by Erica Vetsch
They turned at the sound of a screen door slapping shut. Clyde jumped off the porch of the little house, a ladder over his shoulder, a paint can dangling from one hand. He lifted his chin in greeting, sauntering to a square wooden building set apart from the brick structures. He leaned the ladder against the eave and bent to open the paint. With broad strokes, he began painting another coat of white to the already-gleaming siding.
“What’s that building then?” Annie waved toward Clyde.
“That’s the fuel store. It’s full of kerosene for the lighthouse and gasoline for the engines in the fog-house. You won’t need to go in there. Just tell me or Clyde if you need kerosene for the house lamps and we’ll get it for you.”
She crossed her arms at her waist, the ties of her apron fluttering behind her. “I had no idea Sutton Island would be so isolated. Odd to think there’s not another person for miles. It’s disconcerting.”
Nick rubbed his chin. The isolation didn’t bother him. In fact, it suited him just fine, but it was a good reminder as to why he should steer clear of any entanglements with Annie Fairfax. No man with a past like his had any business getting mixed up with a girl like her.
She studied the horseshoe-shaped clearing then turned to look him in the eye. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you properly for saving my life. And I’m sorry for being sick on the dock.” Her delicate ears reddened, and her gaze dropped.
Uncomfortable, both with being thanked for something he’d done instinctively and with the protective feelings expanding in his chest, he shrugged and half turned away from her. “Don’t mention it.” He waved away her thanks. “You’ve seen the most dangerous places on the island. Stay away from the cliff, the fuel stores, and the tower. And it’s against the rules for you to enter the lighthouse without one of the keepers. That should keep you safe. And considering the state of this morning’s breakfast, I’ll stay away from the kitchen. That should keep me safe.” He grinned, waiting to hear her laugh.
She gasped, dropped her arms to her sides, and stalked off toward the house.
So much for his attempt at humor.
six
Pique carried Annie through heating water and preparing a tray for Imogen. High-and-mighty Nick Kennedy. See if she ever thanked him again. She threw teaspoons onto the tray more forcefully than she’d intended.
Still, it had been a little funny. Annie shook her head, smiling. The oatmeal had been truly awful. And the bacon … well, the bacon was best forgotten.
She carried the tray up the stairs, glancing out the window on the landing. Nick stood at the base of Clyde’s ladder, speaking up to him. Interest and indignation battled within her.
“Come in,” Imogen answered Annie’s knock.
Annie backed into the room, trying to keep the tray steady. “Good morning. Mr. Batson thought you might like a cup of tea.”
The room lay in dusk, light forcing its way around the edges of the dark shade. Imogen struggled up onto her elbows, her white hair lying over her shoulder in a narrow braid. “Aren’t you a dear?” She patted her nightcap and tweaked the covers. Imogen’s voice trembled a bit, sounding exhausted, though she’d lain in bed most of the morning.
“Here, let me help you.” Annie propped pillows behind Imogen’s head and shoulders. Annie set the tray before Imogen then turned to open the blinds on the east-facing windows.
Morning sun illuminated the room. Bold colors galloped across the bed in cheerful blocks of quilt fabric. An overstuffed chair draped with a crocheted afghan in bright granny squares sat on a braided rag rug beside a square oak dresser.
Imogen poured her tea then held the cup to her nose, breathing in the wisps of steam rising from the fragrant liquid. She blinked in the bright light, her forehead screwed up. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be downstairs to help with your first meal here. My head, you see. Sometimes the pain just wears me down.”
“Oh, does it still hurt? Should I close the blinds?” Annie twisted her hands in her apron.
“That’s all right, dear. Ezra brought me a headache powder early this morning. That usually pushes the pain down enough to be bearable.”
Annie stood still for a moment then remembered her place in the household. She gave a quick nod to the mistress and started for the door.
Imogen’s voice halted her. “I know you’re busy, but please, sit down and visit with me a moment. There are a few things we need to talk about.”
Apprehension quickened Annie’s breathing. Had Imogen learned of the breakfast debacle? The guilt of her subterfuge—she balked at calling it outright lying—weighed in her chest like a lump of her own oatmeal. When she tried to perch on the edge of the upholstered chair, the squishy cushion gave way until she feared she might be swallowed.
Imogen set her teacup on the tray and regarded Annie with sober, dark eyes. She had such a look of patient strength, of serenity hard won through adversity, of total honesty, Annie wanted to squirm. “Tell me about yourself. I’m curious how you came to be in the Lighthouse Board’s employ.”
Surprised at not being chastised, Annie smiled. Then she realized what a giant pit yawned in front of her. Time to choose her words carefully. She didn’t want to mislead this kind woman any more than she already had, especially when she was obviously suffering, but Annie also couldn’t afford for the truth to come out. The Lighthouse Board would fire her and promptly pack her back to her father.
She cleared her throat, her mind racing. “My father works the mines up on the Mesabi mostly, though sometimes on the Vermillion.” Well, that was true enough. He did own three mines, two on the Mesabi Iron Range and a smaller one on the Vermillion Range. “My mother passed away when I was young.”
“So you grew up in a mining camp?” Imogen smoothed the edge of the blanket. “You’ve got very refined manners for being brought up by a miner. Or did your father remarry?” The question hung in the air between them.
Annie frowned. She’d never even seen one of the mining camps. Her father refused to take her up onto the range. She’d only be in his way. And the range was no place for a proper young lady. “My father never remarried. He left me in the care of a kind woman in Duluth. Now that I’m grown up, I need to be making my own way in the world. I saw an advertisement in the Duluth papers for a housekeeper and companion and applied.” She kept her head down, her eyes on her hands in her lap. “The Lighthouse Board notified me by telegram that I had obtained the position, and here I am.” She shrugged.
“Was there no young man set on winning your affection? Surely a girl as pretty as you would have her pick of suitors in Duluth?”
Annie heard again the muffled voices of her father and that old man in the wheelchair, plotting, arguing, and ultimately putting a price on her future, building a matrimonial cage around her bar by bar. An uprush of honesty propelled the words from her throat. “My father had someone in mind, but I’m not ready to get married, especially to my father’s idea of a good husband. I want to be free to choose my own way. If I get married, it will be to someone who has nothing in common with my father. I want someone who will love me enough to stay with me, not to be racing off to his job, putting money ahead of his family. I want someone who will understand that people make mistakes, that they deserve forgiveness and second chances. I want someone who will love me first, last, and always. I won’t be someone’s second best.”
She stopped, shocked at how much had poured out. She took a ragged breath and tried to smile to lessen the force of her words. “I’m sorry. I got a little carried away.”
Imogen nodded, her lips twitching. “Ezra wasn’t my father’s pick for me either. Papa had me paired up with a stuffy banker back in Detroit. But I knew my future lay with Ezra from the moment I first saw him.”
Annie tried to picture a young Ezra and Imogen falling in love. One look at Imogen’s face made the picture easy to see. Love shone in every wrinkle, line, and tremble of the older woman’s face. Her eyes, so dark in her pale face, glowed. Even with the hea
dache dragging at her, she looked the part of a bride in love. Annie wondered if she would ever look that way when she spoke of a man.
“I have to ask how breakfast went. I thought I caught the scent of scorched bacon drifting up the stairs this morning. Was the stove giving you trouble? It can be such a beast sometimes.”
Annie closed her eyes and lifted her chin. There was no way she could hide her lack of experience from this kind woman. “The stove was the least of my worries. Breakfast was a disaster. I burned two batches of bacon, and something happened to the oatmeal to make it suitable for chinking a log cabin. The truth is I haven’t a clue how to cook. I can just about boil water for tea, but that’s it.” Her shoulders drooped, and a lump formed in her throat, cutting off her words. She was about to be fired, and she hadn’t even held this job for twenty-four hours.
Imogen’s soft laughter made Annie look up, blinking the moisture from her eyes. “Oh, Annie, I think you and I are going to get along just fine. When Ezra and I took our first lighthouse appointment, I couldn’t cook either.” The tray shook. “I burned a batch of biscuits so bad they turned to ash when I touched them. Took me a week to get the smoke smell out of the kitchen.”
Tensed muscles relaxed, and Annie sagged against the back of the chair. She joined in the laughter weakly, strength drained from her for the moment. She never knew how exhausting relief could be.
Imogen put her hands on the sides of the tray to lift it away, but Annie struggled up from the chair. “Let me.”
Imogen smiled up at her. “Don’t you worry. I’ll help. We’ll have you as proficient as a sea cook in no time.”
Before Annie could thank Imogen, a strange sound, like the buzzing of a hornet, filled the room.
“Oh no.” Imogen halted halfway out of bed. “That’s the Marigold’s ship horn. The inspector is on his way.”
seven
Nick raised his head from the logbook and looked out one of the watch room’s diamond-paned windows. Was that a ship’s horn? He grabbed the field glasses from the window ledge and headed outside. A plume of smoke rose from a small ship to the north.
Ezra barreled around the corner.
Nick sidestepped at the last instant to avoid a collision.
“Follow me.” Ezra hurried down the path toward the house.
“There’s no fog.” Nick easily kept up with the older man. “Is there a ship in trouble?”
“No, but we are. The captain of the Marigold and I have a little deal worked out. If the inspector is aboard the tender, the captain gives me a double blast of the ship’s horn. We’ll have about twenty minutes before Dillon sets out on the launch. I have to meet him at the dock.”
Nick’s heart rate increased. “What do you want me to do?” He tightened his grip on the field glasses.
“Go get into your uniform and make sure it’s done up as per regulations. Then check that everything is ready in the tower. If you get time, stick your head in the fog-house for a quick look-see. I’ll head for the dock to meet Dillon. And find Clyde. He was supposed to finish painting the fuel house. If he isn’t there, he’s probably down at the dock. I told him to haul the rowboat out and start painting it. He’ll be needed to unload supplies.” The last words floated over Ezra’s shoulder as he disappeared into the house.
Nick jogged to his quarters, grimacing. Enough had been said about inspections to make him dread this one. He leaped onto the porch and hurried into the assistant keepers’ house. Though it was dark, he wasted no time on raising the blinds. Two crates sat in the small front room. With the tender’s arrival, more supplies would crowd the space by nightfall.
His own quarters, square, stark, and cleaner than a silver spoon at Kennebrae House, pleased him. He shucked out of his shirt and opened the locker at the foot of his bed. His uniform, purchased at his own expense, lay still wrapped in the brown paper the shopkeeper had tied it up in. When he’d asked Ezra upon arriving, his boss had said ordinary work clothes would suffice and to save the uniform for the inspector. Nick ripped off the paper and lifted the navy jacket out. A pang shot through his heart. The coat resembled his captain’s uniform with bright brass buttons and a bit of gold braid on the lapels.
A snowy white shirt with new celluloid collar lay in the top drawer of the bureau. He donned it, tucking it in, grimacing at the tightness around his neck. He knotted the black tie at his throat then shrugged into the jacket.
The clock on the bedside table ticked away the seconds. Nick ran through his list of morning chores. He could think of nothing he’d failed to do.
He took his hat from the locker and placed it on his head, glancing in the mirror to make sure it sat at the proper angle. The collar pinched, and he dug his finger under it, tugging. His heart thumped.
Nick shook his head. It annoyed him that the arrival of one man could throw the entire complement of keepers into such a fuss. He understood about maintaining standards and ensuring the working order and operation of government property, but from the level of anxiety produced, it was as if President Teddy Roosevelt himself was arriving at the dock.
He stepped out of the house into the sunshine, shooting his cuffs and picking a stray string from his jacket front.
“Wooeee, if you don’t clean up nice.” Clyde leaned the ladder against the porch rail and propped his elbow on one rung. “Did you hear that ship’s horn?”
“Get that ladder out of sight and change your clothes. Then head to the dock to help unload supplies.” Nick snapped out orders as to a crewman. “Inspector Dillon is arriving in a few minutes.”
Clyde’s eyes went wide, his pepper-pot freckles standing out in his pale face. He scooped up the ladder and paint can and disappeared.
Nick checked the watch room and the tower and took a quick glance into the fog-house as instructed. Everything looked shipshape. He took a deep breath then headed to the dock to support Ezra.
The Marigold rounded the north end of the island. Nick stepped onto the dock. Waves surged along the base of the cliff in restless, ceaseless movement. Within moments of dropping anchor, the steam-powered launch putted toward shore.
Clyde leaned against the cart, arms crossed, red hair blowing in the breeze.
Ezra paced the end of the dock, hands clasped behind him, head down. He snapped to attention when the boat bumped the pilings.
Nick caught the rope the deckhand tossed to him and made the launch fast.
Whatever Nick had expected Dillon to look like flew out of his head upon sight of the inspector. Jasper Dillon stepped over the gunwale and imposed his presence upon Sutton Island.
Nick topped him by at least ten inches. Even in his hat, Eleventh District Lighthouse Superintendent Jasper Dillon stood no more than five feet, two inches. Everything about the man was tiny, from his hands to his feet to his coal black eyes. If not for the hostile, defensive expression in those eyes, Nick might have been looking at a child.
Dillon made a sucking noise through his teeth, nodded to Nick and Clyde, and turned to Ezra. “Ah, Batson, I hope everything is in order?” He dug with slender fingers into his breast pocket and pulled out a toothpick. The wind fluttered the pages on the clipboard under his arm.
“Good to see you again, Inspector. I’m sure you’ll find everything to standard.”
Nick noted that neither man shook hands. With Dillon’s ramrod posture and militant glare, perhaps a salute would have been in order.
Dillon whipped his head around to glare at Nick, almost as if he’d read Nick’s mind. “You must be Kennedy.” Dillon thrust his chin out, daring Nick to deny it.
“That’s right.” Something in him refused to cower or back down from this little bantam rooster. “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.” He deliberately let his tone indicate that not all he’d heard had been good. Nick was not accustomed to being talked down to, especially by a man who needed to look up to do it.
The inspector sucked hard through his teeth again, and the toothpick took a mauling. For a long moment he sk
ewered Nick with his eyes. A smug smile tugged at his thin lips. “Mr. Kennedy, I should like you to accompany me on my inspection. Mr. Batson can oversee the unloading of the supplies.” He lowered his clipboard and tapped his narrow thigh.
Ezra gave Nick a wide-eyed glance full of despair over Dillon’s head. Nick nodded, as if Dillon’s idea was the best he’d heard in a long time. “Right this way.” He indicated the steep path up through the trees.
Dillon proved to be as demanding as Nick had been told. From the foundations to the roof vent, no surface in the tower went without scrutiny. The inspector ran his white glove over every sill, molding, and piece of furniture. Dillon got so close to the lens, his breath fogged the prisms.
Nick resisted the urge to sigh. He’d be the one to have to polish them again.
The fuel house received the same treatment, each barrel and container of fuel accounted for. This didn’t take long as the bulk of their summer supplies was even now being unloaded on the dock. The only fuel in the place was that dropped off by the Jenny Klamath when Nick and the Batsons had arrived to open the light for the season two weeks ago.
Clyde arrived with the first load of kerosene drums from the shore just as Dillon started toward the fog-house. Clyde gave Nick an impudent grin behind the inspector’s back.
Nick averted his face to keep from laughing aloud.
In the fog-house, Dillon went over every inch of the gasoline engines, making marks on his clipboard, sucking on his teeth. Through it all, Nick stood silent by the door. Dillon would find nothing amiss. Everything, from the shingles to the doorsill, was exactly as prescribed in the manual.
Thank You, Lord, for Ezra Batson and his insistence on everything being by the book.
Dillon’s mouth twisted in a persimmon pucker. “I should like to inventory the tools now.” He sucked in a giant breath that moved his shirtfront only a little. A solid gust of wind would sweep the man right over the cliff face.