Gabe

Gabe sat in a strange, sunlit fugue that belied the faded atmosphere of the barroom. It was strange how he had never noticed the way the sounds of the saloon rose and fell, swelling and falling away like the slow beat of a heart. It was soothing, in a way. It took him back to when he was too young to realize the reality of his circumstances, when he had dashed about between the legs of patrons and working women, slaying imaginary dragons and delighting in the characters he saw all around him. He spent so much time resenting it, he had forgotten what the barroom truly was-- home.

Perhaps, yes perhaps, his musings had less to do with the saloon itself and more to do with the way he had spent his day. He had labored at the ranch from dawn to just before noon, sweating hard in the stalls. Then he had hopped on Reaper and ridden out for his turn in heaven.

It was his fifth visit, and each one was somehow different and more remarkable than the first.

On the second, he, Isobel, and Katherine had gone for a walk around the property. Isobel had ridden on his shoulders, laughing, and twice Katherine had taken hold of his arm to keep from stumbling in the snow. The contact-- casual, voluntary, and without a trace of nervous worry-- had sent bolts of awareness through his body that brought life back to parts of his soul he hadn't known had withered.

On the third visit, they had broken out Isobel's birthday toboggan and gone sledding. They'd picked a small hill for their first venture, and Gabe hadn't partaken at all. He had sat near the bottom and watched the two fly by in a spray of white powder, and it was impossible to distinguish between the girlish giggles of mother and daughter.

On the fourth, Isobel had fallen asleep while he read to her, exhausted by another day of sledding. Katherine had let him carry her to bed and draw the quilts up over her, tucking her away, safe and warm. Then they had sat there for a long while in a pregnant silence. He had been so sure that she felt what he did-- that this was the way it was always meant to be.

And finally today-- the fifth visit-- Melissa had been gone as she had the first. A good thing, too, as the weather had been foul. Confined to the indoors, Isobel had crafted a magical and nonsensical scenario to act out, wherein the three of them were stranded on a desert island. She christened herself "Robin" and ordered him and Katherine about in a quest for survival. They built a shelter from blankets and kitchen chairs, and set snares for wild animals in the hallway using twine and wooden spoons. By the time he had left, Isobel had been sailing the high sees on a raft made of pillows, dressed in a nightgown with her hair in a wild tangle. Around her waist she'd worn a belt from which hung an assortment of survival paraphernalia-- a small tin cup, a pouch of shiny rocks, a water flask, and of course her favorite blue ribbon.

"What the hell's gotten into you?"

Gabe jerked, bringing his attention back to the present. Caroline stood across the bar from his customary spot in the corner, a worn dishrag over one shoulder and her breasts pushed so high they threatened to spill over the bodice of her cornflower blue dress. It was a pretty, innocent color with pretty, innocent white frills all along the edges. Some men liked that-- to feel as if they were tarnishing purity.

"Nothing," he grumbled, gazing absently around the room. Every night it was the same. Sometimes the faces changed, but it was the same dance. The girls, some forward and some reserved. The men, some confident and some ashamed. Drinking, yelling, laughing, giggling, squealing. Tankards slamming on wooden tabletops, sticky amber liquid splashing out. Cards tossed onto tabletops, facedown or faceup, causing faces to fall into dejection or light up with triumph. Coy smiles and clasped hands, and the rhythmless drum of boots and slippered feet as the girls pulled their chosen clients up the stairs.

"It's not nothing," Caroline said, leaning forward and resting her arms on the bartop. "You're not your usual sullen self, Gabriel Townsend. Someone's got you all dreamy-eyed and smiling. Who's the lucky lady?"

"Old Mr. Quincy's widow," he said dryly, referencing the dour old woman who sometimes spat at his feet when he passed her in town. "She ravishes me."

Caroline burst out laughing, shoving off the counter after swatting him on the shoulder. Her eyes danced as she laughed, and for a second she looked as innocent as the lily-white frills on that cornflower dress.

"Fine," she said with a dramatic, beleaguered sigh. "Here I thought we were friends and shared confidences. Maybe I ought to stop telling you my secrets."

"Oh, that'll teach me a lesson," he shot back, turning on the stool and leaning back against the wall behind him. "What'll I do without your harrowing tales of misplaced whiskey bottles and flaccid-cocked customers?" In truth, he valued Caroline's friendship so much he'd sooner call her a sister than a friend. Probably because, not in spite, of the fact that the best way to tell her as much was to insult her.

Lip protruding in a dramatic pout, she swept the empty tumbler from his hand and went to refill it. When she returned, he accepted the refilled glass with a mumble of gratitude, freezing when her delicate hand came to rest on his forearm.

"All jokes aside," she said quietly, leaning close so her voice wouldn't wander. "Whatever it is, whoever it is, I'm happy something's finally got you smiling."

Heat scorched the back of his neck, but he forced himself to hold her gaze. "I'm not unhappy, Caro."

"Not anymore you're not," she said with a shrug and a kind smile before her expression fell. "You do know you can trust me, right?"

Not with this.

"You're overthinking it," he lied, the words harsher than the whiskey. He washed the flavor of betrayal down with a gulp of liquid fire. When Katherine took Isobel and left, his entire heart and soul would strain to follow. But how could he leave these women? They were so much more than the pieces of them the men came to visit. It wouldn't be so hard to turn his back on a gaggle of cliches and fragments-- innocence or debauchery, a listening ear or a wet pussy, coy flirtation or lascivious thirst, the wanton witch or guileless angel.

But how in the hell could he walk away from his mother, who had held him when he cried over his first broken nose and fed him even when there wasn't enough food for both of them? How could he abandon Caroline, who showered so much love on everyone who walked into her path? On Lindy, who collected agates and fossils and other pretty things she found that others might trod over. On Tiff, who had loved a man and lost him to the war between the states? On Sally, who hid a Bible beneath her mattress and worshipped so much harder and truer than any of these so-called followers of Christ who tormented his girls?

"By the look on your face, I'm not the one overthinking things," Caroline said gently, her grip tightening on his arm before she released him. "It's not all so complicated as you're making it, you know. All you have to do is follow your heart."

He snorted derisively and raised an eyebrow at her. "Read that in one of your poetry books, Caro?"

She scowled and smacked his shoulder with her dishrag. "Just chew on it for a while, you gloomy bastard," she drawled, flipping the rag over her shoulder and lifting her chin. "This land is full of burly fellows who would love to earn their keep protecting a harem of charming ladies. Leaving here for something better isn't the same as abandoning us to ruin. You're not as indispensable as all that."

Before he could tell her that was a rude thing to say to a man who was already doubting his place in the universe, she'd patted his hand and strode away to care for a newcomer at the end of the bar. He slumped back in his chair and cast an absent eye over the room.

Maybe Caroline was right. It wasn't quite as easy as she'd implied. Of the men who would willingly debase themselves to take his job, very few were of a character he really trusted to keep the girls' best interest at heart. And of the men who he thought might be honorable, most had channeled that quality into happy lives in honest trades. Not that he was some paragon of virtue, but at least he knew with certainty that he wouldn't take advantage of his position.

But certainly there was at least one man out there who, like many of these women, had found himself at an unfortunate crossroads in his life where he couldn't find more respectable work. Surely there was someone out there who was raised to respect women, to protect them, who would be grateful for clean quarters, good food, and a generous salary. Maybe one of Josh's men, or he could ask his mother to look for someone next time she went on one of her sojourns to the city.

It wouldn't happen overnight, but he could at least start the search. And maybe when it was time for Katherine to leave, he wouldn't be ready to accompany her. But he could at least catch up to her someday. Would she wait for him? He couldn't imagine her running into another man's arms, after what had happened to her. But she was healing so fast. How long before she found another love? She'd told him of her dream to live by the sea. To be a schoolteacher and have a house with a chaotic garden. How long before some craftsman or shopkeeper or strapping military man wheedled his way into her heart? Would she wait for him if he asked her to? Should he ask her to if he wasn't certain he could follow?

It was lucky he knew the dance of the saloon like the thrum of his own heartbeat, otherwise he might not have noticed the subtle misstep. He was so lost in thought, the noise had become a distant hum, the activity a blur of shifting shapes. It was only by the grace of instinct that he picked up on the little hitch on the rhythm.

An unfamiliar expression.

The face was familiar enough. Edward Crenshaw. Gabe had only seen him a handful of times in the saloon, but he knew him from town. He was a devout man with a devout wife and three quiet, well-behaved children. Sandy-haired and pale-skinned, the lot of them. The Crenshaws never spat at him or the girls, or cursed them. Instead, they moved across the street and cast their gazes to the ground as if the mere sight of the sinners might sully them. Edward had come to Vivian's for a few beers, a few times. A few games of cards, on which he never gambled more than a few dollars. He was the kind of sheep who might have been turned to extreme acts of charity under the guidance of a different shepherd.

Gabe watched, thoughts of love and fatherhood shoved to the back of his mind, as the buttoned-up, sallow-faced Edward Crenshaw accepted Christina's hand and let her pull him to his feet. That expression that had drawn Gabe's attention in the first place-- jittering fear mixed with sorrow-- was carved into the slope of his shoulders and the wrinkle in his chin. Gabe had seen a lot of different faces on a lot of different men as the girls led them away. Triumph, excitement, anger, guilt, anxiety, spite, love... whatever story the surface told, there was nonetheless a ubiquitous gleam of lust.

So perhaps it wasn't the expression on Edward's face so much as the lack of that gleam that drew Gabe's attention. Christina was as charming as ever, sweet and encouraging as she led her newest client across the floor to the stairs. She usually took the nervous ones. She was good at making them feel like it wasn't just a one-off sin. She made men forget they had paid her. It was no wonder she was the one who had gone after the quivering Mr. Crenshaw. His kind was her specialty.

It wasn't right. Gabe looked around, but nobody else seemed to notice. The men had given a mocking cheer as Edward had risen, but had quickly returned to their cards and their drinking. Caro was down the bar, tending to a customer. His mother was off in her office, balancing books or whatever it was she did when she wasn't out here in the barroom. The rest of the girls were either waiting tables or seducing customers. He felt half-mad, like the piano in the corner was suddenly out of tune but he was the only one who could hear it.

He watched Chrissy pull her client up the stairs, the man's steps heavy, his head down. Not the first time a reluctant sinner had been drawn into temptation, but that was just it-- Edward Crenshaw wasn't a reluctant sinner. He wasn't a sinner at all. At least not this kind of sinner. For all that the Crenshaws were a dowdy, uninspired couple, there was love between them, and a respect for the sacrament of marriage. That much was clear to Gabe. Nobody knew integrity like a man who spent his days and nights observing and speculating on its absence.

Knocking back the last swallow of his whiskey, Gabe set the glass on the bartop and pushed to his feet. He always made a point of moving around the room, taking up different vantage points and keeping the trouble-makers on edge. Nobody looked at him sideways when he wandered over to the stairs and leaned against the wooden railing. The din was still loud but at least now he could listen up the stairs for.

At a table nearby, one man goaded another into tossing in a crumpled paper bill. At the bar, Caro leaned over and fluttered her eyelashes at a weary-looking man Gabe recognized from his days at Josh's ranch. In the corner by the door, the new girl was sitting in the lap of an older fellow who worked at the bank. Her name was Laura, but when she started working she told everyone to call her Sapphire. She was one of those rare few who had romantic notions about whoredom. She thought it would be mysterious and alluring to go by a name that was so obviously made up. The girl was a bit overboard in her coquettish flirtation, too. Ordinarily she was pleasant to talk to, but that voice she used to seduce her customers made his teeth ache and--

There!

For a moment he froze. Held his breath and willed his heart to slow, cursing the racket of the barroom as he listened to make sure he hadn't misheard...

... a muffled scream.

The scream faded out as his hearing arrowed down to the sounds made by his own body. He heard the pounding of his boots as he bounded up the stairs two at a time. He couldn't feel his heart beat but he could hear the blood rushing in his ears, the sound like frothy water racing through rapids. His breathing was a harsh, jagged rasp.

He reached Chrissy's door just as a pained cry filtered through the haze. The girls never locked their doors when they were working-- for exactly this reason-- so it brought him up for a moment when he turned the knob, pushed, and the door didn't budge.

Then he was back to the sounds of his own creation. The roar of rage that built behind his gritted teeth. His foot slamming into the wood beside the doorknob. Wood splintered and the door swung open.

Chrissy lay on the bed, the sheets in a disarray, tangled around her arms and legs as she flailed, fingers clawing, legs kicking. Edward Crenshaw pinned her to the mattress, both hands wrapped around her slender neck. His face was a mottled red, and he wept openly, loudly, tears streaming over his cheeks, snot oozing from his nose. Blood trickled from a cut on his temple, and a shattered lamp lay on the floor by the bed.

Good girl.

Edward wasn't a large man. His neck wasn't a whole lot more substantial than Chrissy's, and Gabe didn't have any trouble fitting his own hand around it. He yanked the man off his victim and threw him bodily to the floor. He landed in a sprawl of limbs, and though he made no effort to rise, Gabe landed one, two, three hard kicks to his midsection that had him curled up against the wall by the door.

"I'm sorry," he wailed, drawing his legs up to his chest and covering his scratched, bloody face with his hands. "God, I'm sorry!"

Leaving the man to his pitiful display, Gabe turned to Chrissy, who had drawn herself together on the bed, clutching the sheets to her chest, tears glistening on her cheeks as she clutched her throat and coughed raggedly. Her eyes met his and she threw herself off the bed and into his arms, sagging in his hold just as four more bodies appeared in the doorway.

"Chrissy," Caroline gasped, stepping inside. Seconds later, his mother pushed past her and the girl in his arms tore herself away to take solace in his mother's embrace as the older women set about directing her troops.

"Caro, send someone for the sheriff. Chrissy, honey, just stay calm and try to breathe for me sweetheart. Tiff, head down and tend the bar. Ellie, the men all know the rules, but do me a favor and remind them. No more clients tonight, and make sure every man here knows who ruined their good time," his mother said, stroking a hand over Chrissy's hair as she bustled the younger woman out of the room. Her last command, tossed over her shoulder as she followed the rest of the women out, was for him. "Gabe, get this sorry shit out of my establishment. He can wait outside in the snow for the sheriff, and don't bother helping him find his coat."

All too happy to oblige, Gabe bent and hauled the sobbing man up by the back of his shirt. Even now, with the moment of danger in the past, and the room empty but for him and Edward, the air felt off. Most men still had a little fight in them, even after they took a few blows. Most men weren't sobbing so openly as they tried to hurt a girl. After, sure, but he'd never seen someone so distraught in the heat of the moment.

Maybe he should have continued to trust his instincts. Or perhaps he should have been less caught up in his own sense of wrongness and more alert to his surroundings. Whatever his miscalculation, he paid for it. As he dragged the slobbering mess upward, the man's arm shot out. Gabe caught the glint of silver and for a moment the whole room froze. Or at least he and Edward Crenshaw froze, both of them staring in shocked silence down at the small knife, buried to the hilt in his side.

Logically, he knew the pain would come, but in that moment he simply felt the off-key note that had been swelling all evening finally crest. It burst in a shower of screeching dissonance as he dragged his gaze up to Edward's face. The other man's eyes were so wide they made perfect circles, the whites shot through with bolts of red. The lids were puffy from his tears, or from loss of sleep if the deep shadows and heavy bags beneath them were any indication. His lip quivered and his fear was a coppery sour taste in the back of Gabe's mouth.

With a single, lunging step, Gabe drove the other man back against the wall, shifting his grip so he had him by the throat. With his other hand he tore the knife from Edward's hold-- and from his own body-- in one jerk and tossed the offending object across the room. It landed with a clatter, the sound mingling with Edward's gurgling gasps, Gabe's grip tightening on instinct as the numbness finally faded and the pain began to rise, warmth trickling over his skin beneath the loose shirt.

"What the hell, Crenshaw?" he growled, squeezing until his victim's watery eyes bugged out. Bloody fingers scrabbled at his grip, and he loosened it enough to let the man draw in a raspy breath.

"I'm sorry," Edward sobbed, no longer fighting as he sagged in Gabe's hold. Strands of his pale hair caught on the plaster wall behind him as he shook his head, chin wrinkled, lips quivering. "It's God's will. I'm sorry."

With a sigh, suddenly too weary to introspect on the machinations of escalating warfare, or the hypocrisy of religious violence, Gabe roughly spun the man around and shoved him face first against the wall.

"Stop blubbering," he hissed as he snatched the belt from Chrissy's robe, which lay discarded on the upholstered chair beside the door. He used the belt to tie Edward's hands behind his back, yanking so hard on the knot the man's fingers spasmed and he cried out in pain.

"It's God's will," Crenshaw wept again, pressing his forehead against the wall as Gabe briskly groped along his arms, legs, and waistline, searching for more hidden weapons. He found none. More comforting than the absence of weapons was the calm that had finally settled over him. The wrong note had faded. He had no doubt this all meant a turn down an ugly road, but the turn itself was over and done with. All that was left now was to carry on down the new path and grit his teeth for whatever lay around the next curve.

His prisoner continued to blubber as Gabe marched him down the hall and the service stairs at the end of it, through the kitchen and out into the cold. His skin felt numb, the frigid bite of the developing winter barely registering. The sky was speckled black and moonless. The fresh-fallen snow appeared gray like soot beyond the pitch black shadows of the building. It was by memory rather than sight that he dragged the stumbling, shivering, blubbering Edward Crenshaw around the side of the building.

There was little at Vivian's Saloon that his mother hadn't polished to a shine. She'd have made a good general in another life, her troops infallible. Too practiced to fail. This was no different.

Always, with men who went too far with a girl upstairs, his mother took care of the girl who had been attacked. Caro took his mother's place, overseeing the barroom as a whole, and Tiff took Caro's behind the bar. Ellie announced the sorry news to the rest of the patrons-- that someone had taken undue liberties and now all the girls would be retiring for the night. Caro would pick one of the more sober, more trusted patrons to ride for the sheriff-- usually one of Josh's men, in for a drink.

Meanwhile, Gabe would rough the man up. Restrain him. March him down the stairs and out into the yard where the wrongdoer's presence couldn't rouse the men to either his defense or to their own vigilante justice. They would sit. Wait. The wrongdoer cursed him or made excuses. Some tried to escape their bonds and fight him. Some just sat in sullen silence. The sheriff would come and take them away, and the next day or week or month he would see them in town or in the saloon as if nothing had ever happened.

"I had to do it," Crenshaw sobbed through chattering teeth as Gabe pushed him down onto his ass in the snow beside the stables. He could smell the horses from here, and the scent made his stomach churn.

"Bet you did," he muttered, leaning a shoulder against the wall and watching the man. Although he knew Edward Crenshaw was as harmless now as he had been before. Hell, maybe he'd always been harmless. Harmless as a dull gray rock... right up until someone picked the damn thing up and used it as a weapon.

"It's God's will," Edward simpered, tucking his knees close to his chest and pressing his forehead against them.

Gabe didn't bother to ask who had planted the notion in the man's head in such a way that had him repeating it like a litany. It wasn't worth the energy when he already knew the answer. With a sigh, he tore his eyes from Crenshaw and looked down at his side. A broad stain had spread on his shirt, and he could feel sticky heat trailing over his hip and soaking into his pants. The tear in the center of the stain was ragged, and he tugged at it with a grimace. Wonderful. He was shit with a needle and thread and he only had a few good shirts thick enough for the winter chill.

"I was supposed to kill you."

The whispered words drew his attention back to Crenshaw, who had tipped his head back and was staring at him, his eyes empty, reflecting back the darkness of the moonless sky.

"That so?" Gabe asked, sinking to his own ass beside his prisoner.

"I'm sorry," Edward said, his voice wobbling. "I didn't want to hurt her. I'm not a violent man."

"I know you're not," Gabe sighed, tipping his head back against the wall of the stable. The cold was starting to seep into the numbness, now. He regretted not grabbing his coat. Hopefully the sheriff would come quick. Hopefully the rest of the night was uneventful. Hopefully he could steal into his room and change without the girls noticing the blood. Hopefully he could find something thick enough to soak the damn stuff up so he didn't ruin another shirt. Hopefully he could patch it up before all his blood leaked out. Dying at Edward Crenshaw's hand would be a humiliating way to go.

"I had to do it."

"I'm sure you did, Edward."

"I had to show my faith."

"Sure."

"I mean it. It was God's will. I had no choice. You have to believe me."

"You strangled one of my girls and took a knife to me, Edward. I don't owe you understanding."

Crenshaw dissolved into pitiful sobs, and Gabe closed his eyes. The damned sheriff could hurry the hell up. As they waited, his thoughts drifted to Katherine. In spite of the numbness, he recognized Edward's attack as what it was-- a declaration of war. The man was the opening salvo, and God only knew what battles would ensue. How much blood would be shed. He needed to get them out before the streets turned red. She had mentioned she wanted to live by the sea. Maybe, in his mother's travels, she had made contacts in some seaside town? He could take her there and see her settled. See that Isobel was enrolled in a good school, that Katherine was set up with a good job, and that they had enough in their coffers to see them through hard times.

That was a good plan.

Edward stirred beside him when the sound of pounding hooves and creaking wheels alerted them both to the sheriff's arrival. Edward made no effort to run but pushed slowly, clumsily to his feet as Gabe did the same.

"What's he done?" Sheriff Lee asked as he slid from the bench of his wagon and approached them both.

"Attacked Chrissy," Gabe said, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest, struggling to affect an air of nonchalance when in fact he was fighting to keep his feet under him. The pain had climbed to a screech that made cold sweat spring up all over his face and neck, in spite of the chill. Damn. What if he really did die at Edward Crenshaw's hand? What a boon that would be for the damned preacher.

"That all?" the sheriff asked, eyeing him.

"That's all that matters. I know you won't keep him more than a day so let's not waste our time. Just get him the hell off our property." Ordinarily he'd spend a few minutes arguing with the sheriff, trying to convince him to rain justice down upon the men who hurt his girls. Tonight, he just wanted them all gone so he could go back to his room and die in peace.

The sheriff frowned and nodded slowly, coming forward to take Edward's arm. Gabe watched numbly as Edward was helped into the back of the wagon, where he sank to his ass and began to cry once more. Then the sheriff was gone, wheeling the wagon around and disappearing into the darkness, his wheels spraying up a mist of muddy slush that stained the snow.

Gabe stared after the wagon for a long time, trying to wrangle his mind into functioning. His thoughts were like the eddies of fresh snow that swirled across the frozen landscape in the deepest parts of winter-- fleeting and formless. Gone before they ever took shape. All he truly knew was that something terrible had happened. That scale he had once felt sliding over his finger had crashed to the ground. The metaphorical war, one of inflated threats and scrapes and bruises, had finally evolved. It was real war, now. Knives and guns. Blood and death.

There was one thought he did manage to grasp and hold for a moment before it drifted off into ether.

Katherine and Isobel.

The fork in the road had floated up beneath his feet without his even recognizing its approach. It was time for them to leave. 

***

Well.... we are now thoroughly into that phase where I have no idea what's going to happen. This chapter and the next few really messed with my grand plans for this thing. I think it's going to be shorter than I had intended. My plan was to have Katherine gone before the little war escalated, but not a single one of the characters seemed cool with having her leave before things get nasty. So now who knows what'll happen? We'll find out together, I guess. 

Hope you all are having a great November! I sure am :-D 

Love!

Liz

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