Love Unexpected (7 page)

Patrick studied the overcast sky and attempted to gauge the position of the sun. Instinctively he knew he had several hours before he needed to light the lamp. Even so, he plunged his oars deeper, urging the little boat to go faster.

It rode low in the water under the weight of all the supplies he'd purchased. His muscles burned with the effort of rowing it hard, but he was almost home. He could see the copper dome of the tower with its vent ball topped with the lightning rod and weather vane.

Maybe he should have taken Josiah with him. But he wanted Josiah to learn to accept his new mamma and her authority, which wouldn't happen if he coddled the boy.

The cutter drew nearer the dock, and the anxiety that had been nagging him all day swelled like the crest of a wave. If he were honest, he was more worried about Emma's reaction to Josiah than about getting home in time for his nightly duties.

Josiah could be strong-willed at times and had the energy of a whole ship's crew. He certainly didn't want the boy throwing one of his temper tantrums and causing Emma to second-guess what she'd gotten herself into. She'd do plenty of second-guessing in the days to come without Josiah adding to it.

Emma seemed like a sweet girl, and he'd thanked the Lord more than once during his prayer time last night that He'd sent her to his rescue. But as before, he couldn't keep from wondering exactly what Holy Bill had told her. Probably not enough, otherwise she wouldn't have been quite so accepting.

Of course, Patrick had confessed everything to the Lighthouse Board and Delia's father when he'd been hired as an assistant keeper down at Fort Gratiot. He'd been honest with them from the start.

Still they'd all agreed—including Holy Bill—that wiping the slate clean was the best way for him to move forward. They'd cautioned him against sharing too much with anyone for fear of starting rumors and bringing about reprisals.

He'd only told Delia about his crimes and in the most general of terms. She'd eventually consented to marrying him, even though she'd been hesitant. As it turned out, even the little she'd known about him had been too much. Not many weeks after they were married, he stopped visiting her bed because he'd hated the way she stiffened whenever he lay next to her, as if his merest touch repulsed her.

He didn't blame Delia in the least. He hadn't deserved her anyway. And he certainly didn't deserve Emma now.

Guilt prodded him to share more with Emma. At the same time, he didn't want to push her away. He'd already alienated one wife. Did he have to with this one as well? Couldn't they live in accord without him having to open up the stinking refuse of his past?

His thoughts turned to ice at the memory of the worst ghost of all, the pale face of a woman marred with purple bruises, with streaks of dried blood across her lips and cheek.

“Oh, God, please forgive me,” he whispered, just as he had a thousand times since the morning he'd awoken to the battered body in his bed.

With a last heave, he guided the boat alongside the dock. He jumped out and did little more than secure the cutter before sprinting down the dock and up the rocky path. He hadn't quite reached the end of the short trail when he heard Josiah's screams. His heart sank into his rubber boots. The screams penetrated the open windows of the house and rang out over the isthmus.

He didn't stop to wipe his feet, but instead bounded through the front door, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. There, kneeling on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, was Emma. In the washtub next to her sat Josiah, crying and writhing and batting at her hands as she attempted to wash his muddy face.

For a moment, neither Emma nor Josiah noticed his presence.

“I'm home,” Patrick announced from the doorway.

Josiah's sobbing came to an immediate halt. “Daddy?” He squirmed and craned his neck around Emma. And when his eager eyes met Patrick's, his freckled face broke into a smile that rivaled sunshine. “Daddy!”

Patrick couldn't muster a return smile. Worry cramped his gut.

Slowly, Emma shifted, her eyes filled with mortification. Weariness drew lines across her forehead, and her shoulders sagged.

Patrick crossed the floor with its muddy puddles and Josiah's dirt-covered clothing strewn here and there. He crouched beside the tub until he was level with the boy.

“Hi, Daddy,” Josiah said, giving him another toothy smile that melted him.

“Hi, lad.” He tousled the boy's wet hair.

Josiah held out his arms to him, clearly expecting to be rescued from Emma.

But Patrick didn't move. “You're giving your mamma a hard time.”

“Daddy give bath.”

“No, lad. Your mamma will finish. And no more crying.” Josiah looked down at the murky bathwater, his lower lip trembling.

“When you're done, if you've been good, you can help me carry supplies.”

Josiah's head shot up. “Me be good.”

Patrick rose and nodded. “You need to be good for Mamma all the time.”

His lower lip trembled again.

Patrick didn't want to make the boy cry, but he hoped to send the message that Josiah needed to treat Emma with respect.

Gratefulness flashed across Emma's features, features that were sweet and youthful and prettier than he remembered from when he'd seen her that morning.

He expected to see frustration in her eyes, perhaps even anger at leaving her alone with Josiah all day. Instead, she merely gave him a faint smile.

When he retreated to the cutter to start unloading, he kept one ear tuned to the open windows. He released a long sigh when the boy didn't fuss any further. Minutes later, Josiah came charging down the path toward the boat at full speed with Emma rushing after him. He was barefoot, but at least he was clothed.

Dangling the boy's shoes from her fingers, she wiped a dripping sleeve across her loose hair and stared helplessly as Josiah hurtled himself into Patrick's arms.

“I'll put his shoes on,” Patrick offered. “And I can watch him while I unload.”

She hesitated, taking in the way Josiah clung to him, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Then she nodded, set the shoes on the shore, and started back up the path, her shoulders slumped and her feet dragging.

Patrick wanted to call after her, to thank her for tending to Josiah all day. But the words stuck in his throat. Weariness had descended upon him like a heavy fog, and he knew he would need to sneak in a couple of hours of sleep before ascending the tower to light the lantern.

He made quick work putting away the supplies, even with Josiah trailing along with him. Afterward he stumbled to the bedroom, fell across the bed, and was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

Patrick awoke with a start.

“Daddy” came Josiah's whisper next to his ear.

Had he overslept? That was always the first question that hit Patrick every time he woke. It was the question that haunted his sleep too, the fear that eventually he would wear himself out so much that in his exhaustion he would pass out for days. And then he would neglect the lantern and be the cause of a shipwreck.

Fortunately, the fading light of evening indicated he still had time before he needed to turn on the lamp. In spite of the harshness of the long winter, he'd quickly realized that living in northern Michigan had some benefits, including the long-lasting light of the evenings. The closer the days drew to the summer solstice, the longer the days grew, so that he didn't need to light the lantern until after nine o'clock.

“Mamma tell me to wake you,” Josiah said.

Patrick pushed himself up and stifled a yawn. “Thank you, lad.” His stomach gurgled from hunger. He took a deep breath and caught the acridness of burnt bread, or something like it. “Go tell your mamma I'll be ready for dinner in a few minutes.”

Josiah toddled out of the room, obviously proud of his messenger duties.

Patrick smiled as he sorted through the items of clean clothes left in his drawer. He changed clothes, ran a comb through his hair that was in need of a trim, and ignored the scruffiness on his chin.

He could see that Emma had tidied the room, picking up the clothes from the floor and washing them and making the bed. The sight helped to release some of the tension in his shoulders. Maybe he was worrying for nothing. Maybe he didn't need to say anything more to Emma about his past. Maybe if he kept silent, things would be different from what they were with Delia.

He started down the hallway. Taking a deep breath, he found himself choking on smoky air. As he stepped into the kitchen, he blinked hard through the haze that filled the room.

Josiah was seated in his high chair, oblivious to the fact that the kitchen was burning down before their eyes. “Hi, Daddy.” The boy smiled with a mouthful of food, something black.

A quick perusal of the kitchen told Patrick the smoke was coming from the two pans on the stove in front of Emma. As far as he could tell, there wasn't a fire but just smoke rising from whatever she was attempting to cook.

“Eat, Daddy,” Josiah said, biting the edge of a charred circle of what might have been a biscuit or griddle cake if it hadn't been completely burnt and unrecognizable. Josiah chomped
away and smiled with no signs that he'd spent the day throwing one temper tantrum after another.

Emma's back was stiff, and she was attempting to flip something in one of the griddles but only managed to keep half of it in the pan. The other half slid onto the stove and sent another billow of smoke into the air.

Above the sizzling, she gave a soft cry.

Had she burned herself? He went to her in two long strides and took her hand. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head with a cough, and other than sticky flour coating her skin, he couldn't see any sign of injury.

He stepped around her and closed the vents on the firebox, then grabbed a rag to hold the hot griddle handle and shoved the pans away from the burning heat. He hurried to the window, pushed it up all the way, and then threw open the back door.

“I'm so . . . sorry,” she said while coughing. Soot covered her cheeks, making the whites of her eyes stand out. “I didn't mean to burn everything.”

He fanned the smoke out the door with the rag.

“You have every right to be angry with me,” she said, her shoulders sagging.

“What?” He closed the distance between them.

She pressed against the cupboard and cringed.

Was she afraid of him? Did she think he was heartless enough to get upset over a burnt meal?

“Ah, lass.” He lifted his thumb and wiped away a smudge of soot on her nose. “I'm not angry with you.”

Her eyes widened. “You're not?”

“Not in the least.” He knew he should move away from her, but he wanted her to know he wasn't an angry man—not anymore.

He lifted his other hand. A loose strand of her hair floated
over her face, beckoning him to tuck it behind her ear. He started to reach for it, but then merely rested his palm against the cupboard door next to her head.

“Josiah doesn't like me.”

“Give him time.”

“And I don't know how to cook.” Her voice turned to liquid at her admission.

“Well, Josiah doesn't seem to mind.” He glanced over his shoulder to the little boy.

Josiah flashed a smile, showing them both a mouthful of blackened griddle cake.

Emma gave a soft laugh.

A grin tugged at Patrick's lips.

As if realizing he was the source of their amusement, Josiah scrunched his eyes and gave them an enormous grin, the specks of black making him look as though he were missing several teeth.

Emma laughed again, this time louder.

Patrick's grin broke free. He wasn't sure what he liked more, the sound of Emma's delighted laughter or Josiah's silly antics. Instead of watching Josiah, he let himself study Emma's face—the gentle curve of her chin, the pertness of her nose and mouth, the delicate lashes that framed her eyes.

What was she really like? What were her interests? Her past?

There was so much he didn't know about her. But now all he could think about was getting to know this woman who had come into his life. He realized that even though she hadn't been a part of his and Josiah's lives very long, he didn't want her to go.

“You were a saint to put up with Josiah's crying all day,” he told her.

At his words, her body melted, and her eyes warmed to rich coffee. She brushed at the loose wisp of her hair and averted her
eyes shyly, as if she'd been thinking about him and remembering that they were married, that he was a man and she a woman.

She'd let him kiss her yesterday at their wedding. In fact, she hadn't seemed to mind. And heaven help him, he'd found pleasure in it. Much more than he'd wanted to admit. The contact had been brief, but it had stirred manly longings deep inside him, longings he'd tried to bury three feet deep with Delia.

He didn't realize that he'd leaned closer until Emma pressed her head back against the cupboard. Her smile faded, and she glanced nervously around his face.