Love Unexpected (21 page)

“I've earned enough for passage. We can leave on the next steamboat if that's what you really want,” Ryan continued. “But I want you to do one thing first.”

“What?”

“I want you to talk with Patrick.”

She stared at the long willowy grass that grew in patches here and there among the moss. She reached for a piece and plucked it, letting her fingers caress the soft, seedy end. She wanted to protest Ryan's suggestion. Just thinking again about how Patrick had embraced that other woman renewed the painful throb in her chest.

Of all the things that had hurt her during the past day, seeing him with the strange woman had pained her the most. She didn't want to have to face him again. She wanted to hide behind Ryan, slip silently onto the next passing steamboat, and go lick her wounds in private.

“It's the right thing to do,” Ryan said.

Even though she wanted to leave, she knew Ryan was right. She had to talk to Patrick first, because she couldn't leave with Josiah. She had to return the boy to his daddy.

“Okay.” Tears pressed the back of her eyes again. “I'll talk to him as long as you're there with me.”

For a long moment they sat quietly, and she realized just how exhausted she was. She started to rise, ready to stumble back to the Burnham cabin and let herself collapse onto the mat
Bertie had offered her, when Ryan yanked her down and lifted a finger to his lips.

He was peering through the darkness toward the lake.

“What is it—?” she said, but Ryan clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off her words.

He nodded toward the docks. Several dark shapes were making their way toward the enormous pile of cordwood stacked in a grassy area along the shore. With his hand covering her mouth, she could feel Ryan's muscles tense.

Emma tried to make sense of what appeared to be three or four men who'd come ashore from a small rowboat. Now they were in the process of loading their arms with the chopped wood.

When one of the men moved back to the docks, his arms loaded with the wood, Ryan let out a gasp of indignation. “Those men are stealing my wood.”

She knew the wood wasn't really Ryan's. But it
was
the result of his weeks of labor, chopping and stacking for the Burnhams.

“I bet they're a bunch of pirates coming ashore,” Ryan whispered harshly, “thinking they can steal the wood rather than paying a fair price for it.”

Two more of the men with loaded arms moved away from the stacks and headed toward the dock.

“Hey!” Ryan released her, stood and stepped away from the edge of the forest into the moonlight.

“Hush, Ryan.” Emma reached for him, but she grabbed a handful of air instead.

“Hey!” he shouted again. “You better be planning to pay for that wood.”

The men halted. Their hats were pulled low and hid their faces. But in the cleared span of the beach, the moonlight spilled
over them, clearly illuminating their crime and the waiting boat that bobbed next to one of the docks.

For a moment the men didn't move. They glanced at each other as if trying to decide what to do next.

“Put it down and be on your way,” Ryan called.

Finally one of them shrugged and let his armful of wood drop to the ground. He turned and took a step toward the boat—a limping step.

It was Mitch.

Emma sucked in a breath. “Be careful, Ryan.”

Her warning came a second too late. Instead of continuing back to the boat, Mitch spun around, a pistol in his hand, its silver barrel gleaming.

“Get down!” she called, but a loud bang drowned out her voice.

An instant later, Ryan jerked back, cried out in pain, and fell to the ground next to her.

A
t the echo of gunfire, Patrick shifted his oars and directed his cutter into the shadows of the shoreline. Hopefully the dark swaying shapes from the thick evergreens would conceal his boat from anyone who might be keeping a lookout.

He didn't know what was happening at Burnham's Landing, but it sounded ominous. His heart pounded with the sudden need to get there and make sure Emma and Josiah were safe. That was all that mattered.

The scrape of rocks and sand against the hull made it more difficult to navigate in the shallow water. He plunged the oars into the gravelly mixture, using the lake bottom to propel him closer to shore.

Finally, in his impatience, he leaped over the side into the water. He strode forward, tugging the boat with him, not caring that the water was level to his knees and that a splash of a wave soaked his trousers to his thighs and seeped down into his boots.

Another bang filled the night air. He had no doubt Emma had run to Burnham's Landing, to Bertie or to Ryan. Even though
he'd told himself he had to let her go, that he didn't deserve her and would never be good enough to be her husband or Josiah's father, he'd spent the last hour driving himself crazy with the need to see her again, to talk to her.

He'd paced around the tower gallery, praying and crying out to God. He raged into the night air. He shouted at the stars, pretending they were his family, his mother and father who'd never been there for him, who'd been too busy to train him in what was right, who'd been too interested in drinking and fighting and surviving to care.

Then, after he'd poured out his sorrows and regrets, he dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. He knew he couldn't blame his parents for the man he'd become. He'd had a mind of his own. He'd made his own bad choices. And now he had to live with the consequences of his mistakes.

Still, couldn't he be a better father to Josiah and a godly husband for Emma? Couldn't he love and lead his own family in a way he'd never been loved or led?

“I don't know what to do, God,” he prayed as he heaved the boat onto the bank. He'd told himself he was only going after her so he could give her all the money he'd saved. She'd need it to start a new life somewhere else with Josiah. It wasn't much, since he'd been giving as much as he could to Sophie every month. He'd hoped the extra cash would keep Sophie out of the brothel, would help her get by until she could find proper work.

He certainly wasn't headed to Burnham's Landing in the middle of the night to try to stop Emma or to persuade her to stay. He was only going now because he was afraid that if he waited until morning, she'd already be gone, that maybe she'd catch an early passage out of Presque Isle.

But deep inside, he knew that he wasn't fooling anybody, least of all himself. The truth was that he wouldn't be able to live with himself unless he saw her one more time and said good-bye.

He shoved the little boat into the underbrush and then pushed his way through the tangle of windfall and bushes until he stumbled onto the path that connected Burnham's Landing to the lighthouse.

Cautiously he made his way forward until he reached the clearing. He peered across the length of open beach and took stock of the situation. On the shore side, a band of men hunkered down behind a mountain of cordwood. They were firing in the direction of one of the log shacks that stood closest to the forest.

He guessed that these pirates had stopped to pilfer cordwood and had gotten caught in the act. He didn't imagine the fishermen would be able to do much to stop them from getting away. Maybe they'd save most of the wood, but the pirates were tough men and wouldn't be easily beaten, even if the fishermen had a gun or two and could fight back.

Nevertheless, Patrick crept through the woods. He wove soundlessly through the thicket until he was near the fishery. He crouched low and through the darkness could make out several forms pressed against the bunkhouse.

He moved slowly forward, stopping at the snap of a branch. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and find the source of the sound. When a sliver of moonlight touched upon a golden head, his body jolted with dread.

“Emma?” he whispered.

The head spun toward the sound of his voice, and the faint light fell across Emma's face, illuminating her fright. She was lying on the ground behind a log, with Ryan sprawled beside her.

“What are you doing out here?” Anger made his whisper harsher and louder than he'd intended.

“Ryan's hurt,” she said. “He was shot in the arm. And when he fell, he knocked his head on a rock.”

Patrick crawled toward her regardless of the crackling and crunching he made in the leaves and fallen branches. When he reached the log, his chest burned with the danger of her position. “You need to get farther back into the woods,” he said, unable to stop himself from reaching out and touching her face.

“I can't leave Ryan.” The young man was on his back. Even in the darkness, Patrick could see the blood staining Ryan's shirtsleeve and dribbling down the side of his head.

“Can you help him?” Emma asked, kneeling down only inches away from both Patrick and Ryan.

Another bullet whizzed above their heads. Emma gasped while Patrick peeked over the log in the direction of the cordwood. “How long's this been going on?”

“Too long,” Emma said. “It's Mitch.”

“It can't be,” Patrick replied. But even as he denied that Mitch would ever engage in a shooting battle, nausea clutched his gut at the truth of Emma's statement. After leaving the lighthouse and rowing back to his steamer, Mitch and his friends had probably discovered their boat was low on fuel and decided to stock up by helping themselves to the cordwood piled near the harbor.

“I saw him,” Emma said.

She didn't have to say anything more. Regret was already pummeling him. He should have tied Mitch up and taken him down to Fremont to the authorities. He'd only wanted to give his old friend a second chance. And after talking with him again on the dock as he was leaving, Patrick had prayed Mitch would decide to give up his thievish ways.

But apparently Mitch was determined to do what he wanted regardless of how it hurt others. Patrick lowered his head, and the shame of his association with the man stole over him.

“Come with me. I'm taking you to safety,” Patrick said, holding out his hand.

She shrank back. “Nay. I'm not leaving Ryan.”

“Come, lass.” His fingers wound around her arm.

She yanked and struggled against his hold.

He slipped one arm under her legs and the other under her back, intending to carry her if need be. “Please, Emma,” he whispered against her ear. The silkiness of her hair brushed his lips, and the softness of her cheek grazed his chin.

She ceased struggling, rested against him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. For a fleeting second he could almost believe she'd forgiven him for all that had happened and for who he was.

But the ping of more gunfire, this time hitting the nearby shack, urged him into action. Hunkering over Emma and protecting her with his body, he stumbled into the cover of trees, moving deeper into the woods. He tensed and waited for the bite of a bullet to puncture his back, but nothing came.

In the black shelter of the forest, he knelt and lowered her to the ground. He was surprised when she clung to him. Her breath came in bursts against his neck.

Darkness enveloped them, as the canopy of leaves and branches blocked out the moonlight. The scents of pine and damp moss were as thick as the foliage. She was so soft and warm in his arms, and his heart ached to think he might never get to hold her again.

The least he could do for her was save Ryan.

He pressed his lips against the top of her head and held her
fiercely for one last moment. Then he let her go, wrenching her arms off his neck and setting her gently on the ground. “Stay here. I'm going back for Ryan.”

Without waiting for her reaction, he threaded his way through the thicket, not caring that the twigs scratched him or the thorns tore at him. It was the least of what he deserved. If he hadn't been so trusting and careless, Mitch wouldn't have had the opportunity to sneak into this community and harm them.

When he reached the forest edge, he crawled on his belly toward Ryan and, as gently as he could, carried the man back into the cover of the trees. Once he reached Emma, Patrick was breathing hard from the exertion. But he lowered Ryan down next to her and then spun and started walking away.

“Where are you going?” Emma called.

“I'll be back for you both soon,” he said. “Don't move until I come for you.”

Another of her questions trailed him as he hiked away from her. He didn't stop to answer. The best way to make up for his mistake in letting Mitch go was to put an end to the stealing and fighting. He didn't care that he was without a gun. He still had the best weapons God had given him—his fists. And even though he'd told himself he'd never fight again, he was going to break his vow and break it badly.

With his jaw set and his shoulders squared, he circled the shore until he reached the edge of the lake a short distance away from the docks. He stripped down to his trousers and then plunged underwater.

He swam toward the pirates' rowboat, the same one he'd watched drift away only a little while ago with Mitch and Sophie inside.

There was one man in it. And from what he'd been able to
tell, there were three others by the stack of cordwood for a total of four pirates.

He swam with the deftness that came from his years of working near the water. Unlike many sailors, he'd been determined to learn to swim and had taught himself. Over the years he'd saved many lives, including his own, because of the skill.

When he reached the boat, he surfaced silently, wiped the dripping water from his eyes, and slipped one of the back oars out of the boat. He then glided as close to the pirate as he could, raised the oar behind the man, and whacked him across the back of the head.

The man didn't have time to turn around. He grunted, then slumped over the front bench, his fingers losing hold of his rifle. The weapon dropped to the floor of the boat with a clatter.

Patrick hefted himself over the side of the boat. Cold lake water dribbled down his face and arms, and the breeze coming off the lake hit his bare back. He shuddered but picked up the rifle anyway. He didn't relish using it. He didn't want to kill anyone, but he had to protect this little community, the people and place he'd come to love.

Quietly he wrapped the bowline around the man's hands so that he'd be immobile when he regained consciousness. He took stock of the other men. Thankfully the pirates hadn't noticed him in the boat knocking out their comrade. He studied them for a moment, his mind racing to formulate a plan.

How could one man take on three? Especially when one of them was Mitch?

He frowned. Mitch had been shot in the leg during one of the last raids they'd made to a small village like Presque Isle. Usually their thieving had amounted to nothing more than a few barrels of venison at a time or lumber stacked on the docks
awaiting transport to the mills. They'd been more interested in the profit they could make from prizefighting.

Even though Mitch had a limp, he was stronger than most men. He was the one who'd taught Patrick to fight.

Patrick eyed the shore. He could row the boat closer to the men and lure them away. Even if Mitch and his men overpowered him, at least the fishermen who were trying to defend the village would be safe. And so would Emma and Ryan.

He slipped the shirt off the unconscious pirate and put it on. It was tight against his wet skin, but it would suffice. Then he donned the man's hat, tipped the hat low, and started rowing closer toward the cordwood.

As he glided to the shore behind the cordwood, he whistled through his teeth. The three men turned at the same time. One was squatting on the edge of the stack. Another had climbed the woodpile and was shooting over the top. The third man with the outline of a bushy beard was pointing his gun at the woods.

At the sight of the rowboat, the one who'd been squatting rose and began running toward the shore. Several shots rang out from the bunkhouse. When he reached the water's edge, he was panting. Without hesitating, he jumped into the water and made his way toward the boat. Patrick held out a hand as if to help the man. But the instant the pirate reached for him, Patrick brought his fist up into a punch that connected squarely with the man's face.

The man reeled back, gave a shout, but Patrick sent another jab to his jaw and this time knocked him out. He had to set the gun down and use all his strength to drag the man over the side of the boat.

He retrieved his gun and glanced at the other two pirates, who were too focused on the gunshots to pay any attention to
Patrick's punches. He hoped they assumed he'd merely helped the man into the boat and directed him to stay out of the line of fire.

Patrick gave another whistle. This time both of the men turned from the cordwood and began to race to the boat. With his limp, Mitch lagged behind the other.

As they drew nearer, Patrick's fingers slid into position against the trigger. But even as he started to raise the gun, he knew he couldn't shoot. He never had been able to threaten anyone with a gun. And he couldn't start now. He would have to continue the battle with his fists or die trying.

Patrick stood but kept his hat tilted down until the third pirate jumped into the lake and splashed his way to the boat. Patrick averted his face until he'd helped the man over the side.

The man started at the sight of the two bodies lying next to each other in a puddle of water on the floor. “What's going on here?”

The second he lifted his head, Patrick was ready. He swung a powerful hook, yet the man didn't fall as easily as his companions. He cursed and then took a swing at Patrick. The fist came at Patrick's face, and he quickly ducked to avoid the hit while at the same time leveling a hard punch to the man's abdomen.