Hearts Made Whole (12 page)

They were passing through the last grove of cedars and willows. A marsh was all that separated them from the lighthouse. In the distance he could see the twins beyond the tower near the water's edge. Tessa's dark head was bent close to theirs, and they were examining something.

He slowed the horse, not ready for his time with Caroline to come to an end, to be interrupted by the busyness of others needing her attention.

Was it possible that a woman could ever care for him? He hadn't believed anyone could. Not when he was maimed and only half the man he used to be. Not with all the ghosts that still haunted him.

Caroline turned in the saddle and offered him a smile that at the very least offered friendship. It sent warmth into his bruised and battered soul. He smiled in return, surprised at the strange sense of happiness that covered him like a healing balm.

A few women had been sweet on him before the war. One had even sent him a couple of letters after he'd joined the army. But he soon gave up all thoughts of being in a relationship. He hadn't figured there was any use holding out hope, not when death stalked his regiment day and night.

“Caroline!” called one of the boys. He'd risen to his tiptoes and was waving at her with both arms. “Come quick!”

There was an urgency in the boy's tone that made Ryan tense at the same time Caroline sat forward.

“Something's wrong,” she said.

He could sense it too.

When Tessa straightened and he caught sight of the revulsion on her face, his gut knotted. He kicked the horse into a trot, closing the distance to the beach.

When he reined the horse next to her siblings, Caroline was already sliding off. “Is everyone all right?” she asked breathlessly. “Sarah?”

Tessa touched Caroline's arm in a reassuring gesture. “Sarah's fine.”

The pinched muscles in Caroline's neck relaxed. “Then what's wrong?”

Ryan slid off the horse and stood next to her.

The twins were barefoot, their trousers damp up to the knees with sand coating their hands and cheeks. Though it still wasn't easy to be around them because of the memories they invoked of the boy that haunted Ryan's dreams, he'd been able to endure their presence more each day.

Harry, especially, seemed to want to be with him whenever they were home. There had been times when he'd caught the boys peeking in the boathouse window at him while he was in one of his stupors. He'd been embarrassed that they'd seen him that way and had wanted to distance himself from them all the more.

He didn't want to set a bad example for them. In fact, he ought to be showing them how to handle pain and disappointment like a man, instead of like the weak coward he'd become. But he wasn't sure he remembered how to be strong anymore.

Tessa gave a visible shudder and then hugged her arms across her chest. “The boys found something nailed to a log when they got home from school.”

“Nailed to a log?” Caroline's eyes swept over the rocky shore, the leaves floating on the water, and the rising smoke of a distant passing steamer. “What was it?”

Tessa stepped aside at the same time as the boys, and there on the ground, nailed to a piece of driftwood, was a goldeneye duck. Its wings were outstretched with nails embedded through each one. Even more gruesome was the nail that punctured the duck's head through one of its bright golden eyes.

At the bloody sight, Caroline gasped and jumped back.

Ryan reached for her arm to keep her from falling.

“Who did this?” She scanned the house, the tower, and then the woods beyond as if she expected someone or something to appear.

“We think it drifted here,” Harry said, looking up at Ryan with blue eyes so much like Caroline's. “We waded out and looked for more evidence, but we didn't find anything.”

Ryan studied the duck. The blood oozing from the wounds was too fresh for the log to have drifted a long distance. Whoever had done this lived nearby. But why would anyone kill a duck by nailing it to a log?

Caroline shuddered against him. He steered her toward Tessa. “You ladies go on up to the house. The boys and I will take care of burning it.”

Tessa grasped Caroline's hands, and then huddling together the two began walking toward the cottage.

Caroline stopped and looked back at him. “Who would do this, Ryan? What kind of person could hurt something so cruelly? It's such a waste.”

Ryan nodded. He had a dozen answers for her. He'd seen cruelty beyond measure during the war. And unthinkable waste. As much as he wanted to deny it, he'd even been a part of some of it. Yet all he could say was, “I don't know.”

And all he could do was pray that whoever was behind the tortured duck wasn't the person who'd been responsible for destroying Caroline's garden.

R
yan leaned against the stern of the old canoe. He unplugged the cork from his whiskey bottle, the pop and the swish whetting his parched tongue.

At a scuffle against the side of the boathouse, he looked to the cracked window in the back wall. Two pairs of eyes peered through grimy glass, watching his every move. Seeing that they'd been spotted, the twins quickly disappeared from sight.

Ryan put the cork back into the bottle and stuffed it into its hiding spot behind a tackle box. He straightened and ran his fingers through his overlong hair, wanting to ignore the guilt that barraged him like gunfire. But somehow that morning, he couldn't keep it at bay.

Ever since yesterday and the ride home from the tavern with Caroline, the shame over having the whiskey had grown heavier with each passing hour. Of course, Caroline hadn't said anything about it. She hadn't asked why he'd gone to the tavern. She hadn't admonished him to stop drinking. She hadn't even looked at him with disapproval, although he'd certainly deserved it.

Instead she'd welcomed him with a warm smile that morning
when he ascended the tower to turn off the light. Aye, she'd been subdued, obviously still shaken from the sight of the duck nailed to the log. However, she'd only been encouraging as he completed the keeper tasks, instructing him on how to manage the logbook. Through all the conversations they'd had that morning, she never once issued him a single rebuke.

Tessa had passed him a plate of breakfast and cup of coffee on his way down the tower as she'd begun to do each morning. He'd retreated to the boathouse to eat. And drink, as had become his habit.

Except that most mornings the twins weren't there watching him. They were away at school.

He expelled a long sigh and glanced out the half-open door. Why were they home? He calculated the passing of days and realized it was Saturday, that they likely didn't have school today. That meant he'd been at the lighthouse almost a full week, which was the longest he'd been anywhere since the end of the war.

The ping of an ax against wood told him that Caroline had set the boys to chopping wood. He listened for a long moment, and the sound soothed his muscles and reminded him of the summer he'd chopped cordwood at Burnham's Landing in Presque Isle, the time he and his sister had been stranded after their steamboat had been robbed and set afire by pirates.

He'd chopped more wood that summer than any one man likely did in his entire life. But it had been wholesome hard work, and he looked back on his time at Burnham's Landing with fondness.

Could he still swing an ax?

He flexed his injured arm and waited for the usual piercing pain. It came, and he had to grit his teeth. Even if he put his
good arm behind the weight of swinging the ax, the movement was sure to jar his injury.

Maybe if he used the feverfew leaves Caroline had given him, he'd be able to dull the pain. He'd been surprised that she managed to find anything useful among the wreck of her garden. But she set aside a number of plants and salvaged what she could.

He rummaged around for the leaves, and his fingers brushed against the driftwood cross next to his bedroll. His sister, Emma, had given him the cross when he'd stayed at the Presque Isle Lighthouse. The letter that went with the cross was folded up and tucked safely away in his satchel. He hadn't read the letter in years, but he'd never forgotten the beautiful tale of love and loss that it contained.

Emma had meant for the cross to bring him hope, as it had to her and as it had to the original owner. He'd carried it with him during the war in his bag. It had gone everywhere with him. And even though he cherished the gift, he'd long since decided he was past hope.

He chewed several of the bitter feverfew leaves and then stepped out of the boathouse into a cloudy fall morning. At his approach, Harold and Hugh stopped swinging their axes and hung their heads, obviously waiting for his admonition regarding their spying on him.

He stopped several feet away and stood before them without speaking, letting them squirm. They were in need of some censure. Although he could see that Caroline and Tessa did all they could to care for the boys, there was nothing like the presence of a man to keep young ones in line.

Harry finally peeked up at him. The wide-eyed innocence wrenched Ryan and pulled him into the past. A pale face flashed
before him. Lifeless eyes stared up at him, accusing him of standing by and doing nothing.

Ryan blinked and tried to block out the memory. He couldn't do anything to bring that other boy back to life. And he could never repay the remaining family for the loss of their son. But he could pay them for the destruction of their home and all that his regiment had stolen. He'd determined to save up enough to cover the damages. When he'd done so, he'd return and give it to the family and tell them he was sorry for his part in that fateful night.

Nay, he couldn't bring their boy back to life. Yet perhaps he could have a hand in shaping Harry's and Hugh's lives for the good. Perhaps he could influence them to be wise and steady and level-headed. Investing in them would be one more way he could atone for his past mistakes.

He reached for a log and propped it upright. “You're doing a fine job, lads,” he said, positioning the wood. “Now, if you bring the blade down in the middle, right about here”—he pointed to the log's center ring—“you'll have a much easier and cleaner cut.”

The boys both raised their heads and drew closer. The respect and interest on their faces sent renewed energy pumping into his limbs. He reached for Harry's ax, and the boy relinquished it without a word. He simply stood back and watched.

Ryan was about to stuff his injured hand deeper into his pocket, then decided against it and forced himself to grip the ax handle with both hands. He tried to ignore the boys' stares fixed on his mangled hand, even though everything within him screamed to stuff it back into his pocket.

He focused instead on the grain of the wood beneath his grip. It felt right, like a welcome home. He studied the rings of the log, and then he lifted his arms and swung.

The axhead hit the target and the wood fell away in a clean split. The impact sent pain radiating up his injured arm, but surprisingly it wasn't the torture he'd expected.

He propped up one of the halves, steadied it, and brought the ax down again. This time the pleasure of the clean slice drowned out the pain ricocheting in his body. When he glanced up to see admiration shining in the twins' eyes, he forgot about his injury altogether.

Caroline stared out the window at the fading afternoon.

Ryan brought the ax down effortlessly, his muscles rippling across his sweat-drenched shirt.

The splashing of water behind her drew her attention back to the kitchen, to the large tub where Hugh was finishing his bath.

“Guess me and Harry won't need to chop any more wood this fall,” Hugh said as he soaped his arms. “Mr. Chambers has chopped enough to last us through the winter, hasn't he?”

“Looks that way,” Caroline said, unable to remind Hugh that it didn't matter how much wood they had, because they probably wouldn't be here that winter to use it.

Ryan had been chopping all day. Or at least that was what the boys had claimed when she awoke to the sight of him wielding the ax. He'd taken several breaks since she started watching him, and she could see that he was growing slower, obviously tired.

Nevertheless, a thrill had wound through her at the thought that he'd found something he could do, something to occupy his time and take his mind off his pain. Perhaps the hard work and the purpose it gave him was the medicine he needed.

She just hoped he hadn't overdone it, that he wouldn't cause his injury more agony as a result of the activity. Maybe it would
help if he soaked in a tub of heated water, and if she gave him some of her birchbark tea? She could even make him a hot onion poultice to press onto his arm. . . .

“Harry,” she called to the boy on the couch, who sat pulling his socks on over still-wet feet. “Run out and tell Mr. Chambers I'll have a hot bath waiting for him.”

Harry jumped up and started for the door.

“Shoes first, please.”

Her command halted him at the door. His shoulders slumped as he shuffled back to his discarded shoes lying nearby.

While she heated more water, made the tea, and cleaned up the puddles left from the twins, her thoughts strayed to the ride home from the Roadside Inn the previous afternoon, to the way Ryan had held her hand. It had been much more than a friendly grasp. His fingers had intertwined with hers . . . intimately. His breath had been so warm and near her neck. And his solid chest had pressed into her back.

She drew in a breath and fanned her face with the edge of her apron. The crispy scent of the roasted chicken Tessa was baking for dinner mingled with the sweet cinnamon of the apple pie cooling on the table. Even with the tantalizing aromas around her, Caroline had no appetite. She couldn't think of eating, not when she was so full of thoughts of Ryan. The kiss he'd given her a couple of days ago had been enough to make her forget about food. But now, after holding her hand and telling her that maybe he'd kiss her again sometime, her belly was tied into knots all too often.

Had she really told him she hadn't been offended that he'd kissed her? She smiled. She couldn't believe she'd been so bold.

“Caroline?” His voice startled her.

He filled the doorframe, his hair plastered to his forehead, with streaks of dust making his face look more rugged. He cocked his head and regarded her with curiosity.

She busied herself by picking up a damp towel and draping it over the back of the chair, praying he hadn't been able to read her thoughts. She shouldn't have been thinking of him so intimately. He needed her help and friendship right now, nothing more. “The water for your bath is almost ready. And there's a mug of birchbark tea for you in the warmer.”

“Thank you.” He stepped into the room hesitantly.

“I'll make sure everyone stays out of the kitchen so that you can have some privacy.” Her insides flamed at the idea that in a few moments he'd shed his clothes and be completely bare . . . in her house. “I think they're all busy in Sarah's room,” she said hurriedly, hoping to cover her embarrassment. “Tessa likes to involve the boys in performing plays for her.”

The happy chatter coming from down the hall brought a smile to her face. In all the hardships over the past months, at least they still had each other. So long as she kept them all together, they'd be fine.

With a rag she lifted the bubbling pot from the stove and poured hot water into the tepid bathwater that remained in the tub. The steam swooshed up and dampened her face.

Ryan looked eagerly at the steaming water. “It's been a while since I've had a hot bath.”

“Well, best get in before it loses the heat.” She couldn't resist one more peek at his broad chest outlined beneath his shirt.

He snapped a suspender off his shoulder, and the motion sent her scurrying to leave the kitchen, to closet herself in Sarah's room until he was done.

“Caroline, wait,” his soft call chased her.

She paused and pressed a hand against the thudding in her chest.

“I was wrong to go to the tavern.”

“You already admitted that on the way home.”

His face was lined with earnestness. “I need to stop . . .”

She waited for him to finish, but when he didn't say anything more, she nodded. “You will.”

Her simple statement seemed to lift his shoulders back up. “My dad drank himself to death,” he continued, slipping off his other suspender. “He let the guilt and shame of his past drive him to the bottle instead of to his knees.”

She pondered his revelation for a moment, searching for a way to respond. Finally she said, “My father always said that our enemy, the devil, is doing his best to get us to look to everything and everyone else to save us from our pains and sorrows. The devil doesn't want us to take those pains to the Lord, because he knows that when we cry out to God with our need, He'll rescue us from the pit.”