by Jody Hedlund
He rummaged around for the leaves, and his fingers brushed against the driftwood cross next to his bedroll. His sister, Emma, had given him the cross when he’d stayed at the Presque Isle Lighthouse. The letter that went with the cross was folded up and tucked safely away in his satchel. He hadn’t read the letter in years, but he’d never forgotten the beautiful tale of love and loss that it contained.
Emma had meant for the cross to bring him hope, as it had to her and as it had to the original owner. He’d carried it with him during the war in his bag. It had gone everywhere with him. And even though he cherished the gift, he’d long since decided he was past hope.
He chewed several of the bitter feverfew leaves and then stepped out of the boathouse into a cloudy fall morning. At his approach, Harold and Hugh stopped swinging their axes and hung their heads, obviously waiting for his admonition regarding their spying on him.
He stopped several feet away and stood before them without speaking, letting them squirm. They were in need of some censure. Although he could see that Caroline and Tessa did all they could to care for the boys, there was nothing like the presence of a man to keep young ones in line.
Harry finally peeked up at him. The wide-eyed innocence wrenched Ryan and pulled him into the past. A pale face flashed before him. Lifeless eyes stared up at him, accusing him of standing by and doing nothing.
Ryan blinked and tried to block out the memory. He couldn’t do anything to bring that other boy back to life. And he could never repay the remaining family for the loss of their son. But he could pay them for the destruction of their home and all that his regiment had stolen. He’d determined to save up enough to cover the damages. When he’d done so, he’d return and give it to the family and tell them he was sorry for his part in that fateful night.
Nay, he couldn’t bring their boy back to life. Yet perhaps he could have a hand in shaping Harry’s and Hugh’s lives for the good. Perhaps he could influence them to be wise and steady and level-headed. Investing in them would be one more way he could atone for his past mistakes.
He reached for a log and propped it upright. “You’re doing a fine job, lads,” he said, positioning the wood. “Now, if you bring the blade down in the middle, right about here”—he pointed to the log’s center ring—“you’ll have a much easier and cleaner cut.”
The boys both raised their heads and drew closer. The respect and interest on their faces sent renewed energy pumping into his limbs. He reached for Harry’s ax, and the boy relinquished it without a word. He simply stood back and watched.
Ryan was about to stuff his injured hand deeper into his pocket, then decided against it and forced himself to grip the ax handle with both hands. He tried to ignore the boys’ stares fixed on his mangled hand, even though everything within him screamed to stuff it back into his pocket.
He focused instead on the grain of the wood beneath his grip. It felt right, like a welcome home. He studied the rings of the log, and then he lifted his arms and swung.
The axhead hit the target and the wood fell away in a clean split. The impact sent pain radiating up his injured arm, but surprisingly it wasn’t the torture he’d expected.
He propped up one of the halves, steadied it, and brought the ax down again. This time the pleasure of the clean slice drowned out the pain ricocheting in his body. When he glanced up to see admiration shining in the twins’ eyes, he forgot about his injury altogether.
Caroline stared out the window at the fading afternoon.
Ryan brought the ax down effortlessly, his muscles rippling across his sweat-drenched shirt.
The splashing of water behind her drew her attention back to the kitchen, to the large tub where Hugh was finishing his bath.
“Guess me and Harry won’t need to chop any more wood this fall,” Hugh said as he soaped his arms. “Mr. Chambers has chopped enough to last us through the winter, hasn’t he?”
“Looks that way,” Caroline said, unable to remind Hugh that it didn’t matter how much wood they had, because they probably wouldn’t be here that winter to use it.
Ryan had been chopping all day. Or at least that was what the boys had claimed when she awoke to the sight of him wielding the ax. He’d taken several breaks since she started watching him, and she could see that he was growing slower, obviously tired.
Nevertheless, a thrill had wound through her at the thought that he’d found something he could do, something to occupy his time and take his mind off his pain. Perhaps the hard work and the purpose it gave him was the medicine he needed.
She just hoped he hadn’t overdone it, that he wouldn’t cause his injury more agony as a result of the activity. Maybe it would help if he soaked in a tub of heated water, and if she gave him some of her birchbark tea? She could even make him a hot onion poultice to press onto his arm. . . .
“Harry,” she called to the boy on the couch, who sat pulling his socks on over still-wet feet. “Run out and tell Mr. Chambers I’ll have a hot bath waiting for him.”
Harry jumped up and started for the door.
“Shoes first, please.”
Her command halted him at the door. His shoulders slumped as he shuffled back to his discarded shoes lying nearby.
While she heated more water, made the tea, and cleaned up the puddles left from the twins, her thoughts strayed to the ride home from the Roadside Inn the previous afternoon, to the way Ryan had held her hand. It had been much more than a friendly grasp. His fingers had intertwined with hers . . . intimately. His breath had been so warm and near her neck. And his solid chest had pressed into her back.
She drew in a breath and fanned her face with the edge of her apron. The crispy scent of the roasted chicken Tessa was baking for dinner mingled with the sweet cinnamon of the apple pie cooling on the table. Even with the tantalizing aromas around her, Caroline had no appetite. She couldn’t think of eating, not when she was so full of thoughts of Ryan. The kiss he’d given her a couple of days ago had been enough to make her forget about food. But now, after holding her hand and telling her that maybe he’d kiss her again sometime, her belly was tied into knots all too often.
Had she really told him she hadn’t been offended that he’d kissed her? She smiled. She couldn’t believe she’d been so bold.
“Caroline?” His voice startled her.
He filled the doorframe, his hair plastered to his forehead, with streaks of dust making his face look more rugged. He cocked his head and regarded her with curiosity.
She busied herself by picking up a damp towel and draping it over the back of the chair, praying he hadn’t been able to read her thoughts. She shouldn’t have been thinking of him so intimately. He needed her help and friendship right now, nothing more. “The water for your bath is almost ready. And there’s a mug of birchbark tea for you in the warmer.”
“Thank you.” He stepped into the room hesitantly.
“I’ll make sure everyone stays out of the kitchen so that you can have some privacy.” Her insides flamed at the idea that in a few moments he’d shed his clothes and be completely bare . . . in her house. “I think they’re all busy in Sarah’s room,” she said hurriedly, hoping to cover her embarrassment. “Tessa likes to involve the boys in performing plays for her.”
The happy chatter coming from down the hall brought a smile to her face. In all the hardships over the past months, at least they still had each other. So long as she kept them all together, they’d be fine.
With a rag she lifted the bubbling pot from the stove and poured hot water into the tepid bathwater that remained in the tub. The steam swooshed up and dampened her face.
Ryan looked eagerly at the steaming water. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a hot bath.”
“Well, best get in before it loses the heat.” She couldn’t resist one more peek at his broad chest outlined beneath his shirt.
He snapped a suspender off his shoulder, and the motion sent her scurrying to leave the kitchen, to closet herself in Sarah’s room
until he was done.
“Caroline, wait,” his soft call chased her.
She paused and pressed a hand against the thudding in her chest.
“I was wrong to go to the tavern.”
“You already admitted that on the way home.”
His face was lined with earnestness. “I need to stop . . .”
She waited for him to finish, but when he didn’t say anything more, she nodded. “You will.”
Her simple statement seemed to lift his shoulders back up. “My dad drank himself to death,” he continued, slipping off his other suspender. “He let the guilt and shame of his past drive him to the bottle instead of to his knees.”
She pondered his revelation for a moment, searching for a way to respond. Finally she said, “My father always said that our enemy, the devil, is doing his best to get us to look to everything and everyone else to save us from our pains and sorrows. The devil doesn’t want us to take those pains to the Lord, because he knows that when we cry out to God with our need, He’ll rescue us from the pit.”
Ryan’s head cocked, and his brow crinkled.
She hadn’t meant to preach to him. She was the last one who ought to be preaching, considering how often she let her worries control her. “Take your time with the bath,” she said, spinning around. “The hot soaking will do you good.”
“Should I call you when I need my back scrubbed?”
His voice was so serious, it stopped her. She couldn’t resist turning and looking at him. He was in the process of tugging off his socks. She was too shocked by his request to speak. The mere thought of being in the same room with him bathing was scandalous. She was already asking for local gossip by living on the same premises with an unmarried man. But scrub his back?
He tossed her a grin and then winked.
She steadied herself, forcing calmness on her outside that belied what was happening on the inside. “Oh, sure. And maybe after I’m done scrubbing your back, I can do your feet too.”
He burst into laughter.
She spun to hide a grin and the embarrassment that likely infused her face.
Her humor faded at the stark reality of the situation. What was she doing flirting with him? He was a sick man, a man who needed to face his inner demons before he’d ever be whole enough or ready enough for anything beyond friendship.
Even so, the pleasure in his laughter embraced her. And she knew she wanted to hear it again. Very soon.
Chapter 13
Caroline raised the chimney holder close to the surface of the burner. While the evening provided some light still, she didn’t need it. She’d lit the lantern often enough that she could do it in the dark if need be.
“Caroline?” came Ryan’s voice from the hatch.
Surprised, she craned her neck to watch him ascend.
After his bath, she’d invited him to join them for dinner. She’d only eaten a couple of bites before pushing back from the table. With Ryan sitting across from her, his damp hair combed neatly and his brown eyes melting her with every glance, she hadn’t been able to manage much.
She’d used the excuse that she needed to light the lantern, which was true. But more than that, she couldn’t stop looking at Ryan, and she was sure she would embarrass herself if she stayed any longer.
Of course, Tessa’s face had lit up when Ryan joined them, and she’d smiled and flirted with him. But Caroline hadn’t the heart to admonish her sister. How could she rebuke Tessa for something she herself was doing?
And who could blame them? They’d had so little contact with young men during the war, and now that one was practically living on their doorstep—especially one as appealing as Ryan—it was hard to resist the pull to banter with him.
At least that was what she’d told herself after another incident of joking with him before dinner when they’d all sat in Sarah’s room and watched the twins do a mock sword fight. Surely a little friendly teasing wouldn’t hurt anyone.
“Since I’m awake for once,” Ryan said, climbing into the room, “I thought I better take advantage of the opportunity to watch how you light the lantern.”
“You can’t miss out on Tessa’s chicken dinner.”
“You weren’t eating it,” he said, his tone hinting at playfulness, “so I figured something must be wrong with it.”
She smiled at him and then turned her attention back to the lantern. “The chicken was one of the losers of last night’s cockfight.”
Ryan’s brow shot up. He wore a clean shirt, one of her father’s. He’d gladly taken the offer to put on something besides his sweaty shirt. And now in the heavy flannel of black and gray, his eyes were darker and more enticing than before.
“Most Saturdays, Arnie brings us one of the mutilated chickens that died in the fighting.”
“I didn’t see him around today.” Ryan stepped nearer so that she caught a whiff of his clean, soapy scent.
“He’s like that sometimes,” she said. “He’s here one minute and gone the next. I rarely see him coming or going.” Especially when he delivered his gifts. She’d supposed he wanted to do the giving anonymously.
“I’m surprised you take the chickens. I thought you’d oppose eating them. As a statement of protest.” Ryan’s voice was tinged with humor.
“I am opposed to the cockfighting,” she said, rising in defense of herself and the demonstration Esther had staged on Friday afternoon before the usual weekend cockfights. “It’s cruel to allow animals to hack each other apart until one of them dies.”
“I agree,” Ryan said. “But some people consider it a sport. It’s been going on for thousands of years. I don’t think there’s much you or anyone else can do to stop Simmons from having his cockfighting.”
“Slavery had been going on for thousands of years too, and we just stopped that, didn’t we? At least here in our country?”
In the fading light of the tower, his eyes reflected admiration for her response.
“There are a lot of people who would like to see cockfighting made illegal,” she continued. “Mr. Simmons has received enough protests from groups in Detroit that he’s had to resort to bringing in his supplies across Lake St. Clair from Canada.”
Together, she and Ryan peered out at the lake. In some spots to the south, the opposite shore—the Canadian side of the lake—was visible on clear days.
Caroline didn’t consider herself the protesting type of person, not like Esther. She was especially uncomfortable whenever Esther had one of her rallies at the inn. She didn’t want Mr. Simmons to get angry at her and to start making threats like he’d done to her father.
Maybe Esther could afford to be daring since her husband and father’s status as politicians protected her. But Caroline had her family to think about. And she dreaded what Mr. Simmons was capable of doing if he became angry enough with her. Even so, she couldn’t resist Esther’s passion for her causes. Her dear friend always had a way of pulling her in.
Ryan had drawn closer, and she could see the weariness in his eyes. Even with the hot bath and birchbark tea, she had a feeling unbearable pain would soon catch up to him.
“I think I may have overdone it today,” he said with a weak smile.
“Do you think so?” she teased.
His smile inched higher. “I guess I was relieved I could finally do something without failing.” He stood an arm’s length away, his hand stuffed in his pocket like usual.
His vulnerability squeezed her heart. “I know eventually you’ll do many things without failing.”
He didn’t respond, but his eyes softened and seemed to reach out and caress her.
Her stomach fluttered to life. She half expected him to follow up with a real caress, but he didn’t move. Why did she always act like a love-starved old maid whenever she was around Ryan? She didn’t want him to think she was desperate for a man’s attention.
She pivoted to face the lantern. “We better get to work before it grows any darker.”
As she explained
the steps for lighting the lantern, she was acutely aware of his nearness. Even after dusk had fallen and the beam was rotating with its pattern of six flashes per minute, her body was attuned to his every move. It wasn’t until he wearily descended a short while later that she was finally able to breathe normally.
The next morning, when Ryan didn’t arrive to help her turn off the lantern, she tried not to be disappointed. Even with his good intentions, she had no doubt he was addicted to the pain medicine. And even if he hadn’t needed it last night—which she was sure he did after the day of splitting wood—his body still craved it.
After she came home from church with the twins, she hoped he would be awake. But a peek into the boathouse showed that he was still sprawled out on his bedroll.
He awoke in the late afternoon and came sheepishly up to the house, clearly embarrassed at having slept for so long. She welcomed him with a smile and invited him in to sit with Sarah and watch the play that Tessa and the twins were performing for their sister again.
She wasn’t surprised that evening when he accompanied her up into the tower and watched her light the lantern. His expression was warm and his attention undivided, making her self-conscious.
He stayed longer than the previous evening, but eventually he left, the hungry craving and pain in his eyes telling her that he was headed back to his pills.
“Patience,” she whispered to herself the following day as she creaked open the wooden plank door to the root cellar. Cool mustiness greeted her, along with the earthiness of the onions and potatoes she’d stored there.
“Healing takes time,” she whispered into the darkness of the small cellar her father had dug out of a hill on the opposite side of the garden. The shade of the poplar and the thickness of the soil had made it an ideal spot for a cellar, even if it was a chore to trudge to it in the wintertime.
She hoisted a basket of apples into the black interior and then crunched back through the fallen leaves to retrieve the second basket she’d left beneath the lone apple tree that sat a distance from the house.
