Gabriel's Angel

by Roberts, Nora

  “When they do, I’ll go. The less you know, the better off we’ll both be.”

  “That won’t wash.” He was silent a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. “It seems to me that the baby is very important to you.”

  “Nothing is or can be more important.”

  “Do you figure the strain you’re carrying around is good for it?”

  He saw the regret in her eyes instantly, saw the concern, the almost imperceptible folding into herself. “There are some things that can’t be changed.” She took a long breath. “You have a right to ask questions.”

  “But you don’t intend to answer them.”

  “I don’t know you. I have to trust you, to a point, because I have no choice. I can only ask you to do the same.”

  He moved his hand away from her face. “Why should I?”

  She pressed her lips together. She knew he was right. But sometimes right wasn’t enough. “I haven’t committed a crime, I’m not wanted by the law. I have no family, no husband looking for me. Is that enough?”

  “No. I’ll take that much tonight because you need to sleep, but we’ll talk in the morning.”

  It was a reprieve—a short one, but she’d learned to be grateful for small things. With a nod, she waited for him to walk to the door. When it shut and the darkness was full again, she lay down. But it was a long, long time before she slept.

  It was silent, absolutely silent, when Laura woke. She opened her eyes and waited for memory to return. There had been so many rooms, so many places where she’d slept, that she was used to this confusion upon waking.

  She remembered it all … Gabriel Bradley, the storm, the cabin, the nightmare. And the sensation of waking in fear to find herself safe, in his arms. Of course, the safety was only temporary, and his arms weren’t for her. Sighing, she turned her head to look out the window.

  The snow was still falling. It was almost impossible to believe, but she lay and watched it, thinner now, slower, but still steady. There would be no leaving today.

  Tucking her hand under her cheek, she continued to watch. It was easy to wish that the snow would never stop and that time would. She could stay here, cocooned, isolated, safe. But time, as the child she carried attested, never stopped. Rising, she opened her suitcase. She would put herself in order before she faced Gabe.

  The cabin was empty. She should have felt relieved at that. Instead, the cozy fire and polished wood made her feel lonely. She wanted him there, even if it was just the sound of his movements in another room. Wherever he had gone, she reminded herself, he would be back. She started to walk into the kitchen to see what could be done about breakfast.

  She saw the sketches, a half dozen of them, spread out on the picnic table. His talent, though raw in pencil or charcoal drawing, was undeniable. Still, it made her both uneasy and curious to see how someone else—no, how Gabriel Bradley—perceived her.

  Her eyes seemed too big, too haunted. Her mouth was too soft, too vulnerable. She rubbed a finger over it as she frowned at the drawing. She’d seen her face countless times, in glossy photographs, posed for the best angle. She’d been draped in silks and furs, drenched in jewels. Her face and form had sold gallons of perfume, hawked fortunes in clothes and gems.

  Laura Malone. She’d nearly forgotten that woman, the woman they’d said would be the face of the nineties. The woman who had, briefly, held her own destiny in her hands. She was gone, erased.

  The woman in the sketches was softer, rounder and infinitely more fragile. And yet she seemed stronger. Laura lifted a sketch and studied it. Or did she just want to see the strength, need to see it?

  When the front door opened, she turned, still holding the pencil sketch. Gabe, covered with snow, kicked the door shut again. His arms were loaded with wood.

  “Good morning. Been busy?”

  He grunted and stomped the worst of the snow from his boots, then walked, leaving a wet trail, to the firebox to dump his wood. “I thought you might sleep longer.”

  “I would have.” She patted her belly. “He wouldn’t. Can I fix you some breakfast?”

  Drawing off his gloves, he tossed them down on the hearth. “Already had some. You go ahead.”

  Laura waited until he’d stripped off his coat. Apparently they were back on friendly terms again. Cautiously friendly. “It seems to be letting up a little.”

  He sat on the hearth to drag his boots off. Snow was caked in the laces. “We’ve got three feet now, and I wouldn’t look for it to stop before afternoon.” He drew out a cigarette. “Might as well make yourself at home.”

  “I seem to be.” She held up the sketch. “I’m flattered.”

  “You’re beautiful,” he said offhandedly as he set his boots on the hearth to dry. “I can rarely resist drawing beautiful things.”

  “You’re fortunate.” She dropped the sketch back on the table. “It’s so much more rewarding to be able to depict beauty than it is to be beautiful.” Gabe lifted a brow. There was a trace, only a trace, of bitterness in her tone. “Things,” she explained. “It’s strange, but once people see you as beautiful, they almost always see you as a thing.”

  Turning, she slipped into the kitchen, leaving him frowning after her.

  She brewed him fresh coffee, then idled away the morning tidying the kitchen. Gabe gave her room. Before night fell again, he would have some answers, but for now he was content to have her puttering around while he worked.

  She seemed to need to be busy. He had thought a woman in her condition would be content to sleep or rest or simply sit and knit for most of the day. He decided it was either nervous energy or her way of avoiding the confrontation he’d promised her the night before.

  She didn’t ask questions or stand over his shoulder, so they rubbed along through the morning without incident. Once he glanced over to see her tucked into a corner of the sagging sofa reading a book on childbirth. Later she threw some things together in the kitchen and produced a thick, aromatic stew.

  She said little. He knew she was waiting, biding her time until he pushed open the door he’d unlocked the night before. He, too, was waiting, biding his time. By midafternoon he decided she looked rested. Taking up his sketch pad and a piece of charcoal, he began to work while she sat across from him peeling apples.

  “Why Denver?”

  The only sign of her surprise was a quick jerk of the paring knife. She didn’t look up or stop peeling. “Because I’ve never been there.”

  “Under the circumstances, wouldn’t you be better off in some place that’s familiar?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you leave Dallas?”

  She set the apple down and picked up another. “Because it was time.”

  “Where’s the baby’s father, Laura?”

  “Dead.” There wasn’t even a shadow of emotion in her voice.

  “Look at me.”

  Her hands stilled as she lifted her gaze, and he saw that that much, at least, was true.

  “You don’t have any family who could help you?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t he?”

  Her hand jerked again. This time the blade nicked her finger. The blood welled up as Gabe dropped his pad to take her hand. Once again she saw her face in the sweeping charcoal lines.

  “I’ll get you a bandage.”

  “It’s only a scratch,” she began, but he was already up and gone. When he returned he dabbed at the wound with antiseptic. Again Laura was baffled by the care he displayed. The sting came and went; his touch remained gentle.

  He was kneeling in front of her, his brows drawn together as he studied the thin slice in her finger. “Keep this up and I’ll think you’re accident-prone.”

  “And I’ll think you’re the original Good Samaritan.” She smiled when he looked up. “We’d both be wrong.”

  Gabe merely slipped a bandage over the cut and took his seat again. “Turn your head a little, to the left.” When she complied, he picked up his pad and turned o
ver a fresh sheet. “Why do they want the baby?”

  Her head jerked around, but he continued to sketch.

  “I’d like the profile, Laura.” His voice was mild, but the demand in it was very clear. “Turn your head again, and try to keep your chin up. Yes, like that.” He was silent as he formed her mouth with the charcoal. “The father’s family wants the baby. I want to know why.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Yes, you did.” He had to hurry if he was going to capture that flare of anger in her eyes. “Let’s not beat that point into the ground. Just tell me why.”

  Her hands were gripped tightly together, but there was as much fear as fury in her voice. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “No.” He felt a thrill of excitement—and, incredibly, one of desire—as he stroked the charcoal over the pad. The desire puzzled him. More, it worried him. Pushing it aside, he concentrated on prying answers from her. “But since I’m not going to let it drop, you may as well.”

  Because he knew how to look, and to see, he caught the subtle play of emotions over her face. Fear, fury, frustration. It was the fear that continued to pull him over the line.

  “Do you think I’d bundle you and your baby off to them, whoever the hell they are? Use your head. I haven’t got any reason to.”

  He’d thought he would shout at her. He’d have sworn he was on the verge of doing so. Then, in a move that surprised them both, he reached out to take her hand. He was more surprised than she to feel her fingers curl instinctively into his. When she looked at him, emotions he’d thought unavailable to him turned over in his chest.

  “You asked me to help you last night.”

  Her eyes softened with gratitude, but her voice was firm. “You can’t.”

  “Maybe I can’t, and maybe I won’t.” But as much as it went against the grain of what he considered his character, he wanted to. “I’m not a Samaritan, Laura, good or otherwise, and I don’t like to add someone else’s problems to my own. But the fact is, you’re here, and I don’t like playing in the dark.”

  She was tired, tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of trying to cope entirely on her own. She needed someone. When his hand was covering hers and his eyes were calm and steady on hers, she could almost believe it was him she needed.

  “The baby’s father is dead,” she began, picking her way carefully. She would tell him enough to satisfy him, she hoped, but not all. “His parents want the baby. They want … I don’t know, to replace, to take back, something that they’ve lost. To … to ensure the lineage. I’m sorry for them, but the baby isn’t their child.” There was that look again, fierce, protective. A mother tiger shielding her cub. “The baby’s mine.”

  “No one would argue with that. Why should you have to run?”

  “They have a lot of money, a lot of power.”

  “So?”

  “So?” Angry again, she pushed away. The contact that had been so soothing for both of them was broken. “It’s easy to say that when you come from the same world. You’ve always had. You’ve never had to want and to wonder. No one takes from people like you, Gabe. They wouldn’t dare. You don’t know what it’s like to have your life depend on the whims of others.”

  That she had was becoming painfully obvious. “Having money doesn’t mean you can take whatever you want.”

  “Doesn’t it?” She turned to him, her face set and cold. “You wanted a place to paint, somewhere you could be alone and be left alone. Did you have to think twice about how to arrange it? Did you have to plan or save or make compromises, or did you just write a check and move in?”

  His eyes were narrowed as he rose to face her. “Buying a cabin is a far cry from taking a baby from its mother.”

  “Not to some. Property is property, after all.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “And you’re being naive.”

  His temper wavered, vying with amusement. “That’s a first. Sit down, Laura, you make me nervous when you swing around.”

  “I’m not going to break,” she muttered, but she eased into a chair. “I’m strong, I take care of myself. I had an examination just before I left Dallas, and the baby and I are fine. Better than fine. In a few weeks I’m going to check into a hospital in Denver and have my baby. Then we’re going to disappear.”

  He thought about it. He almost believed the woman sitting across from him could accomplish it. Then he remembered how lost and frightened she’d been the night before. There was no use pointing out the strain she’d been under and its consequences for her. But he knew now what button to push.

  “Do you think it’s fair to the baby to keep running?”

  “No, it’s horribly, horribly unfair. But it would be worse to stop and let them take him.”

  “Why are you so damn sure they would, or could?”

  “Because they told me. They explained what they thought was best for me and the child, and they offered to pay me.” The venom came into her voice at that, black and bitter. “They offered to give me money for my baby, and when I refused they threatened to simply take him.” She didn’t want to relive that dreadful, terrifying scene. With an effort she cleared it from her mind.

  He felt a swift and dark disgust for these people he didn’t even know. He buried it with a shake of his head and tried to reason with her. “Laura, whatever they want, or intend, they couldn’t just take what isn’t theirs. No court would just take an infant from its mother without good cause.”

  “I can’t win on my own.” She closed her eyes for a moment because she wanted badly to lay her head down and weep out all the fear and anguish. “I can’t fight them on their own ground, Gabe, and I won’t put my child through the misery of custody suits and court battles, the publicity, the gossip and speculation. A child needs a home, and love and security. I’m going to see to it that mine has all of those things. Whatever I have to do, wherever I have to go.”

  “I won’t argue with you about what’s right for you and the baby, but sooner or later you’re going to have to face this.”

  “When the time comes, I will.”

  He rose and paced over to the fire to light another cigarette. He should drop it, just leave it—her—alone and let her follow her own path. It was none of his business. Not his problem. He swore, because somehow, the moment she’d taken his arm to cross the road, she’d become his business.

  “Got any money?”

  “Some. Enough to pay a doctor, and a bit more.”

  He was asking for trouble. He knew it. But for the first time in almost a year he felt as though something really mattered. Sitting on the edge of the hearth, he blew out smoke and studied her.

  “I want to paint you,” he said abruptly. “I’ll pay you the standard model’s fee, plus room and board.”

  “I can’t take your money.”

  “Why not? You seem to think I have too much for my own good, anyway.”

  Shame brought color flooding into her cheeks. “I didn’t mean it—not like that.”

  He brushed her words aside. “Whatever you meant, the fact remains that I want to paint you. I work at my own pace, so you’ll have to be patient. I’m not good at compromise, but owing to your condition I’m willing to make some concessions and stop when you’re tired or uncomfortable.”

  It was tempting, very tempting. She tried to forget that she’d traded on her looks before and concentrate on what the extra money would mean to the baby. “I’d like to agree, but the fact is, your work is well-known. If the portrait was shown, they’d recognize me.”

  “True enough, but that doesn’t mean I’d be obliged to tell anyone where we’d met or when. You have my word that no one will ever trace you through me.”

  She was silent for a moment, warring with herself. “Would you come here?”

  Hesitating only a moment, he tossed his cigarette into the fire. He rose, walked over, then crouched in front of her chair. She, too, had learned how to read a face. “Your word?”


  “Yes.”

  Some risks were worth taking. She held both hands out to his, putting her trust into them.

  With the continuing fall of snow, it was a day without a sunrise, a sunset, a twilight. The day stayed dim from morning on, and then night closed in without fanfare. And the snow stopped.

  Laura might not have noticed if she hadn’t been standing by the window. The flakes didn’t appear to have tapered off, but to have stopped as if someone had thrown a switch. There was a vague sense of disappointment, the same she remembered feeling as a young girl when a storm had ended. On impulse, she bundled herself in her boots and coat and stepped out onto the porch.

  Though Gabe had shoveled it off twice during the day, the snow came almost to her knees. Her boots sank in and disappeared. She had the sensation of being swallowed up by a soft, benign cloud. She wrapped her arms around her chest and breathed in the thin, cold air.

  There were no stars. There was no moon. The porch light tossed its glow only a few feet. All she could see was white. All she could hear was silence. To some the high blanket of snow might have been a prison, something to chafe against. To Laura it was a fortress.

  She’d decided to trust someone other than herself again. Standing there, soaking up the pure dark, the pure quiet, she knew that the decision had been the right one.

  He wasn’t a gentle man, or even a contented man, but he was a kind one, and, she was certain, a man of his word. If they were using each other, her for sanctuary, him for art, it was a fair exchange. She needed to rest. God knew she needed whatever time she could steal to rest and recover.

  She hadn’t told him how tired she was, how much effort it took for her just to keep on her feet for most of the day. Physically the pregnancy had been an easy one. She was strong, she was healthy. Otherwise she would have crumpled long before this. But the last few months had drained every ounce of her emotional and mental reserves. The cabin, the mountains, the man, were going to give her time to build those reserves back up again.

  She was going to need them.