by Anne Stuart
"In the living room. I think it's pneumonia."
Doc Browning, an elderly little urchin of a man with long, tufted eyebrows, looked at him in surprise. "Even without seeing her, I imagine you're probably right," he said. "I warned her." He started into the living room, muttering under his breath. "She needs fluids. Make her some tea."
"The pipes are frozen," Gabriel said dourly. "I'll see what I can do."
There was frozen water in the kettle on the gas stove. He turned on all the burners, hoping to add even a trace of warmth to the frigid house, and then went back to the living room.
He stopped in the doorway. Doc Browning was sitting on the sofa beside Carrie, listening to her breathe. He'd unfastened the shirt she wore, and Gabriel could see her pale skin, the soft curve of her breasts, and he knew he was going to hell for sure, to be lusting after a woman who might very well be dying.
And hell couldn't be that much worse than being around Carrie Alexander and not touching her.
"It's pneumonia, all right," Doc Browning said, pulling her shirt closed again. "She's burning with fever, she's dehydrated, she's too damned thin, and if I had any sense I'd take her to the hospital."
"You can't, Doc," Maggie said. "She doesn't have insurance."
"If she needs the hospital…" Gabriel began.
"We can give it a day," Doc said wearily. "I know Carrie—she hates like hell to be beholden to anyone. She wouldn't take charity, and hospitals don't like to give it. If someone can stay with her, make sure she gets her medicine, fluids, keeps warm, then I can wait a day. These things usually respond to antibiotics quickly."
"I'll stay," Maggie said. "We took care of her last time."
"No," Gabriel said in a calm, sure voice. "I'll stay."
"But she needs a woman to look after her…"
"I don't think she cares much about modesty at this point, Maggie," Doc Browning said. "And Gabriel here is a lot stronger than you are. Besides, someone's got to do something about the water situation. And you're still nursing, and no way am I having that baby come into a sick house."
Maggie was defeated, and she knew it. She took it with good grace. "We'll bring dinner out," she said to Gabriel. "And Lars can come help with the frozen pipes."
Gabriel nodded, staring at Carrie's still figure. Her cheeks were bright red with fever, the rest of her was almost marble white, and it took all his effort to keep his rage and fear under control. She couldn't die, damn it! He refused to let her. And not for any fear for his own eternity. He'd accepted the fact that he deserved hell and would probably end up there.
But Carrie was a different matter. She wouldn't even have to pause at the Waystation. She'd be on an express train straight to heaven, and he'd never see her again.
So he damned well wasn't going to let her go too soon.
Doc Browning was rummaging around in his leather bag. "I'm going to start her with a double dose of penicillin, but after that it's going to be up to you to see that she gets it down. Every six hours, regular as clockwork, and pump those fluids into her. Herb teas, fruit juice, ginger ale. Nothing with caffeine—it'll dry her out even more. You think you're up to it?" He fixed Gabriel with a fierce stare.
"I'm up to it."
Browning nodded, satisfied. "What the hell is this town going to do when I'm out of here?" he demanded of no one in particular.
"You're leaving?" Gabriel asked.
"The whole town's dying. Can't afford to be a doctor for a hundred people—I've got to go where I'm needed. In another month Carrie wouldn't have any choice—you'd have had to drive her to the emergency room." He rose, staring down at her.
"We're just glad you're still here, Doc," Maggie said.
"Hell and damnation!" the old man exploded. "I warned her. She's going to kill herself if she keeps on this way. Never taking care of herself, not eating decent meals, not getting enough sleep. She's run-down, too damned skinny, and this house is as drafty as a gazebo. It's no wonder she's sick."
"I'll take care of the house," Gabriel said. "And I'll take care of her."
Doc just looked at him. And then he smiled, a faint, wintry smile. "I believe you will. Come along, Maggie. We're leaving her in good hands."
Gabriel wasn't so sure. By the time the water in the kettle had melted and begun to boil he'd loaded the wood box with enough firewood to keep the stove going for a couple of days. The temperature had risen to a comfortable level, and he took the electric heater into the bathroom and aimed it at the pipes, giving them a head start, before he made a pot of apple cinnamon tea.
Carrie was burning up when he brought her a cup, laced with honey. She'd kicked off her covers, and she was muttering something underneath her breath, something he couldn't begin to make out. He knelt beside her on the floor, put his arm under her shoulders to raise her, and put the mug to her cracked lips.
She took an instinctive, automatic sip, and he was careful not to let her choke. She drank half the cup slowly and then her eyes fluttered open, fever bright, to stare at him in shocked disbelief.
She tried to say something, but she had no voice beyond a whisper. And then she closed her eyes again, and he set her back on the couch, covering her frail body up once more with the quilt.
If she was going to recuperate here and not in the hospital, they'd need water. He rose, staring down at her, loath to even leave the room. She looked marginally better now, though it was probably only wishful thinking on his part. She wasn't going to die. She was going to sleep, long, healing sleep, while he got the house in working order again. And then he was going to come back into the living room and sit there and watch her. Just watch her. Indulge himself in the sheer, hopeless pleasure of it. Knowing that he only had a couple of weeks left.
The dreams were extraordinary. Fever bright, a whirl of colors, dancing around in her head. Once she gave in to them the fear left her, and she drifted like a leaf on the wind through the magic, willingly, the heat and the cold wrapping her in a tight cocoon of forgetfulness.
And then they came, pulling at her, poking at her, forcing things down her throat, and she wanted to tell them all to go away. Until she opened her eyes and saw him through the crystalline haze. And for the first time in years everything felt right again.
She wanted to tell him. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she was too weak. She couldn't even keep her eyes open, to stare at him in wonder. She felt herself sink back, and she fought it for a moment, terrified he'd leave her once more.
But he wouldn't. She knew that with a certainty. He'd be there, watching over her, taking care of her, for as long as she needed. She didn't have to fight anymore. She was no longer alone.
She could hear him moving around in the kitchen, banging on the pipes. She could feel him all around her. Even behind her closed eyelids she could watch him as he put more wood on the stove, sending blankets of heat through the house. She was cold, chilled, but he seemed to sense that, for he tucked the quilt around her, and brushed the hair away from her face, and she wanted to look at him again, she wanted to tell him she knew him, she wanted to cry.
But there were no tears, no words. She simply slept, secure in the knowledge that he'd come to her when she most needed it. And she never had to be lonely again.
When she woke it was dark. The room was warm, and there was a light on in the kitchen, spreading a pool of illumination into the shadowy living room. There was no sound but the quiet crackle of the wood fire, and she wondered whether she was alone. He'd fed her a second dose of medicine and more tea, and she knew she had to go to the bathroom, but she wasn't sure if she'd manage to crawl. The pipes were frozen, she remembered that. She'd tried to thaw them, but she hadn't the strength—she'd just lain on the couch and coughed.
No, she wasn't alone. She could feel him in the house, nearby. If she turned her head she'd seen him watching over her. Like a guardian angel, protecting her while she fought the monster that squatted on her chest, heavy and smothering. Her mouth moved in a faint sm
ile at the notion, and she heard him move, coming to her side, and she knew he was watching her out of those beautiful dark brown eyes.
She opened her own and smiled up at him, dreaming, fevered, peaceful. "I thought you were dead, Emerson," she whispered. And then she slept again.
Gabriel didn't move. He was kneeling beside her, one of her hot, dry hands in his large ones, and he was the one who felt chilled.
There had been calm lucidity in her eyes. Despite the fever raging in her frail body, she'd looked into his eyes and seen him, known him, and the thought shattered him in ways he couldn't bear to contemplate. Most of all because he found he didn't want to be Emerson MacVey, ever again.
Why the hell had she loved him? The man he once was had been a shallow, manipulative bastard, capable of destroying a town on a whim, capable of bedding and discarding a vulnerable young woman without even having the guts to do it face-to-face. Emerson MacVey hadn't been mourned when he'd come to his untimely end, and Gabriel Falconi knew why. He'd been merciless, and he deserved no mercy shown toward him.
But Carrie had loved him. Carrie, who seemed to have enough love for all the lost, needy creatures of this earth, Carrie who had enough love for everyone but herself. Carrie had loved him. And that knowledge was his one saving grace.
He sat back on his heels, staring at her in the shadowy darkness. He'd managed to get the water going—the pipes had burst under the kitchen sink but he could wash the dishes in the bathtub until he replaced them. Lars and Maggie had brought dinner out as promised, staying long enough to worry over Carrie. And now they were alone, he with his guilt and his misplaced desire, she with her fever dreams.
She was shivering, and he knew what that meant. Her fever was spiking again, climbing to dangerous levels, despite all the aspirin he'd poured down her throat. The antibiotic wouldn't start kicking in for at least another few hours, and all he could do was sit there and watch her burn up with fever.
The shivering became shaking. Her skin was scorching, and her eyes opened again, glazed, unseeing, and she began to mutter lost, hopeless words that tore him apart.
He rose, and she clawed at him. "Don't," she whispered in a raw thread of a voice. "Don't leave again." And he didn't know whether she was talking to Gabriel. Or Emerson.
It didn't matter. "I'll be right back," he murmured, stroking her forehead.
It took forever to fill the bathtub with cool water. When he couldn't wait anymore he went back to get her. She was thrashing around, the covers kicked to the floor, and her flannel nightgown was tangled around her long dancer's legs.
He carried her into the bathroom, settling her into the tub, nightgown and all. She jerked in his arms from the shock of the cool water, making a quiet moan of distress, and he felt unexpected tears burn his eyes. He wanted her better. He wanted her to turn suddenly clear, lucid eyes on him and demand to know why she was sitting in a bathtub full of cold water with her nightgown on. He wanted a miracle.
"Augusta, damn it," he muttered. "Or God. I don't care who. Just fix her. Somebody. Make her better. Now."
But this time there was no instant miracle. Carrie's eyes were tightly shut, and she was crying, shaking from cold and fever, and suddenly Gabriel couldn't stand it any longer. He scooped her up, stripped the sopping nightgown from her, wrapped a thick towel around her and carried her back into the living room. He dumped her onto the sofa and threw the quilts over her, staring down at her as she fell back asleep. And then he grabbed his coat and headed out the door.
He'd send Maggie back, he told himself as the chill night air bit into lungs. Or Lars could drive her to the hospital, and Gabriel could use that amazing gold credit card that would never come due. He had to get away from her—he couldn't help her, couldn't save her, and couldn't live with the guilt of watching her as she struggled to breathe.
He yanked at the door to the truck, climbing inside. He had to get away, run away, like the damned coward he was, and had always been. If he'd wondered whether he was Emerson or Gabriel there was no longer any question. Carrie had looked at him through fever-bright eyes and known him. Emerson was the snake who'd abandon a desperately ill woman in the middle of the night. Emerson was the ultimate coward who'd run away from all responsibilities, all caring, all emotion.
He reached for the key, and then his hand dropped, and he put his head on the steering wheel, feeling the shame and guilt wash over him. "Please," he said out loud, not knowing whom he was asking, or even what. "Please," he said again, his voice hoarse and breaking.
This time there was an answer. This was his second miracle, wasted on his own worthless self. Not a miracle for Carrie, to make her instantly better. But the strength for him, to deal with it.
Prayers are always answered, the minister had said, just this morning, and yet it seemed like centuries ago that he'd sat in the little Lutheran church, so consumed with worry about Carrie that he thought he hadn't even been listening. Prayers are answered, but you just might not get the answer you want.
And sometimes you get what you need, Gabriel thought, closing the door silently behind him and staring around Carrie's kitchen. Dumping his jacket onto one of the chairs, he moved silently back into the living room. Carrie lay on the sofa, unmoving, her cheeks still flushed with fever.
And Gabriel sank down on the floor beside the sofa, prepared for a night-long vigil.
Chapter Twelve
« ^ »
Carrie was warm. Cozily, comfortably warm, not burning hot. The pain in her chest had lessened, and as she snuggled down further into the soft mattress she knew an unexpected sense of lightness. She opened her eyes warily, seeing the early-morning light filling her bedroom, and then she turned her head.
Gabriel was asleep beside her. In the dawn she could see the lines of exhaustion on his beautiful face, the scruffy growth of beard. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, nothing more, and he lay sprawled out on her double bed, filling it.
She couldn't resist. She lifted her hand, noticing that it was trembling, and touched his mouth with her fingertips.
He murmured something, but he didn't wake up, and Carrie almost leaned forward and touched him with her lips, as well. In time sanity reared its ugly head, and she pulled back, sliding out of the bed silently as Gabriel slept on.
She could barely stand, her legs felt so weak. She glanced down at her body, noting that she was wearing an old T-shirt and nothing else. She hadn't put that T-shirt on her body.
She had hazy memories, of Gabriel putting her in the bathtub, of holding her in his arms as he rocked by the wood stove, of tea and soup and medicine being forced down her throat. At one point Doc Browning had been there, she was sure she'd heard his voice, and the Swensens had come, as well.
But through it all Gabriel had remained, watching over her, taking care of her, a presence, along with her fever dreams. Her fever dreams of Emerson MacVey.
It made no sense that the two of them should be so mixed up in her head. There were never two more dissimilar men. But maybe it all boiled down to one constant. In both cases, she'd made the dire mistake of being stupidly, irrationally attracted to the wrong man.
She had to hold on to the wall as she made her way down the hallway to the bathroom. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and shuddered. She looked like death warmed over. Her face was pinched and pale, her eyes huge in her face, her hair a rat's nest. She needed to use the toilet, she needed to brush her teeth, and she needed to wash her hair.
Her strength held out until halfway through her shower, and then she sagged against the metal side of the stall, too weary to move, trying to summon up enough energy to even turn off the water. She barely heard the door open, and then Gabriel was there, filling the room.
"You're crazy," he said. And then he calmly stepped into the shower with her, turned off the spray and scooped her trembling, wet body up into his arms.
Wrapping her in a towel, he carried her back into the bedroom, setting her down gently on the bed. She was ab
le to gather enough strength to bat his hands away when he began to dry her off with efficient, impersonal care. She didn't want him to be impersonal.
"I can do it," she said crossly.
He smiled. He was wet from the shower, water stains across the dark T-shirt he wore, and his face was weary beneath his good humor. He looked as if he'd been to hell and back. "I wasn't sure that antibiotic was ever going to work."
The towel was huge, enveloping, and he was hardly likely to be tempted by her skinny, unfeminine body, but she wrapped it tightly around her anyway. "How long have I been sick?"
"Years. Centuries," he said. "Actually, I don't know. I found you on Sunday, and today's… God, I think it's Tuesday, but I could be wrong."
"Have you been here all this time? Taking care of me?"
"Yes." He put his hand on her forehead and frowned slightly. "I think your fever's about gone, but maybe I'd better check. Taking a shower was a damned stupid thing to do when you can barely walk. Why did you?"
She was too exhausted to think about what she was saying. "Because I looked horrible," she blurted out.
He stared at her for a brief, astonished moment. And then he threw back his head and laughed.
Carrie scrambled beneath the covers, mortally offended. "It's not funny," she said sulkily.
He leaned forward, kneeling on the bed beside her, his hands cupping her face, his long fingers sliding through her wet hair. "No," he agreed, "it's wonderful. I thought you were too busy being the saint of Angel Falls to waste a precious moment on yourself."
"I'm not a saint."
"No," he said. "And you look wonderful." And he leaned forward and kissed her.
It was a revelation of a kiss. Tender, without being the slightest bit platonic, his mouth touched hers, clinging, warm and damp, and she felt the heat building in her. Something had changed while she'd been sick, something had shifted inside her, and she wanted this man. Wanted him enough to risk taking him.