Love Unexpected (8 page)

He removed his hand from next to her head and took a step back. He forced himself to turn to the stove before she could see the effect she had upon him.

He'd told her he wouldn't expect anything of her, and he needed to stay true to his word. Besides, he wasn't worthy of her. It would save them both heartache if he didn't pretend otherwise.

J
ust one seed at a time,” Emma said again to Josiah.

But the little boy spilled several into the hole, heedless of her instructions.

She sat back on her heels in the garden plot she'd finally cleared as an all-too-familiar helplessness swept over her. Josiah was an angel whenever Patrick was home, but any time Patrick left, the boy became nearly impossible to handle.

She peered beyond the tower to the rocky beach that formed the bend of the isthmus. In the clear blue of the day, the lake went on forever without a boat in sight—not even Patrick's. It was almost time for him to return from fishing, and she wasn't sure who was waiting more anxiously for him, her or Josiah.

After almost a week, it hadn't taken her long to recognize a pattern to Patrick's schedule. He came down from the lighthouse at sunrise after turning off the light. He fixed breakfast, then headed out in his cutter to fish until the early afternoon. After he arrived home and ate the leftovers from breakfast, he'd fall into bed and sleep for five or six hours until the evening when he'd spend time with Josiah before he had to head back to the tower.

She wanted to ask him why he hadn't taken the time yet to show her the workings of the lighthouse, but she dreaded hearing him say that he thought she was overwhelmed enough just taking care of Josiah and the house, and that she wasn't capable of learning about the light too.

It was almost as if he was going out of his way to avoid interacting with her. She wanted to believe it was because he was busy, or that he simply didn't have time for her, or was still grieving the wife he'd lost. But she wasn't so sure.

“Daddy home?” Josiah stood and stared at the lake.

“Not yet, little love.”

His lip slid out and wobbled. She'd quickly learned that was the sign he was about to cry.

“How about if you help me cover the seeds?” She inwardly chided herself for looking at the lake and reminding the boy about Patrick's absence. “Let's get your shovel, so you can scoop the dirt.”

Josiah shook his head. “Me throw rocks. See Daddy.” He moved away from the garden.

She sighed. She didn't mind standing at the lake's edge and watching for Patrick if that was what it took to calm Josiah and keep him from crying. The trouble was, she needed to finish planting the beans and then try to salvage the mess Josiah had made in the mounds of cucumbers she'd planted yesterday.

“Wait, Josiah,” she called after the boy.

But he was already skipping away as fast as his little legs would carry him.

She stood, grabbed his cap—which was a battle to keep on his head—and raced after him. If only she could finish one thing before Josiah moved on to some other interest or task.

The clopping of hooves and the crunching of wagon wheels
stopped the boy. He spun so fast that he fell on his bottom in the long grass.

She was surprised too at the sight of a wagon coming down the barely visible path that wound through the woods stretching to the west of the lighthouse. She shielded her eyes and caught sight of the thin frame of a woman driving the team of horses.

Emma waited with growing anticipation as the wagon pulled into the yard. She smoothed her skirt, brushed away the soil that clung to it, and straightened her straw hat, hoping she didn't have any dirt on her face.

This was her first visitor to her new home. She'd always dreamed about a moment like this, welcoming company into
her
home, and now here it was.

“Good afternoon,” she called with a wave and a smile.

The petite woman nodded curtly and brought the team to a halt, her bony arms straining against the reins. The woman's face looked familiar. Was this the sick Bertha Burnham she'd seen before the funeral?

“You the new Mrs. Garraty?”

Mrs. Garraty?
Hearing her name on the woman's lips sent a warm sensation through Emma. Even if she wasn't Mrs. Garraty in the truest sense, the sound of the name coming from someone else was still pleasant. “Aye. I'm she.”

The woman stared down at her from beneath the brim of a bonnet. Her face was narrow, her eyes sharp. “I'm Mrs. Burnham. Mrs. Bertha Burnham. Folks call me Bertie.”

“I'm delighted to meet you, Bertie. I hope you've recovered from your illness.”

“My head hurts, my bones ache, and I still have a cough. But the work doesn't wait, does it?” Bertie frowned at the half-planted garden, the tools scattered in all directions, and then
beyond to the basket of wet laundry that Emma had yet to hang on the line.

“The work doesn't wait,” Emma agreed, wishing she'd stowed the damp clothes out of sight. “But I can't seem to get much done with Josiah needing my attention.” If she could hardly manage with Josiah and all his energy, how did mothers with a whole houseful of children ever get anything done?

Bertie leveled a stern look at the boy.

He sidled against Emma and wrapped one arm around her leg, twisting her skirt and smearing dirt from his muddy hands. He popped his thumb into his mouth and peered up at Bertie.

For a reason Emma couldn't explain, his simple act of drawing comfort from her somehow reassured her, and she rested her hand lightly on his head. Maybe she was making more progress in gaining his affection than she realized.

“I have four boys.” Bertie started to climb down from the bench. “And I never had any trouble getting my work done.”

“Four?” Emma searched the woman's tiny frame, noting the two thin brown braids that hung down her back and reached to the waist of her black dress. Bertie didn't look matronly enough to have had four children. The woman was as flat as a washboard, not at all the rounded body of a woman who'd born children.

“The oldest is fifteen and youngest ten,” Bertie said, pressing her hands to her shapeless hips. “I always said that the best thing for them, besides the switch, was hard work. They've been fishing and chopping wood since they were knee-high.”

Josiah's hold tightened, and he sucked his thumb noisily.

“Josiah is certainly a hard worker, aren't you, little love?” Emma squeezed him with a half hug.

The boy was too busy sucking his thumb to speak.

“First thing you need to do,” Bertie said, “is make the boy stop sucking his thumb. He's not a baby anymore, so you don't treat him like one.”

Emma gave a start and glanced at Josiah's lips puckered around his thumb. “I had no idea he was too old for that.”

“If you want him to grow up, then you can't baby him.”

“Oh . . .” Emma didn't quite know how to respond. Her inadequacies about parenting rose up to taunt her once again. Perhaps she could learn a great deal from this mother of four, who obviously had much more experience.

“I told that to Delia too, but no matter how much she tried, Patrick had a mind to spoil the child.”

Emma thought back to Bertie's harsh words at the funeral when she'd called Patrick a snake. She'd also indicated that Delia was her cousin. It seemed something had happened to cause hard feelings between Bertie and Patrick.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Emma said. “It's never easy to lose a loved one.”

Bertie's face hardened. “It's very difficult. Delia was much too young to die.” Bertie again looked around the yard and then up at the tower, pursing her lips tightly.

Even though Emma was curious to know more about Patrick's first wife and the circumstances that had led to her death, she held back her questions. Asking Bertie anything more would be prying, and Emma didn't want to start off a new friendship on the wrong foot.

“How's Ryan?” Emma asked, the familiar ache for her brother pressing in her chest. She'd been busy that week and hadn't had the time to think about him too much. But every time she did, she missed him and wondered how he was faring at his temporary job.

“Ryan's doing fine. Good thing he's a hard worker. Can't say as much for the other survivors who have been hanging around this week. Mighty glad that the passel of them has sailed out.”

Emma hoped she would at least have the chance to say good-bye to Ryan before he moved on.

“Now, let's get these chickens unloaded.” Bertie turned back to the wagon.

“Chickens?”

“Patrick said you wanted chickens.” Bertie lifted a crate, and there was a sudden flurry of flapping wings and squawking.

Emma hadn't mentioned anything to Patrick about chickens. Yes, she'd started making repairs to the hen house a day or two ago, though she hadn't realized he'd noticed.

“When he delivered his catch to the fishery yesterday, he stopped by and bought you five of my new hens and a rooster.” Bertie placed a crate on the ground, then turned to reach for another. “I told him I'd deliver them because I've been waiting to meet you ever since I heard you up and married him. I only wish I'd been well enough to talk to you and warn you not to make such a foolish mistake.”

Foolish mistake?
Emma stared at Bertie.

“Unfortunately,” Bertie continued, setting the other crate on the grass, “what's done is done. And now we'll have to try to make the best of it and do what we can to keep you safe.”

A curved beak poked from between the slats in the crate.

Josiah pulled his thumb out of his mouth and pointed. “Chicken?”

“Aye,” Emma responded absently.

Foolish mistake?
Keep her safe?
What could Bertie possibly mean? After a week of living at the lighthouse, she couldn't
speak of any regrets about her rash decision to marry Patrick. Everything was going as well as could be expected.

She'd even lost her nervousness at night, finally understanding that Patrick wouldn't show up at dark, not when he was tending the light.

Josiah circled the crates, hopping with uncontainable excitement.

Patrick had even purchased chickens for her without her having to ask. He was as considerate as he was kind. Surely Bertie was completely wrong in her assessment of Patrick.

“You carry one crate.” Bertie nodded to the boxes. “I'll carry the other.”

Emma approached tentatively. She'd never tended chickens before. She and Ryan and her dad had never lived anywhere long enough to consider it.

She gingerly lifted the crate, hoping the fowl wouldn't peck her fingers through the slats. “What would you like to name the chickens?” she asked Josiah, holding the crate well away from her body as she followed Bertie toward the hen house.

“No naming the chickens,” Bertie called over her shoulder. “They're not pets.”

At the flapping and squawking, Emma stretched farther from the crate and careened after Bertie.

When they reached the wire-fenced area, Bertie opened the top of her crate, revealing a medium-sized rooster and two smaller, speckled black-and-white hens. They squabbled as if scolding her for cooping them up. In seconds they were out in the grass and strutting around.

Josiah clapped his hands and squealed. “Chicken!”

Emma followed Bertie's example and opened her crate, allowing three more hens into the grassy area.

Josiah shrieked again, his eyes wide, the sunshine highlighting his freckles. Emma couldn't keep from smiling at the boy's delight. She pushed down all the qualms Bertie's remarks about Patrick had elicited and simply tried to enjoy the moment of watching Josiah and the chickens.

“Patrick purchased a bag of feed too.” Bertie reached for the crates and started back toward the wagon.

“Wait,” Emma called as she raced after Bertie. She pushed down the anxiety she felt over being left alone with six chickens. “Can you tell me what I need to do? I don't know anything about chickens.”

As Bertie replaced the crates and tended her horses, she rattled off a long list of dos and don'ts, including how much to feed them, when to check for eggs, and how to make sure the nesting boxes were dark. Emma nodded, hoping she'd be able to remember everything.

“I can't stay long,” Bertie said, heading toward the house with a spring in her step, her braids bouncing against her back. “I've got too much work waiting for me back home. But I suppose I can sit a short spell with you and have a cup of coffee.”

“Aye, come in, won't you?” Emma turned first toward the house and then back to the chicken coop, completely flustered. How could she have been so stupid not to invite her guest inside? Even if this was her first home and visitor, she should have known better.

“Come with Mamma, Josiah.” She reached for Josiah.

“No!” He pointed at the hen house, resisting her with the force of a full-grown ox. “Chickens. Me see chickens.”

Emma tugged him toward the house. “Come, little love. We need to go inside now and serve our guest. Maybe you can have something to eat.”

Josiah wiggled to free himself from her grasp. “No! Me see chickens!” His pitch rose a notch.

“I'll make you a smiley-faced griddle cake.” She'd used maple syrup to draw faces on the round cakes once before to get him to stop crying.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Bertie had stopped and was watching her interaction with Josiah with narrowed eyes.

“Or how about if I make you another creature out of paper?” The butterfly she'd folded for him had become nothing more than a torn, dirty mass of paper. “I'll fold you a kitty this time.”

A sob slipped from his lips. In only seconds he'd be on the ground, flailing his legs and screaming.

She had to do something to stop him. She'd only just met Bertie. She couldn't let Josiah scream now, for once he got started it was difficult to console him. She didn't want Bertie to think she was completely inept at everything, even though that was close to the truth.

He jerked against her hold and let loose a scream that was as loud as a ship's whistle. Just as he'd done previously, he threw himself to the ground. But he'd hardly had time to kick his legs and pound his fists when Bertie was at his side.