In her mind's eye, she could already see how the restaurant would look when it was finished. And whether or not the town approved, she knew it would be beautiful. The pale blue walls reached up to the lavender sky, and thousands of tiny quartz stars glittered on the expansive field. She would have a painted trellis with a fall of flowering vines climbing it on one wall. And on another, she would paint garlands of roses—all colors—in generous swags. And maybe, she thought now, she would add a few soft, dreamy-looking clouds to the twilight sky.
She could see it all so clearly. Lamplight streaming down on the heads of her customers, illuminating her paintings. She could hear their whispered compliments, see their smiling faces.
Oh yes, she told herself as she smoothed the paint onto the rough wood, it would be a beautiful place when she'd finished. And she owed it all to Gabe.
Damn it.
If he hadn't complimented her, encouraged her, she would never have risked being so outrageously different.
And though she still didn't know if she would be a success or not, at least she'd rediscovered herself. For that, she would always be grateful to him.
Even if she had wanted to strangle him just a few days ago.
"Oh, my heavens,” a familiar voice whispered throatily, and Maggie turned on the ladder to watch the town preacher walk into the room. Gabe was right behind him, a pleased smile on his face.
Reverend Thorndyke's head swiveled back and forth as he took the time to admire the differences she'd already made in the restaurant. Judging by the delighted smile on his face, he approved of the changes.
Maggie tightened her grip on the paintbrush and tried not to remember how she was dressed. But then, she'd only expected to be painting today, not entertaining her minister. She wore a paint-spattered man's white shirt she'd bought for this purpose at the mercantile, and an old pair of her father's trousers, belted around the too big waist by a length of rope. Her hair hung in one long braid down her back and she was barefoot…the better to go up and down the ladder. Mentally cringing at how she must look, she slowly climbed down from the ladder and said, "Reverend Thorndyke, what a surprise."
She looked past him to Gabe, who only shrugged and smiled.
The short man turned his wide-eyed gaze on her, briefly noted her wild appearance, then grabbed her right hand and shook it. She didn't have time to warn him about the lavender paint clinging to her—and now his—skin.
"My dear, this is wonderful," he said, tilting his head back to admire the ceiling. "How it sparkles."
Maggie grimaced as she saw him prop his now paintcovered hand on one hip. She thought about telling him, but really, it was too late to do anything about it. "It's quartz dust," she said. "At night, it will look like stardust."
“Stardust,” he repeated in a voice filled with awe. "How very poetic." He lowered his gaze until he was looking at her again and said, "I'm sure it will be lovely. I had no idea you were so talented."
A flush of color swept into her cheeks; she knew because she felt the beat of pleased embarrassment swamping her. “Thank you," she said sincerely, “that means a lot."
His pale blue eyes looked directly into hers. “This is quite a gift you've been given, Maggie."
"A gift?"
“Oh, yes.” He looked around again and, still smiling, turned back to her. “To be able to create such wonderful things is the best kind of gift." Then pausing, he seemed to think about something as he tapped one paint-coated finger against his chin. Dots of lavender remained behind. “I wonder if you would consider a business proposition."
She'd been trying to think of a way to tell him about the paint, but that statement caught her off guard. "A business proposition?”
“Yes," he said, his voice growing more determined as he spoke. "I'd like to hire you, my dear."
"To do what?” She tossed a glance at Gabe, who looked as confused as she felt.
He simply shrugged, shook his head, and stared at the minister, waiting along with her.
"Why to paint the church, of course."
“The church?"
“Yes," the little man practically crowed in his excitement. “Inside first, and then perhaps come spring, the outside?"
"But," she said, still more confused than she'd care to admit, "the church was painted just last spring."
"White," he said and waved one hand, dismissing what he obviously thought of as a boring color. "If I’d known that we had a real artist, actually living right here in Regret…" His voice faded off as he shook his head.
"An artist?" she echoed, liking the sound of that.
""A talent so fine as yours can't be labeled any other way," the reverend said gently.
"I don't know what to say." Maggie was torn between excitement and disbelief. Turning her head, she looked around her at the blossoming restaurant and felt a rush of pride. Pride in herself and what she could accomplish.
It was a heady feeling.
Still. An artist?
She'd never considered herself an artist, for heaven's sake. She simply liked color and beauty. Artists were men who lived in cities like Paris. And New York.
"Say you'll do it," the reverend urged.
"I don't know."
What if he wanted her to paint something and she made a mess of it? What if she ruined the town church? What would her neighbors think of her then? Oh, she put a stop to that thought almost instantly. Hadn't she just recently decided to not be swayed by what others thought of her?
"You could use your own imagination of course," he said. “I would never presume to give you instructions."
That would be lovely, she thought, and immediately, a string of ideas unwound through her mind. But as she looked at the preacher, Maggie knew that though he denied it, he had an idea or two of his own that he was holding back. "But you would like something in particular?"
“Actually," he admitted with a grin, "I would, yes.”
He lifted his right hand toward the ceiling, spotted the paint clinging to his palm and fingers and frowned. "Hmm."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Reverend," Maggie said and whipped out a paint-spattered cloth from her pocket.
"Thank you, I have a handkerchief," he murmured and reached into his inside coat pocket. As he absently wiped his hand, he said, "If you don't mind, I would like to see the sky painted on the wall behind the pulpit. And perhaps a few clouds as well?”
Maggie smiled and nodded. If she were any happier, she would burst. "Exactly what I would have done."
“Wonderful." Then his smile faded and he warned her, “Now mind, we can't pay much, but—“
“Oh, Reverend," she interrupted him quickly, "I would never charge my church money for something I would gladly do for free."
He reached out to pat her, couldn't find a spot not dotted with paint and thought better of it, letting his hand drop to his side. "That speaks well of your heart, Maggie, but not of your business sense. We will pay for your services."
This was all happening so fast, she thought, clinging to the knowledge that her pastor had not only accepted the real her, but approved of her. And if the rest of the town liked what she did to their church, maybe she would finally feel as though she belonged. On her own terms.
“When did you want me to start?" she asked, already itching to get to work on the blank canvas that was the church walls.
"As soon as you've finished your work here,” he said.
Maggie inhaled sharply and nodded. "All right, then, Reverend. And thank you. Thank you for…everything."
He smiled and started for the front door. Before he left though, he turned and said, "I'll see you both on Sunday?”
“We'll be there," Gabe agreed and Maggie turned to look at him in surprise. Before she could ask what was going on though, he added, “And we'll see you at our grand opening?”
"You will," the preacher said, though he didn't sound happy about it.
Then he left and Maggie looked up at Gabe as a dark suspicion formed in her mind, s
ubstantially dimming the happy glow inside her. "Did you have something to do with him hiring me to paint the church?”
"Me?” He clapped one hand to his chest and shook his head. “Nope, that was strictly his idea. A good one, though, if you want my opinion, which you probably don't.”
She sighed and shook her head. "What was all that about you going to church? You haven't gone once since you came to town."
“I know," he said with a shrug. "But by agreeing to go to church, I forced him to agree to bring his wife to supper at the restaurant once it's ready."
"You blackmailed him into being a customer?" she asked, appalled on the poor minister's behalf.
“Now Maggie, don't get mad," Gabe said with a half grin, "we've just started talking again."
“I can't believe it," she muttered, shaking her head. "You blackmailed a minister."
"'Blackmail' is a harsh word."
"But appropriate?"
"Let's call it…an inducement.'
She stared at him. “No matter what you call it, you forced him to come to the restaurant. I don't want to have to march people in here at gunpoint."
He chuckled at the image she drew, then apologized. "Sorry. You weren't trying to be funny."
“There's nothing funny about this."
Stepping close, he laid both hands on her shoulders. "You won't have to force anyone to come here, Maggie."
She hardly heard him. God, it felt good to have him touch her again. Even knowing that he was leaving. Even knowing that there was no future for them. Heck, even knowing that he'd been hanged for something it was likely she'd never learn about wasn't enough to stamp out the skittering sensations humming through her bloodstream.
He felt it too. She saw it in his eyes. And when he dropped his hands from her shoulders, she wanted to ask him to put them back. Wanted to, but didn't.
For now, it was enough to be talking to him again.
She'd missed him the last few days. Which only served to point out how lonely it would be around here when he left for good. Blast him, anyway, for making her care and then leaving her.
And to make matters worse, he'd gone and done something nice like blackmailing her minister on her behalf. How could she stay mad at a man like that?
"Just wait. Once people have seen this place, seen what you've done to it"—he smiled at her—“they'll be climbing over each other to get in."
She liked his optimism, but felt she should remind him of one fairly important fact. "This is a restaurant, Gabe. Not a museum. People will want to eat too, not just look at the paintings."
"Your cooking is—“
“Still terrible?"
"Improving," he corrected. "And after a couple of weeks, you'll be making enough money so that you can hire someone to cook for you. It'll work out, Maggie. Trust me."
Trust him.
Trust him when he refused to tell her why he was leaving. Trust him when he'd been here little more than a few weeks and already he'd torn her heart apart. Trust him, she thought and realized with a start that she did.
Despite everything, despite the pain of knowing be would be leaving soon, she trusted him. Maybe it was the way he treated Jake. Maybe it was the way he'd coaxed her into rediscovering her true self.
But whatever the reason, he'd found a place in her life that she couldn't deny.
She stared up into his eyes and found herself reflected there. The real her. The Maggie she'd always hidden from everyone. He saw her. Really saw her. And still, he believed in her.
"You know something, Mr. Donovan?"
He grinned at her, obviously relieved that she wasn't going to start up the war between them again. “What's that, Mrs. Benson?"
"I think I do trust you." She reached up and, with one paint-stained hand, cupped his cheek, relishing the warm, whiskery feel of his skin against hers. "Everything will work out, just like you said."
He covered her hand with one of his, gave it a squeeze, and pulled it down. Still holding on to her, he said with a smile, "Never bet against a gambler.”
Chapter Fourteen
"Is this some desperate, last-minute bid for mercy?” the Devil asked from the corner of the room.
Gabe groaned inwardly but didn't even look at him. Instead, he concentrated on tying the black string tie around Jake's neck. Hell, he'd been expecting a visit from Old Scratch long before this.
"Sorry to disappoint you." The gunfighter read Gabe's mind again as he took a seat on the boy's bed.
Gabe noticed the mattress didn't shift, dip, or show any signs at all of someone sitting on it.
"Surprised?" the demon asked.
"Go away," Gabe muttered.
"I can't go away," Jake complained. "You're tyin' my tie, remember?"
"So I am,” he said with a smile and shot a vicious look at his enemy across the room "And you're not making this easy. Hold still."
For approximately ten seconds, he did.
Then, jumping from foot to foot, he said tightly, "I gotta go, Gabe."
The Devil laughed.
Gabe quickly finished the job, straightened the kid's collar, then pointed him toward the door. “All right, run."
"Thanks, Gabe!" he yelled and raced across the room.
His Sunday shoes clattering against the wooden floor made him sound more like a herd of children than just one small boy.
But the smile on Gabe's face disappeared as he turned to face the Devil watching him. "I already told you. Go away."
The demon settled back against the pillows and threw both arms behind his head. Crossing his feet at the ankles, he sighed and said, “Going to church, Gabriel? Getting a little desperate as the days count down?"
Desperate yes, but not out of fear of his own fate. If he was headed for Hell, then it was because he'd earned his way there. No, what Gabe worried about was Maggie. And Jake. They'd be alone again, when he was gone. All he was trying to do now was help Maggie be accepted by this town. Help make her life a little easier.
"So you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart."
Gabe shot the Devil another furious glance. "If you can read my mind so well, why show up and talk to me at all?”
The gunfighter shrugged. “Why not?”
“Y'know," Gabe said, "in less than two months, I'm going to have to spend eternity with the likes of you.” And no matter how many times he said that, it didn't get easier. "But until then," he went on, "I can choose my own company."
“That’s where you're wrong."
"How do you figure anything I do is your business?”
"Because your soul is mine. I gave you this extra time.
"You didn't give me anything. I bought this time!'
By promising another man’s soul to the Devil. Gabe scowled at the thought and tried to imagine Henry facing down this devil. The older man's cheerful disposition would be sadly out of place in Hell. But since when had he started worrying about Henry?
"Regrets?” the Devil asked.
His head snapped up and he glared at the gunfighter, still sprawled across Jake's bed. Early morning sunshine slanted in through the windows, making the green and white room shine like a summer meadow. Jake's treasures lay scattered across every flat surface. His dirty clothes were tossed in a pile, and a battalion of toy soldiers were frozen in battle in the far corner.
A normal kid's room, he thought, but for the Devil lounging smack in the middle of it. He never should have agreed to live here, he told himself. He'd had no right to drag a demon into Maggie's home. But soon enough now, his time would be up and both he and the Devil would be gone forever.
"I've been thinking," the gunfighter said and sat up on the bed. He fixed Gabe with a steady stare and asked. “How would you like even more time?”
"What?"
"Let's say a year. Maybe even two."
Everything in Gabe yearned for it. More time. Hundreds of days and nights. Sunrises and sunsets. Countless hours spent with Maggie and Jake. Even thinking about the
possibility made him nearly lightheaded. But at the same time, Gabe knew deep in the heart of him that when the Devil made an offer, there was a price to pay.
“Sounds good, doesn't it?” the gunfighter said in a whisper that urged Gabe to grab the offer. "A year or two—a man could pack a lot of living into a couple of years."
He steeled himself against temptation and forced himself to ask, "What's it cost?”
“Well, now," the Devil said slowly, thoughtfully, "you got two months for Henry."
"Yeah?" he said, past the shame of knowing he'd sold out another human being. Jesus. Stop feeling guilty about Henry. He'd danced all his life. Now it was time to pay the fiddler.
"So to be fair, I'll give you two years for Maggie's soul."
Blackness closed around him until the only light he could see was gleaming in the mocking pale blue eyes watching him. Rage. Dark, burning, overwhelming rage poured into his body like water into a jug. Fast, furious, the feelings swamped him until his body shook with the force of it.
"You stay the hell away from her,” he warned, and even his voice trembled at the fury tearing through him.
"Think about it, Gabriel," that cajoling whisper came again. “Two long years. Go where you want. Do what you want." He stood up, braced his legs wide apart and crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you say?"
Gabe moved close to his enemy and looked him dead in the eye so there would be mistake. "Not for two. Not for twenty." Hands fisted at his sides, his entire body shaking with helpless fury, he ground out tightly, "She's not a part of this."
"Isn't she?" A half-smile curved the other man's lips, and Gabe wanted nothing more than to smash that smile with his fists.
“This is between you and me, mister,” he told the Devil. "And I swear to you—if you harm her, or her boy, what I'll do to you'll make Hell look like a Sunday picnic.”
"Gabe?” Maggie called from the landing.
He swiveled his head in that direction, then looked back at the Devil only to find he'd gone as silently as he'd come. Anger still rushing through him, Gabe snatched up his hat and headed for the door. Turning back one last time, he said it again, quietly this time, just in case the gunfighter was still lingering in the shadows. "Leave her alone. You hear me?”
Catch a Fallen Angel Page 16