Falling Angel

by Anne Stuart

  She should get up and tell Steve her car could wait. After all, Gabriel had bought her enough food to feed the Russian army—she'd have no need to go into town for days.

  But she couldn't. She could barely keep her eyes open. She knew when Steve left, knew when Gabriel came back into the room. She wasn't asleep, but she had every intention of pretending to be.

  He loaded the wood stove then closed it down again, before coming to stand over her. She didn't want to open her eyes, but suddenly she couldn't resist. She wanted to read the expression on his face.

  It was a waste of time. He was more than adept at shielding his emotions, one small thing he had in common with Emerson MacVey. "You need to eat," he said gruffly.

  "I will."

  "I need to get back to town."

  "I know."

  He didn't move. He wanted to touch her, she knew it. She wanted him to touch her, as well. But he wasn't going to. "I've got a few things to do," he said. "I don't think I'll be able to come out for a few days."

  Despair and relief flooded her. "That would be fine. I'm going to be rather busy myself the next few days. I'm not sure the work can't wait until next spring, if it comes to that."

  He knew the nature of the work as well as she did, knew that it couldn't wait. "That might be a good idea," he agreed, moving away from her. "Take care of yourself."

  He was saying goodbye. She knew it with a certainty that held no logic, and she felt a tearing of grief inside her. But she couldn't stop him. Couldn't put out her hand to reach him, to make him stay.

  And then he was gone. She heard the sound of Lars's old truck as he drove away, and then nothing but silence, broken by the sound of the snow beating against the old windows of her grandmother's house, the dry crackle of the aged wood in the old stove.

  She'd promised him she'd eat. She pulled herself off the sofa and wandered into the kitchen, trailing the quilt after her. He'd put all the food away, the first neat man she'd ever met in her lifetime. No, the second. Emerson MacVey had been a neat man, as well. She'd considered it a character flaw.

  She didn't have the energy to heat herself some soup, so she made do with a carton of raspberry yogurt, leaning against the refrigerator door as she forced herself to swallow the stuff. Everything was tasting strange nowadays, which was just as well. It meant she had less interest in food and, therefore, could spend what little money she had on more important things.

  She was so tired. She used her last bit of energy calling the Swensens' house. Maggie answered, sounded worried, and Carrie remembered belatedly that Lars was in the woods that day, working with Hunsicker's shoddy operation. She wished she could offer words of comfort, but at that moment she needed all her comfort for herself.

  "Keep Gabriel from coming out here for a while," she managed to say.

  "But why…"

  "Trust me, Maggie. It's for the best." She was counting on Maggie's loyalty. Maggie would do anything for her, with many questions asked, of course, but she also accepted a total lack of answers. As she would today.

  "Lars has a project he's working on in the evening. Maybe Gabriel will help."

  "That would be wonderful," Carrie said wearily.

  "Are you all right? You don't sound well."

  "Just tired, Maggie. A few days' rest is all I need. I'll see you in church on Sunday."

  "Carrie, are you certain… ?"

  "Wouldn't I tell you if I needed help?" It took all of Carrie's waning energy to sound practical.

  "No."

  "Keep him busy, Maggie," she said wearily. "I'll be fine."

  She didn't convince Maggie, and she didn't convince herself. She just needed some rest. She wandered back into the living room, sinking down on the sofa. It was too hot in the room, and yet cold, as well, and she huddled deeper into the quilt, looking for something that had already driven away from her, back to the Swensens' house in Angel Falls. Her eyelids felt heavy, her joints ached, her chest burned, and even her teeth hurt. She realized, just before sleep overcame her, that she was sick.

  Inconvenient, she thought drowsily. It was a lucky thing she'd already talked with Maggie, gotten rid of Gabriel. She could take care of herself.

  It was a simple fever. A case of the flu. It was no wonder she was imagining herself falling in love with the beautiful stranger who'd arrived in their midst. No wonder that she started seeing Emerson MacVey in him, when the two were as different as night and day.

  She needed fluids, plenty of rest and quiet. In a few days she'd be her old self, full of energy, compassion, and not a trace of wistful longing for something that would only bring her pain.

  In a few days, everything would be just fine.

  Chapter Eleven

  « ^ »

  So he'd saved her life. Why wasn't that good enough? If she'd been driving when the brakes on her car failed, she probably would have ended up against that tree. So he'd taken care of his first duty, hadn't he? Why did he feel he wasn't through with Carrie Alexander? Maybe because he didn't want to be.

  Gabriel maneuvered Lars's truck up the steep, icy driveway, put it into Park and turned it off. It was dark already, and through the brightly lit windows of the old Victorian-style house he could see the family bustling around, all energy and life. A life at which he could only be a spectator.

  It was odd. When he'd been alive he hadn't cared about holidays, about family, about friends, even. His parents had divorced and remarried so many times he'd almost lost track of who had actually produced him thirty-two years ago. He'd sat through all the sentimental Christmas movies, listened to all the treacly Christmas songs, and never given a damn.

  He did now. He wanted that warmth, that family. He wanted cinnamon rolls dripping with butter, not nouvelle cuisine. He wanted American beer, not French wine. He wanted friends and family, he wanted life. He wanted sex. And he wanted love.

  Three people whose lives he'd ruined. Carrie Alexander was number one, and he ought to feel vindicated. He'd saved her life, lectured her on the error of her ways and been summarily banished. If she had any sense she'd pull herself together, head back for a city and shake the dust from this dying town.

  Even if she wouldn't, he was no longer to blame. He could forget about her, about her luminous blue eyes and corn-silk hair, her soft mouth and too-thin body that needed pasta and cinnamon buns, as well. Forget how much he wanted to touch her again.

  It was now abundantly clear to him just who number two was. He'd ruined the lives of the entire population of Angel Falls, no mean feat for a shallow yuppie. Augusta couldn't be expecting him to fix everyone, but he had little doubt he was living with Lars Swensen for a reason. If he could do something about the Swensens, somehow right the wrong he'd done Lars, then maybe he'd be ready to move on.

  He still had no inkling who number three might be, and at that moment he didn't really care. He was tired, still shaken from the near miss in Carrie's rust-bucket of a car, and tense from a frustration that was a great deal more than sexual. He wanted to go up to his room, lock the door and slam his fist against the wall.

  But one month didn't allow for wasted time. When he walked into the warmth and light of the old kitchen, baby Carrie looked up at him with a beaming, toothless grin, Lars clapped him on the back, and even Maggie's careworn face warmed at the sight of him.

  For a moment he wanted to yell at them. They were fools to trust him—he was the man who'd brought them to this point in the first place. But even if he wanted to tell them, he wouldn't be able to—he'd already discovered that any attempt to tell someone the truth about who and what he was ended in silence.

  And he was no longer sure who and what he was. Gabriel Falconi had taken over, Emerson MacVey was fading fast, and like the rest of MacVey's acquaintances, he couldn't mourn him. He was a cold, heartless man, better off dead. And from what little he could see from the time he'd been back on earth, he didn't deserve heaven.

  "I need your help, Gabriel," Lars boomed out from his place at the hea
d of the scrubbed table. He had an omnipresent cup of coffee in one big hand, and Gabriel accepted his own from Maggie with automatic thanks. "I'm working on a mahogany railing, and I need it done by Christmas. I don't know how much Carrie has for you, but if you'd feel like giving me a hand…"

  "Carrie doesn't need me out there for a few days," he said, wondering if it was a lie. He had the sense, probably wishful thinking on his part, that she needed him very badly. "I'd be glad to help."

  "I'll pay you, of course," Lars said carefully. "I'm not sure how much I have right now…"

  "Pay me when you get paid," Gabriel replied easily. "I have all that I need right now. A warm place to live, good food, friends…" The moment the word left his mouth it shocked him, but fortunately Lars was too relieved to notice his surprise. He'd never before considered that he had friends.

  "We work well together," Lars said. "I wish you could see your way clear to staying past the New Year. I'm doing this railing on spec at the moment, but if we just had a little luck I think we could make a modest go of it."

  "Luck," Maggie said with a snort from her spot at the stove. "A Christmas miracle is more like it."

  Thank you, Augusta, Gabriel said silently. "Miracles have been known to happen," he drawled, drinking his strong coffee and wondering how he'd ever liked tea.

  He didn't even think of Carrie for the next few days. At least, not more than once or twice an hour. And all night long, in his dreams, in his waking, in his drifting off to sleep. Instead he concentrated on the long sweep of carved mahogany railing, the hand-carved newel posts that filled most of Lars's workshop. And he concentrated on his Christmas miracle.

  In the end he was afraid he'd wasted it.

  Alexander Borodin was a millionaire, patron of the arts, industrialist, with an eye for talent. Emerson MacVey had despised him as a sentimental old fool with a weakness for antiquated ways of doing things. Borodin specialized in restoring old mansions with lovingly detailed woodwork—MacVey had preferred chrome and steel.

  But Borodin had connections throughout the world—he would see the rare beauty in Lars's work, and he could easily provide enough commissions to keep the Swensen family happily solvent into the millennium and beyond. Last Emerson had heard, he was in the midst of investing in a chain of small, exclusive hotels throughout the world, renovated from some of the small palaces and manor houses that had fallen on hard times. Lars's gift would prove invaluable.

  But actually getting in touch with Borodin proved to be no easy matter. Alexander Borodin was not the sort of man one simply called—you had to wade through secretaries and assistants and vice presidents and administrators, and each one had very strong reasons not to let you talk to the man.

  One name would have done the trick, opened the lines of communication instantly, but it was a name Gabriel was unable to speak. It was just as well. No one would have believed him anyway.

  Three days of trying to reach him, three days of running up long-distance phone bills that would probably rival the national debt, three days of being on hold, and Gabriel had simply closed his eyes, focused on Augusta's stern face, and silently asked.

  A moment later Alexander Borodin's accented voice came on the line. "I gather you've been trying to reach me, young man. What can I do for you?"

  After that it was simple enough. No more miracles were required—Gabriel discovered he was fluent enough when he cared to be persuasive, and it didn't take much to persuade Borodin to look at some of Lars's work. Lars had an old camera, Angel Falls came equipped with a one-hour developing service and the U.S. postal service had express mail. The deed was as good as done.

  Two down, Gabriel thought, wondering if he should go see Gertrude. He'd been assiduously avoiding her for the past few days, not ready to look at those thick glasses and know the power of a coldhearted eternity lay behind them. He'd have to face her sooner or later. For now, he was content to keep his distance.

  Oddly enough, the one person he missed, aside from Carrie, was Jeffie. After their brief run-in at the market, he'd wanted to call him, to talk to him, but he couldn't find a reasonable excuse. And Jeffie, who apparently used to haunt the Swensens' house, was making himself alarmingly scarce.

  Probably sulking after being caught trying to shoplift, Gabriel thought, but he didn't quite believe it. For some reason Jeffie seemed to take his strictures with an almost pathetic gratitude. There'd been none of the expected sullen defiance at the store, just a look of such guilt and misery that it almost broke Gabriel's heart.

  "Seen Jeffie recently?" he'd managed to ask Nils one day in what he hoped was a suitably offhand voice.

  Nils had shrugged. "I saw him in school the other day. He's doing okay, I guess. I asked him if he wanted to come over, work in the shop, but he said no. Said he didn't have anyone to make presents for."

  "Poor baby," Maggie had murmured. "Lars, you should go see him."

  Lars had set down his paper. "After church on Sunday, Maggie," he agreed. "We'll invite him to dinner, and we won't take no for an answer. It'll give him a chance to talk with Gabe. He seems to think you're some kind of hero," he said with comfortable amusement.

  And Gabriel, knowing he should protest, simply nodded, dismissing his unreasoning sense of foreboding.

  The days passed with no word from Carrie, and Gabriel worked in the shop beside Lars and told himself his work was done. He'd have no reason to see her again, no reason to talk to her, to touch her. He'd saved her life. Surely things were even now.

  And even if Borodin had yet to be in touch, Gabriel had little doubt it would work out. It would take a fool not to see the sheer artistry in Lars's work, and Borodin had never been a fool.

  It wasn't until Sunday that Gabriel began to admit to the uneasiness that had been gnawing away at him. An uneasiness that was reflected in Lars's face. Carrie wasn't in church.

  "Don't tell me she never misses church," he said, unbelieving as they made their way down the icy church steps. Kirsten had her hand clasped firmly in his, something he was getting dangerously used to.

  "Not if she can help it. And certainly not during Advent," Maggie said. "Carrie lives for Christmas. I'm going out to see her once we get home."

  "I'll go," Gabriel said, in a voice that brooked no opposition.

  Maggie looked at him for a long, considering moment, her face troubled. "I don't think…"

  A new voice came from directly behind him. "Let Gabriel go."

  Gabriel froze. He'd managed to avoid Gertrude, telling himself he wasn't ready to deal with her. He should have known it wouldn't be up to him.

  He turned and looked down at her, at the hunched-over, delicate old-lady figure, the bottle-glass lenses shielding those too-sharp eyes, the kindly expression on her face that masked the look of judge and jury.

  "Is she all right?" he demanded sharply.

  "I have no idea, young man," Gertrude said sweetly. "I'm just a bit of a matchmaker at heart."

  "Go ahead," Lars said, clamping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Take the truck, and give us a call when you get there. Maggie will save some Sunday dinner for you."

  He didn't hesitate any longer. The past few days had been bitter cold, with a wind that blew down from Canada and chilled to the bone. The snow on the roads was packed, sanded, and he drove much too fast toward Carrie's decrepit little farmhouse, all the while telling himself he was ridiculous to be worried, telling himself he should have let Maggie go, should have suggested Maggie at least call, should have got on with the business of finding out who his third soul to save was. He was finished with Carrie, damn it! He'd managed to resist temptation, to do no more than kiss her. He'd saved her life—surely they were quits?

  The moment the house came in view all his foreboding tripled. Carrie's car was sitting out front—Steve must have fixed it and brought it back to her, a hell of a lot faster than he was getting around to fixing his truck. But the house looked dark, deserted. And there was no wood smoke coming from the chimney.

>   He knew for a fact that Carrie had no source of backup heat. All she had was that damnable wood stove in her living room, and on a cold December day if there was no smoke coming from the chimney then there was no heat in the house.

  He skidded down the driveway, slammed Lars's truck into Park and jumped out. Her front door was locked, but panic was riding him so hard that he simply kicked it open with his unexpected strength, splintering the wooden frame.

  "Carrie!" he shouted. There was no answer. And the homey little kitchen was icy cold.

  He slammed the door behind him, but it bounced back open again, letting in a blast of arctic air. He grabbed a chair and shoved it against the door, then raced into the living room.

  If he'd had ten years left to live, the sight of her would have taken them off his life. She was lying on the sofa, still and cold, cocooned in a pile of old quilts, with a weak electric heater putting out barely a teaspoonful of heat in the icy room. For a moment he froze, certain she was dead. And then he heard the noisy rasp of her breathing.

  He began to curse under his breath, furiously, obscenely, and in Italian. He didn't even take time to be surprised by that fact, as he rushed across the room and knelt by Carrie's unconscious figure. She was burning up with fever, and she stirred under his hand, murmuring something out of dried lips, something he couldn't hear.

  The wood box was empty, of course, and obviously she'd been too sick to deal with the fire. His fury vanished into some dark cold place inside him as be sprang into action. It took him ten seconds and one terse sentence to get Lars to find a doctor, and then he concentrated on the wood box. By the time cars started arriving he'd managed to get a roaring fire going, bringing the temperature of the house up to a balmy fifty-five degrees. And Carrie hadn't moved.

  He didn't know the man who rushed in with Maggie, but the sight of the black bag did wonders for his barely controlled state of panic. "Doc Browning," Maggie muttered a hurried introduction. "This is Gabriel. Where is she?"