Page 5 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
Holt motioned for her to join him on the lawn. Shea glancedat her feet and decided the moccasin slippers with rubber soles would suffice for now. The yard was less squishy than she’d imagined after the amount of rain from the night before. As she joined Holt at the end of the short walkway, she made a mental note to research the geology of the area. A lighthouse would be built on firm ground.
He led her across the lawn, past a grove of evergreens. His voice was a soothing rumble, and it matched the cadence of the waves as they approached the embankment.
“As you know,” Holt explained, “the lake stretches north to Canada.” He extended his arm toward the horizon, where blue water met blue sky.
Shea noted with a little surprise that the so-called cliff the lighthouse stood on was actually not that high but more of an outcropping. A well-worn trail led down to the shore, which was littered with driftwood, weeds, and debris that had washed up during the storm.
“This whole region is the Porcupine Mountains, but go about twelve miles that way”—Holt pointed eastward—“and you’ll enter the state park.” He did an about-face, and Shea followed suit, both now taking in the lighthouse with its arched windows set into the brickwork. “That way leads to the forest where the mining took place.” Holt tipped his head in the opposite direction. “To the west is Silvertown, a few rentals and the like in the form of cabins or small houses. You can still find remnants of the mining era hidden in the woods and scattered among private properties. Back in its heyday, there were plans to make Silvertown into a port for the shipping of ore.” Holt shifted his attention back to Annabel’s Lighthouse. “That’s what made her so important in the late nineteenth century. Lots of hopes and dreams died here. This place—as beautiful as it is—is also a wasteland.”
Holt’s tourism spiel ended, and Shea took an absent sip of her now cold coffee. She assessed the area, filing it all away inher mind along with Holt’s information. Some of it she already knew, but she’d not been aware of the intent to make Silvertown a port. That would’ve potentially changed the area’s future tremendously.
“Do you know why the port never materialized? I mean, was it because the silver wasn’t sustainable?”
Holt rolled his lips together in thought before giving a nonchalant shrug. “What’s been told and what actually happened is still up for debate.”
Her curiosity was piqued by Holt’s vague answer. “What’s been told?”
Holt shot her a sideways glance. “Like you just pointed out, there wasn’t enough silver. The place went bust.”
“But there was copper. Why didn’t they just adapt? This entire region is known for that, so it obviously would have been an option, right?”
“Sure, but Ontonagon is just west of here. That village was already established in the copper industry, and it has its own harbor.”
“Suppose the silver mininghadprospered, why wouldn’t they have used Ontonagon to ship out the silver too?” Shea was growing confused. “Based on your argument that Ontonagon was an established port, why would they need a separate one here in Silvertown just for silver?”
Holt laughed. “Well, there’s the rub. Like I said, there’s what’s been told and what actually happened. Intrigue, betrayal, greed, murder—Silvertown has it all.” He gave a sweep of his hand up the length of the lighthouse. “And Annabel’s Lighthouse has seen it all, long before the silver boom of the 1870s. The one thing you’ll learn really fast, Shea Radclyffe, is that this land is harsh, and it holds its secrets with ferocity.” He winked, then grew more somber. “Don’t get too close. It may bite you.”
4
REBECCA
And this maiden she lived with had no other thought than to love and be loved by me...
Annabel Lee
SILVERTOWN
UPPER PENINSULA OF MICHIGAN
SPRING, 1874
A COLD HAND CARESSED HER FACE,brushing her damp hair away from her bruised skin. It was feathery and so light in its touch, Rebecca wondered if she might be dreaming. Her eyes fluttered open, searching for the ministering hand of care. No one was there. It was only the trees, the hard ground beneath her, the rustling wind that permeated her chemise and chilled her body. But she had felt a presence. A feminine presence. The kind that nurtured and under whose influence a person’s soul was warmed and began to rest. “Missy.”
The gruff growl broke through the haze of her mind.
“Missy, you best wake now, ya hear?”
Rough fingertips—so unlike the cool, comforting ones—grazed her neck, poked the side of it, then slapped her cheek.
Rebecca moaned, drawing her knees to her chest, only to have them collide against the side of the grave marker where she’d lost consciousness.
Annabel’s grave.
The world between reality and dreams stilled for Rebecca, and she kept her eyes sealed against reality. Annabel. It had been Annabel’s soothing touch a moment ago. Reaching from the grave, from the beyond. Calling to her from death’s cavern and—
“Missy!” This time the voice was sharper, as was the slap on her face.
Rebecca managed to open her eyes, squinting against the midday sunlight that sparkled through the treetops.
