by Jody Hedlund
“Ryan’s hurt,” she said. “He was shot in the arm. And when he fell, he knocked his head on a rock.”
Patrick crawled toward her regardless of the crackling and crunching he made in the leaves and fallen branches. When he reached the log, his chest burned with the danger of her position. “You need to get farther back into the woods,” he said, unable to stop himself from reaching out and touching her face.
“I can’t leave Ryan.” The young man was on his back. Even in the darkness, Patrick could see the blood staining Ryan’s shirtsleeve and dribbling down the side of his head.
“Can you help him?” Emma asked, kneeling down only inches away from both Patrick and Ryan.
Another bullet whizzed above their heads. Emma gasped while Patrick peeked over the log in the direction of the cordwood. “How long’s this been going on?”
“Too long,” Emma said. “It’s Mitch.”
“It can’t be,” Patrick replied. But even as he denied that Mitch would ever engage in a shooting battle, nausea clutched his gut at the truth of Emma’s statement. After leaving the lighthouse and rowing back to his steamer, Mitch and his friends had probably discovered their boat was low on fuel and decided to stock up by helping themselves to the cordwood piled near the harbor.
“I saw him,” Emma said.
She didn’t have to say anything more. Regret was already pummeling him. He should have tied Mitch up and taken him down to Fremont to the authorities. He’d only wanted to give his old friend a second chance. And after talking with him again on the dock as he was leaving, Patrick had prayed Mitch would decide to give up his thievish ways.
But apparently Mitch was determined to do what he wanted regardless of how it hurt others. Patrick lowered his head, and the shame of his association with the man stole over him.
“Come with me. I’m taking you to safety,” Patrick said, holding out his hand.
She shrank back. “Nay. I’m not leaving Ryan.”
“Come, lass.” His fingers wound around her arm.
She yanked and struggled against his hold.
He slipped one arm under her legs and the other under her back, intending to carry her if need be. “Please, Emma,” he whispered against her ear. The silkiness of her hair brushed his lips, and the softness of her cheek grazed his chin.
She ceased struggling, rested against him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. For a fleeting second he could almost believe she’d forgiven him for all that had happened and for who he was.
But the ping of more gunfire, this time hitting the nearby shack, urged him into action. Hunkering over Emma and protecting her with his body, he stumbled into the cover of trees, moving deeper into the woods. He tensed and waited for the bite of a bullet to puncture his back, but nothing came.
In the black shelter of the forest, he knelt and lowered her to the ground. He was surprised when she clung to him. Her breath came in bursts against his neck.
Darkness enveloped them, as the canopy of leaves and branches blocked out the moonlight. The scents of pine and damp moss were as thick as the foliage. She was so soft and warm in his arms, and his heart ached to think he might never get to hold her again.
The least he could do for her was save Ryan.
He pressed his lips against the top of her head and held her fiercely for one last moment. Then he let her go, wrenching her arms off his neck and setting her gently on the ground. “Stay here. I’m going back for Ryan.”
Without waiting for her reaction, he threaded his way through the thicket, not caring that the twigs scratched him or the thorns tore at him. It was the least of what he deserved. If he hadn’t been so trusting and careless, Mitch wouldn’t have had the opportunity to sneak into this community and harm them.
When he reached the forest edge, he crawled on his belly toward Ryan and, as gently as he could, carried the man back into the cover of the trees. Once he reached Emma, Patrick was breathing hard from the exertion. But he lowered Ryan down next to her and then spun and started walking away.
“Where are you going?” Emma called.
“I’ll be back for you both soon,” he said. “Don’t move until I come for you.”
Another of her questions trailed him as he hiked away from her. He didn’t stop to answer. The best way to make up for his mistake in letting Mitch go was to put an end to the stealing and fighting. He didn’t care that he was without a gun. He still had the best weapons God had given him—his fists. And even though he’d told himself he’d never fight again, he was going to break his vow and break it badly.
With his jaw set and his shoulders squared, he circled the shore until he reached the edge of the lake a short distance away from the docks. He stripped down to his trousers and then plunged underwater.
He swam toward the pirates’ rowboat, the same one he’d watched drift away only a little while ago with Mitch and Sophie inside.
There was one man in it. And from what he’d been able to tell, there were three others by the stack of cordwood for a total of four pirates.
He swam with the deftness that came from his years of working near the water. Unlike many sailors, he’d been determined to learn to swim and had taught himself. Over the years he’d saved many lives, including his own, because of the skill.
When he reached the boat, he surfaced silently, wiped the dripping water from his eyes, and slipped one of the back oars out of the boat. He then glided as close to the pirate as he could, raised the oar behind the man, and whacked him across the back of the head.
The man didn’t have time to turn around. He grunted, then slumped over the front bench, his fingers losing hold of his rifle. The weapon dropped to the floor of the boat with a clatter.
Patrick hefted himself over the side of the boat. Cold lake water dribbled down his face and arms, and the breeze coming off the lake hit his bare back. He shuddered but picked up the rifle anyway. He didn’t relish using it. He didn’t want to kill anyone, but he had to protect this little community, the people and place he’d come to love.
Quietly he wrapped the bowline around the man’s hands so that he’d be immobile when he regained consciousness. He took stock of the other men. Thankfully the pirates hadn’t noticed him in the boat knocking out their comrade. He studied them for a moment, his mind racing to formulate a plan.
How could one man take on three? Especially when one of them was Mitch?
He frowned. Mitch had been shot in the leg during one of the last raids they’d made to a small village like Presque Isle. Usually their thieving had amounted to nothing more than a few barrels of venison at a time or lumber stacked on the docks awaiting transport to the mills. They’d been more interested in the profit they could make from prizefighting.
Even though Mitch had a limp, he was stronger than most men. He was the one who’d taught Patrick to fight.
Patrick eyed the shore. He could row the boat closer to the men and lure them away. Even if Mitch and his men overpowered him, at least the fishermen who were trying to defend the village would be safe. And so would Emma and Ryan.
He slipped the shirt off the unconscious pirate and put it on. It was tight against his wet skin, but it would suffice. Then he donned the man’s hat, tipped the hat low, and started rowing closer toward the cordwood.
As he glided to the shore behind the cordwood, he whistled through his teeth. The three men turned at the same time. One was squatting on the edge of the stack. Another had climbed the woodpile and was shooting over the top. The third man with the outline of a bushy beard was pointing his gun at the woods.
At the sight of the rowboat, the one who’d been squatting rose and began running toward the shore. Several shots rang out from the bunkhouse. When he reached the water’s edge, he was panting. Without hesitating, he jumped into the water and made his way toward the boat. Patrick held out a hand as if to help the man. But the instant the pirate reached for him, Patrick brought his fist up into a punch that connected squarely with the man’s face.
/>
The man reeled back, gave a shout, but Patrick sent another jab to his jaw and this time knocked him out. He had to set the gun down and use all his strength to drag the man over the side of the boat.
He retrieved his gun and glanced at the other two pirates, who were too focused on the gunshots to pay any attention to Patrick’s punches. He hoped they assumed he’d merely helped the man into the boat and directed him to stay out of the line of fire.
Patrick gave another whistle. This time both of the men turned from the cordwood and began to race to the boat. With his limp, Mitch lagged behind the other.
As they drew nearer, Patrick’s fingers slid into position against the trigger. But even as he started to raise the gun, he knew he couldn’t shoot. He never had been able to threaten anyone with a gun. And he couldn’t start now. He would have to continue the battle with his fists or die trying.
Patrick stood but kept his hat tilted down until the third pirate jumped into the lake and splashed his way to the boat. Patrick averted his face until he’d helped the man over the side.
The man started at the sight of the two bodies lying next to each other in a puddle of water on the floor. “What’s going on here?”
The second he lifted his head, Patrick was ready. He swung a powerful hook, yet the man didn’t fall as easily as his companions. He cursed and then took a swing at Patrick. The fist came at Patrick’s face, and he quickly ducked to avoid the hit while at the same time leveling a hard punch to the man’s abdomen.
The pirate lunged at him, both fists swinging, with a speed that took Patrick by surprise. He danced around the dangerously rocking boat, over the legs of the unconscious men, ducking and swaying to avoid the punches. The man hit him several times before Patrick could find an opening for another punch.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Mitch had stopped on the bank. He’d lowered his gun, crossed his arms, and was watching the boxing match with apparent interest.
“You know who you’re fighting, Steel?” Mitch called in a voice drenched with excitement. “You’re face-to-face with Hook. The one and only Hook.”
The young pirate didn’t respond except to grunt and try to send an uppercut to Patrick’s chin. So this was the man Mitch had wanted him to fight. He was probably Mitch’s new well-trained prizefighter, his biggest money-maker.
For a moment, the surrounding lake faded as the swaying boat turned into a fighting ring and Patrick was back in a crowded warehouse amidst cigar smoke and the shouts of those placing bets on the fight. His body glistened with perspiration, and he reacted without thought.
All he knew was that he had to knock out his opponent. He swung back his arm, then looped it forward in a semicircle, putting all his weight behind it. His fist connected against Steel’s jaw, throwing him off-balance. Then Patrick delivered a stinging blow straight to the man’s nose.
His opponent crumpled and started to fall over the edge of the boat. Patrick grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt and maneuvered him to the floor next to the other two. His stomach lurched at the sight of blood on Steel’s face, and he wanted to curse himself for hurting the man.
But one look at the bloody pulp left of his knuckles told him where the blood had come from. Only then did the agony in his hands taunt him. He’d fought with his fists and knocked out three men, and he’d done it without hesitation.
He took a step back from the carnage, guilt pummeling him as surely as Steel’s fists.
“Just as I thought, Hook,” Mitch called from the bank, his arms crossed in satisfaction, as if they were at a boxing match instead of in the middle of a gun battle over stolen wood. “You haven’t lost your touch. You’re still as good as you used to be, maybe better. All that rowing and fishing you’ve been doing has made you even stronger.”
Patrick stared at the men he’d knocked out, the moon shining on their upturned faces. It had been all too easy to fall back into his old self, to hit and to hurt others. Was it always going to be a battle to force his past to stay behind him, to keep it from catching up and attempting to take over?
“I could turn you back into a big name,” Mitch said, staring across the water to the boat. “With your strength and size we could make bucketfuls of cash every night.”
Patrick yanked off the hat and shrugged out of the filthy shirt. He wouldn’t take on that lifestyle ever again.
“Beautiful women, endless parties.” Mitch was relentless. “It could all be yours again, Hook.”
Behind Mitch, Patrick could make out the forms of several of the fishermen zigzagging stealthily toward the cordwood, their guns aimed at the last standing pirate.
“I don’t want it, Mitch,” he said, bending and wrapping a rope around Steel’s hands, hoping to distract Mitch from the approaching men. He certainly didn’t want to end up in a boxing match with Mitch. He wasn’t sure he could hit the man, even if he came at him with both fists flying.
Besides, Mitch was armed. He didn’t think Mitch would shoot him, but he didn’t want to find out. He’d have a much better chance of surviving if he had help from the fishermen.
“This fight tonight,” Patrick said, winding the rope around his captive’s ankles, “is the last time I plan to use my fists.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Mitch said with a bitter laugh. “Yer Saint Patrick, aren’t you? Too good for the likes of me now that you got religion.”
“I’m not too good. I’m the worst of sinners.” Patrick pulled the rope into a tight knot, then took the remainder of the rope to the other man he’d knocked out. There was just enough left to bind him too.
“If you’re such a sinner,” Mitch said, “then you’ll fit right in with the lot of us.”
“Thanks to God’s love, I’m a sinner who’s been set free from my past.” Patrick tossed Mitch what he hoped was a casual glance, noting that Fred Burnham was almost upon him, his gun leveled and ready.
“Set free? Set free from a good time and plenty of money?” Mitch laughed again, but the sound was hollow. “Free so that now you can go to church and follow all kinds of rules?”
Patrick shrugged. He couldn’t explain it, but in the process of giving up his old life, it was as if a breeze had blown through him, cleaned him, and given him hope that he’d never had on his own. He didn’t feel in bondage to rules. He also didn’t feel as if he’d lost any pleasure in life. In fact, it was just the opposite. And since he married Emma, he’d felt more pleasure being with her than with all the other women he’d known in the past.
“You’re telling me you’re happy here?” Mitch asked.
“I’ve never been happier,” Patrick said. He knew it was the truth. He loved Emma. His short time with her had been the best time of his life. The thought of losing her ripped at his heart again.
Fred Burnham and two other fishermen approached Mitch’s back. One of them shoved the barrel of a gun into Mitch, and he stiffened. Before he could move, the other men had grabbed his arms and wrenched them behind his back.
Surprise arched Mitch’s brow. Then as he stared at Patrick, his eyes filled with the pain of betrayal.
Patrick didn’t say anything. He simply watched, aching at the sight of his old friend, shut off to the ways of God. Patrick had given him a chance to turn his life around and do the right thing. Mitch had only spurned his offer by robbing and hurting the people he’d come to care about.
It was time for Mitch to face the consequences of his actions. But even knowing that Mitch’s arrest was the right thing, Patrick couldn’t watch as the men hauled him away and locked him into the supply shed, along with his three accomplices who were finally starting to stir.
Fred posted a guard in front of the shack and sent a couple of men down to Fremont to fetch the sheriff. In the meantime, Ryan had regained consciousness, and Emma helped him into the Burnhams’ log cabin. Widow Burnham was tending to his bullet wound.
Dawn started to break, and Patrick knew he needed to return to the lighthouse and turn off the lan
tern, along with the other duties he’d put off during the night. Even so, he lingered there, chatting with the other men about the shooting, receiving their good-natured congratulations on almost single-handedly defeating the thieves.
He didn’t care about any of that. All he wanted was to see Emma and his boy Josiah and wrap them both in a fierce hug before saying good-bye. From where he leaned against the side of a fish shanty, his attention kept straying to the doorway of the Burnham cabin.
Faint sunlight streaked the lake when Bertie finally strode outside. “We fished the bullet out of Ryan’s shoulder and got him stitched up real good.”
The men nodded, one after the other. During the shooting, Ryan had been the only one injured. They were grateful to him for alerting them to the thieves and being willing to help them fight, even though he wasn’t one of them.
Bertie scanned the men until she saw Patrick. Her lips pinched with obvious displeasure. “You better arrest Patrick Garraty too,” she said, pointing at him.
His heartbeat took a dive, but he didn’t move.
The men standing around him grew silent. They were sipping coffee and readying their nets and sails for their day of fishing.
“He’s a pirate, just like the rest of the lot.” Bertie’s accusation rang out in the morning air. She stood on the grassy bank outside the cabin, the lamplight from the interior illuminating her, making her loom larger than life.
The men murmured their disbelief.
“It’s true,” Bertie said louder to make herself heard, her sharp gaze fixed on him. “I’ve got plenty of proof, so there’s no sense in denying it, Patrick.”
Patrick could feel all eyes upon him, burning into him with suspicion and mistrust where only minutes ago had been warmth and acceptance. He knew he had to say something to defend himself, but what could he say now that the truth was out?
“I won’t deny I was once a pirate,” Patrick said. “But I gave up my sinful ways. I’m done with that life.”
Bertie took a step toward him, her thin body stiff. “I suppose that’s why you gave shelter to their ringleader, Mitch Schwartz, this past week? From what I hear, he’s an old friend.”