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To my mother and father, who taught me
to go after my dreams.
Thank you for your love, support and encouragement.
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Prologue
San Francisco, California, 1870
At the sound of someone running up his ship’s gangplank, Matthew Taylor looked up from the scatter of charts on his desk.
“Matthew! Let me in! I must speak with you.”
He strode to the door and stopped short at the sight before him. “Linnea!”
The light from the cabin’s oil lamp exposed harsh bruises against the pale skin on her face. Blood dripped from a cracked lip. Under the dark hooded cloak, her blond hair, usually swept up in the latest fashion, hung unkempt to her shoulders.
“My God! What happened?”
“I…I killed John!” she gasped. “He was going after Hannah.”
Suddenly he realized the bundle she held was her daughter. “Let me take her.” He pulled the cover away, breathing a sigh of relief that Hannah was free of any sign of battering. She was shaking, just as her mother was. He laid her on his bunk and turned back to Linnea. “Tell me what happened,” he said, the rage in his voice barely subdued.
Her eyes filled with tears. “I…Might I use your handkerchief?”
He handed one to her. God, he couldn’t stand the tears. “Don’t cry, Linnea. You know I’ll help.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I know.”
With his fingers under her chin, he lifted her face to the light. “How long has this been going on?”
She turned away from him. “Awhile.”
He poured a brace of whiskey into his mug and handed it to her. “It’s all I have.”
“Taylor!” John Newcomb bellowed from outside.
Linnea’s eyes widened. “I thought he was dead!”
“Taylor!” John was closer now. “You holing up with my wife? You send her on out here. We’ve got unfinished business.”
Linnea started to rise.
“No,” Matthew said, and motioned for her to stay put.
She grasped his arm. “Matthew. Be careful. He’s changed since you last saw him.”
He stared at her, taking in the changes the past few years had wrought on her. A hundred things went through his head in that moment, none of which he could say to her as a married woman. Why did you marry this animal? Why didn’t you wait for me? He sighed. At the least, he could protect her.
He squeezed her hand. “I’ll just talk to him. I don’t want a fight, but I won’t run from one, either.” He reached into a desk drawer and drew out his Colt .44.
On the wharf, John Newcomb leaned heavily against the railing, his tie askew against his linen shirt. “Send my wife out, Taylor. She don’t belong with you.”
“You’re drunk, Mr. Newcomb. Go home and sleep it off.”
“I’m not leaving without my girls. Linnea! We need to talk. I…at least give me a chance to apologize.”
Matthew heard the door creak behind him.
“Go away,” Linnea said softly, her body half-hidden behind the door post. “We’ll talk later.”
“We’ll talk now,” John growled, and started up the gangplank, clutching his chest. “Then I’ll have words with Taylor, here.” Suddenly he stopped and leaned awkwardly on the ship’s railing. As he straightened, he pulled a gun from his belt and aimed past Matthew.
A shot rang out.
“Mama!” Hannah screamed.
Matthew watched in horror as Linnea crumpled to her knees, a look of stunned surprise on her face.
John stormed up the gangplank, aiming his gun for a second shot at her. “I’ll teach you to at shoot me.”
“No!” Matthew roared. He whipped up his Colt and squeezed the trigger.
In the loud report of the gun, John Newcomb staggered, but then regained his footing. He swung his gun toward Matthew. “You can’t have her, Taylor. I’ll kill you both before I let that happen.”
Matthew steadied his gun, aimed at Newcomb’s chest and fired.
Newcomb fell forward hard, landing with a heavy thud. The wharf’s gas lamp cast a yellow light over the blood saturating his shirt and dripping onto the wooden planks beneath him.
Matthew threw down his gun and hurried to Linnea. Blood trickled across her forehead. She was so still, so pale. Crouching, he gathered her in his arms, unable to breathe, afraid she was hurt or—worse—dead.
Her large gray eyes fluttered open. “I’m all right.”
His heart pounded in his chest.
She raised her hand to his cheek, the worry in her eyes for him now. “Matthew, I’m all right.”
He let out a long, shuddering breath. “I thought…”
“Yes. I know.”
He hugged her to him, burying his face in her neck until his heartbeat slowed to normal. He couldn’t bear to lose her.
After a moment she struggled up on her elbows. “Is he dead?”
Matthew followed her gaze. He walked over to the still form. Not breathing. He rolled Newcomb over to his back and felt for a pulse at his throat.
Nothing.
“What happens now?” Linnea asked, her voice shaking. “Should we contact the authorities?”
Chapter One
Southern California, 1873
Stuart Taylor crouched on a flat boulder and pulled his trap up from the harbor floor. A small brown lobster slid to the corner of the crate. He grabbed it, turning it over to make sure of its size, and then tossed it back into the water. “Come back when you’ve grown,” he murmured. Then, placing new bait in the trap, he stood and swung the trap out as far as possible, releasing the hemp rope at the last second. The crate splashed into the brine and sank quickly beyond sight.
He looked for his other lobster trap, but it was gone—rope and all. Someone was still stealing from him. He’d warned off two boys a few days ago with a bullet into their boat. Their sudden departure had convinced him they wouldn’t try again. Maybe he’d been wrong.
Great. Guess he and Hannah would be eating beans tonight. Not the best way to celebrate a birthday. He grabbed the bucket at his feet and made his way up the narrow dirt path.
Hannah stood at the stone doorstep, anxiety filling her heart-shaped face until she caught sight of him. She wore her one good dress, the dark-chocolate-brown one he’d laid out last night. A white pinafore covered it, wrinkled in one spot now where her hands had twisted and worried the fabric. Uncanny how that trait of her mother’s manifested itself in Hannah, though she’d only been three when Linnea died.
“Did you eat?”
She nodded, and with the bob of her head, he spied her tangled mass of blond hair. “Forgot something, birthday girl,” he said gruffly, turning her toward the kitchen. “You can’t go into town looking like something washed in by the waves.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and stood stiffly while he brushed her hair then tied it in a ponytail with an old blue ribbon. The face that stared back at him grew more like her mother’s every day. The dove-gray eyes shone with anticipation for the promised trip. She was lonely here. So lonely the thought of a trip into town had her flushed with excitement and up before dawn. He felt it, too—the isolation, the quiet. But it was safe.
He followed Hannah outside and boosted her onto his horse, Blanco. She fidgeted, patting the dusty animal on its withers. He grabbed the lead rope. “See that you don’t wiggle right off your perch.”
They took the trail that led from the tip of the windy peninsula, four hundred feet above sea level, to the small town on the water’s edge. He didn’t get into town much, only when supplies ran low, but today was August 10, Hannah’s birthday, and he wanted to make it special for her.
He drew closer to La Playa and his anxiety increased in measure. Surely the risk of discovery had diminished now. It had been more than three years since the accident. Hannah didn’t even look the same. She had stretched up into a thin wisp of a girl who seldom stood still. Her naturally pale skin had taken on a golden glow over the long summer days.
He rubbed his smooth chin, remembering the dark beard and mustache that once covered his face. He didn’t look the same either. Still, doubts niggled at his mind. Dorian wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t a quitter. San Francisco might be five hundred miles away but sooner or later Dorian would find him—and if Dorian found him, so would the law. Perhaps he should think about moving on.
Halfway to town, the trail sloped steeply through a brush-studded canyon. Two small lizards scurried from under the horse’s shadow and dashed into the nearby chaparral as he led Blanco around one last sandstone curve. The harbor opened up before them, deep blue and sparkling in the sunlight. Barely visible through the scruffy bushes to the south lay the whaling port. He raised his face to the wind and sniffed. “Smell that, Hannah? Just salt and sage. No whale butchered today.”
Turning toward La Playa, he led Blanco past a steamer moored at the new wharf before heading up San Antonio Street and past the Mexican Government Custom House. A few odd-shaped buildings, some built of wood and some of adobe, hugged each side of the square like ticks on the ears of a short-haired dog.
Stuart stopped at the community well and filled his canteens, all the while taking in the surrounding sounds the way a deaf man would who for one day is able to hear. Loud clanging rang out from the livery’s half-opened doorway as the blacksmith forged a new tool or horseshoe. A thin, aproned woman swept the front boardwalk of the town’s only mercantile.
Hannah tugged on his shirt.
“All right, all right. I’m going.”
Looping the two canteens over the saddle horn, he walked back to Morley’s Mercantile. Two young women stood at the opened doorway of the store, giggling and whispering behind gloved hands. He glanced up while tying the reins on the hitching rail. Both attractive, especially the blonde. He turned back to help Hannah.
“There on his forehead. Do you see it?”
He slowed in the act of setting Hannah on the ground. So he was to supply their gossip for today. He clenched his hands. He’d hate to disappoint them. Straightening, he leveled his gaze at the two.
The blonde quieted. She must be the banker’s wife—or daughter. Her dress was quality through and through, right down to her matching green parasol. He hadn’t seen anything so fancy since he’d left San Francisco. Her eyes judged him coolly before she whirled about with a toss of her head and entered the store.
Anger surged through him. Already he could feel people staring at him through the streaked windowpanes. He couldn’t care less that they talked about him. But Hannah—Hannah, he worried about. She might not talk anymore, but she could hear just fine. He’d rather take her anywhere than into the store right now.
But it was her birthday. And he’d promised this trip for weeks.
He grasped her hand and helped her jump onto the boardwalk before stepping up himself.
The other woman, the one who’d gotten an earful, remained standing in the doorway, curiosity etched in her strong face. He wouldn’t call her pretty—yet the sum of her features pulled together in a pleasant way. She wore a plain yellow dress, simple and sturdy, and a straw hat that covered thick auburn hair.
He stepped close—closer than was conventional—and dragged off his seaman’s cap, giving her a good view of his scar. He met her unflinching gaze full-on—challenging her to speak. She was older than he’d first thought. Fine lines splayed from the corners of her eyes and her nose was sunburned and peeling. He let his gaze wander the length of her until he arrived again at her face, and found himself slightly irritated for enjoying the trip. “By all means, believe everything you hear.”
Her cheeks flamed scarlet. With an almost imperceptible nod of her head—or was it actually a raising of her chin?—she stepped aside for him to enter the building.
The scent of cloves and cinnamon intermingled with the barrel of pears in the doorway. He breathed deeply and tried to shake off the discontent he felt. This was Hannah’s birthday trip, and by God he’d make it special.
The blonde stood at the counter speaking with the lanky owner of the mercantile and glancing over her shoulder at Stuart every few seconds. Terrance Morley drummed his fingers on the countertop. “Mornin’, Taylor. Things quiet up your way?”
Stuart hesitated a fraction of a second and then nodded. Things were always quiet at the lighthouse. He handed Morley the list of needed supplies.
Suddenly, Hannah let go of his hand and dashed across the room. Stuart followed slowly, a sinking sensation in his stomach. He hated to put a damper on her fascination with the trinkets and products, but whatever the item might be, likely they couldn’t afford it. He’d planned only to buy her six sarsaparilla candy sticks, one for each of her six years, and a new hair ribbon.
She spun around holding a new doll with shiny waves of painted black hair and red lips. She fingered the doll’s pretty green dress and ruffled underthings. He knew what would come next and steeled himself against the disappointment that would transform her face. Before the accident he wouldn’t have thought twice about the cost of the doll. Although not rich, he had been comfortable, and the future held such promise. But now, on a light keeper’s salary, the toy cost more than he could afford.
The woman in yellow entered the store, the sun casting her shadow across the hardwood floor. Morley glanced up, started to greet her and spied Hannah holding the doll.
“Put that down!” he shouted.
Startled, Hannah jumped. The doll crashed to the floor, its china head shattering at her feet. She stared in frozen shock at the pieces.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Morley yelled and pointed a bony finger at the mess. He charged around the end of the counter and jabbed Hannah’s shoulder. “Children have no business being in here without proper supervision. You’ll pay for that, missy.”
Stuart leveled his gaze. “That’s enough, Morley.”
Tears brimmed in Hannah’s eyes. She was scared—and sorry—even though the words wouldn’t come. Stuart put his hand on her shoulder. “It was an accident, Hannah.”
Next to him, the blonde turned on Hannah. “You must apologize to Mr. Morley this instant, child.”
“I said that’s enough,” Stuart said, making sure there was no mistaking the warning in his voice. “And I’ll thank you to keep to your own business, ma’am.”
She glared at him, obviously perceiving the double meaning of his words, then stuck her nose higher in the air and walked from the store.
Slowly Hannah stooped and picked up the fragments of china.
I should scold her, Stuart told himself, but Mr. Morley had done a strong job of that. “Hannah,” he said, sharper than he intended.
She stopped her gathering and glanced up, the tears spilling onto her cheeks in earnest now. Tightness wrapped around his chest and squeezed at the sight of her misery. Linnea would have handled this differently. He gentled his tone. “Put those on the counter and wait outside.”
When she had done as he asked, he stepped up to the counter. He would settle the cost of the toy, but he’d have to omit an item or two from his list. How could he salvage her birthday after this?
The woman in yellow stooped to pick up one last fragment of china and the body of the doll. She placed them next to his parcels.
“Miss Houston, you don’t need to clean up,” the clerk said. “You’ll cut yourself.”
“You frightened the girl.”
Her reproachful voice held a hint of soft Midwestern twang.
“She should sweep the entire floor for her punishment,” Morley said.
Stuart pressed his lips together, checking his urge to hit the man. “I’ll take care of my girl. You just mind your store.” He looked over his stack of supplies and removed the canned beef and fresh bread. He could hunt rabbits and quail as usual. And there was always fish. They’d make do with the tin of crackers. It would last longer than the bread, anyway. Stubbornly, he kept the six candy sticks. “Now what is my total with the doll?”
While Morley tallied the order, Stuart found himself watching the woman, surprised she had spoken in Hannah’s defense—and a little suspicious, too. She strolled to the yard goods, smoothing her hand across one piece of fabric and then another.
She must have felt him staring. After a glance in his direction she looked away, but her cheeks flushed pink. She selected two bundles of yarn and set them on the far end of the counter. The scent of honeysuckle wafted over him, feminine, inviting. How long had it been since he smelled anything other than the brine of the ocean?
“You aren’t charging full price for the doll, are you Terrance?” she asked.
Mr. Morley stopped his tallying and frowned over his glasses at her.
“Part of the fault lies with you,” she continued.
“That doesn’t excuse the cost.”
“But you startled the girl. If you’d asked her to put the doll down rather than speaking so sharply, she wouldn’t have dropped it.”
Morley caught Stuart’s gaze. “Three dollars, Taylor.”
The clerk’s attitude disgusted him. The sooner Stuart got out of here, the better. He counted out the money and dropped it on the counter then picked up the box of supplies. The doll he left behind purposely. To have what was left of it would only distress Hannah.
He packed his saddlebags, and then helped Hannah onto Blanco. Despair knifed through him at the silent shaking of her shoulders. She had dressed so carefully this morning, had been so excited about this trip into town, and it had ended in a nightmare. Stuart’s stomach knotted. He couldn’t do anything about other people. They were cruel. Hell, life was cruel, but somehow he’d make it up to her.
A flash of yellow in the doorway caught his eye. He glanced up to see the woman watching him. He didn’t quite know what to make of her. In the end she’d been kind, and so he tipped his cap to her.
She acknowledged him with a nod, her gaze steady.
Anxious to put the town and its people behind him, he led Blanco home. The bustling sounds of the harbor grated on his ears. The silence that shrouded them daily at the lighthouse would be safe—safe for him and safe for Hannah. No one and nothing would bother them…nothing but the never-ending quiet.
“Your yarn, Miss Houston.” Terrance Morley leaned on the wooden counter and smiled—a smile Rachel could easily mistake for a leer if she gave room to the thought.
“Thank you, Mr. Morley.”
“It was Terrance a moment ago.”
“Yes, well. It was a bit presumptuous of me.”
“But you’ve been coming in here for over two months now. I’d like you to use my given name.”
“Oh,” she said, not particularly thrilled with what others might read into the familiarity. “I’m a little uncomfortable with that.” Her position as the new schoolteacher in this small town hinged on the degree of respectability she could maintain. At her interview with the school board she had downplayed the last few years she’d spent at the mining camp where coarseness and crudeness frequently overpowered a gentler nature. Instead, she had reframed the questions to answer them from her earlier life when she’d helped at the one-room schoolhouse in Wisconsin.
She picked up the yarn and turned to go, but stopped when she saw the broken doll. The head was shattered. No amount of gluing could repair it. Fingering the mint-green satin dress and miniature crinoline, she thought of the girl’s sad face. The wrinkled, too-small dress, the small hole in one stocking below the knee, all spoke of a girl with no mother to do for her. Rachel knew what it was like to live without a mother. At least she’d been lucky to have known hers for the first fourteen years of her life. How lonely the girl must be on the peninsula with no one but her father.
Since she’d moved to town two months ago, she’d heard stories of him. How he kept to himself and was unfriendly toward the townspeople. She didn’t know what to believe and most likely shouldn’t listen to half of it.
Still, she’d expected someone much older to be the town’s enigma—someone grizzled, with bushy brows and an irascible nature. At most, Taylor must be all of thirty years—or perhaps thirty-five—for he had the solid, filled-out look of a man. His clothes were simple, serviceable—a faded blue chambray shirt, slightly snug across the stretch of his shoulders, tucked into canvas pants, and scruffy boots that passed for comfortable on his feet. A thick wisp of dark-brown hair fell across his temple and had obscured his scar until he purposely exposed it for her.
It was a hideous scar—puckered and red. She wondered how he’d really gotten it. Amanda said he’d been struck with a red-hot fire poker when he escaped from prison. That was ridiculous, of course. The lighthouse board would never have hired a convict. Since coming to town two months ago, Rachel had heard other stories about him as well, enough to know that no one knew anything definite about him at all.
Besides, it wasn’t the scar that drew her, but the intensity of his blue gaze. When he’d stopped no more than a foot from her in the doorway she’d scarcely been able to breathe.
No, he wasn’t her idea of a light keeper at all.
Chapter Two
Rachel jerked open the oven door and pulled out the roast.
Finished. Except for the gravy. Lamb wasn’t her favorite dish, but she couldn’t very well serve rabbit or fish tonight—not with company coming.
Reverend and Emma Crouse rented two rooms to Rachel and her brother, Caleb, on the condition that they would help with odd jobs around the place. That usually meant cooking for Rachel, and tending the horse and small carriage house for Caleb. Of course, four dollars a month from Rachel’s teaching salary also helped cover their rent. Reverend and Emma Crouse were in their late sixties and ready to slow down a little. Staying with such an upstanding couple had helped with her acceptance into the community. One couldn’t be too careful that way, especially after the years she’d lived in the mining camp. The roughness of the camp had rubbed off on her and try as she might to put it all behind her, unfortunate things would spring out of her mouth—or show up in her actions.
She pushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead, then leaned across the small table to open the window. A cool evening breeze swirled in heavy with the scent of brine from the ocean. Looking out into the early evening, she wondered what the light keeper and his daughter would be eating tonight. The two had been in her thoughts throughout the day, popping in unexpectedly.
She hadn’t liked Amanda’s attitude or Terrance Morley’s for that matter. Maybe what they said about the light keeper was true. Perhaps he was a criminal. But even so, the girl—Hannah, he’d called her—should not be condemned along with the father. The man obviously cared for his daughter or he wouldn’t have protected her from Terrance’s tirade. There must be something good in him.