Hearts Made Whole

by Jody Hedlund

  A smile crooked his lips. “I don’t think I can extinguish it with your expertise, but I’ll try.”

  With one breath the flame went out, and the lantern turned black. It would have plunged the lantern room into darkness, except that over the years she’d learned to have her kerosene lantern lit ahead of time so that she could finish the remainder of the tasks with the aid of more than just the natural light of dawn.

  “How’d I do?” he asked, his eyes glimmering with playfulness.

  “You’re catching on fast. But only because you have such an expert teacher.” She was surprised by her attempt at banter and had to turn away to hide her smile.

  Was she flirting again? What was wrong with her?

  She busied herself with removing the chimney and explaining how to wrap it in flannel until it was entirely cooled. She showed him how to wipe the ash from the wick and then how to clean the whole length of the air spaces in the burner with a long goose feather.

  She demonstrated the rest of the duties she performed each morning to keep the light in the condition that was laid out in the Instructions for Light-Keepers. Of course, even though she followed every regulation, her efforts were never good enough for Mr. Finick.

  She found that she could talk with Ryan easily, just as she had when she’d shaven him. As they worked, he asked her plenty of questions about the light, proving himself to be an eager learner, and she was all too happy to share her knowledge about the lens, equipment, and navigation on the lake. The sun had risen above the tree line by the time she showed him the supply room at the bottom of the tower stairway.

  “Tomorrow morning I’ll let you go through the whole process by yourself while I watch,” she offered as she closed the closet door.

  The enthusiasm in Ryan’s expression fell away. “If I make it up to the tower in time.” His eyes took on the weariness and sadness she’d seen there too often.

  “How many opium pills are you taking at a time?”

  “Two.”

  “That’s a powerful dose.” There had been plenty of times when she would have sold everything they owned for even a quarter of an opium pill to give Sarah, especially during those long nights when her sister’s muscles had begun to constrict and cause her excruciating pain. She would have done anything to ease the dear girl’s suffering, even taking it upon herself.

  “You must be in a lot of pain to need two pills,” she said.

  His face was shadowed. The light from the hand lantern she held at her side didn’t reach high enough, and she was tempted to lift it to allow herself a closer examination of his face and his injuries. But as before, she held herself back.

  She wouldn’t pry. She’d wait for him to share.

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Finally he opened his mouth to speak, closed it. Then opened it again. “The doctor who worked on my arm couldn’t get the piece of shrapnel out without digging in and destroying muscles and possibly bone.”

  He stopped, his eyes round with the agony of the nightmare he was reliving.

  She wanted to put a hand up and tell him he didn’t need to say anything else, that she understood.

  But he swallowed and continued, “When the doctor told me he needed to cut off my arm from the elbow down, I begged him not to. At the time, I thought I’d rather live with the pain than lose my arm. Especially since half my hand had already been blown off.”

  She could picture him on the operating table, already suffering from his injuries, likely half delirious with pain. She’d heard horror stories about the conditions of the medical tents, the blood and flies, the buckets of sawed-off limbs, the stench of decay.

  “I didn’t want to lose any more of myself.” His voice tapered to a whisper. “But I don’t think it worked very well.”

  She couldn’t help but think he was referring to his soul, that maybe he’d saved his body but had ended up being so miserable that he drank and medicated himself into a stupor most of the time.

  “I make very soothing birchbark tea that eases Sarah’s pain,” she said. “I also have some feverfew in my garden. Sometimes chewing a fresh leaf or two can lessen the aching.”

  “Do you think they’d work on me?”

  “Most of the time lately all I’ve had for Sarah are the natural remedies I make from my flowers and herbs. They don’t work any miracles, but they take the edge off her suffering.”

  He studied her face. Sunlight had begun to creep through one of the windows cut into the tower wall halfway up and was making the stairwell glow.

  “I can’t promise the herbal medicines will help you,” she said, “but it’s worth a try. Then perhaps you’ll gradually be able to cut back on your pain pills.”

  He nodded, but not too convincingly.

  She didn’t have to be an expert to know that the opium pills caused a powerful craving for more, that even if he wanted to cut back, his body would resist, especially since he’d been taking them for a while. She’d heard that the Union Army surgeons regularly prescribed opiates to injured soldiers in spite of the drug’s highly dependent quality. It provided temporary relief, but at what price? How many soldiers had returned home unable to survive without the drug?

  Whatever the case, she’d do what she could to help him in the short time she had left at the lighthouse. And she’d start by cutting him the feverfew to chew.

  She led him outside and started around the house. She’d pruned most of the perennials that grew in front of the house and missed them already.

  “I take it the beautiful garden behind the house is yours?” he asked while following her.

  She nodded. “I always let the back garden bloom as long as possible for Sarah.” She breathed in the crisp moisture coming off the lake and drew her shawl about her shoulders. “I’ve even planted varieties that would bloom at different times of the year, so that Sarah would have a continuous array of color to greet her every time she looks out her window.”

  “You take good care of everyone, Caroline.” The admiration in his tone was like a much-needed pat on the back.

  She worked hard day after day to take care of her family, and most of the time no one noticed. Of course, she wasn’t doing it for the recognition or the praise. She did it because it was the right thing, and because it was her duty as the oldest to step into her parents’ shoes—first her mother’s and now her father’s—and provide for her brothers and sisters.

  “But the question is,” Ryan said, tugging on her arm and gently pulling her to a stop, “who takes care of you?”

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’ve done just fine since Father died.”

  “I’m not saying you’re unable to take care of yourself. It’s obvious you’re a strong woman.” He stood taller than her, but not by much. The sunlight touched his hatless head, glinting through his hair, turning it the color of sun-bleached sand. “You’re very capable, yet you bear so much by yourself. You’re always worrying about everyone else’s needs and putting them before your own. Maybe you need to take care of yourself too.”

  She started to shake her head in protest, but at the tenderness in his expression, a gentle hand seemed to reach around her heart and squeeze. “I’m doing fine,” she said, but her tone was unconvincing even to her own ears.

  “I suppose that’s why you’re considering marrying Arnie. Because you love him and know you’ll have a life of happiness by his side.”

  A ready retort died upon her lips.

  His fingers on her arm became more firm, and his expression turned grave. “Admit it, the only reason you’re thinking about marrying him is because once more you’re looking out for your siblings. You see it as a way to take care of them, regardless of the sacrifice you’ll have to make.”

  He was absolutely right. Even so, she didn’t want to admit it. “I won’t have to sacrifice anything. Arnie’s a very nice man. He’ll make a good husband.”

  Ryan’s brow shot up. “He’s got the mind of a child. If you marry him, you
’ll end up having one more person to take care of.”

  She wouldn’t agree with him. She couldn’t. “I know he’ll treat me with the utmost respect and kindness.”

  “Like a child treats his mother.”

  “He’s a man. And he’ll treat me as such—”

  He cut off her words by tugging her with the same strength he’d used when he rescued Hugh from the well. She stumbled against his chest in mortification and had to tilt her head back to keep her face from brushing his.

  Before she could protest, he swooped forward and brought his mouth down against hers.

  The move was so unexpected she drew in a sharp breath, which was cut off by the pressure of his lips. The firmness was more than she imagined when she’d shaved him, a strange mixture of strength and softness. The touch sent a rushing current through her, flooding her with warmth.

  His lips lifted a mere fraction, and she expected that he’d end the kiss, back away, and put a proper distance between them. Instead he only angled his mouth so that he took more of her and captured her fully.

  She could do nothing less than respond, letting his lips guide hers, pressing against him, tasting of his warmth and fullness until she was heady with the heat of the kiss.

  As abruptly as he started, he broke away from her, leaving her lips bare and craving more.

  “That’s what it’s like to be with a man.” He took a step away. His chest heaved and his breathing came hard, as if he’d just swam a great distance. “Arnie will never kiss you like that.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. She could only stand there trembling from the power of his kiss, her lips swollen and now cold from the morning air that had taken away the warmth of his touch.

  He dragged in a ragged breath and stared at her through the hair that hung down his forehead. His brown eyes regarded her in a way that sent more hot waves lapping against her insides.

  She had to lower her eyes or burn up altogether. She focused on the toes of her boots and her hem dampened by the dew on the long grass.

  “Don’t settle for Arnie. You shouldn’t have to marry someone like him just so you can take care of your family.”

  She continued looking down at the water-stained leather of her boots. “Maybe over time I’ll learn to love him.”

  Ryan muttered a groan.

  Before he could protest, she hurried on. “Love and passion”—she flushed as the words left her lips—“aren’t nearly as important as duty and loyalty to my family.”

  “That’s what I mean.” His voice was exasperated. “You’re taking care of everyone else and not considering yourself.”

  “It’s called sacrifice,” she said, striding forward and brushing past him. “Maybe that’s not something you care about, but I do.”

  “Of course I care about it.” He trailed after her.

  She rounded the corner of the keeper’s dwelling, her body attune to his overpowering presence behind her. For a moment she couldn’t see anything except his face and the desire that had rippled across his taut features when he’d pulled back from their kiss. Then her sight cleared, and she stopped with a gasp and glanced around at the utter destruction that met her.

  Every single one of her precious plants had been ripped from the ground, roots and all. Zinnias and marigolds, impatiens and geraniums, even her parsley and thyme. They’d been snapped, shredded, and trampled so that all that was left of her beautiful garden were piles of debris. Every remaining greenery and even those that had faded had been viciously uprooted and sliced. Nothing salvageable remained.

  A cry slipped from her lips. Overwhelmed, she dropped to her knees.

  “What in the name of all that’s holy,” Ryan muttered. He was at her side in an instant, kneeling next to her, concern crinkling his brow.

  “My garden,” she whispered, reaching for the bulb of one of her rare lily plants. It was mashed into a dangling pulp.

  Ryan slipped his arm around her waist, solidly supporting her and keeping her from crumpling altogether. Somehow even amidst the mindless destruction that sprawled before her, his simple act of comfort stopped the hysteria that was cutting off her airway.

  She sagged against him and allowed his weight to support her.

  “It looks like a tornado came through,” he said solemnly.

  She reached for another plant, or what was left of the shredded roots. She brushed the damp soil away to reveal the white interior that had obviously seen the sharp slice of a knife blade. “This was no accident.”

  “Who could have done it?” Ryan asked, his expression mirroring disbelief. “And why would anyone want to?”

  She stared at the years of loving labor ruined in one fell swoop. Ryan’s question echoed in her mind. Who would have done such a thing?

  She looked up to Sarah’s window and was relieved to see the curtain still pulled. Her sister hadn’t witnessed the devastation.

  “Caroline.” Ryan turned her so that she faced him. His brows came together, and worry darkened his eyes. “We need to find out who did this.”

  She nodded but couldn’t speak past the grief clogging her throat.

  “Do you think the twins did it? As a practical joke?”

  She shook her head. Harry and Hugh were mischievous, but they’d never destroy her garden so thoughtlessly. Would they? What if they’d come out in the early morning before breakfast and thought to play a game of sorts?

  “No,” she whispered. “They couldn’t have done this.” At least she wanted to believe Harry and Hugh weren’t becoming so wild and undisciplined that they’d resorted to violence. But the guilty voice at the back of her mind whispered again that they’d been deprived of the supervision they needed since before her father died.

  Ryan’s grip on her upper arm tightened. “What about enemies? Have you made any enemies?”

  She wanted to blurt out that of course she didn’t have enemies, but at the thought of Mr. Finick, she blanched. Had he heard that she was staying on as an assistant? Had he sent someone out to the light to threaten her into leaving?

  Her attention shifted to the north woods, to the direction of the old windmill and where Jacques Poupard lived. Had the old Frenchman finally gotten tired of the twins’ antics? Had he decided to repay them for all the trouble the boys had been to him?

  She didn’t want to believe Monsieur Poupard would resort to such destruction, especially since he’d been the one to alert her when Hugh had nearly drowned in the well. He might be grumpy, but he wasn’t mean-spirited.

  “Think about who might want to do this to you,” Ryan added.

  What about Mr. Simmons? He’d never liked Father. Maybe he’d heard she was staying. But what harm was her presence at the light doing him? Last night his supply boat had unloaded goods under the cover of darkness along a smooth stretch of beach just south of the lighthouse—most likely illegal goods. Part of her wanted to alert the authorities. But she didn’t want to stir up any unnecessary strife with Mr. Simmons, not now with her job so tentative.

  She looked Ryan in the eyes and saw the worry there. “I don’t know.”

  Even if she had unknown enemies, she had no idea why any of them would want to ruin her garden. It made no sense.

  A breeze rippled under her shawl, sending a chill over her skin. She tugged the knitted wrap closer to her shoulders. But the chill penetrated under her flesh all the way to her heart.

  All she could do was sit in helpless despair and stare at the ravaged garden while her soul wept.

  Chapter 11

  Ryan swallowed the last bitter mouthful of the rum Simmons had generously poured him. He plunked the glass down on the bar and then pushed back.

  “You’re not going yet, are you?” Behind the bar, Simmons paused in wiping a beer glass. The giant’s bald head glowed in the dim lighting of the tavern.

  Ryan nodded, guilt pouring in his gut and sloshing there like sour whiskey. He hadn’t planned on staying at all. In fact, he hadn’t really wanted to come here in the fi
rst place.

  But his empty flask had taunted him mercilessly until his thirst had driven him from the boathouse. He’d saddled his horse, telling himself he was only going for a ride to distract himself. But his horse had ended up at the Roadside Inn, and once there, Ryan hadn’t been able to resist going inside.

  Simmons had gladly filled up his flask, then poured him a glass without even asking. Soon one drink had turned into two.

  “You need another shot before you go,” Simmons said, lifting the decanter and tipping it toward Ryan’s abandoned glass.

  “Nay,” Ryan protested.

  Even though the warm rum was moving through his veins and dulling his aches, it wasn’t taking away the guilt. It only seemed to magnify it, until his head was pounding, not with pain but from the need to get away from the tavern.

  Ryan pulled the last of his coins from his pocket and dropped them onto the bar with a rattle.

  Simmons waved the money away just as he had during the last couple of visits. “Drinks are on me, Chambers.”

  Ryan pushed the coins back toward Simmons. “I’ll not be indebted—”

  With a guffaw, Simmons cut him off. “You’re my friend. And as I told you before, I’m always kind to my friends.”

  Ryan didn’t quite understand how he was Simmons’s friend. But he wasn’t about to question the man’s sincerity.

  “Take it,” Simmons said again in his smooth voice that belied the tattoos covering his arms from his wrists to the rolled-up sleeves that hugged his bulging biceps. “It’s my way of saying thanks for being such a good keeper.”

  “Then thank you,” Ryan said, ducking his head to hide the shame he felt. He wasn’t a good keeper. Aye, he’d made it up to the tower again that morning, and this time Caroline had let him complete the duties of extinguishing the light while she only looked on and offered him a few tips now and then. But that didn’t make him a good keeper, not when Caroline was still handling the majority of the work while he drank the days and nights away.