Catch a Fallen Angel

by Maureen Child

  Catch a Fallen Angel

  by Maureen Child, written as Kathleen Kane

  CHAPTER One

  SOMEWHERE NEAR RENO, NEVADA—OCTOBER 1880

  Gabe Donovan felt the noose tightening around his neck and he swallowed hard in reflex.

  "String 'im up!" An upright, respectable townsman had a wild look in his eyes that offered no comfort to the subject of his brief speech.

  "Hell, a bullet's cheaper'n a rope!" another voice called out from somewhere in the back of the small group of outraged citizens.

  Gabe didn’t know whether to be admiring of the man's thriftiness or insulted to think he wasn't worth the cost of a mangy rope.

  But when it came right down to it, he supposed it didn't matter. Hell, he'd always expected to end up this way…surrounded by God-fearing Christians with a thirst for quick justice. He just hadn't expected the day to arrive so quickly.

  He was only thirty-two. There were plenty of poker hands to be dealt and miles of country still to be seen. Yet here he was, about to breathe his last, at the hands of a bunch of yokels. A cold autumn wind shot down from the mountains and shook loose a handful of coppery-colored leaves from the ancient cottonwood they were gathered beneath. And it suddenly hit him how much he'd like to see another winter.

  Hell. Another day.

  Someone slugged him upside the head and Gabe staggered before falling to his knees. Since his hands were tied behind his back, he guessed he was lucky he hadn't landed on his face.

  A sharp-edged rock lying hidden in the tall, dry grasses stabbed at his right eye and had Gabe telling himself there was no reason to go adding insult to injury. If they were going to kill him, then by God, be done with it.

  But wasn't that just the way with townsmen? Always yammering on about one thing or another when they should be doing something. The ropes around Gabe's wrists chafed at his skin and the urge to jump on his horse and beat a hasty retreat chafed at his soul. But there was no chance of that. This little posse had him good and cornered. The fact that for the first time in his life, he was innocent of the crime charged, held small consolation, considering his predicament.

  "A rope is what's fittin',” the first man bellowed, grabbing Gabe's attention. "And we're here to do what's fittin’.”

  Of course. Wouldn't want to go home with tales of a simple shooting when your audience was expecting ghoulish stories about a man slowly strangling to death. Gabe just managed to suppress a shudder at the mental image of himself swaying at the end of a too-short rope.

  Damn, but hanging was no way for any man—let alone him—to end his days.

  "Toss that hemp across the branch yonder," the first man shouted to someone Gabe didn't bother to glance at. "Then we'll pull him up and tie it off around the trunk."

  He groaned quietly. A hanging it was, then, Gabe thought. And not a nice, quick, neat one, either, where he was dropped from the saddle of a spooked horse. There'd be no chance of a broken neck hurrying his death. Nope, he'd be pulled up by hand and left to linger and gasp frantically—futilely—for air.

  Biting back the sharp, acrid taste of fear, he struggled awkwardly to his feet. If he was going to hang, then he'd by damn meet it standing up. He wouldn't give these righteous citizens the satisfaction of dragging him off his knees.

  He shook a hank of dark brown hair out of his eyes as one of the men slipped the noose around his neck. The rough, prickly feel of the rope against his skin sent a surge of panic through him that Gabe had to battle down. Every nerve in his body was alert. Every muscle screamed at him to run. All he needed was a second or two to climb into the saddle and that horse of his could outpace any other. He'd always insisted on a fast mount.

  In his business, it paid to take care of your horse.

  But there was nowhere to go now and he knew it.

  Shifting his gaze from one face to the next, he looked in turn at each of his executioners. Not a remarkable one in the bunch. Every last one of them had the unmistakable look of a "mark." Easy targets for a bottom deal or a fast-talking con, they were the stuff that made men like him. After all, professional thieves, card sharps, and cons needed victims. He'd made his living for years by being able to read just such faces as these. What he read in the eyes glaring at him now, though, was enough to give him another chill.

  And he was somehow sure that hanging a man on a Friday wouldn't keep any of them out of church come Sunday. In fact, they'd probably congratulate each other all the way home for sending a sinner on toward judgment.

  Well, that was fine for them, but Gabe didn't fancy himself their kind of hypocrite. He didn't figure on standing before some gray-bearded Saint Peter trying to con his way through the Pearly Gates. Actually, he was pretty confident that Heaven didn’t exist. But he knew for damn sure that Hell did. Living his too short life as a gambler, Gabe had seen way more evidence of the Devil than he had of some benevolent God.

  And once his actual dying was finished, he had no doubt at all that he'd be running into old friends and enemies dealing games in the flames of Hell.

  "It's only proper,” the leader was saying, "that we give the condemned a chance to speak his piece." As the other men quieted and turned to look at Gabe, the man asked, "So? You got somethin' to say before we get on with this?”

  Hell, Gabe thought, he had plenty to say, but none of it to these men. He wanted to whisper pretty words in the ears of a willing woman again. He wanted to sing along to a well-played piano. He wanted to utter the magic words "full house, aces high" one more time, as he dragged a pile of chips toward him. Yep. There was lots he had to say, now that he'd run out of time.

  But what he settled for was, "Mister, get on with it. If I've got some dying to do, I don't fancy standing around here talking about it with you."

  The big, balding man half sneered at him. "I reckon you won’t be talkin’ so high-and-mighty once that rope tightens up some."

  Another chill rippled through him, but Gabe wouldn't let them know it. "I'm hoping I won't be able to hear, either."

  Someone laughed and the big man puffed up like an overfed rooster. "You talk smart-mouthed enough, but it's clear you ain't as smart as you think, else you wouldn't have got caught, huh?"

  Caught? Hell, he'd been escaping posses for years.

  Would have this one too, if he'd been expecting it. Not hard at all to catch a man when he doesn't know he should be running. He would have said so too, except that he took a step toward the big man and his words were choked off by the tightening of the noose around his neck.

  In the sudden silence that followed, the townsman said flatly, "You come into town, lookin' for the man what took our money in the first place…"

  Henry.

  A cold, hard knot of anger wormed its way past the panic swirling in his stomach. This was all Henry Whittaker's fault. The old fool had run a con and hadn't bothered to let Gabe in on it. Then when Gabe had shown up to meet Henry, the whole damned town had jumped on him, demanding to know where their money—or the contract they'd tried to buy with the railroad—was.

  Of course, Henry'd taken the money. He had no connections with the railroad. But over the years, he'd sold countless phony contracts to towns eager to grow by becoming railheads. Then Henry would disappear with the cash and the town would settle down with the shame of knowing they’d been hoodwinked. Naturally, when Gabe had shown up, asking about Henry, the townsfolk had assumed that he was Henry's partner.

  Now, Gabe would be wearing the rope meant for Henry.

  "Since we can't hang him, we'll settle for his partner,” the man was saying.

  By damn, when Henry finally did earn his way into Hell, Gabe was going to have plenty to say to the old liar.

  "All right," the big ma
n snapped suddenly. “Enough talkin'. Let's get this done. Esther's got pot roast cookin' and I don't want to be late for supper."

  Gabe’s stomach growled and he cursed silently. Not only was he dying, he was dying hungry.

  "I don't know…" a lone, dissenting voice whined from off to one side and Gabe felt a flicker of hope before it was doused by the man in charge.

  "You hush up, George, and do what you're told.”

  A couple of the others nodded, and when the big man gave a nod, Gabe braced himself for what was to come.

  "All right, boys, pull 'im up."

  They did and as the rope tightened, tearing into his flesh with tiny, aggressive bites, Gabe went up on his toes, even knowing it was hopeless. He moved with the rope, and wished he could grab at it. But his hands were still tied and all he could do was whisper goodbye to the ground as the rope steadily pulled him off his feet.

  A roaring in his ears muffled the sounds made by his executioners. His throat tightened and his chest felt as though it were being squeezed by iron bands. The last breath he'd drawn was trapped in his lungs and Gabe half expected his chest to explode with the building pressure. His vision clouded, gray creeping in at the edges. His head fell forward and he watched the well-polished toes of his boots swivel slowly in the wind. Only inches from the ground. A few miserable inches and he would die.

  From the corner of his narrowing vision, he saw the group of men mount and ride away. Apparently, churchgoers had a hard time actually witnessing the executions they performed. Something inside him laughed at the absurdity of it all.

  Gabriel Donovan bested by a handful of sodbusters and merchants.

  He'd probably be laughed out of Hell.

  Flashes of memory crossed his mind in a frenzied blur. Images, pictures of his life rose up and fell away in rapid succession. His mother. His father. The riverboat aboard which the elder Mr. Donovan had plied his trade and taught his son the intricacies of separating a mark from his money. Faces of people came and went. Acquaintances, enemies, no real friends. No real lovers either. Just a parade of temporary, willing women with whom Gabe had whiled away countless hours.

  Not much to show for thirty-two years, he thought as the world grayed, muddied and went black. And still he struggled to breathe, tears leaping to his eyes as pain gathered deep within him. Head pounding, heartbeat staggering, he felt a sudden hard, sharp wind buffet his body, slamming him into the trunk of the cottonwood. Every blood vessel in his head felt as if it were exploding. Over the roaring in his ears, he thought he heard a loud snap, but then his heart stopped and his world ended.

  ONE HUNDRED MILES AWAY IN REGRET, NEVADA

  Maggie Benson clutched the battered tin coffeepot and chased after her last customer as he dashed from the restaurant. But she couldn't catch him. He hit the edge of the boardwalk and sailed off as though a host of demons were hot on his heels. When he landed on Main Street, he kept running, gaining speed with every step.

  "Well, beans and biscuits," she muttered as she watched him round the corner of the livery stable and duck out of sight. That was the fourth customer she'd lost that week. And all of them had gotten away without paying for their meals.

  "He runs lots faster than the last fella."

  "Yep," she said and turned to glance down at her son, Jake. At only six years old, he didn't miss much. "Yes, he does,” she said and set the coffeepot down onto the porch railing.

  "Did he forget to pay too?”

  "I'm afraid so," she said and mentally counted up the money she'd actually managed to take in in the past week. It wasn’t much. In fact, if her restaurant wasn't a scheduled stop on the stage route, she doubted she'd be able to stay in business at all. And she had to make this place a success. Jake needed—deserved—security. Just as he deserved the kind of mother who could manage to cook a meal without burning down the house. The kind of mother who didn't inspire gossip just because she was a little…different.

  "You want me to try to catch him?" Jake asked, clearly wanting to help.

  Maggie smiled and ruffled her son's hair. "No, but thanks for offering.”

  She looked down into his big brown eyes and told herself again that this move to town had been worth it. She wanted Jake to have a normal life…the kind she'd never had. All that was necessary to accomplish that was for her to fit in. Especially now that Jake was old enough to understand the talk about her, she had to silence the gossips by being an ordinary mother.

  She sighed inwardly. But who would have guessed that being ordinary would be so difficult?

  Her gaze slid slowly across the dusty main street of the town she'd known most of her life. Merchants sat in armchairs that blocked half of the boardwalk in front of their stores. Piano music drifted out of the nearby saloon and she absently noted the darn thing needed tuning again. A few horses were tied to the meandering line of hitching rails. From the end of the street came the sound of children playing.

  She would fit in, she told herself firmly. She would become a part of this town if it killed her.

  A heavy dray wagon rolled past her and sent dust flying into the air. Warm autumn sunshine fought against the chill wind blowing down from the mountains and lost.

  Maggie shivered slightly and picked up the coffeepot again. Her gaze drifted to the shadowy purple mountains ringing the town. Gray clouds hovered at the peaks and looked as though they were gearing up to charge.

  Storm coming, she thought and a ripple of unease rolled along her spine. But it wasn't the probable storm making the small hairs at the back of her neck stand straight up. It was something else. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on. It was almost as though she could feel change in the air.

  "What's burning?" Jake asked suddenly.

  Frowning slightly, Maggie dismissed the odd feelings, sniffed the air and half turned toward the restaurant. A telltale wisp of black smoke snaked out of the open kitchen doorway, reaching for the dining room.

  Gasping, "Beans and biscuits, the bread!" Maggie rushed toward her latest disaster, her son's laughter following after her.

  #

  When he opened his eyes, Gabe looked up and saw the jagged, broken edge of the cottonwood branch his killers had looped the rope across. He shook his head despite the pain and drew a long, deep breath into lungs that felt starved for nourishment. It was only then he noticed the noose was no longer around his neck and his wrists had been untied.

  "What in the hell…”

  “Exactly,” a voice from close by said.

  Gabe glanced to his right. A tall, shadowy column twisted in the wind and writhed like a drunk trying to get dressed in the dark. As he watched, the shadows thickened and gained shape. Slowly, that shape took the form of a tall man with black hair and eyes the color of an iced-over lake. Dressed like a gunfighter, the man wore black broadcloth pants, a dark blue shirt, and a tied-down Colt on his hip. His dust-colored hat was settled low on his forehead as if drawing attention to those icy eyes.

  Now, a normal gunfighter didn't just appear out of shadows, so Gabe asked the only question that made sense. "Am I dead?"

  The other man gave him a brief smile that would have looked more at home on a circling vulture. "Now what do you think?"

  The fella expected him to think? After just being hanged? Gabe rubbed his aching throat and shifted his gaze to the countryside surrounding him. It was the same, and yet it was…different. It looked darker somehow, although the sun was still shining.

  Frowning, he tried to put his finger on what had changed and he finally decided it looked as though he was staring at things through a filthy pane of glass—and, he thought uneasily, there seemed to be a sort of reddish tint. To everything. This didn't look good.

  He turned to look at the gunfighter again. “So that damned posse actually killed me, huh?"

  The man smiled again, and Gabe just managed not to wince. "Bound to happen sooner or later, don't you think?"

  Hmm. Glancing at the broken branch lying beside him on t
he ground, Gabe said, "Y'know, I seem to remember hearing that branch snap. You sure I'm dead? That didn't break off in time to save me?"

  “That sort of lucky thing only happens in books,” the man told him. "And this is no book. I broke it when I got here."

  Now that was too bad.

  "Gabriel Donovan," the man went on, and Gabe got a cold chill when he realized the stranger knew his name. “Named for an archangel,” the man was saying with some amusement, "and yet you meet me when you die."

  He chuckled and it sounded like flints scraped against each other. "Ironic, eh?”

  Narrowing his eyes as he studied the fellow, Gabe muttered, "I guess that would depend on who you are, exactly."

  The gunfighter gave him a slow, self-satisfied smile and asked, "Why don't you figure that out? You've already discovered that you're dead." He glanced around him at the emptiness. "And you don't see a band of angels anywhere, do you?”

  No, he sure didn't. In fact, he'd never in his life felt more alone than he did at that moment.

  "So if you're dead and you're not in Heaven…." He let his voice trail off and privately Gabe thought that was best. He didn't think he was ready just yet to hear the words spoken out loud.

  After all, it wasn't every day a man met up with the Devil, face-to-face.

  Not a breath of wind moved. The birds quieted and it was as if the whole world had been caught and gripped hard by a bloody fist. The shadows loomed closer, darker. The hair at the back of his neck stood straight up.

  Gabe felt like that noose was back around his neck. His throat closed up and all the air left his body. Staring into those cold blue eyes could freeze a man's soul, he thought just before he said, "You don't look like I expected you to."

  The man gave him a half-bow in silent thanks. "I do try to move with the times."

  "I'll bet."

  "As a gambler, you probably would."

  This was too strange. A minute or two ago, he’d been strangling, filled with pain and regret. Now, there wasn't an ache in his body and he was apparently having a private conversation with Satan himself.