Gabriel's Angel

by Roberts, Nora

  Immediately she began to fuss with the breakfast dishes. “That would be quick work.”

  “They get paid to work fast, and it’s been three days since I contacted them. If I can arrange it, I’d like to bring a justice of the peace back here with me.”

  A cup slipped out of her hand and plopped into the soapy water. “Today?”

  “You haven’t changed your mind?”

  “No, but—”

  “I want my name on the birth certificate.” He had a moment of panic, vague and disturbing, at her hesitation. “It would be less complicated if we were married before the baby’s born.”

  “Yes, that makes sense.” It seemed so rushed. She plunged her hands into the water and began to wash. Her first wedding had been rushed, too, a whirlwind of flowers and champagne and white silk.

  “I realize you might prefer something a little more festive, but under the circumstances—”

  “No.” She turned and managed a smile. “No, I don’t care about that. If you can arrange it for today, here, that’s fine.”

  “All right, then. Laura, I’d feel better if you rested until I got back. You didn’t sleep well.”

  She turned back again. No, she hadn’t slept well. The nightmare had come back, and she hadn’t rested until Gabe had come in and finally slipped into bed with her. “I won’t overdo.”

  “I don’t think it would tax your strength for you to kiss me goodbye.”

  That made her smile. She turned, her hands still dripping, to lift her lips to his.

  “Not even married yet and you’re already kissing me as though we’ve been together twenty years.” He changed the mood simply by nipping her lip. In seconds she was clinging to him, and there was nothing casual about the embrace.

  “Better,” he murmured. “Now go lie down. I’ll be back in less than two hours.”

  “Be careful.”

  He closed the door. In moments she heard the sound of the Jeep’s engine chugging to life. Moving into the living room, she watched Gabe drive away.

  Strangely enough, even as the quiet settled over the cabin, she didn’t feel alone. She felt nervous, she admitted with a little laugh. Brides were entitled to nerves. If Gabe had his way—and she’d come to believe that he nearly always did—they would be married that afternoon.

  And her life, Laura realized, would change yet again.

  This time it would be better. She would make it better.

  As the ache in her lower back grew worse, she pressed her hand against it. Blaming the discomfort she’d been feeling all morning on the mattress and a restless night, she walked over to the portrait.

  He’d finished it the day before. She knew, because he’d explained it to her, that the paint would take a few days to set and dry completely, so she didn’t touch it. She sat on the stool Gabe sometimes used and studied her own face.

  So this was how he saw her, she thought. Her skin was pale, with only a faint shadow of color along her cheekbones. It was partly that whiteness, that translucence, that made her appear like the angel he sometimes called her. She looked as though she were caught in a daydream, one of the many she’d indulged in during the hours Gabe had painted. As she had told him—as she had complained—there was too much vulnerability. It was in her eyes, around her mouth. There was something strong and independent about the pose, about the way her head was tilted, but that lost, sad look in her eyes seemed to negate the strength.

  She was reading too much into it, Laura decided as the pain dug, deep and dull, into her back. Rubbing at it, she rose to look around the cabin.

  She would be married here, in a matter of hours. There would be no crowd of well-wishers, no pianist playing romantic songs, no trail of rose petals. Yet, with or without the trimmings, she would be a bride. She might not be able to make it look festive, but at least she could tidy up.

  The pain in her back drove her to lie down. Two hours later she heard the Jeep coming down the lane. For a moment longer she lay there, working to block out the discomfort. Later, she told herself, she would soak the ache away in a hot tub. She walked into the living room just as Gabe ushered an elderly couple into the cabin.

  “Laura, this is Mr. and Mrs. Witherby. Mr. Witherby is a justice of the peace.”

  “Hello. It’s so nice of you to come all this way.”

  “Part of the job,” Mr. Witherby said, adjusting his fogging glasses. “’Sides that, your young man here wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

  “Don’t you worry about this old man here.” Mrs. Witherby patted her husband’s arm and studied Laura. “He loves to complain.”

  “Can I get you something, some coffee?”

  “Don’t you fuss. Mr. Bradley’s got a carload of supplies. You just sit down and let him take care of it.” She had already walked over to lead Laura to the couch with her frail hands. “Man’s nervous as a goose at Christmas,” she confided. “Let him keep busy for a spell.”

  Though she couldn’t imagine Gabe being nervous about anything, she thought the Witherbys would expect such emotion from a man about to marry. Laura listened to Gabe rattling bags and cans in the kitchen. “Maybe I should help him.”

  “Now, you sit right here.” Mrs. Witherby motioned to her husband to sit, as well. “A woman’s entitled to be waited on when she’s carrying. The good Lord knows you won’t have much time to sit once that baby’s born.”

  Grateful, Laura shifted to ease the throbbing in her back. “You have children?”

  “Had six of them. Now we’ve got twenty-two grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.”

  “And another on the way,” Mr. Witherby stated, pulling out a pipe.

  “You can just put that smelly thing away,” his wife told him. “You aren’t smoking up this room with this lady expecting.”

  “I wasn’t going to light it,” he said, and began to chew on the stem.

  Satisfied that her husband had been put in his place, Mrs. Witherby turned back to Laura. “That’s a pretty picture there.” She indicated a sprawling landscape that might very well sell for an amount in six figures. “Your man’s an artist fellow?”

  Her man. Laura experienced a twinge of panic and a glow of pleasure at the phrase. “Yes, Gabe’s an artist.”

  “I like pictures,” she said comfortably. “Got me one of the seashore over my sofa.”

  Gabe walked back in carrying an armful of flowers. Feeling awkward, he cleared his throat. “They sold them at the market.”

  “And he bought them out, too,” Mrs. Witherby cackled. Then, with a few wheezes, she heaved herself off the couch. “You got a vase? She can’t be carrying all of them.”

  “No, at least … I don’t know.”

  “Men.” She sighed and then winked at Laura. “Give them to me and let me take care of it. You can do something useful, like putting more wood on that fire. Wouldn’t want your lady to catch a chill.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  If he’d ever felt more of a fool, he couldn’t remember when. Wanting to keep his hands busy, he moved to the fire.

  “Don’t let her browbeat you, boy,” Mr. Witherby advised him from the comfort of his chair. “She’s already spent fifty-two years nagging me.”

  “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 sta
b 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.”