Lighthouse Brides Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “That ain’t all, Cap’n. No sooner than I prayed, the wind began to slowly die down—not all at once, just nice and easy. I laughed and cried at the same time. The men acted like I had taken leave of my senses.” Pete smacked his leg. “And I gave up drinkin’ and cursin’, too. I should have listened to you a long time ago.”

  “I’m real glad for you, Pete. You know, I wouldn’t be much of a man if I didn’t tell you the truth.” Mason closed his eyes and paused; the pain in his head seemed to overpower him.

  “Maybe I should leave you,” Pete suggested. “You need to sleep.”

  “No, I want to tell you this. Lately, I’d been thinking I didn’t need God. Got to believing all those hero tales you fellows tell about me. But during the storm, I asked God to forgive me for not putting Him first.”

  “Well, you and me got a real reason to live now, don’t we?” Pete laughed out loud. “I’ve been tellin’ the men about the Lord. Some are payin’ attention and some aren’t, but no matter to me. I’m just glad to be alive.”

  “You’re a saint, Pete, a better man than me.” Mason paused to catch his breath. “Tell me about the other men and the condition of the Flying

  Fish.”

  Pete scratched a whiskery chin. “Once the wind died down and the sun rose, we saw how much damage was done to the ship. I figured out where we were, but the sails were in threads. We all got busy and tried mending them the best we could and somehow got to land.”

  “And where are we?”

  “Along the coast of Georgia. Ain’t much around here but gators and Mrs. Shatterman. No way to send word to your father or Miss Portier. We’re over three weeks late, and the ship still needs more repairs before she’s seaworthy. Plus, Cap’n Channing has some repairin’ of his own to do.”

  “You boys get the ship ready, and I’ll be well enough to sail home.”

  Pete smiled. “Aye, Cap’n. I knew you’d say that. Is there anything I can do fer ya?”

  Mason knew what he wanted, desperately. “Pete, would you read to me from the Bible?”

  Pete picked up the Book as though it were made of gold. “Thanks to you, I can read. What do you want to hear?”

  Mason closed his eyes. “Just open it and read whatever the Lord gives you.”

  Pete let his fingers flip through the pages. “Here it is, Captain, Psalm 121.” He cleared his throat, and his voice sounded like thunder in the distance. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from the time forth, and even for evermore.”

  Mason relished the words. He sensed a personal message from the Lord—a confirmation of His faithfulness, even though Mason had strayed. With His almighty hand, He had protected Mason’s body and soul, not simply through the eye of the storm, but through eternity.

  “Thank you,” Mason managed, feeling weary and noting he needed to sleep. “Until I can gain enough strength, would you read me this psalm when you visit?”

  “Aye, I’d be honored.” Pete set the Bible back on the table and picked up his hat. “I best be goin’ now. You tend to getting well.”

  Mason smiled and closed his eyes. A picture of his Jule danced across his mind. His precious jewel became the last thing he remembered before allowing sleep to engulf him.

  Jule climbed the spiral staircase of the brick-and-iron lighthouse. The sound of her shoes clacking against the metal steps magnified around her. It had become an accustomed sound, yet a lonesome one—matching the solitary beat of her heart. She refused to believe Mason had been lost at sea. He had been through many a storm, and God had brought him safely into harbor. Hope. Trust. The only things allowing her to put one foot in front of the other. On she ascended the circling stairs, listening to the single tap of her footsteps.

  Once the lamps were lit, she heard Joshua calling her name, as was his custom, and heard him hurrying up to see her.

  “Won’t you have dinner with us?” he asked, once he reached the lantern room. His face was flushed from running up the stairs.

  Jule shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m not really hungry tonight.”

  “What if I brought a plate for both of us, and we could eat together?”

  Guilt gnawed at her, knowing Joshua fretted over her health, as did Mama and Papa. She offered a smile. “Of course.”

  He grinned back, his brown eyes sparkling. “Thanks, Jule.” He turned to leave then hesitated. “I’m worried about you.”

  She couldn’t look at him. “I know you are, and I appreciate the concern, but everything will be fine when Mason comes home.”

  Silence.

  “He isn’t coming home. It has been more than four weeks since his ship disappeared.”

  Jule shook her head and gazed out at the gathering darkness. She’d overheard the rumors Joshua had reported to Mama—an angel now tended the light at Bolivar Point, a young woman who had lost her sea captain.

  Pretending to ignore her brother’s words, she carefully chose her reply. “I think it would be perfectly lovely to share dinner up here with you.”

  Standing on the catwalk, Jule watched the sun rise. The day of her wedding would come in one week, but Mason still hadn’t returned. The family didn’t talk about it; they omitted any mention of his name. She tried harder each day to smile and feign gladness for the things God had given her, but deep inside she ached. At times she wanted to beg God to take away her pain and restore her joy, but she would not give up on Mason’s return.

  As the colors of pink and purple spread to blue, she watched Joshua’s fishing boat bob on the waves. She knew Papa studied him, too, so anxious to resume the life he had known before his illness. Twice he had climbed the lighthouse steps and assisted her during the watch. Soon he would want to claim it again, but she could not bear to leave her post.

  Melancholia blanketed her this morning. Her eyes were dry, yet she felt her very lifeblood had been drained away. She closed her eyes and recited Psalm 121.

  With a heavy heart, she turned to step inside the lantern room, but a second boat caught her eye. She studied it closely, curiously, even willing it to be her Mason.

  Instead of rowing past the end of the peninsula, it neared the shore. The boat stopped, and a man waded onto dry land. With her heart thumping wildly, she let out a cry.

  Jule lifted her skirts and rushed down the stairs. Unable to get to the bottom fast enough, she attempted to contain her racing heart and think clearly. But she had seen him. She recognized his gait and the way he carried himself.

  Flinging open the lighthouse door, she saw the man approach the house running. She saw the tousle of sandy hair.

  “Mason!” The mere utterance of his name sent chills up her arms. Her legs felt weak, yet somehow she hurried to meet him.

  Mason waved, and her elation gave way to tears. Moments later, his arms circled her, and he was caressing her, kissing her. She quivered at his touch, hoping against hope this was not a dream.

  “It is you,” she breathed, brushing her fingers across his face. “I knew you would come back; I knew you were not lost at sea.”

  He pulled her close. “Nearly, my darling. If not for God, I would have surely perished.”

  Jule gazed into his deep, blue-gray eyes, no longer stormy but calm and peaceful. “He has brought you back to me,” she said. “Thank You, Lord.”

  “He has done more than brought back the man,” Mason said, gazing into her eyes. “He has taken away my proud spirit. Oh, my sweet, precious Jule, can you ever forgive me?”

  “Of course, my love. How could I not? I prayed God would speak to you,” she repl
ied, marveling in the difference in his calm features.

  He pulled her tightly against him. “I spoke with Father, too. The dear man has been at the docks every morning since he received the wire about my disappearance.”

  “Your parents love you, Mason, as do I.”

  She nestled against his chest, and her fingers entwined firmly into his. The verses that had given her strength to endure each day without him went through her mind. “God gave me a special psalm to see me through these horrible weeks,” she said.

  “Hmm,” he replied, kissing the tip of her nose, “He gave me one, too.”

  “Mine is Psalm 121.”

  Mason smiled and lightly caressed her lips. “Jule, He gave us the same scripture. Oh, my love, we will have such a wonderful, blessed life together.”

  A TIME

  TO LOVE

  by Sally Laity

  Dedication

  To Jessica Leigh…a bright and shining light to all who know and love her.

  Special thanks to Becky Ryder, office manager, Bullards Beach State Park, for supplying a wealth of brochures and information about Coquille River Light and the surrounding area. And thank you to Bill Powell, Bandon Historical Society, for answering questions regarding some pertinent historical details. Their help was much appreciated, as was the tireless slashing of critique partner extraordinaire, Dianna Crawford. God’s richest blessings to them all.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although a few West Coast lighthouses actually have had women keepers over the years, Coquille River Light was not among them. My thanks to the people of Bandon, Oregon, for the use of their incredibly neat lighthouse in this story. I only hope my characters performed the complicated duties required to provide safe passage to vessels as satisfactorily as did the principal keeper of that time period, James Barker, and his assistant, James Cowan. They and their families have earned my utmost respect.

  Chapter 1

  Oregon, Summer, 1898

  Perhaps it’s good news,” Birdie Hastings panted. Her face, typically pink beneath her salt-and-pepper topknot, glowed even rosier after bustling across the long, wooden walkway from the mainland to the lighthouse and up its steep stairs. She held out the missive.

  Eden Miles wished she could be so hopeful. She laid aside the smudged polishing rag she’d been using on the brass and copper fixtures in the lantern room and, with a nod of thanks, took the official-looking mail from the housekeeper. The older woman had been such a gift since arriving on the doorstep to help out after Eden had lost her husband. She forced a thin smile to mask the trepidation turning her insides to mush. “I suppose we can always hope, can’t we, Birdie?”

  “Long as there’s life and breath.”

  Just the answer one might expect from one of the world’s great optimists, Eden thought. But then, neither of them mentioned how a negative response from the secretary of the treasury could have a devastating effect on both their futures. All three of their futures, in fact. She checked out the window for four-year-old Christian while she tore the envelope’s flap open.

  Her towhead son was on the rocky jetty below, collecting shells left behind by the tide. As he paused to watch frolicking sandpipers and oystercatchers, the slanting rays of the setting sun gilded his hair like a halo. She returned her attention to the mail.

  My dear Madam:

  In answer to your request for the position of assistant keeper at the Coquille River Light, I regret to inform you that we have not yet reached a decision. However, the board is agreeable to an additional trial period of six months, during which you may continue the duties you have undertaken since your late husband’s untimely demise. After such time, we will review your case again. If the results of your efforts prove satisfactory, and upon recommendation of Principal Keeper Rutherford, we will make our final ruling in the matter.

  Yours truly,

  Bradley DeVille

  Fifth Auditor and Acting

  Commissioner of the Revenue

  “What? What?” Birdie Hastings stood wringing her hands like justwashed clothes. “Are they going to let us stay, or do we pack up?”

  “To go where?” Eden asked on a desperate note. She handed over the written reply to her housekeeper and stepped out onto the parapet overlooking the broad expanse of the Pacific and the mouth of the Coquille River, with the town of Bandon on its south side. The soothing shush of ocean waves and the salt-laden breeze always helped calm her spirit.

  A recommendation from Sherman Rutherford. What hope was there of that? The old bachelor made no secret of the fact that he coveted the position of assistant keeper for one of his close and qualified friends. She winced. Why, the man had been almost elated when Winslow’s body had washed ashore two months ago after a failed attempt to aid the crew of a grounded schooner during a gale. But Eden was not about to give in so easily. Clinging to the knowledge that to everything there was a season, she had spent her tears and resigned herself to her loss, sure in her heart that God would neither leave nor forsake her.

  Eden raised her chin with determination. She’d give the principal keeper no grounds for dismissal. She had assisted her husband often enough during the past eighteen months to know she could do the job adequately. She’d get the position. She had to. There was no alternative.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Birdie said, coming to join her. With some hesitance she took a second item from her apron pocket, obviously none too pleased to be the bearer of bad tidings. “I’m afraid another letter’s come back unopened. Hard to fathom, that’s for sure. Something should be done about it. Well, I’d best be starting supper.” With that, the housekeeper turned and crossed to the steps, her every descending footfall creating a hollow echo in the tower’s stillness.

  Staring with a heavy heart at the letter she’d posted to her parents mere weeks ago, Eden sighed then tucked the envelope inside her vest and gazed down at her son. It wasn’t fair, that unforgiving spirit. The child was entirely blameless in all of this, and certainly he had a right to know what limited family he possessed—especially now, in view of Winslow’s accidental drowning.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Christian glanced up and grinned, holding a round object aloft. “Look, Mama, a new sand dollar—a good one.”

  “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. Time to go in and wash up. You can bring the sand dollar to show me when Mrs. Hastings brings my supper tray.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Setting his latest treasure carefully in the tin pail with the rest of his day’s collection, he brushed his hands down his suspendered trousers and grabbed the bucket’s handle, then skipped after the housekeeper.

  Well, no sense wasting regret on things that couldn’t be changed, Eden asserted. A person here on a trial basis had better work twice as hard at keeping up her responsibilities. One never knew when inspectors would pay a surprise visit, looking for any infractions or neglect.

  The smallest and last lighthouse built on the Oregon coast, Coquille River Light occupied the island of Rackleff Rock, just to the north of the port of Bandon, an important center for shipping lumber from Oregon’s rich forests. Constructed of white stucco over brick with a black roof, the octagonal fog-signal building had an attached black-domed, forty-foot tower housing a lantern. Its fourth order Fresnel lens served to guide ships across the treacherous bar at the river’s entrance. A one hundred fifty-foot wooden footbridge connected the light to the mainland, where a double dwelling shared by the keepers occupied the sand dunes.

  Eden had loved the river light the moment she first glimpsed the Italianate Victorian design and multi-paned windows. Its small size only added to its charm. Still, the duties required to tend it were far from easy, but she did her level best to see to them all.

  She lifted her gaze to the Pacific, where the cool, salty breeze stirred across the waters, cresting the tops of the choppy waves with white foam. The fierce winter weather was just a memory, as was much of spring. But even in summer the winds could be chilly on the sunniest days, and low-h
anging fog often blanketed the coastal belt in the mornings and evenings. Already, traces of mist tiptoed tentatively above the glistening surface as if testing the waters before settling down for the night. Soon long wisps of white would braid around the contours of the land, masking the shoals and sandbar where the Coquille joined the ocean.

  Nearly time to light the wicks, she reminded herself. She took up the rag and dabbed it into the abrasive Tripoli powder, then resumed rubbing again.

  In the light morning mist, the aged sternwheeler Solitude chugged up the Pacific toward the Coquille River. Owner and captain Dane Bradbury focused intently on reading currents and surface ripples ahead as he piloted his weathered vessel over the hidden shoals that easily earned the river’s mouth its reputation as one of the most dangerous along the coast.

  Thick fog had forestalled an earlier arrival at Bandon. Dane had lined the ship up last night with the Coquille River Light, whose faint beam somehow pierced the murk. Its familiar signature, twenty-eight seconds of light, followed by a two-second occlusion, had kept him company through the stillness of a watch broken only by the regular pattern of blasts from the fog trumpet.

  Used to sailing the north coast in all sorts of weather, Dane disliked fog the most. A ship could fight strong currents and with luck stay somewhat near course, though sternwheelers were notorious for breaking up in gales. But locked within a veil of damp whiteness, a person could lose all perspective and doubt both instincts and instruments.

  The Solitude’s shape was reminiscent of a wedding cake, with a main deck below and a hurricane deck above. A small wheelhouse perched atop the structure, and a paddle wheel nearly as wide as the vessel itself powered it from behind. Discounting the riverboat’s limitations in heavy wind, Dane knew she had many notable qualities. With her spoon-shaped bow and flat bottom, she had light draft and could proceed safely with as little as twenty inches of river beneath her when her holds were empty. Even when weighted down by three hundred tons of cargo, waist-deep water would suffice.