Walking on Air (16 page)

Gabe had accomplished what he’d set out to do. She’d finally talked about the attack. Judging by the slump of her shoulders, she felt empty now, no longer buried under a mountain of unspoken horror. He’d aimed, fired, and hit the bull’s-eye. So, now what? If she hadn’t hated him before, she sure as hell did now.
I’m no good at this, Gabriel
,
he thought, hoping the message would wing its way straight to the archangel. He needed some advice, and he needed it fast. Unfortunately, Gabe had told his namesake to scat, and apparently his request had been granted.

“Well,” Gabe ventured, “hate me though you might, at least now maybe you’ll no longer dread sleep.”

She jerked her head around to stare at him. “Pardon me?”

Gabe settled back with his folded arms under his head again. “You heard me. You’ve kept that bottled up and tightly corked for too many years. Talking about shit like that helps us turn loose of it and move on.”

Silence. It stretched between them, as taut as an archer’s bowstring. Then, in a shrill, squeaky voice, she asked, “Are you implying that you manipulated me into talking about it?”

“There’s a word I don’t use often,
manipulated
.”

“Answer the question!” she cried.

Gabe released a breath and slowly inhaled. “Do you honestly believe any man with a heart could believe what you endured at Barclay’s hands was
inconsequential
? Or trivial? Using that word was a stroke of genius. It pushed you right over the cliff.”

She leaped to her feet. “You, a man with a
heart
? Damn you!”

Gabe winced. She’d probably cursed more in the last half hour than she had in her whole life. “I knew you’d hate me for it, but it needed doing. Now it’s time for you to come back to bed and get some sleep.”

“I shan’t sleep a wink! Not on a bad-dream night. I told you that.”

“Care to make a wager on that?”

“Make your bet!” she flung back. “I’ll match you!”

“A hundred dollars.”

“You’re on!”

Gabe knew she couldn’t afford to lose a hundred dollars, so her willingness to put it on the table told him far more than she could know. For one, she was beside herself with anger—at
him
. And second, she believed, without a single doubt, that she wouldn’t sleep tonight.

“Good.” He patted the mattress. “Fair wagering obligates you to at least
try
to sleep. Get in bed.”

She huffed, did a turn in place that lifted her long hair to swirl around her, and then jerked the covers back. “Very well. But I swear to God, if you so much as
breathe
on me, Gabriel Valance, I’ll shoot you dead with one of your own guns.”

“Fair enough. I believe you. I probably have pumpkin breath anyway.”

She finally crawled into bed. Gabe didn’t look her way. He just closed his eyes and listened to her rain what he suspected were curses upon his head, but she muttered them into her pillow so he couldn’t make them out.
Ah, well
. He’d been cursed before; it was nothing new to him.

Once again, he pretended to fall asleep. Then he waited. He had to give Nan credit: She managed to stay wide-awake for at least thirty minutes. But in the end, he heard that cute little snuffle—not a snore. God forbid that he call it that!—that told him she’d given up the ghost.

He grinned into the moon-washed shadows. He was a hundred bucks richer, and she would slumber like a baby in its mother’s arms for the rest of the night. If she had another nightmare, he’d eat the socks he’d been wearing for two days straight.

All in all, not bad for one day’s work.

A
warm glow of brightness disrupted the night. Nan squeezed her eyes shut. The irritating glare didn’t go away. She frowned and pulled the covers over her head. Then, slowly, as she inched toward awareness, she realized that a light in the middle of the night was usually a sign of distress. Had Laney come in with a candle, ill or needing her? She jerked upright and opened her eyes.

The harsh glare was no candle. It was sunlight,
full
sunlight, indicating a late morning hour. Her mind rejected what her eyes were telling her. It couldn’t be morning. Nan blinked. Squinted at her bedroom window.
My stars!
It had to be after nine. She twisted to peer at the windup alarm clock on her bedside table, which she rarely used to rouse herself but kept wound to be sure of the time.
Sixteen after ten?
No! It couldn’t be. She’d forgotten to wind it, and it had stopped last night. That was the only explanation.

Rattled and incredulous, Nan sprang from bed, noting as she did that Gabriel wasn’t in it. She hurried over to the armoire, shifting hangers back and forth on the rod to find the russet gown she’d worn yesterday. Her bodice watch would give her the correct time. It couldn’t possibly be sixteen after ten in the morning.

Seventeen
after ten. Two timepieces couldn’t be wrong. She’d slept half the day away. What would Gabriel say? Worse, what would he
think
?

Snatching her wrapper, she shoved her arms through the sleeves in case Gabriel made an unannounced entry, then gathered her clothing and crept from the bedroom, up the mercifully empty hall, and into the water closet. After locking the door, she gazed with yearning at the metal bathtub—one of the plumbing luxuries she’d allowed herself when she redid the upstairs—which emptied through a hose into a pipe under the floor that ran across her apartment and connected with the drainage outlet under her kitchen sink. Other shop owners along Main Street had thought her mad when she’d asked Elbert Rasper to plumb her kitchen sink and tub. Indoor plumbing was, as yet, far from the norm in Random and possibly even in Denver. But Nan had ignored the gainsayers, paying Elbert a small fortune to do the work and then run a hollow drainage log from the building to a buried gravel pit at the back edge of the shop’s backyard.

Now she wished she could sneak to the kitchen in her nightclothes to pump some water and put it on to boil for a wonderful hot bath.
Not
. When she faced Gabriel Valance—gambler, drinker, blackmailer of women, and gunfighter—she wanted to be fully dressed and perfectly coiffed. She’d given him every reason to feel smug, sleeping all night without dreaming and snoozing until nearly noon. Manipulating her into speaking of Barclay’s attack on her had been cruel of him. She’d never spoken of it to anyone, and doing so last night had
nothing
to do with her deep, dreamless sleep. She’d been exhausted; that was all.

Oh,
lands
, she owed him a hundred dollars! A small fortune. What on earth had she been thinking when she made that wager? Nan filled the washbowl, hastily completed her morning ablutions, and got dressed. After putting away her gown and wrapper, she headed for the kitchen, nervously fiddling with her hairpins. Her husband and Laney were undoubtedly awake, hungry, and awaiting breakfast.

Still incredulous that she’d slept so deeply and for so long, Nan stepped briskly through the sitting room archway, saying, “Good heavens, why didn’t someone wake me? You both must be starv—”

She broke off to gape in startled amazement at Gabriel, who stood at the stove wearing a makeshift apron, a white kitchen towel tucked over the front of his gun belt. Laney hovered at his elbow, giggling.

“Good morning.” He left off stirring something in a pot to flash her a smile. “You’re just in time for the breakfast of the century: pumpkin pie oatmeal and cinnamon toast.”

Laney, her cheeks as red as September apples, turned a sparkling gaze on Nan. “It was Gabe’s idea. We had leftover pie filling, and oh, Mama, you should taste! It’s ever so good!”

Nan, who’d frozen in motion, collected herself and took another step toward them. The sight of a man, any man, turning a hand in the kitchen was so foreign to her that she feared she was gawking at him like an idiot. All she could manage was, “Laney, I see no tasting spoon.”

A flush crept up Gabriel’s dark neck. He darted a glance at Laney, quirked an eyebrow, and sent the girl dashing over to the flatware drawer to get a utensil. This told Nan that they’d both been sampling with the stirring spoon. Nan did the same thing herself sometimes, but only on the sly when Laney wasn’t watching.

“Pumpkin oatmeal. Hmm.” Actually, it sounded delicious, and Nan couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t thought of it herself. “I’m amazed you know how to cook, Gabriel.”

“I don’t, really, at least not much. My experience runs only to an open fire. I can serve you up a tasty pot of beans, and my skillet corn bread isn’t too bad. I’m also a quick learner if someone takes the time to teach me.” He grinned and sniffed the pot’s contents. “That was a hint.”

He looked clean-shaven, his burnished jaw shiny in the light that came through the window over the sink. His black shirt, though slightly wrinkled, appeared crisp and clean. The memory of his bare chest, shoulders, and arms chose that moment to invade her mind, and she felt heat creeping up her throat.

“When our holiday food is all gone, perhaps you can treat us to one of your suppers.” Nan fetched an apron and tied the strings in a bow at the small of her back. She stepped over to a cupboard to collect dishes for the table. “It was thoughtful of you both to postpone breakfast until I woke up. You must be starving.”

“Actually, this’ll be our second breakfast. We had pie when we first got up.” His deep voice curled around Nan like warm smoke. “We controlled ourselves and left you a piece.”

Nan’s stomach felt as knotted as a skein of kitten-tumbled yarn. She pretended to be intent on setting the table. “Well, since you apparently aren’t going to mention it, Gabriel, I suppose I will. It appears that I owe you a hundred dollars. Gloat all you like.”
Please don’t.
“It shan’t bother me.”

Laney gasped. “A hundred dollars? For what?”

Nan glanced up just then, and Gabriel winked at her. “That was a silly bet. I don’t expect you to pay up.”

“It wasn’t a silly bet to me.” Nan placed fresh napkins beside each bowl. “And I am a woman who honors her debts.”

“Okay, fine,” he volleyed back. “You can put it in the family pot. Now that we’re man and wife, what’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours. We can make bets any old time we want, and nobody ever really loses.”

Ha
. As of Monday, all the money in Nan’s pot would be under the floorboard in her downstairs workroom. No way was he getting his hands on her precious hoard. It was all the security she and Laney had.

“I can’t believe Mama made a bet. She doesn’t believe in wagering!” Laney glanced back and forth at both adults. “What did you bet on?”

Gabriel grinned at the girl. “Whether or not you could stop talking for thirty seconds.”

Laney giggled and rolled her eyes. “No, sir. You’re fibbing. What did you
really
bet on?”

“That, young miss, is none of your business,” Gabriel replied. “Right, Nan?”

A rush of relief filled Nan. She truly didn’t wish to have her nightmares become a topic of breakfast conversation. There were things that Laney shouldn’t know—things that Nan had relentlessly endeavored to keep secret from her. As a result, Laney, while aware of the stark facts about what had occurred eight years ago in Manhattan, remained unaware of any lurid details. Little girls should remain innocent.

“Right,” she said, confirming Gabriel’s statement with an emphasis that made him turn to stare at her. “Now that I’m married, Laney, there will be some things Gabriel and I discuss only between ourselves.”

“How is that fair? I don’t like secrets!”

“Too bad,” Gabriel inserted. Then he distracted the girl by slapping a hot pad into her hand. “You can dish up the oatmeal while I get the toast out of the oven.”

Moments later, Nan was seated at the opposite end of the table from her husband, with Laney at her right. The blessing had been said, and now the child was laughing because Gabriel had tasted the porridge, closed his eyes, and was moaning as if his bowl were filled with ambrosia. Nan braced herself and took a taste. She nearly moaned, too. The stuff was almost as good as the pies had been. As for the cinnamon toast, she felt that the slices had been slathered with too much butter, but when she bit into her piece, she couldn’t quarrel with the results.
Delicious.

Suddenly Nan felt unusually hungry. Normally she ate smallish portions and never had second servings of anything, but she quickly dispensed with her porridge, helped herself to a second piece of toast, because there were still three left on the platter, and then poured herself a glass of milk from the chilled pitcher. As she took a sip, she found her gaze locked with her husband’s over the rim of her tumbler. An odd shiver ran up her spine and radiated out over her shoulders, making her skin prickle. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, but it did take her by surprise.
Good heavens.
Was this how it felt to be attracted to a man? No wonder some women acted like morons, simpering and blushing and fanning their cheeks.

Nan would
never
allow herself to behave in such an unseemly way. It mattered little that Gabriel Valance was devilishly handsome when he grinned at her. She would
not
melt under the twinkling warmth in his coffee brown eyes. She averted her gaze and carefully set down her milk. A burning sensation crept over her cheeks. She filled her mouth with toast, chewed industriously, and nearly choked when she tried to swallow.

“I think that getting a good night’s rest agreed with you,” he commented. “Your color is better. Don’t you agree, Laney?”

Nan endured a long study from her much younger sister. Finally the child replied, “I do agree. Her cheeks are nearly as pink as my Sunday dress.”

•   •   •

Over the remainder of the holiday weekend, Nan tried her best to stick with her regular routine, which included any hand-stitching needed on garments in progress, and cleaning tasks too time-consuming to manage when the shop was open. Gabriel Valance insisted on helping, and when he decided to sweep, Nan watched in startled amazement as he put all his strength into each pass with the straw bristles, sending more dirt airborne than into the pile on the floor. She confiscated the broom at the first opportunity and suggested that her new husband dust the sitting room, her thought being that he couldn’t do much damage with feathers attached to the end of a handle. Wrong. He knocked over knickknacks, toppled a display of books, and used the tool so vigorously that bits of down soon decorated the upholstery. Despite his ineptitude, he took criticism from Laney with good grace, attempted to lighten his touch, and later collected all the feathers. Nan was incredulous that a man would turn his hand to household tasks, let alone take instruction from a twelve-year-old.

Gabriel continued to play the role of charming husband—ever patient, warmly accepting, and brimming with compliments. He was good at it. . . . She had to give him credit, but it constantly remained at the forefront of Nan’s mind that he was only putting on an act. And that act wore on Nan’s nerves so badly that she felt like an overwound clock with inner springs about to snap.

By Sunday, feeling extraordinarily well rested and having experienced four reasonably tolerable nights in bed with her husband, Nan was finding it increasingly difficult to hold fast to her determination to resist Gabriel’s allure. Was he real, this man with his crooked grin and playful sense of humor? Her lovely apartment, once so quiet, now rang with laughter. And her life, once so predictable, had become a moment-by-moment surprise.

Hoping for some time alone to sort out her chaotic thoughts and emotions, Nan went downstairs to work in her shop that afternoon. To her dismay, Gabriel and Laney soon joined her, and what might have been a peaceful and productive few hours for Nan became a stint of alternating amusement and frustration. While she dusted shelves and cataloged her new inventory, man and child engaged in a ludicrous game of dress-up. Laney started it by plopping a hat on her head and pretending to be a fastidious and difficult-to-satisfy customer. Gabriel followed the child’s lead, and the next thing Nan knew, her dark, intimidating gunslinger wore one of her more colorful headpieces, a mauve felt cap adorned with pink and green feathers and silk carnations nestled among sprigs of angel’s breath. He draped a knitted green shawl over his broad shoulders and hooked the handle of a beaded black handbag over his wrist.

If anyone on the street saw this performance, it would be all over town faster than a tumbleweed in a hurricane. Hurriedly Nan drew the curtains across the windows, muttering something about the light hurting her eyes.

Neither Gabriel nor Laney paid her much attention. Flapping one hand and placing his other on a cocked hip, Gabriel tried to speak in a high-pitched voice, but his natural baritone thrummed deeply in between squeaks. “I have my heart set on a hat with a dead bird perched on top, Mrs. Valance. I’m told you are a milliner of inestimable repute who happily works under the direction of her clients to create
stunning
originals.”

It was the first time Nan had been addressed as Mrs. Valance. It gave her a jolt, but she couldn’t very well protest. Like it or not, it was her name. She might have resented the reminder, but Gabriel looked so silly she couldn’t help but smile. Playing along, she said, “I’ve a broad inventory of stuffed critters in storage. What kind of bird are you yearning for?” She slanted him a wicked look. “Perhaps a hummingbird? Or a canary?”

“Not a hummingbird or a canary!” Laney cried. “They’re too little and sweet to suit him.” Her gray eyes danced with mischief. “Do you have a big, black,
ugly
crow?”

“No, but I do have a vulture,” Nan said.