Love Unexpected (24 page)

Emma couldn't keep from staring and shuddering at the effects of Patrick's punches. Even though she hadn't witnessed his fighting, she'd heard it recounted several times from the fishermen who'd seen the battle.

When the sheriff came out a moment later with Patrick, Emma's heart pinched painfully. His shoulders were still as slumped as they'd been when they took him away hours earlier. He'd wrapped his knuckles with a strip of linen he'd torn from his shirt. But the blood had seeped through the linen, had dried, and was now rusty brown.

She took a step forward, hoping he'd look her way, wanting him to see the apology in her eyes. She shouldn't have said anything to Bertie, and she wanted him to know she was sorry she hadn't been more discreet.

But he squinted in the sunlight and then nodded at the superintendent of lighthouses, who stood next to the sheriff. “Mr. Yates.”

“Patrick,” the man said, “I hear you've been involved with pirates again.”

Patrick's face was unshaven, his hair mussed, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but Emma spoke first.

“He didn't want to give Mitch shelter. He was only trying to show him God's love, like the Good Samaritan.”

Mr. Yates spun toward her, his spectacles sliding down his sweaty nose. “And who are you?”

“I'm Patrick's wife, Mrs. Garraty.” The name came off her tongue as smoothly as butter cream.

She knew then she didn't want to give up on being his wife. Not so easily. Patrick had shown Mitch grace, had given him the chance to repent and change his ways. She needed to do the same for her husband.

Patrick stared at his boots.

“You're just the person I wanted to see, Mrs. Garraty,” the superintended said with a forced smile.

“You have to know that my husband is innocent.”

“How can you be so sure?” Mr. Yates asked.

She didn't know for sure the extent of his crimes, but she did know he was a good man. “Because he's a man of God and he wouldn't intentionally do anything to displease Him.”

Only then did Patrick look at her. She expected tenderness in his eyes like she'd seen there in the past or at the very least a measure of gratefulness that she was defending him. But his eyes were filled with hurt. She almost got the feeling he was letting her go, that he'd resigned himself to his fate and wasn't planning to change it.

She silently pleaded with him to forgive her, to see that she hadn't meant to betray him. She'd been hurt and had reacted in fear and foolishness. Yet he looked away without acknowledging her unspoken request.

His aloofness sent a chill over her.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Garraty,” said Mr. Yates, “I need more evidence before I can release your husband.”

“Then perhaps you need to have more evidence than one woman's gossip before arresting him.” Once the words were out, she clamped a hand over her mouth, surprised at her audacity.

Next to her, Bertie sniffed.

This time the superintendent smiled a real smile. “Don't you worry. I plan to get to the bottom of things, including the moon cussing and shipwreck that happened a few weeks ago.”

But how long would Patrick have to languish in jail before he was justified? And who would take care of the Presque Isle Light in his stead?

“In the meantime, I need someone to take care of the lighthouse,” Mr. Yates said as if reading her mind. “How would you like to be the one? I understand you have a working knowledge of the lantern and the care of it.”

She nodded. “Aye, but—”

“Good. I'll promote you to the title of assistant keeper until I can find a suitable replacement for your husband.”

Did that mean Patrick would lose his job regardless of what happened? She'd feared the worst, but now that he was faced with it, she ached for him.

“I'll pay you a fair wage for your work,” Mr. Yates added. “In fact, I'll row you out there in a short while, inspect the light, and train you in some of the other responsibilities. The steamship with supplies and the tender crew won't be far behind.”

She shook her head. She didn't care about wages or lighthouses or saving ships. All she wanted to do was find a way to help Patrick. “Maybe you should let my husband continue his responsibilities until you complete your investigation.”

“I can't do that, Mrs. Garraty.”

“Please. He wasn't stealing the wood. And he hasn't been involved with Mitch.” She didn't care that she was pleading. She glanced around at the gathering, at the few men who hadn't gone out fishing for the day, the ones who'd been laying out and drying and salting the fish. And of course there were Fred Burnham and Bertie.

Bertie stood back with her arms crossed, frowning at Emma, and not speaking because her husband had taken hold of her arm and was squeezing it every time she opened her mouth.

“Please tell Mr. Yates that Patrick is innocent,” she said to the men. “You know as well as I do that he's a good man, that no matter what he might have done in his past, he's proven himself to be hardworking and God-fearing.”

“Have to agree with her,” said the old fisherman who'd been sleeping against the shed door when they'd arrived. “Can't find a better man than Patrick Garraty.”

She smiled gratefully at the man before trying to get Mitch's attention. He stood nearby, flanked by the sheriff's posse. “Tell them, Mitch,” she demanded. “Please tell them the truth about Patrick. You know he's innocent.”

Mitch shook his head. His dark eyes glittered with anger as he gave Patrick a sideways glance. “Hook knows he's guilty.”

“Don't forget,” Bertie chimed in, regardless of her husband's grip, “Patrick's been an unfaithful husband. He's been fooling around with other women when he was supposed to be on duty.”

The superintendent's eyebrows rose, which caused his glasses to slide to the end of his nose again.

“He's been a good father and a good husband,” Emma countered. No matter what had happened up until now, Patrick had treated her kindly. He'd been tender and sweet and considerate. And he was a wonderful father to Josiah.

Bertie yanked away from her husband's grasp. “I have grounds to believe that Patrick may have pushed my cousin, his late wife, down the lighthouse stairway and caused her death.”

At Bertie's declaration, silence once again descended over the waterfront, broken only by the cries of the sea gulls.

“That's a strong accusation,” Mr. Yates said. “What proof do you have to level such a serious charge?”

“Mrs. Garraty herself told me Patrick has a history of abusing women.”

Emma gasped. “I never said such a thing, only that I heard Mitch accusing Patrick of beating up a woman.” Patrick's shoulders sank even further, and Emma regretted saying anything at all.

“Everyone knows that my cousin Delia wasn't happy with Patrick,” Bertie said. “My guess is that she caught him in an affair, that he got angry, and then decided to silence her.”

Mr. Yates gave Emma an apologetic look. “It looks to me like we're better off holding Patrick until we can find out for sure what's been going on here.”

The sheriff nodded at the superintendent. “Ready then?”

“You're free to go, Sheriff,” Mr. Yates said. “I need to make sure the situation is in hand. I'll stay a couple of days to train Mrs. Garraty before moving north to Lighthouse Point up in Duncan Bay with the rest of my crew.”

She wanted to protest his assumption that she'd take over the care of the light. But Patrick would want her to stay and keep the light burning. He'd loved his job and taken pride in keeping the passing ships safe. She could show him she cared by staying and taking over his duties.

Still, she couldn't let the sheriff take Patrick away without one last effort. If she brought out Josiah, and the superintendent saw the little boy, maybe he'd have compassion on them. Maybe he'd realize how difficult it would be for her to run the light and take care of the boy at the same time. If Patrick hadn't been able to do it, then what made the superintendent think she could take care of the child while also running the light?

As the sheriff herded the pirates and Patrick toward the waiting rowboats, Emma raced across the clearing toward the cabin.

“Josiah!” she called breathlessly, rushing through the door and into the front room.

Widow Burnham didn't pause in her knitting. Emma moved past the woman on her way to the bedroom.

Ryan was asleep, his arm draped gingerly across his body, the tightness of his features attesting to his pain even while resting.

“Josiah,” she whispered. “Come with Mamma, little love.”

She half expected him to crawl out from underneath the bed. But the room was silent. Ryan remained still. Only the stale heat of the afternoon wafted around her, suffocating her with its mustiness.

Where had the boy run off to now?

“Widow Burnham,” she said, returning to the main room, “did you see where Josiah went?”

Maybe he'd gone down to the landing to see Patrick. The boy had been asking about his daddy with increasing frequentness.

“He's long gone,” widow Burnham said without missing a stitch.

“What do you mean ‘long gone'?” The bubble of panic Emma had felt earlier began to rise again.

“He came in a while ago, but then said something about going to find his daddy.”

“Do you know which direction he went?”

“It's not my job to keep track of your child, Mrs. Garraty.”

Frantic, Emma left the cabin. Once outside, she scanned the harbor and the waterfront, where the sheriff and his posse were prodding the pirates into the boats with their rifles.

She didn't glimpse Josiah anywhere. She ran among the shacks, circling them, peeking into doorways, her fear increas
ing with each step she took. “Oh, God,” she cried, “help me find him.”

Patrick had trusted her to care for the boy. And now she'd lost him.

What if the boy had fallen into the lake? What if he'd wandered into the forest? She wanted to sink to the ground and weep at the thought of Josiah out there somewhere. Such a wee boy. He would be frightened, maybe hurt and crying, but with no one to hear or comfort him.

Fear propelled her toward the one person she needed the most. She stumbled along the rocky shore. She hoped Patrick would see her running and realize something was wrong. But he was already in one of the boats, his back bent, his head down, his hat tilted low as if he wanted to block out everything.

“Patrick!” she shouted.

He didn't move, not even to flinch.

“Patrick!” she cried again.

This time he lifted his head slowly and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were shadowed within the brim of his hat, but the sadness there was visible in every line of his handsome face.

A sob pushed into her throat and came halfway out with her words. “Josiah's missing!”

J
osiah's gone!” Emma repeated, fighting back tears. “I can't find him anywhere.”

Patrick stood so quickly that he rocked the boat.

“Whoa, steady!” The sheriff jumped up and grabbed Patrick's arm.

Even though Patrick's bloodied hands were bound, he yanked them upward and easily freed himself from the sheriff's grip. If he'd been angry with her before, she could only imagine how much he'd despise her now and regret he'd ever married her or asked her to care for Josiah.

“Let me find my son,” Patrick demanded. “I won't go with you until I find him.”

The sheriff whipped his pistol out of the holster at his hip and had the barrel shoved into Patrick's ribs before anyone could move. “You're not going anywhere, Garraty, unless it's with me to the Fremont jail.”

Patrick eyed the gun. Emma was close enough to see the muscles in his jaw twitch. She didn't want him to do anything foolish and get himself hurt in the process.

“Please, Sheriff,” she called. “I think Josiah was missing his daddy and is out there somewhere trying to find him.”

The sheriff kept his gun on Patrick. The others in the boats stared. And the few of the sheriff's men left on shore had their rifles raised, ready to shoot if necessary.

“We need to hurry,” Emma pleaded. “There's no telling where he's gone. And he's just a wee boy, only two years old.”

The sheriff studied her face, obviously testing the sincerity of her words.

“Let me go, Sheriff, please,” Patrick said, desperation in his voice. “Once I find my son, I give you my word that I'll return.”

The sheriff turned to the superintendent, who was standing on the dock next to Fred Burnham. “What do you think, Mr. Yates?”

Mr. Yates pushed up his glasses. In his crisp navy coat and matching cap, the superintendent had an air of authority that set him apart.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

“For the love of Moses,” Fred Burnham said, swiping at the perspiration on his forehead. “Let the man look for his boy. There ain't anywhere Garraty can go 'round here to run from the law. Besides, Garraty's a man of his word. If he says he'll return, then he'll return.”

Emma nodded her agreement, relieved Fred was finally making an effort to support Patrick.

“These parts ain't safe for a little boy, not after nightfall,” Fred continued with a glance overhead at the position of the sun. The afternoon was rapidly fading. “We've got to form search parties and get looking for him right away.”

Fred was right. They couldn't waste any more time. But Emma feared if she said too much, they would think she was setting a ploy to free her husband.

“Let him go look for his son, Sheriff,” Mr. Yates said with a nod at Patrick. “I've known Patrick for the past couple of years. And Fred Burnham is right—Patrick's a man of his word.”

Emma released a sigh of relief as the sheriff unbound Patrick. They divided into several search parties. She joined Patrick and the sheriff, who had decided to stay with his prisoner and keep an eye on him while they were searching. One of the groups headed south, the other west, while she and Patrick started north.

“Josiah!” she called as she trailed behind Patrick.

Patrick had already searched the beach for footprints. Having found none, he now swept his hand over the tall grass that dotted the shore between the rocks. He stopped and looked at the sheriff. “There's no sign of him in the grass either.”

She didn't ask how Patrick could tell. He hadn't spoken to her or looked her way since they'd started searching in earnest. She didn't expect him to, and yet his avoiding her hurt all the same.

She wanted to tell him that she hadn't meant to fall asleep or let Josiah out of her sight. She wanted to tell him it was killing her that she'd failed him when he'd trusted her with his son, the one thing in the world that mattered to him.

But she didn't try to make conversation with him, for she was too ashamed. With tears pricking her eyes, she went on scanning the edge of the woods and calling out Josiah's name.

She'd known from the start of her marriage that she wasn't talented at much of anything, that she wasn't anything special to look at, and that she was inadequate when it came to mothering skills. She thought, though, she'd gotten better and was earning Josiah's trust.

But she'd never be enough for him. What would she do now that Patrick had been arrested? How would she ever be able to console the boy once Patrick left for good?

She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to focus. Now wasn't the time to worry about Josiah's reaction to Patrick being taken away and put in jail. In fact, Josiah wouldn't have any reaction if they didn't find him soon. There was no possible way for a boy his age to survive in the wilderness after dark.

“Lord . . .” she whispered, then hesitated. What had Patrick said? God didn't have to answer any of their prayers. He didn't have to save any of them. But He always heard them. He always cared. And in His wisdom, He sometimes answered yes. “Please help us find Josiah,” she said softly. “Please keep the boy safe and bring him back to us.”

As she spoke, somehow she felt as if her petition had been lifted and placed into the presence of God. She had a gentle assurance that He'd listened, that He cared, and now it was her turn to trust Him for the outcome.

Maybe it was time to start trusting that He loved her no matter what He allowed to happen.

“Any idea where the boy might have gone?” the sheriff asked as he headed toward the woods, walking away from the shore. “Would he have tried to go back to the lighthouse?”

“He wouldn't know how,” Patrick said, “except to follow the shore. And there's no sign of him going that way.”

“Maybe he tried to find the woodland trail,” Emma said.

“He wouldn't be able to find it.” Patrick spoke to her for the first time.

It had been dark when she'd run away from the lighthouse, and Josiah was asleep during most of their trek into town. But he was a smart boy . . .

She knew then where Josiah had gone. He'd tried to find the path that led to the peninsula, thinking that if he found the lighthouse, he'd find his daddy.

Without waiting for Patrick or the sheriff, she raced toward the woods, searching for the wagon wheel ruts that indicated the start of the trail. She shoved aside the overgrown weeds until the path came into view.

Something white lay in the dirt several feet ahead. Once she reached it, she gave a cry of excitement. “This way! He's gone this way!”

Carefully she picked up the paper snake she'd made for him. It was wrinkled and damp, but it was definitely Josiah's and a sign that he'd been here.

Patrick caught up to her, his breath coming fast. He looked at the crumpled mass of paper. “What is it?”

“I made it for him this morning.”

Patrick assessed the length of the trail that disappeared into the woods. “Do you think he went home?”

“Aye.”
Home
. The word taunted her, reminding her of all that she'd lost.

Patrick took off at a sprint down the path, leaping over ruts and rocks. He didn't stop, not even when the sheriff shouted at him.

Emma started after Patrick, but couldn't run nearly as fast. By the time she reached the peninsula, she was out of breath, her side aching. Her hair had come loose and stuck to her neck. She kept moving and didn't stop until she came upon Josiah's cap in the middle of the yard, not far from the tower. She scooped it up, squeezed it against her chest, and pressed a kiss to it. He'd made it back; he hadn't wandered off the path and gotten helplessly lost.

“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered past the tightness in her throat. Somehow she knew that this time God had answered yes to her prayer. Maybe He wouldn't always, but this time He had, and she was beyond grateful.

Clutching the little cap, she rounded the tower and stopped short at the sight that greeted her.

Patrick was kneeling in the grass next to Josiah, who was curled up, asleep in a ball in front of the tower door. The boy's dirty face was streaked with dried tears.

Patrick's chest heaved in and out as he bent down and kissed the boy's forehead, brushing back the red hair with his fingers, his battered knuckles still bandaged in the same bloodstained strips from before.

Josiah's eyes fluttered open. He gave a shuddering breath, the tail end of the many sobs he'd likely shed as he tried unsuccessfully to open the heavy door before crying himself to sleep.

“Daddy?” Then, opening his eyes wider, he smiled. “Daddy!”

“It's me, lad.” Patrick's voice wavered, and he dropped another kiss on the boy's head. He seized the boy into a hug and clung to him tightly, his face buried in Josiah's hair.

Tears sprang to Emma's eyes, and her heart overflowed with love for both of them. She couldn't imagine life without either one. But she knew she had no right to them or to this home. Not after today. Not after speaking ill of Patrick to Bertie and then losing his son.

The sheriff stumbled to a halt behind her, coughing and wheezing from his pursuit. Sweat trailed down his forehead, and he took off his hat to wipe his face with his sleeve.

“Me go home,” Josiah said, wrapping his arms around Patrick's neck and looking up at him. “With Daddy and Mamma.”

Emma was at a loss for words. What could she tell the boy to help him understand the situation when she herself didn't know how to make sense of all that was happening?

Patrick didn't answer right away. He swallowed hard, kissed
the boy again before pulling back to look him in the eyes. “Daddy has to go on a long trip.”

“Me go with Daddy.” Josiah reached up to Patrick's cheek and laid his hand there.

“No, lad . . .” Patrick's voice broke. “You have to stay with your mamma.”

Emma wanted to shake her head. She couldn't take care of Josiah. She'd allowed the boy to wander off and get lost.

Josiah turned to her, his eyes big and trusting. “Mamma go with.”

“Mamma can't go. She has to stay and take care of the lighthouse. And you have to help her.”

Josiah looked back at Patrick. She could tell he was digesting the truth of his daddy's words. After several seconds, his lip quivered and he shook his head. “Me go with Daddy.”

Patrick glanced at her over Josiah's head. He silently pleaded for help. The pain etched on his face told her that talking with Josiah was torture for him, that it would have been easier to leave for the Fremont jail without having to say good-bye to his son.

She quickly wiped her tears away. “How will I manage without you, Josiah?” She knelt in the grass facing the boy. “I need a man to help me with the chickens and the garden and the cleaning and all the other things.”

Josiah's bottom lip protruded further.

She ran her fingers through his hair. “We'll have to work together to keep the lighthouse in good shape until your daddy returns.”

Patrick nodded at her, his gratefulness only sending more guilt ripping through her.

She wasn't good enough to be Josiah's mamma, but she knew
what she had to do. She had to stay and take care of Josiah and the light. She could do this one last thing for Patrick. Until he came back.

And he
would
come back. She refused to think about the possibility that a judge might find him guilty and lock him away for a long time. Maybe he wouldn't have his keeper job, but he'd have Josiah again.

Patrick hoisted Josiah up until they were face-to-face. “I need you to be a good boy for your mamma while I'm gone.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“And you can't go off by yourself again.” Patrick's expression was stern. “You must always stay where your mamma can see you, do you understand?”

“Me will,” Josiah said in almost a whisper.

Patrick nodded, lowering Josiah to the ground again. “Now, it's time for me to leave.”

The sheriff shifted behind them and gave a little cough. He wiped his sleeve across his face again, although Emma couldn't be sure if he was wiping away tears or sweat.

“Don't go yet, Daddy.”

“I have to, lad.” Patrick started to walk away.

“Maybe we can go with you back to the harbor and say good-bye there,” Emma suggested with a nod toward the forest path. In the growing shadows, the thick green was dark and uninviting. With all her being she wished they didn't have to return to the harbor.

Patrick shook his head, but Josiah rushed forward and clung to him and wouldn't let go.

Patrick didn't say anything for a moment, and then he released a weary sigh. “Okay. As long as you promise you'll stay with your mamma.”

Josiah smiled. “Me promise.”

Emma couldn't smile, not when her heart was breaking into a million pieces. If only she'd never said anything to Bertie.

All of this was her fault. And as much as she wanted to make everything right, she had no idea how.