by London, Cait
At four o’clock in the afternoon, the mountain evening crept over the snow, tinting it a soft blue. Made of rock and logs, Gabriel’s home nestled in the pines, the windows looking like square mirrors, gleaming in the shadows. The huge barn was weathered gray, the metal roof showing reddish streaks of rust. In the sweep of a snow-covered field, the mountain’s shadows and the forests, the colors blended soothingly. Gabriel swung down from the horse and again lifted Miranda, carrying her to his front porch. He placed her to her feet as he opened the door and a dark furry shape hurled itself past them, barreling down the wooden steps and into the snow. The gray striped cat stopped and daintily shook its paws, trying to rid itself of the snow. Gabriel’s grunt was of pure disgust and he hurried after the cat as it leaped across the crusted snow. The man’s weight, breaking through the snow made his progress slower, but soon Gabriel was scooping up the cat and tucking it against him. She hissed and clawed at him, not a fierce objection, but enough to let him know she wasn’t happy.
Miranda hid her smile in her collar, as clearly nettled, Gabriel tromped up the porch’s steps. He shoved open the door and lightly tossed the cat into the house. “She’s mad at me for leaving her. Meet Jessica.”
Jessica was too busy for pleasantries, tearing across the wood and cushion furniture and hiding in a stalking position. Gabriel scowled as the cat tore across the room again. “She’ll get over it. I’ll up her sardine ration for a few days.”
He closed the door and began stoking the banked coals in the big, freestanding heating stove. Miranda noted his tense, dark expression, one he used when closing himself in, and she wondered why he needed to protect himself, what emotions could be troubling him. The house was spacious and filled with the scent of sage. Braids of sweet grass and camas bulbs hung from pegs, a basket of small bundles of sage for burning and purification sat on a high ledge. At his grandmother, White Fawn’s home, Miranda had seen the elk horn, used by women to dig camas bulbs.
It seemed like another century since Juanita had brought Miranda to White Fawn’s death bed, and the old woman’s shaking, work-gnarled hands had framed her face. Anna had spent many hours with White Fawn, sipping tea in the makeshift outdoor kitchen; as children, the Bennetts had sat upon White Fawn’s lap and enjoyed her stories. Approaching death, the woman’s face was dark and lined, but her eyes still bright as she studied Miranda. “A good face. Strong. Smart. She will become a woman who will fight for what is in her heart. She is a warrior with the need to test herself, too.”
Jessica sauntered across the thick braided rug covering the wooden floors to her master; she rubbed up against him sensuously. As if claiming her exclusive territory, her yellow eyes found and locked on the feminine intruder. She rolled over on her stomach, and without pausing in his fire-building, Gabriel reached to scratch her belly. He glanced at Miranda. “Keep your coat on. The house will be warm soon.”
The kitchen was at one end of the living room, separated by a sturdy wooden table and two chairs. Gabriel disappeared into a small side room off the kitchen and a motor began to purr. He lifted the tap of a plastic water container and filled a teakettle, placing it on the kitchen’s gas stove. He began turning on lights, exposing the simplicity of his home. The wide wooden flooring planks had been varnished, a braided round rug placed in the living room. The couch was wood frame with dark brown woven cushions, matching those of a big wooden oak lawn chair. One of Gwyneth’s pottery mugs sat on the wide wooden arms, and a low flat table clearly served as a footrest. A table stacked with magazines completed the chair’s comfort.
Bending to the floor, Gabriel picked up a pottery lamp—one of Gwyneth’s—as if he were used to Jessica’s antics. He ran his hands over it, checking for damage before straightening the shade. “Break this and you’re out of sardines for a century,” he noted darkly to the cat and moved to open the two bedroom doors. Jessica ran after him, tail held high, twining around his legs as if the sardine threat had hit home. “Won’t work,” he said to her, then looked at Miranda. “Open doors let the heat into the bedrooms. The stove provides the only good heat, but I keep a small heater in the bathroom to keep the fixtures from freezing. Oh, yes, no outhouse for me. I’m spoiled. You’ll have to sleep with the door open or freeze.” He nodded toward one bedroom. “The guest room. Look around. I’ll see to the horses.”
Miranda stood very still, feeling as if she were caught between the past and the future. She didn’t feel a part of either world. The white chinked lines between the logs ran around her, yet she was somewhere else, not herself. The rough wooden beams overhead supported the ceiling, everything had a purpose and place in Gabriel’s home. Once she’d known her purpose, known that she’d had to succeed and now she wasn’t certain of anything—except she couldn’t go backward.
Bookshelves lined one wall, brimming with books and magazines. A line of small, unmatched picture frames ran across one shelf and Miranda moved closer. There was the Bachelor Club, boys now grown into men. Her mother and Gabriel stood close, arms around each other. The picture had been taken within the past few years, her mother’s expression one of peace and warmth. Gabriel’s mother and father posed with their son and daughter. Juanita was petite with curling bright red hair and a pale face that had to be protected from the sun with a straw hat. Her husband, Carl, towered over her, angular and lean, long jeaned legs braced upon the land he loved. He stood hipshot, the same knife-edge cheekbones as Gabriel, that fiercely proud look of a father with his family around him. Gabriel wore a boyish grin and Clarissa, his much younger sister, rode her father’s hip. Always serious, Clarissa stared at the camera from behind her large glasses with the same flat expression Gabriel used to shield his emotions.
Resting across deer horns was a capture rifle used to tranquilize animals. The small, high shelf beside it contained a well-worn book of dosages and several vials, marked with chemical names, laid in a box. Tanner had told Miranda that Gabriel tracked potentially dangerous animals, or predators who had taken stock from the ranchers, helping the wildlife officials transport or terminate them. The knife in the fringed leather sheath was big and terrifying, and no doubt Gabriel was good with it. It was at odds with the colorful bottles of beads and leather crafting goods in a large shallow basket.
That array contrasted her life, filled with laptops, mainframes, conferences, company tension and corporate intrigue. In comparison to her life, long hours of overtime, stress and company deadlines, Gabriel’s solitary existence seemed so free and clean.
Miranda wandered to a bulletin board, cluttered with scenic and animal photographs. The close-ups focused on milkweed pods, the silk and seeds caught in the wind. She felt like that, tossed by the wind, letting everyone else make decisions for her. The empty pods reminded her of—
She forced her thoughts away from that too-open wound and looked at the other pictures, carelessly tacked to the board—cattails slightly bent in the wind, grass rippling like an ocean wave, a chickadee perched near blue juniper berries, mule deer in flight, soaring over a fallen log, butterflies on dandelions. Brilliant blue flowers dotted a high camas field where Gabriel’s female ancestors had dug for the bulbs years before white settlers. A wide shot caught a herd of white-and-black spotted Appaloosa moving through the mottled shade of a trembling aspen clump. The white bark of the trees blended with the horses as they flowed across the picture. Another photo was that of contrast, of sunlight passing through trees, slanting onto a lush green meadow. The same pictures were on sheets torn from magazines, copies of paychecks carelessly tacked beside them. Gabriel’s pictures seemed to focus on life in motion, until she noted the picture of a man, crumpled in death. Shots of footprints in the mud, the victim’s wounds and body position were exact.
Gabriel’s footsteps sounded outside, followed by the customary thump-thump of boots stomped to dislodge snow. He shouldered into the door, carrying her hope chest and found her in the shadows. “Where do you want this?”
She shrugged, wondering how sh
e would know where to put the chest, when she didn’t know her own life. He placed it beside the couch and nodded. “I needed an end table there.”
“You’re a photographer?”
He glanced at the pictures, eyes narrowing critically. “I try. Basically I take the shots and send the film to a friend who takes care of the cropping and sales—it works out for both of us. He visits when the weather is good. I do some forensic shots when needed.”
“I see. So you guide, photograph, ranch a bit and occasionally put up needy guests.”
“I buy feeder calves and sell them in the fall. It’s a living.”
Miranda inhaled slowly. She’d been so driven, punching computer keys for hours, steadily building her career. In comparison, her life seemed cold and as inflexible as steel, while the texture of Gabriel’s consisted of color and warmth and fulfillment.
A moment later, Miranda followed Gabriel into the guest room. He placed her suitcase on the bed, not a match to the huge dresser. Gabriel drew back the covers of the bed and placed Miranda’s patchwork quilt at the foot end. “Open your bed in the evening, letting some of the warmth into it. The flannel sheets are warmer, but if you like, there are cotton ones.”
“Everyone is worried about me. They’re making decisions for me,” Miranda said, her tone hollow and echoing in the still room. She inhaled the sweet-grass scent, braids of it resting in the basket that was White Fawn’s design. “What I need, what I want, how to care for myself.”
“For now. You’re a strong woman. You’ll get better. Would you like a cup of tea while I fix supper?”
She turned to him, wondering how he could know so much. Images flipped through her again—Scott’s disbelieving, then angry expression, teenage Gabriel handing her the wildflower bouquet, White Fawn’s bright, penetrating stare, her mother’s funeral, the empty house, her empty body, the tiny body of her baby…. “Why am I here?”
His hand was warm upon her cheek, his thumb cruising along it gently. “To rest. To heal. It’s no more than what other people have done and no less. I can take you back anytime you want.”
“I didn’t love Scott,” she said quietly as he drew off her coat. “I settled for less. I simply made up my mind to go with my damned biological ticking clock. That’s how I do everything—just make up my mind and do it. I was really wrong that time.”
“You’ll work it out. You’re a woman, not a machine. You simply followed your heart,” Gabriel whispered unevenly and for just a moment, his hands tightened on her upper arms, warm and strong through her sweater.
The eerie howl at the front door preceded Gabriel’s dark tone. “That’s Fletcher. He followed us up the road and he’s been waiting until you leave. Clarissa is the only woman to come up here alone.”
When Gabriel opened the door, a huge dog—a blend of German shepherd and wolf—entered warily. He padded to the heating stove and plopped down, yellow eyes gleaming. “Fletcher, meet Miranda. She’s going to stay with us for a while.”
Jessica, who had been napping, curled on the couch, hopped down. She arched and yawned and padded to Fletcher, snuggling up beside him. “Are you frightened of him?” Gabriel asked as Miranda studied the sight.
She shook her head, suddenly feeling too tired to move. “No. They adore you, don’t they?”
Gabriel snorted. “I feed them. We understand each other.” Then he looked down at her tears, skimming one away on his fingertip. “You’re just tired, Miranda. You’ll be fine.”
Would she ever be “fine”? Right now, she felt as if pieces of her were scattered on the varnished floorboards and none of them fit. “Sure I will,” she said, and prayed that somehow all of this pain would make sense.
Four
Healing can be painful, but it is a passage that must be made if one is to be whole.
Anna Bennett’s Journal
Did Miranda think of her lover? Did she still want him, the man who would not marry her? Gabriel wondered darkly. He didn’t trust the temper brewing within him, the stormy emotions. At midnight, Miranda slept restlessly in the next room. Lying dressed only in his jeans, his arms behind his head, Gabriel studied the firelight dancing on the rough wood beams of his room. He’d pushed her too hard, and now guilt and an unfamiliar jealousy rode him. When he’d held her on the ride back, she’d seemed so fragile and light, almost as if the wind would blow her away. Her spirit was wounded now, her face haunted, the fine bones showing too clearly beneath her too-pale skin. She looked like a ghost of the Miranda who had danced with him at Kylie’s wedding. He wanted to go to her, to hold her close and safe. He listened for each sound, his body tense.
Her scent filled his senses, her bathroom toiletries dainty beside his few necessary ones. Tonight, taking a shower after hers, the feminine scents had startled him, curling around him. Those damp footprints on the bathroom rug were narrow and small when he placed his naked foot beside them. He’d stood in the small enclosure, breathing unsteadily, unprepared for the sensual need ripping through him. At first he thought the impact was a ghost of his teenage need, but the force was too great and too deep, hardening him.
Now he wasn’t prepared for the sight of Miranda, dressed in flannel pajamas and a worn, long flannel robe appearing at his doorway. “I’m awake,” he said, thinking how small and vulnerable she looked with the back light washing over her, wedging between her bare feet. He could hold one in the length of his open hand, his fingers could easily overlap her wrists.
Her arms came protectively around her body, the firelight glowing around her black hair. “I’ve got to get out of this depression, Gabriel. I have to.”
“I know. You will.”
“You’re so certain of everything. How can you know?”
“I know you.”
There was a moment’s too-still silence and then Miranda erupted. Her temper licked suddenly, furiously at him. “Damn you. You always know everything, don’t you? You always know exactly what is right. How wonderful that must be.”
He was pleased at that, because Miranda was a strong woman who was beginning to feel, to free her blocked emotions. Her robe fluttered behind her as she pivoted and stalked to her room, slamming the door behind her.
“You’ll freeze if you leave that door shut,” he called after her, not understanding her tumultuous mood, but appreciating the fire in it.
When the door didn’t open, Gabriel shook his head. Miranda had always been an independent child and now she was a stubborn woman. He rose to his feet, padding to the closed room. He knocked on the door. “Miranda?”
“It’s cold in here,” she returned sharply.
He smiled at that; independent and stubborn behavior had its place, but not in a house with one heating stove. The small bathroom heater, used to keep the insulated pipes from freezing, wouldn’t help the guest room. “Told you.”
The bed creaked and then Miranda jerked open the door, glaring up at him. The fragrance of her hair and skin curled around him, unsettling in his masculine house, as she asked, “Why didn’t you ever marry?”
He’d been relaxing a bit, the flash of fire telling him that Miranda was fighting to reclaim herself. Her fierce scowl tore through his safety; he wasn’t prepared for that attack. He couldn’t tell her that she was still the woman of his heart, that she would always be. “You should marry and have children, Gabriel,” Miranda said firmly. “You’re a man meant to have a family, to care for them.”
He frowned down at her, not shielding his irritation. Who was she to tell him what he should do with women—when she was the only woman he’d ever wanted.
“Most women don’t like it here. They say they do to please their boyfriends and husbands. No shops, no girlfriend chitchat. Too much quiet. Too many animals and itchy, yucky grass.” He tossed her a challenge, to test the midnight fire and truth between them. “You’ll want to leave, too.”
Her finger jabbed his chest. “You don’t think I can last, do you?”
“Not really,” he lied, pushing her
, enjoying life stirring into her.
With a toss of her head, Miranda padded back to bed. She climbed in and sat studying him, her head held in her hands. Jessica leaped up into her lap. Fletcher whined at the side of the bed until she reached to pet him. Clearly Fletcher had lost his wariness of women.
Gabriel leaned against the door frame, studying the sight of Miranda in bed, petting his cat and dog.
Miranda scooted down the bed and patted an empty place for Fletcher. The huge dog, weighing more than Miranda, accepted the invitation easily, plopping down and settling his muzzle over her legs. There was one thing missing in Miranda’s bed—himself, Gabriel decided uneasily. “Gabriel? Thank you for bringing me here.”
He nodded and turned away, his heart aching to hold her.
A week went by quickly and January became February, one month had lapsed since she’d lost her baby. Drained by the past months, Miranda settled into Gabriel’s home. With Fletcher and Jessica in her bed, warming her, the comfort of life nearby, she slept heavily. When she awoke, Gabriel was always there, his house warm and usually scented of food. Gabriel spoke little, but his presence was comforting. The steady rhythm of the day—his voice in the morning, talking with his animals, the meals they shared—began to soothe and relax her. He was usually gone in the late mornings until the shadows began to crawl over the meadow, but she could see him work with his three horses, feeding them, walking with them. At night, with his animals warm against her, she heard him prowling in the house. More than once, he’d come to her open doorway, a big man, his broad shoulders gleaming in the lamplight.
That old tightness rose, surprising her in a demand. She wanted him to hold her, to wrap her arms around that strong body and see if his kiss—edgy with hunger and sweet with tenderness—tasted the same. She’d fought the need to touch that hard jaw, to skim her fingers over those sleek black brows and ease the creases at the sides of his mouth. Gabriel was only trying to help, and she couldn’t focus on the past, or transfer her body’s needs so soon to another man. Miranda tried to push away the startling sensuality. She hadn’t considered herself to be a sensual woman, but Gabriel was definitely filling her senses. Too masculine to be denied, his presence created unpredictable needs in her healing body.