by Sierra Rose
This dark, defeated man could not be Gabriel Havers. Not the man with whom Hannah was so familiar: jocular, rough and tough, always energetic, always enthusiastic; a man of the people. She had never seen him vulnerable. Not until this very moment.
“Were they—ill—?” she managed to ask.
“Ill?” His gaze swerved, that hawkish green gaze sharp as cut glass. “No. Not ill. Just a fool of a husband who let his wife lay sufferin’ for a full day before he thought to get hold of me.”
“But surely he could have—you could have—”
“Not only was this not a full-term baby,” he said, “but it was a breech birth, besides. Breech! Just imagine! Why, what that poor woman went through, tryin’ and tryin’ to—Uh.” Gabe stopped to swipe a palm across his stubbly jaw. “My humble apology, ladies. Details not meant for delicate ears, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve been married, Gabriel,” said Abigail coolly. “My ears are not as delicate as you might suppose.”
“I can’t help thinkin’ there musta been somethin’ I missed...something else I coulda done... I tried to save... I tried. I gave it my all. My heart is aching. If only he would’ve called me sooner. I could’ve helped.”
“It sounds to me as if you did all you could have. There’s no point in beating yourself up with guilt, or accepting all the responsibility—and blame—when the outcome lay in God’s hands.”
“Poor Marcella.” In another abrupt change of mood, Gabe’s tone softened with rue and regret. Gaze fixed unseeing upon the shadowed opposite wall, he murmured, “She lost so much blood, and she was so tired... The baby was stillborn. A little boy.”
Hannah, biting a knuckle to keep the threatening tears at bay, murmured, “How long—how long were you—there—?”
Abstractedly, Gabe engaged in his favorite habit—thrusting stiffened fingers through his already disheveled hair. “Dunno for sure. Reckon I went out to the farm sometime last evenin’. Got back this mornin’.” His involuntary yawn meant no disrespect, only exhaustion.
“So you didn’t eat anything. Did you sleep?”
“Uh-huh.” The jerk of one thumb indicated the scatter of broken glass in the hallway. Once, it would be a safe bet, the bottle had contained some sort of liquid intoxicant. Judging by the fumes, anyway.
“Gabriel, Gabriel.” Could the siren’s voice sound any more soporific, any more sympathetic? “You can’t carry around everything tragic that happens, as if you’re the only one involved. You take these cases too much to heart.”
He looked at her with absolutely no expression whatsoever. “You betcher boots I take every one of ’em to heart, Abigail. These are my patients. Whatddya expect me to do, just shrug it off? Two more graves in that cemetery that didn’t need to be.”
“And that’s why you didn’t come to the Thanksgiving dinner today?”
“Yeah, that’s why. Not really much in the mood for any kinda celebration, y’ know.” He raised bleary, bloodshot eyes, whose depths abruptly revealed too much of the anguish within.
“Nevertheless,” said Abigail, “it isn’t good to be alone when you’ve suffered through a painful ordeal. Eat, Gabriel, and Hannah and I will keep you company for a bit. If you don’t mind.”
The doctor looked down at his plate and sighed, then managed a weary half-smile. “No, guess I don’t mind. You’re right, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. I suspect you’re right most of the time, aren’tcha?”
“I try to be,” she said complacently. “Years of experience, my dear. Years of experience. And I suspect you need someone to look after you during a siege like this one. To make sure you’re taking care of yourself. Here, try the roast beef. It’s quite delicious.”
When the women finally left, much later—later, at least, by the night’s darkness more so than by the clock’s ticking hands—Gabriel did his best to accompany them to their respective homes. But his wishes were overridden by Abigail’s determination.
“This was our good deed for the day,” she demurred comfortingly, gently patting the doctor’s cheek with one gloved hand. “Hannah and I have made sure you’ve gotten a hearty meal, with leftovers galore, and I hope we’ve provided an outlet for you to vent upon. Now we’ll be on our merry way.”
“No, it isn’t necessary to walk with us.” Hannah, witnessing that too-intimate gesture, felt her lips tighten and her voice regain its usual acerbic note. “We’ll be fine on our own, and Abigail’s place of residence is just a block from my boarding house.”
They then left.
“He’s so upset,” Hannah said. “I feel so bad for him.”
“I do as well. And I wish he had a wife to watch over him, keep him from drinking so much when he is this upset.”
“We can check on him tomorrow.”
“Time will heal all pain.”
“I hope so.”
“Hannah, dear, your doctor is a fine-looking man, do you not think so?”
“I have to admit he is. But. Usually we snarl at each other like two tomcats yowling if we happen to be trapped in the same room together. We don’t get along. But he will make someone a fine husband.”
“Ah. A sad state of affairs. Are you always so brusque with him, then?”
“I suppose I am. Most of the time I’m simply giving back what he’s given me—spurts of spleen and vexation. And then, of course, there’s the endless mocking and scoffing.”
“I see.” A chill wind came skittering along, as they reached an alley, to snatch at their skirts and whirl a few crumpled leaves in their direction. “Well, then, if you’ve no objection, I do believe I might work my feminine wiles with Gabriel Havers.”
Hannah nearly choked. “Your feminine wiles?”
“To be sure. Most men like that sort of thing, you see. A bit of teasing. Playfulness. Fun. I’ve found that being too serious is just—well, too serious for most members of the male sex. And, as I mentioned, I’ve had a good deal of practice in such lighthearted flirtations.”
“You have?”
Enough cool, filtered moonlight spilled down into the street to show a sudden amusing crinkling of Abigail’s amazing blue eyes. “Court and I—hmmm. How can I say this without sounding offensive? After a few years, he lost interest in me as anything other than a trophy, to hang on his arm at social events and testify to his success. So I—improvised. As many other wives have, before me.”
“But I’m not sure I understand what—”
“Oh, Hannah, please don’t be so naïve. Of course you understand. A great many exciting, unattached admirers can be found attending every function at every great house in the city, and it is so very easy to take advantage of a darkened ballroom corner or a shadowy garden wall. Even, occasionally, to slip away for a private carriage ride.”
To what misdeeds, exactly, was the woman confessing? Surely not what might be assumed! Hannah, with the example of her sisters’ mail order marriages before her, felt her convictions crumbling and her romantic dreams turning to ashes.
“So, since I am now wonderfully, delightfully free of any—impediments—I can pursue my own wishes without reservation. In my opinion, once I have Gabriel securely in my grasp, he’ll make quite a satisfactory husband for me. He is a doctor. He is loved by everyone. He’s very handsome. He makes a good living. He is kind and makes all of us laugh. He’s perfect. And I want to make him mine.”
Halting dead before the familiar lantern hung at Mrs. McKnight’s front door, Hannah turned a sharp gaze upon the woman she had been beginning to consider her friend. “I worked out the math, Abigail. You’re—what, about ten years older than he is?”
The lady possessed a slightly wicked yet magical sense of humor, which sent a burst of laughter gurgling up out of nowhere like water splashed from a fountain. “Oh, that much? But, my dear, why should that matter? My poor Courtney had more than thirty years on me.”
“Yes, but—you—why would you—” How could Hannah, so gently bred and reared, possibly bring up the possibility of child-bearing in later y
ears, and whether Abigail, at nearly forty, might still accomplish that feat did a second mate desire it? Simple. She could not. And so her mild protest fumbled to a stop.
Meanwhile Abigail was looking about, only to realize they had reached home base. Suddenly she stepped forward, surprising her companion with a warm, enveloping, heartfelt hug. “Here, I’m but a few steps away now. Good night, Hannah. I had a lovely time today, and a lovely talk with you, and I look forward to reading your article when it’s ready for approval.”
Chapter Four
UPON HIS UNEXPECTED appearance at the Gazette a few days later, Hannah was so taken aback that she dropped her pencil, which rolled halfway across the floor to halt almost under his feet, and knocked over her coffee cup, which was, fortunately for the layout she had been putting together, nearly empty.
With a few muffled words that might have been ladylike curses (it’s amazing what adverse habits one acquires in the masculine atmosphere of a newspaper office), she grabbed a convenient rag and began mopping up.
Meanwhile, Gabe bent to retrieve her pencil. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” she said, getting up and closing the door to keep the stove’s heat inside.
“Sure. Mr. Crane often accuses me of woolgathering. I suppose I was doing so, again.”
“Well, then, I hope the wool was soft and fluffy.” Discarding that, he approached to peer down at her work. “Whatcha doin’?”
“I’m being taught the finer arts of creating an advertisement. After that, I suppose it will be typesetting. And then, perhaps, in my spare time I can walk the streets and deliver the newspapers that I’ve printed.”
“I love a woman with a passion.”
She looked up from her table full of scissors, squares of paper, and paste pots to smile.
He glanced around the spacious room, crowded with everything under the sun necessary for operating a mighty publishing business. Stacks of blank newsprint in the corner, ready for use. A sturdy oak cabinet holding metal trays full of type, in a variety of fonts. The Gazette’s inadequate pot belly stove, currently stuffed with smoldering wood chips. And, of course, the printing press itself, a cumbersome and, when it was working at full operation, noisy block of machinery.
The silence was stretching out, becoming uncomfortable. To fill the vacuum, to dispel that sense of discomfort, Hannah remarked that Abigail Fitzsimmons had, subject to a small change or deletion here and there, approved her article for publication.
“Announcing location of the store, y’ mean?”
“Well, that...and some of her background—how she happened to come here, and so on—for human interest. Readers like the personal touch.”
Foregoing an aimless inspection of the printer and equipment, he had wandered back to the desk. Killing time? At least they weren’t fighting as they previously had. They usually disagreed about everything from religion to politics.
“Sounds good. I’ll look forward to readin’ it. Abby’s led an—well, an interestin’ life, so I’ve heard, with some hardship in between. Smart lady. Pretty, too, with that sorta goldy hair and those dimples. Nice she’s chosen our town to make a fresh start.”
“Uh-huh. Nice,” echoed Hannah.
“And, I must admit, that is some unusual setup she’s got over there at Table. Put a lot of thought into her design, and a lot of heart and soul. She’d oughta let some of the ladies’ groups meet there once in a while. Seems t’ me they’d get a kick out of it.”
“Oh, indeed.” Could she do nothing but parrot his words? To what realm had her fiery, independent spirit disappeared?
“So. Where is everybody?”
“I’m here,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t I count?”
Gabe’s grin stretched from mouth to sparkling eyes. “Okay, point taken. You’re runnin’ the shop, huh? But how about Corny, for example? What happened to that ole reprobate?”
“Mr. Throckmorton. Ah.” Hannah paused to deliberate, as if the part-timer’s routine were not the same every day. “If it’s dinner time, he will be swilling down his meal at the Red Slipper Bar. Perhaps you are familiar with the place?”
He snorted. “Not me. I’m an innocent; don’t even know where it is. Does the man show up to work a’tall?”
“If finding the floor swept and the wood box refilled each morning means he’s showed up the night before, then—yes, he most assuredly has. Why?” she asked politely. “Were you looking for him?”
“Well, no, not him in particular. Just wonderin’ why you’re all alone here, and for how long?”
“Well, it’s dinner time.” Hannah was scrubbing at the coffee stain on her skirt. Of course this would have to have happened, on a day she had decided not to don the unattractive leather apron. One of her better dresses, too, of sedate burgundy wool. “No one, not even a breaking story comes between Mr. Crane and his dinner, scheduled precisely at noon in a back corner of the Sarsaparilla.” Then, remembering business, she asked, “Did you wish to consult on some matter?”
“Nope.” Gabe was standing, entirely at his ease, both hands in pockets, rocking slowly and slightly back and forth on his heels. “Came to see you.”
“Me?”
Color rose in a wash from sturdy neck to clean-shaven cheeks. “Well, yeah, I figured you would be. But I wanted to thank you for comin’ to the funeral a couple days ago.”
Hannah knew an instant flash of shame. And, just like that, she heard Abigail’s knowing voice in her head, sing-songing a repetition of Thursday night’s conversation. She had said that most males prefer the company of someone playful and malleable (had she really used that word?), and a promise to scoop up the doctor as if he were a chunk of horehound candy just waiting to be sucked dry.
Her head was spinning with facts and alternatives.
Still, it couldn’t hurt to treat the doctor just a tad more nicely. They had their disagreements in the past, but she needed to be supportive. Especially now, when he was so obviously grieving a double loss.
“Oh. Well. Uh. That’s all right, Gabe, no thanks are necessary. I was only doing my—”
“If you tell me again that you’re just a kind-hearted woman, doin’ your duty,” he interrupted on a sudden burst of temper, “I’ll explode.”
Out of nowhere, from somewhere in her middle, a muffled spurt of laughter bubbled up, surprising both. Immediately Hannah clapped both hands over her mouth, attempting to stifle her amusement. “I’m sorry, Gabe. I know you didn’t mean that to be humorous. But it was—”
“Humorous. Ahuh.” He managed a reluctant grin.
Hannah straightened to resume her serious, practical face. “At any rate, I had planned on attending the funeral, Gabe. I don’t know the family, but with such a tragedy it seemed only right to pay my respects.”
“I was glad to see so many people took time to show up for the service. There just ain’t never anything right about losin’ anyone so young, let alone her baby.” Restless, he turned away again to prowl the shop, investigating this, peering into that, picking up and putting down. “Sometimes, life isn’t fair.”
“For most of us. What now?”
“As far as me, y’ mean? Well, I wouldn’t mind snatchin’ a bite to eat, myself. You wanna come along? I hear the Drinkwater sets a pretty good table.”
“No debates?”
“None, whatsoever.”
“I think you like baiting me.”
“We have different views on different topics, and that’s okay. I would still love to get a bite to each with you.”
The Drinkwater? Pretty posh surroundings, as measured against other chophouses in this town. Expensive, too. In a way, she regretted having to decline the invitation.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Gabe, I can’t leave. Mr. Crane won’t return before two, so I’m minding the shop.” Although she wanted to ask about the propriety of such a request, and the possibility of his asking Abigail instead, the words just wouldn’t come easily.
N
o matter, though. As if he were reading her mind, he muttered something about how disheartening it was that all his fine dining partners were working women, and too busy to partake of his company. Deflated, Hannah picked up her pencil and began to make busy motions.
“I’m sorry. But I really need this job. And you know how much I love it. How about another time?”
“Well, then, reckon I’ll wander on over to the mercantile and see if I can persuade Ben to come eat with me. Drat and double drat all these fellers just gotten hitched, anyhow. No time a’tall for an ole bachelor like me; too busy with their wives. You sure you can’t just lock the door here and leave, Hannah?” he finished up hopefully.
“Yes, I’m sure. No, I can’t.”
With a sigh, the doctor started for the door. “So be it. Another day, maybe. Oh. I almost forgot.”
Pausing, he slipped one hand into an inside pocket of his suit coat—a new suit, Hannah now realized, freshly steamed and pressed. He looked so put together, so handsome. She tried not to stare at him.
Smiling, he reached across the disordered desk to extend a small rectangular package, wrapped in tissue, embellished with pink ribbon and bow.
Her eyes widened. “For me?”
“Yeah, of course for you,” he grinned with perfect white teeth.
Gabriel gave a heartfelt groan and shoved taut fingers through his hair, further disheveling the curls that never obeyed a comb or brush, anyway. “I was just tryin’ to make amends for my boorish behavior on Thanksgivin’ night. I felt bad for telling you to go away. I never treat company in that way.”
Slowly, she began undoing the ribbon.
“It ain’t a goldarned cobra, Miss Burton. It ain’t gonna bite.”
A smile curled up on her lips. “With you, I never know.”
He laughed.
It was a book. The leather-bound book he had purchased at Table of Contents, to be precise: “Hereward the Wake,” written by Charles Kingsley.
Her eyes widened at the beautiful gift. “How lovely! Thank you so much.”
“Meant to give it to you a while back,” he said, rushing into speech to counteract the flat reaction. “Kept forgettin’, or I got busy.”