The Keeper's Sacrifice (Keepers of the Light Book 1) Page 2

  Chapter 3

  It felt wrong, somehow, being away from his lighthouse with no one there to tend it. I’ll be back before nightfall, Max reminded himself. Besides, it will be good for me to meet people; this is my new home, after all. Max turned sideways to slide his way down the steep bank of the dirt trail, following the curve to a cleared spread of land that reached all the way to the waters of the bay. Spruce Hill nestled like a bird in its nest right between.

  For a moment he stood, noting the smell of sawdust, water, and fish. A collection of businesses was crowded together along the curvy main road, some with second-story lodging. The residences spread from that cluster, growing further apart on the outlying roads. Several buildings were under construction to keep up with the growth of the small town, which had all the necessities, it seemed. A carpenter, hotel, café, and general goods store that doubled as post office dotted one side of the street nearest him, and the jailhouse, smithy, and bar lined the other. The road curved when it met the bay, and Max could see that the businesses continued past the bend.

  Even more astounding than Spruce Hill’s amenities was a giant Sitka spruce towering like a watchdog beside the road. Several thick arms protruding near the base of the trunk reached toward the heavens, their height nearly double that of any other tree Max could see. It was all he could do to stare at the ancient colossus, completely dumfounded.

  “I see you’ve discovered Titan.”

  Max snapped his head to the tall fellow sauntering to the tree.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  The stranger nodded. “And you never will. This tree was here before man, before any other tree, and will continue its watch long after we’re gone. Some say it guards the forest.” He offered his hand, and Max gave it a firm shake. “You new to town or just passing through?”

  “New to town. Planning to stay.” Max crossed his arms over his chest, wondering at the tone with which the nosy man had asked. He stared at Max with intense blue eyes. “I’m Troy Spencer, deputy. You hear of any trouble – or find yourself to be the cause of it – I’ll be there.”

  Nodding warily, Max asked, “Would you mind directing me to the church?”

  “Follow this road around the bend and you’ll see it there on the left. My folks, Stan and Clare, will greet you at the door.”

  “Thank you.”

  He’d hoped to arrive early for the sermon, but when he stepped to the church door, he could see he was tardy. The walk must have taken longer than he’d estimated. Dozens of eyes turned to him when pastor Kearns paused, greeting him with a wave.

  Grinning uncomfortably, Max nodded and edged to a seat in the back.

  The pews were full, a good variety of folks old and young, male and female occupying them. Max pressed his lips together to keep from laughing when a young boy in the pew in front of him wouldn’t stop picking at something in his nose. A beautiful young lady across the aisle caught his eye and fluttered her lashes at Max, which sobered him right up.

  When the service concluded, several folks meandered toward him.

  “Hello there. What brings you to Spruce Hill?” a broad, balding fellow asked.

  “I’m Max Tucker, keeper of the Puffin Point light.”

  A woman whom Max guessed was the man’s wife nodded sagely. “Well!” she squealed, interrupting her husband’s reply. “We are sure pleased to meet you, Mr. Tucker. I’m Hilde Portly, and this here is my husband Heber. We run the hotel, and we’ve a son, too. Where did he get off to?”

  She looked about, hands on her hips, and reached for the arm of a nearly-grown boy, pulling him close. “Don’t be shy, Bix! Come meet Mr. Tucker, Puffin Point’s new keeper.”

  “Hello,” Max nodded. Bix jubilantly shook his hand.

  “You are going to just love it here, Mr. Tucker. Come now, let me introduce you to Hank Densley; he’s the owner of the General Goods store across the street there, and, Oh! We can’t forget Sheriff Hobbs, now can we…”

  Max grinned and shook hands with each of the citizens he was pushed toward, trying to keep up with Mrs. Portly and doing a poor job of it. When her husband finally wrangled her from the room, Max thanked the pastor and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

  A blonde fellow with a crisp, clean mackinaw jacket and thick boots jogged to his side. “Ho, keeper. Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all,” Max replied, liking the man’s friendly smile and honest eyes.

  “Don’t worry about Hilde. She means well, but I know she can be a bit overbearing. Her husband can, too, if you catch him alone.”

  Max grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “The name’s Wernicke. Glad you made it to town. We don’t see the light keepers here all that often, but I suppose that’s understandable.”

  “I aim to make the trek on Sundays if I can,” Max said. “It seems to be a nice town, Spruce Hill. Bigger than I thought.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. But I’m glad to be wrong. Have you been here long?”

  Wernicke shrugged. “A few years. I work for Henry as foreman.”

  “Henry?”

  A look of disbelief swept the man’s whiskered face. “Henry Forester… owner of the largest logging operation in town?”

  “I haven’t met him yet, I’m afraid.”

  “I can take you there now for a tour, if you have time. Sunday is the only day the mill is at rest, so it would be a great time to get a feel for the place without everybody there.”

  “I’d like that, if you think it’s alright.”

  “Sure, it is,” Wernicke said. “Bethany Forester helps manage the place, and she’s a friend of mine. She’s been sweet on the deputy, Troy Spencer, for a long time…”

  “Ah, yes. I’ve met the deputy.”

  Max listened politely as Wernicke jawed about Henry Forester’s capable daughter, the Forester Mill, and his work among the logging crews before helping at the mill until they could hear the sound of the river rushing into the bay. They crossed a sturdy, wooden bridge spanning the river, which deposited them into the heart of the Forester Lumber operation. Several narrow, long log bunkhouses were organized in neat rows, and a few men lazed around outside on their day off. The mill lay behind those, nearer to the river, and it was an impressive set-up. A dammed portion near the mouth of the river held so many felled trees that if Max didn’t know the water was beneath them, he’d think it to be a wooden platform. The mill connected with that pool, a ramp leading up to the platform housing the saw. Two walls ran the length of the mill, but the front and back were open, allowing for movement of the lumber. A fourteen-foot water wheel dipped its paddles into the river, ready for work to commence.

  Pointing to the floating logs, Wernicke explained, “The logs are floated down the river here to this holding pool, then pulled up the ramp into the mill. Come see the saw.”

  Max nodded, following along.

  “When the water wheel spins, it turns that dowel in the river there, which creates the movement of the saw. See that horizontal beam? The saw is fastened to it, so its up-and-down movements make the cuts.” A wide grin spread across Wernicke’s face, creasing the corners of his green eyes. “It’s really something, watching it cut through those strong logs as though they were sausages.”

  Max shook his head, imagining the sharp teeth of the saw at work. “What about this here?” he asked, touching a metal wheel that sunk partway under the floorboards. It reminded him of a ship’s wheel, only larger.

  “That wheel moves the tram where the log is held in place so the saw can cut the entire length of the log. A small paddle wheel in the river beneath this platform resets the tram and clears out the sawdust.”

  “It’s really something, Wernicke. I’d love to see it in operation sometime.”

  Wernicke’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Anytime you can make it, I’d be happy to show you. And I’d love to see your lighthouse, too. Never been inside one, but I’ve always wanted to.”

 
Max agreed, inviting Wernicke for a visit on his next day off.

  Outside the mill, massive stacks of logs were piled in rows organized by thickness. An ox lowed a greeting from a sizeable corral near the tree line, its tail swishing after a fly. A dozen other oxen lazed about, enjoying the day of rest.

  “If you float the logs down the river, why do you need oxen?”

  “Well, some of the sections in which the crews have felled trees aren’t right along the river. The oxen drag the logs to the river, or sometimes even back here to the mill.”

  He’d had no idea there was so much to logging. It was quite a magnificent operation. Henry Forester must be a thinking man, indeed. Thanking Wernicke for the tour, Max welcomed the foreman to join him at the Staghead Café for a meal before heading back to the lighthouse. With a stomach that felt as hollow as a cave, he walked quickly.

  “Welcome, boys. Take a seat and I’ll be right with you,” a slender young waitress greeted. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a knot at the base of her neck where her white apron strings were tied.

  “Thanks, Meg,” Wernicke replied.

  “What does Staghead mean? Is it a logging term?”

  Wernicke nodded. “You’ve seen a Staghead before, I’m sure of it. When a dead tree has fallen and the roots are sticking up, it resembles the antlers of a stag.”

  It was a simply constructed establishment containing several tables flanked by benches. A single lamp embellished the center of each table. But the scents! Whatever was cooking smelled heavenly, stirring Max’s stomach even more.

  Max was the first to admit he was no great creator of meals, so when the steaming-hot salmon arrived, he knew it would taste divine. Arthur Hugh, the lighthouse tender tasked with supplying both of the lighthouses, came in for a meal, which tickled Wernicke to no end having two lighthouse men in the room when he seemed to think it such a rare occurrence. Max invited him to join their table, the first of many meals he was sure they would share, and Arthur seemed glad for it. As the three of them became better acquainted, the conversation grew louder.

  “Did you see Selene eyeing you in church after the service? I think she may have salivated over fresh meat!” Arthur laughed, ribbing him as though they were old friends.

  Max’s smile faltered and he swallowed past a lump in his throat. “I didn’t. She didn’t…”

  “You should consider yourself lucky to have caught her eye, Max. There’s a lot of competition around here, and she is sure a pretty little thing.”

  Noting Wernicke’s frowny withdrawal when Selene was mentioned, Max tried to hide his grimace with a smile, steering the conversation to a safer topic. He wouldn’t dream of pursuing another woman; not yet, anyway. Lottie owned his heart now and always. But that tragic story was not one he cared to share with these two men.

  Having cleared his plate and emptied his glass, Max bid farewell to Wernicke and Arthur, who slapped him heartily on the back. Arthur smiled through his thick, dark beard, promising to visit the lighthouse in the next couple of weeks. With friends like them, Max could build a new life in Spruce Hill, alright, and that hopeful realization warmed him through as he trudged back to Puffin Point alone.

  ***

  True to his word, Arthur arrived a couple of weeks later, towing Wernicke along with him. The tender had rowed a dory to the same beach Mr. Svensson had used and walked the mile north to the cliff face where the Puffin Point lighthouse valiantly stood. It had taken the three of them two trips to and from the dory, and having deposited all the supplies Arthur had brought on the sitting room floor, the men moved to the kitchen for the noon meal.

  At the table, Arthur pushed a small box to Max. “I was instructed in no uncertain terms to deliver these directly to you.”

  “By whom?”

  Arthur just lifted a brow.

  Licking his lips, Max opened the lid to find a dozen soft cookies stacked with care, and on top, a folded note. Shoving a cookie into his mouth, he nearly choked when he read the signature at the bottom.

  “Selene sent these? To me?”

  Women were such a puzzle; it was the only thing of which Max was certain. What was she expecting from such a gesture?

  “Baked them herself, apparently,” Arthur grinned. “She’s sweet on you, keeper.”

  Swallowing hard, Max stared at the offering, unsure if eating them would signify his interest in whatever Selene seemed to be pursuing. He hadn’t said more than a sentence or two to the woman, for heaven’s sake! Sure, she was very pretty. Her smooth skin and thick, dark hair would turn the head of any single fellow with functioning eyeballs. But for Max, the thought of courting anyone seemed…unappealing. His heart belonged to another, a fact that could not be overlooked.

  He nonchalantly offered the rest to Arthur and Wernicke. “A man doesn’t turn down baked goods from anyone, least of all a pretty young woman.” Arthur accepted a handful and pierced Max with a “blundering fool” sort of look, but asked no questions. Wernicke watched them both with a guarded expression, his arms folded across his chest, saying nothing about Selene nor accepting a sample of her cookies.

  “It’s a fair day for fishing,” Arthur mumbled through his beard which was littered with cookie crumbs. “We don’t get many like it around here. Have you a fishing pole?”

  “No, but I’d still like to come along, if I may.”

  Arthur turned to study Max with one large, brown eye. “It’s crab season, too, if we don’t have much luck catching salmon or rockfish. Might even see some perch.”

  “All of it sounds good,” Max enthused, glancing disappointingly at the bread and boiled vegetables they were eating. “Maybe you can bring me some poles and nets the next time you come.”

  “Sure thing.” Arthur led the way back to the dory, and soon they were bobbing up and down at the mouth of the bay. Wernicke, content to enjoy his day off, covered his face with his hat and dozed.

  It truly was a miraculous sort of day, as though the elements wanted them to go fishing. The salty breeze was minimal, white-crested waves riding smoothly to the pebbly shores. Even the gulls cried happily, gliding effortlessly above the beach in search of a morsel to eat.

  It was surprising how quickly the afternoon transpired. There was much to learn about where to fish for different species, what each preferred as bait, and even the best way to cook what they caught. It was clear Arthur spent a great deal of time in his dory, minding his lines and nets. “The salmon are found primarily in the river, but if you try the bay in the right season, you’ll snag a few. Oh, and I have a few crab traps and lines along the docks in town. They prefer in shallow water.”

  There were several fishing boats in the bay, evidence that others, too, were taking advantage of the great weather. A great schooner with three masts appeared moored at the bay, its sails tied down tidily with coils of rope. Max looked upon it with interest, amazed at its great size.

  “We may not have much of anything else to offer, but the lumber business feeds Spruce Hill,” Arthur commented, following Max’s gaze. “Much of the state’s lumber comes through Chauntis Bay, and large ships like that one deliver it further south. If you follow the shoreline there,” Arthur pointed, “you’ll see Lookout Rock and its lighthouse.”

  And there it was, a solid two-story white building with the lantern room rising from the center of the roof line. It was much larger than his lighthouse, though Puffin Point’s tower was taller.

  When he tired of observing the ship and lighthouse, Max reclined in the boat, piling his arms beneath his head. He closed his eyes, allowing the warmth of the sun and smooth, rocking motion of the waves to soothe the weariness from his heart and soul. A person could forget his cares here where the water sparkled azure and the unique smells of sea and evergreens merged… or remember them.

  Memories of a rare, sun-filled day such as this one crashed into Max like the surf into the unyielding rocks, and Arthur’s mass faded away as a different slender, cherished form took his place.

 
; Her laughter carried clear and sweet as she splashed him with her oar. When he retaliated, she squealed, then narrowed her eyes in mock outrage. Her wild lunge tipped the rowboat but he managed to hold on. Lottie was not so fortunate, the splash from her plunge spraying his arms and face.

  “You brought that upon yourself,” Max laughed, leaning over the side with his oar extended. “I suppose the same could be said of you,” she cried, then tugged fiercely on the oar. When Max fell in beside her, it pushed the boat away. They laughed as they swam to it, racing.

  With both of them settled once more in the rowboat, teeth rattling from the cold water, Max settled the oars into the oar locks and braced himself to row, pausing when Lottie placed a hand on his forearm. Her deep brown eyes were soft, inviting, and he met her halfway in a kiss. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he pulled her close, kissing her thoroughly and deeply, until he’d forgotten about his wet clothes, and the sunshine, and everything but her…

  “Reel her in, Max!” a deep voice interrupted, jolting him from his doze. And he wasn’t the only one, for Wernicke sat up so quickly he nearly toppled into the sea. Arthur was clutching a bending fishing rod, bracing the one next to him with a knee so it, too, didn’t get pulled into the water. Immediately Max grasped the pole and began reeling wildly, thrilled by the strength of the creature hooked on the other end.

  Arthur whistled when he pulled a wriggling fish into the boat that was as long and thick as his forearm. He hooked it onto a line and grabbed the net for Max’s catch, whooping and hollering like a young boy. When the black-striped monster was hauled on board, Max couldn’t help but laugh, amazed that the line hadn’t snapped.

  “Looks like we’ll be eating fresh perch tonight, boys!” Arthur triumphed, then angled the dory to the cliffs of Puffin Point.