Hearts Made Whole (20 page)

Arnie didn't speak. Instead his fingers tightened around a knife he'd cleared from the table. Although the instrument was blunt and covered with grainy butter, Arnie had twisted it until it was pointing straight at Ryan.

“Chambers,” Simmons called from a side door that Ryan presumed led into the man's office. In the dim lighting, Ryan could make out a large oak desk, along with ledgers. “What can I do for you, my friend?” Simmons's smile turned up knowingly. “I figured you wouldn't be able to stay away for too long.” His sleeves were rolled up, showing off his muscles and tattoos.

Ryan tried to ignore the bar and the bottles lining the shelves on the wall. Nevertheless, a sudden and powerful thirst parched his throat and made his tongue dry with desire.

A drink wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? What if he sat down at the bar and had just one mug of beer while discussing matters with Simmons?

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Simmons started toward the bar. “Come on. I'll get you a shot of whiskey.”

Ryan glanced around the nearly deserted room, with only a few men seated at a far table. No one would have to know.
Arnie bent down and began picking up the broken glass as if giving him permission too.

Ryan's mind shouted at him to back out the door now while he still had the chance. But he dragged in a lungful of the tanginess of beer that lingered in the air, and the craving for it hooked into him and seemed to pull him forward against his will.

A crash of glass stopped him short, and his attention shifted to Arnie kneeling on the floor and sucking his finger with the pieces of glass strewn around him again.

At the commotion, Simmons spun and glared at Arnie. “Why don't you ever watch what you're doing?”

Arnie lowered his head and said nothing as he went on cleaning up the mess he'd made.

Ryan struggled to remember why he'd come to the tavern in the first place.

Simmons started toward his son, his bald head wrinkling with the intensity of his frown. He wound a bar towel tighter with each step he took.

“Stay away from Caroline Taylor,” Ryan blurted.

Arnie's head snapped up at the mention of Caroline's name.

“Stop harassing her or you'll have to answer to me,” Ryan added.

Simmons halted, and his frown faded into first surprise, then anger. “I don't know what you're talking about, Chambers. And I certainly don't appreciate you coming in here and leveling accusations at me. That isn't the way friends treat one another.”

“Then you're telling me you know nothing about the hole in the boat or the mutilated duck or the ruined garden?”

“You're spouting nonsense.” Simmons's voice rose with his mounting irritation.

Ryan studied the tavern owner's face, the hard set of his jaw and the furrowed brow. Something told him the man wasn't putting on an act, that he really had no knowledge of the recent harassment. His earlier observation was correct. Simmons was too forthright. If he wanted Caroline out of the lighthouse, he'd ride out and tell her so face-to-face.

“Is Finick behind the harassment?” Ryan asked.

“I don't worry myself with Finick's methods,” Simmons said. “So long as he gets the right man in the lighthouse, I don't care how he goes about it.”

“And am I the right man?” Ryan pressed.

Simmons narrowed his eyes. “So long as Caroline is there, I doubt you'll be much help. But once she's finally gone, then I'm sure you'll be just right for the job.”

The tavern owner's words cut deep. Ryan had thought he was getting better. But a nagging at the back of Ryan's mind told him that perhaps he hadn't changed enough yet, that maybe he wasn't as strong as he needed to be.

“I'm not the man you think I am,” Ryan said.

Simmons laughed and started again toward Arnie, who'd picked up most of the broken glass off the floor and set the pieces on the table.

“I'm planning to do a good job with the lighthouse,” Ryan stated more firmly. “I'm committed to making sure the light is always on.”

But Simmons was already upon Arnie, grabbing him by one of his large ears. “I'm docking the broken mug from your pay.”

“Y-yes, s-sir,” Arnie managed to get out.

Then Simmons snapped the towel like a whip against Arnie's back. The young man cried out at the contact and then hunched into a ball, covering his head with his arms.

“Leave him alone!” Ryan demanded. “The broken mug was an accident.”

Simmons shoved his son into the table, causing the pieces of glass to topple to the floor again. He marched toward Ryan, his eyes blazing with a fury Ryan hadn't seen there before. He'd heard rumors about the man's hot temper and guessed he was about to see it for himself. He steeled his body for the first punch.

But Simmons stopped a foot away and nodded to the door. “You best get on out of here before I decide to teach you a lesson you won't soon forget.”

Ryan hesitated before turning and making his way to the door. Although he was tempted to teach Simmons a lesson of his own, one that involved treating his son with more respect, Ryan had the feeling he'd only end up causing more trouble. He'd gotten the answers he came seeking. For now, he needed to return to the lighthouse and make sure Caroline and her family were safe.

He still wasn't any closer to discovering the culprit, yet he was reasonably sure it wasn't Simmons. Or at least he hoped it wasn't.

L
ook!” Harry called as they neared the lighthouse yard. “I think that's our boat!”

Walking next to Ryan, Caroline's gaze followed Harry's pointed finger to the beach south of the lighthouse. Sure enough, there on the water's edge, flipped upside down, was a rowboat. With each lap of the waves, the boat wedged farther up onto the rocks.

For a moment, she could picture her father rowing away, raising his hand in good-bye to her. She'd always waited on the shore until he waved, and then she lifted onto her toes, stretched her arm, and waved back. Somehow the memory didn't sting anymore but filled her with a bittersweet warmth.

Harry and Hugh were already racing toward the hulk before Caroline could say anything.

Ryan stopped and smiled at her, and there wasn't a trace of the usual pain etching his face. He appeared relaxed, happy. She was getting a glimpse of the whole, strong man he'd once been.

The fall sunshine poured down on them. Though the temperature was cool, the sun warmed her face, and the day seemed
bright with endless possibilities. Especially because Ryan had gone to church with her and the boys for the first time. And also because it had been a week since the near-drowning incident and nothing more had happened.

Ryan had insisted that Mr. Simmons wasn't behind the distressing events of late at the lighthouse. But Caroline couldn't keep from noticing that nothing else had happened since Ryan had ridden to the Roadside Inn last week. Perhaps it was because Mr. Simmons knew he was under suspicion. Or perhaps it was because Ryan had been standing watch at night, his rifle at his side. He'd patrolled the perimeter and had even put Hugh and Harry on guard while he slept.

Had Ryan's presence scared away the perpetrator, or had she simply worried for nothing?

Maybe she'd made a bigger deal out of everything that had happened than was warranted. Maybe the near-drowning had just been an accident after all. The rowboat had been old, one they'd bought from a retired fisherman after the lighthouse-issued boat had sunk when Father died. Perhaps the old boat had finally sprung a leak.

Caroline sighed, inhaling the crisp air laden with the scent of damp leaves and wet grass.

“Have I told you yet today how pretty you look?” Ryan asked, then reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers.

“Yes. You've told me.” She couldn't—didn't want to—resist the gentle pressure of his fingers surrounding hers.

His eyes swept over her again, taking in her best Sunday-meeting dress. It was a pale blue color that her father had said matched her eyes. The dress accented her slender waist and had a modest neckline that still revealed more skin than her everyday blouses.

Ryan's gaze shifted to her face, to her cheeks and mouth, before settling on her eyes. “You're beautiful,” he whispered.

His tenderness sent the usual pleasure to her belly. Over the past week, they'd had very few opportunities to be alone. At times Ryan seemed to go out of his way to make sure they had a chaperone whenever they were together for any length of time.

But she wasn't sure how much longer they could go on this way. There was something altogether too strong between them, and instead of it diminishing from their being apart, it only seemed to grow. Surely she didn't need to have any concerns about her involvement with Ryan. He was healing. He wasn't drinking anymore.

He didn't let go of her hand but instead tugged her forward, his happiness contagious. His touch burned into her and made her middle do several flips, but she resolved to be as carefree as him, at least for the rest of the day. If he could simply enjoy being together without worrying about their attraction and where it was leading, then couldn't she?

“Let's race,” he said with a grin. Without waiting for her protest, he pulled her along with him until they were both breathless and laughing. By the time they reached Harry and Hugh, she felt fully alive, the air cool on her flushed cheeks. Her heart swelled with the joy of being with Ryan and holding his hand. Since it was the Sabbath, the day spread before her with nothing to do but spend it with him. And she couldn't imagine anything better.

The boys had discarded their shoes and socks, rolled up their trousers, and were wading in the frigid water, attempting to flip the boat over. Ryan quickly shed his shoes and joined them.

She stood back and watched, savoring the beauty of the day,
the bright blue of the water, and the vivid reds and oranges that still remained on the maples.

“Are you afraid of getting your feet cold?” Ryan teased her as he splashed in the lake.

“I'm just the smart one,” she said, then gave an easy smile. “I'm staying warm and dry and letting you boys do the dirty work.”

She wasn't surprised anymore by how effortless it felt to banter with him. Even if she was flirting at times, he'd become a true friend. Not only could she tease him and enjoy his company, but she could talk to him about anything, and he'd not only listen but understand.

She'd never experienced such a relationship with any girl friend, not even with Esther. It was strange but not unpleasant to have such an open and easy friendship with Ryan. She supposed that made her attraction to him all the stronger.

With Ryan's strength at the stern and the twins' at the bow, they managed to carry the boat up onto the shore. Once they had it a safe distance from the water, they turned it over onto its hull.

For a moment, Caroline couldn't make sense of the sight that met her. And then she screeched and shrank back. For nailed to the thwart was a mallard duck, its wings outstretched and its glossy-green head twisted at an odd angle, blood oozing from the eye that had been punctured with a nail.

Hugh and Harry both made exclamations at once, their questions and cries of dismay filling the pristine day. Ryan stepped closer to examine the duck.

Caroline cupped a hand over her mouth. Her body had frozen, but her mind sped forward with all the horror of the past month, each incidence coming back to echo the reality that
someone was behind everything. That nothing had been an accident.

“What do you think it means?” Harry stepped into the boat next to Ryan.

“Is someone trying to send us a message?” Hugh asked, joining his brother.

Caroline couldn't make her lungs work to answer her brothers. She knew what it meant. The message was growing louder. Someone wanted her gone from the lighthouse. And now she knew with certainty that whoever was doing this wasn't going to stop tormenting her until she left.

Ryan straightened. His handsome face was creased with an angry frown. He scanned the distant woods beyond the marsh as if studying every tree, every blade of grass. He glanced beyond her to the boathouse, then the cottage and tower. His eyes narrowed, and he stiffened.

Caroline whirled around to see a plume of smoke rising from the passageway that connected the tower and the house. Her lungs constricted into tight balls. It couldn't be what she thought it was, could it? Yet rising smoke usually meant one thing . . .

“Fire!” Ryan shouted, leaping out of the boat.

Hearing the word
fire
, Hugh and Harry hopped out of the boat after him.

Wisps of smoke curled out of cracks in the window frame and rose into the air like long, dark fingers clawing the blue sky.

“Sarah, Tessa . . .” Caroline tried to shout their names, but they came out a croak.

Ryan had already started running toward the house, but at the names, his stride lengthened into a sprint, regardless of the fact that his boots were lying among the rocks near the rowboat.

“Caroline,” he shouted over his shoulder, “start filling buckets of water as fast as you can. Hugh and Harry, you help too.”

The boys didn't need to be told twice. They raced after Ryan, stopping at the boathouse to retrieve buckets while Ryan dashed to the front door of the cottage and disappeared inside.

Caroline tried to make her feet work, to run as fast as she could, but she tripped and stumbled all the way to the boathouse, where Hugh thrust a bucket already brimming with lake water into her hands.

She wanted to follow Ryan inside, to make sure that Sarah and Tessa were safely removed from the house. But panting for each breath, she forced her feet to veer toward the passageway, to the flames that were beginning to glow on the other side of the window. She had to trust that Ryan would rescue her sisters. And she had to do everything she could to save the lighthouse.

Let them lose the cottage. Let everything they owned burn up into oblivion. But she couldn't allow the fire to consume the tower, the beacon of hope for all the many ships that depended on it night after night.

When she reached the passageway door, she touched the knob only to jerk away at the searing heat. She dropped her bucket and picked up two large decorative stones she'd placed in her flower bed. Without a second thought, she heaved them against the window.

The glass shattered with sparks and flames shooting out the jagged holes left by the stones. She pulled back at the blast of heat and fumes. Harry was already next to her and tossing his bucket of water through the opening. As the water hit the flames, black smoke rose with a sizzle.

She picked up her bucket and threw the water at the flames. The smoke momentarily blinded her, and when she blinked past
the acridness, her heart plummeted. The two pails of water had hardly made a difference against the hungry fire.

Panic pushed her to action so that all she could think about was dousing the flames before they reached the tower. She raced to the water next to Hugh and Harry and rushed back with them to throw water again into the open window.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw with relief that Ryan was carrying Sarah out of the house cradled in his arms and that Tessa followed close behind, dragging a bundle of possessions with her.

“We need help putting out the fire!” Harry called, running up the grassy knoll from the lake, his pail of water bouncing against his leg and sloshing over the rim.

Soon Tessa joined them, and they formed a bucket brigade from the lake to the house. They passed the water as fast as they could one after another, until the muscles in Caroline's arms grew weak from the heavy loads and her lungs ached for fresh air.

Ryan made several more trips into the house, carrying buckets of water, until finally he joined them outside. He kicked at the passageway door, and it crashed open. Caroline passed buckets to him, and he emptied them faster than she could supply. They worked hard for endless minutes, putting out the remaining half-dozen small fires.

Finally, after many more buckets, every flicker and glow of orange had disappeared. Instead, thick smoke filled the little room, escaping through the broken window and through a hole the flames had made in the ceiling.

Caroline collapsed on the grass and gasped for air. Through watery eyes she caught a glimpse of the interior, the blackened walls, the table, her logbooks, and everything else charred and half burned.

Ryan stepped out of the doorway. He was wearing her father's old boots, which he must have slid on when he'd gone in to rescue Sarah and Tessa. His shirt and trousers were seared in spots from sparks. His face was black with soot, making the whites of his eyes even whiter. His attention flitted to each person where they rested on the grass as if assessing their condition before finally coming to rest on her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She didn't have the energy to do much more than nod. She could only stare straight ahead, wheezing and trying to catch her breath.

Ryan's brow furrowed and he came over and knelt beside her.

“I'll be okay in a minute,” she said past the tightness in her throat.

He laid his hand on her back. “Everything's going to be fine.” His tone was gentle and soothing. He started to knead the tight muscles in her neck.

After a while she could feel her body begin to loosen from the viselike grip of panic.

“Everyone's safe,” he assured her. “And we saved the house and tower.”

His fingers on her neck were firm and warm. Slowly they squeezed the worry out of her system. Her hair hung in disarray, having come free from the knot she'd worn at the base of her neck earlier to church. His hand now moved from her neck to the loose hair. He tenderly brushed the strands, caressing them down her back, and then looked at her with wrinkled brows.

“I'm doing better,” she said, but her words came out weak and shaky.

He wiped a finger across her cheek, which she had no doubt was covered with soot. It took her a moment to realize that one
hand was still on her back—his good hand—and that he was touching her face with his injured one. She was surprised he had the hand out of his pocket. He did most things one-handed, keeping his scarred hand out of sight.

As if realizing what he'd done, embarrassment flickered in his eyes and he dropped the hand, ready to stuff it back in his pocket. Before he could do so, she grasped his hand and lifted his two remaining fingers back to her face. Without hesitating, she pressed them against her cheek.