Free Gabriel's Angel by Nora Roberts

her, almost challenging her, to finish.
    â€œI realize you wouldn’t be attracted to me—physically, that is—under the circumstances. And I don’t want you to think that I interpreted what just happened as anything other than a—a sort of kindness.”
    â€œThat’s funny.” As if he were considering the idea, Gabe reached up and scratched his chin. “You don’t look stupid. I’m attracted to you, Laura, and there’s a part of that attraction that’s very, very physical. Making love with you may not be possible under the circumstances, but that doesn’t mean that the desire to do so isn’t there.”
    She opened her mouth as if to speak, but ended up just lifting her hands and then letting them fall again.
    â€œThe fact that you’re carrying a child is only part of the reason I can’t make love with you. The other, though not as obvious, is just as important. I need the story, Laura, your story. All of it.”
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œAfraid?”
    She shook her head. Her eyes glimmered, but her chin lifted. “Ashamed.”
    He would have expected almost any other reason than that. “Why? Because you weren’t married to the baby’s father?”
    â€œNo. Please don’t ask me.”
    He wanted to argue, but he bit the words back. She was looking pale and tired and just too fragile. “All right, for now. But think about this. I have feelings for you, and they’re growing much faster than either of us might like. Right now I’m damned if I know what to do about it.”
    When he rose, she reached up and touched his arm. “Gabe, there’s nothing to do. I can’t tell you how much I wish it were otherwise.”
    â€œLife’s what you make it, angel.” He touched her hair then stepped away. “We need more wood.”
    Laura sat in the empty cabin and wished more than she had ever wished for anything that she had made a better job of hers.

Chapter 4
    More snow had fallen during the night. It was, compared to what had come before, hardly more than a dusting. The fresh inches lay in mounds and drifts over the rest, where the wind had blown them. In places the snow was as high as a man. Miniature mountains of it lay cozily against the windowpanes, shifting constantly in the wind.
    Already the sun was melting the fresh fall, and if Laura listened she could hear the water sliding down the gutters from the roof like rain. It was a friendly sound, and it made her think of hot tea by a sizzling fire, a good book read on a lazy afternoon, a nap on the sofa in early evening.
    But this was morning, only an hour or two past dawn. As usual, she had the cabin to herself.
    Gabe was chopping wood. From the kitchen, where she was optimistically heating milk and a chocolate bar in a pan, she could hear the steady thud of the ax. She knew the woodbox was full, and the stack of logs outside the rear door was still high. Even if the snow lasted into June, they would still have an ample supply. Artist or not, he was a physical man, and she understood his need to do something manual and tiring.
    It seemed so . . . normal, she thought. Her cooking in the kitchen, Gabe splitting logs, icicles growing long and shiny on the eaves outside the window. Their little world was so well tuned, so self-contained. It was like this every morning. She would rise to find him already outdoors, shoveling, chopping, hauling. She would make fresh coffee or warm what he’d left in the pot. The portable radio would bring her news from the outside, but it never seemed terribly important. After a little while he would come in, shake and stomp the snow off, then accept the cup of coffee she offered him. The routine would continue with him taking his place in behind the easel and Laura taking hers by the window.
    Sometimes they would talk. Sometimes they would not.
    Beneath the routine, she sensed some kind of hurry in him