Love's Sweet Return by Krystal M Anderson

Author:Krystal M Anderson [Anderson, Krystal M]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-06T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Muted gray light slanted through the window, its lazy rays making Max’s head pound. He squeezed his eyes shut, unsuccessfully willing the ache away. Shakily, he lifted a hand to explore, feeling only the clean bandage wrapped around his head.

What happened? And why does my throat feel like it’s been scoured with sandpaper?

Cracking one eye, he squinted at his surroundings, growing even more confused when he realized he was lying on the floor in the lighthouse watch room. It hurt his head to think about it. Why did his head ache so?

A single lamp burned steadily on the small desk pressed against the wall, and beside it, he could just make out the water pitcher and a clean glass.

The room spun when he propped himself up on his elbows. He gritted his teeth until the worst of it passed, inching gingerly upright little by little. It was all he could do to clutch the desk, half standing, half kneeling, taking deep breaths of air. Perspiration beaded upon his brow and temples.

The cool water soothed the fierce dryness in his throat, and, to Max’s appreciation, half a loaf of bread sat wrapped in cloth atop the keeper’s log book and journal. How long had it been since he’d eaten? The way his stomach felt, it could have been days. He barely chewed the first three bites and immediately came to regret it when intense nausea assailed him. Heaving, everything he’d just put into his stomach came right back out. Max wiped his mouth with a sleeve and crawled back to his pillow, closing his eyes to the painful light.

After a brief rest, Max decided to try again. Carefully this time, he sipped at the water, allowing it to slide slowly down his throat. The bread, too, he sucked until it softened, limiting himself to just a few bites. It seemed ridiculous how such small efforts caused him to feel so fatigued. Something about the bread and water seemed important somehow, like they were clues to aid him in figuring out how he came to be injured.

Think, Max. What day is it? How did I get in the watch room? Perhaps my log book will help me remember.

His scrawling entry was dated December 24, 1869:

Tide levels moderate; thick fog today. Temperature 44° F. Wind blowing in southeasterly direction at 21 nautical miles per hour.

Almost Christmas. Max looked at the bread and water again, pondering their elusive meaning. He’d hit his head… but how had it happened? Had he fallen from the lantern room? He couldn’t recall. That’s when he noticed some writing on a page beneath his log book with feminine loops and curves.

Lottie’s handwriting. Lottie. She’d left the bread and water.

Where was she? His eyes hastily read the words, then re-read them.

Max,

I’ve taken the footpath to Spruce Hill to summon the doctor. I hope to return to light the lamps. Don’t worry about me, just take care of yourself as best you can until I return.

Charlotte

Max’s heart sank just like

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