Gabe

"Gabe, honey, we got trouble."

They had trouble every other day, it felt like. It was always something or other. A client didn't want to pay. Two girls were fighting over a client. Two clients were fighting over a girl. The booze was running low. Temperatures and tempers were running high. One of the men at the table in the corner was cheating at cards and his pals were catching on. One of the girls was drinking on the job and the men were catching on. Someone had stolen from the cash box. Mr. Roberts at the general store was acting a fool and refusing to sell to "Vivian's harlots."

Gabe Townsend was an expert in trouble, and the resolution thereof.

"What's the problem, Caro?" he asked the woman who leaned her elbows on the glossy wood of the bar. He had his eyes on the table in the corner, where three men were leaning in close, speaking in conspiratorial whispers as each leered independently at the same woman's rear.

Trouble.

"We have a visitor," Caroline said, reaching across the bar to nudge him in the arm, jerking her head toward the door. Her dark curls swayed against painted cheeks, ruby-red lips pressed into a grimace. He wasn't sure if the chatter in the hall actually dropped away as he followed her gesture, or if his mind simply blocked them out and replaced the cheerful hum with the sound of his own hammering heart.

It gave him no small pleasure to see that Reverend Jacob Peters was looking a little worse for wear. He was pale and sickly, with a dark bruise staining his temple, the skin abraded and scabbed over. His normally glossy dark hair was disheveled, an errant cowlick giving him the appearance of a sullen child rather than the man he was-- vicious and unyielding in his cruelty.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Caroline asked in a hushed whisper, her hand coming to rest on his forearm.

Probably looking for his runaway wife and daughter.

"No clue," Gabe lied, guilt tearing at his insides. If this went sour, he had only himself to blame for bringing trouble to the girls' doorstep. "Stay by the shotgun, yeah?"

Caro nodded jerkily, her hand releasing him as he pushed to his feet, knocking back the glass of whiskey he'd been nursing all evening. The reverend was flanked by two men Gabe recognized vaguely from past visits to the brothel. Decades ago, when he was a young boy just learning to apply logic to the world around him, their hypocrisy would have baffled and infuriated him. Now, he barely gave it any thought. It seemed, to him, that the deeper a man sank into debauchery, the louder his voice became in the church choir. It was as senseless and inevitable as rain falling on a sunny day.

The area around the front entrance had cleared, patrons turning away and hiding their faces in shame while the women made themselves scarce. Gabe drew to a halt in front of the three newcomers. The reverend crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin, but Gabe let his arms hang at his sides. Only idiots postured like that. In a sudden fight, it took extra time to uncross one's arms. Better to leave them free. He let his fingers curl slightly and kept his knees unlocked as well, ready to move. For now, the reverend was protected by Gabe's need to keep Kat's presence a secret. That protection would disappear the second he lashed out in violence.

When the reverend didn't speak, Gabe raised an eyebrow in silent question. "Don't suppose you came here for a drink," he said mildly, his red-hazed vision filled with peripheral fantasies of caving this man's face in. Throttling him to lifelessness. Kicking him while he lay bleeding on the ground. "Bar's that way." He jerked his head toward the back of the room, where Caro stood waiting, one hand undoubtedly clasping the shotgun behind the counter.

Reverend Peters cleared his throat and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "My wife is missing," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I'm sure you can understand my concern for her safety would drive me into even the foulest den of sin this town has to offer."

Concern for her safety. Gabe fought a growl and forced a mild shrug. "Can't imagine what she'd be doing here, reverend. As you've pointed out, this isn't a place for proper ladies."

The reverend glared in sly silence. Gabe knew that his friendship with Katherine was no secret. The whole town knew they had played together as children, much to Katherine's shame. But that friendship had ended, publicly and brutally, long ago. This man had no real reason to suspect she had come to him. Even so, doubt began to plague him as the reverend looked around the smoky room with shrewd eyes. Noisy and packed, it was hardly a small space, but the walls seemed to collapse inward, drawing Katherine's hiding place too close for his comfort.

"Establishments such as this have been known to kidnap young girls," the man said finally. "Pervert their minds and bodies until they crave sin."

Gabe swallowed a snarl and, again, shrugged as if he hadn't a care in the world. "I suppose you haven't noticed," he said, jerking his chin at the room around them. "We don't lack for employees, here at Vivian's. We've got no use to go kidnapping more, least of all some older woman with a body already used by childbirth."

Katherine was hardly old, and he couldn't imagine ever considering her body 'used,' but it was as near to a truth as he could offer. With men like this, it was best to give them something of what they expected. Confronted with absolute truth, they tended to close their eyes and cover their ears and hum until reality passed by and left them safe in their fantasies.

"I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I looked around," the reverend said, nostrils flaring at the insult to what he clearly considered his property.

Gabe smirked. "Not at all. I figured you'd come here sooner or later. Even a man with a will like yours can only resist temptation for so long. Just remember, prices are non negotiable and if the girl doesn't want you, you got no right to her. Some men have a tough time with that rule. Isn't that right, Mr. Mulligan?"

The burly man at the reverend's right hand lacked his preacher's restraint. With a growl, he lurched forward, tossing a meaty fist in Gabe's direction. The blow glanced off his temple as he ducked, and the larger man stumbled a bit as Gabe straightened. Gathering himself, Mulligan charged like a lumbering bull. He projected too much, Gabe thought as he stepped back and let the man plow by, crashing into a table by the wall. Fighting, cards, business deals... they were all the same. You had to hold your intentions close.

"If your cronies are going to be violent, you'll have to leave," he told the reverend, tugging idly at the cuff of his shirt as Mulligan staggered upright. He glared, but the reverend's hand on his arm stopped him from launching another ill-conceived attack. "This is a peaceful establishment, and I'm well within my rights to remove you from the premises if you don't respect the rules."

Reverend Peters glared, shooting an exasperated look at the man at his right shoulder. Without another word, he wheeled and stomped out of the barroom, trailed by his grumbling dogs. Gabe had a feeling he wouldn't be gone for long.

* * *

Katherine and Isobel were both sleeping when he slipped into his darkened quarters. It had been four days since she had come to the river, and her fever had only just broken that afternoon. Though she rested peacefully, he knew what he was about to do would cause her pain and the thought made his chest ache.

"Katie," he murmured, setting the dim lantern on the floor beside the bed. "Katherine, you have to wake up."

She murmured something under her breath and turned her face away.

"Kat," he growled low, shaking her again. "Wake up. Right now."

She moaned painfully, but Isobel stirred to life beside her, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Mr. Gabe?" she asked, her voice hoarse with sleep. "It's nighttime."

"I know," he said gruffly. "Try to wake your mama up, alright?"

Without giving Isobel time to launch into her usual stream of questions, he left her and went to the corner by his chest of drawers. Another benefit of moving to this new building-- the builder had possessed a paranoid fear of the "savage natives" and had built hideouts in many of the living quarters.

Gabe didn't have one thought or another about the Indians other than a vague suspicion that one of his mother's clients had been one. One of her clients in particular. He always thought it a little odd that his skin was a healthy copper tan, even where the sun never touched it. Working in brothels all his life, he'd seen enough naked bodies, both men and women, to know that wasn't quite usual. 

In any event, he wasn't afraid of the Indians but he was certainly grateful for the stuffy, dark hideout beneath the floorboards of his room. Prying up the flooring, he set his lantern in the shallow cavern beneath and cleaned away the cobwebs. It wouldn't be much of a hideaway if Isobel was screaming the whole time from sheer terror at the creepy crawlies.

Once it was clean, he dropped a spare blanket inside, and a pillow he snatched from the bed. Isobel had roused her mother to a groggy wakefulness, and he wasted no time explaining himself beyond a muttered, "I'm sorry. Please be quiet," before he lifted her into his arms, sheets and all, and carried her to the hideaway.

She groaned through her teeth as he settled her into the space. It fit like a coffin, and the sight of her lying in the narrow space felt like ice crystallizing along his spine. She stared up at him with wide, trusting eyes, and he left her alone to retrieve Isobel.

To her credit, the little girl didn't cry as he lowered her into the dark space beside her mother. Even so, he could feel the tears building on the horizon. He took a moment to thank whatever god might be watching that Katherine's fever had broken. How he'd have kept them both quiet all on his own, he had no idea. As it was, he had only to address the mother.

"He's come looking for you," he said bluntly. How he wanted to comfort her and soothe her fears, but comfort had never been his strength. "I reckon he went to get the sheriff, and when he comes back he'll search the whole place, top to bottom. When he comes, you have to be quiet."

Isobel's lip quivered, but Katherine jerked her chin in a nod, tugging the sheet up to more fully cover her naked chest. He ought to help her dress before he locked her away. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to lay in that coffin, naked and hurt, waiting for discovery. But he didn't have any goddamned time.

"It'll be dark," he said, his insides twisting as he thought of the two of them locked in darkness with the bugs and the dirt.

"It's okay," Katherine said. "We'll tell stories, won't we?" she asked her daughter, brushing a hand through her hair. The little girl's locks were still matted. Gabe had tried his hand at untangling him, but hadn't had much luck. Whenever he tried to pull the comb through the tangles, she cried in protest and he gave up. "When we have to be quiet, we'll play the quiet game."

Isobel offered a feeble smile, and Gabe ground his teeth together as he picked up one of the floorboards. "I'll leave one a little unseated so there's air," he told her. Then he began replacing them, condemning her to darkness, inch by inch. When only one slat remained, he caught her eye, the narrow beam of light slashing across her battered face. "I'm sorry," he told her. Her expression twitched, and he wondered what she'd say if he gave her time.

It was better not to know. Setting the last floorboard in place, he locked her in darkness and walked away.

* * *

As he expected, the reverend returned a bare thirty minutes later, Sheriff Lee and a skinny, baby-faced deputy in tow. The sheriff had never graced Vivian's except for the rare tumbler of whiskey, but Gabe recognized the deputy well.

"Reverend Peters claims you've kidnapped his wife," the sheriff said dryly, sinking onto the bar stool Gabe gestured him towards. The preacher hung back near the door, arms crossed and a satisfied smirk on his face.

Gabe poured a tumbler of the sheriff's preferred whiskey and slid the glass over the top of the bar. Caro was busy handling a dispute between two girls over a client and he had leapt at the chance to tend the bar. Do something to take his mind off the woman and her little girl he had hidden away beneath the floor in his living quarters.

Everyone in town thought he was the real power behind his mother's brothel. The folks who knew the place couldn't conceive of a woman being good for more than rutting, and the folks who scorned had it all in their heads that the place was was pure evil, and as the only man Vivian's employed he must be the real power, the devil incarnate.

Little did they know, he was little more than a doorman. His mother ran the place, Caro managed the girls, Liv did the books, and Beth reined in the kitchen and the bar. All Gabe ever did was pour drinks, look after the horses, and toss men out with bloody noses when they took liberties.

"We're not in the business of kidnapping," he said plainly, waving away the coins the other man offered in payment. 

"I know you're not," the sheriff said, setting the money on the counter. "Far as I know, you folks run an honest business out here. But you understand I have to at least search the place."

Gabe sighed. He didn't mind the sheriff much. The man was fair, if a little lame. But he could understand having survived the war of the states would do that to a man-- make him shy away from violence and confrontation. He could even appreciate that the man's aversion to conflict made him a better sheriff than many he'd seen. "Let's get it done, then," he said. "Before the girls start to take clients. You'll want to search all the rooms and they're real touchy about folks coming in while they're working."

"Understandable," the older man said sagely. "Let's get it done with, then."

Together, the lot of them inched slowly through the whole of Vivian's Saloon. They searched the storeroom and the cleaning closet. The laundry and the powder room. They went upstairs and looked through every girl's personal room, the deputy getting down on his belly to peer beneath every four poster bed. They looked behind the bar and out back in the stables, where the deputy clambered up the ladder to investigate the hayloft. They looked under the porch and crept down into the musty cellar.

Gabe's quarters were the last stop of the tour. He'd hastily made his bed and had long since disposed of Katherine and Isobel's ruined dresses, and the bloody rags he'd used to clean and bind Katherine's wounds when she first arrived. The only remaining evidence of their presence was the gentle scent of something-other-than-him, which he didn't suppose the men would detect.

Just as before, though, something about the reverend made him... edgy. Like he sensed something was amiss. The greasy monster stood in the center of Gabe's room and turned a slow circle, his eyes darting from one surface to the next. The hard mattress, the scuffed kitchen table, the smoldering embers in the hearth, the washbasin, the shuttered window.

Gabe held his breath and fought to keep his eyes bland and focused on anywhere other than the corner where he knew Katherine and Isobel were hiding, likely paralyzed with fear as the noisy men stomped about overhead. His vision danced with spots as the reverend's eyes fixed on the chest of drawers he'd drawn across the floor to cover the floorboard he'd left askew so they could breathe.

What would he do, if they noticed his hiding place?

He'd kill the reverend, knock the sheriff unconscious, shoot the deputy in the leg. Tie them up. Take the girls, saddle up two horses, and ride. Ride as far as they could go before the posse caught them up and killed them all.

No.

He'd kill the reverend. Let the sheriff take him into custody. Tell them he'd killed Katherine and Isobel, both, and tossed their bodies in the river. Nobody would go looking for them and they could escape and make new lives. The town would rise up and run his mother out of town, if they didn't kill her outright.

No.

All he could hear was the rasp of his own breath as Peters strode toward the corner where he'd hidden Katherine, floorboards creaking under his feet. "You satisfied?" he asked, leaning back against the table and wondering if they could hear the pounding of his heart in his voice the way he could. "I got a business to manage, you know."

The reverend turned slowly, a fowl sneer on his face, but the sheriff tipped his hat respectfully.

"Reckon we've seen all there is to see here," he said, blushing slightly. One of the girls had already taken a client when they began their search, and the man had been accidentally treated to the sight of more naked flesh than he'd likely seen in a long time. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Townsend."

"Wait, now," the reverend snapped. "He's got her here, sheriff. I know he does. We have to keep looking."

"What on earth makes you think that?" the sheriff challenged, narrowing his eyes at the younger man. "I understand you're worried, son, and that you don't much care for this establishment. But there's no evidence that Vivian's gone and stolen your wife."

"She hasn't," Peters snapped, jabbing a finger at Gabe. "He has."

"And where is he keeping her?" the sheriff asked, raising his brows. "We've searched this place top to bottom. Perhaps she ran off somewhere else, reverend."

"She wouldn't run from me," Peters growled, and Gabe felt a flood of territorial satisfaction. She damn well had run from him. Struck him silly and then run, from the looks of him. Good for her.

"Well in any event, she ain't here."

Gabe decided, in that moment, that Sheriff Lee was a damn fine lawman. Sure, the man was a bit of a pansy, but at least he wasn't bloodthirsty. At least he wasn't so desperate for belonging he was willing to fall to the reverend's persuasion. 

"If you want to stick around, the next round is on the house," Gabe said. "But I'd rather we didn't linger back here in my quarters alone for too long. The girls'll get ideas about why you never come to see them, reverend."

It was a gamble, to cast that kind of aspersion, but it paid off. The reverend's face went purple with rage, and he shoved by Gabe, followed closely by the sheriff who offered him a weak glare. If he didn't know better, Gabe would say he saw a spark of amusement dancing in the otherwise war-fogged eyes.