Gabriel's Angel (10 page)

“Somebody had to,” Mrs. Witherby called out from the kitchen, and he chuckled.

“Sure you two know what you're getting into?”

Gabe dusted his hands on the thighs of his jeans and grinned. “No.”

“That's the spirit.” Witherby laughed and rested his head against the back of the chair. “Essie, get that bag of bones you call a body moving, will you? These two people want to get married while they're still young.”

“Keep your tongue in your mouth,” she muttered. “Already lost his teeth.” She came in carrying a watering can filled with flowers. She set it in the middle of the coffee table, nodded her approval, then handed Laura a single white carnation.

“Thank you. They're lovely.” She started to rise and nearly winced at the stab of pain in her back. Then Gabe was there to take her hand and draw her to his side.

They stood in front of the fire with wood crackling and the scent of the flowers merging with that of the smoke. The words were simple and very old. Despite the countless weddings she'd been to, Mrs. Witherby dabbed at her eyes.

To love. To honor. To cherish.

For richer. For poorer.

Forsaking all others.

The ring he slipped onto her finger was very plain, just a gold band that was a size too large. Looking at it, Laura felt something grow inside her. It was warm and sweet and tremulous. Curling her hand into his, she repeated the words, and meant them, from her heart.

Let no man put asunder.

“You may kiss the bride,” Witherby told him, but Gabe didn't hear.

It was done. It was irrevocable. And until that moment he hadn't been completely aware of how much it would mean to him.

With her hand still caught in his, he kissed her and sealed the promise.

“Congratulations.” Mrs. Witherby brushed her dry lips over Gabe's cheek, then Laura's. “Now you sit down, Mrs. Bradley, and I'm going to fix you a nice cup of tea before we drag your husband off again.”

“Thank you, but we don't have any tea.”

“I bought some,” Gabe put in.

“That and everything else he could lay his hands on. Come on, Ethan, give me a hand.”

“You ought to be able to fix a cup of tea by yourself.”

Mrs. Witherby rolled her eyes. “You'd think the old goat would have a little more romance, seeing as he's married more'n five hundred couples in his time. In the kitchen, Ethan, and give these young people five minutes alone.”

He grumbled about wanting his supper, but he followed her.

“They're wonderful,” Laura murmured.

“I don't think I'd have gotten him away from his TV if she hadn't shoved him out the door.”

Silence followed, awkward. “It was nice of you to think of flowers . . . and the ring.”

He lifted her hand and studied it. “They don't have a jewelry store in Lonesome Ridge. They sell these at the hardware in a little case next to sixpenny nails. It may just turn your finger green.”

She laughed and knew she'd treasure it even more now. “You may not believe it, but you may have saved my life by buying that tea.”

“I got some marshmallows, too.”

She hated it, despised herself for not being able to control it, but she started to cry. “I'm sorry. I can't seem to do anything about this.”

Discomfort surged through him. He was feeling edgy himself, and tears did nothing to help matters. “Look, I know it wasn't exactly the wedding of the century. We can have some sort of party or reception back in San Francisco.”

“No, no, that's not it.” Though she urged her hands over her face, the tears kept coming. “It was lovely and sweet and I don't know how to thank you.”

“Not crying would be a good start.” He had a bandanna in his pocket, one that he used more often than not as a paint rag. He drew it out and offered it to her. “Laura, we're legally married. That means you don't have to be grateful for every bunch of daisies I hand you.”

She sniffled into the cloth and tried to smile. “I think it was the marshmallows that did it.”

“Keep this up and you won't get any more.”

“I want you to know . . .” She dried her face and managed to compose herself. “I want you to know that I'm going to do everything I can to make you happy, to make you comfortable, so that you never regret what you did today.”

“I'm going to regret it,” he said suddenly impatient, “if you keep making it sound as though I gave someone else the last life jacket as the ship was sinking. I married you because I wanted to, not to be noble.”

“Yes, but I—”

“Shut up, Laura.” To make certain she did, he closed his mouth over hers. And for the first time she felt the true strength of his passion and need and desire. With a little murmur of surprise, she drew him closer.

This was what he had needed, all he had needed, to settle him. Yet even as the first layer of tension dissolved, a new layer, one built on desire, formed.

“Before too much longer,” he said against her mouth, “we're going to finish this. I want to make love with you, Laura. And after I do you won't have the strength to thank me.”

Before she could think of a response, Mrs. Witherby came in with her tea. “Now let the poor thing rest and drink this while it's hot.” She set the cup on the table in front of Laura. “I hate to drag you out on your wedding day, Mr. Bradley, but the sooner you drive us back to town, the sooner you can get back and fix your wife that nice steak you bought for supper.”

She moved over to gather up her coat. On impulse, Laura drew one of the flowers from the watering can and took it to her. “I'm never going to forget you, Mrs. Witherby.”

“There now.” Touched, she sniffed at the flower. “You just take care of yourself and that baby of yours. Shake a leg, Ethan.”

“I should only be an hour,” Gabe told her. “The roads aren't too bad. I really think you should rest, Laura. You look exhausted.”

“I'm supposed to look glowing, but I promise I won't lift anything heavier than a teacup until you get back.”

This time she watched the Jeep drive away, running her finger over and over her wedding ring. It took so little, she thought, to change so much. She bent, trying to ease the ache in her back, then she crossed the room to finish her tea.

Her back had never ached like this, not even after she'd worked a full day on her aunt's farm. The pain was constant and deep. She tried stretching out, then curling up, then stretching out again. Impatient with herself, she tried to ignore it, concentrating instead on roasting marshmallows and warming tea.

She'd been alone less than ten minutes when the first contraction hit.

It wasn't the vague warning pain she'd read about. It was sharp and long. Caught off guard, she had no time to breathe her way over it. Instead, she tensed, fought against it, then collapsed against the cushions when it faded.

It couldn't be labor. Her forehead broke out in sweat as she tried to dismiss the idea. It was too early, a month too early, and it had come on so suddenly. False labor, she assured herself. Brought on by nerves and by the excitement of the day.

But the back pain. Struggling to keep calm, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Was it possible she'd been having back labor all morning?

No, it had to be false labor. It had to be.

But when the second contraction hit she began to time them.

***

She was in bed when Gabe returned, but she couldn't call out to him, because she was riding out the latest contraction. The fear that had gripped her in a stranglehold for the past hour faded a bit. He was here, and somehow that meant that everything would be all right. She heard him toss a log on the fire, took a last cleansing breath as the pain passed and called out.

The urgency in her voice had him across the room in three strides. At the bedroom door he paused, and his heart jumped into his throat.

She was propped against the pillows, half lying, half sitting. Her face was bathed in sweat. Her eyes, always dark, were sheened with moisture and nearly black.

“I have to go back on our deal,” she managed, struggling with a smile because she saw the same blank fear she felt reflected on his face. “The baby's decided to come a little early.”

He didn't ask if she was sure or fumble with reasons why it wasn't a good idea. He wanted to, but he found himself beside the bed, with her hand gripped in his. “Take it easy. Just hold on and I'll phone for a doctor.”

“Gabe, the phone's out.” Nerves skipped in and out of her voice. “I tried it when I realized this was happening so fast.”

“Okay.” Fighting for calm, he brushed the damp hair away from her face. “There was an accident on the way into town. Lines must have gone down. I'll get some extra blankets and I'll take you in.”

She pressed her lips together. “Gabe, it's too late. I couldn't make the trip.” She tried to swallow, but fear had dried up the moisture in her mouth and throat. “I've been in labor for hours, all morning, and I didn't know it. It was back labor, and I didn't pay attention. With everything that was going on, I thought it was nerves and the restless night I'd had.”

“Hours,” he murmured, and eased himself down on the edge of the bed. His mind went blank, but then her fingers tightened on his. “How far apart are the pains?”

“Five minutes. I've been—” She let her head fall back and began to breathe in short, deep gasps. Gabe slipped his hand over her and felt the hardening of her abdomen.

He'd glanced through the birth and baby books she'd brought with her. To pass the time, he'd told himself, but there had been something deep inside him that had been compelled to understand what she was going through. Perhaps it was instinct that had had him absorbing the advice, the details, the instructions. Now, seeing her in pain, everything he'd read seemed to slip away from him.

When the contraction passed, her face was shiny with fresh sweat. “Getting closer,” she whispered. “There's not much time.” Though she bit down on her lips, a sob escaped her. “I can't lose the baby.”

“The baby's going to be fine, and so are you.” He squeezed her hand once reassuringly. They would need towels, lots of them. String and scissors had to be sterilized. It was really very simple when you thought about it. He only hoped it was as simple when you put it into practice.

“Just hang on. I have to get some things.” He saw the doubt flash in her eyes, and he leaned over her. “I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to take care of you, Laura. Trust me.”

She nodded, and with her head slumped back on the pillow, she closed her eyes.

When he came back, her eyes were focused on the ceiling and she was panting. After setting fresh towels on the foot of the bed, he spread another blanket over her. “Are you cold?”

She shook her head. “The baby will need to be kept warm. He's not full-term.”

“I've built up the fire, and there are plenty of blankets.” Gently he wiped her face with a cool, damp cloth. “You've talked to doctors, you've read the books. You know what to expect.”

She looked up at him, trying to swallow past a dry throat. Yes, she knew what to expect, but reading about it, imagining it, was a far cry from the experience.

“They lied.” Her mouth moved into a weak smile when his brows drew together. “They try to tell you it doesn't hurt so much if you ride out the pain.”

He brought her hand to his lips and held it there. “Yell all you want. Scream the roof down. Nobody's going to hear.”

“I'm not screaming this baby into the world.” Then she gasped, and her fingers dug into his. “I can't—”

“Yes, you can. Pant. Pant, Laura. Squeeze my hand. Harder. Concentrate on that.” He kept his eyes locked on hers while she pushed air out. “You're doing fine, better than fine.” When her body went lax, he moved to the foot of the bed. “The pains are closer?” As he spoke, he knelt on the mattress and shifted the blanket.

“Almost on top of each other.”

“That means it's almost over. Hold on to that.”

She tried to moisten her dry lips, but her tongue was thick. “If anything happens to me, promise you'll—”

“Nothing's going to happen.” He bit off the words. Their eyes met again, hers glazed with pain, his dark with purpose. “Damn it, I'm not going to lose either of you now, understand? The three of us are going to pull this off. Now, you've got work to do, angel.”

Each time the pains hit her, he shuddered with it. Time seemed to drag as she struggled through them, then race again as she rested. Gabe moved back and forth, to arrange her pillows, to wipe her face, then knelt again to check the progress of birth.

He could hear the fire roaring in the next room, but he still worried that the cabin would be too cold. Then he worried about the heat, because Laura's laboring body was like a furnace.

He hadn't known birth could be so hard on a woman. He knew she was close to total exhaustion, but she managed to pull herself through time after time, recharging somehow during the all-too-brief moments between contractions. Pain seemed to tear through her, impossibly hard, impossibly ruthless. His own shirt was soaked with sweat, and he swore constantly, silently, as he urged her to breathe, to pant, to concentrate. All his ambitions, his joys, his griefs, whittled down to focus on that one room, that one moment, that one woman.

It seemed to him that she should weaken, with her body being battered by the new life fighting to be born. But as the moments passed she seemed to draw on new reserves of strength. There was something fierce and valiant about her face as she pushed herself forward and braced for whatever happened next.

“Do you have a name picked out?” he asked, hoping to distract her.

“I made lists. Sometimes at night I'd try to imagine what the baby would look like and try to— Oh, God.”