by Jody Hedlund
When Patrick reached a plot dotted with headstones, only then did she notice a fresh pile of dirt with a shovel wedged in it.
Who was in the coffin?
At a rustling behind her, Emma stood.
There in the cabin doorway stood a petite woman. She was hunched over, a gray crocheted shawl draped over a black dress. She wore a tight-fitting bonnet, and her hair fell in two severe braids over her shoulders. Her face was pale and her cheeks drawn.
Emma had glimpsed the sick woman earlier that morning when she was warming herself in front of the stove. Bertha Burnham had been lying in bed under heaps of covers in the cabin’s one bedroom when her mother-in-law, the widow Burnham, had delivered an onion poultice and a cup of hot broth to the sickroom.
The widow Burnham hadn’t spoken much, but it had been enough for Emma to learn that Bertha wasn’t only sick with influenza but was grieving the recent death of her cousin and couldn’t be disturbed.
As Bertha emerged into the sunshine, Emma moved into the shadows of the cabin.
The woman barked a command to a boy standing near a woodpile onshore. “Go tell your father it’s time for Delia’s funeral.”
He called back, “Yes, Mam,” then darted off on bare feet, heedless of the rocks and wood chips that littered the ground.
Bertha Burnham’s shoulders shook with a deep cough before she lifted her head and gave Patrick a sharp look. “Snake,” the woman muttered under her breath. “Too bad you didn’t die instead of Delia.”
Emma glanced at Patrick’s shadowed face, at the sadness creasing his forehead. Had Delia been his wife?
Bertha shuffled toward the grave, as though everything within her resisted the idea of going near the coffin.
A few moments later, a man on horseback arrived. Wearing a black vest, matching overcoat, and dark felt hat, he gave Emma the impression he was a preacher. When the man pulled a Bible out of his saddlebag, her feeling was confirmed.
His long white beard and spindly white hair gave him the look of St. Nicholas, though a much leaner version. He went to the open grave, held out his arms wide, and embraced Patrick. The reverend then turned and greeted Bertha, as well as the other men and boys who’d gathered around the coffin.
“Poor wee one,” Emma whispered, watching Josiah as he stood bravely next to his father, peering up at him, as if he didn’t know what to make of all that had happened. He was certainly too young to realize the significance of his loss—if the person in the coffin was indeed his mammy.
Emma had been ten when her mam had died, and she’d felt the loss all the way to her soul. Mam had always been the one to keep her and Ryan and their dad from despairing too much, to remind them of God’s presence, to point them back to Him whenever life became too hard.
It was almost as if when Mam died, the solid foundation of their family had been ripped away. From then on they’d had nothing but crumbling, shifting sand. Emma couldn’t stop staring at Josiah with his unruly red hair. No child deserved to be without a mammy.
The reverend spoke for a short time and then read from his Bible. Emma thought about moving closer so that she could hear what he was saying. If she hadn’t prayed in a long while, well, it had been even longer since she’d heard God’s Word read aloud.
The funeral was over within minutes, which was a good thing, since Josiah was already fidgeting and eyeing the dirt pile. Several of the men lowered the coffin into the ground and began the task of shoveling soil over it.
Bertha made her way back to the cabin while leaning heavily on the arm of her husband. She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief and murmuring, “My dear cousin, my poor dear cousin.” The woman disappeared inside the cabin without so much as a look in Emma’s direction, which only sent another unwelcome chill over Emma.
Back at the graveyard, the reverend carried on a steady stream of conversation with Patrick. Neither seemed to pay any attention to the little boy, who had played in the dirt with fascination before turning away and following the trail of a flittering butterfly.
As Josiah wandered farther from his father and closer to the Burnham cabin, Emma waited for the boy to notice her. He froze when he was just feet away, his eyes widening at the sight of her.
“Hello, little love,” she said with a smile.
Up close, she could see his face was in need of a washing. Dried jam caked the sides of his mouth, and dirt or ash or something smudged his cheeks.
His clothes were worse. She could hardly see the jam stains on his shirt through the coating of dirt, and the knees of his trousers had dark splotches from crawling around somewhere muddy.
“And how are you today?” she asked.
“Mommy in box,” he said.
A sharp pain pierced Emma’s chest. “Oh, sweet baby. I’m so sorry.”
But the boy was already pointing one of his chubby fingers in the direction the butterfly had flown, around the cabin to the woodland beyond. “Buf-fly. Gone.” His sad greenish-brown eyes regarded her, as if somehow she could make the butterfly appear again.
Sorrow filled her heart, sorrow for herself and sorrow for this sweet motherless boy. She wanted to capture the butterfly for him, to offer him a small measure of comfort. But there was nothing but the pliers, the broom, and the brown paper that had held the fresh broomcorn.
“How about if I make you a butterfly?” she offered, picking up the paper.
He nodded. “Make buf-fly.”
She knelt in the grass and tore the brown paper. Once she’d shaped it into a square, she folded the paper in half to form a triangle, and then folded it again into a smaller triangle.
Josiah crouched next to her and bent his head close to examine her folding.
“Here’s one wing,” she said as she folded up the right corner of the triangle.
“Wing?”
She nodded and creased the opposite corner. “And here’s the other.” She lifted it, letting the paper fall open to reveal the body of the butterfly in the center. “There. It’s all done.”
“All done,” he echoed.
She pretended to fly it by flapping the wings up and down. “See? The butterfly is ready to fly.”
Josiah grinned. “Me fly it?”
“Of course, little love.” She held the paper butterfly out to him, and he took it carefully between his grubby fingers.
“Fly, buf-fly,” he said. He stood, raised it in the air, and swooped it up and down, watching the wings rise and fall like those of a real butterfly. His grin widened.
“Josiah” came a stern but kind voice. “What do you tell the nice lady?”
Emma startled and found herself looking up the stocky length of Patrick Garraty. He placed one of his big hands on top of Josiah’s unruly hair to keep the boy from running off with his new toy.
“Thank you,” Josiah said.
“You’re welcome,” Emma replied. She stood to her feet and brushed at the back of her skirt, which was still damp and had picked up twigs, shavings, and grass. She tucked her bare toes out of sight. Her stockings and shoes were still drying in a nearby patch of grass, along with the rest of the clothes and items from the bag they’d carried off the burning steamer.
Patrick crouched so that he was level with the boy. “No more wandering off, lad.”
She noticed again his kind eyes—green and wide and framed by thick lashes.
“You must stay by my side or you’ll get hurt,” he said to his son.
Josiah nodded somberly, but then turned his attention back to the paper butterfly.
Patrick rose to his full height, towering over her by at least six inches. “Thank you for occupying him while I . . .” He glanced at the graveyard, at the mound of dark soil that now covered the coffin. His face creased with weariness.
“It was my pleasure. I didn’t mind at all. He’s adorable.” She tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, realizing she hadn’t plaited it since it had dried. She ducked her head, self-conscious of how she must appear to this man,
her rescuer, with her hair floating about her shoulders and down her back, about as unkempt as Josiah’s. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she offered.
He nodded and shifted his attention to the lake, but not before she caught a glimpse of pain in the depths of his eyes.
He didn’t speak for several awkward moments. She squirmed, wishing she could take back her comment. Josiah’s chirping rose between them as he flapped the butterfly up and down.
Finally, Patrick cleared his throat. “It looks like you’re faring better.”
“Aye,” she said too hurriedly, her nerves tying themselves into bundles. “I’m doing much better now that I’m mostly dry and warm.”
“Good.”
“And Mr. Burnham gave Ryan a job chopping wood and put him to work right away this morning.” She was talking too fast, but she couldn’t slow herself down. “He said with the steamers coming through and buying fuel, he always has a need for chopped wood.”
She’d learned that, among other things, the Burnhams sold wood as fuel to the steamers that docked in the harbor. While some of the boats were moving to coal for fuel, many still burned wood for their steam-powered engines.
That meant steamboats had to make frequent stops—usually every couple of days—to restock on cordwood and keep their engines firing. There were small landings along the lake, like Burnham’s, who turned a sizable profit selling wood to passing boats.
Even if the Burnhams paid only pennies for the backbreaking labor, it was a steady job. And they were willing to provide Ryan with a bed in one of the bunkhouse shanties that housed the fishermen.
Josiah started to move away, but Patrick’s long fingers spread across the boy’s head and pinned him in place. “Will widow Burnham let you stay too?” He’d lowered his voice and looked warily at the widow’s half-open door.
Earlier, when Ryan had asked widow Burnham if Emma could stay with them during their time on Presque Isle, the old woman had only complained about the lack of space in their tiny cabin, that it had only one bedroom, already occupied by the sick daughter-in-law, and that she didn’t know where Emma would find room to sleep.
The widow hadn’t come right out and said no, but Emma could tell she wasn’t wanted. Even when she’d tried to make herself useful that morning by helping with the chores, widow Burnham had largely ignored her. Emma had finally taken the broom outside to work on fixing it.
Patrick studied her, as if he’d read her thoughts and could sympathize. “If widow Burnham kicks me out,” she said, “then perhaps I’ll have Ryan make me a shelter of sticks and pine boughs. It’s getting warmer at night now.”
She was only half jesting. Maybe her camping on the beach would be the best option. A makeshift lean-to would be better than some of the places she’d had to call home these past years.
Patrick shook his head. “You’ll be safer in the cabin.”
“That’s what Ryan said. Even though half the men here are twice my age, he said that won’t stop them from ogling a woman, since apparently there aren’t many in these parts.”
Once again an awkward silence descended, making her grateful for Josiah’s chattering.
Patrick stepped away and tugged Josiah with him. “Well, I’d best be about my business.”
She wanted to reach after the pair and express her sorrow again for their loss, but she held the words back and instead rushed to thank him. “I didn’t have the chance to thank you for saving my life.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Aye. I do. I was ready to give up. I don’t think I could have hung on another minute.”
“You were brave to hang on as long as you did,” he said. Then he tipped his hat and strode away.
Josiah stumbled along next to him. When the little boy reached up a hand, Patrick’s large work-roughed fingers encompassed the boy’s tenderly. This time he matched his pace to that of the boy, their hands swinging together between them.
“Aww,” she whispered, her smile growing. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for the woman they’d just buried and all she’d had to leave behind.
Chapter 3
What do we have here?” The reverend smiled as he approached her.
Emma tore her attention from Patrick and his son. She grabbed the broom and inspected the wires, hoping the reverend hadn’t caught her staring at the widower.
The reverend paused in the patch of yard before her and mopped his brow. “I hear you had quite the escapade.” Beneath bushy white brows his eyes were full of compassion.
She stopped fiddling with the broom. “I’ve been through many hardships. But none quite like that.”
The reverend was small in stature, shorter than her own five-foot-five. He was thin, his bony shoulders poking through the linen of his coat. Yet she could sense a strength about him that belied his size.
“I’m Reverend William Poyseor,” he said, his white beard and mustache curving up with a smile. “But people call me Holy Bill.”
“I’m Emma Chambers.”
He assessed her in one sweeping motion, and then he looked toward Patrick, who was disappearing inside the low doorway of the fishery with Josiah close behind.
“That, my young lady,” said Holy Bill, “is the finest man in all of Michigan.”
She had only interacted with Patrick Garraty briefly. After living among the fishing communities of the north these past years and mingling with plenty of men, she’d learned to judge a man’s character quickly. It was easy to see that Patrick was a rare breed, similar to Ryan in his kindness and thoughtfulness.
Why then had Bertha Burnham called him a snake? In her brief interactions she hadn’t sensed anything remotely snakelike about him. Perhaps the woman merely had a personal grudge.
“I just helped him bury his wife,” Holy Bill said.
“I thought as much, but now to hear you say it, I’m truly sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I was when I got the news she’d fallen and died.”
Emma waited for him to explain more about the woman’s death, but instead he turned his attention to the coastline of the harbor. Several kestrels glided above the shore, the sunlight glinting off their blue heads and red backs and tails.
He rubbed at his beard. “Since I received the news, I’ve been praying for Patrick nonstop that God would bring about a solution to his dilemma.” The reverend turned back to her, his brows raised as if somehow she figured into his prayers. “I hear you’re in a dilemma too.”
“Aye. Thankfully my brother has work and a place to stay until he can earn back what we lost to the pirates.” She hoped it wouldn’t be too long, but realistically she knew it might take a couple of weeks.
“And what about you?” he asked. “What will you do while your brother works? There isn’t employment for a single young woman here at Burnham’s Landing.”
“I was hoping I could help with the drying and salting of the fish,” she said, trying not to think about the seriousness of her predicament. “But widow Burnham told me the men take care of their own fish and don’t need any help.”
The shore crew consisted of a few older men, who were walking among the racks of drying fish that lined the beach. They were turning the fish to ensure even drying and also salting them for curing. She’d spent many days from daybreak to dusk among the drying flakes. She’d even learned to do the work of the headers and splitters, growing quite proficient in removing the fish head and guts and cutting out the backbone.
From all appearances this shore crew was keeping up with the daily catch just fine, so she doubted they would hire her for something they could do for themselves.
Holy Bill lowered his voice. “Is widow Burnham agreeable to letting you stay and help her?” His question echoed Patrick’s, as if they were well acquainted with the woman’s lack of hospitality.
“She’s not too happy about my presence,” Emma said. “Perhaps you know of someone else in the area who might have room for me.”
“I’m afraid to sa
y there isn’t anywhere else for you to go, at least not anywhere near.”
She swallowed the disappointment. “That’s what I figured.”
“However . . .” He examined her face again closely, as though trying to see into her soul. “I may have an answer to your problem, a more permanent solution, if you will.”
At his statement a glimmer of hope lit inside her.
“Tell me more about yourself.” Holy Bill removed his hat, and the breeze rippled the few wisps of hair left on his balding head.
She didn’t know exactly where to begin, so she started with Mam’s death from starvation. Her dad had never been the same once Mam had died. He’d committed atrocities Emma had tried to forget. He’d done whatever he could, no matter how grisly, to keep her and Ryan from starving to death.
After two years of sleeping on the sides of roads, in abandoned barns, and in workhouses, their dad had found a way for them to emigrate to America. But the guilt of his crimes had taken their toll. He was a broken man and silenced his inner demons the only way he knew how—through drinking. Every night after returning from the day of fishing, he’d drink himself into a stupor, only to wake up and do it all over again.
Until he got himself fired for missing too many days of work, and then they had to move on to another fishing job somewhere else and start over. Finally, after years of suffering, he’d died that winter on Mackinac Island.
Holy Bill’s eyes radiated sadness at her tale. “Sounds like it’s time for you to settle down and make a real home for yourself.”
She nodded, a lump forming in her throat. Holy Bill didn’t know just how true his words were. She wanted a home again more than anything.
“I saw how kindly you treated Josiah,” he said. “Do you like children?”
“I haven’t been around many children. Josiah is adorable, though.”
“Appears that you know a fair amount about fishing. What about lighthouses? Know anything about them?”
“Nay,” she admitted, “but I’m a quick learner. And I can be handy with tools when I need to be.”
