by Jody Hedlund
She scrambled to her feet, taking in the deserted room. She stopped short at the sight of a trail of water and shattered glass spread across the floor. One glance at the window told her the wind had blown in a pane, allowing the rain to pour into the tower. It had come precariously close to the lantern.
With growing dread, she crossed to the narrow door that led to the catwalk. She shoved it open against the pressure of the wind. “Patrick!” she shouted, grabbing the rail and fighting the gusts to stay on her feet.
In the distance, huge waves hurled themselves against the shore. She shuddered at the sight. What if Patrick had gone out to save someone and hadn’t returned?
“Please, God, no,” she whispered as she shuffled forward for a better view.
She didn’t want to lose him. She’d only just realized her dream of having a place she could call home, and had only just started to connect with her new husband.
She was still mortified that he’d awoken yesterday on the beach to find her stroking his face. Why had she done it? Even though she kept chiding herself, part of her was glad he caught her. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’d kissed her fingertips in response.
And later he’d shown his affection in the kitchen.
Her insides warmed again at the thought of how close they’d stood together, of his hot breath on her lips. Just the thought of that soft kiss made her stomach do a little flip.
She rounded the catwalk, making her way toward the broken window. At the sight of him lying on the gallery, facedown and unmoving, she gave a cry and rushed forward.
“Patrick!” She fell to her knees beside him.
A puddle of blood pooled next to his head, blood mixed with rain.
Shaking, she carefully turned him over. His normally tan face was ashen and smeared with streaks of blood. She pressed her ear against his chest and listened for a heartbeat. After hearing a faint thump-thump, she released a pent-up breath.
The broken window and the hammer and canvas wedged against the tower told her he’d likely come out to repair the window or at least nail up the canvas to keep the rain from blowing into the lantern, and somehow he’d taken a tumble.
She examined his head, slicking back his hair until she found a deep gash. Spinning around, she saw a piece of heavy iron lying near the edge of the gallery, a piece that had broken loose from the damaged window. Maybe he’d been struck by the metal, or maybe he’d slipped and fallen against the rail. Whatever the case, she needed to get him down from the tower and into bed.
He moaned and stirred. When finally he opened his eyes, they were glazed.
“We need to get you home,” she said. “Can you stand?”
He nodded slowly, allowing her to wrap her arms around his waist and raise him to his feet. She half carried, half dragged him into the lantern room, out of the rain and the wind, and then inch by inch she helped him down the ladder and stairway. Together they staggered across the small yard, making their way back to the house.
With Patrick leaning heavily on her, Emma stepped through the back door and headed toward the bedroom. Just as they reached the bed, he slumped and became unconscious again. She removed his wet coat and boots and managed to get him out of his damp shirt. But she hesitated at the clasp of his trousers. She couldn’t bear to think what Patrick might think of her if he awoke to find himself completely unclad.
Instead, she washed his head wound, bound it with clean strips of linen, and made him as comfortable as possible. By then, Josiah had awoken, so she dressed and fed him, tended to the most basic household chores, and resumed her care of Patrick while trying to keep Josiah busy.
All through the rainy morning she felt as though she were being pulled in a dozen different directions at once. She gained a new appreciation for what Patrick had gone through after his wife had died and why he’d been so desperate to have help.
She couldn’t keep from thinking about what she would do if Patrick didn’t recover. Sitting in the chair she’d pulled up next to the bed, she sighed and checked Patrick’s bandage again. At least the wound had stopped bleeding. His breathing was shallow, and he was still very pale. He’d obviously lost a great deal of blood before she’d found him. There was no telling how long he’d lain there on the gallery unconscious.
At a rap on the front door, she started, jumping up from the chair. Josiah jumped up too from his spot on the floor, where he was playing with the newest origami creature she’d folded, a swan.
She didn’t know who would be out visiting on a rainy day like this, but she would be glad to see anyone. Maybe they would know how to help her with Patrick. At the very least they could send for a doctor.
She hurried to the door and swung it open, bringing in the cool damp scent of the lake. Two burly-looking men stood side by side, wearing knee-length leather boots and oilskin coats.
“Well, hello there,” said one of the two, a man with curly black hair and a scraggly beard. Rain dripped from his cap in a steady stream. He raked her over from top to bottom, and his lips curved into a smile. “Aren’t you a pretty one.”
Pretty? She almost glanced over her shoulder to see who he was talking to. The second man stared at her too, and there was something in his face that was hard, that set her on edge.
“Good day to you,” she said with a smile. “What brings you out on a day like today?”
The curly-haired man shared a look with his companion and then nodded toward the tower. “We saw that the light there is still on and figured something must be wrong here.”
Josiah sidled against her and wrapped his arm around her leg, twisting her skirt. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and peered up at the men with curious eyes.
She placed a hand on his head to reassure him as much as herself that everything would be all right. “Aye. My husband was hurt last night during the storm. I was so busy tending to him, I forgot all about the light.”
How would she turn off the light? Patrick had showed her how to turn it on, but she had no idea how to shut it down. Regardless, she had to give it a try. Patrick would want her to help as much as she could.
“Is he hurt bad?” the stranger asked.
“He lost a lot of blood and is unconscious. I’d be obliged if you’d fetch the doctor for me when you head back to the harbor.”
“Sure,” said the one with the curly black hair. “’Course we can let the doctor know he’s needed.”
“Oh, thank you.” Relief sifted through her. “My husband needs my help and I don’t want to leave him.”
“Then he won’t be able to tend the lantern tonight?”
“Even if he regains consciousness, he’d be too weak to climb the tower stairs and spend the night on watch.”
“Are you able to light-keep yerself?” The rain continued to trickle off the brim of his hat. The bulging outline of a gun showed beneath his coat.
She started to shake her head and then hesitated. They were sure asking a lot of questions. “I can give it a try. To be honest, I don’t know much about the light.”
“We know enough that at least we can shut it off for you.”
She nodded. “I’d appreciate it.” It would be one less thing for her to worry about.
“Not to worry, ma’am. And when we fetch the doctor, we can also spread word that you need help with the light. I’m sure someone can come out and give you a hand until your husband recovers.”
“Would you? That would be perfect.” Perhaps one of the fishermen at Burnham’s Landing would know enough about the lantern to help her get it going again in the evening.
Emma couldn’t say why she was relieved that the men didn’t ask to come in and dry off and warm up for a spell, but when they left after only a few moments, she let out a long breath and watched as they headed to the tower.
After some time, the beam stopped rotating, and a couple of minutes after that she saw the two men amble down the rocky path to the dock. The one who’d done all the talking limped just slightly. The other turned to s
tare at the tower one last time before they disappeared through the trees.
She waited expectantly all day for help to arrive. When evening came and the sky began to grow dark, she finally stopped watching out the window for the arrival of the doctor and any other fishermen from Burnham’s Landing. No one would venture out after nightfall, especially not on a rainy, windy night.
Once Josiah was tucked into bed and asleep, she ascended the tower steps, carrying a small lantern. Even though she tried to imitate everything Patrick had done the night he’d shown her how to light the lantern, she couldn’t get it going.
After crying out in frustration during what felt like her hundredth failed attempt, she returned to the house to check on Patrick and Josiah. She climbed the tower stairway two more times to try again during the long night. On the last attempt, she stared dismally out the window into the darkness and hoped there weren’t any ships out on the lake in need of the light.
She caught a glimpse of a beam to the north. She paused and stared. The shaft of light swung out over the lake similar to a beam coming from a lighthouse, only thinner and not as intense. Had someone else noticed the Presque Isle Lighthouse was dark? Maybe they’d lit something for safety’s sake.
Emma returned to the house and collapsed exhausted in the chair next to Patrick’s bed. She buried her hands in her face. What would he think of her when he woke and found she’d failed to light the lantern?
In all his time working at the lighthouse, he’d said that he never once missed lighting it. And now tonight, for the first time, the ships in the area would be at risk, all because of her.
If she’d begun to win his affection, she’d surely lose it now, now that she’d failed him.
“Oh, Patrick, I’m sorry.” She reached for his hand. It was cold and limp in hers, but she grasped it anyway. She could only hope that the light she’d seen to the north would suffice.
She rested her cheek against Patrick’s hand. She was too weary to do anything more tonight but close her eyes and sleep.
Chapter 13
Patrick’s head pounded with a ferocity that nearly blinded him. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his body sagged with weakness. He felt as though he’d been banged around, punched in the face, and finally knocked down in the last round.
His breath was shallow, just like it had been after his last fight, the night he’d thought he was a goner, the night he’d been rabbit-punched in the back of the head, supposedly by accident.
He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was caved in, almost as if his opponent had launched several hooks into his gut. He’d sworn he would never fight again, not for any reason, and certainly not for any amount of money.
So what had happened to him?
He started to raise a hand to his head when he realized someone was holding it.
His eyes flew open to the sight of someone slumped half on the bed and half on a chair. The glow of the lantern on the bedside table revealed it was a woman. Blond hair spilled around her face, but through the tangled tresses he glimpsed a pert nose and mouth, such sweet features.
Emma.
She was asleep with her cheek resting against his hand, which was intertwined with hers. He didn’t move but was content to watch her, to bask in the revelation that she was by his side. No one except Holy Bill had ever stayed by his side, not even his mother.
She’d always been overworked and harried. And he’d just been another mouth to feed and body to clothe among his ten brothers and sisters. In fact, he’d been the one to raise his younger sister, the baby of the family, because his mom and older sisters were working twelve-hour days in the coat factory, and his dad and brothers were busy working in the sawmills that lined the Saginaw River Valley.
From his earliest recollections, even before they’d moved to Michigan, he’d been left home to watch the baby. At the time, he was only a young boy himself and had done what he could to keep his sister content. But now that he was full grown, he cringed when he thought of all their escapades. He wished he’d been a more responsible big brother. Thankfully, God had since gotten ahold of him, and he could make up for some of his mistakes by being the kind of father Josiah needed.
Emma sighed, and the warmth of her breath sent a tremor up his arm. He had the urge to brush the hair away from her face so he could get a better view and watch her sleep.
Sleep? He pushed himself up and glanced toward the window. What time was it?
At the slight movement, pain ripped through his head and forced him to fall back against the pillow with a moan.
Emma sat up with a start. She released his hand and flipped the tangled mass of long hair out of her face. She was on her feet in an instant and hovering above him. “You’re awake,” she said, relief in her voice.
“What happened?” he croaked, trying to make sense of why he was lying in bed and feeling as if he’d just been soundly beaten in a boxing match.
“There was a storm.” Gently, Emma touched his forehead, and he could feel the tight roll of a bandage. “I think you were knocked in the head with a piece of metal from one of the tower windows.”
His mind spun back to the last moments he remembered, when the rain had been spraying into the lantern room too near the light. He’d gone out to cover the broken window and was trying to nail one of the corners of canvas.
He lifted his hand to his head, to the aching spot on his scalp where he’d taken the hit. He’d slipped, fallen backward, and hit his head against the rail. That was the last thing he remembered.
Once again he looked to the bedroom window and saw the faint light that peeked through a slit between the curtains. From what he could tell, it was now dawn. An urgency compelled him to sit up in spite of the pain. He struggled to move his legs to the edge of the bed.
“You should lie still,” Emma quietly admonished.
“I’ll need to turn off the light soon.”
“It’s already off.”
“It is? But how . . . ?” His hands turned clammy. “How long have I been out?”
“More than twenty-four hours.”
His chest tightened. He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “And the light?”
Only then did she look him in the eye. Her expression radiated distress. “Some men stopped by yesterday and helped turn the light off. But when I tried to get it started again last night, I couldn’t.”
Fighting dizziness, he fell back against the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut against the throbbing in his head. He’d failed in his sacred duty as keeper of the light. And the pain of that overwhelmed him more than the pain of his wound.
“I’m so sorry, Patrick,” she whispered. “I tried several times to get the light going, but I couldn’t manage to make it work.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said.
Her shoulders slumped. “But I should have been able to do more—”
“No.” He reached for her hand and tugged her closer to the bed. Even in the dimness of the room, he could tell she had dark circles under her eyes. “You did all you could. I should have prepared you better.” He squeezed her hand.
“I kept waiting for help.”
“Help?”
She nodded. “The fishermen said they’d fetch the doctor and also find someone who could come out and give me a hand with the lantern. But no one came.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Maybe the doctor will come today.”
“There’s no doctor in these parts.” Dread settled deep in his aching bones. “When someone’s injured, it’s the widow Burnham who is called.”
Who had Emma talked to? If the fishermen were from the area, they wouldn’t have given her false hope about a doctor and help with the light, would they?
“Maybe the visitors were the ones who set up a light north of here,” she said.
He jolted up, and his head rebelled against the quick motion. “What? There was another light?”
“Aye. I saw one beaming ove
r the lake just to the north.”
“Near the shoals?”
“I don’t know.”
Ignoring the hammering in his head, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Did these men give you their names?”
“Nay. They said they came because they saw the lantern was still on and wondered if there might be trouble.”
“What did they look like?”
“One had curly black hair and walked with a limp.”
No . . . His breath snagged in his chest. The description could only apply to one man, Mitch Schwartz—a man he’d hoped never to see again.
“The other had a hard face,” she said. “He wasn’t as friendly.”
Patrick wiped a hand across his eyes, praying she wouldn’t see just how shaken he was. “I’m afraid the men didn’t come to help.” He needed to take a hike up to the shoals, yet he was afraid of what he might find.
“Why did they come, then?”
“They’re pirates.” He swallowed the bitter taste of bile that rose to the back of his throat. “They wanted my light to stay dark so they could set up a decoy.”
Her brow creased.
“It’s called moon cussing,” he explained, hoping she wouldn’t ask him how he knew. “The pirates make sure the lighthouse is out of commission, and then they place a false light in a dangerous area. The beam fools the ships’ captains and causes them to sail into rocks—making it easier for the pirates to rob them.”
Her eyes grew wide. “That’s awful. Maybe they were the same men I saw on the beach north of here a few days ago when I was hiking with Josiah.”
His head pounded harder. “Why didn’t you tell me you saw men on the beach?”
She shrank back at the anger in his voice.
“Never mind,” he said, swallowing his frustration. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at Mitch. He had no doubt that she’d caught Mitch hauling a makeshift lantern ashore in preparation for setting up a decoy light. It was a common tactic for pirates, one he knew all too well. “Don’t go hiking too far from the house again.”
She nodded.
“I’m just relieved they didn’t hurt you or Josiah.”