Love Unexpected (2 page)

She peered into the distance and could make out the dark shadows of the eastern Michigan shoreline. A thin beacon of light flashed to the north, one of the strategically placed lighthouses along the coast that warned passing ships of the countless shoals that had been the demise of many vessels.

Were they close enough to swim to shore? If she jumped into the waves, would she have the strength to make it all the way across to land? But if she didn't jump . . .

She spun around to the fire that was pressing nearer. It wouldn't
be long before she'd have no choice but to plunge into the water. Either that or be roasted alive by the advancing fire.

From the deck above, she heard Ryan's voice. “Emma?”

She leaned over the rail and craned her neck to search for him. He was dangling from the stern. “Ryan?” Her shoulders sagged with relief—relief that he was still safe and that perhaps he could help her figure out what to do next. “What should I do?”

His face was smeared with soot, making his eyes and the worry in them stand out like twin moons. “The fire has spread to this deck, and it won't be long before the floor caves in. The lifeboat's already on fire.”

Emma glanced at the burning ceiling. The fire had already eaten through the boards in many places. She clung to the railing, leaning as far away as possible from the inferno.

“We need to get off this hulk,” Ryan shouted, “before the pressure of the ripping beams drags her down and pulls us with her.”

He tossed a barrel overboard. It hit the water near the rudder with a splash and disappeared underwater for a moment before bobbing back to the surface.

“I'll go first,” he called as he climbed over the rail, “and then I'll be there to help you.”

Before she could protest, he launched himself off the steamer. He flailed through the air and hit the water feetfirst.

She gathered her skirt into her fists, hoisted it up, and climbed onto the rail. “Ryan!” she cried, the heat of the fire beginning to burn her back.

A head broke through the water's surface—her brother. Her heart started beating again.

Coughing out a mouthful of lake water, Ryan shook his wet hair out of his eyes, caught sight of the barrel he'd tossed in, and swam toward it.

Once he'd grabbed the barrel, he motioned to her, staring behind her at the fingers of flames that reached out to grasp her. “Throw in the bag first!”

Perched atop the rail, she had a better view of the shore. In the distance she thought she saw the flicker of a lantern. But she couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. She tossed the grain sack toward him, and it landed in the water with a splash.

“Now jump!” he called, lunging for the bag.

“Heaven have mercy,” she whispered through trembling lips. She tried not to think about what was going to happen next. Then she jumped.

The wind had only an instant to slap her before the waves sprayed and reached out to swallow her. The icy wetness surrounded her, the shock of the cold on her skin paralyzing her. Instantly she began to sink, her nose filling with water, her arms and legs fighting back the dark surge.

Then suddenly Ryan was grasping her and dragging her to the surface. Her face rose above the waves, and she spluttered, her teeth already chattering and her body shaking violently from the cold.

The lake had only been open for about a month, since May when the winter ice had thawed.

“Here,” Ryan shouted, clinging to the barrel with one hand and holding her with the other. “Wrap your arm around the barrel.”

Her hands were numb, and she struggled to get her fingers to bend. But somehow she managed to drape an arm across the staves.

“Hang on,” Ryan said from behind her. He kicked his legs as he pushed the barrel away from the burning steamer.

Over the crashing of the waves, she heard the Bradley whistle,
the seven short blasts and one long one that signaled
abandon ship
. The whistle was accompanied by the shouts and splashes of the deckhands jumping from the heat-blistered steamer. Some had clothing ablaze and screamed as they plunged into the lake.

She had the sudden urge to pray, to petition God for some kind of help, to at least spare the men their lives. But she hesitated. She hadn't done much praying over the years. She'd prayed herself hoarse for Mam but to no avail. After she lost Mam, she'd been too busy trying to survive with Ryan and Dad, running and hiding and facing the long days of starvation. And when they'd finally reached America, she wasn't sure she remembered how to pray anymore.

A stinging wave hit Emma's face, filling her mouth with lake water. She coughed and gasped for air while tightening her hold on the barrel.

“We've got to move farther from the boat,” Ryan yelled, kicking and flapping in the water, trying to propel them but making little progress against the waves.

The fire had now spread to the uppermost deck of the steamer and to the pilothouse. The smokestacks were engulfed, one of them leaning at an odd angle. Against the backdrop of the dark lake, the burning ship was like a giant torch.

Emma gritted her teeth and began pumping her legs, working with Ryan to swim away from the deadly steamer. But whenever she looked at how far they'd come, it seemed mere inches.

Then an enormous creak came from the steamer, and she and Ryan paused. Above the chattering of her teeth and wheezing of her labored breathing, the terrified cries of the other passengers and deckhands echoed in the early morning. The ship ripped into two and started to sink. The water surged over the flames,
finally dousing them and leaving in its place a silent darkness. Within minutes the ship was completely gone, brought down into the freezing lake.

“We've got to keep going,” Ryan said behind her. “We're both strong. We can make it if we don't give up.”

She hardly had the strength to nod. The cold lake tugged and clawed at her, trying to dislodge her from the barrel. Her hair had loosened from her braid and plastered her face, and her limbs were fast becoming stiff.

“Let's head for the lighthouse,” he said, pointing in the direction of the beam of light she'd noticed earlier.

They fought to paddle forward.

“Don't give up,” Ryan told her whenever she stopped moving.

“I can't do this, Ryan,” she finally said. Her muscles ached, and she couldn't muster the energy to cling to the barrel. Her body demanded that she let go, stop fighting, and slide down into a watery, peaceful grave.

“Just hang on!” His voice had turned urgent. “I think I see a boat.”

She rested her cheek against the barrel and closed her eyes. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep her hold.

“Hey!” Ryan shouted. “Over here!”

The waves in the growing dawn were beginning to calm down, turning gentle and enticing, making her want to sleep. If she fell asleep and slipped under the water, maybe she'd awaken to heaven in the arms of both her mam and dad. They'd finally be together again with no more pain or unhappiness or guilt. And without her, Ryan would be free to get on with his life.

“Here!” Ryan called again.

The water around her began to fade. The cold seeped away. The struggle lessened. She was going down . . .

Strong arms lifted her, heaving her out of the jaws of death, returning her to the sharpness of dawn. Though the lake clung to her and refused to let her go, the thick arms that surrounded her were stronger and more determined. She found herself hauled upward until she was free of the water, pulled over the side of a rowboat against a solid warm chest.

“There you are, lass.” The man spoke gently with the hint of an Irish brogue.

With the utmost care her rescuer lowered her into the stern. His lantern cast a glow upon his face, revealing rugged features. Beneath the brim of a flat-topped cap, he peered down at her. The leathery, weather-bronzed skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes.

“You're safe now.”

She could only stare up at him, her body shuddering as the cool morning air swept over her wet clothes and skin. And all she could think was that he had the kindest eyes she'd ever seen.

P
atrick Garraty hopped out of his cutter and dragged it the rest of the way to the closest dock. The calm water of the bay lapped against his knee-length rubber boots. The pink of the rising sun across the lake lit up the rocky beach of Presque Isle Harbor, as well as the docks and the Mackinaw fishing boats that were returning with far too few survivors.

Being the closest, he was the first to arrive at the disaster. He'd noticed the burning vessel from the lighthouse tower and then raced down the winding stairway into the darkness. Every wasted second could mean the difference between life and death, so he'd rowed as fast as he could toward the steamer, his arms and back aching with the exertion.

Thankfully many of the fishermen on Burnham's Landing had already been awake and were readying their gill nets and their boats when they'd seen the flames shooting up over Lake Huron. Even so, none of them had been able to reach the steamer before she'd gone under, and they were only able to save a scant number of the crew and passengers.

“I can't thank you enough for coming to our rescue,” said
a young man who was standing in the cutter, shivering while wrapped in a wool blanket.

Patrick nodded and turned to the woman he'd pulled out first. She'd hardly moved since he'd deposited her in the stern. His gut cinched again, as it had every time he'd thought about what he'd learned from the young man during those minutes rowing back to shore—about the pirates who'd boarded the steamer, their stealing the barrels of fish bound for market, and their setting the boat on fire.

It had stirred memories that Patrick didn't want stirred, memories of climbing aboard steamers, of looting and destroying . . . and worse. There were some things better off left in the past where they belonged.

Patrick wound the dock line around the cutter's bow cleat and fought back the guilt he thought was long buried. “Take your wife over to Fred Burnham's cabin. She needs warming.”

The young man scooped the woman into his arms and cradled her against his chest. “She's my sister.”

Her teeth hadn't stopped chattering. Even though she too was enfolded in a blanket, her face was pale and her lips blue. Her eyes were glazed almost as if she didn't know where she was.

Patrick steadied the boat as the young man climbed out with his burden. The ease the young man had with the cutter and the help he'd given with the rowing told Patrick this survivor was no stranger to the Great Lakes.

The oars of a fishing boat nearby slapped the water, bringing to shore several rescued crew. He'd get a total count of the losses and then he had to head back to the lighthouse without delay. He didn't have much time left before Josiah would be awake and calling for him.

He hated leaving Josiah alone for any length of time, even when the boy was sleeping. But what choice did he have?

“The name's Ryan Chambers,” said the young man. “This is my sister, Emma. Thank you for your help.”

“Patrick Garraty, and you're quite welcome.”

Ryan studied the rocky shore that stretched to a grassy clearing where a number of crude log huts sat, along with a fish house and a cooper's shop. Numerous new staves had been piled in front, awaiting use as fish barrels.

“Are you a fisherman?” Ryan asked, turning his attention to the reels spinning and squeaking in the breeze, and the wooden net boxes and floats that cluttered the shoreline.

“No,” said Patrick.

Ryan situated the young woman in his arms more comfortably. He glanced from Patrick to his boat, then to the other men who were beginning to arrive, wearing their sou'wester hats, brown linen slops, and long boots.

“These other men are fishermen?”

“Most of them.”

“Think any of them are looking for some extra help?”

“Maybe.” Patrick climbed out of the water onto the dock and peered at the boats that were mooring. He counted the number of survivors: two in his boat, two in another, four deckhands in a third, none in the last one.

He guessed the steamer had been carrying at least twenty, if not thirty, people in all. Had only eight made it to safety? He tipped his cap back and stared over the brightening water. There wouldn't be any trace of which pirate gang had done the deed, but still he couldn't stop from speculating. And from clenching his teeth.

At the drooping shoulders of the young man he'd rescued, Patrick cleared his throat. “Are you looking for work?”

“Aye.” Ryan's voice wavered. “The pirates cleaned my pockets and left me without a cent to my name. Now I've gotta find a way to earn enough money to pay our passage on the next steamer that comes through. And put food in our bellies until then.”

“Talk to Fred Burnham.” Patrick cocked his head toward the biggest of the log structures along the shore. “He'll have work. And if he doesn't, he'll point you to someone who might.”

Ryan looked haggard from the recent ordeal, but he managed a smile. “Thank you again.”

The young woman lifted her head from her brother's shoulder. Though her eyes were still dazed, they filled with gratefulness. She didn't say the words, but from the intensity in her brown eyes, he knew she was thanking him too.

Patrick nodded.

She let her head sag against Ryan's chest. Wet strands of her long hair stuck to her cheek and the exposed length of her neck—hair that was likely a shade of blond when dry. Her wet garments twisted awkwardly around her legs. She seemed fragile.

Not many women came to this remote northeastern port. It was a newer fishing village, established a few years before he'd arrived. Beyond the shore to the west lay mostly unsettled wilderness, unsuited to all but the heartiest of men. In fact, except for the two Burnham women, there weren't any other females in the area. At least not anymore, not since his wife had finally succumbed to her injuries and died yesterday morning.

With a sigh, he started slowly up the dock toward shore as weariness slipped once again into his body. He hadn't slept more than a few minutes here and there since Delia had fallen. He knew he couldn't go on this way; he couldn't continue tending the light all night and watching Josiah all day, not without getting some sleep.

The weight of all that had happened over the past week threatened to crush him. His situation had become desperate. He'd either have to give up his job as keeper of Presque Isle Light or he'd have to give up Josiah. He couldn't manage both, not without Delia's help.

The thought of relinquishing either one stabbed his heart so painfully it took his breath away. Though he'd considered sending Josiah to live with his relatives down in Saginaw, his entire being resisted. His sorry excuse for a family was no place for a two-year-old boy.

And yet how could he quit his job? The position had been a godsend, and he doubted anyone else would hire him, not after they learned the truth about his past.

The calls of the fishermen closed about him. The familiar lake breeze brushed against his unshaven cheeks, soothing him. For the briefest of moments, he shut his eyes and turned his face heavenward.

All he could do was pray. Prayer was his lifeline, and the only thing keeping him sane.

Emma wiggled the last of the fresh broomcorn through the cords she'd loosened, then retrieved the pliers discarded in the long grass. With the metal prongs she pinched the cords closed and tightened them around the broomcorn, finishing the repairs.

She held the broom out in front of her and examined the new fullness compared to the meager broken and dirty bristles she'd used when she swept the floor earlier. “Aye,” she said to herself. “Much better.”

She leaned against the rough logs of Burnham's cabin and looked out over the waterfront. Several long docks extended
into the U-shaped harbor. The shoreline was covered with rocks of all shapes, with sea grass, poison ivy, and brush growing in the sand between the rocks. The shore abutted a vast forest of tall pine, spruce, and cedar. Only a small area had been cleared of the trees.

At midmorning the area dubbed Burnham's Landing was quiet, the fishermen having all departed long ago. Except for the distant chopping of an ax and the occasional cry of a gull, the fishing village was peaceful. The waves in the harbor were gentle, and the sun shone down on the water with a blinding brilliance.

Emma didn't see any of the other survivors, but she guessed they were sleeping in the shanties, most likely invited in by the fishermen. It was hard to believe that less than six hours ago she'd been close to dying, that she'd jumped from a blazing steamer and had paddled in the cold lake in a desperate effort to save her and Ryan's lives.

She hadn't stopped shivering for hours. In fact, it had really only been when she'd sat down in the sunshine outside the Burnham cabin that her flesh had finally thawed. And now she was loath to get up and do anything else except soak in the sun's rays. With a sigh, she half closed her eyes, drowsy after the horrors of the night.

A boat rowing along the shore came steadily nearer the docks. She watched it through her drooping lashes until it drew closer. Two heads bobbed with each lap of the waves, one of them a smaller head, that of a child. The other was a man who wore a flat-topped cap on his head.

Emma's eyes flew open, and she straightened. The broad shoulders, the thick arms stuffed into a too-tight jacket, and the trim cutter belonged to the same man who'd rescued her last night. Patrick Garraty.

She didn't know where he'd gone after Ryan had taken her to Burnham's. In fact, she hadn't thought about him since, except in gratefulness that the men of Burnham's Landing had been kind enough to come to their aid.

Now that he was back, Emma couldn't tear her gaze from him. He plunged his oars into the water deeply and steadily. He didn't appear to be straining, as if he were out for a leisure ride to enjoy the new leaves and lush green vegetation of the June morning. Yet the speed with which he approached the village spoke otherwise. Soon his boat pulled alongside one of the docks. He vaulted out and secured the bowline.

Then he lifted out a young boy, who couldn't have been more than two years of age. His face was chubby with the remains of his baby fat, and a mop of reddish-orange hair poked out in all directions, half hanging over his eyes. Where was the boy's cap? Surely on such a sunny day the boy's mother wouldn't have let him out of the house without putting a cap on his wee head.

From where she sat, Emma could hear the tiny boy's steady chatter. His father didn't respond, or if he did, his answers were short. Instead, Patrick heaved at something within the cutter, slowly lifting out a crudely built wooden box. When he finally straightened with the long box braced in his arms, Emma shuddered and flattened herself against the log cabin.

He was carrying a coffin.

From the strain of his arms and the slump of his shoulders, she had no doubt there was a body inside.

Patrick started down the dock with the little boy following behind, none too steady on the wobbly platform. When the toddler reached land, he stumbled up the slope after his father, who was taking long strides in spite of the weight of his burden.

Patrick cast a glance over his shoulder at his son. “Come, Josiah,” he admonished gently. “Stay close to me.”

The boy's legs pumped faster in an effort to catch up with his father.

It had been too dark earlier that morning to take notice of Patrick's appearance, and she'd been too dazed. But now, in the light of day, she could see that Patrick was a handsome man. Underneath his hat, his dark brown hair was short. His face had several days' worth of whiskers, and his chiseled features were rugged and sun-bronzed.

When Patrick reached a plot dotted with headstones, only then did she notice a fresh pile of dirt with a shovel wedged in it.

Who was in the coffin?

At a rustling behind her, Emma stood.

There in the cabin doorway stood a petite woman. She was hunched over, a gray crocheted shawl draped over a black dress. She wore a tight-fitting bonnet, and her hair fell in two severe braids over her shoulders. Her face was pale and her cheeks drawn.

Emma had glimpsed the sick woman earlier that morning when she was warming herself in front of the stove. Bertha Burnham had been lying in bed under heaps of covers in the cabin's one bedroom when her mother-in-law, the widow Burnham, had delivered an onion poultice and a cup of hot broth to the sickroom.

The widow Burnham hadn't spoken much, but it had been enough for Emma to learn that Bertha wasn't only sick with influenza but was grieving the recent death of her cousin and couldn't be disturbed.

As Bertha emerged into the sunshine, Emma moved into the shadows of the cabin.

The woman barked a command to a boy standing near a woodpile onshore. “Go tell your father it's time for Delia's funeral.”

He called back, “Yes, Mam,” then darted off on bare feet, heedless of the rocks and wood chips that littered the ground.