Gabriel's Angel (7 page)

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but ended up just lifting her hands and then letting them fall again.

“The fact that you're carrying a child is only part of the reason I can't make love with you. The other, though not as obvious, is just as important. I need the story, Laura, your story. All of it.”

“I can't.”

“Afraid?”

She shook her head. Her eyes glimmered, but her chin lifted. “Ashamed.”

He would have expected almost any other reason than that. “Why? Because you weren't married to the baby's father?”

“No. Please don't ask me.”

He wanted to argue, but he bit the words back. She was looking pale and tired and just too fragile. “All right, for now. But think about this. I have feelings for you, and they're growing much faster than either of us might like. Right now I'm damned if I know what to do about it.”

When he rose, she reached up and touched his arm. “Gabe, there's nothing to do. I can't tell you how much I wish it were otherwise.”

“Life's what you make it, angel.” He touched her hair then stepped away. “We need more wood.”

Laura sat in the empty cabin and wished more than she had ever wished for anything that she had made a better job of hers.

Chapter 4

More snow had fallen during the night. It was, compared to what had come before, hardly more than a dusting. The fresh inches lay in mounds and drifts over the rest, where the wind had blown them. In places the snow was as high as a man. Miniature mountains of it lay cozily against the windowpanes, shifting constantly in the wind.

Already the sun was melting the fresh fall, and if Laura listened she could hear the water sliding down the gutters from the roof like rain. It was a friendly sound, and it made her think of hot tea by a sizzling fire, a good book read on a lazy afternoon, a nap on the sofa in early evening.

But this was morning, only an hour or two past dawn. As usual, she had the cabin to herself.

Gabe was chopping wood. From the kitchen, where she was optimistically heating milk and a chocolate bar in a pan, she could hear the steady thud of the ax. She knew the woodbox was full, and the stack of logs outside the rear door was still high. Even if the snow lasted into June, they would still have an ample supply. Artist or not, he was a physical man, and she understood his need to do something manual and tiring.

It seemed so . . . normal, she thought. Her cooking in the kitchen, Gabe splitting logs, icicles growing long and shiny on the eaves outside the window. Their little world was so well tuned, so self-contained. It was like this every morning. She would rise to find him already outdoors, shoveling, chopping, hauling. She would make fresh coffee or warm what he'd left in the pot. The portable radio would bring her news from the outside, but it never seemed terribly important. After a little while he would come in, shake and stomp the snow off, then accept the cup of coffee she offered him. The routine would continue with him taking his place in behind the easel and Laura taking hers by the window.

Sometimes they would talk. Sometimes they would not.

Beneath the routine, she sensed some kind of hurry in him that she couldn't understand. Though he might paint for hours, his movements controlled and measured, he still seemed impatient to finish. The fact was, the portrait was coming along faster than she could ever have imagined. She was taking shape on canvas—or rather the woman he saw when he looked at her was taking shape. Laura couldn't understand why he had chosen to make her look so otherworldly, so dreamy. She was very much a part of the world. The child she carried grounded her to it.

But she'd learned not to complain, because he didn't listen.

He'd done other sketches, as well, some full-length, some just of her face. She told herself he was entitled, particularly if that was all the payment she could give him for the roof over her head. A few of the sketches made her uneasy, like the one he'd drawn when she'd fallen asleep on the sofa late one afternoon. She'd looked so . . . defenseless. And she'd felt defenseless when she'd realized that he'd watched her and drawn her while she was unaware of it.

Not that she was afraid of him. Laura poked halfheartedly at the mixture of powdered milk, water and chocolate. He'd been kinder to her than she'd had any right to expect. And, though he could be terse and brusque, he was the gentlest man she'd ever known.

Perhaps he was attracted to her. Men had often been attracted to her face. But whether he was or not he treated her with respect and care. She'd learned not to expect those things when there was attraction.

With a shrug, she poured the liquid into a mug. Now wasn't the time to focus on the feeling Gabe might or might not have. She was on her own. Fixing a mental image of creamy hot chocolate in her mind, Laura downed half the contents of the mug. She made a face, sighed, then lifted the mug again. In a matter of days she would be on her way to Denver again.

A sudden pain had her gripping the side of the counter for support. She held on, fighting back the instinctive need to call for Gabe. It was nothing, she told herself as it began to ease. Moving carefully, she started into the living room. Gabe's chopping stopped. It was in that silence that she heard the other sound. An engine? The panic came instantly, and almost as quickly was pushed down. They hadn't found her. It was ridiculous to even think it. But she walked quickly, quietly, to the front window to look out.

A snowmobile. The sight of it, shiny and toylike, might have amused and pleased her if she hadn't seen the uniformed state trooper on it. Preparing to stand her ground if it came to that, Laura moved to the door and opened it a crack.

Gabe had worked up a warm, healthy sweat. He appreciated being outdoors, appreciated the crisp air, the rhythm of his work. He couldn't say that it kept his mind off Laura. Nothing did. But it helped him put the situation into perspective.

She needed help. He was going to help her.

There were some who knew him who would have been more than a little surprised by his decision. It wasn't that anyone would have accused him of being unfeeling. The sensitivity in his paintings was proof of his capacity for emotion, passion, compassion. But few would have thought him capable of unconditional generosity.

It was Michael who had been generous.

Gabe had always been self-absorbed—or, more accurately, absorbed in his art, driven to depict life, with all its joys and pains. Michael had simply embraced life.

Now he was gone. Gabe brought the ax down, his breath whistling through his teeth and puffing white in the thin air. And Michael's leaving had left a hole so big, so great, that Gabe wasn't certain it could ever be filled.

He heard the engine when his ax was at the apex of his swing. Distracted, he let it fall so that the blade was buried in wood. Splinters popped out to join others on the trampled snow. With a quick glance toward the kitchen window, Gabe started around the cabin to meet the visitor.

He didn't make a conscious decision to protect the woman inside. He didn't have to. It was the most natural thing in the world.

“How ya doing?” The cop, his full cheeks reddened by wind and cold, shut off the engine and he nodded to Gabe.

“Well enough.” He judged the trooper to be about twenty-five and half frozen. “How's the road?”

Giving a short laugh, the trooper stepped off the snowmobile. “Let's just say I hope you've got no appointments to keep.”

“Nothing pressing.”

“Good thing.” He offered a gloved hand. “Scott Beecham.”

“Gabe Bradley.”

“I heard somebody bought the old McCampbell place.” With his hands on his hips, Beecham studied the cabin. “A hell of a winter to pick for moving in. We're swinging by to check on everybody on the ridge, seeing if they need supplies or if anyone's sick.”

“I stocked up the day of the storm.”

“Good for you.” He gestured toward the Jeep. “At least you've got a fighting chance in a four-wheel drive. Could've filled a used car lot with some of the vehicles towed in. We're checking around on a compact, an '84 Chevy that took a spin into the guardrail about a quarter mile from here. Abandoned. Driver might have wandered out and got lost in the blizzard.”

“My wife,” Gabe said. In the doorway, Laura opened her eyes wide. “She was worried that something had happened to me and got the idea of driving into town.” Gabe grinned and drew out a cigarette. “Damn near ran into me. At the rate things were going, I figured it was best to leave the car where it was and get us back here. Haven't been able to get back out to check on the damage.”

“Not as bad as some I've seen the last few days. Was she hurt?”

“No. Scared ten years off both of us, though.”

“I'll bet. Afraid we're going to have to tow the vehicle in, Mr. Bradley.” He glanced toward the house. His voice was casual, but Gabe sensed that he was alert. “Your wife, you say?”

“That's right.”

“Name on the registration was Malone, Laura Malone.”

“My wife's maiden name,” Gabe said easily.

On impulse, Laura pushed open the door. “Gabe?”

Both men turned to look at her. The trooper pulled off his hat. Gabe merely scowled.

“I'm sorry to interrupt—” she smiled “—but I thought the officer might like some hot coffee.”

The trooper replaced his hat. “That's mighty tempting, ma'am, and I appreciate it, but I have to get along. Sorry about your car.”

“My own fault. Can you tell us when the road will be open?”

“Your husband ought to be able to manage a trip into town in a day or two,” Beecham said. “I wouldn't recommend the drive for you, ma'am, for the time being.”

“No.” She smiled at him and hugged her elbows. “I don't think I'll be going anywhere for a little while yet.”

“I'll just be on my way.” Beecham straddled the snowmobile again. “You got a shortwave, Mr. Bradley?”

“No.”

“Might not be a bad idea to pick one up next time you're in town. More dependable than the phones. When's your baby due?”

Gabe just stared for a moment. The pronoun had stunned him. “Four or five weeks.”

“You got yourself plenty of time, then.” With a grin, Beecham started the engine. “This your first?”

“Yes,” Gabe murmured. “It is.”

“Nothing quite like it. Got myself two girls. Last one decided to be born on Thanksgiving. Hardly had two bites of pumpkin pie when I had to drive to the hospital. My wife still says it was my mother's sausage stuffing that started her off.” He raised a hand and his voice. “Take care, Mrs. Bradley.”

They watched, Gabe from the yard, Laura from the doorway, as the snowmobile scooted up the lane. And then they were alone.

Clearing his throat, Gabe started up the stairs. Laura said nothing, but she stepped out of the way and closed the door behind him. She waited until he was sitting on the low stone hearth, unlacing his boots.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You told the trooper that I was your wife.”

Still frowning, he pried off a boot. “It seemed less complicated that way.”

“For me,” Laura agreed. “Not for you.”

He shrugged his shoulders and then rose to go into the kitchen. “Any coffee?”

“Yes.” She heard the glass pot chink against the mug, heard the liquid pour into the stoneware. He'd lied for her, protected her, and all she had done was take from him. “Gabe.” Praying that her instincts and her conscience were right, she walked to the doorway.

“What the hell is this?” He had the pan she'd used to heat the milk in his hand.

For a moment the tension fled. “If you're desperate enough, it's hot chocolate.”

“It looks like . . . Well, never mind what it looks like.” He set it back on the stove. “That powdered stuff tastes filthy, doesn't it?”

“It's hard to argue with the truth.”

“I'll try to make it into town tomorrow.”

“If you do, could you . . .” Embarrassed, she let her words trail off.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. It's stupid. Listen, could we sit down a minute?”

He took her hand before she could back away. “What do you want from town, Laura?”

“Marshmallows, to toast in the fireplace. I told you it was stupid,” she murmured, and tried to tug her hand away.

He wanted, God, he wanted just to fold her into his arms. “Is that a craving or just a whim?”

“I don't know. It's just that I look at the fireplace and think about marshmallows.” Because he wasn't laughing at her, it was easy to smile. “Sometimes I can almost smell them.”

“Marshmallows. You don't want anything to go with them? Like horseradish?”

She made a face at him. “Another myth.”

“You're spoiling all my preconceptions.” He wasn't sure when he'd lifted her hand to his lips, but after the faintest taste of her skin he dropped it again. “And you're not wearing the shirt.”

Though he was no longer touching it, her hand felt warm, warm and impossibly soft. “Oh.” She took a long breath. He was thinking of the painting, not of her. He was the artist with his subject again. “I'll change.”

“Fine.” More than a little shaken by the extent of his desire for her, he turned back to the counter and his coffee.

The decision came quickly, or perhaps it had been made the moment she'd heard him lie for her, protect her. “Gabe, I know you want to work right away, but I'd like . . . I feel like I should . . . I want to tell you everything, if you still want to hear it.”

He turned back; his eyes were utterly clear and intent. “Why?”

“Because it's wrong not to trust you.” Again the breath seemed to sigh out of her. “And because I need someone. We need someone.”

“Sit down,” he said simply, leading her to the couch.

“I don't know where to start.”

It would probably be easier for her to start further back, he thought as he tossed another log in the fire. “Where do you come from?” he asked when he joined her on the couch.

“I've lived a lot of places. New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland. My aunt had a little farm on the Eastern Shore. I lived with her the longest.”

“Your parents?”

“My mother was very young when I was born. Unmarried. She . . . I went to live with my aunt until . . . until things became difficult for her, financially. There were foster homes after that. That isn't really the point.”

“Isn't it?”

She took a steadying breath. “I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I'm not telling you this so that you'll feel sorry for me.”

The pride was evident in the tilt of her head, in the tone of her voice—the same quiet pride he was trying to capture on canvas. His fingers itched for his sketch pad, even as they itched to touch her face. “All right, I won't.”

With a nod, she continued. “From what I can gather, things were very hard on my mother. Even without the little I was told, it's easy enough to imagine. She was only a child. It's possible that she wanted to keep me, but it didn't work out. My aunt was older, but she had children of her own. I was essentially another mouth to feed, and when it became difficult to do so, I went into foster care.”