When the Halo Falls, a heavenly romance Read online

  When the Halo Falls

  CHAPTER ONE

  FORTUNE, NEW MEXICO, 1885

  "There's no point in rumbling thunder at me," Patience Goodfellow muttered, throwing a dark look heavenward. "You sent me here and I'll handle the assignment as I please."

  Overhead, the night sky shimmered with banked lightning hidden behind a wall of clouds rolling across the star-studded blackness. Wind kicked up out of nowhere, sending dust devils dancing across the wide main street of Fortune.

  Deliberately, Patience reached up and gave her halo a defiant tilt. Heaven knew, she'd gone toe to toe with her superiors on more than one occasion over the last couple of centuries. Yet they still sometimes resorted to tawdry displays of power in a futile attempt to intimidate her.

  Which was most certainly a waste of their time and hers. Patience was not a woman — er, angel — to back down from any situation in which she thought she was right. And with that thought firmly in mind, she turned her back on the heavenly temper tantrum and moved off down the dark street.

  For pity's sake, she thought. One would think one would have the support of one's superiors when one was confronted with a problem, wouldn't one? She scowled to herself and wondered if perhaps she hadn't thrown one too many "ones" into that thought. Then she dismissed the whole notion along with the still-rumbling heavens.

  "Ask a simple question and you get enough noise to wake the dead," she murmured.

  Rain pattered all around her, but Patience remained as dry and warm as she had for more than two hundred years. She turned her face up and imagined the cool, slick feel of raindrops sliding down her cheeks. Opening her eyes, she frowned slightly, then shrugged. True, she sometimes missed the simple pleasures of being alive. But on the other hand, there were certainly compensations — her dress wasn't soiled, her hair wasn't soaking wet, and she certainly didn't have to worry about stepping into a puddle.

  Still, indulging her mind in its attempt to wander wasn't solving her problem.

  "And you were absolutely no help," she muttered again, shooting one last disgusted glance skyward.

  All she'd wanted was a touch of advice. But as expected, she'd only received the usual sorry speech about free will.

  "What in heaven is the purpose of assigning guardian angels to human beings if we're not allowed to interfere in their best interests?"

  And heaven knew, Brady Shaw, gambler, womanizer, and all-around bounder, desperately needed guidance. A flicker of warmth stirred in her heart as she drew the man's image up in her mind. She'd been Brady's guardian angel since he was eleven years old. And by the time she was assigned to him, he'd already worn out three perfectly good angels. Her predecessors had given up on him, but even when he was a child, Patience had seen something noble in Brady. Something that had touched her heart and made her want to do anything in her power to help him. Now that he was a man, though, that streak was buried so deeply inside him, she wasn't sure that even he knew it existed anymore.

  "But it does," Patience muttered firmly, refusing to accept the alternative. She'd watched him grow, seen him make poor choices and recover again only to make more of the same. She'd ached to help him. She'd whispered advice in his ear, as guardians often did, but he'd chosen not to listen. And now he was so firmly entrenched in his solitude, she wasn't at all sure she could make him hear her anymore.

  "Which is exactly why I asked permission to show myself to him," she snapped, knowing very well that heaven was still listening.

  A bolt of lightning scratched the sky and a rumble of thunder shook the wooden buildings around her.

  "Pestilence!" she muttered and tried to kick at a rock in her path. Naturally, her foot sailed right through the obstacle, which only infuriated her more.

  After all, it wasn't as if she would be the first angel in history to be seen. Hadn't there been annunciations and proclamations for untold centuries? And hadn't mankind always benefited from them? For pity's sake, all she wanted to do was show Brady that he wasn't alone.

  But even as she thought it, she knew that wasn't the whole truth. Which was, most likely, the problem on high.

  She loved Brady Shaw. Always had. And she suspected everyone in heaven knew it. From the moment she first saw him, it was as if their souls had touched. As if they'd been meant to be together. Although, of course, that could never be. It was forbidden for an angel, especially a guardian angel, to fall in love with the mortal in their charge.

  But there had been rumors, over the centuries, that some angels had found love where it was least expected. So it wasn't at all surprising that her superiors didn't want Patience revealing herself to Brady. No matter how desperately he might need her. And he did need her, she thought, feeling that ache in her heart again.

  Sighing, she continued on down the street, toward the closed and shuttered dress shop. As she did most nights, she glided directly through the wall of the small store and wandered among the stacks of merchandise.

  A purely feminine ribbon of want rippled through Patience as she admired all of the finery. When she was alive, she'd worn mostly black with the occasional gray dress — like the one she was wearing now — to liven things up. But then, that was hardly surprising. When she was alive, the Pilgrims, as so many people thought of her people today, were much too busy trying to stay alive in a hostile new country to worry overmuch about their appearance. Besides, as she recalled, the elders of her church had considered "fripperies" to be just a bit decadent.

  So much had changed over the last two hundred years, she thought with an inward sigh of regret that she couldn't take advantage of those changes. Today, there were so many lovely colors for women to choose from. So many different types of adornment.

  And once again, her imagination took flight. She saw herself as Brady's fiancée, strolling arm in arm with him along the dusty street, nodding to their friends, smiling secretively at each other — happily planning a wedding that would be just lovely. So clear was the dream, she could almost feel his hand on hers, sense the warmth of his touch, the shine in his eyes.

  Then her own eyes opened again and she was alone in the darkness, surrounded by fripperies she would never wear. Regrets fluttered through her and Patience sighed heavily, shifting her gaze to the hats lining one wall of the store. In among the straws and velvets, she spied a froth of white lace attached to a crown of artificial pink roses.

  "Oh," she said softly, moving toward it. "Isn't it lovely?"

  A bridal veil. Patience had never been a bride, though she'd attended many weddings over the last two hundred years — never as a guest, of course. Merely an observer. Her gaze moved over the cloth flowers and she had to marvel at the genius behind them. Imagine, being able to have the beauty of spring flowers all year round. And what a delicate touch the milliner had displayed in attaching the lace to those flowers, she thought, already reaching for it.

  Her hand, though, slipped right through the delicate material. She frowned thoughtfully and stared down at her empty hand. One more disappointment this night. But perhaps… Giving in to temptation, Patience tossed a quick look around the empty, dark shop, as if checking to be assured she was alone.

  "Silly," she said, with a guilty chuckle. "Who would be watching?"

  She turned toward a long, oval mirror and studied her reflection. After all, just because no human was able to see an angel's reflection didn't mean it wasn't there.

  A tall woman with long, curly black hair stared back at her. Her long, gray dress was, she supposed, serviceable, though hardly attractive, though she really couldn't blame its effect entirely on the fabric. Her figure was hardly lush, after all. Small breasts, narrow hips, a too long neck —
no, even in life, Patience had never been one to stir up feelings of lust in men.

  Although she'd once been called a "handsome woman" and had never really been sure if that was a compliment or not. After all, men were handsome, weren't they? But as she studied her own good, but unremarkable features, she wondered what Brady would think of her.

  Shaking her head, she reached up and plucked the shimmering golden halo off her head. As soon as she did, she waited, half expecting another lightning bolt to shoot right through the roof and sizzle her on the spot. Halos were never to be removed. Without a halo, an angel was visible — and in trouble. Guiltily, she set it to one side and watched as the glow of heavenly light dimmed, leaving it looking like no more than a tarnished brass circlet.

  She waited another moment or two and when retribution didn't come crashing out of the sky, Patience determinedly reached for the veil again. This time, her fingers curled around the rose wreath firmly and Patience set it carefully atop her head. The pink flowers stood out in stark relief against her black, curly hair and she smiled to herself, imagining walking down a flower strewn church aisle toward a grinning Brady.

  White lace billowed around her shoulders and bunched up beneath her ears. Patience tried unsuccessfully to smooth it down then gave the excess lace a tug. But it appeared to be stuck beneath the mountain of hatboxes piled on the tabletop. It didn't budge. She tugged again, scowling fiercely at the stubborn bit of lace. How could she possibly get the full effect of how she looked if the confounded material wasn't in place correctly?

  Giving one more mighty yank, Patience smiled when the veil flew free, pulling the bottom box on the stack askew at the same time. The lace settled gently around her shoulders, but she had no more than a moment to enjoy her reflection. In the next instant, the dislodged pile of boxes toppled over. She ducked instinctively, but the heaviest of the lot smacked into Patience's head and stars burst in front of her eyes.

  She groaned tightly and fell to one side, her elbow tipping the halo off the edge of the table. Patience lay still and quiet on the littered floor and the halo rolled away, off into the shadows.

  #

  Brady Shaw picked up his cup of coffee and glanced over the ledger. Profits were up, but the nightly fights in the saloon were cutting into the take. He'd already had to replace the mirror behind the bar twice this week and one of his best bottles of brandy had been used to club Mick Donovan's thick head.

  He smiled, remembering how the barrel-chested miner had roared, "For God's sake, man, don't waste the good stuff,” just before plowing his hamlike fist into his attacker's face.

  "You want me to get another mirror out of the storeroom, boss?" a voice asked from off to his left.

  Brady half turned to look at Joe Dawson, the bartender. An ex-prizefighter, the man was always willing to wade into trouble. And for his efforts last night, his left eye was swollen nearly shut.

  “Yeah, Joe," Brady said. "Go ahead."

  "We're down to our last two, boss."

  "I know. You can go over to the Mercantile later and order another half dozen."

  "Gettin' mighty expensive keepin’ those mirrors up over the bar."

  "Yeah," Brady agreed with a smile. "But it gives the place some class."

  "If you say so." Joe shrugged and shuffled off to the storeroom, apparently unconvinced of the gentility of the Fortune's Own saloon.

  Not that Brady could blame him any. It wasn't class his customers were looking for when they came through those double doors. It was liquor, women, and poker. Not necessarily in that order.

  And Brady was pleased to supply all three. Of course, he thought, with a glance at the staircase leading to the half-dozen rooms on the second story, the ladies here just rented rooms from him. What they did with their time was their business. As long as they paid their rent the first of every month, he was happy.

  Taking up his coffee cup again, he came out from behind the bar and walked across the room to the front windows. Staring out at Main Street as it slowly came to life, he thought about that for a minute. Happy.

  He squinted into the morning sunlight and considered the word. Well, hell, he wasn't unhappy, so he must be happy. Right?

  #

  "Who're you?"

  Patience stirred and winced as her body complained about the night spent on the cold, hard wooden floor. Every inch of her ached and there seemed to be a marching band trooping through her head. She lifted one hand to her forehead and found a knot the size of a walnut. For pity's sake. What had happened?

  "Lady?" the voice asked again. "You all right?"

  She opened one eye and stared up into the face of a boy no more than ten. His too long brown hair fell across his forehead, and from behind that curtain, big brown eyes watched her curiously.

  "Davey," she said slowly, then more surely as her mind began to clear. "Davey Howard."

  His eyes widened and he stared at her as if she'd grown another head. Well, whatever was wrong with the boy? She squirmed around until she was sitting up, then shoved the fall of lace out of her face.

  "What am I doing here?" she asked the boy, not really expecting a reply, since he seemed to have been stricken dumb.

  "Ma'am," he said and swallowed hard enough that it looked as though he were trying to dislodge a chicken bone from his throat. "If you don't mind me askin', who are you?"

  She pulled her head back and stared at him. For one brief, horrifying moment, she wasn't entirely sure she'd be able to answer that question, then her mind righted itself and she blurted, "For pity's sakes Davey, it's me."

  "Yes, ma'am," he agreed, "I can see that. But who are you?"

  What on earth was the child talking about? He knew her every bit as well as she knew him. Davey Howard, ten years old, an orphan, poor child. He survived by doing odd jobs for the storekeepers in town. Which is why he was here at the dress shop so early in the morning. To sweep up and straighten before the store opened for customers. He was an industrious boy with a good heart and a yearning for family, and she'd known him for — well, she frowned thoughtfully, forever, it seemed.

  "I'm Patience, of course," she said, reaching up to tug the annoying piece of lace from atop her head. She barely glanced at the bridal veil before tossing it to one side. "Patience Goodfellow."

  "Uh-huh." He still looked at her strangely and she could only guess that he'd decided, for whatever reason, to pretend to not know her.

  She smiled at him and wagged one finger in his direction. “I'm in no mood for games this morning, Davey. Would you mind helping me up?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he said and took her hand in both of his.

  The feel of those small, callused hands took her briefly by surprise, but Patience disregarded the notion and concentrated on extricating herself from the pile of boxes.

  Once on her feet again, she looked around in dismay. "Oh my, Beatrice is not going to be pleased about this."

  "No, ma'am," Davey said, "reckon not."

  Beatrice Martel was not the kind of woman who would appreciate finding her shop in a state of disarray. A place for everything and everything in its place, that was the motto Beatrice lived by. It made for an organized, if empty, life.

  "If we work together," Patience offered suddenly, "we can have these boxes restacked neatly before she arrives."

  The boy's eyes were wary, but he accepted her offer of help quickly enough. And in just a few minutes, the boxes were neat, the hats replaced on their stands, and the veil once more sitting in a place of honor.

  For the life of her, Patience couldn't remember coming to the store last night. Or trying on the bridal veil. It was as if there had been a spill of ink in her mind and those particular events had been blacked out. She rubbed at the spot on her forehead, just between her eyes. No doubt, once the pain in her head eased back, her memory would fit itself back together.

  Until then, she would simply go back to her life and carry on as if everything was just as it should be. And as that thought rose up, she sudde
nly said, "Brady!"

  "Ma'am?"

  She glanced down into Davey's surprised eyes and said, "Brady must be worried to death about me."

  "He must?" The boy shoved his hair back from his face, and Patience, smiling, reached down to scoop that hair back farther.

  "We're going to have to get you a haircut, Davey, or soon you'll be stumbling around with your hands stretched out in front of you."

  "I don't need no haircut," he grumbled and stepped back from her, despite the sudden urge to stay close. He didn't know who she was and figured she just might be a bit touched in the head. But when she touched him, he felt all right inside. Kind of warm and nice. Like nothing he'd ever felt before.

  But that was just foolishness, he told himself. She was just some loco woman.

  She smiled at him, but he saw the sadness in it and immediately felt bad about thinking such things about her. Durned if he knew why, though.

  "It's all right, Davey," she said and her voice sounded real pretty now. Soft and gentle, like he figured his ma must have sounded before she up and died on him when he was a child.

  "It is?" he asked, not really sure what they were talking about now.

  "It is," she said firmly. "Everything is all right now. You'll see." Then she walked past him toward the front door.

  The bell jangled as she opened it and Davey couldn't keep from shouting out, "Ma'am, where you goin' now?"

  She glanced back at him over her shoulder and gave him a smile bright enough to make the sun ashamed. "I'm going to see my fiancé, silly."

  "Your fiancé?" He'd heard the word. He knew she meant her intended.

  "Yes. Brady Shaw." She shook her head and clucked her tongue at him. "Now, you're not going to try to pretend you don't know Brady too, are you?"

  "No, ma'am," he whispered, "I sure ain't." Heck, everybody from here to California knew Brady Shaw.

  "Am not," she corrected.

  "Am not," he parroted right after her.

  "Good," she said and gave him one last smile. “I'll see you later, then, Davey," she called as she sailed out of the dress shop headed for the saloon.