Page 18 of Gabriel's Angel

Gabe was chopping wood. From the kitchen, where she was optimistically heating milk and a chocolate bar in a pan, she could hear the steady thud of the ax. She knew the woodbox was full, and the stack of logs outside the rear door was still high. Even if the snow lasted into June, they would still have an ample supply. Artist or not, he was a physical man, and she understood his need to do something manual and tiring.

It seemed so... normal, she thought. Her cooking in the kitchen, Gabe splitting logs, icicles growing long and shiny on the eaves outside the window. Their little world was so well tuned, so self-contained. It was like this every morning. She would rise to find him already outdoors, shoveling, chopping, hauling. She would make fresh coffee or warm what he’d left in the pot. The portable radio would bring her news from the outside, but it never seemed terribly important. After a little while he would come in, shake and stomp the snow off, then accept the cup of coffee she offered him. The routine would continue with him taking his place in behind the easel and Laura taking hers by the window.

Sometimes they would talk. Sometimes they would not.

Beneath the routine, she sensed some kind of hurry in him that she couldn’t understand. Though he might paint for hours, his movements controlled and measured, he still seemed impatient to finish. The fact was, the portrait was coming along faster than she could ever have imagined. She was taking shape on canvas—or rather the woman he saw when he looked at her was taking shape. Laura couldn’t understand why he had chosen to make her look so otherworldly, so dreamy. She was very much a part of the world. The child she carried grounded her to it.

But she’d learned not to complain, because he didn’t listen.

He’d done other sketches, as well, some full-length, some just of her face. She told herself he was entitled, particularly if that was all the payment she could give him for the roof over her head. A few of the sketches made her uneasy, like the one he’d drawn when she’d fallen asleep on the sofa late one afternoon. She’d looked so... defenseless. And she’d felt defenseless when she’d realized that he’d watched her and drawn her while she was unaware of it.

Not that she was afraid of him. Laura poked halfheartedly at the mixture of powdered milk, water and chocolate. He’d been kinder to her than she’d had any right to expect. And, though he could be terse and brusque, he was the gentlest man she’d ever known.

Perhaps he was attracted to her. Men had often been attracted to her face. But whether he was or not he treated her with respect and care. She’d learned not to expect those things when there was attraction.

With a shrug, she poured the liquid into a mug. Now wasn’t the time to focus on the feeling Gabe might or might not have. She was on her own. Fixing a mental image of creamy hot chocolate in her mind, Laura downed half the contents of the mug. She made a face, sighed, then lifted the mug again. In a matter of days she would be on her way to Denver again.

A sudden pain had her gripping the side of the counter for support. She held on, fighting back the instinctive need to call for Gabe. It was nothing, she told herself as it began to ease. Moving carefully, she started into the living room. Gabe’s chopping stopped. It was in that silence that she heard the other sound. An engine? The panic came instantly, and almost as quickly was pushed down. They hadn’t found her. It was ridiculous to even think it. But she walked quickly, quietly, to the front window to look out.

A snowmobile. The sight of it, shiny and toylike, might have amused and pleased her if she hadn’t seen the uniformed state trooper on it. Preparing to stand her ground if it came to that, Laura moved to the door and opened it a crack.

Gabe had worked up a warm, healthy sweat. He appreciated being outdoors, appreciated the crisp air, the rhythm of his work. He couldn’t say that it kept his mind off Laura. Nothing did. But it helped him put the situation into perspective.

She needed help. He was going to help her.

There were some who knew him who would have been more than a little surprised by his decision. It wasn’t that anyone would have accused him of being unfeeling. The sensitivity in his paintings was proof of his capacity for emotion, passion, compassion. But few would have thought him capable of unconditional generosity.

It was Michael who had been generous.

Gabe had always been self-absorbed—or, more accurately, absorbed in his art, driven to depict life, with all its joys and pains. Michael had simply embraced life.

Now he was gone. Gabe brought the ax down, his breath whistling through his teeth and puffing white in the thin air. And Michael’s leaving had left a hole so big, so great, that Gabe wasn’t certain it could ever be filled.

He heard the engine when his ax was at the apex of his swing. Distracted, he let it fall so that the blade was buried in wood. Splinters popped out to join others on the trampled snow. With a quick glance toward the kitchen window, Gabe started around the cabin to meet the visitor.

He didn’t make a conscious decision to protect the woman inside. He didn’t have to. It was the most natural thing in the world.

“How ya doing?” The cop, his full cheeks reddened by wind and cold, shut off the engine and he nodded to Gabe.

“Well enough.” He judged the trooper to be about twenty-five and half frozen. “How’s the road?”

Giving a short laugh, the trooper stepped off the snowmobile. “Let’s just say I hope you’ve got no appointments to keep.”

“Nothing pressing.”

“Good thing.” He offered a gloved hand. “Scott Beecham.”

“Gabe Bradley.”

“I heard somebody bought the old McCampbell place.” With his hands on his hips, Beecham studied the cabin. “A hell of a winter to pick for moving in. We’re swinging by to check on everybody on the ridge, seeing if they need supplies or if anyone’s sick.”

“I stocked up the day of the storm.”

“Good for you.” He gestured toward the Jeep. “At least you’ve got a fighting chance in a four-wheel drive. Could’ve filled a used car lot with some of the vehicles towed in. We’re checking around on a compact, an ’84 Chevy that took a spin into the guardrail about a quarter mile from here. Abandoned. Driver might have wandered out and got lost in the blizzard.”

“My wife,” Gabe said. In the doorway, Laura opened her eyes wide. “She was worried that something had happened to me and got the idea of driving into town.” Gabe grinned and drew out a cigarette. “Damn near ran into me. At the rate things were going, I figured it was best to leave the car where it was and get us back here. Haven’t been able to get back out to check on the damage.”

“Not as bad as some I’ve seen the last few days. Was she hurt?”

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