Something Blue

Chapter 25

Gabe

Isobel's birthday was a fluke.

She'd liked his gifts because of the novelty of them. Of him. The real gift that day had been his presence, and now he'd gone and made a habit of it.

He didn't stop halfway to the Tuckers' to sit and ponder on his terrible gift-giving, as he had last time. Nonetheless, doubt gnawed at him as he rode like the cold gnawed at his fingers and toes. He'd brought two bundles this time—one for Katherine and one for Isobel. Silly, stupid gifts. But he couldn't show up empty-handed on such a momentous occasion.

Isobel, of course, wasn't aware of the gravity of the day. When he arrived at the little homestead, she flounced into his arms like she had every other time he'd visited, chattering about goats and sledding and Aunt Mel and how unfair it was that Ma made her go to bed before she was tired.

As usual, Katherine let him have his time with their daughter, just the two of them. He'd never asked it of her, wouldn't have dared, but she gave it to him nonetheless. She seemed to understand the niggling insecurity he battled, like he was an imposter. A visitor to their lives. After all, Katherine and Isobel had been a unit for six years. They were bound and tied, and his presence was an invasion of the norm, welcome or not.

The time alone helped. Usually, he read to her, which inevitably turned to an inquisition. Sometimes they played with her dolls or had little tea parties on the floor before the fire. Gabe wasn't much of a conversationalist, but his Isobel could hold up a dialogue all on her own. Literally. If he didn't answer her questions fast enough she supplied her own answers.

In those priceless hours, he came to know his daughter. She came to be his daughter, and though she never called him as much he felt that he was gradually becoming her father. She had never shown much caution towards him, but as the weeks pressed on, she had spoken to him more freely. The glint of hero worship and delight in her eyes when he arrived faded to happy acceptance and expectation.

Of course he had returned for another visit. It was understood. It was expected. He was a part of the fabric of her world.

Today, they sat in their customary spot by the fire and he read to her from Robinson Crusoe. She didn't ask as many questions as usual, like she could sense his nerves. She just sat in her spot on his leg, leaning against his chest with her head on his shoulder. When he held her like this, he felt more god than man. It was different from the glory of holding Katherine. Holding Katherine tore down the walls around him until he was little more than a soul in flimsy wrapping. He felt more—more happiness, more anguish, more hope—when she was in his arms than he felt in the sum of all the moments away from her.

Holding Isobel, he forgot his own soul and became whatever force it took to shelter hers. He was steel and stone and thunder, and so much more than human. Fire would burn around him and leave him unscorched. Rain would pour down on his head, and he'd be warm and dry. With his daughter in his lap, the weight of her head on his shoulder, and the sound of her small breaths in his ear, there was no happiness, no anguish, no hope. There was just her, and the knowledge that he was invincible. He couldn't afford to be anything less.

An hour passed, and Katherine appeared in the doorway. He had expected her to be nervous and pale, jittery and reluctant. He had waited an extra few minutes in the barn with Reaper, expecting her to come out and beg him to put it off just one more week. He had waited so long for Katherine to be ready, to meet him at the proverbial bridge. He had forgotten how to trust her to show up.

She had showed up. With rosy cheeks and bright eyes, and a comforting hand on his arm, she had showed up.

"Do you two want some cookies?" she asked when he reached the end of the chapter. Isobel perked up in his lap, craning to look at her mother, who had materialized in the doorway.