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The Lightkeeper
Susan Wiggs
Once, the sea took everything he loved…Jesse Morgan is a man hiding from the pain of his past, a man who has vowed never to give his heart again. Keeper of a remote lighthouse along a rocky and dangerous coast, he has locked himself away from everything but his bitter memories. Now, the sea has given him a second chance. A beautiful stranger washes ashore, the sole survivor of a shipwreck.Penniless and pregnant, Mary Dare is a woman who carries painful memories of her own. With laughter, hope and joy, Mary and her child bring light into the dark corners of Jesse's world.But when their friendship turns to passion and passion becomes love, secrets from the past threaten to take it all away.
Praise for the novels of
SUSAN WIGGS
HALFWAY TO HEAVEN
“With its lively prose, well-developed conflict and passionate characters, this enjoyable, poignant tale is certain to enchant.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
THE FIREBRAND
“With this final installment of Wiggs’s Chicago Fire trilogy, she has created a quiet page-turner that will hold readers spellbound….”
—Publishers Weekly
THE MISTRESS
“Susan Wiggs delves deeply into her characters’ hearts and motivations to touch our own.”
—Romantic Times
THE HOSTAGE
“Once more, Ms. Wiggs demonstrates her ability to bring readers a story to savor that has them impatiently awaiting each new novel.”
—Romantic Times
THE CHARM SCHOOL
“The Charm School draws readers in with delightful characters, engaging dialogue, humor, emotion and sizzling sensuality.”
—Costa Mesa Sunday Times
THE DRIFTER
“A smart, unorthodox coupling to which Wiggs adds humor, brains and a certain cultivation that will leave readers anticipating her next romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
Susan Wiggs
The Lightkeeper
For Jay—again and always
You’re with me wherever I go.
Special thanks to
Barbara Dawson Smith, Betty Gyenes, Christina Dodd and Joyce Bell for performing feats of impossible electronic mail contortions in order to read and critique the manuscript.
Also, thanks to Kristin for having brainstorms when all I had was a weak drizzle, Debbie for the neurotic lunches, Suzanne for the most excellent advice and Palina Magnusdottir for the Icelandic translations.
Finally, thank you to
Robert Gottlieb and Helen Breitwieser, and to Dianne Moggy and Amy Moore-Benson of MIRA Books.
And the sea gave up the dead…
—Revelation 20:13
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Afterword
One
Washington Territory
1876
On Sunday, something washed up on shore.
The morning had dawned like all the others—a chill haze with the feeble sun behind it, iron-colored swells gathering muscle far offshore, then hurling themselves against the huddled sharp rocks of Cape Disappointment. The rising sun looked like a wound trying to break through the clouds.
All this Jesse Morgan saw from the catwalk high on the lighthouse, where he had gone to extinguish the sperm-oil lamp and start the daily chore of trimming wicks and cleaning lenses.
But it caught him, the sight down on the strand.
He wasn’t certain what made him pause, turn, stare. He supposed he had always looked but rarely paid attention. If he gazed too long at the gray-bearded waves slapping the fine brown sand or exploding against the rocks, there was a danger that he would remember what the sea had taken from him.
Most days, he didn’t look. Didn’t think. Didn’t feel.
Today he felt a disturbance in the air, like the breath of an invisible stranger on the back of his neck. One moment he was getting out his linseed oil and polishing cloths; the next he was standing in the bitter wind. Watching.
He experienced a sensation so subtle he would never quite understand what made him go to the iron rail, hold tight with one hand and lean out over the edge to look past the jut of land, beyond the square-jawed cliffs, down onto the storm-swept beach.
A mass of seaweed. Strands of golden-brown kelp shrouding an elongated shape. For all he knew it could be no more than a tangle of weeds or perhaps a dead seal, an old one whose whiskers had whitened and whose teeth had dulled.
Animals, unlike people, knew better than to live too long.
As Jesse stood staring at the shape on the beach, he felt…something. A dull knife-twist of…what? Not pain. Nor interest.
Inevitability. Destiny.
Even as the foolish thought passed through his mind, his booted feet clattered down the iron spiral of stairs. He left the lighthouse and plunged along the flinty walkway.
He didn’t have to watch his step as he followed the winding, rocky path to the desolate strand. He had made the short trek a thousand times and more.
What surprised him was that he was running.
Jesse Morgan had not been in a hurry for years.
Yet his body had never forgotten the feeling of pumping thighs and of lungs filling until the sharpness hovered between pain and pleasure. But once he reached the object on the strand, he halted. Stock-still and afraid.
Jesse Morgan had been afraid for a very long time, though no one ever would have guessed it.
To the people of Ilwaco, to the two thousand souls who lived there year-round and the extra thousand or so who migrated to the shore for the summer, Jesse Morgan was as solid and rugged and uncompromising as the sea cliffs over which he brooded in his lighthouse.
People thought him strong, fearless. He had fooled them, though. Fooled them all.
He was only thirty-four, but he felt ancient.
Now he stood alone, and the fear scorched him. He did not understand why. Until he saw something familiar within the heap of seaweed in front of him.
Oh, God. Oh, sweet Jesus. He plunged to his knees, the chill of the sodden sand seeping through his trousers, his hands trying to decide, without consulting his head, where to start. He hesitated, awkward as a bridegroom on his wedding night, about to part the final veil that draped the sweet mystery of his bride.
The strands of kelp were spongy and cold to the touch. Clinging thick and stubborn to—
To what?
He encountered a piece of fine-grained wood. Smoothed, planed, varnished. Part of a ship. A section of mast or bowsprit with rope lashed to it, the tarred ends trailing.
Stop, he told himself, already anticipating what he would find. The old horror, still raw after all these years, reared up inside him.
Stop now. He could stand and turn his back this moment, could climb the path, wend his way through the woods and rouse Palina and Magnus. Send the assistant lightkeepers to investigate.
But his hands, still the eager, persistent hands of a bridegroom, kept digging and pulling at the slimy shroud, digging and pulling, finding more and more of the mast, the broken-off end, the—
A foot. Bare. Cold as ice. The toenails like tiny seashells.
He drew a harsh breath. His hands kept working, the movement frantic, a rhythm pumped by his own pounding heart.
A slim calf. No, skinny. Skinny and dotted with freckles, stark against the lifeless ivory skin.
Jesse was swearing through gritted teeth. Fluent phrases spat past a clenched jaw. He used to talk to God. Now he swore to no one in particular.
Each passing second stood apart in time, crystallized by the knowledge he had been fleeing for years. He had come to the very ends of the earth to escape the past.
He could not escape it. Couldn’t help thinking of it. Of what the sea had stolen from him.
And of what the sea had brought him today. A woman, of course. That put the final twist of cruel irony on it.
He quickly moved upward, uncovered the face. And almost wished he hadn’t, for when he saw her, he knew why he had felt so compelled to run.
An angel had died on his beach this morning. Never mind that her halo was fashioned of kelp and endless tangled strands of dark red hair. Never mind the constellation of freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose.
