Love Unexpected

by Jody Hedlund

  Where was Emma? She said she’d come.

  He scratched another number down into the next column on the half-filled page.

  What had gotten into him anyway to invite her? Of course, he’d had her come up after his accident to make sure she was comfortable with lighting the lantern in case something should happen to him again. But now that she knew how to operate the light, what need did she have to come to the tower with him? Why would she want to spend time with a man like him?

  With a sigh, he jabbed the pen back into the bottle of ink. He should have left things alone. They were doing fine.

  It’s just that she hadn’t been disgusted by his admission about his boxing. She’d even touched his arm. She’d initiated the contact, just like she had that day on the beach. And then again when he’d been injured in bed and she’d held his hand.

  She wasn’t repulsed by him the way Delia had been.

  His chest pinched at the thought of how Delia had cringed whenever he made the briefest of contact with her, even by accident. And she hadn’t known the worst about him—about the other woman, about what he’d done. Delia would have abhorred him if she’d ever found out. And Emma would too.

  Even if Holy Bill had told him some things about his past weren’t worth dragging into the future, he couldn’t help but wonder if Emma deserved to know everything. Then while Ryan was still in the area, she could leave with him if she wanted to.

  “Patrick?” her soft voice sounded behind him.

  He spun around. At the sight of her climbing through the hatch—her cheeks flushed, her eyes warm and curious, and her hair flowing down to her waist—he almost forgot his promise to her that he wouldn’t pressure her. He was tempted to heft her up and crush her in his arms.

  She hesitated halfway up.

  He held himself back and smiled. “You came.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “I mean, I wasn’t sure if you’d be busy.”

  “I have all night to get my work done.” He couldn’t tear his eyes from the waves of her hair that fell down her shoulders. It gleamed as if she’d recently brushed it. He’d seen her with her hair loose before, but only when it had been tangled and wet, nothing like this in all its glorious beauty.

  “I’d like the company,” he said, meaning it. He didn’t mind the solitude of the keeper’s life. After years of living in a big, noisy family and then on crowded ships, he relished having the space to himself.

  He loved the quiet hours before dawn when he could talk to God out loud without the worry of anyone else hearing him. He could pour out his worries and fears and know that God was there, listening.

  But tonight, with her standing there glowing like an angel by the light of the lantern, he realized he wanted to be with her, that he craved the companionship.

  “If you’re sure I won’t be a bother,” she said as she climbed up the rest of the way.

  “You’d never bother me, lass.”

  “You’re kind to say so, but I’ve been known to annoy Ryan quite often with my talking.”

  “Ryan’s a good man.”

  “Aye. I’ll be sad to see him go.”

  After spending time with Ryan today, was she having second thoughts about staying at Presque Isle? Did she want to leave?

  She looked past him to the open door. “It’s peaceful up here tonight.”

  “The stars are all out. It’s a sight to behold.”

  She followed him out onto the gallery to the west, opposite the beam of light. The air was warm and humid, while the cool breeze blowing off the lake was soothing, one of the pleasures of being up on the balcony at night.

  He’d learned a great deal about the night sky during his years navigating the Great Lakes. For a while she asked him about the stars, and he pointed out the different constellations to her, enjoying her nearness and the way strands of her hair would blow into him.

  “So is this what you do at night?” she asked. “Stargazing?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly I pray.” He didn’t look at her for fear of seeing humor on her face. He wasn’t used to talking about his new faith, except with Josiah.

  She was silent for several long seconds. “I think I stopped believing in the power of prayer after my mam died.”

  “She died from starvation?” he asked hesitantly.

  Emma nodded. “I prayed and prayed and prayed for her. But in those days, people everywhere were praying to stay alive. They were praying just as hard as me. And God couldn’t save everyone, could He?”

  Patrick stared at the black sky, alight with countless stars. It always amazed him to think that the God who created the universe cared about a sinful mortal like him, that He chose to save him when he didn’t deserve anything but condemnation. “I find it incredible that God saves any of us. He doesn’t have to, but sometimes He chooses to.”

  He could feel her full attention on him, and he uttered a silent prayer that God would give him the right words to say. He wasn’t wise like Holy Bill, and he wasn’t eloquent either.

  He forced himself to continue. “Maybe we should stop looking at why God doesn’t answer every prayer the way we think He should. But instead we should count it a blessing that He hears our prayers at all.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said.

  He shifted, and her shoulder brushed against his arm. “Holy Bill told me that God sometimes answers yes to our prayers, but sometimes in His wisdom He answers no or wait.”

  Whatever the case, Patrick always prayed. Through praying he found peace for his anguished soul, and this alone was enough for him no matter how God answered the prayer.

  “You’re a wise man, Patrick.”

  He turned to look at her upturned face. She was smiling. Her hair swirled, the light from the lantern reflecting hints of red amidst the gold. She was beautiful.

  Don’t look down at her mouth, he admonished himself. If he let himself glimpse her lips, he’d only want to kiss her. It was too tempting not to kiss her now that they were alone, in the dark, on the gallery.

  With self-control he didn’t know he had, he reached for her hand, and slipped his fingers cautiously around hers.

  She didn’t pull away but wrapped her fingers around his and clasped his hand. For a long while they stood there quietly holding hands, gazing out at the starry night.

  When she shuddered from the cold, he led her back inside and didn’t have the nerve to reach for her hand again, though he wanted to keep holding it. She was easy to talk to, full of eager questions. He found he enjoyed her company much more than he should.

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” she finally said, heading back toward the hatch.

  He thought about asking her to stay longer, but he knew she needed a good night’s sleep. As she started down the ladder, he watched her leaving with a momentary swell of panic. “Will you come tomorrow night?”

  “Aye,” she said softly. “If you want me to.”

  “I do.” He ached to bend down and pull her back.

  But he held himself rigid until she disappeared. Only then did he release a pent-up breath. “I do want you to,” he whispered into the empty room. “Very much.”

  The next day was Sunday, and since Holy Bill had ridden into town, everyone for miles around gathered for a church service at Burnham’s Landing. Afterward, Patrick invited Holy Bill to come out to the lighthouse and join them for Sunday dinner.

  He didn’t know what Emma had planned, but she was agreeable to his suggestion. Before leaving Burnham’s Landing, she’d stopped to get instructions from Bertie Burnham for what he guessed was another meal.

  “Emma’s a nice young lady,” Holy Bill said as they walked along the shore a short distance from the keeper’s cottage.

  “That she is,” Patrick said, watching Josiah run along ahead of them, at home among the rocks and tall weeds. He paused to poke at a decaying fish head.

  “Praise God for His answer to prayer.” Holy Bill had taken off his hat, and a sticky breez
e teased the thin white hair left on his balding head.

  Patrick agreed. Maybe God’s way of answering prayer would always be a mystery. All he knew was that prayer was his lifeline. He needed it more than the air he breathed.

  Holy Bill rubbed at his bushy white beard. “Emma seems a bit more agreeable than Delia.”

  Patrick stopped behind Josiah. He didn’t want to speak ill of Delia, but the truth was that living with Emma was like a breath of spring warmth and sunshine after a long, hard winter. “Emma’s a sweet lass,” he admitted.

  “And she’s obviously sweet on you,” Holy Bill said with a smile curving his bristly mustache.

  “You think so?”

  “I can tell by the way she looks at you that she admires you.”

  Patrick’s heartbeat picked up a pace. “How?”

  One of Holy Bill’s bushy eyebrows shot up.

  Patrick reached for a rock and tossed it into the water. He could kick himself for sounding as eager as a young lad with his first love and sweetheart.

  “What’s going on between you and Emma?” Holy Bill asked.

  Patrick toed a big rock stuck deep in the sand. He could always count on Holy Bill getting right to the point. And he knew it wouldn’t do any good to try to change the topic. Holy Bill would only come back to it.

  “After my troubles with Delia,” Patrick said, nudging at the unmovable rock, “I’m trying not to pressure Emma.”

  “I see.”

  Patrick could tell Holy Bill knew exactly what he was talking about, that he hadn’t consummated the marriage yet.

  Holy Bill was quiet for a moment before giving Patrick a pat on the back. “So, since you had one wife reject you already, you’re afraid of that happening again?”

  Was he afraid of rejection? Afraid that Emma would decide she didn’t like being married to a convicted criminal? Would his past eventually embarrass and shame her too?

  Holy Bill knew how difficult his marriage with Delia had been. The reverend had seen the problems firsthand every time he’d visited. Delia had never cared for him, had married him mostly because that was what her father had suggested. Then after the baby and the move, her apathy had turned to resentment.

  “As I said, I think Emma’s different from Delia,” the reverend said. “Perhaps your fears are unfounded.”

  “I told her I was a criminal.”

  Holy Bill grew motionless. “How much did you tell her?”

  “Nothing more or less than I told Delia.”

  “Well, then apparently your past isn’t too off-putting. She still seems to really like you.”

  He hoped so. “But should I tell her everything?”

  Holy Bill stared out over the waves toward the few puffy clouds that dotted the horizon. “Maybe you should tell her more. Eventually.”

  Patrick sighed. He’d hoped the reverend would tell him to stay silent.

  “I’ve always thought that once you’re set free from the past,” Holy Bill continued, “there’s really no reason to keep bringing it up. But pray about it. See what God wants you to do. Maybe He’ll give you opportunities to share in bite sizes so that Emma can digest it a little at a time.”

  The sun beat down on Patrick’s navy cap, heating his scalp. He swiped off the hat, dipped his hand into a cold wave, and rubbed the water into his hair to cool himself.

  Josiah scooped a handful of water and did the same, giggling as the water coursed down his face.

  “Besides, there’s no rush,” the reverend said. “Maybe you should court Emma first, win her love proper-like, and then you can tell her more.”

  Court her? Patrick placed his hat back on his head. He’d never considered courting her. In fact, he’d never courted any girl before, not even Delia.

  “How do I court?” he asked.

  Holy Bill chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong person on that one, sonny, considering I’m sixty years old and never been married.”

  Patrick glanced back at the house, barely visible beyond the tower. A strange yearning squeezed him. He liked Emma more than he’d expected he would, beginning with when he stood beside her on the harbor beach and took his vows.

  And now he wanted to see if maybe he could have a normal family, a normal life. Maybe he could be the kind of husband and father God wanted him to be. Maybe he could give Emma and Josiah everything he’d never had when he was growing up—stability, love, and godliness.

  Holy Bill slapped him on the back again. “I’m sure you’ll find ways to woo her. Give her things, compliment her and treat her real sweet. And maybe someday you’ll be able to tell her the truth about Josiah too.”

  Patrick turned his attention to the boy. He was in the process of dumping another handful of water over his head, heedless of the fact he was soaking the front of his shirt.

  Patrick nodded. The reverend’s counsel seemed sound. Maybe once he’d courted Emma and won her affection, he’d tell her more. He didn’t want to chance her rejecting him now, though, not when things were so new between them.

  For the time being he’d have to figure out how to woo his wife. As embarrassing as it had been to discuss the matter with Holy Bill, the prospect of courting Emma was more than a little appealing.

  Chapter 16

  Patrick kneeled in front of his desk and slid the bottom drawer open. He reached into the deep recess, and his fingers grazed grainy wood and a folded sheet of paper underneath. He pulled both out and sat back on his heels, examining the wood—two pieces of ship wreckage that had been nailed together in the shape of a cross. The longer piece was only about a foot long, and both were dark and roughhewn around the edges.

  There wasn’t anything extraordinary about the cross itself. It was simple, made by someone who didn’t have much skill in woodworking. Rather, it was the sheet of paper that came with the wooden cross that transformed it into something beautiful and hopefully something worthy of giving to Emma.

  The late evening sunshine slanted through the window above the desk and illuminated the yellowing paper in his hand. Even now, just looking at it filled him with hope.

  He’d discovered the cross during the long days of winter when the blowing snow had buffeted the house and a howling blizzard kept them inside. He’d been rummaging through the desk, sorting through the assortment of items left in it from previous keepers.

  That was when he’d read the story for the first time. The story seemed too personal, even though there was a note at the end from the writer encouraging the reader to pass the cross along to someone who needed it. Patrick had carefully tucked the cross and letter back in the drawer where he found it.

  Over the remainder of the winter he’d returned to the desk on several occasions with the intention of rereading it and sharing it with Delia. But every time he reread it, he was only able to kneel in front of the desk and that was all.

  Now Patrick was glad he hadn’t shared it with Delia, because somehow he knew the cross belonged to Emma. With the cross and letter in hand, he stood and moved to the door and then stopped. The house was silent. He’d already tucked Josiah into bed. Only the melody of the crashing waves could be heard in the distance.

  Holy Bill’s words of the previous day had rolled over and over in his mind that he should court Emma and win her love proper-like. The problem was he didn’t know how to start courting her. But he decided he couldn’t put it off any longer; he had to set aside his reservations. He needed to show her he liked her and thought she was special.

  He hid the cross behind his back and forced himself to make his way out of the house and around the corner, where Emma sat in the grass next to the open cellar door, counting empty canning jars. They were coated in dust and cobwebs. Delia had certainly never used them.

  At the sight of him, Emma looked up and smiled. “Is he already asleep?”

  “The moment his head hit the pillow.”

  “I guess all the sunshine and fresh air wore him out.”

  “And he has a good mamma who keeps him
busy.”

  She shifted her focus back to the jars, but not before he caught sight of the creeping flush on her cheeks.

  He leaned his shoulder against the house, did a quick calculation of the number of jars. If her garden did well, she wouldn’t have nearly enough for preserving the vegetables. Next time he went to Fremont, he’d see if he could purchase some more.

  She traced a finger around the mouth of one of the jars as if waiting for him to speak. Loose hair stuck to her neck, damp with the humidity that wouldn’t give them relief even in the evening.

  He longed to bend down, push her hair back, and let his fingers feel the skin of her neck. Instead, he held out the wooden cross. “I want you to have this.”

  Her eyes widened at his offering. Immediately he wanted to kick himself for not thinking of something more romantic to say with the gift. How would she know he was attempting to court her if he acted like a bumbling idiot all the time?

  “The cross comes with this.” He held out the folded paper.

  Her brows rose as she took the sheet.

  “I thought it might give you hope,” he added.

  She twisted the cross in her hands and then studied the paper. “Should I read it now?”

  “If you want.”

  She made quick work of wiping her hands on her apron before carefully unfolding the sheet of paper. She began reading it silently. The slanted strokes of ink were meticulous. A few moments later, she lowered the paper. “What a beautiful story.” Her voice wobbled, and her eyes glistened. “Is it true?”

  “Stephen Thornton was the Presque Isle lightkeeper about five years ago. I believe Isabelle was his daughter.”

  She scanned the paper again.

  Having read it many times over, Patrick could see the words in his mind, telling the story of Isabelle Thornton, the lightkeeper’s daughter. She and her father had rescued a young man from a shipwreck. He was the only survivor and the wealthy heir of Cole Enterprises, a copper mining and lumber magnate in Michigan.

  Due to the nature of his injuries, Henry Cole had been stranded at the remote lighthouse, in the days before Burnham’s Landing had come into existence. Henry had been rich, spoiled, and carefree. And he’d been anxious to return to his home in New York after spending months away.