Gabe

There were seasons of grief to this place.

At first, he had drifted aimlessly through the changing leaves and fading light of autumn. He had died a slow death in those early weeks after she had sent him away for good. What sleep he found was populated by ugly nightmares-- her face, bloodied and twisted in fear and pain. Her cries, echoing into daylight. He had come every night, in the hours before dawn, and sat in that spot by the river. Chill air had nipped at his skin just as desolate understanding nipped at the boundaries of his soul.

Then had come winter. Long, bitter hours. Starless nights and slate gray mornings. The edges of the river had frozen, the water a thin black strip of obsidian as it rushed by, gathering up the last of his hope as it passed and carrying it away. He had brought coffee with him in the winter, to keep him warm and to fill the time. He never brought a second cup, because he knew there was no use. In the winter, he lived in the frigid knowledge that she would never come. Why he still returned, he didn't know. Stubbornness, maybe. It was all he had left of her-- this promise that he had made. Perhaps she had walked away from what they had, but at least he could sit there, shivering and angry, and know that he had stayed.

Fortunately for his soul, and the folks who had to live with him, winter eventually gave way to spring. The strain eased. The ice thawed. He still knew, as he had in the winter, that she was never coming. But, where in the winter he had nursed the wounds that festered and tore at his pride, in the spring, he finally decided to let them heal. He brought coffee and two cups, and he sat by the river and thought of what he'd say, how he'd kiss her, if she emerged from the woodline. When dawn broke with no sign, he packed away the coffee with an empty feeling of loss, fading echoes of bitterness, and the perverse comfort of knowing he would try again the next night.

And finally, summer.

For most of the folks in these parts, summer was cause for celebration. They were mountain folk, who spent three quarters of their lives buried in three feet of snow. So of course the warm summer sun and the sound of birds were a blessing. But Gabe Townsend wasn't mountain folk. He was born in a steamy brothel in the ass crack of Texas. His first five years had tasted of dust and sweat, and every year thereafter came with a chorus of threats of eternal damnation. Burning in the fires of hell. Boiling in vats of molten rock. Suffocating on a haze of burning sulfur.

Summer was a dangerous time for the spawn of Satan. It reminded him of where he was headed when it was all said and done. And summer was right where she ultimately left him. After the pain of autumn, the bitterness of winter, and the hope of spring, all that was left was the sticky, unpleasant reality of summer. A summer that lasted four long years, dragging him through snow and rain, through pitch black nights and silvery moonlight.

In the summer, he brought no coffee. He felt no anger and no yearning. He waited by the river, not for the hope of her arrival, but out of habit. It was a nice place when he moved beyond the memories. The river was a steady hum, the spot far enough away from the ramshackle society of town that he could pretend for a moment that he was nothing more or less than a man. Not the misbegotten son of a whore. Not the sinful bastard who had cuckolded the local preacher. Not the abandoned lover of a fallen angel. He was just a man, made fool by a woman, sitting by the river beneath the stars, waiting for the rising sun.

He made the trip every day, and he knew the way so well he could walk the path with his eyes closed. The night that endless summer finally broke, it was muggy and unpleasant and he was bone tired. He walked in a sort of fugue, his eyes half closed as he followed the game trail toward the sound of rushing water. Sweat dampened the back of his shirt and he pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, swiping droplets from his forehead with the back of his hand.

He reached the river later than usual, slumping into his usual spot beneath a large pine. It had been a long night, wrangling frustrated drunkards out of his mother's establishment. She had two strict rules-- the girls got to choose their clients and the girls got to choose if they wanted clients. This made for a loyal workforce and a rowdy, agitated clientele. Turned out men didn't like getting told they weren't wanted, least of all by a passel of prostitutes.

Knuckles throbbing where he'd laid them into unhappy faces, he leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. It was cooler this close to the river, and the slight breeze whispered against his skin, the sound of the river a rolling lullaby. He drifted into vague, half-formed dreams. Memories, really, of his plans for the land across the Bridge. A little house where nobody could find them. A garden for her, with flowers on one side and vegetables on the other. She could--

"Mister?"

He choked on a yell, jerking out of a half doze and slamming himself back against the tree to escape... a little girl?

Her little girl.

Shock seized his muscles as he stared at the dirt-smudged face peering at him in the gray light of the coming dawn. Her inky hair hung in two disastrous braids, long strands pulled loose and tangled around her face. Her eyes glinted gold but were puffy and rimmed with red, and her face... she jerked away when he raised his hand to trace the bruise on her cheek. His hand dropped to his lap.

"What are you doing here, Isobel?" he asked, terrified of the answer, unsure if she was real or some figment of his dreams.

"Are you the man?" she asked, ignoring his question and apparently unphased by his use of her name.

"What?"

"Are you the man? Ma said there's a man."

"My name is Gabe." He held his hand out and she stared at it like he was a moron. Maybe he was, out here in the dead of night trying to shake hands with a child. He dropped his hand to his lap as the little girl frowned at him, dubious.

"She said he's tall and he has dark hair," she stated. "She said he looks mean, but he's not."

"Where's your ma, Isobel?"

"Are you the man or not?" she hollered, stamping her foot, her lip trembling. Children were clearly not his area of expertise, but he knew a rising tantrum when he saw one.

"I'm the man," he said quickly, holding up his hands. "I'm the man, that's me. Now tell me, where's your ma?"

In lieu of answer, the little girl turned and ran toward the river. Heart sinking into his stomach, Gabe pushed to his feet and followed her. She led him to the riverbank, to a small hollow the water had carved into the mud with the last heavy rain. Huddled in the shallow recess was the body of a woman that couldn't possibly be her.

She lay slumped on her side, her legs curled up toward her chest, her pale feet bare and bloody. She wore a long dress that covered her from her neck to her ankles, but from the look of her swollen face she would be covered with bruises beneath it.

God, her face.

The little girl hovered by his shoulder as he sank to his knees and gently turned his battered, broken Katie onto her back. The movement dislodged a ratty stuffed bear that had been tucked in the hollow of her chest, and her daughter darted forward and snatched it up. Blood-matted hair clung to Katherine's face and he pushed it aside, trying to tell if she was even still breathing. Her skin was cold beneath his touch.

"How long have you been waiting here, Isobel?" he asked. How many hours had she been laying by the frigid water, scared and in pain?

"A long time," the girl said somberly. Of course she wouldn't know to count the time.

"Katie?" he murmured, brushing his thumb over her right cheek. The left was swollen and bruised, the eye sealed shut, her lip split and bloody. All her injuries were on that side, as if he had hauled back and hit her... and hit her, and hit her, and hit her...

She didn't answer to her name, and he couldn't see her chest rise and fall in the darkness, but when he felt carefully along her side for broken ribs she whimpered breathlessly. Her face twisted in agony and a braided rope of hope and pain wound around his chest.

He braced himself for her sounds of pain, but they sliced through him all the same as he slipped his arms beneath her knees and her shoulders, pulling her from the mud and cradling her close to his chest. She moaned and thrashed weakly in his grip.

"Stop!" A tiny fist struck his arm and he glanced at his assailant. Her little face was tightened into lines of fury, and she struck him again. "Don't hurt her!" she yelled.

"Quiet," he hissed, tightening his hold on Katherine's limp body.

"You hurt her!"

"I said be quiet," he snapped harshly, and Isobel's mouth clapped shut, her eyes wide and fearful. They hung in that moment, listening to the crickets chirp while he watched the dark woods for signs of movement. God only knew how Katherine had escaped in such a state. Surely her husband would be looking for her.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he told the little girl, once he felt reasonably sure they were still alone and her yelling hadn't drawn attention. Her bottom lip stuck out, her chin trembling. What if she started crying? Then what would he do? "We're going somewhere safe," he said quickly, hoping to forestall the collapse. "I'm not trying to hurt your momma, but I have to move her to take her somewhere safe."

The girl glared at him, and the harsh challenge scrawled across her tiny face reminded him of the girl he used to know. The wild girl who had somehow become this beaten woman.

"Do you promise to be quiet?" he asked, and she nodded silently. "Alright. Follow me and stay close."

Bracing himself, more against her moans of pain than her weight, he pushed to his feet. Katherine's lips parted on a ragged cry and he wondered if he was dreaming. It wouldn't be the first time he conjured nightmares of her coming here, beaten to the edge of death. The only difference was that, in the dreams, he could never reach her. He had to watch from afar as she lay bleeding and alone. Here, he had her in his arms. He felt the burn in his muscles as he held her, smelled the blood that coated her face. He even felt the warmth of her breath where her heavy head rested against his shoulder.

She was real, and so was the little girl. Isobel. She was crying, dogging his footsteps as he strode away from the river, whimpering and snuffling. He stopped and she ran into his legs. When he turned, she shrank away like he would hit her. Oh, he wanted to beat someone alright, but it damn sure wasn't this little girl.

"Stop crying," he hissed. "I told you, you have to be quiet."

"I-I-I," she hiccuped, snot dripping over her chin, tears pouring down her face. How she could even see with eyes that puffy was beyond him. "My f-feet h-h-hurt."

His gaze dropped to her bare feet. The girl had seemed fine, and he'd been so fixated on Katherine he hadn't noticed. Cuts and scratches covered the tops of her little feet, and he'd guess the bottoms were worse.

"Alright," he breathed, grimacing with strain as he sank to a knee. "Hop on."

Isobel stared at him, her stuffed bear hanging from one hand. "W-what?"

"Get on my back, kid." Still, she stared. His back was beginning to ache from this strained position, and Katherine's whimpers were coming less frequently. "Hurry up, Isobel," he urged, trying to sound gentle. Kids needed that, right? Gentle? "We need to get your momma somewhere safe before the sun comes up. I'll carry you, but you have to hold on. Can you do that?"

She nodded hesitantly and he jerked his chin. "Then hop on. Hurry, Isobel."

She didn't hurry, but she did approach him, climbing his body like a tree until her arms were latched around his neck, her stuffed bear hanging from one clenched fist and wedged up under his chin.

"You ready?"

"Uh huh," she said in a frail voice, tightening her arms around his neck. Fortunately she was a tiny little thing and her weight wasn't strangling him. More bothersome were her feet, which she'd decided to wedge into his belt to help bear her weight. The worn leather dug into his hips from the added tension, but he supposed a little discomfort was better than having her fall.

He lumbered through the forest, making a pitiful effort at stealth while he pitched about, unbalanced by the awkward dual burden. As he walked, his mind finally caught up with reality. This was real. Katherine had come. Katherine was badly hurt. She was hurt, and he hated that she was hurt, but at least she had finally left.

Thinking of the bruise on the girl's cheek, he had a feeling he knew what had finally driven Katherine to the Bridge. She hadn't come to save her own skin, and she damn sure hadn't come to be with him. She'd come because that monster she lived with had finally threatened the one thing she valued more than her precious stability-- Isobel. The thought of Katherine suffering made his blood boil. The thought of an innocent child suffering? It made his skin prickle and writhe until he wanted to peel it off his flesh and cast it aside.

"Mister?" Isobel fidgeted, and he stumbled as her weight tugged unevenly at his belt.

"What?" he grunted, righting himself and pushing forward.

"Where are we going?"

What the hell did she want him to say? Well, kiddo, you ever heard of a bordello? A house of sin? I'm sure have, living with that father of yours. Or maybe you've just heard of the devil's concubine? Satan's spawn? He teach you, yet, about where you're going if you dare give yourself to a man without God's permission?

"Home," he grumbled, glancing down at Katherine's face. She'd smack him if she heard him spewing nonsense like that to her daughter. You're giving her false hope, she'd say. What are you offering? A room at the brothel? She deserves a real home. But she didn't speak. She lay limp in his arms, her swollen lips parted as she breathed in shallow pants, dried blood crusting on her pallid skin.

"Back to papa?" Isobel's arms tightened on his neck, and he shifted his shoulders, trying to loosen her grip.

"No," he grunted. "Not back there. It's... different. It's my home."

"Can we stay?"

Again, he glanced at Katherine. Don't you dare promise her that, her voice piped up in his mind, full of crackling indignation that he hadn't truly heard since they were children. He tightened his grip on the only woman who'd ever made him want to make that promise. He'd wanted to give her a home. Not a room at the saloon. A house. Land. A future, somewhere far away from the rules that trapped her and the hatred that trapped him. Too bad for both of them that she lacked the will and he lacked the means.

"Sure," he hedged, shifting Katherine's weight in his arms. "You can stay for as long as you want."