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
