by Jody Hedlund
She smoothed out the paper to reveal his scrawled handwriting in a short list of things like fishing hooks, nails, wicks, and other items needed for the upkeep of the lighthouse.
Once he’d left the kitchen, she took a deep breath. His presence had been overpowering. She couldn’t think with him so close, with his body exuding such strength, with his eyes so intense.
Josiah squirmed in his chair, ready to be set free. Once she’d washed his hands and face and turned him loose, she tried to corral him in the kitchen while she washed the dishes. But he seemed to sense that Patrick was readying to leave, and he followed his daddy around like a shadow.
When Patrick finally headed down the path that led to the cutter, Josiah rushed after him. And as Patrick clambered into the boat and began untying the dock line, Josiah held out his arms. “Me go. Me go.”
Patrick shook his head. “Not today, lad. You stay with your mamma.”
Emma reached for the boy, but he dodged her and perched on the edge of the dock, dangling his legs into the prow.
“Come with Mamma, little love.” But Josiah climbed down in the boat, scrambling toward his daddy, crawling over the thwart and oars.
Patrick had been winding up a rope with his back turned, and when he spun to find Josiah in the boat, instead of getting angry, he surprised Emma by crouching next to the boy and giving him a hug.
“I know you’d like to come today, lad.” Patrick laid a kiss against Josiah’s red hair. “But on the return trip, the boat will be very full.”
Josiah buried his face into Patrick’s shirt.
“Besides, I want you to help your new mamma.”
Josiah still didn’t move.
Patrick locked eyes with her above Josiah’s head, cocking one of his brows as if to ask, Now what?
Emma glanced around the shore, to the open waters of Lake Huron to the east and Presque Isle Bay to the southwest. Her mind frantically searched for something, anything, to distract Josiah, to make him want to stay home with her, a stranger, rather than traveling to town with the man he most admired and loved in the world.
A sandpiper and its mate scurried through the cattails that bordered the rocky embankment. The morning sunlight glinted off the water, bringing a gentle breeze.
“Would you like to throw rocks, Josiah?” The rock throwing had occupied him yesterday during the wedding. Maybe it would work again.
But Josiah shook his head.
A knot of desperation tied in her stomach. Even though she was inexperienced with raising children, she didn’t want Patrick knowing that and regretting his decision to marry her. She wanted him to think she was confident and able to handle a boy a quarter her size, because certainly she could. She’d done well so far.
After all, how difficult could a two-year-old be?
She knelt next to the boat that was swaying in the waves. “I know you’ll enjoy helping me dig up the garden to get the dirt ready for planting.”
At the mention of dirt, Josiah peeked over his shoulder, interest sparking in his face.
“You’re planting a garden?” Patrick asked.
“Aye. If you don’t object.” She’d added seeds to the list of supplies earlier.
“Not at all,” he responded. “It’s just that Delia wasn’t interested in one . . .” His voice trailed off, and he focused on Josiah’s flyaway hair.
“I don’t know much about gardens myself,” she admitted, “but I thought it might be fun to plant a few things. I can start with beans and cucumbers and carrots and onions and whatever other seeds you can find.”
“What do you say, lad? You can help your mamma ready the garden.”
Josiah stood silently for a moment, then shook his head. “Me go with Daddy.”
Patrick exhaled a sigh and stood. He hefted the boy up. Josiah wrapped his arms around his daddy’s neck and rested his head against his shoulder.
Josiah didn’t want to be with her. What must Patrick think of her now? She’d been here less than twenty-four hours and his son had decided he didn’t want her for a mamma.
She took a step away from the boat. Maybe it would take more time. After all, he’d just lost his mammy. She couldn’t wade into his life so soon after the beloved woman’s death and take her place in his heart.
Patrick kissed the boy again. “I love you, lad.” He whispered in Josiah’s ear, though Emma could hear the tender words anyway.
To her surprise, he pried the boy’s arms from his neck and held him toward Emma, gazing solemnly into Josiah’s face. “You need to obey me now and stay home with your mamma.”
Josiah’s eyes rounded, yet he didn’t say anything. Emma took the boy, settled him on her hip, and was relieved when he didn’t protest.
Quickly, Patrick propelled the boat away from the dock. “I’ll be back by dinnertime tonight,” he called. And with that, he settled himself on his bench, picked up the oars, and began to make rapid strokes away from the shore.
“Daddy . . .” Josiah’s bottom lip stuck out and trembled.
“He’ll be back soon,” she reassured, infusing her voice with cheerfulness. “In the meantime, we’re going to have a very fun day together. We can plant the garden, scrub the laundry, clean your bedroom, and maybe even do some more exploring.”
She’d started to turn away from the retreating boat when Josiah gave a small cry and extended a hand toward his daddy. She stopped and smoothed his hair from his forehead. She could wait with him if he wanted to watch his daddy leave. Maybe that would console him.
But the farther away the boat got, the louder Josiah’s whimpering grew. And when the boat became a speck along the distant shore of the bay, Josiah was crying in loud gulping sobs.
“Now, now, little love.” She hugged him closer.
But instead of letting her console him, he arched his body and threw back his head. He struggled against her so fiercely, Emma was afraid she would drop him.
“Oh, little love,” she murmured, doing her best to soothe him. But his cries became more insistent and angry. Somehow she managed to carry him off the dock without losing her grip. When she reached the rocky shore and a patch of long sea grass and cattails, she almost collapsed under the weight of his writhing body and was forced to kneel down and let go of him.
Once on the ground, he kicked his legs, flailed his arms, and screeched at the top of his lungs.
“Heaven have mercy.” She wiped the perspiration that had formed on her brow.
She’d never known any child to react this way. She would have believed he was in great agony and dying if she hadn’t just watched him climb into the cutter without any problem.
She watched him with a growing helplessness. Finally, after several long minutes of listening to his wailing and realizing he didn’t seem to be planning to stop anytime soon, she steeled herself, hoisted him up, and hauled him back to the house.
While she cleaned the sitting room, she attempted to distract him with everything she could think of, from playing in a bucket of water to pounding a drum made out of a pan and wooden spoon. He didn’t stop crying until she carried him to the garden plot and offered him a small hand shovel, which he stuck in the soil she’d loosened for him. He filled a shovelful of the dirt and dumped it into his lap, his sobs finally quieting.
Emma crouched next to him, her chest tight, her cheeks wet with her own tears.
He dug his shovel into the ground again, hiccupped a half sob, and scooped more dirt into his lap. He patted the dirt with one hand and then went to work more earnestly digging a hole.
She sat back on her heels, relief overwhelming her and making her want to sob. She hardly dared to move for fear of setting him off again. For a long while she just watched him, not even caring that his freshly washed outfit was growing filthier by the minute or that he’d wiped a dirty hand across his runny nose and now had mud streaked across his cheek.
“Hole,” he said, glancing up at her, his face beaming with pride at his hard work.
“Aye
, that’s a fine hole. The finest hole I’ve ever seen.” At that moment, she’d praise anything he did, so long as it kept him from crying.
She picked herself up, brushed the soil from her skirt, and with trembling legs started clearing the weeds from the garden—keeping one eye on Josiah as she worked and hoping he wouldn’t start wailing again.
Patrick studied the overcast sky and attempted to gauge the position of the sun. Instinctively he knew he had several hours before he needed to light the lamp. Even so, he plunged his oars deeper, urging the little boat to go faster.
It rode low in the water under the weight of all the supplies he’d purchased. His muscles burned with the effort of rowing it hard, but he was almost home. He could see the copper dome of the tower with its vent ball topped with the lightning rod and weather vane.
Maybe he should have taken Josiah with him. But he wanted Josiah to learn to accept his new mamma and her authority, which wouldn’t happen if he coddled the boy.
The cutter drew nearer the dock, and the anxiety that had been nagging him all day swelled like the crest of a wave. If he were honest, he was more worried about Emma’s reaction to Josiah than about getting home in time for his nightly duties.
Josiah could be strong-willed at times and had the energy of a whole ship’s crew. He certainly didn’t want the boy throwing one of his temper tantrums and causing Emma to second-guess what she’d gotten herself into. She’d do plenty of second-guessing in the days to come without Josiah adding to it.
Emma seemed like a sweet girl, and he’d thanked the Lord more than once during his prayer time last night that He’d sent her to his rescue. But as before, he couldn’t keep from wondering exactly what Holy Bill had told her. Probably not enough, otherwise she wouldn’t have been quite so accepting.
Of course, Patrick had confessed everything to the Lighthouse Board and Delia’s father when he’d been hired as an assistant keeper down at Fort Gratiot. He’d been honest with them from the start.
Still they’d all agreed—including Holy Bill—that wiping the slate clean was the best way for him to move forward. They’d cautioned him against sharing too much with anyone for fear of starting rumors and bringing about reprisals.
He’d only told Delia about his crimes and in the most general of terms. She’d eventually consented to marrying him, even though she’d been hesitant. As it turned out, even the little she’d known about him had been too much. Not many weeks after they were married, he stopped visiting her bed because he’d hated the way she stiffened whenever he lay next to her, as if his merest touch repulsed her.
He didn’t blame Delia in the least. He hadn’t deserved her anyway. And he certainly didn’t deserve Emma now.
Guilt prodded him to share more with Emma. At the same time, he didn’t want to push her away. He’d already alienated one wife. Did he have to with this one as well? Couldn’t they live in accord without him having to open up the stinking refuse of his past?
His thoughts turned to ice at the memory of the worst ghost of all, the pale face of a woman marred with purple bruises, with streaks of dried blood across her lips and cheek.
“Oh, God, please forgive me,” he whispered, just as he had a thousand times since the morning he’d awoken to the battered body in his bed.
With a last heave, he guided the boat alongside the dock. He jumped out and did little more than secure the cutter before sprinting down the dock and up the rocky path. He hadn’t quite reached the end of the short trail when he heard Josiah’s screams. His heart sank into his rubber boots. The screams penetrated the open windows of the house and rang out over the isthmus.
He didn’t stop to wipe his feet, but instead bounded through the front door, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. There, kneeling on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, was Emma. In the washtub next to her sat Josiah, crying and writhing and batting at her hands as she attempted to wash his muddy face.
For a moment, neither Emma nor Josiah noticed his presence.
“I’m home,” Patrick announced from the doorway.
Josiah’s sobbing came to an immediate halt. “Daddy?” He squirmed and craned his neck around Emma. And when his eager eyes met Patrick’s, his freckled face broke into a smile that rivaled sunshine. “Daddy!”
Patrick couldn’t muster a return smile. Worry cramped his gut.
Slowly, Emma shifted, her eyes filled with mortification. Weariness drew lines across her forehead, and her shoulders sagged.
Patrick crossed the floor with its muddy puddles and Josiah’s dirt-covered clothing strewn here and there. He crouched beside the tub until he was level with the boy.
“Hi, Daddy,” Josiah said, giving him another toothy smile that melted him.
“Hi, lad.” He tousled the boy’s wet hair.
Josiah held out his arms to him, clearly expecting to be rescued from Emma.
But Patrick didn’t move. “You’re giving your mamma a hard time.”
“Daddy give bath.”
“No, lad. Your mamma will finish. And no more crying.” Josiah looked down at the murky bathwater, his lower lip trembling.
“When you’re done, if you’ve been good, you can help me carry supplies.”
Josiah’s head shot up. “Me be good.”
Patrick rose and nodded. “You need to be good for Mamma all the time.”
His lower lip trembled again.
Patrick didn’t want to make the boy cry, but he hoped to send the message that Josiah needed to treat Emma with respect.
Gratefulness flashed across Emma’s features, features that were sweet and youthful and prettier than he remembered from when he’d seen her that morning.
He expected to see frustration in her eyes, perhaps even anger at leaving her alone with Josiah all day. Instead, she merely gave him a faint smile.
When he retreated to the cutter to start unloading, he kept one ear tuned to the open windows. He released a long sigh when the boy didn’t fuss any further. Minutes later, Josiah came charging down the path toward the boat at full speed with Emma rushing after him. He was barefoot, but at least he was clothed.
Dangling the boy’s shoes from her fingers, she wiped a dripping sleeve across her loose hair and stared helplessly as Josiah hurtled himself into Patrick’s arms.
“I’ll put his shoes on,” Patrick offered. “And I can watch him while I unload.”
She hesitated, taking in the way Josiah clung to him, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Then she nodded, set the shoes on the shore, and started back up the path, her shoulders slumped and her feet dragging.
Patrick wanted to call after her, to thank her for tending to Josiah all day. But the words stuck in his throat. Weariness had descended upon him like a heavy fog, and he knew he would need to sneak in a couple of hours of sleep before ascending the tower to light the lantern.
He made quick work putting away the supplies, even with Josiah trailing along with him. Afterward he stumbled to the bedroom, fell across the bed, and was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.
Patrick awoke with a start.
“Daddy” came Josiah’s whisper next to his ear.
Had he overslept? That was always the first question that hit Patrick every time he woke. It was the question that haunted his sleep too, the fear that eventually he would wear himself out so much that in his exhaustion he would pass out for days. And then he would neglect the lantern and be the cause of a shipwreck.
Fortunately, the fading light of evening indicated he still had time before he needed to turn on the lamp. In spite of the harshness of the long winter, he’d quickly realized that living in northern Michigan had some benefits, including the long-lasting light of the evenings. The closer the days drew to the summer solstice, the longer the days grew, so that he didn’t need to light the lantern until after nine o’clock.
“Mamma tell me to wake you,” Josiah said.
Patrick pushed himself up and stifled a yawn. “Thank you, lad.” His stomach gu
rgled from hunger. He took a deep breath and caught the acridness of burnt bread, or something like it. “Go tell your mamma I’ll be ready for dinner in a few minutes.”
Josiah toddled out of the room, obviously proud of his messenger duties.
Patrick smiled as he sorted through the items of clean clothes left in his drawer. He changed clothes, ran a comb through his hair that was in need of a trim, and ignored the scruffiness on his chin.
He could see that Emma had tidied the room, picking up the clothes from the floor and washing them and making the bed. The sight helped to release some of the tension in his shoulders. Maybe he was worrying for nothing. Maybe he didn’t need to say anything more to Emma about his past. Maybe if he kept silent, things would be different from what they were with Delia.
He started down the hallway. Taking a deep breath, he found himself choking on smoky air. As he stepped into the kitchen, he blinked hard through the haze that filled the room.
Josiah was seated in his high chair, oblivious to the fact that the kitchen was burning down before their eyes. “Hi, Daddy.” The boy smiled with a mouthful of food, something black.
A quick perusal of the kitchen told Patrick the smoke was coming from the two pans on the stove in front of Emma. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t a fire but just smoke rising from whatever she was attempting to cook.
“Eat, Daddy,” Josiah said, biting the edge of a charred circle of what might have been a biscuit or griddle cake if it hadn’t been completely burnt and unrecognizable. Josiah chomped away and smiled with no signs that he’d spent the day throwing one temper tantrum after another.
Emma’s back was stiff, and she was attempting to flip something in one of the griddles but only managed to keep half of it in the pan. The other half slid onto the stove and sent another billow of smoke into the air.
Above the sizzling, she gave a soft cry.