Hearts Made Whole Page 7

  He swallowed the pain that rose up in his chest, taunting him, telling him that he didn’t deserve God’s love and grace. Instead he let the gentle beam of light inside, and he whispered back the words pressing for release from the depths of his being. “I need you.”

  Maybe it wasn’t much of a prayer, but it was a start.

  Caroline stooped over her cluster of basil plants and clipped several of the stems. The peppery aroma tingled her nose and added to the delectable scents of the horsemint and thyme she’d already cut.

  Pruning her garden always brought her such delight. But today, under the growing cloudiness of the afternoon sky, she found no joy in the task. In fact, on numerous occasions she’d considered simply abandoning the garden, leaving it to fend for itself. Just as she’d abandoned Ryan earlier that morning in the tower and made him fend for himself.

  She gave a sideways glance toward the boathouse, where he’d disappeared again after somehow managing to turn off the light. She’d had to restrain herself all day from going back up to the lantern room and making sure he’d done it right and that he’d cleaned up after himself.

  Instead she’d forced herself to get some much-needed sleep before getting up to care for Sarah, to change and wash her, reposition her, and try to make her as comfortable as possible.

  Through the open window of Sarah’s bedroom she could hear Tessa’s dramatized voice as she read to Sarah from one of the books she’d borrowed from Grosse Pointe’s schoolteacher. Even though Tessa had stopped attending the school several years ago, she still often pestered old Mr. Lund for books or sonnets or plays.

  Caroline often had to pry the books from Tessa’s fingers and admonish her to do her work, but she never had the heart to stop her when she was reading to Sarah. Tessa relayed the stories with so much liveliness and expression that Sarah could listen for hours.

  Caroline supposed the stories refreshed Sarah’s soul the same way the flower gardens outside her window refreshed the girl’s sights. For all the times Caroline conflicted with Tessa, she knew they were both only attempting to make Sarah’s life happy in their own ways.

  “One more chapter” came Sarah’s sweet voice through the window. “Please, Tessa.”

  “All right,” Tessa replied. “Only one more, though, or Caroline will skin me like a raccoon and string me up for sitting around all afternoon and leaving her with the work.”

  Caroline stifled a sigh and sat back on her heels, the soft moss at the edge of the garden cushioning her knees.

  For once, she’d neglected the work needing to be done too. She’d told herself she would walk into town with the boys that morning when they went to school, that she’d spend some time asking around for work and seeking a new place to live. But when the boys had tramped off across the marsh, she’d hung behind, making an excuse that she was too tired.

  She’d planned to start packing their belongings, but the empty crates for storage were in the boathouse and she hadn’t wanted to face Ryan again. At least that was what she’d told herself.

  Caroline paused and looked around, scanning the back of the house, her fading flower garden, the fenced-in vegetable plot, and the gnarled apple tree drooping under the weight of its fruit. A swell of sorrow threatened to crush her chest.

  She wasn’t ready to leave Windmill Point. She loved the beauty of the isolated marsh and living along the lake. She didn’t want to make her home someplace where she couldn’t wake up to the lapping of waves, the muddy-grassy scent of the water, and the endless blue of the lake.

  She loved the peacefulness and the quiet. She loved the wild creatures that made the lake their home. She even loved the mysterious history of the area. Some claimed Windmill Point was an Indian graveyard and old battlefield where the Fox tribe had fought and been slaughtered by early French settlers.

  Through the tall reeds among the distant woods to the north, she caught sight of a red flannel coat. Within seconds an old man burst out of the woods. He wore a coonskin hat, its striped tail flopping down his back, alongside his long gray hair that was pulled back in a queue. His gun was propped against his shoulder, and his black eyes glared at her across the distance.

  It was Monsieur Poupard, their neighbor.

  Caroline stood, fisted her hands on her hips, and stared back, refusing to let the old French trapper intimidate her. “You’ll be very glad to see us go too, won’t you?” she said.

  Every once in a while she glimpsed him in the woods, hunting. Usually, though, the hermit kept to himself in his log house near the ruins of the old windmill.

  He’d likely come over because he’d heard the news about her replacement. She had no doubt he was rejoicing that they were leaving. He’d rejoice to be rid of the twins, since they bothered him to no end, always encroaching on his land, or fishing on his section of the lake, or making too much noise near his house.

  The only time he came over was to complain about the boys in his thick French accent.

  She was surprised when he waved at her with a jerk of his arm. When she didn’t move, he waved again, this time more forcefully.

  “Make haste,” he called, his leathery face scrunched in a scowl.

  “What do you need?” she asked.

  “The twins,” he said.

  She didn’t have the time to listen to him grumble about Harold and Hugh. They’d be out of his way soon enough. Couldn’t he tolerate them a few more days?

  “I’m sorry they’re bothering you again, monsieur. I’ll be sure to talk to them about it.” She’d told them to come straight home after school and not to get into any trouble. They’d clearly disobeyed.

  “Non, non, non.” The Frenchman’s scowl deepened, and he sliced the air with his hand to cut her off. “The boys. They are in trouble. You must come at once.”

  Trouble was nothing new for the twins. They were always getting dirty, ripping their trousers or scraping their knees in one of their many escapades. But there was something urgent in Monsieur Poupard’s voice that caused an eerie stillness to descend over her, as if she were swimming underwater where there was no sound.

  “The abandoned well by the ruins.” Monsieur Poupard cocked his head to the north. “This is where they are. One of them has fallen inside.”

  Fallen into the old well?

  Caroline shuddered, and the outside world came rushing back to her senses with the force of a roaring gale. She picked up her skirt, bunching the material into her shaking hands, and darted toward him.

  “You must get rope,” Monsieur Poupard shouted.

  She nodded and veered toward the boathouse. As she ran, her heart pattered in time to her feet. She didn’t bother to knock at the half-open door. She barged inside and almost tripped over Ryan’s feet.

  He was lying on his bedroll, his head resting against a life jacket. In the dim light she could see his eyes were closed and there was a whiskey bottle near his hand next to the driftwood cross.

  Had he been drinking again?

  She shook her head in disgust, quickly stepping around him and reaching for the rope hanging on the back wall.

  “Is it time to light the lantern already?”

  At the sound of his groggy voice, she jumped. “No,” she snapped. “It’s not nearly time.”

  He sat up slowly and wiped his hand across his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not your concern.”

  He watched her uncoil the rope from the hook and loop it over her shoulder. “Is someone drowning? Are you heading out on a rescue mission?” His voice lost the sleepiness and instead took on an edge.

  “I said it’s not your concern.” Her muscles were tight, urging her to get to the boys as fast as she could. Without a second glance at Ryan, she started out of the shed. His grip on her arm stopped her. She pivoted, astonished to see him on his feet.

  His expression was alert, his eyes serious. “It is my concern now,” he said in a low voice. For an instant she could see the man he used to be—conscientious, hardworking
, determined.

  But at the sourness of alcohol on his breath, she yanked back from him and pulled free of his grip. “I don’t have time to waste dealing with you right now,” she said. “My brothers are in trouble, and I’m going to rescue them.”

  At her declaration, he released her. The determination in his expression wavered.

  She spun away, her chest tightening at the thought of what awaited her at the old well. She didn’t have another second to waste. Especially arguing with a half-inebriated man.

  As she raced across the yard, she shouted instructions to Tessa through the open window. A few seconds later, the front door banged open and Tessa called after her as she rushed toward the marsh. Caroline didn’t stop to answer but began pushing her way through the woods.

  When she broke through the clearing by the ruins of the old windmill, her lungs burned with the need for more air. Her legs almost collapsed beneath her. Ignoring the pain, she sprinted the rest of the way to the crumbling brick structure of the windmill.

  She gave a wheezing cry and fell to her knees at the sight of Harold leaning over the top ledge of the well. His arms were stretched down, and he was shouting instructions over his shoulder to Monsieur Poupard, who had a tentative hold on his legs.

  “No, Harry!” she called.

  At the sight of her, Harry wiggled out of his precarious perch and planted his feet on solid ground. His face was dirty and streaked with tears. “Hugh is down there!” he shouted. “And he can’t keep afloat much longer.”

  Tessa staggered past her, her breath coming in gasps from running. She didn’t stop until she reached Harry. “What happened?” Tessa demanded, gripping the boy’s shoulders.

  “Are you all right?” came a voice behind Caroline.

  She turned and was surprised to see Ryan. His brown eyes regarded her with concern, and he grasped her arm and steadied her.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said hoarsely.

  “Hugh’s under the water!” Tessa screamed. “He’s drowning!”

  Ryan sprang forward. Caroline stumbled after him, begging her weak legs to carry her to her brother. Oh, God, she silently pleaded. Not Hugh too . . .

  She’d had to stand back and helplessly watch her father drown. She couldn’t do it again. She couldn’t watch Hugh die without attempting to save him.

  Ryan kicked off his boots and shed his shirt at the same time, then hopped onto the edge of the well with a nimbleness that spoke of his strength despite his injuries.

  “Hugh!” he yelled into the darkness. “Hang on! I’m coming down.” Without waiting for a response, Ryan slid over the edge and jumped. There was a splash, followed by several long seconds of silence.

  Caroline lifted the rope from her shoulder and peered down into the deep well. Through the shadows she could make out the tops of two heads.

  “I’ve got the boy!” Ryan shouted up. “He’s swallowed a lot of water, but he’s alive. Throw me the rope.”

  As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, she could see Ryan’s upturned face and shoulders. His muscles were stretched taut in his effort to keep himself afloat while holding on to Hugh.

  “I’ll tie the rope around him, and then you pull him up.” Ryan’s voice exuded a confidence that gave her a boost of energy.

  She lowered the rope until she heard it hit the water. Within seconds he had the rope looped around Hugh’s chest and under his arms. The weight pulled the rope so that it burned against Caroline’s hands. Thankfully, Monsieur Poupard had already taken hold of the rope behind her, aiding her hold of Hugh.

  “All set!” Ryan called. “Pull him up.”

  Tessa and Harry grabbed the rope too. With the four of them heaving, they pulled Hugh’s limp body to the surface. At the sight of him, a dismayed cry slipped from Tessa’s lips, and she flung herself toward the boy.

  She lifted him the last bit of distance into her arms and carried him away from the well. Caroline followed and knelt next to Tessa. The young girl had turned Hugh on his side and was pounding his back.

  Seconds later, Hugh began coughing up mouthfuls of water. His eyes fluttered open and made a connection first with Tessa, then with his brother, Harry. Finally he looked at Caroline. “I’m sorry,” he whispered through trembling blue lips.

  A wave of relief crashed over Caroline, and her body sagged. She cupped his freckled cheek and smiled. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

  “I didn’t know the water was so deep,” he said. His hair was plastered to his forehead.

  Caroline choked back a rebuke. Now wasn’t the time to scold him. She would save that for later.

  “I thought I could get out.” The innocence in Hugh’s eyes unleashed guilt within Caroline, for she should have filled the well with rocks earlier that summer when the boys had first stumbled upon it. She’d known it posed danger. But then she’d gotten so caught up with her keeper duties that she hadn’t given the well another thought.

  And to think of what had almost happened . . . She fought back tears. She’d almost lost Hugh.

  The twins had been adventurous even before their father had died. But over the summer they’d steadily gotten into more trouble. Maybe she hadn’t been paying them enough attention. Maybe she’d been too busy with her job to give them the supervision and training they required.

  What if Mr. Finick was right? As a woman, perhaps she needed to focus on her home and family. Perhaps she’d placed too much attention on her work and not enough on caring for her siblings. Maybe losing her job as keeper was best for all of them. She could marry Arnie and then be able to spend her days taking better care of the twins and Sarah.

  “How is he?” Ryan asked, kneeling next to her. His breathing was labored, and water dripped from his hair and clothes and puddled on the ground around him.

  In her worry over Hugh, she’d completely forgotten about Ryan still at the bottom of the well. She glanced toward Monsieur Poupard, who was dragging the rope out of the well. The opposite end was wrapped in a tight knot around one of the supporting beams that rose to the dilapidated roof of the well. The old Frenchman had tied the rope and then thrown it back down to Ryan, who had apparently pulled himself up hand over hand.

  She could only imagine the pain the effort had cost Ryan. She was tempted to look at his hand and his arm, but instead she focused on his face.

  Every line was drawn taut, and his eyes radiated agony. But then he looked down at Hugh tenderly. “How are you, son?”

  Hugh lifted a hand, and Ryan grasped it within his good one. “Thank you,” Hugh whispered. “You saved my life.”

  “Aye. You’re welcome,” Ryan said. “That was a dangerous thing you did.”

  Hugh lowered his eyes at the same time that Harry let his head drop.

  “A boy needs to have fun,” Ryan went on. “I won’t argue with you about that. But foolish and fun are two different things altogether.” His blond hair hung over one of his eyes and curled up at the back of his neck.

  She’d wanted to loathe this man or at the very least blame him for her current troubles. But how could she? He might be scarred and suffering, but he seemed to be a good man underneath it all.

  As if sensing her scrutiny, he shifted his attention to her. The brown of his eyes was warm but firm. “How about if I bring the boys out here tomorrow and put them to work filling the well?”

  His words contained no anger, only a logical tone that spoke of his desire to help prevent further mishaps while also giving the boys some needed discipline.

  “That’s a good idea,” she said past a swell of gratefulness that clogged her throat.

  “What do you say, boys?” Ryan glanced from one to the other. His expression was still kind but filled with the admonition the boys needed.

  The twins both nodded and looked at Ryan with new respect.

  Yes, deep inside Ryan Chambers was a good man—a man worthy of respect, someone they could even come to like. Maybe it would take some time for him to heal, to be
able to live fully again. And she’d be long gone by the time that happened.

  But one thing was certain, she couldn’t fight him, couldn’t even be angry at him any longer. She’d simply resign herself to the fact that, for better or worse, he was taking over the lighthouse.

  Chapter 8

  Caroline flapped Sarah’s rug again, even though she’d already loosened all the dust from it on the third or fourth shake. In the morning sunshine, the dust particles glinted in the air and floated lazily away. They all seemed to make their way down the gently sloping span of yard toward the rocky beach and draw her attention to Ryan, where he kneeled next to the water’s edge.

  The sunlight kissed his bent head and turned his hair into a fetching shade of golden brown. And the bright reflection off the water showed a face, hands, and arms scrubbed clean of the dust and grime that had coated them previously.

  Donned in his undershirt, he was bent over and scrubbing his shirt. Using only one hand and a bar of soap, his efforts were valiant but feeble. The longer she watched, the more she was tempted to go to him, grab the shirt, and clean it herself. But somehow she knew that such an offer would humiliate him. He probably hadn’t done much of anything since his injury, including taking care of himself. Maybe one of the first steps in his healing process was to begin taking an interest in his grooming and to do some of the difficult tasks for himself, to prove to himself he was still alive.

  After all, he’d only lost a few fingers, not his life.

  Nevertheless, she wanted to do something for him. At the very least she needed to thank him for saving Hugh’s life yesterday. But she hadn’t had the chance since he’d ridden off and hadn’t returned until much later. From his wobbly walk, she guessed he’d spent the remainder of daylight hours at the Roadside Inn. So when evening fell, she’d ascended the tower stairs by herself and taken care of the light alone just like she usually did.

  She’d expected him to come barging through the hatch, disheveled and dazed at dawn like he had yesterday. But when the sun had risen and she’d extinguished the lantern, he still hadn’t staggered out of the boathouse. So she’d turned off the light and completed the morning chores in his stead.