Love Unexpected (6 page)

“What time is it?” he asked in a groggy voice tinged with panic. His eyes were glazed, his clothes rumpled. For an instant she pictured him again on the bed, the mattress bending under his weight. She couldn't keep from thinking about how much it would sag under the weight of both of them together later.

Even if he'd assured her that he wouldn't expect anything, she assumed she was to share the bed with him. They were, after all, husband and wife. And wasn't that what husbands and wives did, share a bed?

He'd placed her bag in his bedroom, indicating that she should unpack her belongings there. Besides, the only other bedroom was Josiah's, and that was hardly bigger than a closet off the kitchen.

She turned away from Patrick, busying herself with sweeping her pile of dirt toward the back door. “Last I checked, it was only half past six.”

He grabbed onto the back of one of the two kitchen chairs that flanked the table. He swiped his hand across his face and rubbed his eyes in obvious need of several days' worth of sleep, not just several hours.

“Hi, Daddy.” Josiah stuffed his last piece of cheese into his mouth.

Patrick sucked in a steadying breath, and then his shoulders relaxed. “There you are, lad.” He reached over and smoothed
his large hand across the boy's head. “It looks like your new mam is taking good care of you.”

“New mam?” Josiah asked.

“He can call me Emma,” she offered. “I know it will be hard to adjust—”

“Mamma,” Josiah said, blending
mam
and
Emma
into a new word of his own.

Patrick didn't try to correct him. Instead, he glanced around the kitchen, and his eyes settled hungrily on the wedge of cheese and beef jerky that sat on the worktable.

“I couldn't find supplies for making a meal,” she said, wondering if he'd expected her to have a big dinner waiting for him when he awoke. But the truth was, even if she'd had the ingredients, she would've had trouble cooking. She'd never learned how, had never needed to learn—not when she'd lived above one tavern or another over the years.

“We're running low,” he said. “I'll make a trip to Fremont tomorrow. Put together a list of what you need.”

What would she need? Her mind scrambled to remember some of the things her mam cooked before the famine had started. But her memories consisted only of a constantly gnawing stomach, the frantic pangs of hunger, and the willingness to eat anything, no matter what it was.

“I've made coffee.” Coffee was one thing she knew how to make, and she'd located coffee beans in abundance. “Would you like some?”

“Lately, coffee is the main part of my meal,” he said.

Emma poured the steaming liquid into a freshly washed mug, drawing in a deep breath of the strong brew. She held the mug out to him. “Here you are, Mr. Garraty.”

He wrapped his hand around the mug, his fingers brushing
hers. The innocent contact jolted her, and she couldn't keep from staring at his fingers against hers, his tanned, leathery skin contrasting her paleness.

He took a step back, breaking the connection, probably not even noticing. “Emma.” He traced the mug's handle with his thumb. “Why don't you call me Patrick? Now that we're married and everything.”

“Oh, okay.” She hadn't wanted to appear overly familiar with him. But he was right. They were married now, and living together. She'd have to get used to sharing intimacies with him eventually. . . .

A flush crept onto her cheeks.

Josiah crammed a piece of jerky into his mouth, chewing with his mouth open and watching Patrick's exchange with her with wide-eyed interest.

Patrick smiled at the boy, then bent and kissed his head. “Good night, lad. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Night, Daddy,” Josiah said, reaching out to Patrick with his mushed-cheese fingers. In spite of the mess, Patrick planted a kiss on one of the boy's hands. He retrieved a wedge of cheese and piece of jerky, strode to the back door, and was almost outside before he turned to look back at Emma. “I'll be in the tower or watch room if you need anything.”

She nodded and wished she knew what else to say. But every time she was around him, she turned into a shy, bumbling girl.

After her laughable attempt at dinner, she decided to explore the grounds. The evening was still sunny and warm, and Josiah followed her around as she found a plot behind the cottage that looked like it had been a garden at one time, but was now overgrown in a tangle of weeds. She later discovered a well, a dilapidated hen house, and a shed that had an assortment of
equipment and tools. There was also a cellar that had a few remnants of overripe apples and molding onions.

By the time the shadows had lengthened and the sun began to dip in the sky, Josiah had started yawning and rubbing his eyes.

When she stripped him of his filthy clothes and lowered him in a tub of warm sudsy water in the center of the kitchen, he gave a shriek that could have rivaled a fog whistle. Thankfully, he splashed and flailed for only a minute before she thought to give him a cup for playing in the bathwater. While he was distracted with his new task of catching bubbles in the cup, she scrubbed his hair and every inch of his little body.

After she dressed him in pajamas, he didn't offer a single complaint when she laid him in his bed.

“Pray, Mamma?” He looked up at her, fighting to keep his eyelids open. He popped his thumb in his mouth and fingered the edge of a frayed blanket that he snuggled under his nose.

The earnestness of his question took her by surprise. She knelt in the narrow space beside his bed. “Okay. We'll pray.”

Without a window, the room was dark and cozy. The fading light of the kitchen cast a warm glow over Josiah. His lashes fluttered, and his thumb sucking halted. Damp strands of red hair curled over his forehead. His face was finally clean, revealing a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

Her chest swelled with tenderness. This was her son now. And even though she knew very little about parenting, she had to admit, she hadn't done a bad job that afternoon and evening with him. Maybe she could utter a prayer of thankfulness, even if she was a bit rusty when it came to talking with God.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she closed her eyes and bowed her head. Gratefulness choked off any further words.

Soon Josiah was asleep, and she slipped silently from his room.

For a while she kept herself busy washing his tiny garments in the soapy bathwater, wringing them out, and hanging them to dry around the kitchen. When she'd finally dumped the dirty water out the back door, the light in the tower was on and cut a long beam through the night sky.

It was amazing to think she'd seen the faint ray last night from the burning deck of the steamer, and that tonight she was on the other side seeing the bright source. Last night she'd been single, homeless, and childless. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, she had everything she'd ever wanted.

When she finally worked up enough courage to approach the bedroom, she could feel herself blushing. In the low light of the lantern, the room appeared less cluttered than earlier in the day. But she could hardly look at the unmade bed, at the imprint left from Patrick's body.

She tentatively opened her sack and pulled out one item at a time. She didn't have much: a brush and comb, another skirt and blouse, several undergarments, a couple of nightgowns. They were wrinkled and smelled of the sea from the soaking in the lake and would need laundering. But for now she couldn't resist unpacking them. It was a sign of permanence that sent a thrill through her.

With a glance over her shoulder toward the half-open door, she slid out the top drawer, revealing a jumble of men's clothing. She caught a waft of Patrick, a scent she hadn't realized was his until she opened the drawer. It was a mixture of the lake, wind, and oil. She bent closer and breathed him in. At the flutter of a moth near the lantern, she jumped back and closed the drawer swiftly.

After a quick search through the rest of the drawers, she found an empty spot in one of them where she tucked her few belongings. Then with a racing heart, she changed as fast as she could into her nightgown.

Breathing hard from her nervous exchange of garments, she approached the bed. When she reached the edge, she froze. Could she really lie down with a man? But what other choice did she have? She couldn't very well crawl into bed with Josiah or sleep in the rocker in the sitting room.

This was it. She'd made the decision to marry Patrick, and she'd have to take
all
that came with it.

She extinguished the lantern, scrambled into the bed, and covered herself from head to toe. Within seconds she lay stiffly, staring in the darkness at the ceiling.

Maybe if she didn't move, he'd think she was already asleep. Maybe he'd fall into bed exhausted, as he had earlier.

She clutched the sheet, the coverlet tucked beneath her chin. She tried to still the trembling in her limbs, reminding herself that he was kind. Surely he would treat her in the bedroom with as much consideration as he'd already shown. Surely she had nothing to worry about.

Even so, there was something unnerving about the thought of sharing unknown intimacies with a man who was still a stranger—even if he was the handsomest man she'd ever seen.

Minutes passed, and at each slight sound she stopped breathing to listen more carefully. But as time dragged on and he didn't make his appearance, her grip on the sheets began to loosen, and her body settled into the dip of the mattress.

Maybe he was giving her time to relax before coming to share the bed.

She dragged in a deep breath. Her lashes fell against her
cheeks, fatigue settling over her. She hadn't slept much the previous night before the pirate attack had awoken her. And after the long day, weariness crept into her bones and muscles.

The last thought she had before drifting into oblivion was that maybe he'd kiss her again. If he did, she wouldn't mind in the least.

E
mma awoke to the low rumble of a manly voice, along with the scent of fried fish. She bolted upright and raked a mass of tangled hair out of her eyes. The light coming from between the curtains told her it was morning.

The covers on the opposite side of the bed were undisturbed. The door was still open a crack, the way she'd left it. Patrick had obviously not come to bed with her. In fact, from all appearances, he hadn't even stepped into the room.

She jumped out of bed and grabbed her skirt and blouse from the chair where she'd draped them. After shedding her nightgown, she thrust her limbs into the garments, but she didn't have the same urgency she'd had last night.

Maybe the grief over his wife was still too fresh to think about sharing intimacies with another woman. She could only imagine how hard it would be to marry someone so soon after burying a beloved spouse. Or maybe he was following through with his promise that he wouldn't expect anything of her. Whatever the case, she was relieved he hadn't visited the bedroom.

She rushed into the kitchen still braiding her hair. When
she saw him standing in front of the stove, his back to her, she halted abruptly. He'd shed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing his tanned, well-muscled arms.

Two pans sizzled on the griddle before him. In one, he was browning several fillets of fish, and in the other he was flipping griddle cakes. Dismay chilled her, and she crossed her arms over her chest. She should have risen earlier and had breakfast waiting for him. It didn't matter that she didn't have any idea how to make the griddle cakes or where to find the fish. It was her job, and she'd failed to do it.

“Hi, Mamma.” Sitting in his high chair, Josiah was fully dressed and in the process of shoveling a whole griddle cake into his mouth.

At Josiah's greeting, Patrick swiveled, a long-handled spatula in one hand and a knife in the other. His eyes looked tired still. But when he saw her, he nodded.

“Good morning,” he said. “I hope we didn't wake you. We were trying to be quiet.”

“Me quiet,” Josiah said through the mass of food in his mouth, his shoulders straight with the pride of his accomplishment.

“I should have been up earlier.” She started across the kitchen. “Would you like me to finish so that you can attend to other things?”

“I don't mind.” He turned back to the stove. “I've always cooked breakfast.”

His words stopped her, and she stared at his rippling muscles as he flipped one of the golden cakes.

He pointed the spatula toward the coffee grinder on the sideboard. “Would you like to make the coffee again?”

She was too surprised by his proficiency at the stove to do anything but nod and do his bidding. By the time the coffee was
perking, he had plates loaded with fish and griddle cakes. Her stomach rumbled at the tantalizing fried aroma that filled the small kitchen. She didn't think she could have resisted sitting down in the chair across from him even if she'd wanted to.

She picked up her fork, ready to stab a piece of fish, but stopped when Patrick reached out a hand toward both her and Josiah. The boy laid down his half-eaten griddle cake and placed his hand in Patrick's big one. “Pray, Daddy?”

“Yes, lad.”

Josiah reached a hand toward her too, his sticky fingers mingling with hers. Apparently they were in the habit of praying before meals and holding hands while doing so. She glanced at Patrick's outstretched hand waiting for hers.

She edged her hand nearer, letting her fingers slip around his. At the warmth and solidness of his touch, her whole body heated. The green of his eyes was bright, almost curious. She lowered her head, hoping he wouldn't see her reaction.

After a hesitant second, his grasp tightened. Her stomach turned strangely taut.

“Heavenly Father,” he said softly. He spoke to God naturally and effortlessly, almost the same way her mam had prayed, like God was really there listening and waiting to answer. “We thank you for providing this meal and for blessing me with a new helpmate and Josiah with a new mamma.”

Her heart flooded with warmth. Patrick thought she was a blessing. She didn't hear the rest of his prayer, except for the amen, echoed by Josiah who wiggled his hand from hers, eager to get back to his breakfast. She expected Patrick to pull his fingers away from hers just as rapidly. But even as she started to back away, his fingers lingered, sending another lurch through her stomach.

When she lifted her head, he was staring at her again. Was he sensing her strange reaction to him?

She slid her hand away from his and wrapped it around her coffee mug. She'd already embarrassed herself enough by oversleeping. She didn't need to gawk at him like a silly little girl.

During the simple meal, Patrick ate quietly. Thankfully, Josiah kept them entertained and prevented any awkward silences.

After his plate was clean, Patrick pushed away from the table. “I'll be going to Fremont now and possibly to Thunder Bay Island.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket, along with a pencil. “I've started a list of supplies. Write down anything you need, and I'll see if I can find it there.”

She smoothed out the paper to reveal his scrawled handwriting in a short list of things like fishing hooks, nails, wicks, and other items needed for the upkeep of the lighthouse.

Once he'd left the kitchen, she took a deep breath. His presence had been overpowering. She couldn't think with him so close, with his body exuding such strength, with his eyes so intense.

Josiah squirmed in his chair, ready to be set free. Once she'd washed his hands and face and turned him loose, she tried to corral him in the kitchen while she washed the dishes. But he seemed to sense that Patrick was readying to leave, and he followed his daddy around like a shadow.

When Patrick finally headed down the path that led to the cutter, Josiah rushed after him. And as Patrick clambered into the boat and began untying the dock line, Josiah held out his arms. “Me go. Me go.”

Patrick shook his head. “Not today, lad. You stay with your mamma.”

Emma reached for the boy, but he dodged her and perched on the edge of the dock, dangling his legs into the prow.

“Come with Mamma, little love.” But Josiah climbed down in the boat, scrambling toward his daddy, crawling over the thwart and oars.

Patrick had been winding up a rope with his back turned, and when he spun to find Josiah in the boat, instead of getting angry, he surprised Emma by crouching next to the boy and giving him a hug.

“I know you'd like to come today, lad.” Patrick laid a kiss against Josiah's red hair. “But on the return trip, the boat will be very full.”

Josiah buried his face into Patrick's shirt.

“Besides, I want you to help your new mamma.”

Josiah still didn't move.

Patrick locked eyes with her above Josiah's head, cocking one of his brows as if to ask,
Now what?

Emma glanced around the shore, to the open waters of Lake Huron to the east and Presque Isle Bay to the southwest. Her mind frantically searched for something, anything, to distract Josiah, to make him want to stay home with her, a stranger, rather than traveling to town with the man he most admired and loved in the world.

A sandpiper and its mate scurried through the cattails that bordered the rocky embankment. The morning sunlight glinted off the water, bringing a gentle breeze.

“Would you like to throw rocks, Josiah?” The rock throwing had occupied him yesterday during the wedding. Maybe it would work again.

But Josiah shook his head.

A knot of desperation tied in her stomach. Even though she was inexperienced with raising children, she didn't want Patrick knowing that and regretting his decision to marry her. She
wanted him to think she was confident and able to handle a boy a quarter her size, because certainly she could. She'd done well so far.

After all, how difficult could a two-year-old be?

She knelt next to the boat that was swaying in the waves. “I know you'll enjoy helping me dig up the garden to get the dirt ready for planting.”

At the mention of dirt, Josiah peeked over his shoulder, interest sparking in his face.

“You're planting a garden?” Patrick asked.

“Aye. If you don't object.” She'd added seeds to the list of supplies earlier.

“Not at all,” he responded. “It's just that Delia wasn't interested in one . . .” His voice trailed off, and he focused on Josiah's flyaway hair.

“I don't know much about gardens myself,” she admitted, “but I thought it might be fun to plant a few things. I can start with beans and cucumbers and carrots and onions and whatever other seeds you can find.”

“What do you say, lad? You can help your mamma ready the garden.”

Josiah stood silently for a moment, then shook his head. “Me go with Daddy.”

Patrick exhaled a sigh and stood. He hefted the boy up. Josiah wrapped his arms around his daddy's neck and rested his head against his shoulder.

Josiah didn't want to be with her. What must Patrick think of her now? She'd been here less than twenty-four hours and his son had decided he didn't want her for a mamma.

She took a step away from the boat. Maybe it would take more time. After all, he'd just lost his mammy. She couldn't
wade into his life so soon after the beloved woman's death and take her place in his heart.

Patrick kissed the boy again. “I love you, lad.” He whispered in Josiah's ear, though Emma could hear the tender words anyway.

To her surprise, he pried the boy's arms from his neck and held him toward Emma, gazing solemnly into Josiah's face. “You need to obey me now and stay home with your mamma.”

Josiah's eyes rounded, yet he didn't say anything. Emma took the boy, settled him on her hip, and was relieved when he didn't protest.

Quickly, Patrick propelled the boat away from the dock. “I'll be back by dinnertime tonight,” he called. And with that, he settled himself on his bench, picked up the oars, and began to make rapid strokes away from the shore.

“Daddy . . .” Josiah's bottom lip stuck out and trembled.

“He'll be back soon,” she reassured, infusing her voice with cheerfulness. “In the meantime, we're going to have a very fun day together. We can plant the garden, scrub the laundry, clean your bedroom, and maybe even do some more exploring.”

She'd started to turn away from the retreating boat when Josiah gave a small cry and extended a hand toward his daddy. She stopped and smoothed his hair from his forehead. She could wait with him if he wanted to watch his daddy leave. Maybe that would console him.

But the farther away the boat got, the louder Josiah's whimpering grew. And when the boat became a speck along the distant shore of the bay, Josiah was crying in loud gulping sobs.

“Now, now, little love.” She hugged him closer.

But instead of letting her console him, he arched his body and threw back his head. He struggled against her so fiercely, Emma was afraid she would drop him.

“Oh, little love,” she murmured, doing her best to soothe him. But his cries became more insistent and angry. Somehow she managed to carry him off the dock without losing her grip. When she reached the rocky shore and a patch of long sea grass and cattails, she almost collapsed under the weight of his writhing body and was forced to kneel down and let go of him.

Once on the ground, he kicked his legs, flailed his arms, and screeched at the top of his lungs.

“Heaven have mercy.” She wiped the perspiration that had formed on her brow.

She'd never known any child to react this way. She would have believed he was in great agony and dying if she hadn't just watched him climb into the cutter without any problem.

She watched him with a growing helplessness. Finally, after several long minutes of listening to his wailing and realizing he didn't seem to be planning to stop anytime soon, she steeled herself, hoisted him up, and hauled him back to the house.

While she cleaned the sitting room, she attempted to distract him with everything she could think of, from playing in a bucket of water to pounding a drum made out of a pan and wooden spoon. He didn't stop crying until she carried him to the garden plot and offered him a small hand shovel, which he stuck in the soil she'd loosened for him. He filled a shovelful of the dirt and dumped it into his lap, his sobs finally quieting.

Emma crouched next to him, her chest tight, her cheeks wet with her own tears.

He dug his shovel into the ground again, hiccupped a half sob, and scooped more dirt into his lap. He patted the dirt with one hand and then went to work more earnestly digging a hole.

She sat back on her heels, relief overwhelming her and making her want to sob. She hardly dared to move for fear of setting
him off again. For a long while she just watched him, not even caring that his freshly washed outfit was growing filthier by the minute or that he'd wiped a dirty hand across his runny nose and now had mud streaked across his cheek.

“Hole,” he said, glancing up at her, his face beaming with pride at his hard work.

“Aye, that's a fine hole. The finest hole I've ever seen.” At that moment, she'd praise anything he did, so long as it kept him from crying.

She picked herself up, brushed the soil from her skirt, and with trembling legs started clearing the weeds from the garden—keeping one eye on Josiah as she worked and hoping he wouldn't start wailing again.