Something Blue

Chapter 9

*** 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.