Love Unexpected (14 page)

He swallowed the rising desire and pressed her hand back against his cheek. He held it there, wanting her to know how much he'd welcomed her caresses.

Her eyes grew rounder.

“Rain, Mamma,” Josiah said. “Me wet.”

At Josiah's simple statement, she broke away and scrambled backward, so that Patrick had no choice but to sit up. He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the stark desire that radiated there just as surely as the Presque Isle Light beamed in the darkness.

Thankfully she turned her back to him and busied herself with Josiah. As the rain began to fall in earnest, they gathered everything and ran back to the house. Stumbling into the kitchen, panting and laughing, rain dripped from their garments and formed puddles on the floor.

“Me wet,” Josiah said again. “Change clothes.” He dropped the half-squished caterpillar onto the table and toddled toward his room.

Emma started after the boy at the same time Patrick did, and they almost collided. “I was going to help him,” Emma said.

“I was too,” he said softly.

She was only inches from him.

The rain pattered hard on the roof. It was a soothing sound, not at all like the thrashing of some of the storms that buffeted the lighthouse. In the cloudiness of the late afternoon, the kitchen was dark, shadowing them both, giving the room a cozy air.

Even in the dimness, he couldn't help but notice that her wet clothes clung to her. Her shirt plastered her rounded curves, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest only served to draw his attention to the outline of her body.

She followed his gaze downward, gave a soft gasp, and took a quick step back while crossing her arms over herself. “Maybe I should get changed too,” she whispered.

He gave himself a mental shake and forced himself to focus on her pretty face. She started to move past him. He knew he should let her go, but when her shoulder grazed him in passing, he took her by the arm and stopped her.

She sucked in a breath. In the stillness of the room, with only the tapping of rain above them, her soft gasp did something strange to his stomach. He moved sideways until his face brushed against her wet hair. His mouth hovered near her ear. For the longest moment he couldn't move. She didn't move either, except that her breathing turned more rapid. The sound of her quick intakes only stirred him until his heart raced with a frenzy he'd never felt before.

“Emma,” he whispered against her hair.

She didn't say anything in reply. Then slowly she turned her head so that her lips were near his. Her warm breath came in bursts that mingled with his.

He was going to kiss her. He couldn't help it. His lips grazed hers, as light as a sprinkle of rain.

When she didn't move away, he gently brushed against her again. He knew he shouldn't rush things, though he wasn't sure how much longer he could go without taking her fully and crushing her under the weight of a real kiss.

He pulled back slightly and touched his nose to hers. Again she didn't turn away.

He leaned in for more of her . . .

“Mamma, help!” came Josiah's muffled voice, breaking through the charged air that surrounded them.

Emma jumped back.

They both swiveled toward Josiah's bedroom. He stood in the doorway, naked except for his shirt, which he'd pulled up over his head where it had become wedged at his chin.

“Stuck,” the little boy said through the wet linen.

Emma's mouth dropped open.

For a moment, Patrick was as speechless as Emma, still struggling to return to reality. She gave a stifled laugh, pressing her hand over her mouth.

The lad made quite an amusing sight with his chubby white body capped by his shirt sticking straight up over his head.

Emma laughed again, unable to contain her mirth.

Patrick grinned, and then before he knew it, he was laughing with her. Sensing that he was the source of their laughter, Josiah started prancing around and giggling.

Finally, Emma crossed to the boy and freed his head from the shirt, and afterward Patrick scooped him up in a hug.

“Go ahead and get changed first,” he said, tossing Emma a smile, “while I take care of this little clown of ours.”

He knew he shouldn't stare at her, but as she crossed the kitchen, his eyes trailed after her. And when she peeked at him over her shoulder, her smile of pleasure sent a burst of hope through him.

Maybe things would turn out differently from the way they had with Delia. Maybe he'd been worried for nothing. He might not be worthy of Emma, but he could only pray he'd do his best to make her happy.

T
he little house shook from a deafening clap of thunder. Emma bolted upright in bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“Mamma!” Josiah's terrified cry echoed through the house.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed to the cold wood floor as a streak of lightning lit up the night sky and was again followed by a bang of thunder that seemed intent on beating down the walls of their home.

Josiah screamed.

Without taking the time to wrap a robe around her thin nightgown, she rushed out of her bedroom, feeling her way through the dark hall and kitchen until she was in Josiah's room. She gathered his shaking body into her arms and carried him back to her bed.

It took some time for him to stop crying. When he was finally quiet, he lay next to her, sucking his thumb. She'd wrapped her arms around him to comfort him, but as the storm continued to rage, her own fear mounted.

She'd heard sailors talk about the storms on Lake Huron,
how they were the most violent of all the Great Lakes. And even though she'd experienced a few squalls during her time on Mackinac Island, none could compare with the one raging outside.

The wind rattled the entire house as if to blow it right out into the lake. It whistled under the door, down the chimney, and through every crack in the windowpanes. At a ripping noise overhead, she drew Josiah closer. The roof was breaking apart.

If the storm was tearing at the house, she didn't want to think about what it was doing to the tower in its dilapidated condition. Her insides trembled at the thought that Patrick might be in danger.

She wanted to pray for him, that God would keep him safe, that the tower wouldn't blow away into the sea with Patrick inside. But she wasn't sure that she could.

She only had to think of Patrick's bowed head at breakfast every morning, of the sincerity and humility with which he offered his petitions, and she knew she had to try to pray again sometime. Her voice and throat, though, were still rusty, long neglected when it came to prayer.

At dawn, the storm finally blew itself out over the lake, leaving a steady patter of rain against the windows. She waited for the squeak of the back door, signaling that Patrick was done with his keeper duties for the night. But as the minutes passed and the house grew lighter, he still didn't come.

With Josiah asleep again, she dressed silently and tiptoed outside. She told herself she was only assessing the damage to the house, but the first place she looked was up at the tower.

Through the pelting rain and overcast sky, the beam was still rotating. She searched for the outline of Patrick's form through the tower's windows, but couldn't spot him.

As the rain spattered her face, she tried to quiet the rapid thud of her heart, hoping he'd left the light burning longer because the morning was unusually gray. He would be turning it off soon.

After waiting and watching a few moments longer, she decided she needed to know that he was all right. She dashed to the tower and raced up the winding stairway until she reached the ladder that led to the lantern room.

“Patrick,” she called through gasping breath. She pushed open the hatch and popped her head into the room.

The howling of the wind was the only reply she received.

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 stare 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.