Page 31 of Gabriel's Angel

But she did.

She stepped into the tiled foyer and wished desperately for the comfort of the tiny cabin. It had begun to snow again the day they’d left Colorado, and though the mild spring breeze and the tiny buds here were wonderful, she found herself wishing for the cold and ferocity of the mountains.

“It’s lovely,” she managed, glancing up at the gentle curve of the stairs.

“It was my grandmother’s.” Gabe set down the luggage and took in the familiar surroundings. It was a house he’d always appreciated for its beauty and its balance. “She held on to it after her marriage. Shall I show you around, or would you rather rest?”

She nearly winced. It was as though he were talking to a guest. “If I rested as much as you’d like, I’d sleep my way through the rest of the year.”

“Then why don’t I show you the upstairs.” He knew he sounded polite, overly polite, but he’d been edgy ever since they’d stepped off the plane. The farther away from Colorado they’d gotten, the further Laura had withdrawn from him. It was nothing he could put his finger on, but it was there.

Hefting two cases, he started up the stairs. He was bringing his wife, and his son, home. And he didn’t know quite what to say to either of them. “I’ve used this bedroom.” He strode in and set the cases at the foot of a big oak bed. “If there’s another you’d prefer, we can arrange it.”

She nodded, thinking that though they’d shared a motel room while the baby had been in the hospital they had only shared a bed in the cabin, the night before Michael had been born. It would be different here. Everything would be different here.

“It’s a beautiful room.”

Her voice was a little stiff, but she smiled, trying to soften it. The room was lovely, with its high ceilings and the glossy antiques. There was a terrace, and through the glass doors she could see a garden below, with green leaves already formed. The floors were dark with age and gleaming, just as the Oriental rug was faded with age and rich with heritage.

“The bath’s through there,” Gabe told her as she ran a finger down the carving in an old chifforobe. “My studio’s at the end of the hall. The light’s best there, but there’s a room next to this that might do as a nursery.”

When they spoke of the baby, things always relaxed between them. “I’d love to see it. After all those days in the incubator, Michael deserves a room of his own.”

She followed Gabe out and into the next room. It was decorated in blues and grays with a stately four-poster and a many-cushioned window seat. As with the other rooms she’d seen, paintings hung on the wall, some of them Gabe’s, others by artists he respected.

“It’s beautiful, but what would you do with all these things?”

“They can be stored.” He dismissed the furnishings with a shrug. “Michael can stay in our room until his is finished.”

“You don’t mind? He’s bound to wake during the night for weeks yet.”

“I could stick the pair of you in a hotel until it’s convenient.”

She started to speak, but then she recognized the look in his eyes. “Sorry. I can’t get used to it.”

“Get used to it.” He moved over to cup her face in his hand. Whenever he did that, she was almost ready to believe that dreams came true. “I may not have the equipment to feed him, but I figure I can learn to change a diaper.” He stroked a thumb under her jawline. “I’ve been told I’m clever with my hands.”

The heat rushed into her face. She was torn between stepping into his arms and backing away. The baby woke and decided for her. “Speaking of feeding...”

“Why don’t you use the bedroom, where you can be comfortable? I have some calls to make.”

She knew what was coming. “Your family?”

“They’re going to want to meet you. Are you up to it this evening?”

She wanted to snap that she wasn’t an invalid, but she knew he wasn’t speaking of her physical health. “Yes, of course.”

“Fine. I’ll make arrangements about the nursery. Did you have any colors in mind?”

“Well, I...” She expected to paint the room herself. She’d wanted to. Things were different now, she reminded herself. The cabin had easily become theirs, but the house was his. “I’d like yellow,” she told him. “With white trim.”

She sat in a chair by the window while Michael suckled hungrily. It was so good to have him with her all the time instead of having to go to the hospital to feed him, touch him, watch him. It had been so hard to leave him there and go back to a hotel room and wait until she could go back and see him again.

Smiling, she looked down at him. His eyes were closed, and his hand was pressed against her breast.

He was already gaining weight. Healthy, the doctor in Colorado Springs had said. Sound as a dollar. And the tag on his little wristband had read Michael Monroe Bradley.

Who was Michael? she wondered. Gabe’s Michael. She hadn’t asked, but knew that the name, the person, was important.

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