Mail Order Bride: Winter (Bride For All Seasons 4)

With a reassuring calmness, Abigail finished the pouring, with cups for herself and Hannah, and a slight nod that directed Hannah to partake. Apparently quite comfortable in her assumed role as hostess.

“Many of your friends were at the church hall today,” she said into the sweet silence, after a few sips. Light, easy conversation, to bridge the chasm between wherever the man had taken his inner self to, and the here and now. “They’re a nice bunch of people, Gabriel. You have many who love you and care about you.”

Her only answer was a grunt. He stared at the utensils, then

shrugged and began to work his way through a slice of spiced ham.

After a bit, when some hint of color began to return to a complexion that had appeared like bleached bone, Hannah ventured, “Have you been here alone all day, Gabe?”

“Alone. Yeah, guess so. Most of it. After I got back.”

“Got back from where?” Just gentle, idle talk, bringing him back into the normal routine of life.

Gabriel had had enough, for the time being; with his plate only partially emptied, he put things aside to stare off into space. Such a rare occasion, reflected Hannah irrelevantly, for this man of such prodigious appetite, to show so little hunger now.

“A little farm about ten miles outa town—the Popes...Lawrence and Marcella Pope. Expectin’ their first child in another month or so.”

“And what happened, Gabe?” This was Abigail again, with her hand laid lightly over his, in support and friendship. An overreach?

“What happened? Why, I lost ’em, Abby.” His head turned so slowly, to stare at her, that the women would not have been surprised to hear an audible creaking, like the movement of some ancient and rusty machinery. “I lost ’em both, mother and baby.”

The sound of a ragged gasp—from either, or both. Flame from the lanterns flickered; one extinguished itself entirely, Hannah's unsteady hand snaked out to turn up the wick of the lamp on their table. Branches rattled suddenly with a rise of wind, to scratch against a window pane as if seeking entrance. From somewhere, far distant, came the sound of a wolf baying at some nonexistent moon.

Chill. And stark. But an atmosphere no more so than inside this kitchen.

“Gabe.” Abigail’s voice was barely a whisper, as her grasp tightened slightly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry. Oh, yeah. Me, too. Lotta that goin’ around.”

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.”