The Keeper's Sacrifice (Keepers of the Light Book 1) Page 3

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  Max hesitated before rapping his knuckles against the door. He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

  Be fair and search for the good. You’re looking to move on from Lottie, after all. If it goes poorly, you won’t have to endure a second outing. He’d promised himself he’d try, but that was about all he was willing to do.

  “Hi, Mr. Tucker. Let me fetch my shawl and I’ll be ready.”

  His shoulders relaxed for a moment before Selene reappeared, stepping through the door. Her dark curls were pulled up on top of her head, and the light blue calico of her dress matched the hue of her eyes. Delicate lace embellished her arms at the elbows, a matching collar adorning the neckline of the dress. She was tall in her heeled boots, maybe even an inch taller than he.

  Max cleared his throat. “You look nice today. Thanks for inviting me.”

  Her smile grew. “I know it’s not the conventional thing to do, but…” One thin shoulder lifted. “I’m happy you agreed to come.”

  When she walked ahead to lead him back to the road, Max’s polite smile faltered. He exhaled heavily, trying to release his thoughts of Lottie, but her presence wrapped itself around his heart, feeling as though she were accompanying him on this date with another woman. Without meaning to, he shrugged his shoulders as though the action would dislodge the feeling.

  At least the outing gave him a break from polishing brass. All morning he’d been hunched over the metal, buffing and scrubbing every last inch. He would be quite content that the job was finished if it weren’t for the fact that it would need to be done again soon. Cleaning brass and glass…a lighthouse keeper’s most mundane tasks.

  Selene settled herself upon his arm, winking at him. He shuffled his feet in embarrassment, and she giggled.

  Why was he feeling so unsettled? Was it the woman herself? Selene was a beautiful young woman, certainly, but as they strolled down the sodden road, he couldn’t convince himself that her attractiveness had a magnetizing effect. No - the truth was, he was here to be polite.

  He tried again. “I apologize for my inability to come for the play tonight. I know you very much wanted to attend.”

  “That’s alright,” Selene fluttered her eyelashes. “You are a man who fulfills his duty. I like that about you, Max.”

  “Yes, well… thank you. I haven’t eaten at the hotel restaurant yet, but I’m told it’s delicious.”

  “Oh, yes. The Portly’s may be practical, but the menu at the restaurant is simply wonderful. I do hope you like wild blackberry pie!”

  A light sprinkle had begun but Selene seemed in no rush. “Do you have time to accompany me on a walk first? We can chat and get to know one another before the meal.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Max did his very best to listen as Selene gushed over her father’s tailoring business, the delicate stitches he was capable of, and how she had an enviable supply of dresses, skirts, and underclothing at her disposal. Max hardly needed to say a thing, offering an occasional hum or nod as she divulged her family’s history and how they came to reside in Spruce Hill.

  She led them straight to the docks and Forester’s mill, and the closer they came, the more difficult it was to hear over the sawblade chewing into the logs. A couple of young boys at work in the yard stopped to watch them as they approached. Wernicke appeared at the opening nearest them, raising a hand but jerking it back down the minute he saw Selene upon Max’s arm. Max could see his friend’s eyes narrowing from here. If he had his cap set on Selene, why didn’t he mention it before? He hadn’t lacked for opportunity two days before when they were fishing.

  If she noticed Wernicke, Selene didn’t show it. In fact, she pulled Max toward the mill. “Have you seen the mill at work yet?”

  One more glance at Wernicke’s stiff jaw was all it took for Max to pick up on the hint. “It’s obvious they are busy. I’d not like to interrupt.”

  “But...”

  “Maybe some other time, Selene.”

  Though her brow furrowed, she nodded and waved goodbye to the boys.

  The return to town held a different mood, as though Selene was just now picking up on the awkwardness between them that Max had felt from the very beginning.

  She dined with all the grace and manners that any man could hope for in a woman, and even kept a light conversation moving, though not with the same fervor as before. When he looked at her, his mind replaced her light blue eyes with expressive light brown ones, Lottie’s copper strands of hair making Selene’s rich locks seem dim. He’d savored every bite of the fresh chowder and warm rolls, and the blackberry pie topped high with whipped cream was truly straight out of his dreams. He would have liked to purchase an entire pie to bring home with him but didn’t want to have to carry it.

  He smiled at Selene, thanking her for her suggestion that they go out, but already he was thinking up excuses for not doing so again. Besides, he couldn’t stomach the thought of dating the woman Wernicke so obviously cared for; that was the quickest way to end their budding friendship he so valued.

  So, he walked Selene home, thanked her again for a lovely afternoon, and set his feet to walking home, grateful the thing was over and done.

  Chapter 4

  December 1869

  How could there be any water left in the heavens after all it had dumped upon the earth? Max clenched his teeth at the lighthouse’s groaning, the winds and water beating mercilessly upon its walls. Each clap of thunder seemed louder than the last. The ocean hurled ear-splitting, black waves into the land like cannonballs, every forceful push from the wind assaulting his ears and ravaging his calm.

  Wretched winter storms! He railed. The lighthouse could fall at any moment! The sheer might of the ocean was terrifying; when he’d arrived at Puffin Point four months ago, Max would never have thought to see its white-capped surf pounding into the foundation of the tower, high as it was. If he cared about his own well-being, he should abandon the light to the monstrous swells. But Max would never flee; his conscience would not allow it. The lighthouse and fog signal were crucial in guiding mariners safely through Pacific storms such as these. In a way, standing up to this storm was his very purpose. As long as the lighthouse stood, he would tend the light.

  The light first; myself afterward.

  Max filled two buckets with oil in the store room and climbed one set of stairs carefully, pausing as the tower trembled at another onslaught from the rain. The brilliant glow of the lamp in the lantern room above him was reassuring, its constancy grounding him when the very surface he stood upon was anything but secure.

  The bottom three feet of his living quarters were likely under water by now. As tumultuous as the water was, Max didn’t dare trek to the fog signal building for fear he’d be swept away. Nevertheless, he would keep the light burning, or die, the latter seeming to be an increasingly probable ending.

  Rain pelted the glass panes of the lantern room and occasional gusts of wind seeped through the cracks, causing the lamp’s flame to flicker. Max clutched the brass handles in the watch room, never allowing his gaze to stray from the light, sending a constant prayer heavenward that the tower would withstand the storm. Should it succumb to the darkness howling around it, the ships depending upon its guiding beam would surely follow.

  He startled at the sound of breaking glass above, the plink of the shards hitting the floor of the lantern room above him muted by the howling wind. Hand over hand he climbed the ladder until he was peeking into the lantern room, spying a thrashing water fowl immediately. Gingerly, he grasped the bird and tossed it back out to fend for itself. Frigid wind burst through the broken pane, causing the flame within the lens to dance precariously.

  With quick feet Max took the stairs to the store room for a replacement pane and putty, snagging a sturdy pair of leather gloves on the way back up. The flame had extinguished, lending to the urgency of the repair. After knocking the jagged edges of the glass out and swiping it clean as best he could, he held the new pan
e in place with one hand and worked the putty into the cracks with the other. Securing the window from the inside was probably adequate on a mild, dry night, but with gales of this magnitude Max knew it would be insufficient. He took a deep breath, tugging the collar of his duster up over his neck and checking the knot of the rope he’d tied around his waist.

  He could have thrown himself out into the wild, heaving sea for the security he felt stepping out onto the gallery. Instantly he was pelted with water, and he couldn’t determine whether the crashing, thrashing ocean or the angry wind was louder or more formidable. Fear clawed its way up his throat, but he swallowed it back down.

  This was a terrible idea…

  Clutching the gallery railing, Max moved one foot cautiously in front of the other, praying for the strength and courage to do what needed to be done. The lighthouse swayed slightly with the bullying of the waves, making him feel as though he were rocking to and fro in a boat. He hooked a booted toe around the railing, applying the putty to the edges of the new pane as quickly and efficiently as the circumstance allowed, certain he’d need to strip it clean and redo it once the storm ceased.

  Still the lamps needed to be re-lit. Hastily he trimmed the wicks and filled the oil reservoir before igniting a flame. The moment it flared to life Max sank to the floor in relief. The beacon had been dark for an hour or so by his reckoning. God willing, it would stay lit for the duration of the howling monstrosity outside. Thankfully, the lens and prisms were undamaged by the bird’s untimely crash.

  For hours he sat, hardly moving, barely daring to breathe, trusting in the strong, thick walls of the lighthouse. The storm never faded to the background, never allowed Max a moment’s respite, continuing to rage through the black night. Thoughts and emotions, equally disparaging, seethed within him. The intense regret at having left the Columbia without seeing Lottie one last time, as her father had demanded, was almost overpowering.

  When at last the first glimpse of gray touched the horizon, Max was so stiff and weary he could not celebrate. Never had he appreciated the dawn more deeply. As gradual as the sun fighting to pierce the night, the storm clouds blew away, taking their unrelenting winds and rains with them.

  Woodenly, Max climbed to the lantern room with caution and peered at the devastation.

  He didn’t recognize the land before him.

  Seaweed and splintered limbs of trees littered the ground, hefty rocks and gnarled trunks even displaced. Glittering ocean swells pushed calmly toward the shore as though nothing unnatural had occurred, a completely different personality from the furious expanse of mere hours before. Sea stars, crustaceans, and dead fish had been deposited on the beach, evidence that Max wasn’t just exaggerating the immense height of the waves. Hordes of birds took advantage of the easy meal, making the ground look alive with their movement. His garden had been swept straight off the cliff, an ordinary sandy ledge all that remained. Thankful that the lighthouse had been built on the rocky cliffs rather than the shores below, Max snuffed the lamp, trimmed the wicks, and stretched, blinking over eyes that felt like sandpaper.

  By some miracle, he’d survived that storm of storms. Even more miraculous, he’d kept the light going. First and foremost, Max logged an entry in his Keeper’s log book, noting every detail about the direction of the wind, length of the storm, barometric pressure, and visibility.

  Now he had to get to work. A loud, twisting rumble from his stomach protested the idea. Well, I suppose a meal needs to come first.

  Feeling much improved after a simple repast, Max planted himself in the middle of the sitting room and surveyed the damage. His cottage would be the first to receive attention. Though the water had receded, it had left its mark on the lowest three feet of the building. Built of stone, the walls didn’t seem to have been affected much. The wooden furnishings, however, had floated around the house, nothing having remained in its proper place.

  Max took each piece outside to dry, leaving his waterlogged straw tick and bed frame for last. The tender doesn’t come back for five more weeks, Max calculated, which means I can’t get fresh straw. I’ll just have to make do with what I’ve got.

  It was a mercy that the cloud cover was light and non-threatening; he wasn’t sure what he would have done if it had continued to rain. After spreading the straw outside to dry, wringing out the bed linens, and sweeping up all the leftover dirt and muck the waves left behind, exhaustion began to sink its teeth into Max’s bones. He glanced at the sky, determining how long he’d have until nightfall, then trudged upstairs to the garret, thinking he’d have a better chance of finding something soft and dry to rest his head upon. It took less than four spins of the second hand around the clock before he sunk into sleep’s sweet respite.

  Chapter 5

  The beacon stayed lit without a hitch that night, and Max had even gotten some rest between midnight and four in the morning when he’d gotten up to check it. The new day brought an unending list of tasks, and having had some sleep, Max felt better able to tackle them. Having no clean clothing left, he simply finger-combed his chocolate-brown hair and stepped outside to begin.

  The fog signal building was top priority. It was clear that the roof needed repair. Something large must have collided with it, leaving a ragged hole on the side facing the woods. A large tree trunk partially buried in the sand barred the door, and Max pursed his lips in thought as to how he was going to remove it. He walked around the perimeter of the building and put his hands on his hips. Tools. A shovel, rope, and sturdy log should do the trick. I’ll dig down deep enough to wedge the log and make a lever.

  When the trunk finally dislodged with a slurping sound, he rolled it away and sunk to his knees to catch his breath.

  The good news was that the heavy brass bell was still there, as well as the winding mechanism that struck the bell at regular intervals. However, the thick wood frame that had suspended the bell was rendered useless, and the building was so full of the ocean’s debris that he’d had to dig through it to locate the bell in the first place. Max ran his fingers through his hair with a curse. That bell has to be at least four thousand pounds. How on earth am I going to lift it?

  It was a problem, to be sure.

  I’ll get it hung, Max asserted. I just need to think my way through it….

  All day he toiled, cleaning up the filth from within and fortifying the support beams and roof without. Around supper time, when the sun peeked at him from a hole in the clouds, gilding the waves with gold and copper sparkles, he put away his tools and trudged wearily inside. The colors reminded him of smooth, shiny strawberry-blonde hair. Cruel, how nearly everything reminded him of Lottie, the only woman he yearned for but knew he would never have.

  At least the never-ending work dulls the pain. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, was it not? When Max had promised Lottie’s father that he’d not contact her again, it broke his heart in two. Walking away was the hardest thing he’d done in his twenty-seven years. As far as Max was concerned, she was the guiding beacon in his lonely life; the only woman who could be his friend, companion, lover - his everything. He’d given her up, but that didn’t mean she slipped from his mind or through the cracks of his heart.

  Dusk was his favorite time of day, when the sky was colored nearly every shade of blue that ever there was, the ocean’s sparkling surface holding the few that were missing. In the four months he’d lived at Puffin Point, he’d climbed every evening to the lantern room where the views were unobstructed and heavenly as soon as the sun began to set. To Max, there was no better way to end the day.

  Tonight, he watched the shore, the way the foam floated on top of the lapping waves. With all that needed doing, he hadn’t been down there since the storm. His gaze followed the sandy beach south, then snagged on something out of place. Max squinted, trying to make sense of the dark outline washed up on shore. More trees, perhaps? A large sea creature? Or maybe… a boat? Lighting the beacon’s lamps with quick fingers, Max watched the bright beam c
ast its rays to the deepening darkness beyond and ran down the stairs to light a lantern.

  The breeze was calm and refreshing and carried the salty smell of the sea. It was dark enough now that Max couldn’t see much outside the reaches of his lantern’s glow, but he’d meandered about this beach often enough that he could have walked it without any light at all.

  Curiosity swept his fatigue aside like a broom to cobwebs. What could that faint shape be? He’d ask Arthur about procuring a spyglass the next time the tender brought supplies. Checking over his shoulder once more to ensure the lighthouse remained lit, Max slowed as he neared the large object.

  It was a ship, or rather, a piece of one. The splintered mast poked into the night sky, and much of the deck and bow was intact, but the entire bottom of the boat was gone. It must have run aground on one of the sharp rocks jutting from the sea bed. Inexplicable, how a coastal storm managed to steal things that had been in a place and leave foreign objects there instead.

  Max looked carefully up and down the coast for other signs of the shipwreck. A barrel and scattered wood planks had washed up on the beach some two hundred yards down, and what looked to be the ship’s sail tangled in crates and other debris in the rocks just beyond those.

  So, the storm had claimed lives; sailors who would not return to their families for Christmas. His heart sank. It was the very thing he labored to prevent.

  With all the seriousness the awful situation warranted, Max stalked to the other side of the vessel, a lump swelling in his throat at the sight of two pairs of feet sticking out from the wreckage, one barefoot, the other wearing fashionably heeled black leather boots. A man and a woman, together to the very end. Did they leave children behind? Had they been happy?

  Wrapping his hands around the barefoot man’s ankles, Max struggled to drag the heavy body through the mud and sand up further on the beach. It was bloated and stiff, and Max tried not to breathe deeply just in case the body stunk. The unfortunate fellow was bald and had the trim, suntanned upper body of a seaman. An ugly, jagged scar marred his right forearm, and he was missing a finger. He’d survived many accidents before this one claimed him.