Angel

by Danielle Carriere

  “It was my fault,” she said to Olivia. There was no point in keeping the truth from her.

  Olivia sat down beside Angel on the bed and took her hand. “How could it have possibly been your fault?”

  “I didn’t want the baby,” Angel whispered. “When I started to wonder if I was pregnant, I hoped I was wrong, and when I knew it hadn’t been a mistake—that I really was pregnant—I prayed it would go away. I screamed at God and asked him to take it away.”

  Olivia silently watched Angel as she began to sob. “And then I felt the baby move, and everything changed. I started wanting that baby, loving it. I would have fought for him to have a life that was good. And now he’s gone.”

  Into the fog of Angel’s mind came Olivia’s voice. It sounded sad. “My dear, I don’t believe it works that way. You will face enough sorrow. Do not add to it by blaming yourself.”

  Olivia sat with Angel until the flood of tears subsided, and then longer. It was Angel’s words that finally broke the silence. “Would it still be possible for me to stay with you and Clark for a time?”

  Olivia hesitated only for a moment before answering, “Of course you may. You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you wish.”

  Angel had faced the wall as she asked her question, but Olivia’s hesitation made her move to face the other woman. As soon as she turned, she saw the reason for Olivia’s hesitation. Nathan was standing in the doorway.

  Chapter 14

  I may have been a worse father to my own son than my father was to me, and that’s saying something. I wanted him to be like me—if he turned out like me, I could believe none of this was my fault. But my son is nothing like me, even though I gave him every reason to be.

  ***

  Even though Angel had told him she could simply ride into town with Olivia, Nathan had insisted on taking Angel there, and Olivia had gone ahead to prepare a room for Angel. The trip had been largely silent, neither of them willing to make small talk, until they pulled up in front of Clark and Olivia’s home.

  “I hope you’re not planning on leaving for good,” Nathan said without looking at Angel, his eyes fixed somewhere between the ears of the horse in front of him.

  Angel didn’t reply. She couldn’t bear to lie, and she couldn’t bear to tell the truth, so she remained silent as she climbed down from the wagon. With a sudden burst of motion, Nathan tied the reins and hopped down from the seat of the wagon to stand beside Angel.

  “I don’t know what I did to make you feel like you have to leave,” he said, taking her hand, “but I swear I’m going to try and find a way to make you believe you have a reason to stay.”

  Nathan’s eyes held hers, and it wasn’t until he released her hand that Angel realized she hadn’t pulled away. Then, Nathan’s certainty faded and he spoke pleadingly. “Just don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

  Angel nodded mutely, and Nathan slowly climbed into the wagon, raised the reins, and clucked his tongue. The horses pulled forward. Angel stood outside the gate, watching until the wagon disappeared around a bend in the road and fighting the wrenching sensation inside her chest.

  The grief she felt for the loss of her child was immutably linked with the hurt she had felt at Nathan’s reaction to her pregnancy. No, it was more than that. Each emotion seemed to magnify the other, spiraling around each other until—even though she knew it did not make sense—a piece of her had begun to blame Nathan for the loss of the baby. A second, larger part of her shied away from sharing her grief with Nathan because she was afraid that her tribulation, her pain, was his salvation, his relief. The first part, the anger, she knew would fade. The second part, the fear, she was not so sure of.

  When Angel finally turned to go inside, she found Olivia standing in the front doorway, watching. She gently guided Angel toward the spare bedroom. Clark raised an eyebrow as they passed the doorway into the sitting area, but Olivia shook her head, and he didn’t speak. Only after Olivia had deposited Angel in the spare room did she speak, and when she did, she seemed to choose her words carefully. “How long will you be staying with us, dear?”

  Angel shook her head miserably.

  “What happened between you and Nathan?”

  “Nothing,” Angel answered. Nothing had ever happened between them, and nothing ever would.

  Oliva considered Angel for a moment, obviously skeptical, but she did not press her. “Please make yourself at home. Take the time you need to settle in, and then come downstairs.”

  Olivia and Angel were just setting the table for supper when Clark walked in, carrying a letter and looking upset. Olivia stood, fear in her eyes. “What is it? Is it about Felicity?”

  Clark shook his head. “No, but I’m not sure this news is much better.” He gave a slight wave of the letter. “Will Pratchet down south of the Platte just sent me an urgent message to let me know he thought he saw James leaving the saloon there in town. He wasn’t sure, but you know that horse James had—the paint—it’s hard to mistake. So unless the horse has found its way to a new owner . . .” Clark trailed off, then continued. “Pratchet reckons James is making his way back here, although he seems to be taking his time about it.”

  Olivia paled. “Do you think he knows where Felicity is?”

  Clark shook his head. “I can’t see how he would. We didn’t tell anyone where she was going to be teaching. Besides, he hasn’t seen her in years. Even if they crossed paths it’s not likely he would recognize her.”

  Olivia seemed to relax slightly, then spoke, her voice tight. “Why would he chance coming back when he’s suspected of murder?”

  Clark shrugged, and his eyes were tired as he responded, “Even if he did kill that man, James is smart enough to know that if he lies low for a while—long enough for the initial anger to die down—he’s safe. No one saw him kill the man. There’s no proof, and no one’s going to convict him.”

  ***

  The days of the week blurred together, and Angel soon found herself in the midst of yet another Sunday, sitting uncomfortably on the front pew in between Nathan and Olivia. Despite Angel’s nearly constant silence toward everyone and her always constant lack of expression toward him, Nathan had persisted in visiting her in town nearly every day since he had left her at Clark and Olivia’s house. He never pressed her to speak, merely sat—usually in silence himself—with Angel, and Clark, and Olivia in the quiet moments of the evening before returning to the homestead to take care of the evening chores.

  Angel couldn’t deny that a part of her was glad to see him. She felt less unsettled when Nathan was around. He gave Angel something to ground herself to—a constant in the midst of emotions and thoughts that constantly swirled through her mind despite her best efforts to push them away.

  But another part of her—the part that always won—struggled with the piercing pain Nathan’s presence brought. Pain was a constant. Depending on how recently she had sobbed out her emotions, Angel’s grief alternated between an overwhelming sense of loss, and a hollow, empty numbness she was afraid would never leave. So it wasn’t the pain that bothered her.

  No, it was the fact that Nathan, simply by being there, reminded Angel over and over and over again how he had walked out the door after she had told him of her pregnancy. It didn’t matter that he had come back—Angel couldn’t shake the fear that he had done so because he had felt obligated to do so, rather than because he had resolved the thing that had caused him to walk away in the first place. Nathan himself had admitted that he had left because he hadn’t known—and still didn’t know—how to deal with her pregnancy.

  And now . . . now the baby was gone. It was so easy, Angel thought, for Nathan to say all the right things now that the baby was gone. But it was so hard for her to trust his words. She knew he meant the words he spoke, and yet, she couldn’t help wondering if Nathan would have spoken the same words if she hadn’t lost the baby. Now, every time Nathan spoke to her, Angel found herself nearly staring through him, a fact she knew was not
lost on Nathan.

  She had heard Olivia whispering to Nathan, “Just give her time,” and had almost wanted to laugh. Time for what? To heal from a wound Angel knew would always exist? To forget Nathan had walked away? Or perhaps Olivia meant time to change the past. All three options seemed equally impossible to Angel.

  As Clark began to speak, Angel was jerked from her own thoughts, enough for her to hear another, female voice mutter. The words were loud enough to carry across the congregation, but soft enough that she almost believed she hadn’t been meant to hear.

  “It’s not right that it should be buried in the church graveyard, next to good, God-fearing people. That baby was an abomination, the child of a harlot. Its death was God’s judgment.”

  Angel froze, her entire body growing cold as fury spread silently through her body. Her shock held her motionless. All except for her hands. Her hands trembled, and she stared at them in awe, vaguely wondering at the barely contained anger that held her prisoner, yet made parts of her frame respond in such an uncontrollable manner.

  And then, the tension in her body snapped. If they wanted her reaction, they would have it. She would stand. She would speak. She would scream.

  With a sudden burst of motion, Angel stood, then turned to face the sea of faces. One face—Valentine’s—stood out, gazing at Angel with contempt, and Angel wondered if it was Valentine’s voice that had carried across the congregation. Angel opened her mouth to speak, then paused as the eyes that had stared at her when she had first stood drifted upward, as one, to focus on a point somewhere behind her. Nathan tugged at her hand, then motioned for her to turn, and Angel slowly faced the front of the room, glancing at Nathan as she did so.

  But Nathan was no longer looking at her. Eyes narrowed and lips parted, Nathan was staring at Clark with an intensity Angel had not seen before. It was as though he had never seen Clark before. As Angel followed Nathan’s gaze and rested her own on Clark, she understood Nathan’s strange expression, and she stopped trying to tug her hand free. The strength radiating from Clark commanded the attention of every person in the room, and the silence the mutinous whisper had carried over had nothing on the stillness that filled the room in the moments before Clark began to speak.

  When he did speak, it was a voice of quietness, of calm, of unarguable strength.

  “This woman is no harlot,” he said, gesturing toward Angel, “and her child—her son—was no abomination. He was loved. Not only by his mother, but by that same God whom you profess to love.

  “I suggest we all take some time to ponder the nature of that God whom we claim to follow. The funeral will take place as planned. Any who disagree with this decision are welcome to remain absent.”

  As Clark fell silent, Angel held her breath, waiting. Whispers flooded the room, and then came the sound Angel was dreading. The outraged mutters, the creak of pews as people stood, the hollow sound of shoes on the wooden floor.

  And yet, the roar of noise Angel had expected did not come. She tentatively turned to look behind herself and saw only a handful of people indignantly leaving. Once she noticed this, she began scanning the faces of those who remained. Most determinedly faced forward, eyes fixed on Clark or on the floor, but a few quietly met her gaze.

  “Now,” Clark said quietly after the last person had passed through the church doors and Angel had sat back down, “I would like to begin our sermon for today.”

  Angel didn’t hear the words Clark spoke after that. She was still too stunned to think of anything other than the events that had just transpired. She snuck a glance at Nathan. He seemed to be confused, fighting some internal battle. Angel glanced at Clark. His words were for the congregation as a whole, but for a moment he had looked at Olivia while he spoke. Angel turned her gaze toward Olivia. She was smiling faintly in Clark’s direction with something like pride.

  ***

  Angel stared determinedly at the ground as people gathered for the funeral. Partially, she was absorbed in her own thoughts, and partially, she didn’t want to be forced to acknowledge the small numbers of people in attendance. Then, Nathan nudged her, and she looked up.

  She was surrounded by people. People who had arrived quietly and without her notice. People with bowed heads. People who shared in her sorrow, even though she scarcely knew them, and they hardly knew her. There was even a little girl holding a wreath woven of boughs from a fir tree.

  Angel felt tears of gratitude swell up in her eyes She blinked, stubbornly refusing to let them fall. But as hard as she tried, Angel could not keep the tears from trailing down her face when the tiny coffin was lowered into the ground. The tears came and went on the silent journey back to Clark and Olivia’s home. Even so, during one quiet moment, she found her heart lightened by the memory of a little girl placing a homemade wreath on the coffin.

  ***

  More than anything, Nathan wanted to be able to take Angel in his arms—to hold her close and comfort her when she started to cry—but he knew the gesture was not one Angel would welcome, so instead, he clasped his hands together to stop himself from reaching out to her.

  On the way from the cabin to Clark and Olivia’s house, Nathan had asked Angel point-blank, “If I told you I loved you, would you stay?”

  Angel had been silent for a long moment before answering, and then when she had answered, she had responded with even greater bluntness than he had anticipated. “No, I would not. And it’s not because I don’t care for you, because I do. It’s because of how you reacted when you found out I was pregnant.”

  “I was caught off guard—” Nathan had protested, but Angel cut him off.

  “No, Nathan. You were upset that I was pregnant.”

  “I was upset because I knew how people would react,” Nathan had said quietly.

  “That is the problem,” Angel responded. “You keep telling me you were worried about how people would react, but when I told you I was pregnant, it was because for the first time since I’ve been here I didn’t care what anyone else would say. You were the only one whose reaction I cared about, and I finally wasn’t scared to tell you the whole truth. I finally hoped you might prove me wrong—that Olivia might be right—but you reacted exactly the way I’d been afraid you would all along. You told me I would have to leave. And now, the baby is gone, and you want to say you love me.

  “I know you believe your words are sincere, but I don’t believe you would have spoken the same words if I was still pregnant.”

  “Is there anything I can say to change your mind?” Nathan had asked quietly.

  Angel had shaken her head. “I don’t know.”

  Now, Angel’s words echoed over and over in Nathan’s mind as he stood beside her, watching tears stream down her face, but unable to do anything to comfort her. An uncomfortable knowledge slowly began to creep over him, and Nathan realized that the outward vulnerability Angel was showing had in no way diminished the emotional wall she had thrown up between herself and Nathan. He didn’t know if he would ever find the words to change her mind, but in that moment he realized he didn’t care. He only wanted her to trust him enough, again, to let him be there.

  Chapter 15

  I hate them all. Every time I see them, they remind me of the worst mistakes I’ve made.

  ***

  Angel was browsing the goods at the general store—Olivia had asked her to go to the store and purchase a pound of flour—when a female voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Can I help you, dear?”

  The tone of the woman’s voice plainly conveyed that the term of endearment was anything but, and the hair on the back of Angel’s neck prickled as she slowly turned to face her assailant. The daughter of Carl, the man who owned the general store. Valentine.

  Angel kept her tone even as she replied, “Yes, please. I’d like a pound of flour.”

  Valentine turned, walking toward the counter, and Angel followed. As Valentine weighed the flour, she spoke casually, almost sounding friendly. “I hear you are s
taying with Nathan’s aunt and uncle now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Such an odd living arrangement that was—you staying with Nathan.”

  Angel remained silent. It seemed to take Valentine forever to measure the flour as she continued. “Remind me how you came to be staying with him?”

  “That would be difficult to do,” Angel answered, “seeing as how I can’t recall ever giving you a reason in the first place.”

  Valentine’s eyes narrowed. “A person who avoids answering questions usually has something to hide.”

  Angel gritted her teeth, torn between a desire to defend herself and resentment that Valentine—and nearly everyone else—seemed to feel entitled to whatever defense Angel could provide. Angel was so tired of arguing. It seemed the only reason most people questioned her was to create an opportunity for themselves to tell her why she was wrong—that her attack really had been her fault, that her living situation with Nathan really had been improper, that she was just too flawed to realize these things for herself. The last thing Angel wanted to do was argue with Valentine because she knew it was the same argument she’d had many times over, and it was an argument she could only ever lose. Still, Angel found herself answering Valentine’s questions, the words leaving Angel’s mouth almost without her bidding.

  “He was helping me.”

  Valentine sniffed. “I’m sure. Perhaps you were ‘helping’ Nathan as well.”

  Angel seethed, fighting to keep her voice even. “Not in the way you imply.”

  “Hmm,” Valentine answered, not bothering to hide her disbelief. “Why did you leave?” She smirked, pushing the bag of flour across the counter to Angel. “Perhaps Nathan tired of your ‘help’?”

  Angel accepted the flour, holding Valentine’s gaze as she did so. Valentine was the first to look away, but as Angel turned to leave, Valentine said, “You may have been an interesting diversion, but Nathan can do better.”