Something Blue

Chapter 6

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.