Love Unexpected (23 page)

“If you don't arrest him now,” Bertie said, “he's gonna get away and cause more trouble. We need to put a stop to it right here and now.”

Patrick had no energy left to argue with them. Even if he had
repaid in full all those he'd hurt or robbed, maybe his finally going to jail for his crimes was inevitable.

When Fred Burnham snaked a rope around his wrists to bind him, Patrick didn't resist. And when the man muttered an apology under his breath, Patrick simply nodded.

I
'm fine, Em. Stop fussing over me.” Ryan leaned against the headboard of the only bed in the two-room log cabin. After the noon meal, Bertie had applied fresh bandages on his head and upper arm, then bustled out of the room, leaving Emma alone with her injured brother.

Emma sat back in the chair she'd dragged next to the bed. Exhaustion fell upon her like a heavy blanket. “What should we do?” she whispered, glancing at the open door, which hardly afforded a breath of air in the heat and humidity that permeated the room. “Patrick didn't deserve to be arrested.”

The bedroom's only window was covered with a dingy curtain that blocked out the daylight. The room was only big enough for the bed, two chests pushed against one wall, and her chair. Clothes were strewn over the end of the bed, heaped on the floor, and draped across the chests, all of it making the place feel even smaller.

“Tell me what to do, Ryan.” The panic had been growing with each passing hour.

“We can't do anything right now. But once I'm stronger, I'll head over there and do what I can to free him.”

“That might be too late.” She'd overheard Bertie talking with her husband. The sheriff was on his way, and the superintendent of lighthouses had been at Thunder Bay Island, inspecting the lighthouse there. His next stop was to be Presque Isle, but now because of Patrick's arrest, he was coming here with the sheriff. Both would arrive before the day's end.

Ryan shifted his legs toward the edge of the bed and moved as if to sit up, but he fell back with a grimace and pressed his hand to the bandage on his head.

He was right. He couldn't do anything right now. Not when he could hardly move from the pain and blood loss.

“Maybe I can go over and free him,” she said. She doubted Patrick would want to see her, not after the way he'd looked at her that morning when he learned she'd shared the intimate details of their relationship with Bertie.

She hadn't meant to say so much, hadn't even told Bertie everything, but somehow the woman had a way of reading her and figuring things out.

Ryan shook his head. “How will you free him?”

“How will
you
?”

“I'll figure out something.”

“So will I.”

“No. It's too dangerous.”

She pressed her lips together to hold back her response. It was no use arguing with Ryan. She would have to come up with a plan to free Patrick on her own.

No matter what Bertie said, Emma couldn't believe Patrick would have partnered with Mitch. All the while he'd doctored Mitch, she sensed his disapproval of Mitch's pirating ways. Yet
none of her protests to Bertie or the men had made any difference in stopping Patrick's arrest.

Bertie's word was like the law around Burnham's Landing. The woman's sharp voice drifted into the bedroom from the other room. Disappointment and hurt came wafting back to pierce Emma once again. When she'd arrived last night distraught and confused, Bertie had acted so concerned. She'd listened and patted her back while she poured out her soul. In fact, for the first time, Emma had felt like she had a friend—besides Ryan—someone to listen to her and understand what she was going through.

If Bertie considered her a friend, why had she told everyone the things she'd shared with her privately? Emma didn't want to accept the fact that Bertie had betrayed her, that perhaps Bertie had never been interested in friendship.

Everything she'd thought she had—a husband, a son, a home, and a friend—it had all been a passing dream. None of it had been real.

“I guess I'm destined to remain homeless,” she said, breathing out an anguished breath.

Ryan closed his eyes, his features tight with pain. “You really want a home, don't you, Em?”

“I thought I finally had one.”

“Don't give up yet.”

She dropped her face into her hands. “I think it's time I let go of my wanting a home like the one we used to have.”

“I've always missed our home and Mam too,” Ryan said quietly. “But over the years, even though we didn't have anything permanent, I never felt homeless.”

“I wish I could have felt the same.”

“Of course, you were older and had been with Mam more
years than me,” he continued. “I guess I figured that as long as I was with the people I loved, I was home. It didn't matter where we were or what kind of place we lived in. We had each other and that was enough.”

She nodded. “You're right, Ryan. I should count my blessings—”

“But since you got married, with all the important people gone in my life, I started to feel lost,” he admitted. “Then when Holy Bill was here last time, he said if I'm putting my hope in people, I'll eventually end up disappointed. First and foremost I have to put my hope in the Giver of Life. He's the only one who will always be there.”

Emma studied Ryan's face and the seriousness that radiated from his eyes. Had she been putting her hope in people and places too?

“Speaking of Holy Bill,” Ryan said, sitting up. “Has anyone sent word to him about Patrick's arrest?”

“Is he nearby?”

“I think he's north in Rogers City this weekend,” Ryan said. “Then here next weekend, and south in Fremont the following.”

She knew Holy Bill didn't stay in one place for very long, not longer than a few days before visiting what he called “the other souls needing God's Word.” He helped do the work right alongside his parishioners, whether it was plowing, fishing, or chopping trees. They housed and fed him, and then he moved on to help someone else.

“Can you write a note for Holy Bill?” Ryan asked.

“But how can he help?” She didn't know how long it would take to ride to Rogers City, the next small town north of Burnham's Landing. She didn't know if there was even a road that led there. “Even if I write a note, who will deliver it? Everyone around here thinks Patrick is guilty.”

“Not everyone.” Ryan sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes with a weary sigh. “I'm sure there are still some men who've gotten to know Patrick and don't believe he could have done the things he's been accused of.”

“Why didn't they stand up for him when he needed them?”

“Nobody has proof that he's innocent. Not even Patrick denied his involvement.”

“You don't believe he was capable of helping Mitch steal the wood, do you?”

“He's innocent, all right. I've known him less than most of the men and even I can tell he's a godly man. He wasn't a part of stealing the cordwood.”

“Aye.” She had to agree with Ryan on that. In spite of his other crimes, he wasn't guilty of stealing the wood.

The sound of Josiah's voice from the other room pushed Emma to her feet. She had other duties awaiting her. She'd already been back to the lighthouse to turn off the lantern, and now Josiah needed her care. It was only midday and she felt as tired as if she'd been up for several days straight.

She didn't know how she could last the day without getting any sleep. And then hike back to the tower again at dusk to relight the lantern? She didn't want to even think about that.

At a shout, Emma's eyes flew open, and she sat forward with a start. The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the branches and leaves overhead and blinded her.

She blinked, trying to clear the drowsy haze from her eyes. The grassy area that bordered the forest spread out before her, along with the mound of a recent grave.

Delia's grave.

A few straggly weeds had sprung up among the dry soil. The wooden cross that marked the grave had a newly carved look that made it stand out among the weathered markers of the neighboring graves.

If she couldn't accuse Patrick of assisting Mitch in stealing the cordwood, how could she blame him for pushing Delia? That was the question plaguing her as she'd rested in the shade.

Patrick was too godly, too sincere, too caring to lead a double life. Deep inside, she knew he was no more capable of hurting Delia than he was of helping Mitch steal. Did that mean he was also incapable of involving himself with loose women? Should she believe in him, no matter what she'd witnessed?

Emma sat forward, her eyes focusing on the Burnhams' log cabin, the fishermen shacks beyond, the supply shed where the prisoners were locked up, the waterfront and the harbor.

Two rowboats had docked, and men were stepping out of them. The waves lapped gently against the boats, and sunlight poured down on half a dozen black hats. Sea gulls circled above and made their grating calls as if expecting the men to toss unwanted fish overboard.

But these were no fishermen returning from their catch of the day. The sheriff had arrived, along with a posse of men. Most wore casual attire, but one taller man stood apart in a crisp navy waistcoat and matching trousers, polished black boots, and a flat-topped cap, similar to the one Patrick wore. She guessed he was the lighthouse superintendent Patrick had spoken of from time to time: Mr. Yates, who was overdue for a visit.

And now the man was finally here, though Patrick wouldn't get to petition him for repairs on his beloved light. Instead, he'd earn the man's displeasure. Even if by some miracle Patrick managed to get out of the arrest, the superintendent would likely
still fire Patrick once he learned about his unsavory connection to Mitch Schwartz.

She swallowed the lump that had lodged in her throat and pushed herself up from the grassy area in the shade. She untangled her skirt from her legs. The humidity she'd come to expect from Michigan summers had plastered her skirt and bodice to her body. If only she'd had time to freshen herself before meeting the sheriff and superintendent.

Then she remembered she had a son and that he'd been playing nearby while she rested. “Josiah?” she called. “Come to Mamma, little love.” She glanced at the shoreline, the gill nets being repaired, and bags of salt near the drying racks. She swiveled toward the thick woods that stretched for miles and miles to the west.

There wasn't a sign of his fiery red head anywhere. Even the long origami snake she'd folded for him was gone. Panic rose inside her as she frantically searched the clearing again. What had she been thinking to doze off and let Josiah out of her sight, even for the slightest moment? There was no telling what kind of trouble he could have gotten into.

Fred Burnham strode around the cabin, wiping his sweating forehead.

“Have you seen Josiah?” she asked.

He gave her a curt nod. “Last I saw, he was inside with the wife.”

Emma raced toward the half-open door of the cabin. Just as she reached it, Bertie barged outside. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. She was learning the woman thrived whenever anything exciting happened around Burnham's Landing. Certainly Bertie was on a mission to avenge her cousin's death, but Emma couldn't help but wonder if the lack of female companionship
and the remoteness of the wilderness home intensified Bertie's need to create drama.

“Is Josiah inside?” she asked as Bertie slipped past her, heading toward the men who were now striding up the dock.

“He was with your brother,” Bertie said over her shoulder.

Emma peeked inside the cabin. Widow Burnham was knitting in her usual spot by the window. The table was covered with the remains of the noon meal, and the odor of fried fish permeated the stale air. The door to the bedroom was open, but the room was dark, and she couldn't see inside. She turned and saw Bertie walking with her short but choppy steps toward the sheriff, no doubt aiming to share her version of the story before anyone else could give the facts of what happened.

Emma ran from the cabin and went after the woman. She wouldn't let Bertie be the only one to speak her piece. She'd talk to the sheriff too. As Patrick's wife, surely the sheriff would want to hear her side of the story.

“Sheriff!” Bertie waved a hand at the man. Thankfully he was talking with Fred Burnham and didn't stop to acknowledge Bertie.

Instead, the sheriff followed Fred to the shed where they'd locked up Patrick, along with Mitch and his accomplices. One of the older fishermen who usually worked at the flakes was sitting on a stump against the door, his rifle across his lap. He sat with his head laid back, his mouth open, snoring.

Emma stopped next to Bertie. Her muscles tightened with the need to speak first. She needed to make sure Bertie didn't color the sheriff's opinion of Patrick before she could defend him.

But as the sheriff talked with Fred, Emma got the sinking feeling the lawman had already made up his mind to haul all of the pirates, including Patrick, down to Fremont and toss them in
jail. The sheriff claimed he'd been trying to capture the elusive Mitch Schwartz over the past year.

When the sheriff and his men pulled the pirates out of the dark hovel, the men blinked against the sunlight. Only Mitch remained unscathed. The other three men had bruised faces, black-and-blue puffy eyes, and crusty blood on their noses.