MISS EMMALINE AND THE ARCHANGEL.

Rachel Lee.

Chapter 1.

Pain clawed at Gage Dalton with fiery talons, driving him from the stark emptiness of his apartment above the bar out into the dark emptiness of the misty night. The staircase from his door slanted down the outside of the two-story brick building, and his boot heels thudded heavily on the wood steps as he descended. The snowy alley was dark, deserted. Not even a cat prowled in the shadows.

At the foot of the stairs, he hesitated. The Friday night ruckus from the bar came clearly from around the corner, louder than it was even in his rooms, which were directly above it. Mahoney must have opened the double front doors to let in some of the refreshing, chilly night air. It wouldn't be long before a Conard County deputy would show up to quiet things down.

He stood there a little longer, listening to the noise, not wanting to be part of it, but drawn to the promise that a couple of shots of whiskey could dull his senses, numb his nerves, ease the pain. He seldom accepted that promise. Usually, he walked. There were times when it got so bad that he paced off every street in town, up one side and down the other. Conard City wasn't very large, but it was large enough that he could spend three or four hours that way without retracing a single step.

Tonight he decided to allow himself the whiskey. It would take the edge off the razor-sharp pain, would ease the chill of the night air. Turning the corner onto the sidewalk, he stepped into Mahoney's.

Silence spread around him in a slow, ever-widening wave as he walked unevenly to the bar. Gage Dalton was that kind of man. When he walked into a room, any room, other men instinctively gave him s.p.a.ce. They sensed that he hadn't a d.a.m.n thing left to lose, that he had forgotten the meaning of fear. That made him both dangerous and unpredictable. With a man like that, it was safer to leave him alone in a bubble of silence and s.p.a.ce.

Mahoney saw him coming, and filled two shot gla.s.ses with good Scotch. Gage threw a few bills on the bar and downed the shots one after the other, like medicine. Then he turned and limped back toward the door, a tall, rangy man with a disfigured face and silver hair. Mystery hung around him like a pall.

Behind him, the silence slowly filled in with talk, but little laughter.

"d.a.m.n!" Emmaline Conard never swore, but she swore now, for the third time in as many minutes. Her car wouldn't start, it was late, and it was cold and she really didn't want to walk the five blocks to her house alone.

Which was silly, really, she told herself as she tried yet again to get the engine to turn over. The starter ground and groaned sluggishly, warning her that she was killing her battery.

"d.a.m.n!" she said again, and let her head drop against the steering wheel. She would have to walk. It wasn't as if she weren't properly dressed for the damp, cold night. Having lived in Wyoming all her life, she knew better than to go anywhere in December without adequate clothing because any unforeseen problem could become life-threatening in a climate this cold.

She was wearing boots and a parka, and warm wool slacks, sufficient for the short distance and a temperature that was only slightly below freezing. She could easily and safely walk home.

Except that she quite simply couldn't do it. She reminded herself that this was Conard City, that she knew each and every one of the five thousand souls who inhabited the county, and that she was as safe on the streets in this town as she was in her own bed. It didn't help. She had a fear of walking darkened streets alone that went far beyond reason and bordered on phobia.

So, she told herself, trying to be brisk and positive, she would just go back into the library and spend the night in her office. Or she could call the sheriff's office and ask for a deputy to drive her home. Nate Tate and his deputies were always wonderful about things like that, always ready to help a neighbor out. They wouldn't even think it odd that she didn't just walk.

Unfortunately, she also had a thing that bordered on phobia about being alone in a car with a man, even men as gallant as most of the Conard County deputies.

Nor did she want to call one of her friends, who would be bound to find it curious that Emma didn't just walk a distance that, by local standards, was insignificant.

She shuddered and tried one last time to turn the engine over. Just one more time before she gave up and faced the inevitable: an uncomfortable night on the floor in her office.

The fear was so deeply rooted in her that she had long since given up arguing with it. To this day she had no idea exactly what had happened to her, only that during her senior year at college she had awakened in the hospital to discover she had been so badly a.s.saulted and beaten that she had been comatose for weeks. She had no memory of the days immediately preceding the a.s.sault, and only fragmented memories of the first few weeks after awakening. What she did have was an unreasoning fear of darkened streets and of being alone in a car with a man.

But until this very moment, neither of those fears had seemed particularly inconvenient. Now they closed around her like an iron cage.

Swearing again, she pounded on the steering wheel and gave the ignition one more try. This time the starter sounded like a windup Victrola that had completely wound down.

"Oh, d.a.m.n." She sighed, sagging back against the seat. Suddenly she felt closer to tears than anger. Now she would have to cross the dark parking lot again. Admittedly, years of practice had made it easier. These days she was even able to cross it at a brisk walk rather than a dead run. But it was still a gauntlet she had to run, and once a day was enough. More than enough.

Suddenly, like a vision from her worst nightmare, a shadowy figure appeared around the corner of the library building. Emma drew a sharp breath, and her grip on the steering wheel tightened until her knuckles were white. Oh, G.o.d!

The figure stood there a moment, legs spread, backlit by a streetlight so that he was nothing but the pitch-black silhouette of a man in a cowboy hat. Then, with an uneven gait, he began to walk toward Emma's car.

Panic exploded in her head like a blinding light and she clawed desperately at the door handle. Run!

"Miss Emma?" The shadowy figure paused halfway across the parking lot. "Miss Emma, it's Gage Dalton. Are you having car trouble?"

Relief hit her as hard as the panic had. Gage Dalton. She knew who he was. Everybody knew who he was. The old biddies at church gossiped and speculated about him without a kernel of fact to go on beyond his disfigured face and limp. They said he looked like h.e.l.l's own archangel. But everyone also knew that he worked part-time for Nate Tate at the sheriff's office, so he couldn't be a bad guy. Not a really bad guy. And at the moment, he was as good as a uniformed deputy, as far as Emma was concerned.

But relief had left her weak and shaking, and she couldn't seem to move or talk. All she could do was sit there with the car door half-open, and tremble and try to cope with the conviction that she had somehow just escaped the reenactment of a nightmare she couldn't remember.

"Miss Emma?" He stepped a little closer.

Everyone in the county called her Miss Emma. She didn't know how it had started-probably with the children who came to the library-but after nearly a decade as the Conard County librarian, she was addressed that way by nearly everyone.

"Mis-mister Dalton," she finally managed to gasp.

Her acknowledgement gave him permission to approach. He did so slowly, unthreateningly, hands safely tucked into the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. When he got to within a yard, he squatted facing her, his movement hesitant, betraying his pain. "Sounded like you ran your battery to death."

She nodded, still trying to get control of her breathing. "It wouldn't start, and I just kept trying, like an idiot."

"I've done that a time or two myself. Come on, I'll walk you home."

With those simple words he solved her entire problem. Emma rose on shaky legs and reached for her briefcase and purse. Gage took the briefcase from her with a polite "Let me," and waited while she locked the car.

As they turned the corner from the parking lot onto the sidewalk, the streetlight illuminated the disfigured side of Gage Dalton's face. His cheek looked as if it had been badly burned, and a jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw. Emma s.n.a.t.c.hed her gaze away, not wanting him to catch her staring. His limp concerned her far more than his disfigurement, anyway. It surely couldn't be comfortable for him to walk this distance.

The silence between them didn't seem to bother him, but it disturbed Emma. Having grown up in this county, she was accustomed to friendly conversation with everyone she met and unaccustomed to silence. Worse, it felt churlish and unneighborly not to be friendly when he was going out of his way to escort her home safely.

He was an ... intimidating man, though. Not frightening, though she imagined he could easily be terrifying. At the moment, however, he was simply ... intimidating. Tall, whipcord lean, limping, disfigured. Dressed in black from head to toe as was his custom-a custom well remarked on by nearly everyone in Conard County. h.e.l.l's own archangel, indeed.

Well, h.e.l.l's own archangel was walking her home, ensuring her safety as if such gallantry came naturally to him. The least she could do was be civil to him. She spoke.

"I appreciate your escort, Mr. Dalton. I know it sounds silly, especially here in this quiet little town, but I don't care to be alone on dark streets." Which was as close as she ever came to admitting her terror.

"My pleasure, Miss Emma," he replied in that whispery rasp that sounded more ruined than natural. "Small town or not, it's an unfortunate fact that women aren't safe in this country."

"That's a rather broad statement," Emma protested, though she quite frankly felt that way herself.

"A true statement," Gage remarked. "It has been projected that three out of four will eventually become the victims of s.e.xual a.s.sault, and statistics on other types of crime are just as shocking. No, ma'am, this country isn't safe for women."

My word! Emma thought, startled. "I had no idea!"

"Few people do." He paused at a corner, his stormy eyes sweeping the intersection with automatic caution as they waited for a car full of laughing teenagers to speed by. Then he gently clasped her elbow and stepped into the street with her. "The picture it paints of our society, of men in particular, isn't something we want to look at."

Emma stole a glance up at him, and he suddenly looked down at her. Their gazes locked for a strangely intense moment. When she at last tore her eyes from his, she felt oddly disturbed. Subtly irritated.

"I'm sorry, Miss Emma," Gage said after a moment. "I guess that wasn't a good topic to bring up when you're walking down a dark street with a man you don't know."

"Well, it's not exactly as if I don't know you, Mr. Dalton," Emma protested. "I mean ... well, I know of you. That you work for Nathan Tate. And I consider Sheriff Tate to be an impeccable judge of men." As had her father, Judge Conard, before her. For the moment she chose to ignore the fact that no one was infallible, not even Nate Tate.

For the moment it was simply miraculous that she was actually walking down this street. She might not know Gage Dalton, but his presence was amazingly like a magic shield, holding the darkness at bay, holding back the crushing weight of the night, making it possible for her to walk and talk and breathe as if she were a perfectly normal person.

Years ago, before whatever it was had happened to her, she had loved the darkness, loved the night. In the summers she had often been found on her back in the gra.s.s, looking up at the brilliant stars, dreaming of distant sh.o.r.es and alien worlds, wondering if in some backyard light-years away another girl was staring up at the infinite cosmos and dreaming, too.

Impulsively, she confided the memory to the man beside her, then bit her lip, wondering if she sounded like a ridiculously naive country b.u.mpkin. Gage Dalton had lived his life elsewhere, and Conard County must seem like an incredible backwater to him.

"I liked to do that, too," he said, astonishing her. "My other favorite thing was watching the clouds on a summer afternoon. I can't remember exactly when it was I grew up too much, or got too busy..." His voice trailed off.

"I can't, either," Emma said when the silence became too marked. This man, she felt, was not accustomed to sharing memories, feelings, or any other part of himself. "Perhaps I'll try it again this summer. Only I think I'll lie on the chaise in my backyard, rather than the gra.s.s."

He glanced down at her. "Why? The gra.s.s feels better."

Emma wrinkled her nose. "Insects. The gra.s.s is crawling with them. That's what an education does for you, Mr. Dalton. All those precious books I love so well have made me conscious of the insects in the gra.s.s and the parasites in the beef I used to eat rare."

He astonished her again with a short, husky laugh. "Where's your sense of adventure, Miss Emma?"

She frowned thoughtfully a moment, then said, "I honestly don't believe I have one. Not these days, at any rate." She glanced up at him again and dared a question. "What made you decide to move to Conard City? It must seem like the end of the earth to most people."

They walked nearly another half block before he answered. The wind nipped coldly at her cheeks, and she pulled her collar up, wondering how her innocent question could have offended him. And it must have offended him, or he would have answered readily.

But he did answer, finally. Slowly. Sounding thoughtful. "It does seem like the end of the earth," he agreed. "That's why I'm here."

Which told her exactly nothing at all.

Emmaline Conard, while she suffered from a couple of phobias and some occasional squeamishness, was not, and never had been, a coward. Life had taught her a few lessons, lessons learned the same way a child learns to avoid a hot stove, but cowardice-timidity-was not her nature. Until given cause to feel otherwise, she feared very little. Consequently, she plunged right ahead and asked another question.

"Did you know Sheriff Tate before you moved here?"

Again Gage looked down at her. "Looking for some grist for the gossip mill?" he asked softly. Too softly.

Emma shivered at the silky note in that too-husky, ruined voice. The warning was unmistakable. "No." Her tone was sharp, the same one she used on the troublesome children in the library. "I don't gossip, Mr. Dalton. I was simply trying to make pleasant conversation with a new neighbor. It's rather hard to find something to discuss with a stranger!"

His grasp on her elbow remained gentle, but Emma battled a desire to pull away from his touch. The urge was childish, of course. The fact that the man was difficult didn't give her an excuse to act like a two-year-old. Besides, she thought, casting an uneasy look around, she didn't want to make him stalk off, not before they reached her house.

A half block later, the sound of his voice startled her into renewed awareness.

"I knew Nate before I moved here," he said.

As an olive branch, it left a great deal to be desired, but Emma readily accepted it. In a place as spa.r.s.ely populated as Conard County, where everyone had need to rely on his neighbors from time to time, allowances were made for nearly every kind of eccentricity or quirk.

"I suspect," she said pleasantly, "that Sheriff Tate would make a wonderful amba.s.sador. At least a half-dozen people have moved here because of him."

"He loves this place," Gage agreed.

Had Emma been less stubborn, she probably would have thrown up her hands right then. Trying to converse with this man was like throwing pebbles into a pool that refused to make ripples. Like throwing stones into a well and never hearing the impact. Ridiculous! Stubbornly, she made one more attempt. "Will you be at Deputy Parish's wedding tomorrow afternoon?"

"Won't everyone?"

Emma almost laughed at that. It was true. Micah Parish and Faith Williams had tried to arrange a quiet ceremony in Good Shepherd Church, but Reverend Fromberg had let the news slip to some of the Bible Study Group, and the next thing the couple knew, the whole county was in on the planning. The wedding ceremony would take place at Good Shepherd, but the reception, originally planned to be punch and cake at Nathan Tate's home, had turned into a covered-dish dinner in the high school gymnasium, with cases of champagne donated by several civic organizations.

"Does Deputy Parish mind?" she asked Gage, knowing he worked with Parish.

"No." After a moment, he added to the unvarnished word, "Actually, I think both he and Faith are touched by it."

"Deputy Parish has earned a lot of respect in this county." Emma glanced up at Gage. "I hope he realizes that."

"I don't think that's something a man ever truly realizes."

That said a great deal about Gage Dalton, Emma thought. She wondered if he even suspected how much he had betrayed about himself with that simple remark. Probably not. She had the distinct feeling that he wasn't a man who ever consciously exposed himself.

And once again they had reached a conversational dead end. Emma wondered if this man was as maddening to talk to when you knew him well. If anyone ever even knew him well.

Well, it wasn't her problem. If he was simply going to respond to her gambits and make none of his own, then she might as well conduct the conversation with herself.

"I need to do something about a Christmas tree," she said. The thought had been plaguing her all day. "Ever since my great-grandfather, Eugene, built the house on Front Street, it's been traditional to have a large tree in the bay window. Lance Severn usually gets one for me and keeps it at the nursery, but he was sick this fall, and I never thought to make other arrangements."

"How big a tree?"

"Usually twelve feet. They built ceilings high in the old days, and anything shorter looks dwarfed." She sighed. "I guess I'll just have to put up a dwarf this year."

"Will Conard City be appalled?"

Startled by his teasing question, she darted a look up at him and found him smiling faintly down at her. Lord, it was possible for this cold, hard man to look friendly. Just a little. "Probably," she said, when she remembered the question. "It's a tradition. People come in from all over the county to see the decorations and trees on Front Street. On the Sunday evening before Christmas, the choirs from all the churches get together and go up and down the street caroling, and the homes are opened to offer hot cider and cookies to everyone who comes. It's one of the most beautiful events of the year."

And there was her house, thank goodness. She was hardly conscious of quickening her step in her eagerness to be indoors and safe, and away from this disturbing man.

They had only gone another dozen steps, not quite reaching the end of her shoveled driveway, when Gage gave a m.u.f.fled curse. Startled, Emma looked up at him and then came to an abrupt halt.

The man was in agony, she realized. His entire face had turned into a rigid mask, and his lips had compressed into a thin, tight line. When she halted, he stopped immediately and closed his eyes. She longed to know what was wrong, but felt she had no right to ask. Instead she reacted with a woman's natural instincts, taking her elbow from his grasp and slipping her arm through his.

"Do you think," she asked quietly, "that you can make it a little farther? I'm sure I have some brandy."

His eyes snapped open and stared straight down into hers. His eyes burned, she thought uneasily, but couldn't look away. Their touch was like hot phosphorous. h.e.l.l's own archangel.

"Come," she said, instinct overriding conscious worries, and natural inclinations drowning caution. As spontaneously as she breathed, she slipped her arm around his waist and urged him forward. "Lean on me if it helps."

For an instant he stood rigid, resisting as if he had been carved on the spot from native stone, but then he stepped forward with her. His arm came to rest around her slender shoulders, and he leaned, just a very little, on her.

His limp had grown considerably more p.r.o.nounced, Emma realized, biting her lip in distress. Lord, how could she have been so inconsiderate as to hurry the man the way she had? His pace had been slow from the outset, and if she had thought about it, she would have known that was because of his limp, not a gallant attempt to measure his step to hers.

And now, as he leaned a little on her and they moved so closely that her hip brushed his, she smelled the faint odor of whiskey on him. He must have been hurting fiercely, she thought, because Gage Dalton had lived long enough in Conard County that if he was inclined to drink heavily, or even frequently, every soul would have long since heard about it. Therefore, he'd been drinking for medicinal purposes.

"Can you manage the steps?" she asked him as she guided him around back to the kitchen door. During the days, the rest of the house grew cold because she turned the heat way down, but the kitchen stayed warmer because of the water heater. Right now it was probably the only comfortable room in the house.