by D. F. Jones
Griffin and Casey jumped apart, Casey turning beet red.
“No reason to stop kissing. I’ll just back out…” Mona smirked at them.
Griffin chuckled and took the tray from her. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
Casey marveled at Griffin’s calm demeanor. She was still shaking. Maybe he hadn’t been as affected by the kiss as she had.
He held out a chair for Mona before pulling out and offering Casey another chair. When she sat, he kissed the top of her head. Casey smiled to herself. Maybe he hadn’t been unaffected after all.
Mona passed out the lunch goodies as she began talking, “Well, now that we’ve finally gotten around to kissing, should I assume that y’all aren’t going to tiptoe around each other anymore? It was getting a little boring.”
Casey threw her napkin at her. “Hush!”
Griffin’s sexy grin pulled at his lips. “Let’s just say we are coming around to the idea.”
“Good, because Casey’s been living with this old, moldy mattress from the attic, and she needs a new, big bed.”
“MONA!” Casey exclaimed.
“Well, it’s the truth. Maybe a little loving will make you take something for yourself. Can’t have this fine man sleeping in a room filled with old furniture and knickknacks that others have thrown away.”
“Those things were given to me by the residents here. I could no more throw those away than toss you out the window.”
Mona huffed. “Then find a room to put them on display or something.” She looked at Griffin. “Old embroidered pillows, some candle art, macaroni shoe boxes, even a ship in a bottle made with matchsticks—junk!”
“Hey! Mr. Clayton made that, and I’m…” Casey’s eyes lit up, and she jumped to her feet, grabbing Griffin’s hand. “The ship!”
She ran into the main hall and pulled open the ornate scrolled doors to the elevator. “Hurry! It’s got to be there!”
Griffin sped after her. “You think? It would make sense. He said a haven, she kept it safe, and to look deep in the soul.”
The ancient elevator seemed to creep up floor by floor until it came to a shuddering stop at the top of the fourth floor. Griffin hurried to unlatch the doors. “Remind me to put in a faster elevator. We will keep this one too, though.” He grinned with a wink.
Casey practically skipped down the small hall to her bedroom. Opening the door, she ran to the bookshelf where her knickknacks sat and picked up the large ship in a bottle, handing it to Griffin. “I’ll get some tweezers.” She eyed the bottle. “Or something else.”
Running out of the room, she ran down the hall, unsure of what she was looking for. A few feet from the elevator, she saw a toolbox and wondered. On top of the tools in the open box, laid an extra long pair of needle-nose pliers. They seemed like they would be long enough. Checking the hall for anyone, the place was deserted, the contractors still on lunch. “I promise I’ll bring them back.” Casey snatched them and sprinted toward her room, presenting the pliers to Griffin. “This is it.”
He kissed her quickly. She pushed him back. “Kisses later, letter now!” She motioned for him to get on with it.
“We could be wrong,” he began.
“No, I can feel it. You can too, I can tell.” She smiled up at him. “So, go on, Griffin, go get the treasure from Papa Clayton’s last adventure.”
Mona snorted behind them, mumbling about young people having no respect for their elders and leaving her behind to wait on the elevator to come down again.
Casey hugged her in her excitement, giggling while Griffin sat on the bed and carefully opened the matchstick hatch door which lead to the interior of the ship. The pliers were working, but it still took three attempts before Griffin grasped the folded paper inside.
Slowly pulling out the old piece of paper, Griffin grinned. “I feel like a ten-year-old boy again.” Mona and Casey whooped and hugged each other. “I wish my grandfather was here for this.”
“Maybe he is after all. The old coot had a way of sneaking up on all of us,” Mona stated gruffly.
“My dear friend John,
Thank you most graciously for the invitation to speak…”
As tears fell from Casey’s face, she murmured, “You found it.”
“No, we found it together.”
“What happens now?” she asked.
Griffin gathered her in his arms. “I predict many more adventures together.”
Mona discreetly left the room, leaving the lovers to discover each other, the much sought-after letter lying forgotten on the bed.
About Maggie Adams
Maggie Adams is the internationally bestselling romance author. Her first book, Whistlin’ Dixie, debuted in the Top 100 in Women’s Fiction-Humor. Since then, her Tempered Steel series has launched the tiny town of Grafton, Illinois, into international recognition with sales in Canada, Mexico, Ireland, Scotland, Australia, the UK, and spawned two spin off series, Legends (paranormal) and Sweet Tea Sisterhood (YA). She also writes women’s erotica, romantic comedy, romantic suspense, seasoned romance, and women’s fiction.
At home, she enjoys cooking, dancing, (usually at the same time), and spending time with her husband, known in her blog as Attractive Over Forty Man, her children and grandchildren.
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Also By Maggie Adams
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Whistlin’ Dixie, A Tempered Steel Novel
Legends: Catori, Book #1
Minx, Book #1
Historical Romance Part 3
Keep the Light by I. D. Johnson
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Rescue My Princess by Lane McFarland
The Right Knight by Barbara Bettis
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Keep the Light by I. D. Johnson
Keep the Light
The rowboat swayed back and forth in the current, tipping from side to side, but never giving Jebediah Miller reason to fear being tossed into the salty sea. In his five years as lighthouse keeper, he’d made the trip from the North Channel to the South Channel Lights in all sorts of weather, and while the wind had picked up considerably since he’d left to check the station on the north side a few hours ago, it was nothing but a gentle breeze compared to the gales he’d endured during spring storms and autumn hurricanes.
In the distance, a great ship sailed back out to sea. He recalled seeing its distinctive masts a few days earlier, watched as it disappeared up the channel to the mainland. He imagined the hasty retreat had more to do with the fever he’d heard mention of the last time he’d gotten supplies than a tight schedule. He watched the sails catch the same wind that rocked him now and wished the crewmen safe passage. Only God knew what they might encounter sailing out to open waters this time of year.
Nearing the curve that would take him to his usual docking place near the small residence that sat behind the South Channel Light, or Cockspur, as the locals called it, something in the water around the edge of the tiny island caught his attention. From this angle, it was impossible to tell exactly what he was looking at, but it resembled a blanket floating on top of the water. He moved his rowboat around a bit, the muscles in his arms beginning to ache from the return trip, and arched his back, stretching his neck to see.
It was a body. At this distance, he couldn’t make out much detail, but he could recognize the form. Arms stretched over the head, hands reaching, boots poking up from the shallow surf, a shock of red hair reflecting the mid-day, August sun. It was a body—and what’s more—it was the body of a woman. Jeb was fairly unfamiliar with those, considering the isolation he’d lived in for the last five years, but he recognized a woman when he saw one, even if she was face down on the shoreline.
Boat secured, Jeb stretched and grabbed the meager supplies he’d taken with him to Oyster Bed Light, deciding he had a moment to put them inside and clear his head before he went to see about the lady in the water. He couldn’t say for sure where she might’ve come from, but he had a suspicion the passing ship had something to do with it. He couldn’t imagine any reason why a woman would be left to the sea.
Inside his spartan two-room cottage, Jeb tossed his hat on the table and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher he kept by the window. Fresh water was one supply he never let run short, especially this time of year when fever could strike at any time, potentially closing the port in Savannah and delaying anyone from coming out to check on him for weeks or even months at a time. Keeping enough food on hand was also important, as well as the supplies he needed to keep both lights going, but water was an essential, so he was thankful for the glass he had before him now.
A gentle sea breeze billowed the white curtains over the window, the ones his mother had brought the last time she visited. It was the only woman’s touch his little cottage displayed, a lovely hint of femininity. The drapes made him wonder if anyone would miss the woman lying on the shore. Was there a son or a lover across the ocean somewhere who would look longingly at billowing curtains and wish for the hands that had made them?
Having procrastinated long enough, Jeb set his glass aside and picked his brown, wide-brimmed hat up off of the table, shoving it onto his head with resolve. He may as well get this over with.
With a heavy heart, he came around the corner of the house and halted in his tracks, drawing in a shallow breath as he took in a sight that was both shocking and intoxicating all at once.
Sunlight glinted off of auburn hair, loose and blowing in the breeze, a sparkle shining on the wet alabaster skin of the most lovely profile he’d ever seen. Her navy dress was soiled and soaked, the white sleeves of her blouse stained with mud, her untamed mane dripping with salt water. But she was alive. Sitting among the stones along the water’s edge, she looked off in the direction of the disappearing ship, her arms wrapped around her knees.
Grateful, Jeb approached slowly. Why sailors had seen fit to throw a perfectly healthy woman overboard made little sense to him—unless she was a lunatic. His boots crunched over the shale, but she didn’t turn her head to ascertain who approached, only continued to stare out to sea. When he came to within twenty paces of her, she spoke. “Pardon the intrusion.”
Her voice didn’t match her tiny frame exactly; it was weathered, a bit husky, perhaps from ingesting saltwater. It didn’t suit her otherwise pixie-like appearance in its brashness either. She didn’t seem to want a pardon at all. She seemed... put out.
“Are you well?” he asked. “Are you in need of medical assistance?”
“No.” Her answer was gruff, short. He waited for more, but she only stared out at the ocean.
“Can I get you anything? Water?” She glanced down at her dress and then out at the tide as it brushed her footwear. “Drinking water?” he clarified.
“No.”
Jeb swallowed hard. From the looks of her, he’d guess she wasn’t even his age—maybe twenty-two or so. But there was a hardness about her, an untrusting spirit. “Do you plan to sit there indefinitely, then?”
She turned and looked at him, her jade eyes sharp. “I do not know what I might do. For now, I wish to be left alone.”
He shifted his weight, not exactly sure how to respond to her request. His eyes trailed out to sea; the ship was out of sight now. “Very well. I must be tending the light anyhow.” Her eyes were no longer boring through him, fixed back on the rolling waves. “I doubt there will be anyone coming to call for the next week or two. Depending upon the fever and the storms.”
She didn’t even acknowledge his efforts to engage her. He cleared his throat and took a step back the way he’d come. “I will just be... in the lighthouse.”
“You said that.” The woman didn’t turn her head to speak.
“I am Jebediah Miller. You may call me Jeb if you would like. Most folks do.”
Now, she turned, her eyes traveling around the small island, taking in the cottage, the lighthouse, the small outbuilding, a few scraggly trees pushing through the barren rock. Her eyes came back to him, narrowed with inquiry.
“Not here,” he said, crimson creeping up his neck. “I meant... back home. In Savannah. Most folks call me Jeb there. Here... there is no one. Except for me. And now you.” It seemed odd rolling off his tongue, admitting he wasn’t alone at the moment. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, what to make of her.
With a toss of drying red hair, she refocused on the ocean, not acknowledging his statement at all.
Polite conversation dictated he should ask the woman her name, but she seemed to prefer being left to herself, for now, so Jeb did as he’d said he would and turned, heading back toward the lighthouse and the same duties he would normally perform this time of day if he didn’t have an unexpected guest.
As he reached the door of the lighthouse, he turned back in her direction, still marveling that she’d washed ashore alive, and noticed her eyes were on him again. She looked away quickly, as if she didn’t want him to see. Red lit his face again, for a different reason this time, and Jeb hurried inside the lighthouse, away from her wild eyes.
Pebbles bit into her backside, her lungs continued to burn, her throat on fire. Ann Keaton shifted, pulling her feet out of the same water that had threatened to end her not long ago, wishing she’d allowed herself the vulnerability of accepting a drink of fresh water from the keeper.
Her wrists ached, rubbed raw from the heavy iron shackles, and her ankles were bleeding from when she’d kicked so hard the metal had sliced into her skin. She hadn’t had much of a choice. Swim to the lighthouse, chains and all, or sink into oblivion. Whether or not she’d made the right decision remained to be seen.
Watching the boat disappear over the horizon wasn’t quite as freeing as she’d imagined. The only woman on a ship full of raucous men, she’d prayed she’d make it safely to shore without any of them claiming her. If it hadn’t been for the ship’s parson, she wouldn’t have made it here unscathed. Once the captain was told the port was closed, and they’d set back out to sea, she’d seen the looks in their eyes and knew what she’d needed to do.
Satisfied the boat would not be returning soon, Ann looked back at the paltry dwelling and the lighthouse. She’d assumed the island was too small to be inhabited full-time, so when the keeper had appeared, she’d been stunned, though she’d hid it well. The shock that widened his blue eyes was evident; whether he was surprised to see her there at all or only mystified about how she could still be alive, Ann couldn’t say, but she was just as amazed at her circumstances as anyone. She hadn’t been swimming since she was a small girl, before the pestilence struck her family. It may have not been the same disease that kept her from reaching port now, but Ann grew weary of having her life dictated by the ravages of illness.
Deciding it would do her little good to speculate as to how she’d managed to make it to shore, she pondered the possibility of walking across the rocky beach to the lighthouse and finding the keeper—Jeb. Already, she could tell he was unlike any man she’d ever met before, and while she didn’t trust anyone whose anatomy was contrary to her own, he had a gentleness about him that shifted the hardness around her edges. It was both unsettling and liberating to consider what that might mean should she truly find herself confined with him for the next several days or more.
Ann’s limbs ached as she pushed up off of th
e ground. She steadied herself the best she could on legs that weren’t capable of separating as they should. What would the handsome lighthouse keeper think when he realized her situation? He would certainly riddle her with questions. Ann let her face crack into a smile for a brief second as she pondered all of the questions he’d peppered her with earlier. She wondered if he spoke aloud to himself when he was alone or if he’d been keeping it all in for however long it had been since he’d seen another soul.
It was difficult to make her way across the rocky terrain in the shackles, though she had grown accustomed to walking in them to some extent since they’d been forced on her months ago by the jailer in London. Not that she did much ambling around the ship; most of her time was spent below deck in the dark. The only time she’d seen the sun since boarding The Esteemed Lady, an ironic name for a vessel crewed by heathens, was on the brief afternoon walk she was afforded when the parson was available to take her, as he had been today.
She felt sorry for frightening him when she’d flung herself over the side. The sound of the water muffled the prayer he’d been shouting as she tried to stay afloat and propel herself toward the island in the distance. The only explanation she could give for why she was still alive was that perhaps God had finally seen fit to lend her a hand.
Ann made it to the cottage, her flesh aching from straining against her chains, and blood trickling over the top of her ankle-high boot. Bleeding all over Jeb’s floorboards wasn’t ideal, but she needed to find fresh water. Ann managed to open the door and step in.
The house was clean, the few essential items in their place, save a glass on the table and a pitcher of water near the window. She stepped inside, noticing a door to her right and assumed that was the bedroom. It wasn’t much space for two adult strangers, but that was an unintended problem she’d have to solve later.
