Catch a Fallen Angel

by Maureen Child

  "And maybe,” he pointed out, "they'll surprise you and prefer the real you."

  "Anything's possible," she mused, looking into his eyes. "But you know something? I don't care anymore. And I owe that to you."

  Gabe smiled as he watched her. Damned if the woman didn't have a talent for saying just the thing to twist his heart. If anyone owed a debt here, it was him. She'd shown him life in the sunlight. She'd given him a place to spend his last two months and a chance to see what his life might have been like if he'd made different choices.

  The fact that the knowledge would only serve to torture him through an eternity in Hell was his fault, not hers.

  She looked beautiful in candlelight, he thought. Studying her features, he etched the lines of her face into his memory so that no matter what else happened in the future, this one moment in time would forever be caught in his mind. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her, drawing it deep inside him, making it a part of him.

  Giving in to the urge to touch her, he reached across the table and laid one hand over hers. Surprisingly enough, she turned her hand over and held on to his.

  "You smell good," he whispered.

  She laughed gently and shook her hair back from her face. "That's turpentine."

  His thumb moved across the back of her hand. "On you, it smells good."

  "Gabe?”

  "Yeah?” he asked and leaned in even closer to her.

  "What's happening here?"

  "Happening?"

  "Between us."

  "I think you know.”

  She licked her lips and his gaze followed the sweep of her tongue. Something inside him turned over and his heartbeat quickened until it sounded like a horse running at a full gallop across the prairie.

  "Yes, I suppose I do," she said then and held on to his hand tightly.

  Her eyes shone with the same desire rising in him. He knew she felt what he did. Knew she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. He also knew, by the grim determination on her features that it wasn't going to happen. Not tonight. Probably not ever.

  As if to prove him right, she whispered, "But…"

  "But,” he repeated and reluctantly let go of her hand. He knew damn well that nothing could come of them. Good women, even one who'd just decided to stop dancing to convention's tune, didn't go to bed with a man who wasn't her husband.

  And he wasn't about to marry a woman like Maggie just before he left for Hell, for the sole purpose of bedding her.

  Even a sinner could have standards.

  "It's not that I don't want—“

  “I understand, Maggie," he said tightly, but still managed to give her a small smile. "It's better this way, anyhow.”

  "Gabe—“

  "Let's just let it be, huh, Maggie?"

  "No.” she said and reached for his hand again. Then she pulled him farther into the light and he saw her eyes narrow as she stared at his throat. Whatever she'd been about to say was forgotten as she lifted her gaze to his and asked, "What happened to your neck?”

  Shit.

  He pulled away from her and stood up, moving back from the table and the light, edging deeper into the shadows. The scar on his neck. He'd forgotten all about it, damn it. Why hadn't he left the damned bandana on when he went to bed? Now that she'd seen it, she would be bound to have questions.

  "It's nothing," he said.

  "It's a rope burn." she whispered.

  "Yeah," he admitted tightly, knowing it was useless to try to hide it again now. "It is."

  She swallowed and laid both hands flat on the table.

  “The kind a man would get if he was hanged?”

  "That's right" He shoved his hands into his pockets, turned away and walked to the window. Staring out at the darkness beyond, he deliberately kept himself from so much as looking at her candlelit reflection in the windowpane.

  He didn't want to see disgust in her eyes. Or worse, pity. It was for damn sure the desire she'd felt for him would be gone now. Women like Maggie didn't take up with men who'd been dancing at the short end of a rope.

  "So the 'friend' you told me about before was—“

  "Me."

  "You were hanged?"

  "Yeah."

  “Why?”

  A short, harsh laugh shot from his lungs before he could stop it. "Why didn't I tell you? Or why was I hanged?"

  “Both," she said and stood up from the table. He heard her chair legs scrape on the floor and then the soft sound of her bare feet as she walked toward him. And still he didn't turn, despite the fact that everything inside him wanted to grab her, hold her close, and have her tell him it didn't make any difference to her.

  But that wasn't likely to happen.

  "I didn't tell you," he said, forcing a light tone he didn't feel into his voice, "because it's not easy to work something like that into a conversation." And because he was a damned coward.

  "Why were you hanged, Gabe?"

  He took a deep breath and inadvertently inhaled the scent of turpentine that still clung to her. She was standing right behind him. He felt her warmth, sensed her gaze moving into him.

  "Believe it or not," he said, hoping to high hell she did believe him, "I didn't do anything. They made a mistake."

  "Who did?"

  "The mob of upstanding, righteous citizens who tossed a rope over a tree and tied me to it."

  "A mistake? How could anyone hang a person by mistake?" She sounded outraged on his behalf, God love her.

  "They got the wrong man," he said and one more time called down a host of curses on Henry Whittaker's head. Damn the old liar anyway. Not only had he escaped the lynch mob, but it was because of him that Gabe was standing here explaining to this woman why he'd been hung.

  "How'd you get away? How could you live through something like at?”

  I didn't, he nearly said, but figured there was only so much a body could hear in one night. Besides, he didn't like the idea of having to explain to her that she was talking to a dead man.

  Instead, he muttered a half-truth. "The rope snapped." It wasn't a lie. He just wasn't telling her the whole truth. That the rope had snapped after he was dead.

  She touched him and he almost winced at the gentleness. He didn't deserve it, he knew. Yes, he'd been innocent of the charges for which he'd been hanged. But he was by no means an innocent. Hell, just ask the Devil who was waiting on him.

  Turning him around, she reached up and laid one fingertip on the raw, uneven scarring at the base of his throat. The soft slide of her skin against his rippled down in a torrent of sensation that flooded him. Would she never stop surprising him? He'd expected fury. Disgust. More questions than he could answer. And he damn sure had expected her to throw him out on his deceitful ass.

  Instead, he found himself looking into a pair of deep brown eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Her tenderness rattled him, leaving him more shaken than he cared to admit. Tears. For him. As far as he could remember, no one had ever shed a tear for Gabe Donovan.

  “Don't cry for me, Maggie." He wasn't worth one of her tears.

  She sniffed and shook her head, letting her hand fall back to her side. The absence of her touch was like a knife to the heart of him. How cold it was without her warmth. His hands fisted inside his pockets.

  "I'm sorry, Gabe," she said.

  "You're sorry? For what?"

  For the pain you must have felt," she said softly, tipping her head back to stare up into his eyes.

  He felt her gaze right down to his soul.

  "For asking you about it and making you remember."

  "It's not something I’m likely to forget."

  “I know," she said and reached out to lay one hand on his arm. Instantly, the warmth was back again, racing through him, flooding him with a kind of light that no darkness could extinguish.

  "I won't ask any more questions," she added quietly, still looking at him as though he was a much better man than he really was.

  Amazing woman.
/>   "Don't you even want to know what they accused me of?” He couldn't believe she was simply going to let this go.

  "No," she said, her gaze delving deeply into his. "Because they were wrong. You said it was a mistake.”

  "I could be lying," he said.

  "You're not, though."

  "Maggie," he said as a rush of emotion swelled inside him, "I might not have deserved that hanging, but I'm no angel either."

  She smiled and shook her head. "No, you're more of a fallen angel, I suspect. But you're not the kind of man my husband was either."

  "Your husband was a damn fool," Gabe said. “Any man who would willingly leave a woman like you is just too stupid to live.”

  One corner of her mouth tilted up and he wondered why he'd ever thought that mouth too wide.

  "And yet," she said as she backed up a step, "you're leaving me, too."

  "Not willingly."

  "But you're leaving."

  "Yeah," he said tightly. "I am."

  She turned away then and walked to the table. Picking up the candle, she moved to the doorway that would lead her to the stairs. When she got there, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder at him. Her expression was weary, yet resigned.

  He braced himself for whatever she might say, and still felt each of her words as he would have a bullet.

  "Then maybe you're not so different from Kersey after all, are you?”

  Chapter Twelve

  "Just a damn minute," Gabe said and started after her.

  "Don't swear at me," she snapped and hurried her steps toward the stairs.

  Gabe caught up with her in a few long strides. He grabbed her upper arm and turned her around to face him. Tilting her head back, she looked up at him, and a blind man could have seen that all traces of gentleness or tenderness were gone.

  Well, fine. Anger was easier for him to take than kindness, anyway.

  "Let me go," she said and tried to yank herself free of his grasp.

  "Not yet," he told her, tightening his grip on her. “We're not finished talking."

  "Oh, yes we are."

  "No, ma'am," he argued, looming over her. And even though he was mad, a part of him was pleased to note she didn't back down. If anything, her gaze went even more fiery than before. "You don't get to say something like you just did and then walk away."

  "Truth hurt?" she asked.

  “It's not true."

  “What's different?" She tilted her head to one side and watched him, silently daring him to prove her wrong.

  "Your husband left because he wanted to. The words were hard ones and it shamed him to see them strike home. But damn it, it was bad enough he'd been hanged for something he didn't do. He sure as hell wasn't going to get lumped in with the likes of Kersey Benson on top of it. Adding insult to injury was just a bit too much.

  She jerked back from him and this time succeeded in freeing herself. As she rubbed her upper arm, he felt a slight twinge of remorse. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He'd just wanted her to stand still for a minute.

  "You're leaving, too. You just said as much."

  "Not because I want to," he snapped. “I don't have a choice."

  “There's always a choice."

  "You're wrong."

  "Uh-huh," she said, clearly disbelieving. “So you're saying if things were different. You'd choose to stay in Regret."

  “Of course." Hell, who wouldn't choose Regret and Maggie, over eternal flames?

  "I don't believe you."

  "I can see that.”

  “Fine. Convince me," she urged. "Tell me why you don't have a choice in this.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, then slammed it shut again. Frustration roared to life inside him as he realized that for the first time in his life, he wanted to tell a woman the absolute truth and couldn't. How in the hell could he tell her about the Devil and the deal he'd made without sounding like a crazy man? Hell, even he wouldn't believe this story. Scrubbing one hand across his face, he glared at her as if this whole thing were her fault and admitted sullenly, "I can't!'

  "You mean, won't.”

  "I mean, even if I could tell you, you wouldn't believe me."

  "But you're not going to give me the chance, are you?"

  “No." He could have used more words. Prettied it up a little. But the end result would have been the same. What would have been the point?

  She shook her head and gave him a slow, sorrowful look. "Then there's nothing more to talk about, is there?”

  A big, dark hole opened up inside him and Gabe felt its emptiness clean to the bone. Just moments ago, there had been magic in this room. Between the two of them. Now, it was gone and unlikely to come back.

  “I guess not," he said finally.

  A heartbeat passed, then two. At last, she nodded, let her gaze slide from his and turned for the stairs. Keeping one hand on the banister, she started climbing. When she reached the top, she paused but didn’t turn around. "Good night, Gabe.”

  Her door closed a moment later. Gritting his teeth, Gabe slammed his fist onto the newel post and was grateful for the throbbing pain in his hand. At least it masked what was happening to his heart.

  #

  "What'cha doin'?"

  Gabe stopped and looked up at the boy standing on the top step of the back porch. Jake's long-sleeved white shirt was already dirty and one knee of his black pants was torn. His shoes were dusty and scuffed, his hair wildly disarrayed, and his eyes wide and curious. Gabe smiled to himself. Apparently, there hadn't been any extra schoolwork for the boy to do on this Saturday morning. He wasn’t surprised to see the kid either. The last few days, it had been like having a four-foot-tall shadow. Everywhere he went, Jake was right there alongside him.

  "I'm making a sign for the restaurant," he said and lowered his gaze to the project he'd been working on all morning. Right now it didn't look like much more than a long, narrow strip of pine. But he had it sanded and ready to be painted.

  "Can I help?" Jake asked, flinging his hair back out of his eyes with a quick jerk of his head.

  "Where’s your mother?” Gabe had hardly seen her since their talk a few nights back. Except for the times when the stagecoach stopped and they were forced to work together in the kitchen, she kept him at a safe distance.

  There hadn’t even been any more cooking lessons, and damned if he didn't miss them. But maybe it was better this way. It still stung to know that she was comparing him to her late husband. But if hating him made this easier on her then so be it.

  "In the restaurant dining room," he said "She's paintin' the ceiling, and I can't help her 'cause I'm too short and there's only the one ladder anyhow and, besides, she said I should go get some fresh air 'cause I ain't got any homework.”

  Gabe grinned at the stream of information. He was going to miss this kid. Surprising really, since he'd never had much use for children. Still, Jake had a way of sneaking into a person's heart before they had a chance to hold him off. Like his mother.

  "She said 'ain't'?"

  "Nah." The boy shook his head. "She don't say 'ain't' 'cause it ain't proper."

  Made sense. He ought to point out that she wouldn’t like her son saying it either, but he had a feeling Jake already knew that. "Well you know your mother's trying to finish painting the dining room so we can have a grand opening."

  "Yeah," Jake said and scraped the toe of his shoe against the wood planks.

  "You want to help, huh?"

  "Yeah," the boy said and came down a step. "I can paint pretty good."

  He looked so damned eager.

  "Wouldn't you rather be playing with your friends?"

  He ducked his head and scraped the toe of his shoe across the wooden plank step. “No,” he said, "I'd rather help you."

  Oddly touched, Gabe nodded. Quite a tribute, he told himself, to be chosen over a game of baseball. His heart twisted a bit as he realized just how much of life he was going to be missing. Hell, since coming to Regret, he'd found th
at he'd pretty much wasted what life he did have. There was no family to mourn his passing. No friends to tell tall tales about him for years to come.

  No, all he had to show for his too short life was a set of old saddlebags, a couple of decks of cards, and a horse. Not much when you added them all up.

  Gabe glanced up at the leaden sky and wondered why it was no one ever realized what they had until they lost it. He hadn't been interested in the world around him until he was forced to leave it. Hadn't really lived until he'd died.

  “You all right?" Jake asked hesitantly.

  He shook off his depressing thoughts and forced himself to smile at the kid. "I’m fine. And if you’re gonna help, you'll need a brush."

  The boy grinned and ran down the rest of the steps. Picking up a paintbrush, he dipped it into the can of white paint and carefully scraped off the excess.

  "Your mom teach you that?"

  "Yeah," he said, smiling. "When I was little, we used to paint together a lot."

  When he was little. As opposed to now, having reached the nearly crotchety age of six.

  "She was always doing something to the farm,” Jake was saying and Gabe told himself to pay attention. Enthusiastically, the boy slapped his brush down on the prepared wood and dragged it from side to side. "Near every month, she was changing the color of something."

  No wonder she missed the freedom of living out where no one was keeping a watchful eye on her.

  “You miss the farm?” Gabe asked, discreetly covering up the boy's misses.

  “I used to, lots," Jake admitted. "But now that Mom ain't so worried about me doing schoolwork all the time, town's pretty good too." He dipped his brush again and this time wasn't so careful about it.

  Several huge drops of white paint fell into the dirt, and the brush splattered when the boy started working again. It wouldn't be the handsomest sign around, Gabe thought. But it would be original. And he was glad to think that even long after he was gone, the boy would remember this day and painting with Gabe every time he looked at this sign.

  Unless, of course, Maggie changed it once he'd gone.