by Jody Hedlund
“Yes. A war veteran. The Lighthouse Board is providing some keeper positions to veterans in gratefulness for their fighting during the war of rebellion.”
“But will he know anything about how to operate a lighthouse?”
“He knows enough.” With that, Mr. Finick stepped into the sitting room.
“But I know everything!” she called after him. “I’m much more qualified and experienced than a war veteran.”
“You have until the end of the week, Miss Taylor,” he replied, his voice ringing with finality. “That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
Caroline sat back on her heels, the urge to fight oozing out of her. Her body sagged into a puddle on the kitchen floor, and she dropped her face into her hands.
Helplessness crashed over her, just like that stormy day four months ago when she’d stood on the shore and had to watch her father drown without being able to do a thing to save him.
By the end of the week she’d be jobless and homeless. And there wasn’t a single person left in the world who would care.
Chapter 3
Ryan Chambers cradled his head in his palm. The pounding in his temples was as deafening as cannon blasts, growing steadily louder since he’d entered the Roadside Inn a short while ago.
“Would you like another shot of rum?” A giant of a man behind the bar held up a dark flask and sloshed it. The man’s bald head glistened too brightly even in the shadowed interior of the tavern. His arms bulged. And his broad girth appeared to be solid muscle. For such an imposing man, his voice was surprisingly cultured and soft-spoken.
Ryan peered through glazed eyes at the empty beer glass before him. Even though he was tempted to nod and ask for another, he pushed back from the bar before he gave in to the all-too-easy temptation.
For one thing, his pockets were nearly empty. And for another, he needed to make it to a bed before he passed out.
He slid off the stool, dug in his pocket, and retrieved a few coins. He slapped them on the bar with his good hand, nodded his thanks to the proprietor, and turned to leave.
He swayed and grabbed a nearby table to keep from falling. The stickiness of spilled beer met his grip—the grip of the two fingers that remained. Unbearable pain shot up his arm into his shoulder and then his head. Quickly he shoved the mangled hand back into his pocket where he kept it. He bit back a cry of anguish and silently berated himself for using his injured hand.
“So you’re returning from the war?” The giant paused in wiping down the bar’s polished walnut, staring at the pocket where Ryan had stuffed his hand.
Ryan wanted to tell the big man to mind his own business. But if he was going to be living in the area, he couldn’t afford to make an enemy of this man.
“Aye,” he said, forcing out the word. “I was discharged at the end of July.”
The only other customers in the tavern, two old men at a corner table, lifted their heads from the newspaper they’d been sharing. And the young man who’d been sweeping the floor paused in his work to stare openmouthed, his nose running and his big ears red.
Ryan’s mouth went dry, and his throat parched just like when he’d been sprawled in a bloody field, breathing in the dust and smoke of the battle raging around him. He needed another drink to quench his thirst.
“What unit you from, son?” one of the old men asked.
Except for the ticking of a clock on the mantel behind the bar, the room grew silent.
Bile swirled in Ryan’s gut. He should be used to the questions by now. He’d faced them enough over the past month and a half since he’d arrived back in Michigan. Everywhere he’d gone, everyone he met had peppered him with unwanted questions about the war.
He knew most were waiting on news of loved ones. They wanted some word on their son, grandson, brother, or cousin who hadn’t yet returned. They wanted to discover what had happened and cling to the hope that somehow the loved one had survived against the odds.
But the sorry truth was that most of the Billy Yanks weren’t coming back, especially from his company. And the more time that elapsed, the less hope there was for the waiting families.
He couldn’t blame the old men for asking him. He might be their only link to a lost son or grandson.
“You ever heard of Jeb Williams?” the other man asked, his aging eyes crinkled at the edges with worry. “He was in the infantry, Eleventh Regiment.”
Ryan shook his head. “Nay. I was in the Twenty-Fourth, I Company.”
“Ah, the Iron Brigade,” said the other, his face lighting up with wide-eyed admiration. “We’re mighty proud of you boys. Heard about your bravery and hard fighting.”
The bile in Ryan’s stomach roiled faster. If the man only knew some of the things his company had done in the name of war and survival, he wouldn’t be so proud then.
The stuffy interior of the tavern began to close in on Ryan. The sickly sweet scent of beer and tobacco that was ingrained into every fiber of the room swirled around him. Ryan took several steps toward the door, but then staggered to a stop.
He had no idea where he was going. Wasn’t that why he’d stopped at the Roadside Inn in the first place? To ask for directions?
His head pounded again, and his eyes ached with the need to close in slumber.
“I’m looking for Windmill Point Lighthouse,” he said to no one in particular. “I’d be obliged if you could tell me how to get there.”
“What business do you have at the light?” The big man behind the bar frowned, his voice turning steely.
“I’m the new keeper. Ryan Chambers.”
For a long moment, the giant glared at him, taking in his civilian apparel—his new trousers in sore need of laundering, his wrinkled shirt, and his coat, likely stained from liquor or vomit or both. He wore a leather satchel over one shoulder that strapped across his chest. And even though he had avoided looking into the big mirror on the wall behind the bar, Ryan could guess just how badly he needed a shave, haircut, and washing.
He’d burned the tattered rags that remained of his army uniform the day he’d mustered out. He’d never wanted to see the uniform again. At the time he hadn’t counted on only being able to afford one new outfit. But he hadn’t been able to hold down a job for more than a couple of days. And now it showed.
He half expected the giant to barrel around the bar, pick him up by his coat, and toss him out the door.
But surprisingly the man’s scowl disappeared and was replaced instead by a slow grin. “So you’re the new keeper.” His voice was smooth once more, all traces of anger gone.
“Aye.”
“Looks to me like you’re just the sort of man we need taking care of the light.”
Ryan arched his brow. Was this man half blind?
“Mr. Finick passed through here earlier today and said you wouldn’t be here until the week’s end.”
Finick. Was that the uptight man who’d hired him down in Detroit yesterday? Ryan couldn’t think past the haze that floated through his mind. All he could remember about the interview was that after too many questions a finely dressed man with a long black mustache had told him he could have the keeper position at Windmill Point.
Ryan had been both relieved and surprised. He didn’t have any experience as a keeper. But his sister was an assistant keeper, and she’d taught him a thing or two during his visits to Presque Isle over the past years. It hadn’t been much. But apparently it had been enough to get the job.
“I’m here now,” Ryan said, hoping the keeper’s dwelling had a bed. He hadn’t slept in one since August of 1862, over three years ago. “If you’ll point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m Stephen Simmons.” The giant finally sidled around the bar, wiping his hands on a clean apron tied around his waist. He held a hand out to Ryan.
But it was the wrong hand. Ryan would have to take his injured hand out to complete the introduction. And taking it out once was enough. He held out his other hand instead.
&n
bsp; A flicker of something passed through Mr. Simmons’s eyes. But it was gone before Ryan could name it. Instead the man shifted hands and clasped Ryan’s in a gentle, almost womanly grasp. His skin was soft and free of the usual calluses of a workingman.
“Welcome to Grosse Pointe,” Mr. Simmons said with another grin. “Mr. Finick said you’d be the sort of man we’d be able to work with. And I do believe he was correct.”
“I hope so,” Ryan replied, not quite certain what kind of work he’d need to do with Mr. Simmons. He’d applied for the lighthouse job because he hadn’t wanted to be bothered, had wanted to be left alone in the isolation that light keeping usually afforded.
There was something about Mr. Simmons’s grin that seemed slightly off-kilter. But Ryan couldn’t be sure since the room seemed to tilt every now and then too.
“The old keeper sure gave me a hassle,” Mr. Simmons said. “I haven’t had too many problems since he’s been gone and his daughter took over. But the fact is, she’s as uncooperative as her father, and it’s well past time to get someone new at the light.”
Mr. Simmons gave the young man holding the broom a sly smile. “My son Arnie there has been ogling that girl forever. I told him now’s his chance to propose marriage to her when she’s desperate and won’t be able to turn him down.”
Arnie rapidly bent his head and began to sweep again, his ears turning a brighter red than before. He swiped his sleeve across his dripping nose without breaking stride in his sweeping. With his smooth boyish face and slight of height, Arnie looked too young to be thinking of courting. If not for the receding hairline, Ryan wouldn’t have believed him old enough.
“All the same, we’re glad you’re here,” Mr. Simmons said, returning to the bar and picking up a small bottle of fine-looking whiskey. He held it out to Ryan. “Here’s a home-warming gift.”
Ryan reached for it, trying not to appear too eager.
As he grasped it, Mr. Simmons didn’t relinquish the bottle but held tightly to one end. “I’m kind to my friends. Especially to helpful friends.” The giant’s eyes hardened and held Ryan’s.
For a moment, Ryan struggled through the haze in his mind to make sense of the message the man was obviously trying to send him. “I’m a helpful guy,” Ryan offered, and hoped it was the right response.
“That’s good to hear.” Mr. Simmons’s smile widened and he let go of the whiskey.
Ryan flipped open his satchel and stashed the bottle inside next to his supply of pills. He backed toward the door as he closed and latched the leather case.
Mr. Simmons followed him across the room. “Do you like prizefighting, Chambers?”
“Depends.” Ryan made his way outside, staggering against the brilliant sunlight that was a shocking change from the dimly lit interior of the tavern. Pain rose at the backs of his eyes. And he could only hope that the ride out to the lighthouse was a short one.
“I run the best cockfighting in the entire Detroit area,” Mr. Simmons said.
Ryan strained to untie his horse’s lead rope from the post in front of the inn. But it was difficult to do with one hand, especially when someone was watching him. He shifted his body to shield his cumbersome efforts.
“I’ve got some of the best conditioned and trained gamecocks this side of the Mississippi,” Mr. Simmons continued. “Of course, I usually have to bring them in by way of the Canadian border on Lake St. Clair.” He then paused as if waiting for a response.
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t have any money to bet.” And even if he’d had the spare change, he wasn’t a betting man. He wasn’t too keen on watching animals fight to the death either. But he didn’t suppose that was what Mr. Simmons wanted to hear at that moment.
“Don’t you worry about money,” Mr. Simmons said. He clamped Ryan’s shoulder and squeezed. Fortunately it was his uninjured arm or Ryan might have spun and punched him. “Like I said, I take good care of my friends.”
“Then I’ll be sure to nurture our friendship.”
Mr. Simmons laughed, let go of him, and started back to the open tavern door. “I think I’m going to like you, Chambers.”
Ryan fumbled with the rope, drawing the knot tighter with his ineptness. The sun beat against his black hat and made his head itch as sweat beads formed across his forehead. All he wanted to do was find a place where he could be alone, take one of his pills, and escape into oblivion.
After several minutes, he was finally on his way east on Big Marsh Road. Mr. Simmons said it was less than a mile from the tavern out to the lighthouse, through bogs and marsh. He claimed the road was hardly passable at certain times of the year, but was apparently dry enough in autumn.
The wind blew mournfully through the few willows and poplars that stood in clusters around the prairie-like marsh. It whispered through withered reed stalks and rusty sea grass that grew in abundance around stale sloughs.
As tired as Ryan was, and as much as the jarring of the horse pained his arm and shoulder, he couldn’t neglect appreciating the quiet beauty of the area. The coarse marsh grass muted the clomping of the horse so that he could hear the buzzing of dragonflies and the humming of cicadas. The gentle sounds, combined with the heat of the afternoon sun, made him drowsy, and he half slept the last quarter mile.
When the horse pulled up short, Ryan jerked straight in the saddle, and his eyes flew open to the sight of a conical tower rising above a few lone poplars. The lighthouse wasn’t very tall. And it seemed to be in some disrepair. But at least it was connected to the brick dwelling. The passageway would make his life easier during storms and the colder days of autumn that would soon arrive in Michigan.
He slid from his horse and led her to a spot of shade underneath one of the trees. As he worked to remove her saddle and bridle, he took in the landscape, the tower and house rather quaint against the backdrop of the endless blue of Lake St. Clair.
The shore beyond the lighthouse was a leveled mixture of sand, pebbles, and stones that led to a grassy embankment. And flowers. There were flowers of every kind. And what appeared to be the remains of a vegetable garden.
For a fraction of an instant he allowed himself to feel hope. Hope that he might actually find peace here, that he might be able to hold down a job, that he might start earning the money he desperately needed in order to repay the debt he owed.
He couldn’t mess things up this time. He had to prove that he could do the work. And then maybe finally his demons would stop chasing him.
He pulled his hand from his pocket and forced himself to look at the red, mangled skin that had finally grown back over the spot where he’d lost half his hand that awful day in July of ’63 at Gettysburg. A shudder ripped through his body, and the movement nearly sent him to his knees with pain. He’d long since guessed he still had a piece of shrapnel embedded in his arm somewhere that caused him these bouts of pain. The surgeon had claimed he’d gotten it all out, but Ryan had seen how overworked and sleep-deprived most of the doctors had been. He’d seen the extent of his injuries and knew that even a well-rested doctor would have had trouble fixing him.
And now that his flesh had closed around the shrapnel wounds, he tried to get by the way he had during the last months of the war, by dulling the pain.
He patted his leather satchel, exhausted beyond endurance. For a moment he almost considered dropping into the shade with his horse. But the stillness of the house beckoned him. Along with the fact that it had been so long since he’d found comfort in a real bed.
Finding the front door unlocked, he stumbled inside. For a moment he was taken aback by the cozy furnishings, the pastel painting on the wall, the colorful knitted afghan draped across the rocker, the brightly woven rug in front of a couch.
If he didn’t know better, he’d almost believe someone still lived here. But the man who’d hired him had assured him the occupants would be gone when he arrived. Besides, didn’t most keepers’ dwellings come furnished?
He pulled off his boots and discarded them by t
he door before plodding silently across the room and tossing his cap onto the couch. He dug through his satchel for one of his treasured pain pills and popped it into his mouth. Not only would it dull the pain in his hand and arm, but it would help him sleep without the nightmares that had become all too common since that fateful night when he’d sold his soul for food.
With a weary sigh he shrugged out of his suspenders, untucked his shirt, and slipped his good arm out of the sleeve before carefully sliding it off his injured arm. He dropped it in the hallway and at the same time let his trousers fall down and pool at his feet. He kicked them aside and jerked off first one dirty sock, then the other.
Finally down to his muslin undershirt and drawers, he glanced at the two doorways on either side of the hallway. One was closed, but the other was open a crack, revealing a bedroom. Though the room was darkened from thick curtains, he could see the outline of a double bed.
Every muscle in his body ached for the comfort the bed would afford. Without another thought, he pushed open the door, trudged to the bed, lowered himself carefully to the edge, and then sank into the mattress with a low moan of contentment.
His mind blurred, blocking out everything and everyone just the way he liked. He shifted only slightly and threw his arm across a mound of soft pillows next to him.
To his surprise, the mound moved. In fact, it rose like an apparition.
There was a gasp. Then a long, terrified scream, followed by a hard thump against his face and head, almost as if the pillow next to him had decided to have a pillow fight.
Or kill him.
Chapter 4
Terror pummeled through Caroline. All she could think to do to defend herself was thwack her attacker with her pillow over and over as hard as she could.
When finally the person lay motionless, Caroline scrambled off the opposite side of the bed, her breath coming in gasps. She held the pillow above her head ready to defend herself again if necessary, although she knew she ought to open the bottom dresser drawer and locate her father’s pistol instead. But fear rose in her chest and paralyzed her, so that she could only stand and stare at the bed.
