Page 27 of Gabriel's Angel

For richer. For poorer.

Forsaking all others.

The ring he slipped onto her finger was very plain, just a gold band that was a size too large. Looking at it, Laura felt something grow inside her. It was warm and sweet and tremulous. Curling her hand into his, she repeated the words, and meant them, from her heart.

Let no man put asunder.

“You may kiss the bride,” Witherby told him, but Gabe didn’t hear.

It was done. It was irrevocable. And until that moment he hadn’t been completely aware of how much it would mean to him.

With her hand still caught in his, he kissed her and sealed the promise.

“Congratulations.” Mrs. Witherby brushed her dry lips over Gabe’s cheek, then Laura’s. “Now you sit down, Mrs. Bradley, and I’m going to fix you a nice cup of tea before we drag your husband off again.”

“Thank you, but we don’t have any tea.”

“I bought some,” Gabe put in.

“That and everything else he could lay his hands on. Come on, Ethan, give me a hand.”

“You ought to be able to fix a cup of tea by yourself.”

Mrs. Witherby rolled her eyes. “You’d think the old goat would have a little more romance, seeing as he’s married more’n five hundred couples in his time. In the kitchen, Ethan, and give these young people five minutes alone.”

He grumbled about wanting his supper, but he followed her.

“They’re wonderful,” Laura murmured.

“I don’t think I’d have gotten him away from his TV if she hadn’t shoved him out the door.”

Silence followed, awkward. “It was nice of you to think of flowers... and the ring.”

He lifted her hand and studied it. “They don’t have a jewelry store in Lonesome Ridge. They sell these at the hardware in a little case next to sixpenny nails. It may just turn your finger green.”

She laughed and knew she’d treasure it even more now. “You may not believe it, but you may have saved my life by buying that tea.”

“I got some marshmallows, too.”

She hated it, despised herself for not being able to control it, but she started to cry. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to do anything about this.”

Discomfort surged through him. He was feeling edgy himself, and tears did nothing to help matters. “Look, I know it wasn’t exactly the wedding of the century. We can have some sort of party or reception back in San Francisco.”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Though she urged her hands over her face, the tears kept coming. “It was lovely and sweet and I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Not crying would be a good start.” He had a bandanna in his pocket, one that he used more often than not as a paint rag. He drew it out and offered it to her. “Laura, we’re legally married. That means you don’t have to be grateful for every bunch of daisies I hand you.”

She sniffled into the cloth and tried to smile. “I think it was the marshmallows that did it.”

“Keep this up and you won’t get any more.”

“I want you to know...” She dried her face and managed to compose herself. “I want you to know that I’m going to do everything I can to make you happy, to make you comfortable, so that you never regret what you did today.”

“I’m going to regret it,” he said suddenly impatient, “if you keep making it sound as though I gave someone else the last life jacket as the ship was sinking. I married you because I wanted to, not to be noble.”

“Yes, but I—”

“Shut up, Laura.” To make certain she did, he closed his mouth over hers. And for the first time she felt the true strength of his passion and need and desire. With a little murmur of surprise, she drew him closer.

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