Catch a Fallen Angel Read online

  That shook him right down to his bones. It was one thing to go through life not really expecting Heaven. It was another entirely to actually die and meet up with Old Scratch. And damned if the demon didn’t look like any other man. But then, evil'd be a lot easier to avoid if it came with horns and the smell of sulphur, wouldn't it?

  "What were you hoping to see?" the Devil asked. "Horns? Tail? Hooves?"

  He didn't think "hope" was the right word but, "Well, yeah.”

  "I can move among people more easily like this."

  "Uh-huh." Pushing himself to his feet, Gabe stared at the other man for a long minute before asking, "So. Now what happens?"

  . "Now you listen to something I've got to say."

  ""'Gabe shook his head. “No preaching, thanks. I may have earned my way into Hell, but that doesn't mean I want to hear a list of my sins read back to me."

  The Devil laughed. “Your list is fairly unremarkable and not very interesting reading."

  "No call to be insulting," Gabe muttered.

  "I'm here to offer you a deal," the gunfighter said, ignoring his comment entirely.

  Gabe's ear perked right up. A deal? Well, why not? When you actually got around to thinking about it, the Devil had to be the father of all gambling. Still, it paid to be wary. "What kind of deal?'"

  "I'm willing to offer you two extra months of life."

  He inhaled sharply. Life. Lord, that sounded good.

  Especially to a man who'd just found himself with a one-way ticket to Hell.

  But he wasn't fool enough to believe the Devil would go out of his way to do a good deed. There had to be a few strings attached to this proposition. "In exchange for what?”

  "Simple, really." He shrugged. "Another soul."

  Gabe sucked in a gulp of air and felt the mountain wind chill his insides. He reached up and rubbed one hand across his mouth, relishing the sting of his whiskers against his palm. The sensation reminded him of all things living. And suddenly, alive seemed more important than ever.

  The Devil's eyebrows arched. "Is there a problem?”

  If he said yes, that would be it. He'd be turning down this deal and he'd find himself in Hell faster than he could blink and it would all be over. There'd be no chance to say a decent goodbye to all the things he'd never really appreciated until now. When it was too late. But if he said no, then he'd have to agree with the Devil's plan and take someone with him when he went to Hell. It was one thing to take yourself off to the flames, but quite another to haul some other poor fool along with you. He might be a sinner in the eyes of anyone who mattered, but damn, even he had some lines he wouldn't cross.

  So rather than answering the question directly, he stalled. "Who is it you're sending me after?”

  The Devil paused and Gabe held his breath.

  “I want the man I was supposed to get today. Henry Whittaker."

  Henry. Gabe's breath left him in a rush of pure anger.

  Back teeth grinding together, he clenched his hands into tight fists. Oh, the Devil knew just what he was about, all right. To get two extra months of life, all he had to do was hunt down the one man he dearly wanted to see burning in a pit of sulphur and brimstone.

  And Gabe wanted those two months. Not just to hunt Henry down like the dog he was, but to enjoy breathing for just a bit longer. To look up at the mountains and feel the wind on his face. To lift a glass of good brandy. To bed a woman and feel the soft, sweet release sweep through him. To feel all the wonderful, irritating things he'd taken for granted for too many years.

  “If your conscience"—the Devil said the word in a smirking tone—“is bothering you, you should know that Henry will be coming to me sooner or later, anyway."

  "Oh, he's coming all right," Gabe assured him. "That old man has fleeced more sheep than a shepherd."

  A fleeting smile curved the Devil's lips. “Then you accept my offer? Two months in exchange for your shall we say, hurrying Henry's soul to me?"

  “I don't have to kill him myself, do I?” Sneaky bastard or not, Henry'd been a friend and Gabe didn't want to be the one to actually do him in.

  “No. Just make sure he's where he's supposed to be at the agreed on time."

  "And where's that?"

  The gunfighter smirked. "I'll let you know."

  Sounded easy enough, Gabe thought. A tiny flicker of something…compassion, regret, pity…rose up inside him and was gone again in an instant. Henry'd made his choices. Just as Gabe had. It didn't really matter if the man met eternity in two months or twenty years.

  Besides, Gabe reminded himself, Henry owed him at least this much for leaving him to the hangman.

  "Your decision," the gunfighter snapped and Gabe felt the lash of his words slap at him.

  Something his mother used to say suddenly leaped into his brain and he could almost hear her voice whispering, "If you lie down with dogs, sooner or later, you'll get fleas.

  Well, he'd spent his life with the dogs. Some more flea bitten than others. For years, he'd told himself that he wasn't as bad as the rest of them and was much better than most. Yet here he stood on the brink of eternity and it seemed that, at last, the fleas had caught up to him.

  "All right, Devil," Gabe said, lifting his chin slightly to meet the other man's gaze. "You've got yourself a deal.”

  Icy blue eyes stared at him for a long moment and Gabe wasn't sure if the Devil looked pleased…or disappointed, somehow.

  "In two months' time then," the Devil said softly. "I'll have your soul and one other."

  "Deal," Gabe said and reached out one hand to shake on it.

  But the gunfighter had already begun to fade, twisting again into a writhing black column of shadows. And as the last of him dissolved into the wind, the barrier between Gabe and the world disappeared, as well. And everything was as it should be.

  Except that he was a walking dead man.

  Chapter Two

  FOUR DAYS LATER

  Gabe passed a small, tidy church and glanced at the group of kids playing in the sparse grass out front. Apparently, the church doubled as a school and he'd hit town just as they'd been let out for the day. Their whoops and hollers filled the air and he grinned at their excitement. It had been a lot of years since he'd been that happy about anything.

  He rode slowly on, down the center of the pitifully short main street of Regret, Nevada. A tiny town crouched at the base of the mountains, it had a tired, weather-beaten look about it. False-fronted buildings leaned against each other like drunken cowboys and shingles rattled in the wind coming down off the mountain. Not exactly the kind of town be would have picked to spend his last days in, but it was just the sort of place he'd expect Henry to call home.

  His sharp gaze swept back and forth, taking in everything, before settling on a man crossing the street in front of him. "Say," Gabe called out, “where can a man get a meal and a bath?”

  The tall, lean man paused, then came closer. His face deeply tanned from years of working in the sun, he had squint lines etched into his brow between a pair of sharp blue eyes. "New in town?” he asked.

  Gabe nodded. "Just rode in."

  "Come far?"

  He smiled inwardly. Every place was the same. Strangers always prompted curiosity. And, having lived a life skirting the edges of the law, Gabe well knew how to dodge questions. "Far enough to warrant a bath, that's for damn sure.”

  He said it with a friendly smile and immediately the man's features relaxed. Pointing off down the street, the fella said, "You'll find the bathhouse yonder, just past the livery on the right."

  Good news. He hadn't figured on finding a real bathhouse in a small place like this. But apparently, enough cowboys came into town on a Saturday night to make it a worthwhile business. Lord, Gabe could almost feel hot water sluicing over him already.

  "And the meal?” the man was saying.

  "Yeah?" Food was his first priority. At the moment he was so hungry he could probably eat a bathtub, soap and all.


  "There's only the one restaurant…"

  "And?” Gabe had definitely heard an implied “but" in there.

  The man shook his head and shrugged. "If you ain't too picky, it'll do ya."

  "Hell, mister," he said on a chuckle, "if they served me a stack of shingles and called them flapjacks, I’d eat 'em right up and call them tasty.”

  His new friend laughed shortly. "Then you'll like this place. Shingles are the specialty."

  Still laughing to himself, the man moved off and Gabe frowned after him. Hell, if it was that bad, how'd they stay in business? Then he answered his own question. If they had enough randy cowboys coming in on Saturday nights to warrant a bathhouse, then there were enough of them to keep even a bad restaurant open. Lord knew, those cowhands were used to eating mighty poor food.

  He rode on, studying the town as he went. There was a mercantile, a millinery, land office, and gunsmith. The livery was at the end of the street, and just beyond it, lay the bathhouse, as promised. There was the restaurant, across the street from the saloon. Gabe stared thoughtfully at the batwing doors and he felt the old familiar pull tug at his soul.

  If there was one thing Gabe knew, it was saloons.

  He'd sure as hell spent enough time over the years huddled over a poker table. His fingers itched to be holding a deck again, feeling the slide of the cards as he shuffled a new deal. But he'd already decided that if he was going to leave this world in two months' time, he wanted to see more of it than dark, smoky card parlors.

  With a sigh, he shifted his gaze again and spotted another place he hoped to avoid. The sheriff's office and jailhouse, which was bordered on one side by an alleyway and on the other by a bank.

  Gabe shivered reflexively and deliberately looked away from it as if staring too hard at the place would be enough to draw the sheriff s attention. Over the years, he'd seen the inside of too many cells and the view from behind bars wasn't one he was eager to see again.

  Nope. What he had to do was find a place to hole up and wait for Henry. He'd known the old man long enough to know that every other month, Henry Whittaker headed to this town. Why, he'd never said. But Gabe had always assumed it was simply the man's home base.

  Most men who danced back and forth over the lines of the law had a place they could retreat to. A place where they could lie down and rest without worrying about a posse chasing after them.

  And this time, when Henry showed up, Gabe was going to be waiting for him.

  But right now, after a long, hard four-day ride, all Gabe wanted was some food and then a bath. Soon enough he'd have to find himself a place to stay and a way to earn some money. Still, first things first.

  He climbed down from the saddle in front of the restaurant, tied his horse to the hitching post, and stepped up onto the boardwalk. Taking off his black flatbrimmed hat, he smacked it against his jacket and then his thighs, trying to rid himself of most of the trail dust clinging to him. Then he resettled his hat and paused under the overhang to look up and down the length of the boardwalk.

  Women in hats and shawls hurried along the wooden walkway, ignoring the occasional comment from a lounging cowboy. Children scampered in the street, and an old dog stretched lazily in a puddle of afternoon sunshine. From somewhere down the street, a door slammed and then the blacksmith's hammer rang out on an anvil. An ordinary day in an ordinary town. And he couldn't help wondering what these folks would say if they knew that he was a walking dead man.

  Then his stomach grumbled and he remembered that even dead men had to eat.

  He grabbed the latch and turned it, opening the door.

  The bell attached to its top clanged out and Gabe winced as he stepped into the restaurant Once inside, though, he stopped dead. Even the air smelled scorched. Apparently, that fella hadn't been exaggerating about the restaurant.

  Glancing around the empty room, he noted six tables, all set with plates and utensils, ready for customers who weren't there. Reaching up, he scrubbed one hand across his jaw and had to ask himself if he really wanted to do this.

  "Help yourself to coffee,” a woman's voice called out from what he guessed was the kitchen. "It's on the stove. I'll be there directly.”

  He had two choices, here. Leave now and starve. Or eat and risk God knew what. Then he smiled to himself. Hell. Even if the food was downright poisonous, it wouldn't do him any harm. He was already dead. His smile faded. Things were bad when being dead was the bright side. Slowly, he walked across the room to the potbellied stove in the far corner.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sniff and felt his eyebrows curl. Strong stuff, he thought and doubted whether he really needed a cup to hold it. The coffee smelled like it was old enough and tough enough to stand on its own. Just the way he liked it.

  From the other room came the distinct sound of a hammer striking metal. A couple of pans rattled and the woman said, "Beans and biscuits," loud enough for Gabe to hear the disgust in her tone.

  He shook his head. Why people didn't just say "damn" when they meant "damn" was beyond him. "Is everything all right in there?" he asked loudly.

  "Fine, fine," she yelled back. "Drink your coffee."

  Gabe did just that and told himself that maybe it wasn't just her cooking keeping the restaurant empty. She didn't exactly shine at making customers feel welcomed.

  Another slam of a hammer followed by a grunt of disgust and Gabe took a step toward the closed door leading to the kitchen. He stared at it, as if he could see through the panel into the room beyond. What in the hell was she up to in there?

  "Lady?" he called.

  She grunted something he didn't catch.

  Frowning, he yelled, “You need some help in there?”

  "No!" she shouted, then after a long pause, added, "Thank you."

  He took another sip and shook his head. Nothing worse than a hardheaded woman.

  “Oh, for pity's sake," she said plainly, then, “Oooohhh…”

  A crash of sound reverberated through the building and even the plank walls seemed to tremble.

  "Jesus!" Startled, Gabe jumped, sloshing hot coffee over his hand. It sounded as though the roof had caved in. He cast one quick, wary glance at the ceiling, then, skin still sizzling, he hissed in a breath, dropped the cup, and rushed across the room. He slammed the door open, ran into the kitchen and skidded to a stop.

  His heartbeat slowed and a smile struggled on his mouth. "Are you all right?"

  "Blast it, go away!"

  He didn't move.

  She sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by fallen pots and pans. A thick layer of soot covered everything. Including her. The stove chimney had split apart.

  Half of it lay on the floor beside her and the other half hung weirdly from the ceiling, still sifting soot into the air. As he watched, a skillet lid trembled at the lip of the stove, then crashed down onto the floor.

  “What are you looking at?” she grumbled and glared up at him.

  He chuckled. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

  "Well, stop looking," she muttered and wiped one hand across her mouth, leaving behind a clean streak in the charcoal mask she wore.

  Gabe laughed and she shot him a look that convinced him to swallow the rest of the laughter building inside him.

  Sniffing, she lifted her chin and said, “I thought I told you to drink your coffee.”

  "So you did,” he agreed and went down on one knee to look directly into her eyes. She looked like a raccoon in reverse. She must have closed her eyes just before the soot flew because two paler circles surrounded the eyes staring at him.

  "So why aren't you?" She blew out a breath that shot a few loose tendrils of hair off her forehead and a spray of soot into the air.

  He shook his head, reached out to brush a big clump of dirt from the top of her head, and when she smacked his hand aside, said, "I dropped my cup when I heard your kitchen blow up."

  "It didn't blow up."

  He let his gaze drift around the filthy r
oom before looking back at her. "You sure?"

  "Yes,” she muttered, pushing herself to her feet. He reached out to give her a hand up, but she ignored him. "Why don't you go away?"

  Gabe shrugged. "I'm still waiting to eat."

  She grimaced tightly. "Perhaps you've noticed?" She waved one hand and frowned when dirt dropped from her sleeve to the floor. "My stove—“

  "Blew up?" he suggested.

  "Broke," she corrected.

  He laughed again until she glared at him. "Look, I'm sorry for laughing, but you have to admit…"

  She tapped her toe against the floor, tilted her head to one side, and folded her arms over her chest. "Admit what?"

  “Nothing,” he finished, as he realized she wasn't finding this the slightest bit funny. Changing the subject, he looked her up and down and asked, "Are you all right?"

  Frowning again, she reached up and pushed both hands along the side of her head, smashing the grime into her hair. "I'm not hurt, just…." She paused and looked herself over.

  "Filthy?” he offered, his gaze running across what had once been a white apron tied atop a flower-sprigged dress.

  "Dirty," she said and lifted her chin, hoping for dignity.

  But that was hopeless under the circumstances. "Lady, I've seen coal miners cleaner than you."

  She brushed dirt off her lips again and looked at him. "Who are you, anyway?"

  He shrugged. "A customer." Then he added, “In fact, your only customer." His gaze shifted to the broken chimney and the soot-covered stove. "And it looks as though I’m going to stay hungry."

  Maggie shook her head and saw clouds of soot fly free of her hair. Wouldn't you just know something like this would happen when she had an actual customer? And a stranger to boot? A man who didn’t know that she was the worst cook in Nevada? Oh, beans and biscuits. "If you're not choosy, I can let you have some cold meat and bread."

  Lord knew, with the way business had been lately, she couldn't afford to lose a customer. Any customer. Even one who laughed at her in the middle of a disaster.

  "I’ll take it," he said and stepped aside as she walked toward the sink and pump.

  "You'll find the bread in that box there," she said and pointed to a wide pine box on the counter. “And the meat's in the cold lamer on the porch."