Hearts Made Whole (13 page)

Ryan's head cocked, and his brow crinkled.

She hadn't meant to preach to him. She was the last one who ought to be preaching, considering how often she let her worries control her. “Take your time with the bath,” she said, spinning around. “The hot soaking will do you good.”

“Should I call you when I need my back scrubbed?”

His voice was so serious, it stopped her. She couldn't resist turning and looking at him. He was in the process of tugging off his socks. She was too shocked by his request to speak. The mere thought of being in the same room with him bathing was scandalous. She was already asking for local gossip by living on the same premises with an unmarried man. But scrub his back?

He tossed her a grin and then winked.

She steadied herself, forcing calmness on her outside that belied what was happening on the inside. “Oh, sure. And maybe after I'm done scrubbing your back, I can do your feet too.”

He burst into laughter.

She spun to hide a grin and the embarrassment that likely infused her face.

Her humor faded at the stark reality of the situation. What was she doing flirting with him? He was a sick man, a man who needed to face his inner demons before he'd ever be whole enough or ready enough for anything beyond friendship.

Even so, the pleasure in his laughter embraced her. And she knew she wanted to hear it again. Very soon.

C
aroline raised the chimney holder close to the surface of the burner. While the evening provided some light still, she didn't need it. She'd lit the lantern often enough that she could do it in the dark if need be.

“Caroline?” came Ryan's voice from the hatch.

Surprised, she craned her neck to watch him ascend.

After his bath, she'd invited him to join them for dinner. She'd only eaten a couple of bites before pushing back from the table. With Ryan sitting across from her, his damp hair combed neatly and his brown eyes melting her with every glance, she hadn't been able to manage much.

She'd used the excuse that she needed to light the lantern, which was true. But more than that, she couldn't stop looking at Ryan, and she was sure she would embarrass herself if she stayed any longer.

Of course, Tessa's face had lit up when Ryan joined them, and she'd smiled and flirted with him. But Caroline hadn't the heart to admonish her sister. How could she rebuke Tessa for something she herself was doing?

And who could blame them? They'd had so little contact with young men during the war, and now that one was practically living on their doorstep—especially one as appealing as Ryan—it was hard to resist the pull to banter with him.

At least that was what she'd told herself after another incident of joking with him before dinner when they'd all sat in Sarah's room and watched the twins do a mock sword fight. Surely a little friendly teasing wouldn't hurt anyone.

“Since I'm awake for once,” Ryan said, climbing into the room, “I thought I better take advantage of the opportunity to watch how you light the lantern.”

“You can't miss out on Tessa's chicken dinner.”

“You weren't eating it,” he said, his tone hinting at playfulness, “so I figured something must be wrong with it.”

She smiled at him and then turned her attention back to the lantern. “The chicken was one of the losers of last night's cockfight.”

Ryan's brow shot up. He wore a clean shirt, one of her father's. He'd gladly taken the offer to put on something besides his sweaty shirt. And now in the heavy flannel of black and gray, his eyes were darker and more enticing than before.

“Most Saturdays, Arnie brings us one of the mutilated chickens that died in the fighting.”

“I didn't see him around today.” Ryan stepped nearer so that she caught a whiff of his clean, soapy scent.

“He's like that sometimes,” she said. “He's here one minute and gone the next. I rarely see him coming or going.” Especially when he delivered his gifts. She'd supposed he wanted to do the giving anonymously.

“I'm surprised you take the chickens. I thought you'd oppose eating them. As a statement of protest.” Ryan's voice was tinged with humor.

“I am opposed to the cockfighting,” she said, rising in defense of herself and the demonstration Esther had staged on Friday afternoon before the usual weekend cockfights. “It's cruel to allow animals to hack each other apart until one of them dies.”

“I agree,” Ryan said. “But some people consider it a sport. It's been going on for thousands of years. I don't think there's much you or anyone else can do to stop Simmons from having his cockfighting.”

“Slavery had been going on for thousands of years too, and we just stopped that, didn't we? At least here in our country?”

In the fading light of the tower, his eyes reflected admiration for her response.

“There are a lot of people who would like to see cockfighting made illegal,” she continued. “Mr. Simmons has received enough protests from groups in Detroit that he's had to resort to bringing in his supplies across Lake St. Clair from Canada.”

Together, she and Ryan peered out at the lake. In some spots to the south, the opposite shore—the Canadian side of the lake—was visible on clear days.

Caroline didn't consider herself the protesting type of person, not like Esther. She was especially uncomfortable whenever Esther had one of her rallies at the inn. She didn't want Mr. Simmons to get angry at her and to start making threats like he'd done to her father.

Maybe Esther could afford to be daring since her husband and father's status as politicians protected her. But Caroline had her family to think about. And she dreaded what Mr. Simmons was capable of doing if he became angry enough with her. Even so, she couldn't resist Esther's passion for her causes. Her dear friend always had a way of pulling her in.

Ryan had drawn closer, and she could see the weariness in
his eyes. Even with the hot bath and birchbark tea, she had a feeling unbearable pain would soon catch up to him.

“I think I may have overdone it today,” he said with a weak smile.

“Do you think so?” she teased.

His smile inched higher. “I guess I was relieved I could finally do something without failing.” He stood an arm's length away, his hand stuffed in his pocket like usual.

His vulnerability squeezed her heart. “I know eventually you'll do many things without failing.”

He didn't respond, but his eyes softened and seemed to reach out and caress her.

Her stomach fluttered to life. She half expected him to follow up with a real caress, but he didn't move. Why did she always act like a love-starved old maid whenever she was around Ryan? She didn't want him to think she was desperate for a man's attention.

She pivoted to face the lantern. “We better get to work before it grows any darker.”

As she explained the steps for lighting the lantern, she was acutely aware of his nearness. Even after dusk had fallen and the beam was rotating with its pattern of six flashes per minute, her body was attuned to his every move. It wasn't until he wearily descended a short while later that she was finally able to breathe normally.

The next morning, when Ryan didn't arrive to help her turn off the lantern, she tried not to be disappointed. Even with his good intentions, she had no doubt he was addicted to the pain medicine. And even if he hadn't needed it last night—which
she was sure he did after the day of splitting wood—his body still craved it.

After she came home from church with the twins, she hoped he would be awake. But a peek into the boathouse showed that he was still sprawled out on his bedroll.

He awoke in the late afternoon and came sheepishly up to the house, clearly embarrassed at having slept for so long. She welcomed him with a smile and invited him in to sit with Sarah and watch the play that Tessa and the twins were performing for their sister again.

She wasn't surprised that evening when he accompanied her up into the tower and watched her light the lantern. His expression was warm and his attention undivided, making her self-conscious.

He stayed longer than the previous evening, but eventually he left, the hungry craving and pain in his eyes telling her that he was headed back to his pills.

“Patience,” she whispered to herself the following day as she creaked open the wooden plank door to the root cellar. Cool mustiness greeted her, along with the earthiness of the onions and potatoes she'd stored there.

“Healing takes time,” she whispered into the darkness of the small cellar her father had dug out of a hill on the opposite side of the garden. The shade of the poplar and the thickness of the soil had made it an ideal spot for a cellar, even if it was a chore to trudge to it in the wintertime.

She hoisted a basket of apples into the black interior and then crunched back through the fallen leaves to retrieve the second basket she'd left beneath the lone apple tree that sat a distance from the house.

“He's made progress,” she reminded herself as she picked
up the remaining basket. She propped it on her hip and started back across the long grass, breathing in the tanginess of the apples that had already fermented on the ground.

She wasn't sure why she was going to the trouble of collecting apples when she ought to have walked into town instead of Tessa and continued her search for work and lodging. But with each day they stayed, she was finding it more difficult to plan for the future. It was all too easy to pretend that Mr. Finick hadn't ordered her to leave and to just continue on as she had before.

The cloudy sky overhead threatened rain, and as a few fat drops fell she picked up her pace.

Besides, Ryan needed her. Didn't he? He wasn't capable yet of taking over the keeper duties. In fact, she wasn't sure that he'd be ready for a while.

A flash of red in the woods beyond halted her footsteps. She stared through the golden foliage with a shiver creeping up her spine, the memory of the duck nailed to the log all too fresh. The wind rustled through the grass and the dry leaves. The call of a distant goose echoed faintly.

Perhaps she'd only imagined the red. Or maybe it was only Monsieur Poupard out hunting, she told herself. He often wore a red flannel coat when roaming about the woods. Still, as she crossed the span to the cellar, her nerves prickled with the thought that someone was watching her.

As she entered the cellar, she lowered the basket and released a breath. She was letting her imagination get the best of her. She couldn't let her worry turn wild.

“This is quite the cellar.” At the voice from within the dirt hole, Caroline jumped.

It took her a moment to realize the voice belonged to Ryan and that while she'd been away, he'd crawled inside the cellar.

“Where would you like me to put the apples?” he asked.

She pushed her load of apples ahead of her and followed behind it. Through the darkness she could make out Ryan's crouched frame.

“You scared me.” Her voice was muted by the dirt walls. “I didn't expect you to be in here.”

“Now I know where to go whenever I'm hungry. No wonder you were hiding this cellar from me.”

Ducking low, she sat back on her heels and smiled at his easy way of relating. He was a lighthearted man when he was sober and not consumed with memories of his past.

“Of course, I wasn't about to reveal our treasure house,” she countered, “not when it holds my secret stash of sweet potatoes.”

The hillside cellar was hardly big enough for the two of them, along with the baskets of apples and other vegetables she'd stored. But instead of feeling crowded, a comfortable coziness settled over her.

Outside, more raindrops pattered the ground while the wind rattled the cellar door, threatening to close it.

She reached inside the basket of apples and found one that was smooth to the touch. “Here.” She held it out to him. “You might as well enjoy an apple while it's still fresh. In a couple months they'll be soft and shriveled.”

He took it, his fingers brushing against hers, not immediately moving away. In the dim light coming in from the open door, she could see that his expression was grateful. “You're much kinder to me than I deserve,” he said, so softly that she almost didn't hear him.

“Anyone else would do the same thing,” she replied, knowing he was referring to much more than just the apple.

“I don't think so. You brim with a compassion most people don't have. I can see now why Arnie likes you as much as he does.”

Even as a cool gust swept into the cramped space, warmth swirled around her.

Ryan sat back, and the dark shadows hid his face. At the juicy crunch of his bite into the apple, she smiled. “You're rather likable too, you know.”

“Am I now?” His Irish brogue rolled off his tongue. “And just how likable am I to the young lady?”

She busied herself with finding another smooth apple, hoping to hide the embarrassment of admitting she liked him.

“I suppose it's my charm and good looks that have won you over? Aye?” he teased.

“No. It's more the sweat from chopping wood that did it.”

He chuckled, the low rumbling making her smile widen. He took another bite of the apple, and her fingers finally found a small one for herself.

“Since I've cut enough wood to last ten winters, I ought to move on to something else,” he said. “I was thinking I could start making repairs to the tower and then give it a fresh coat of paint.”