Gabe

The fire that had burned his mother's saloon to the ground five years ago was generally considered a low point in the family history. Injuries and fear aside, it had been a nightmare to find another property, and the new one was much farther from the center of town and had required a mountain of repair work before it was serviceable.

In the end, though, the change had worked out for the better, at least for Gabe. The new property had a modest stable, management of which he had claimed for himself solely to prove to himself he could manage some job other than laying his fist into men's faces. What was more, there was a small apartment on the first floor. In the last place he had been forced to choose between two unsavory options for his living situation. He could either live outside the saloon, which meant he was too far to hear or come running if one of the girls needed him. Or he could live in one of the rooms upstairs and consequently spend all night listening to the girls make their money.

At the new place, he didn't have to make that choice. He took over the small apartment, and one of his first repair jobs had been to install a complex system of bells and pulleys in all the rooms. Pulling the rope that hung by each woman's headboard would ring a connected bell in his own bedroom. It wasn't a flawless system, but it was certainly better than laying awake, listening to the sound of rutting men and the false moans of the women they paid to love them.

The distance from town was also turning out to be a blessing-- at least tonight. Vivian's Saloon stood in the periphery of the town limits, fenced on three sides by dark, heavy woods. He shuddered to imagine what he'd have done if this had occurred five years ago. Walked casually down Main Street with the preacher's battered wife in his arms? Ha.

In the new place, it was a simple matter of looping the long way around through the trees. His modest suite had an external door in the back of the building, and there were only ten yards or so of nerve-wracking open ground between the door and the treeline. Although by the time he got there those ten yards looked more like one hundred. His entire body burned with exertion, sweat plastering his hair to his head and his shirt to his back and chest. Between Katherine in his aching arms and Isobel latched onto his back, each step across even ground felt like clawing his way up the side of a mountain.

He hovered for a moment in the darkness of the treeline, staring at the gray-lit expanse of grass that separated him from the safety of his door. The front of the building would be lit up with lanterns even at this absurd hour, but the back side was dark and quiet. The skeleton key was heavy in his pocket and he sank reluctantly to a knee, settling Katherine's limp form in the loamy dirt beneath a pine. Isobel still clung to his back, and he reached up to pry her arms from around his neck, setting her on the ground beside her mother.

"I need to go unlock the door," he told the girl. "You stay here with your mama until I get back."

Her eyes went wide, fresh tears glistening. How many tears did this damned kid even have? Surely she'd be running out, soon. Maybe when she stopped crying he'd be able to get his head on straight and figure out what to do about this Godforsaken catastrophe.

"Promise?" she all but whimpered, her voice puny and frail in the damp dawn air.

"Promise," he affirmed, nodding. "Just sit here and hold your mama's hand, okay?" He guided Isobel's hand to Katherine's frigid, lifeless fingers, and the little girl latched on, her lip quivering.

"Mister, you have to come back," she pleaded, releasing her bear and stroking her free hand over her mother's arm.

"I already told you," he ground out, shoving to his feet. "I will. You can watch me the whole time."

He spun and stalked away before she had the chance to shove that trembling lip out any further. He'd heard of the siren song of a beautiful woman, but nobody had ever warned him about the terrible soul-deep pull of a heartbroken child. He knew from experience he could resist big breasts and coy flirtation, but he'd run his ship into the rocks if Isobel cried and asked him to come to shore. It was a damned inconvenience.

The grass was damp, the ground soft beneath his heavy footsteps as he hurried across the open space and climbed the creaking wooden stairs. His hand shook as he pulled out his key ring and shoved the dented iron key into the lock. The door cracked open to reveal the darkness beyond, just as it always did when he returned from these pre-dawn walks. Nothing ever awaited him beyond those walls. When he was an idiot kid he'd dreamt of a hearthfire and the smell of baking bread, but such was not his lot in life. He was content with the dark emptiness, now. It was better than fire and anger.

Leaving the door ajar, he returned to Katherine and scooped her into his arms, remaining on a knee long enough for Isobel to scramble onto his back. If anyone had chosen that moment to look outside, they'd have seen a strange, misshapen figure limping across the yard and told the world they'd seen some kind of ogre, or a troll. Gabe had a theory that was how all legends and stories came about-- folks misunderstanding simple things.

Not that this was simple.

Safe in the darkness of his quarters, Katherine whimpered as he set her down on his bed. "Well, if you'd warned me you were visiting I'd have bought a feather mattress," he grumbled inanely, reaching around to pull Isobel off his back and setting her beside her mother. He closed, locked, and barred the door and lit a lantern on the small table in the corner. The light swept over the sparse furnishings, glinting off the tears on Isobel's cheeks as she looked around.

His room wasn't much. Then again, it didn't need to be. He had his bed, which kept him off the floor in the winter, and a hearth where he could boil water and cook for himself. There was a chest of drawers to house his scant collection of clothing, and a table where he ate his solitary meals. He'd seen the rooms the girls made for themselves-- the bright curtains and paintings and shelves devoted entirely to worthless knick knacks. It was as if the world would forget they existed if they didn't leave a memento on every flat surface.

Gabe wouldn't mind much if the world forgot he existed.

He lit a fire in the mantle and set a pot of water on to boil. There was a stack of blankets in a trunk beneath his bed and he pulled two out, draping one over Katherine's shivering body and wrapping the other around Isobel's shoulders. Both mother and daughter were filthy-- smeared with blood and mud. He needed to get them both clean, and tend to Katherine's injuries. The thought of caring for Katherine didn't give him pause. He knew every nook and cranny of her body, hurt or not, and a man raised by a prostitute didn't have a chance at growing up prudish.

The little girl, though? He gnawed on the inside of his lip, glaring at her as he listened to the fire crackle. "If I make you a bath, can you clean yourself up?" he asked stiffly, and she shook her head.

"Ma washes my hair."

"Your ma can't wash your hair right now. Can you do it yourself?"

She stared at him, her dark eyes wide, endless pools of confusion and fear. "I can try," she finally said, her voice a squeak. "But ma says I can't take off my clothes in front of pa, or any other boy."

"Your ma is right," he said. "You shouldn't. I'll make the bath in the corner and hang up a curtain for you. You can't go to bed all muddy like you are."

She pouted. "I don't mind the mud," she said, wiggling her toes.

"What does your ma say about going to bed dirty?"

Isobel's gaze dropped to the floor, and he couldn't help but smirk. "That's what I thought."

"You gonna make ma take a bath? She's sleeping already."

He grimaced, glancing at Katherine's still form. "I think your mama might need some help with her bath. Once you're clean you can help me. You can, uh..." he trailed off, trying to think of some task that would help the child feel useful without frightening her. "You can brush her hair, okay?"

Isobel nodded acceptance, and he set about nailing a sheet up in one corner of the small room. He set the washbasin in the corner and mixed the boiling water with cold until it felt warm to the touch. His heart clenched when he heard Isobel whimpering behind the curtain as her scratched up feet met the water, but she didn't cry out or complain.

The reverend was going to die, Gabe decided. No man who created a child afraid to cry from pain deserved to remain on God's green earth.

While Isobel was splashing around behind the curtain, Gabe set another pot on to boil and undertook the unpleasant task of removing Katherine's clothes. She whimpered and cringed at every motion, so he resorted to slicing the material off with a knife. Beneath the ruined dress, her body was a tapestry of pain. Beneath new wounds-- reddish welts and abrasions-- were old bruises of every shape, size, and color. This body was no stranger to abuse, and he couldn't look at a single mark without a vivid flash of imagination cutting unbidden through his consciousness.

Those marks on her arm were from a hand closed tight enough to bruise bone, and he couldn't blink without seeing the reverend's smug face as he gripped her, and Katherine's stifled wince. The round mark on her right side would have been caused by a boot, and his vision hazed with the image of her body, curled on the floor while he stood over her and swung a callus foot at her ribs. There were bruises on her legs and her throat, and her face was swelling and bloodied. Something hard rose from his chest and lodged itself in his throat.

His heart.

"I'll kill him," he whispered, low enough to hide the words from Isobel but praying they made it beneath the surface of Katherine's consciousness. "I swear to you, Kat. I'll kill him."

She shifted, her swollen face twisting as she groaned. His hand went reflexively to her temple, brushing back locks of tangled hair. He'd never been much for words of comfort. They always came out wrong and upset her. But where words had always failed him, his touch never had. His mouth only ever wanted to speak of murder and revenge, but his hands were fluent in her language-- love and devotion. At least when it was her they touched.

She sighed, settling quickly back into unconsciousness as he stroked her matted hair and wrapped his free hand gently around her cold fingers.

"Hey mister?" a voice called from the corner. "I need a towel."

"There's a towel on the stool," he called back, eyes still fixed on Katherine's face.

A long pause. A fearful sniffle. "I dropped it in the water."

With a sigh, he pushed to his feet. "Alright, I'll bring you another. You get outta the tub so you don't drop it and I'll hand it around the corner."

Another long, weighty pause. "I'll get the floor wet," she muttered, the tinge of fear in her voice climbing to something just shy of terror.

"That's okay," he said quickly. "The floor gets wet all the time. Just stand in one place while you wait and it'll only be a little puddle."

"Okay," she said quietly, and by the sound of the splashing he had an inkling it'd be more than a little puddle. Retrieving another towel, he reached blindly around the hanging sheet. Isobel took the offering with a low, polite "thank you" and he retreated back to the bed, pulling a blanket over Katherine's naked body to hide her injuries from the little girl. A few seconds later Isobel emerged, the over-large towel dragging on the floor behind her as she drew near.

"Looks like you did a good job on your hair," he remarked because he got the feeling she needed a compliment. Judging by the unrestrained smile that split her face, he wasn't wrong, so nevermind that he was lying through his teeth. She hadn't even removed her braids, and her hair was a sodden mess, still white with soap suds above her right ear. What he really needed was to go fetch one of the girls and have a woman take care of all this. Unfortunately, the only woman he trusted with Katherine and her daughter was away on business and wouldn't be back for days.

He could handle this. If he could handle a house full of whores and a barroom full of drunken patrons he could handle one woman and her soapy-haired child. Anyway, what choice did he have?

Abandoning Katherine, he went back to his chest of drawers and retrieved the oldest, softest, most worn undershirt he could find, offering it to the girl. She stared at him, still clutching the towel around herself.

"For you to wear," he said, gesturing with the shirt. Her lip began to quiver once more, and her eyes glassed up.

"Ma always helps me get dressed," she pouted, and he clenched his teeth on a curse.

"Didn't your ma also say you shouldn't be naked in front of boys?"

Isobel hesitated and then nodded, her eyes darting to the woman laying beneath the blanket. A tear slipped down her cheek and she nodded. Another tear broke loose. Was there anything that didn't make this child cry?

With a stifled groan, he let his arm drop to his side. "Alright, how about this?" he asked, sinking to a knee. "I'll close my eyes so I can't see. That way I can still help you."

"Ma helps me," Isobel said through sniffles.

"I know that," he bit out. "But your ma is sleeping right now and she really needs her sleep to feel better. So I'll help you, but I promise to close my eyes and keep them closed until you tell me to open up. Got it?"

She stared at him, wary and distrustful, and Gabe made a mental note to talk to Katherine about this nonsense when she woke up. What kind of five year old couldn't get dressed on her own? Ridiculous. When he was five he'd been working already, scrubbing laundry back behind the brothel where his mother worked.

If he gave Isobel more time to think she'd ponder herself into another crying jag, so he bunched the shirt up in his hands and screwed his eyes shut in a dramatic display. Pulling the neck hole wide, he held it out in front of him. "Stick your head in there," he ordered. "I promise I won't look."

A few seconds later, he heard the whispering squeak of the floorboards as small feet drew closer, and a hushed thump as she dropped the towel to the ground. The shirt in his hands shifted as she tucked her head in, and he dropped the bunched fabric, feeling blindly for one of the sleeves. Reaching through the sleeve, he poked her in the arm. "Give me your hand."

Her fingers found his and he tugged her arm through, repeating the action on the other side. In a gesture he didn't understand, he straightened the shirt on her bony shoulders and smoothed a hand over her sudsy hair "There," he declared, hoping he sounded proud and not annoyed. "All dressed. Can I open my eyes now?"

Silence. Retreating footsteps. "Isobel?"

"Okay," she whispered, and he opened his eyes to see her standing on the far side of the room. For a clingy, demanding imp who had hung on his back the whole hike home, she was awfully timid now that they'd reached safety.

"Alright," he sighed. "We gotta get your ma all cleaned up now, okay? She'll get sick if we don't."

"She's already sick," Isobel pointed out, drifting toward the bed. "She's shaking like it's cold, but it's not cold. It's hot."

He sighed, scrubbing at his eyebrow with the back of his hand. This kid was giving him a damned headache. "So will you help me get her cleaned up so she can sleep and get better?" She stared at him, eyes narrow and calculating. She was like two different kids, depending on the topic of conversation. Ask her to take a damn bath and she was a whimpering pup. Talk about her mother and she turned into some shrewd, battle-hardened circuit judge.

"Fine," she said finally, clambering up onto the bed.

"Fine," he echoed, returning once more to his chest of drawers. Buried beneath the tangle of shirts in his middle drawer was a box he never, ever opened. It contained the sum total of his physical mementos of Katherine. His Katherine. The things she'd gifted him, which hurt like the dull ache of an overused muscle-- an uncracked Holy Bible, a worn pocket knife, and a braided bracelet made of colorful twine. Then there were the things he'd gifted her, and each item was like a knife to the heart because it came with the memory of a time when he thought silly gifts would be enough. Shoving aside the Bible, he glared at the contents beneath it. A cheap nickel chain with a cut glass pendant, a ten-year-old train ticket, and a carved wooden comb with marble inlaid on the handle that one of the girls had sworn would charm any warm-blooded woman into his arms.

The handle was cool against his palm as he snatched the comb and tossed it on the bed by Katherine's shoulder. Isobel had clambered up beside her mother and sat by the pillow, her stuffed bear sitting in her lap and her hand on Katherine's shoulder.

"Alright, kid," he said, turning his back to mix a basin of warm water. "You have a really important job, okay?" He glanced over his shoulder to see the little girl nod somberly. "Your ma needs you to get all those tangles and twigs and stuff out of her hair. She'll sleep a lot better if her hair's clean."

What the hell was he saying? He felt like an idiot.

"Okay," Isobel said quietly, picking up the comb. "This is pretty. Is it for hair?"

"Only really pretty hair," he said inanely, sinking back into the bed at Katherine's side. Isobel shifted away from him as if he was liable to bite.

"Oh," she said, staring down at the comb. "Ma can use it, then. She has really pretty hair."

"She does," he agreed. "Once you're done you can use it yourself."

"Really?" she asked, her eyes wide as she stared up at him, and he frowned.

"Sure. You got pretty hair, too."

"But it's dark. Pa says gold hair like ma's is the prettiest and I should've had gold hair."

"Well, your pa is wrong. Dark hair is, uh... nice." What the hell was this conversation? Why was he entertaining this? He ought to tell her to just shut the hell up and get to work.

Isobel shook her head like he was some kind of moron, and he didn't completely disagree with her. "Gold hair is prettier," she said, picking up a hank of her mother's matted strands and attacking it gingerly with the comb. Gabe had a feeling she wasn't going to get anywhere fast, but that was well enough. The longer he could keep her distracted, the better.

"I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree," he said, pointing at the wall behind the head board. "Go ahead and turn around, alright? Your ma is pretty hurt and I need to take care of her."

"Will she be okay?" Isobel asked, turning obediently and presenting him with her back. She picked up the abandoned length of hair and resumed her efforts.

"Yeah," Gabe said, wishing he was as sure as he felt. "She'll be okay. But you have to promise not to turn around, alright?"

"Alright, I promise."

Satisfied, he tugged the blankets down to Katherine's waist and bit his tongue hard on a fresh surge of fury. He'd kill that goddamned preacher so dead he'd loop back around to life, and then he'd kill him again. Wringing out the rag, he began to clean the mud and dried blood from her pale skin, careful not to press too hard around the bruises. She had sunk deep into sleep, and responded with little more than a twitch of her brow at the pain.

Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Bad, probably.

For a few long minutes, he and Isobel worked in silence, and he was grateful as hell for the relative peace. He needed to get his head screwed on straight if he was going to deal with this, and it was impossible to think with the girl nagging him with her tears and her spurts of strength and her questions that he didn't know how to answer.

"Hey, mister?"

Her voice rocked him out of his thoughts and he grimaced, dipping the rag in the basin to rinse it. "Yeah?"

"My ma said I'm never s'posed to talk to strangers, but then she told me to talk to you. Are you a stranger?"

"No, I'm not a stranger."

"How come? I don't know you. Does ma know you?"

"Yeah, your ma knows me."

"How come I never seen you at church? All our friends are from church. Pa says we can't have friends that aren't at church. Are you ma's friend? Why don't you go to church?"

Gabe wrung out the rag and closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. It was going to be a long, long day.