by Jody Hedlund
His heartbeat hitched. He studied the handprints, two of them, and the place where lips had hovered near enough to the glass to leave a mark. He raised one of his hands and held it over the print. Through the flashing of the light, he could see that the handprint belonged to someone other than himself. It was smaller, more delicate.
Was it Emma’s?
He studied the prints. She must have come when he’d been at the dock saying good-bye to Mitch and Sophie. He didn’t want to think about the possibility that maybe she’d come to say good-bye to him.
He lifted his other hand over the print so that he could imagine he was holding both of her hands. At that moment the beam fell upon the dock like a spotlight. His pulse chugged to a standstill.
What had Emma seen? What if she’d witnessed his interaction on the dock with Sophie?
He fell back with a groan. A sickening in the pit of his stomach told him that was exactly what had happened. Emma had seen him with Sophie. She’d probably watched them and drawn her own conclusions. Conclusions that had likely added to the hurt he already caused with his revelations earlier in the day.
He rushed down the tower ladder and descended the stairway two steps at a time. He didn’t care that the bedroom window was dark and that she was already in bed, he had to talk to her, had to reassure her that . . .
That what?
At the bottom of the tower he stopped, his breath coming in gasps. His chest ached, but not for lack of air. It ached because he loved her. The emotion swelled until he was light-headed with the knowledge of it.
“I love her,” he said into the night, letting amazement drift over him. As much as he’d liked various women over the years, he’d never really loved any one of them. Not even Delia.
He’d tried to love her. Every night he’d prayed for God to help him cherish his wife and treat her with the kind of love she needed. But never in all the days they shared together did he feel anything quite like what he felt with Emma.
He stared at the bedroom window, and his heart yearned to see her, to tell her his true feelings. Even if she rejected him, even if she couldn’t forgive him for deceiving her, he had to tell her of his love for her. He couldn’t hold it back any longer. She had every right to leave, but he’d beg her to stay and give him a second chance, to let him prove himself.
Determined, he entered the house and went directly to the bedroom and stepped inside. “Emma?” he whispered.
She didn’t respond.
“Emma,” he said again, louder this time. He knelt down beside the bed. He put out a hand to touch her, but all that met his fingers was the smoothness of the bed.
He surged to his feet, crossed to the window, and yanked the curtains open. Moonlight and the glow from the tower lantern poured into the room, revealing an empty bed.
She’d made the bed since Mitch had left, but why wasn’t she in it? Was she sleeping with Josiah again, afraid that perhaps Mitch would return? He spun around and started to cross the room again when his eyes fell on the wall above the dresser. He stumbled to a halt.
Her cross was gone.
With a burst of panic, he rushed through the house until he charged into Josiah’s room. One glance at the empty bed told him the worst.
She’d left him. And she’d fulfilled her promise. She’d taken Josiah.
“No!” His knees weakened, and he sagged to the edge of the bed. For a moment, pain washed over him, sucking him down and drowning him.
Of course, he never wanted to lose Josiah. He loved the boy more than he ever thought possible. But the idea of life without Emma? The thought was unbearable. Unthinkable.
“I won’t lose her,” he said to himself, pushing up from the bed. He fought off a wave of despair and a voice telling him he didn’t deserve her, that he should just let her go.
All he wanted was to go after her, to fall on his knees before her and plead with her to come home. To their home. To him.
But hadn’t he promised he’d let her go if she was unhappy?
Reluctantly he returned to the tower. He had to do the right thing by Emma, and the right thing was to let her go and give her the chance to find happiness with someone else more worthy.
Emma leaned into Ryan and sobbed quietly against his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, just cradled her and let her cry.
She was hot from her hike around the harbor after leaving the lighthouse, the humidity of the night enveloping her. If only she could go up into the tower and stand on the gallery. The breeze coming off the lake would comfort her.
At the thought, her tears flowed only faster. She’d never visit the lighthouse again. Never climb to the top. Never peer at the dark expanse of sky filled with its multitude of stars.
And worst of all, she’d never see Patrick again.
“Oh, Ryan,” she said, brushing the wetness from her cheeks, “I didn’t want to believe he was capable of loving someone else. I wanted to believe he was a good man.”
Ryan patted her back.
She’d easily found Burnham’s Landing when she’d reached the cleared part of the harbor. When she’d rapped on the Burnhams’ door, Bertie had answered it almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting for Emma, her lips pursed and her eyes radiating with I-told-you-so.
Josiah had tired of the hike not long after they started, so Emma had carried him most of the way. Thankfully he’d fallen asleep in her arms and hadn’t woken when she placed him on a mat next to Bertie’s sons who were asleep on the floor.
Bertie had peppered her with whispered questions, and after the woman had gone back to bed, Emma had sought out Ryan. She hadn’t been able to wait until morning to talk to him. Yawning and half asleep, he’d led her a safe distance away from the shack where he bunked with the fishermen.
The darkness shadowed his face, even more now that they sat at the edge of the forest on a bench made from a log.
“Maybe he’s still a good man, Em,” Ryan said softly.
She’d finally had to tell Ryan the truth about Patrick’s past, and she’d been surprised he wasn’t angrier at Patrick or even concerned for her safety.
She sniffled. “I think he wants to be a godly man, but he’s trapped in the sins of his past.”
Ryan pulled a wrinkled handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her.
“Maybe it just takes time to stop doing some things.” She dabbed her nose with the cloth. “And maybe some people can’t change no matter how hard they try. Like Dad.”
Ryan leaned his back against the maple that towered behind them. “Dad could’ve changed if he’d really wanted to.”
“He tried to quit drinking several times—”
“He was still hanging on to his guilt too tightly,” Ryan said, a thread of bitterness edging his voice. “If he’d repented before God, if he’d let go of the past, and if he’d moved forward in the confidence of God’s forgiveness, then maybe he could have put his drinking behind him.”
“But don’t you think it’s hard for some people to change, I mean really change, if they’ve developed bad habits?”
“It might be hard.” Ryan crossed his arms, giving her his undivided attention, making her feel as though everything she had to say was important, just as he always did. “But I’d like to think that no one can sin too much or stray too far from God that He can’t bring them back, heal them, and give them a new life.”
The distant howl of a wolf mingled with the insects buzzing around them. She shivered, even though the night was muggy. “Then you don’t think it’s hopeless for Patrick?”
Ryan swatted at his neck. And Emma slapped at the mosquito hovering near her ear. “It’s not hopeless,” Ryan said. “I may not know Patrick well, but I know a godly man when I see one. And Patrick Garraty is a godly man.”
Emma wanted so much to believe Ryan. “Then why is he unfaithful to our marriage?”
“We don’t know for sure what’s going on. Maybe we should talk to him first and see what he has to say for himself.�
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“But I’ve noticed other things. Long, unexplained absences, the scent of women’s perfume on his coat.” And his lack of interest in the consummation of their marriage, only she couldn’t admit that to Ryan.
Ryan started to shake his head.
“And Bertie said that another woman came between Patrick and Delia.”
“Bertha Burnham is nothing but a gossip.”
“She’s my friend, and she’s been concerned about me.”
Ryan snorted.
“She tried to warn me about Patrick’s past. She suspected that he wasn’t telling everything.”
“Listen, Em. I like Patrick a whole lot more than I do Bertie. And if I had to bet money on whose word I trusted more, I’d choose Patrick.”
But Patrick had withheld information from her about his past. How could she trust him to tell her the truth in other things? She lowered her head, letting the misery of her situation swamp her. “I guess this means you won’t take me with you, that you want me to stay here with him?”
Ryan reached for her hand. “Of course I’ll take you with me. We made an agreement with Patrick that if you didn’t like it here, you could leave.” His hands surrounded hers, strong and solid.
She could always count on Ryan. He’d provide for her. She’d be all right. Except that she’d be homeless again . . .
A deep sigh pressed for release.
“You know I want you to be happy,” Ryan said. A shaft of moonlight came through the branches and glinted off his blond hair. “I haven’t liked the idea of leaving you here.”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand, grateful for his presence in her life. She tried to ignore the voice that told her he needed his freedom, that she wasn’t his responsibility anymore, and that she couldn’t burden him. That was one of the reasons she’d married Patrick in the first place, so that Ryan could move on with his life and figure out what God had planned for him.
“I’ve earned enough for passage. We can leave on the next steamboat if that’s what you really want,” Ryan continued. “But I want you to do one thing first.”
“What?”
“I want you to talk with Patrick.”
She stared at the long willowy grass that grew in patches here and there among the moss. She reached for a piece and plucked it, letting her fingers caress the soft, seedy end. She wanted to protest Ryan’s suggestion. Just thinking again about how Patrick had embraced that other woman renewed the painful throb in her chest.
Of all the things that had hurt her during the past day, seeing him with the strange woman had pained her the most. She didn’t want to have to face him again. She wanted to hide behind Ryan, slip silently onto the next passing steamboat, and go lick her wounds in private.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Ryan said.
Even though she wanted to leave, she knew Ryan was right. She had to talk to Patrick first, because she couldn’t leave with Josiah. She had to return the boy to his daddy.
“Okay.” Tears pressed the back of her eyes again. “I’ll talk to him as long as you’re there with me.”
For a long moment they sat quietly, and she realized just how exhausted she was. She started to rise, ready to stumble back to the Burnham cabin and let herself collapse onto the mat Bertie had offered her, when Ryan yanked her down and lifted a finger to his lips.
He was peering through the darkness toward the lake.
“What is it—?” she said, but Ryan clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off her words.
He nodded toward the docks. Several dark shapes were making their way toward the enormous pile of cordwood stacked in a grassy area along the shore. With his hand covering her mouth, she could feel Ryan’s muscles tense.
Emma tried to make sense of what appeared to be three or four men who’d come ashore from a small rowboat. Now they were in the process of loading their arms with the chopped wood.
When one of the men moved back to the docks, his arms loaded with the wood, Ryan let out a gasp of indignation. “Those men are stealing my wood.”
She knew the wood wasn’t really Ryan’s. But it was the result of his weeks of labor, chopping and stacking for the Burnhams.
“I bet they’re a bunch of pirates coming ashore,” Ryan whispered harshly, “thinking they can steal the wood rather than paying a fair price for it.”
Two more of the men with loaded arms moved away from the stacks and headed toward the dock.
“Hey!” Ryan released her, stood and stepped away from the edge of the forest into the moonlight.
“Hush, Ryan.” Emma reached for him, but she grabbed a handful of air instead.
“Hey!” he shouted again. “You better be planning to pay for that wood.”
The men halted. Their hats were pulled low and hid their faces. But in the cleared span of the beach, the moonlight spilled over them, clearly illuminating their crime and the waiting boat that bobbed next to one of the docks.
For a moment the men didn’t move. They glanced at each other as if trying to decide what to do next.
“Put it down and be on your way,” Ryan called.
Finally one of them shrugged and let his armful of wood drop to the ground. He turned and took a step toward the boat—a limping step.
It was Mitch.
Emma sucked in a breath. “Be careful, Ryan.”
Her warning came a second too late. Instead of continuing back to the boat, Mitch spun around, a pistol in his hand, its silver barrel gleaming.
“Get down!” she called, but a loud bang drowned out her voice.
An instant later, Ryan jerked back, cried out in pain, and fell to the ground next to her.
Chapter 22
At the echo of gunfire, Patrick shifted his oars and directed his cutter into the shadows of the shoreline. Hopefully the dark swaying shapes from the thick evergreens would conceal his boat from anyone who might be keeping a lookout.
He didn’t know what was happening at Burnham’s Landing, but it sounded ominous. His heart pounded with the sudden need to get there and make sure Emma and Josiah were safe. That was all that mattered.
The scrape of rocks and sand against the hull made it more difficult to navigate in the shallow water. He plunged the oars into the gravelly mixture, using the lake bottom to propel him closer to shore.
Finally, in his impatience, he leaped over the side into the water. He strode forward, tugging the boat with him, not caring that the water was level to his knees and that a splash of a wave soaked his trousers to his thighs and seeped down into his boots.
Another bang filled the night air. He had no doubt Emma had run to Burnham’s Landing, to Bertie or to Ryan. Even though he’d told himself he had to let her go, that he didn’t deserve her and would never be good enough to be her husband or Josiah’s father, he’d spent the last hour driving himself crazy with the need to see her again, to talk to her.
He’d paced around the tower gallery, praying and crying out to God. He raged into the night air. He shouted at the stars, pretending they were his family, his mother and father who’d never been there for him, who’d been too busy to train him in what was right, who’d been too interested in drinking and fighting and surviving to care.
Then, after he’d poured out his sorrows and regrets, he dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. He knew he couldn’t blame his parents for the man he’d become. He’d had a mind of his own. He’d made his own bad choices. And now he had to live with the consequences of his mistakes.
Still, couldn’t he be a better father to Josiah and a godly husband for Emma? Couldn’t he love and lead his own family in a way he’d never been loved or led?
“I don’t know what to do, God,” he prayed as he heaved the boat onto the bank. He’d told himself he was only going after her so he could give her all the money he’d saved. She’d need it to start a new life somewhere else with Josiah. It wasn’t much, since he’d been giving as much as he could to Sophie every month. He’d hoped the extra ca
sh would keep Sophie out of the brothel, would help her get by until she could find proper work.
He certainly wasn’t headed to Burnham’s Landing in the middle of the night to try to stop Emma or to persuade her to stay. He was only going now because he was afraid that if he waited until morning, she’d already be gone, that maybe she’d catch an early passage out of Presque Isle.
But deep inside, he knew that he wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all himself. The truth was that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself unless he saw her one more time and said good-bye.
He shoved the little boat into the underbrush and then pushed his way through the tangle of windfall and bushes until he stumbled onto the path that connected Burnham’s Landing to the lighthouse.
Cautiously he made his way forward until he reached the clearing. He peered across the length of open beach and took stock of the situation. On the shore side, a band of men hunkered down behind a mountain of cordwood. They were firing in the direction of one of the log shacks that stood closest to the forest.
He guessed that these pirates had stopped to pilfer cordwood and had gotten caught in the act. He didn’t imagine the fishermen would be able to do much to stop them from getting away. Maybe they’d save most of the wood, but the pirates were tough men and wouldn’t be easily beaten, even if the fishermen had a gun or two and could fight back.
Nevertheless, Patrick crept through the woods. He wove soundlessly through the thicket until he was near the fishery. He crouched low and through the darkness could make out several forms pressed against the bunkhouse.
He moved slowly forward, stopping at the snap of a branch. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and find the source of the sound. When a sliver of moonlight touched upon a golden head, his body jolted with dread.
“Emma?” he whispered.
The head spun toward the sound of his voice, and the faint light fell across Emma’s face, illuminating her fright. She was lying on the ground behind a log, with Ryan sprawled beside her.
“What are you doing out here?” Anger made his whisper harsher and louder than he’d intended.