by Anne Stuart
He concentrated on the red taillights ahead of him. Lars was right, the truck held the icy road fairly well. He found he was adept at driving through bad conditions. He automatically steered into a skid, using just the right amount of pressure on the gas pedal, and took a moment to admire his expertise. The moment he did, he began to skid again, and this time he over-corrected, sliding first one way and then another on the slippery road.
He managed to pull it out of the spin, setting it back on the straight and narrow, his palms sweating, curses filling the air. Why couldn't he remember? He had all sorts of talents he never knew existed, if he just remembered to use his instincts and not his brain. If Emerson thought about driving on nightmarish roads he'd end up in a ditch. If Gabriel concentrated on the woman ahead of him and let his hands and feet, not his mind, do the driving, he'd be just fine.
He followed her up the long, twisting driveway to the dark house, watched as she turned off her car, waved goodbye in the glare of his headlights and moved toward the door with deceptive energy. He knew how tired she was, he could see the purple stains beneath her blue eyes, the paleness of her complexion, even the faint tremor in her hands. He could also see that there was no smoke coming from the chimney overhead.
He waited until the kitchen lights came on, then switched off the truck and bounded after her.
She was standing in the kitchen door, glaring at him. "I thought I told you to go home."
"Then why are you standing in the door?"
"I knew I couldn't trust you."
"Sure you can, Carrie," he said. "I'm here to see you home safely, and that's what I'm going to do. Now why don't you let me in so I can see about your wood stove instead of standing there letting more cold air inside?"
It was reasonable, but he could see by the expression on her face that she wasn't in the mood to be reasonable. He decided to take it out of her hands, pushing past her very gently and closing the door behind him.
The kitchen was icy. "Why don't you make me some coffee while I get the stove started?" he said.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I already checked. The water's frozen."
She was a strong woman, but her voice cracked slightly. He wanted to draw her into his arms, to warm her slender, weary body with his. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from touching her.
"I'll get the stove going first," he said. "Come into the living room and wrap yourself up in something while I work on it, and then I'll see what I can do about the water."
"You're a plumber?" she asked, her voice incredulous.
"Anyone can unfreeze water if the pipes haven't burst yet, and I don't think it's been that cold for that long."
"You're a man of hidden talents," she said wryly, following him meekly enough.
"I know," he said wryly.
He almost asked her to turn on the radio. Something to distract him from that intermittent clumsiness that assailed him when he least needed it. There were a few coals glowing at the bottom of the blue enamel stove, and he hummed beneath his breath as he stirred the ashes, opened the draft just the right amount and dropped only a minimal amount of kindling on it. In a moment it blazed forth, eating into the logs he placed on top of it.
"You've very good at that," Carrie said. She was curled up on the sofa where he'd slept the night before, wrapped in the quilt that had kept him warm. It was that potent, dangerous distraction that had enabled him to be so efficient with the fire. "Most people don't understand the idiosyncrasies of wood stoves."
"I have a fair amount of common sense," he said. No, I don't, his mind protested. If I did, I wouldn't be anywhere near her. Or at least I wouldn't be thinking the kind of things I'm thinking. "You got a hair dryer?"
Carrie grimaced. "Where it belongs. Under the kitchen sink, bought for the express purpose of thawing frozen pipes. Listen, don't bother. I can handle it, once I warm up. You'd better go home before the roads get any worse."
"It just kills you to accept help, doesn't it?"
"I didn't ask for help. I can manage on my own." She shivered, despite the rapidly warming temperature of the room, despite the brightly colored quilt bundled around her.
"I'm sure you can. But you helped me out yesterday. I like to repay my debts." It was the best possible thing he could have said. She couldn't accept someone's help. But she could accept someone else's need to even things up.
"All right," she said with a sigh. "If it will make you feel better."
It took him longer than he expected to get the water flowing again. As the heat from the living room stove began to filter through into the kitchen his hands began to lose their numbness, and he was finally rewarded with a sputtering, then steady, stream of water from the open faucet.
The adjoining bathroom was in worse shape. By the time he had water moving through all the fixtures he was tired, dirty and hungry. He washed one level of grime from his hands and face and headed out to the living room.
She was asleep on the sofa, her long blond hair fanned out around her pale face, her hands still clutching the quilt around her. He loaded the stove as quietly as possible, banking it down, and then squatted down beside her, watching her.
She didn't open her eyes. "Don't," she said, her lips barely moving, the sound so soft he thought he might have imagined it.
But he hadn't. "Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that." This time she did open her eyes, staring up at him with a fearlessness he knew was completely fake. She was frightened of him, and he couldn't imagine why.
"Like what?"
"I'm not available. I'm not someone to help you while away some time spent in a high prairie town. I'm not a convenient bed partner, or even a one-night stand. I've made my life, and it's a solitary one. Don't jump to any conclusions."
"Who says I'm asking?" he demanded in a slow, deep voice, not moving.
Her pale face flooded with color. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice muffled. "I guess I was the one jumping to conclusions."
He should rise, say something friendly and walk away. And he knew he wasn't going to do that. There was a reason she was warning him away, and it wasn't just him she was afraid of. It was herself.
"No," he said. "You're not." And he leaned over and brushed her lips with his.
Chapter Seven
« ^ »
Sunday morning dawned still and clear, with a warm front coming through and melting the layer of snow and ice that had clung to the stubborn Minnesota earth since Thanksgiving. Gabriel arrived at the Messiah Lutheran Church with the Swensen family, all of them scrubbed and combed and spruced up. He'd had to make do with the contents of the duffel bag. There were no Italian suits, no tailored wool blazers, not even a reasonable pair of khakis. Clearly Gabriel Falconi's idea of formal dress was a pair of unpatched jeans and a fresh cotton shirt.
He'd pushed it a bit, trying to iron the wrinkles out of one of them, but apparently that bit of domestic art was beyond even the estimable Gabriel. He tried whistling, tried concentrating on the inane but funny plot of the sitcom the Swensen family had watched the night before, to no avail. His hands were clumsy, impossible as he tried to iron, and even succumbing to the ultimate distraction only led to disaster.
Carrie's lips had tasted better than anything he'd ever kissed. They'd been soft, unresisting, surprised, and it had taken a self-control he'd never known he possessed to simply brush her mouth with his, not deepen it as he'd longed to, not push her back on the couch and warm his cold body and hers with a heat that had been burning inside him since he first saw her.
But he hadn't. He'd moved away without a word, leaving her staring up at him in numb surprise, and he'd left her before she could gather her wits together.
He'd driven back home over the slick roads, remembering the feel of her mouth, and that memory hadn't been far from his mind for the past thirty-six hours, culminating with a huge triangle-shaped scorch mark on his best shirt.
He'd given up then, se
ttling for wrinkles, but been fool enough to ask Lars for a tie. Lars had looked at him as if he were crazy, but handed him a subdued narrow tie that should have felt at home around Emerson's neck. It strangled Gabriel.
"No one wears a tie to church anymore, Gabe," Lars said kindly when he brought it back. "You won't be offending anyone. It's not going to make any difference in the eyes of God, and no one in heaven's going to care."
Gabriel thought of Augusta's flinty eyes. "You'd be surprised," he'd said glumly.
Now he stood just inside the church, surveying the congregation while the younger Swensens whispered and fought, and he thanked God he'd at least had a look at the place the day before when he'd helped Lars with the pieces of the crèche.
It was unlike any church he could remember. When he'd bothered to go to church, he'd frequented Saint Barts on Fifth Avenue and 50th Street, an old, elegant church attended by all the right people. He sensed the eyes he was looking through were more accustomed to pomp and circumstance and stained glass. The Messiah Lutheran Church was plain, sturdy, with maple pews, oak trim, and a huge unadorned silver cross hanging from the front of the church. The organ was in front, and on top was a deliberately crude-looking stable filled with straw, one of Lars's beautifully carved cows, and the first angel.
Augusta perched on top of the miniature roof, arms outspread, face stern and judgmental. He'd had qualms about putting her right up there. The second angel had been much more user-friendly, an adolescent male with blond curls and a vulnerable face. He had no idea where that vision had come from. On the surface, he was much closer to the traditional idea of angels—sexless, pretty boys with outspread wings. It was only when you looked closer that you could see the fear in the wide, blank eyes.
Lars's carvings of Mary and Joseph were in a back window, along with a donkey, starting their journey toward Bethlehem, Lars had told him. Gabriel had wanted to sneer at the notion. Instead, he found himself strangely moved.
There'd been no way he could get out of going to church that day, not unless he'd asked directions to the nearest Catholic church. And while the overt religiousness of the Swensens, and indeed, everyone he'd met in Angel Falls, made him acutely uncomfortable, at least they didn't try to foist it upon him, and didn't spend hours ranting. Their faith simply seemed to be a part of their lives, just as shopping and driving cars and eating were.
Besides, he'd kept away from Carrie Alexander quite deliberately yesterday. He wanted to give her time to think about that kiss, to see what she was going to do about it. And he wanted to give himself time to get his unaccustomed libido under control.
He'd spent the day in Lars's workshop, finishing up Augusta, carving the young man. At least Lars saw no arcane resemblance in the young man's perfect face.
The word on Gabriel's truck wasn't encouraging. Steve had hemmed and hawed and muttered about differentials and main cylinders, phrases that meant nothing to Gabriel, but the bottom line was there'd be no moving on for him, even if he'd wanted to, for at least another week.
It was still an option, he thought. Gabriel didn't have much money, but he was possessed of a gold credit card, a miracle in itself. He hadn't had a chance to check the credit limit, but he suspected he could probably manage to fly to New York and live out his month on earth in the manner to which he'd become accustomed.
For some reason that notion didn't particularly appeal to him. Not that he thought there was a chance in hell, pardon the expression, to redeem himself, right the mysterious wrongs Augusta had insisted he'd committed, and make it past the Waystation. No, he was going to be roasting in the other place, there was no doubt about it, and he ought to be enjoying his brief sojourn on earth.
And he was. The room under the eaves at the Swensens was cold and barren, the bed narrow and saggy, the food plain and riddled with cholesterol. And yet he'd slept better in that narrow bed, beneath Carrie Alexander's quilt, than he ever had in his life. The food tasted better, and he no longer had to worry about cholesterol, did he? Besides, butter and cream tasted so damned good.
But not as good as Carrie Alexander's mouth. He saw her sitting in the choir, dressed in a blue robe, her face serene and untroubled. Looking like a saint again, he thought gloomily. He shouldn't want to tarnish that sainthood. It wouldn't sit well with the powers that were overseeing him. It would send him to hell for sure, and they might not wait until Christmas Eve.
He should have asked more questions at the Waystation, he thought as he followed the train of Swensens down the center aisle to a spot near the front of the church. Near the choir. Would he be sentenced to the other place without hope of parole? Or did he get time off for good behavior? Credit for at least trying? Maybe it would behoove him to forget the potent effect Carrie had on him.
Damn it, he hadn't been that rotten in his previous life! It wasn't fair that he was sent back to make up for all the wrongs he'd committed. As far as he could remember he'd been no better or worse than the next man.
It wasn't going to be up to him. He sank into the pew next to little Harald, and a moment later Gertrude Hansen sat down beside him, her eyes unreadable behind the thick-lensed glasses.
"Good morning," he whispered, having ascertained that a certain amount of preservice talking was allowed in this church.
Obviously not by Gertrude. Her mouth thinned disapprovingly, and he wished he'd worn a tie. "Good morning," she replied. "What were you thinking about?"
Lustful thoughts of a choir member, he wanted to tell her. "I was admiring the simplicity of the church," he whispered back.
"Were you?" Gertrude's gaze must be sharp behind those thick glasses. She reached out and patted his hand with her own aged one. "We're glad you're here with us, Gabriel."
Not if you knew what I'd really been thinking, he thought, smiling faintly at her and turning his gaze back to the front of the church. And found himself gazing directly into Carrie's eyes.
If she remembered the circumstances when she'd last seen him, she'd appeared to put it out of her mind. Scratch that, of course she remembered. There was no doubt in his mind that she hadn't been kissed nearly enough. Even so, she'd obviously managed to wipe the memory from her mind, her gaze serene and impersonal, almost maternal.
Gertrude, sitting next to him, could be maternal. He wasn't about to accept that from the woman in the choir. He also wasn't about to send her lascivious messages from his seat in the congregation, not with Gertrude on one side and an impressionable Harald on the other. He simply stared at her for a moment, and his eyes said, "later."
She blinked, startled out of her serene state. Before she could react, the organ started, the congregation surged to its feet, and they were in the midst of "Wachet auf."
If he'd worried that she'd try to escape once the service was over he needn't have. The Scandinavian population of Angel Falls wasn't about to let an occasion go by without eating, and immediately after church he was plied with coffee and a thin, wonderful pastry called kringle as he was introduced to Larsens, Swensens, Hansens, Johannsens, Rasmussens, and all the "sens" that flesh is heir to.
He knew she was standing behind him before he saw her. Even as he made strained conversation with the gentle, slightly befuddled Pastor Krieger, he could feel her presence, feel it through his clothes and skin like a soft spring breeze. He'd never feel a spring breeze again, he thought before turning, and a sudden wave of sorrow hit him. He would have liked to have felt the spring breeze against his skin. With Carrie beside him.
"You're very gifted," she said when he turned to look at her.
She'd divested herself of her blue choir robe, and she was wearing some sort of shapeless dress. He found himself wondering exactly what kind of shape she had under there, and then stopped himself. He was still in church, even if the service was over. He could at least make an effort at behaving himself. "I am?" he said, resisting the urge to touch her mouth with his fingers.
"The angels. I love them both. It's hard to believe that someone as talented as
Lars would show up. I've decided you must be a gift from heaven."
He was getting used to it by this time, the odd, random statements that meant nothing to anyone but him. He didn't even choke on the piece of pastry he'd just swallowed. "How's your water doing?"
"Just fine. I didn't get a chance to thank you for your help on Friday night." She said it calmly, not avoiding his gaze.
Two could play at that game. "Anytime," he said.
He was rewarded with a faint color in her pale cheeks. "Who did you have in mind when you carved the second angel?" She quickly changed the subject. "He looks so familiar, and yet I can't quite place him."
A sudden uneasiness trickled down his spine. Both angels had looked familiar to him, and he'd had no idea where the vision had come from. Wherever it had sprung from, it had bypassed his conscious mind entirely. "I have no idea. I don't really think about what I do, I just do it." Truer than she realized, he thought.
"Of course I recognize Gertrude, and I think it's very clever of you to have seen through that myopic sweetness of hers. She loves to act charming and befuddled, but beneath those thick glasses she's really quite a formidable woman."
"What?" The sound of his shocked voice was enough to make several heads turn, and he immediately lowered his pitch. "What?" he demanded again.
"Gertrude. Your first angel is the spitting image of her, without her glasses, of course. Don't tell me you didn't realize it?"
"Where is she?" he demanded hoarsely.
"I think she got a ride back with the Milsoms. She left something behind for you with Lars."
"I imagine she did," he said, feeling oddly shaken.
"Were you still interested in doing some work for me?"
It took him a moment to regain his concentration. "What?"
"I asked if you were still interested in doing some carpentry work for me?" she repeated patiently, with still that faint trace of color in her cheeks.
