. And he'd been anxious to return to his home in New York after spending months away.

He'd made the cross to serve as a reminder to pray for his family to rescue him. But the longer he stayed, the less he wanted to leave. He'd fallen in love with Isabelle, who was unable to resist Henry's charm. She'd fallen in love with him too.

But Isabelle's secrets, as well as Henry's enemies, had forced the couple apart. Through it all, Isabelle had learned not to give up hope.

“It's amazing to think that such a love story happened right here at this lighthouse,” Emma said.

Patrick felt himself blush. Would Emma think him too bold for sharing something so intimate with her?

She carefully folded the letter and then held up the cross as if admiring it. “This is too special a gift. I couldn't possibly accept—”

“Please. I want you to have it.”

“But it's yours.”

“You read the ending. It's not meant to keep; it's meant to pass on to someone who's in need of hope.”

“You mean me?”

He pushed away from the house and stuffed his hands into
his pockets. “When you told me about your mam, it sounded like you'd given up the hope of God hearing your prayers.”

“Aye,” she said. “I suppose I have.”

“Maybe this cross and story can remind you to hope again, to know that God is listening to you.”

She caressed the cross.

He hoped he hadn't overstepped his bounds. Perhaps he ought to tell her that the other reason for this gift was because he wanted to have a relationship with her similar to what Henry had with Isabelle. But again the words stuck in his throat.

“Thank you, Patrick,” she whispered. And when she met his gaze, this time there was something bright and hopeful in her eyes.

He nodded.

“You're a good man.”

Even though I was a criminal?
He looked down at his boots before she could see the question in his eyes. He could see that, for now, he would have to be content with earning her trust and affection one tiny step at a time.

Emma stood in the middle of the bedroom, staring at the door. She'd wanted Patrick to invite her to the tower, but after their brief interaction while she was cleaning the cellar, he'd gone up to light the lantern and hadn't returned. Now darkness swirled around her. The light from the oil lamp on the bedside table illuminated a bare spot on the wall above the dresser, as if showing her exactly where she should hang the cross.

Patrick was sweet to give her the wooden cross and beautiful tale of the couple in love. She clutched the cross as the haunting passion of their story spoke to her. She wondered what had
happened to Isabelle and Henry. Had he returned for her? Were any doctors able to help the young woman?

Whatever Isabelle's hardships, and whatever she had to face in her future, she'd been brave enough to cling to hope. If Isabelle could find reason to go on living even when her life had seemed so bleak, couldn't she, Emma, learn to hope again, especially now that she had a place to live?

Emma walked over to the dresser and eyed the blank wall above it. She'd hang the cross there and maybe she could use it as a reminder to pray, just as Henry Cole had.

She leaned it against the wall and stood back. Contentment washed over her. She was finally home, and she never wanted to leave.

N
o more paint, Josiah.” Emma leveled a stern look at the boy.

He held his dripping brush above the nearly empty paint can and stared back at her. Then he began to lower the brush, his eyes sparked with a stubbornness she'd come to dread.

She now regretted letting him help her with painting at all. Her intuition had told her to wait on painting the hen house until some night after he was in bed, when he wouldn't be able to do exactly what he'd done that afternoon.

He'd splattered paint all over what remained of the grass in the coop. He'd covered himself with it from head to toe, and somehow he'd even managed to get paint on the hens themselves, so that they stalked around squawking through beaks drizzled with white.

Now the paint was almost gone and she still had one side of the hen house to cover.

“Little love,” she said as his brush went deeper into the can, “Mamma said no more paint.”

“Me paint,” he insisted.

She'd selfishly wanted to finish the painting during the day so she would be free to visit the tower if Patrick asked her to join him. He'd invited her up several more times over the past week. She had to admit, going up there at night, talking with him, sometimes holding hands was becoming her favorite part of the day.

She didn't want to appear too busy at night after Josiah was in bed for fear Patrick would decide not to interrupt her. He was polite like that. She wondered if she should paint a sign on the side of the hen house that said
Interrupt me
, please
.

With a sigh, she perched her brush on a flat stone, then pushed herself up and started toward Josiah. “If you disobey Mamma, you'll have to repent on your bed.”

He hesitated for an instant, but then plunged the brush down into the can in one fell swoop.

She reached his hand before he could lift out the brush and spray more paint everywhere. She pried his fingers loose. By the time she scooped him up and struggled back toward the house, he cried in protest. But it was a weak cry, as if he knew he'd lost the battle.

Though his tantrums had grown less frequent, he still tested her on occasion, especially on days when Patrick was gone all day—like today. Today was one of those days when Patrick hadn't gone fishing, but had taken his mysterious trip instead.

Those were the worst days, not only for Josiah but for her as well. She couldn't keep Bertie's warnings from swarming her mind like pesky gnats. While she told herself the Patrick she was getting to know and admire wouldn't visit another woman, the thought wouldn't go away. More than once, her attention strayed to his desk in the sitting room, and she had to fight the urge to rummage through its drawers.

After Josiah spent time on his bed and repented, she bathed him. He'd grown to enjoy the warm sudsy water, the scrubbing of his hair and face, and the extra time to play in the water.

“There you are,” Patrick said from behind them.

From her spot kneeling on the kitchen floor beside the tub, she glanced over her shoulder and found herself looking up at Patrick's handsome face. He'd swept off his hat, revealing his dark tousled hair. The strength of his presence filled the room and seemed to envelop her.

“I can see you were painting today,” he said with a laugh.

“Me paint,” Josiah said, a serious look on his face.

“Did you misplace your paintbrush,” Patrick asked, “or did you use the chickens as paintbrushes instead?”

Josiah nodded.

Emma tried to hide her smile but couldn't.

The second Josiah saw her humor, he grinned, as if knowing he'd done something funny yet not quite knowing what.

She shook her head and then realized her hair and face were splattered with paint too. Wishing she could hide herself and clean up, she focused on Josiah's head and ran the comb through his hair again. Patrick started across the kitchen, and when he stopped in front of her, her stomach quivered at his nearness.

“I found this for you today.” He held out his hand, and there in his palm was a rock swirled in pink and red and brown. If she didn't know better, she'd almost believe it was in the shape of a heart.

“It's beautiful.”

“For your collection.” He cocked his head toward the windowsill, where she'd lined up an assortment of her favorite rocks.

Her chest swelled with tenderness for this man before her.
He was always so thoughtful and noticed the little things she needed or liked. “Thank you.” She took the rock, relishing the roughness of his skin brushing against hers.

He shifted shyly and focused on the puddles of water around the tin tub. “Looks like you had a hard day. I'll watch Josiah when you're done here.”

“We're okay.” She thought back to the first time she'd had to deal with one of Josiah's fits. She'd been a wreck. She certainly had come a long way in a few weeks' time in learning to handle him. While she was far from perfect, she was getting better at parenting, and she was also getting better at cooking.

“I'm sure you're tired,” she said. “Why don't you lie down for a bit? We'll be fine.”

He nodded. And that was when she noticed the sadness in his eyes and the weariness crinkling the corners. “Promise me you'll come to the tower later?” he asked with a hopefulness that made her middle flutter.

“I promise.” He needn't have made her promise. She wanted to come. She longed for it more than anything else.

The time moved too slowly until darkness settled. Then with her heartbeat thrumming in anticipation, she ascended the dark stairway. The tower was always cool and damp. Her footsteps echoed with each stair she climbed.

When she reached the top, she paused in the hatch. He was busy cleaning the window glass, as she saw him frequently do. He must have heard her approach because he glanced over his shoulder, and his somber expression broke into a welcoming smile.

She returned his smile. “I'm not too early, am I?”

“Never.” In the humid warmth of the night, he'd tossed aside his coat and wore only his white linen shirt with several buttons
undone. His eyes glowed green against his tanned face. “I like it when you're here.”

That was all the invitation she needed. She hoisted herself into the room, joining him behind the lantern.

For a few minutes, he asked her about her day, and they shared laughter over Josiah's painting efforts and his other antics. A gust of wind rattled the windows and whistled down the vent above the lantern.

Patrick peered out the west window and then studied the barometer hanging near the door. “The wind is shifting, and the barometric pressure is dropping.” His eyes narrowed on the lake. “The lake's starting to kick up.”

“What does that mean?”

“We're in for another storm.”

“But it was so peaceful when I came up.”

“You know the saying here on the Great Lakes—if you don't like the weather, wait five minutes and it will change.”

She stood beside him and looked out the window over the tossing-and-turning waves. “With this storm, please don't get knocked unconscious.”

He grinned. “I'll try not to.”

“I'd appreciate it,” she teased. “If something needs fixing, make sure you call me instead of attempting it yourself.”

He chuckled.

They watched the long beam of light rotate over the dark waters that were whipping higher with each passing minute.

“So, how was your day?” She wished she could ask him what he'd done and where he'd gone, but she didn't want to probe too much. Somehow she knew that too many questions would put up a wall, the same way Ryan's had when he'd tried to learn more about Patrick and his family.

He was silent for a long moment, and she began to regret she asked anything when finally he spoke. “I had family affairs to deal with. And that's never easy.”

Even though the room was cramped and hot, she didn't complain. The narrow space between the windows and the lantern had a way of pushing them together into close proximity.

He stared outside. The muscles in his jaw flexed.

“I'm sorry.” She didn't know what else to say or do, so she patted his arm.

At the brief contact, his arm tightened. She was certainly not endearing herself to him tonight. Maybe she should head back to the house.

But before she could move, he swung toward her, and his fingers slipped around her upper arm. “Don't go yet.” His eyes had turned murky and pleaded with her to stay.

“Okay,” she whispered. She knew she should say something more, maybe direct the conversation to a new topic, but she didn't want to break his hold on her arm. She liked the gentle pressure of his hand on her.

He searched her face. “You have paint . . .” He lifted his hand to her forehead, then hesitated.

“Oh. I thought I'd gotten it all.” She was about to wipe at whatever leftover smudge she'd missed when he beat her to it. Tenderly he rubbed at a tiny spot at the edge of her scalp.

Her heart gave a hop at the nearness of his chin hovering just inches from her mouth.

“There,” he said. But he didn't pull back. Instead, his fingertips skimmed over her hair.

She'd gotten into the habit of letting her hair down and brushing it before she ascended the tower. She'd rationalized that she needed to do it before going to bed. The truth was she wanted
to look pretty for him. Bertie had told her that men couldn't resist a pretty woman.

So far, Patrick had resisted her just fine.

His touch was gentle as he brushed back a wisp of her hair, just as he'd done before. He trailed his hand down the length of her hair, ending at her arm. She was surprised when he brought his other hand up and combed back a strand on the opposite side.

She was eye level with his throat and saw his Adam's apple move up and down. Then he plunged deeper into her hair, letting it cascade through his fingers like a waterfall. Pleasure rippled through her.

He delved into her hair again, but this time slower as he drew her closer, until his scruffy chin grazed her forehead.

Her body sizzled at his nearness. The sparks between them were like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

His warm breath fanned against her, followed by the pressure of his lips, as if he wanted more than a kiss against her forehead but wasn't allowing himself. What was holding him back?

She knew there could be so much more between them. Something had been growing within her. Every day she was with him, she liked him more and only wanted to be closer to him in a relationship that had no barriers, no closed doors, no secrets. Just free and open loving.

That was what she wanted—to love him.

Aye. She was falling in love with him.

Somehow she had to let him know that, before he ended the moment of intimacy as he usually did.

With a burst of courage, she slipped her arms around his waist and leaned into him, resting her cheek against his shirt.

He pulled her tighter. She closed her eyes and breathed out a
shaky breath. She'd done it. Beneath her ear she could hear his heartbeat. His body felt warm, but he held himself straight, as if he couldn't give himself to her fully.

She didn't let go. She snuggled her nose into his chest and tried to still the wild, nervous thumping of her pulse.

His fingers intertwined in her hair, and the motion sent tingles up her back. But then he gave a deep sigh and released his hold on her. He was letting her go, and she wasn't ready for the moment to come to an end. She slid her hands upward, letting her fingers skim his back.

He stiffened.

Embarrassed, she pressed her lips against his chest anyway. If that kiss didn't send him a message, she didn't know what else would.

He didn't move.

What was she doing? She was throwing herself at him when he obviously didn't want her in that way. She let her hands fall away and wanted to slink down the stairway, back into the house where she could bury her hot face into her pillow.

He gave a soft groan then, and his hands returned to her hair. He dug in and gently tugged her head back just far enough to see her face, her lips.

Before she realized what was happening, he brought his mouth down upon hers, his lips touching and then crushing hers. The power of his kiss took her captive. She was helpless to do anything but let him have her. She didn't want to resist, didn't want to be free from him.

She was his.

His grip in her hair bound her to him, and he tilted her head so that their mouths fit together perfectly. And even though she knew almost nothing about kissing, she found herself respond
ing, molding her lips to his the same way he was to hers, until she was breathless.

He broke the kiss and moved to her cheek. His breath came in heavy spurts as he kissed her jaw, her neck. She gasped and dug her fingers into his back. She was on fire. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't move. If this was what married love was like, she didn't want it to end.

A gust of wind blasted down the vent above with a shrillness that made her jump back. Patrick started too. Before either of them could catch their breath, another gust swept in across the lantern. It blew at the flame, extinguishing it and plunging them into darkness.

Through the blackness and amidst the howling wind, Patrick scrambled forward, bumping and clattering until finally he lit a small lantern. He set about adjusting the wind vent and relighting the Fresnel lens. He worked in silent urgency. She had the feeling he was angry with himself, that she'd been a distraction to him. If she hadn't been there tempting him, he would have been paying better attention to the light and it wouldn't have gone out.

Within minutes he had the beam rotating again, but from the crinkles in his forehead as he peered out the windows, she knew he was worried that even those few moments without the light could have been disastrous for a passing ship.