The Keeper's Sacrifice (Keepers of the Light Book 1)

by Krystal M. Anderson

  The Keeper’s Sacrifice

  A short prequel to Keepers of the Light

  Krystal M. Anderson

  Copyright © 2019 by Krystal M. Anderson

  All rights reserved by the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Though the author may reference actual living persons and places of the time, the characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, recording, by information storage and retrieval or photocopied, without permission in writing from Krystal M. Anderson.

  Cover design by Black Widow Books.

  For my sister Holly, whose eagerness for adventure led me to this story. And for my own little Tuck, whose big, blue eyes are brighter than the sea. I love you both.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 1

  Northern Oregon Coast, August 1869

  Standing comfortably in the moored sloop, Max Tucker was dreading his turn to cross the rolling sea between the Dewpoint and the intimidating Oregon coast. The third man to cross in the breeches buoy got even more wet than the preceding ones. Salty sea water dripped from his soaked clothing, and when his boots found purchase on the uneven rock, he removed his hat and wrung it out. If the poor fellow was lucky, he wouldn’t have many more trips to make in the large, sturdy trousers sewn to a floatation ring before the lighthouse was completed. The breeches buoy was attached to a pulley and dangled from a pair of ropes which spanned the tireless waves. As awkward as the breeches buoy looked, Max knew it was much safer than approaching Puffin Point by boat where the waves sent it crashing into the jagged rocks more often than not.

  Turning his eyes to the admirable tower perched upon the cliff face, Max marveled at the ingenuity and perseverance it must have taken to construct such a masterpiece. The lighthouse tower was conical, made from stone with a strong iron inner skeleton. Half of its outer wall was painted white, standing bright against the green backdrop of the forested Oregon coastline, a cheerful greeting to mariners passing by. From the deck of the Dewpoint, Max could see several men dangling from ropes with their brushes, working to finish painting the other side. And there, at the tower’s pinnacle, the admirable third order Fresnel lens was being lowered by rope delicately into the open lantern room. On the cliff’s edge, a wooden frame constructed from thick wood beams supported a pulley and rope with a crate at the bottom of the cliff, which was used for lifting and lowering supplies to the crew above. Evidently, building a lighthouse involved a great deal of hanging from ropes.

  Max knew this particular lighthouse had not been a simple build. Inspector Smith, in his nasally voice, informed the keeper of all the trials that plagued the men during its construction throughout the voyage. Many sites in this ten-mile stretch of coast were considered, but the Lighthouse Board decided upon the craggy thirty-foot cliffs of Puffin Point to warn mariners of the nearly hidden rocks interspersed in the waves. The engineers and construction crews began preparing the location early last year, but during the late spring/early summer months, the ocean produced such massive, whitecapped waves that the sloop could not sail close enough to deliver the men and supplies.

  “And what of the land?” Max had inquired, certain a road from Spruce Hill, a nearby lumber town, could be established to provide access to the lighthouse.

  Smith merely sniffed. “The vegetation between Spruce Hill and Puffin Point is so thick, had the Board decided to expand the narrow footpath that winds back and forth through the forest they’d likely still be doing it. It’s so dense there’s hardly space between trees for a single horse to pass through.”

  The wind whipped the crest of the waves, creating a spray that wet Max’s face. It was cloudy overhead but the gray wisps weren’t threatening; he hadn’t felt a single drop from the heavens all day. In fact, the breeze tousled his hair in a friendly sort of way, a promise of companionship in this venture he’d undertaken, and he believed it, too, for if anything was ever-present on the seashore, it was the wind.

  “What do you think, Keeper?” Captain Torrin shouted, strands of his shoulder-length gray hair escaping its tie and writhing like snakes around his tanned face.

  “Astounding, really. The scenery, the engineering, and the tower itself.” He shrugged, “I’m anxious to begin.”

  With a white-toothed smile, the captain replied, “And I’m anxious never to drop anchor near Puffin Point again! This here is tough sailing.”

  “God willing, you won’t have need to,” Max responded with a grin. “But should you, at least the beacon will aid you in navigating these treacherous rocks.”

  “Aye, and grateful I be for that.” The captain sobered. “I have often thought the sea to be the loneliest of places for a man to spend his days. But even a captain has a crew. How will you manage, up there all alone?”

  Max looked down at his worn boots for a moment before raising his gaze to the cliffs and the proud tower balanced upon it. He wouldn’t allow the melancholy to creep in; not now. “Here, I can make a difference. I can save lives.”

  Captain Torrin rested a hand on Max’s shoulder. “’Tis a noble cause, to be sure, Keeper. Still, I don’t envy you. Glass and brass can’t talk back.”

  “Captain!” the second mate, Bradley, called. “If I may direct you portside for a moment.”

  Torrin nodded and attended to his duties, leaving Max to think on the captain’s concerns. They weren’t unwarranted, for he’d wondered himself how he’d fare as the sole keeper of the Puffin Point lighthouse. He was comfortable with the duties expected of him and believed he could perform them efficiently. His post as the third assistant keeper at the light built on the mouth of the Columbia had given him a deep and abiding appreciation for the sea, its moods, its creatures. But even then, he’d not been completely alone.

  “Suit up, Keeper! Your turn for the breeches buoy!”

  Max exhaled his wary acceptance. At least he’d have a grand story about arriving at his new home by riding over the waves – or through, as the case may be – in extra-large trousers.

  Chapter 2

  Inspector Smith had spoken truthfully; there really wasn’t much to the keeper’s quarters. Their tour ended at the top of the tower, in the lighthouse watch room. Max had nodded at all the expected times and kept an appropriately chastised face while the inspector detailed his expectations for the fourth time.

  “…and do spend adequate time polishing the brass in the lantern room. Believe you me, I am quite thorough in my search for dust.”

  Arne Svensson, principle keeper of the Lookout Rock light nine miles to the south, snagged Max’s gaze from behind the torturous inspector, nodding dramatically. Max covered his mouth with a hand to hide the smile fighting to split his face.

  “I shall do my best, sir,” Max replied. “Please, allow me to escort you back to the beach. You must be well and ready to be off. I’m confident Mr. Svensson can answer any other questions I may have about efficient operation strategies.”

  As soon as the prim fellow stepped foot on the Dewpoint, Max allowed his barely-contained enthusiasm to explode.

  He was the head keeper of a lighthouse! And not any dreary old lighthouse. Puffin Point was scenic with its sweeping views of the ocean swells, miles of untouched pebbly beaches spreading in both directions, and backed by the sweet-smelling evergreen forests of the Pacific Northwest. Yes, he was a lucky man, and the Lighthous
e Board offered to pay six-hundred dollars a year for him to live in this moody paradise. Happy though he was at the thought, a twinge of longing twisted his heart.

  Lottie would have loved this place.

  Max could practically hear her sing-song voice titter over every species of bird found at Puffin Point, scribbling enthusiastically in her notebook each new habit she observed. Miraculously, it was the first time he’d thought of her since he’d arrived. Would she have been happy living an isolated, simple life such as this?

  Max clenched his eyes shut, wishing he could shut out the humiliation and hurt just as easily.

  He could almost see Desmond Pullard’s patronizing look when Max had asked for an audience with the man. Mr. Pullard stood with his hands clasped behind his back, trim and properly dressed, as usual. He’d actually laughed – laughed! – at Max’s request for his daughter Charlotte’s hand.

  “How would you provide for my darling Charlotte, hmm? You don’t even have your own home!”

  “Well, sir, I can obtain separate quarters near the lighthouse…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Desmond interrupted, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Mr. … what was your name again?”

  “Tucker,” Max ground out, knowing full well Charlotte’s father knew his name.

  “Right. The thing is, our Charlotte is already betrothed to another.”

  Max rocked back on his heels. “What?”

  “To be fair, it is a very recent development, but now you see why she can’t possibly marry you. She deserves better than a humble keeper like yourself; a wealthy man of impeccable taste in business. What if she wanted to purchase new dresses, or travel, or entertain her many friends of high social standing like herself? Even your family cannot be an asset, for you have none. You couldn’t provide that sort of life for her, Mr. Tucker – lighthouse or otherwise.”

  “With respect, Mr. Pullard, I love your daughter and could provide for her needs. You should allow her to choose.”

  Desmond turned cold, calculating eyes to Max. “Should I permit my daughter to make the decision, she would certainly live to regret it the rest of her days. You are nothing, Max Tucker. If you feel for Charlotte even half as much as you claim, you would make the wise decision and cease interfering with her life and its progress by leaving Astoria immediately.”

  The power of Mr. Pullard’s words struck Max like fists. Even worse, they rang with a truth he hadn’t dared think on but agreed with: Charlotte did deserve better than a lowly lighthouse keeper with no family, connections, or assets worth mentioning. He’d been wrong to allow himself to fall in love with her, a woman he could never have. It could only have led to heartache. She had another option, a much better one, by the sound of it. The realization of what he had to do clutched his soul with an iron grip and dragged him slowly to a deep despair.

  “That’s right, Max. She could become so much more without you.”

  Taking a steadying breath in and releasing it forcefully, Max returned his attention to the modest keeper’s cottage before him, willing the memories away. Quaint. That was the word he’d use to describe it. It was designed for housing one man, and though it was small, it had all the practicality and charm one would hope for in a home. Max certainly didn’t have high expectations; it would do splendidly.

  “You maneuvered around Smith expertly, Max. We can all breathe easy now that he’s gone.” Arne grinned, arms folded across his chest. The sunlight filtering through the clouds caught his light blonde hair, making it look almost white.

  It was easy to return the smile. “Thank you for being here, Arne. It’s always nice to talk lighthouses with a man who knows his way around one.”

  “Well, sure. I’m lucky to have a competent assistant so that I may leave as the occasion warrants. Chauntis Bay is a special place, and I’m sure you’ll like Spruce Hill. The folks there are hard workers and friendly.”

  “Ah,” Max said. “How long have you been keeping the Lookout Rock light?”

  “About thirteen years. I took over after an…incident.”

  “Sounds like a good story.”

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime. But for now, let’s take a look at the fog bell and make sure the winding mechanism is working right…”

  After they’d gone over everything from oil storage to log books, Max waved goodbye to Arne, who had to walk nearly a mile south to an approachable sandy cove where his rowboat was waiting. It felt good, having the support of the Lookout Rock keeper.

  There should be a lot to do, but with the crews underfoot, I’m not sure what…

  Fifteen minutes later, Max exited the cottage with a handful of nails and length of rope in his pockets and an ax resting on his shoulder. It hadn’t taken long to get situated in his room, for he had brought so little. Now, with time on his hands, Max donned his leather gloves and tromped off into the thick vegetation, admiring the lofty trees. It was simple enough to find a small footpath weaving through the forest thanks to the host of men brought in to construct the lighthouse. Fern, moss, and all things green grew from the damp forest floor, and Max could hear the calling of birds and scurrying of chipmunks in the limbs of sturdy conifers.

  His hungry eyes didn’t miss a single detail of the glorious place. In fact, he couldn’t help but wonder how he’d gotten so lucky to have been chosen as keeper in a landscape as variant and enchanting as this.

  “Ho there!” a deep voice called, but it took another minute for its owner to appear from the winding, narrow path. A thin, balding man raised a hand in greeting, accompanied by a young fellow with sandy blonde hair and cautious eyes. For being so difficult to reach, Puffin Point sure has a lot of visitors! I can understand, I suppose. A new lighthouse is quite striking to behold, and there’s something about them that makes a soul curious.

  “Are we nearing Puffin Point?”

  Max swung the ax from his shoulder to rest on the ground and stepped forward, hand extended. “You’ve arrived, actually. I’m the new light keeper, Max Tucker.”

  “William Kearns, pastor in Spruce Hill. And this is Tad Hobbs, the sheriff’s son. He graciously agreed to accompany me today.”

  Tad shook Max’s hand with a nod.

  “Pleasure to meet you both,” Max voiced. “Come on into the cottage and I’ll see what I can find for refreshment.”

  “We’d be mighty grateful, Mr. Tucker. My feet need a good rest!” William grunted, wiping the sheen of moisture from his forehead with his sleeve.

  Max offered the two some crackers and a cup of cool water.

  The pastor’s easy smile put him at ease, while the quiet brooding of the sheriff’s son did the opposite. William asked, “When did you arrive, Keeper?”

  “Max is fine, Mr. Kearns; no need for formality out here. And just this morning, actually.”

  “Ah. And where are you from?”

  “Astoria, most recently.”

  “Really? An Oregon man.” William wove his fingers together and leaned back comfortably in his chair.

  “Yes, sir. And you?”

  “Oh, I’ve only been in the state a few months. Started out as a logger but couldn’t cut it.” Laughter burst from his mouth. “Get it? Ho, ho!”

  Max smiled dryly. “Yes, well, I hope the roll of pastor suits you much better, Mr. Kearns. What about you, Tad. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.” A few moments of silence and Max realized it was all the boy was going to say. “So, what brings the two of you out here today?”

  “Just wanted to meet ya’ is all, Max, and see if the tower is as spectacular as we’ve heard. Spruce Hill is just a speck of a town, but the men there are curious about the new lighthouse and its keeper. You’re welcome to join us for Sunday sermon.” William winked one big blue eye.

  “I see. How long did it take you to walk here?” Max inquired.

  Tad just glanced at the chatty preacher and shrugged. “Four or five hours,” William supplied, “but it wasn�
��t a leisurely trek, that’s for sure! These mountains are full of surprising twists and turns. A body needs to be mindful of where he’s a goin’.”

  Max nodded, thoughtful. “Reasonable enough to make the sermon, so long as I’m back before sunset to tend the light.”

  “Sure, sure, Max. I do hope to see you there.”

  After a little more small talk, Max waved good-bye to the duo and tromped back into the trees.

  It didn’t take long for him to find what he sought. Twisted, lichen-covered branches jutted from a fallen fir tree’s trunk, many over ten feet long. Perfect building material. Whistling happily while he worked, Max spent the next hour gathering branches of similar size, tying them together and dragging them to the sunniest patch of ground he could locate. Sweat ran the length of his back by the time he was finished, but he had a sizeable wood pile to show for it.

  After a short break for water, Max laid the branches into three rectangles on the ground, visualizing the dimensions before he began chopping. Yes, this spot along the cliff was sure to have the most sunshine, giving his garden the greatest chance of thriving. He stacked the branches purposefully, intertwining the perpendicular sides of the rectangle where they intersected.

  The sun began its descent through the clouds as he assembled, touching the liquid horizon brilliantly by the time he had finished. Max winced at the throbbing in his back, stretched side to side before he collected his tools. Tomorrow, he’d fill his garden boxes with soil and return to the dead tree for firewood.

  Some of the construction men had retired to a rope hammock on the sloop for the night, while others could be heard mumbling within canvas tents tucked into the trees and rocks. Max counted eight huddled around a considerable fire, sipping drinks and telling tales. He felt fortunate to have the cottage to himself.

  Filling his lungs with invigorating ocean air, Max trudged tiredly to the door. He had a fresh tick to nestle into in his own keeper’s cottage, a larder full of provisions, a garden nearly ready for planting, and a swelling hope tucked deep inside that this would be the first of many fulfilling days alone at Puffin Point; that the pain of losing Lottie would diminish with each sunset.