*** So here's the deal. I am going to go tragically off the grid for two weeks in September. Which means no new chapters for those two weeks, obviously. HOWEVER, I've written out to the end of part 1 and it ends, in a stroke of beautiful coincidence, right when I leave! 

... if I post two chapters a week. So here ya go. My gift to you, in exchange for two weeks of silence in the near future 😉***

Katherine

"When do you sleep?" Katherine asked, her voice gritty.

Gabe startled, whipping around from where he crouched by the mantle, stirring something over the fire.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," he snapped, glaring at her.

"Sneak up on you?" She almost smiled. Would have done so if the beginnings of the unfamiliar motion hadn't tugged at her split lip. "I'm a bedbound invalid, Mr. Townsend."

His gaze flickered at the form of address, and she felt a useless urge to apologize. She'd only meant it as a joke, but he'd taken it as a statement, and she knew if she went backtracking and explaining it'd only make the situation worse. She was always digging herself in worse. That was her problem with Jacob. She could never just leave well enough alone when he got angry. She always had to rebut.

"I didn't know you were awake," he said gruffly, his voice low in deference to Isobel, who was napping at Katherine's side. It was early afternoon, and the air was thick with the heat of the day, even without the low fire burning in the hearth.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she said, sinking back into the pillows. She'd awoken to the sound of him entering the room, booted footsteps light on the wooden floor. It had occurred to her, as she lay in foggy half-sleep, listening to him putter around the small space, that she rarely woke to anything other than Gabe in motion, seeing after her and Isobel's needs. That or he was absent, working in the saloon. Aside from that one drifty, dreamy memory of him sleeping in the chair by her bed, she didn't ever remember him resting.

Now, though, the question felt silly. Invasive. Her concern would likely insult him. Back before she'd ruined everything, he'd been her soul-deep friend. She'd known all of his secrets, asked him every question that skittered into her erstwhile mind. She'd asked him about sex, and about the devil. She asked him all sorts of questions about himself and made all sorts of accusations, never worried for his feelings or his judgment. He'd tell her if she hurt him, and she'd make it better. And he would never, ever judge her.

Now, though, he had heavy shutters over his pretty, whiskey-colored eyes that seemed to slam shut whenever they were face to face. She was afraid to ask him questions, for fear of whatever raged behind the surface. Did he hate her? He must. He'd given her his heart and she had dropped it in the dirt and stomped on it with the heel of her shoe. Nevermind that she'd had to, to keep him safe.

"What are you making?" she asked, instead of revisiting her earlier question.

"Soup," he answered stiffly. "Got more substance than broth, but it'll be easy on your stomach."

"Thank you." Her words were a bare whisper, cloaked in shame. She wished he'd curse at her for all her misdeeds. What was the meaning of this gentle, quiet, unassuming generosity? A storm was coming, she knew, but it was so distant on the horizon she wasn't even sure what form it would take. Would rain come down in sheets? Would thunder rattle her teeth? Would wind roar and tear up what few shallow roots she had left in the rocky ground?

Gabe stirred the little pot a few more times and then came to sit in the rickety chair by her bedside. She didn't have the right to feel in any way proprietary, but she didn't like the shadows under his eyes or the slump in his shoulders. Someone ought to draw him a bath and tuck him into bed, but the thought of anyone seeing beneath his clothes made her squirm, and the thought of him warming any sheets other than hers made her jaw clench. He was hers and hers alone.

No.

No, he wasn't.

Once, years ago, he had been hers. Body and soul, heart and mind. It wasn't a holy union, or a proper one, but they'd been bound together all the same. Linked in ways she had never felt linked to her husband. She wore Jacob Peters's ring on her finger, had searched his eyes while speaking vows to the heavens. But it was Gabe's hand she'd held first, Gabe's silly gifts she'd carried with such pride and possession. It was Gabe's face she saw when she drifted to sleep, and Gabe's soul she felt brushing against hers in her darkest moments, twining around her spine and holding her upright when she felt liable to buckle.

Even now, she was his, but that didn't erase the fact that she'd long since abdicated her right to claim him back. He'd offered her everything he had to offer and she had insulted him. Lied to him. Driven him away because her fear was louder than her love.

"Josh Tucker came by, today," he said, jerking her from her thoughts as he leaned forward in the chair, bracing his elbows on his knees. "The reverend went out to the ranch, looking for you."

"Oh no," she moaned, lowering her face and tightening her fingers in the sheets. She couldn't bear the thought of anyone suffering for her flight other than herself. "He didn't hur--"

"He wouldn't dare," Gabe said, intuiting her fears and waving them off with a lazy shake of his head. "The men on that ranch are loyal to a fault, and Josh has turned the place into a fortress since the fire. He just showed up asking questions, that's all."

"Did you tell Mr. Tucker about me?" she whispered, clenching her hands together on top of the covers. The bruise on the back of the left had grown splotchy and dark as it healed and she traced her thumbnail along the edge of the ugly mark.

"I told him you're here," Gabe said evenly, and her heart leaped into her throat and then plummeted into her stomach. "He offered to bring Melissa to town to take a look at you."

Equal parts happiness and dread seeped into Katherine's blood. Melissa was her friend. No place was as safe as Gabe, but Melissa and her sister-in-law Amelia were kind women. Smart and wise. They'd given her such good advice when Isobel was born, before Jacob forbade her from seeing them on account of their brazen, unabashed confidence. They had made her laugh when she didn't think it was possible, anymore. And from the way her husband talked about Josh Tucker, she doubted anyone in that family had any fondness for the church or its leader. If she loved a good man, after all, she wouldn't tolerate outsiders casting aspersions on his character.

Even despite her fondness for the Tucker women, the thought of anyone else seeing her this way-- broken and defeated-- made her want to pull the blankets up over her head and hide forever beneath them. Her mind and body were such a riot of ugly emotions. Shame, fear, pain, guilt... there was no room in the cacophony for friendly conversation. It was all she could do to tell stories to Isobel and make up quiet games for her daughter to play around their cramped haven. To greet Gabe when he came around and accept his kindness without collapsing into tears of gratitude and contrition. The thought of bringing fresh faces into this nightmare made her shudder.

"Do I have a choice?" she asked, despair making her voice stony and emotionless. She did not want to cry in front of him-- give him more reason to pity her and offer her further unearned kindnesses.

"Katherine," he sighed. His hand reached out reflexively, and she flinched before realizing he was only reaching to clasp her hand. He drew back, weaving his fingers together, and shook his head. "You always have a choice," he said. "But I'd feel better if you'd let her take a look at you. I'm hardly a doctor, and you... I think you ought to let her check you out."

She wondered if he knew what he was doing, putting it like that. What choice did she have? Anything he asked of her, she'd have to give. He had saved Isobel. For that alone, Katherine owed him her life, her death, and all the little moments in between. If he asked her to dance on hot coals, she would ask him what steps he'd like to see. If he asked her to parade naked through town, she'd ask which street she should start on. The debt between them was the only thing stronger than her fear.

"Okay," she whispered, fighting the tears that burned her eyes and her aching nose, resigned to humiliation. Melissa would ask her probing questions. Study the horrific bruises on her ruined body. She'd want to inspect her all over, in places where nobody ever ought to see her. The thought of Gabe unearthing her shame had made her squirm. The thought of anyone else seeing her bare had her breath skipping in her chest.

"Katherine." His voice was a low hum beneath the roar of blood in her ears and the hammering of her silly heart. Her ribs stabbed her insides as she fought to suck in air the consistency of wet clay. Her heart wasn't beating right. She could hear it stuttering and flailing, and she couldn't catch her breath. She fought for air, but it felt as if her throat had closed to the width of a hair. She barely registered that the horrible, desperate wheezing sound came from her own mouth.

"Katherine, sweetheart..." A hand cradled the nape of her neck, another gripping her shoulder. She was tugged upright, and her worthless, weakened body slumped. Her forehead pressed against soft cotton, fingers gently kneading at the back of her neck as a broad, rough hand brushed up and down her bare back. "Breathe, Katie." The words were a brush of warm air over her ear and she fought to obey. Couldn't.

"Can't," she gasped, hot tears racing down her cheeks, salt stinging her swollen eye. Her hand came up and closed around his wrist. She was dangling over the edge of a smoldering pit, and he was the only thing holding her up. He needed to hold her harder.

"You can," he said. He sounded calm, but it was all a lie. His pulse raced beneath her finger tips. He was frightened. He was never frightened. She must be dying.

"I can't," she said again.

"You can. I promise." The hand on the back of her neck came loose, and he twisted free from her grip. She felt herself falling and would have cried out if she'd had the air. But he caught her. Of course he caught her. His arm banded tight around her back, one hand curving around her side. Meanwhile, the fingers of the other closed around hers, lifted her hand, and pressed it against the warm solidity of his chest. She wanted to wrap the fabric in her fingers, but he pressed a palm over her hand, holding it flat. "Breathe with me, Kat," he murmured in her ear. "In... and out...in... out..." he breathed and she fought to follow as the surface beneath her hand rose and fell.

Each breath was a struggle, and she didn't know how many years, how many lifetimes, they sat like that before the air finally began to thin and her heart slowed to a steadier rhythm in her chest. Gradually, she became aware of the sound of her own wheezing gasps, and remembered that Isobel was nearby. She needed to be quiet. She was scaring her daughter. But when she tried to pull away, Gabe held her close, and she knew that Isobel was alright. Probably still sleeping. He wouldn't hold her back if her daughter needed her.

As more details of her surroundings sank in, she realized she was sitting upright, her face pressed to his shoulder, her failing body held up by a strong arm banded across her back. As her breath came back, she gave into a terrible urge. A filthy urge, wrong and undeserved-- she turned her face into his neck and breathed in the scent of him. She fought the pressure of his hand and wove her fingers into his shirt and pulled him closer.

Don't leave me, ever again, she thought at him. No, that wasn't right. Don't let me leave you, ever again.

But she would, wouldn't she? She always would, because they couldn't walk through life like this, twined together like crawling vines. They had to break apart, and he would never be the one to step away. It was her burden to bear. Her responsibility.

She took one last breath, inhaling his steady, warm presence before she released his shirt and pushed away. He made no effort to keep her, holding on only long enough to rearrange the pillows behind her so she could sit up. Then he eased her down and moved back to his chair, and the world was cold and unforgiving and lonely once more. She looked down and saw Isobel, somehow still deep in slumber at her side.

"I can tell Josh not to bring Melissa," Gabe said, his voice rough, and she remembered the way his heartbeat had flailed against her fingers. "I think you'll be alright, now the fever's broke, and--"

"No," she cut him off, bracing one arm across her aching ribs. She was afraid, but she had to be reasonable. She was badly hurt, and while she was feeling stronger, there was no guarantee the fever wouldn't come back. She had to let Melissa look at her, not for her own sake but for Isobel's. Only days ago, she had thought she was sending her child into the world without a mother. Now that she had a second chance to be there, to raise her baby girl, to comfort her when she fell and cheer for her when she was flying, she couldn't sacrifice it because she was afraid. "No, she can come. I was being silly."

Gabe leveled his gaze at her, and she wanted to sink beneath the covers and pull the pillow over her head. He saw too much with those unearthly eyes. He always had.

"If I was hurting like you are, I wouldn't want folks around," he said stiffly. "It's not silly. Remember when Poppy broke her leg? She hid under that rock and we had to tease her out with jerky."

The unexpected smile hurt Katherine's lip and she stifled it. Poppy was a runaway sheepdog they'd encountered when they were children, on one of their jaunts through the forest. They had lured her in with snacks and soft voices, and she had become a loyal companion in their adventures. When she'd broken her leg it had taken them two days to find her, and another two hours to coax her from her hiding place so they could carry her to help. Once they were sure she'd recover, it had gone down as one of the greatest quests they'd ever undertaken.

"I miss Poppy," she said, suddenly sad. The dog had still been around when her father had married her off to Reverend Peters. She'd mentioned her pet, but her new husband had growled and said something about the smell and, even then, she'd known it would be better not to cross him. Poppy had gone with Gabe, and she supposed there must have come a day when her loyal friend had stolen off into the woods to hide and never returned.

"Hell, Kat, don't cry," Gabe sighed, and she could have kicked herself. Tomorrow, she resolved, she would start fresh. She wouldn't cause him any further stress than she absolutely had to. She wouldn't cry or forget how to breathe. If he told her Melissa was coming, she would smile and pretend she was happy. Tomorrow she would find some way to help, instead of laying here like some worthless lout. Tomorrow she would be good.

Today? Today was already a wash.

"She must have thought I didn't love her," she whispered, pressing a hand over her aching heart. "She probably hid somewhere and died, and she she was all alone and I was never there, and--"

"Katherine, stop," he murmured, and she could feel rather than see how hard he fought not to reach for her and pull her into his arms once more. She wanted him to stop fighting.

"But she was alone," she moaned, embarrassed but unable to stifle her anguish. She had hurt Gabe. She had hurt Poppy. She had even hurt Jacob. It was only a matter of time before she hurt Isobel. Everything she touched fell to suffering.

"She wasn't alone, sweetheart." The words broke through her stifled sadness and she looked up to see him watching her, the shutters over his eyes open for just the briefest of moments. Oh, dear God, but he loved her. Perhaps all the other soft edges of his soul had been chipped away and turned to jagged darkness, but he still loved her. It was as clear in that moment as it had been when they were sweet, silly ten year olds, marrying each other with rings made from woven twine in a secret ceremony beneath a towering pine. The 'wedding' had been her idea, the rings his.

"What?"

He shrugged, the shutters slamming closed as he lowered his gaze to the floor between his feet. "She got pretty sick and slunk off into the woods, but I found her. I told her you loved her and missed her and you'd see her soon and all that, and she wasn't in any pain. I rubbed her belly and scratched her ears the way she liked. In the end, she just fell asleep."

How much of that was true? Gabe had never lied to her, but she had a hard time imagining the man he'd become holding a dying dog in his arms and telling it sweet lies it couldn't understand. Absurd.

"Did you bury her?" she asked, trying to summon the outlandish image of this hard, devilish man digging a grave for a dog. Wrapping it carefully in a blanket and fighting tears as he lowered their faithful friend into the earth. Bidding her a final goodbye. Doubly absurd.

"By the Bridge," he said, his voice clipped. "I'll take you there when you're better so you can say goodbye. There's a marker."

Maybe it wasn't so absurd after all.