A Rush of Wings (20 page)

Noelle glanced toward the kitchen, but it was silent. “Where is Marta?”

“Probably fetching something for you. Chicken soup, mustard plaster, cod liver oil . . .”

Again he joked. Rick Spencer with a sense of humor. She studied his half smile as though she'd never seen it. Maybe she hadn't. In their interactions, she'd recognized his authority, respected that. But now she sensed . . . him.

Had he changed? Hadn't he given her haven, seen to her comfort from the start? He charged her only thirteen dollars a night, for heaven's sake. He hadn't changed; she had. Something had opened up that had been blocked, her ability to see beyond herself, her need. Was she ready to?

“Is it all right?” He motioned to the bed, but she knew he meant more. He meant all of it, all of her.

She cleared the emotion from her throat. “It's wonderful. Thank you, Rick.”

“You're welcome.”

And now that she could talk, “Rick, the hospital said you paid my bill.”

“I filed against my liability insurance.”

“But I signed a waiver.”

He shrugged. “The waiver protects me from lawsuits. The purpose of liability insurance is to cover accidents that occur on the property.”

Accidents caused by willful disregard to the rules? He could have argued that one. A sudden thought chilled her. What would he gain by paying her debt? She'd been so swept up in the comfort, the kindness. Now wariness, suspicion rushed in. He wanted something. She saw it in his face.

He sat down on the edge of the table, resting his forearms on his knees. “Noelle, I need to know what's going on.”

She stared. “I don't know what you mean.” But she did know.

“Why are you here?”

First Morgan, now Rick. And of the two, she'd rather face Morgan. “I just am.”

He held her gaze so long she felt she would break, tell him everything. But how could she?
I don't know why I'm here. I ran. I ran and my heart said stop
. She couldn't say it, or he would ask why she ran. And she still had no answer to that.

He dropped his gaze, shaking his head. “Fine.” But before she could breathe, his eyes were back, compelling. “I think you should let your family know what's happened.”

Her throat constricted. “There's no one who needs to know.”

“I'm sure your father would want to.” His gaze deepened. “Or Michael . . .”

Her head spun. A vise gripped her chest. She wanted to run, to shield herself from amber eyes. “Michael?” Her voice broke.

He leaned forward. “You talked about him in your delirium. If you're in trouble, Noelle—”

“I'm not in trouble.” The blood pounded in her ears. Not unless he found her. Not unless Rick told people where she was. Would he? Had he already? No, he wouldn't have; somehow she knew that. But he might if she couldn't convince him.

“I'm not in trouble. I just don't want to be found right now.” His scrutiny sank deeply inside her. She stared at him hard, willing him to believe. It must sound crazy, but was it any crazier than admitting she didn't know why she had run away? He had to simply believe her.
Their wills battled, and she knew what his could do. She'd seen it take the wild heart from Destiny and claim it.

No. Please
. Then she felt him retreat, and an irrational disappointment vied with her relief.

He rubbed his hand over his face and stood up. “All right, then.”

She couldn't meet his eyes. She hadn't been honest. She knew it, and so did he. She wasn't in trouble, not the way he might think. But things were far from right. He stood a long moment, allowing . . . What? A chance to change her mind? How could she?

“Noelle . . .”

“Please don't.” She was weary. If he pushed, would she remember? It was there locked in her mind. Maybe if she started talking, if she tried . . . but then where would they be?

He rubbed one palm against the other. He would drive her crazy standing there like that.
Stop it. Leave me alone
.

He hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Morgan called. Marta told him about your fall. He's coming in.”

The subject change caught her off guard. “When?”

“Tonight.” He watched for a reaction, but what was she supposed to say or do or think?

Releasing a slow breath, he nodded slowly, wiped a hand through his hair, and left. She drew a jagged breath. What if she had said she was in trouble? Would he keep her safe, keep her hidden? What would he require in return? She didn't understand him at all. No one did things for nothing. But she couldn't see what he wanted.

She had resisted his will . . . this time. What if he didn't stop? What if it was like Destiny, a slow, constant battle? She'd thrown him, but she knew he'd get up. Every time. She didn't know how to stop him. She didn't understand him.

She glanced at the Bible lying on the table. What did he find in those pages? What would it tell her? By stretching she could just reach it, though it shot pain through her ribs. The book's binding was soft, worn leather, warm and smooth as a baby's skin.

She thumbed through. The pages were marked and penciled with dates and notes. It opened readily to one section where the top right corner was worn thin.
The Gospel of John
.

She hesitated. She didn't have to believe it any more than the other philosophies she'd studied. She could read for curiosity, for knowledge only.
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and
the Word was God . . .”
Its beauty touched her. If nothing else, it was a great literary work.

She settled into the pillow.
“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”
Her heart raced. It wasn't just the words or rhetoric. She was touching power, the same power she had touched on the mountain before the storm.

She shuddered, closed the book, and dropped it to the floor.

———

Rick heaved the hay bale into the truck. Where did his responsibility lie? William St. Claire was among New York's legal who's who. Old money, an estate on Long Island, senior partner of a major law firm, the foundation for youth. The man's reputation was sound. By the articles Rick had read, he was well respected, especially for a defense lawyer. And Noelle was his daughter. Hardly a nobody drifting through as she'd like him to believe.

But something was wrong. She was afraid. It had been palpable, and his instincts kicked in. He wanted to help, to stand in the gap. But how could he when she shut him out so completely? He curled his gloved fingers under the wire of the next bale.

He couldn't force her. At twenty-three, she was competent to make her own decisions. Maybe William St. Claire knew where she was. Maybe he didn't care. But surely the man had a right to know his daughter had been injured.

Rick tossed the bale. It wasn't William that troubled him most. It was Michael. Just mentioning Michael had made the pupils of Noelle's eyes dilate, her lips quiver. He'd heard the sharp intake of her breath. It was Michael she feared. But who was he?

Rick closed the tailgate and spread his hands.
Lord?

But the Lord kept his own counsel. Rick rubbed his chin with the back of his glove. With no clear direction, he could do no more. He got into the truck. It was fruitless to push her. Besides . . . Morgan was coming back.

N
oelle sighed. Marta fluttered around her, elevating her leg, plumping pillows, darting in with a cup of homemade soup, just as Rick had predicted. So far neither the mustard plaster nor the cod liver oil had appeared, thank goodness. But Marta clicked her tongue like a mother hen; no, like a . . . mother. And nothing could have been more comforting. So why wasn't it?

“Here, in case you get thirsty and I'm not within hollering range.” Marta set a pitcher on the table with a glass beside it.

“Thank you.” Noelle thought of the pitcher she'd filled with flowers on that one crazy impulse. No one gave her flowers now. Who would be so frivolous?

“And have you finished that soup?” Marta peeked into the bowl on the tray across Noelle's lap. “You need nourishment to set yourself right again.”

Noelle stared into the broth. Marta meant well, but nothing would set her right again, not with the gloom inside her from talking to Rick. “I'm not hungry.”

Marta shoved a pillow behind Noelle's neck. “Don't give me trouble now. This was a hard thing all around, but you need to accept help as gracefully as poor Aldebaran.”

Noelle flicked her eyes up, hoping she wouldn't see exactly the expression she saw on Marta's face.

Marta shook her head. “Oh, if you could have seen Rick leading that horse down . . . wrapping her leg and poulticing.”

Noelle's heart sank further. She pictured the willing mare. Aldebaran. How she'd scorned her at the start, then come to appreciate her steady gait, her eager response. Now she'd maybe crippled her, could have caused her death.

“Of course, he was more worried for you than the horse.”

Noelle scoffed, “He's afraid I'll sue.”

Marta frowned. “No such thing. He has a heart of butter, can't stand to see any injured or broken creature.”

“It wasn't his fault.”

Marta set a folded fleece blanket at the end of the daybed. “It's not a matter of fault, just compassion. Now, what would you like for dinner?”

Noelle shook her head. “Whatever Morgan likes. Cook for him.” She was heartsick. Rick knew too much. Would he tell Morgan? She trembled as though she'd done something wrong, but she hadn't! She dropped her face into her hands.

“What is it, dear? Does it hurt?”

Noelle nodded. Yes, it hurt; it hurt so much. And it was threatening to surface though she'd spent so much effort burying it deeper. Hearing Michael's name . . . What had she said in her delirium? How much did Rick really know?

“Well, look at the clock. You're due your medication.” Marta went to the cabinet that held the sewing basket and took out the bottle of Tylenol Codeine prescribed at the hospital.

Noelle held out her hand and took the pills and the glass Marta poured half full of water from the pitcher on the table. “Thank you.” She swallowed the medication. Maybe it would help. The pain in her leg throbbed, and her injured ribs kept her from breathing fully.

Mostly, though, it was Rick's questions that drained her. She lay back on the pillows and Marta took the tray. Noelle closed her eyes, her head aching. The hawk came sooner than she expected, hovering even before she was deeply asleep. She struggled to regain consciousness but couldn't fight the drug, couldn't fight the hawk. She moaned, but there was no escape.

The first thing to penetrate was the smell of barbecued chicken, one of Marta's specialties. The next was the warmth of the fleece blanket, the smell and crackle of a fire. She peeled her eyes open, verified that a
fire did burn in the fireplace. September in the mountains had a definite chill. She was not allergic to codeine, but it certainly did strange things with her mind. For a moment she'd pictured Rick sitting on the hearth with his guitar, plucking the strings with deft fingers, fingers that had poulticed Aldebaran's leg, had probed her own injuries. But there was nothing there when she raised her head. Only the fire.

The door banged open and she startled, heart rushing. But it was Morgan who entered, cashmere overcoat unbuttoned, paper-wrapped flowers on his arm. “Good grief, Noelle! I leave and you fall apart.” Painfully, she pushed herself up to a sitting position as he slid in beside her on the daybed and handed her the collection of pink roses, blue statice, tiny mauve carnations, and baby's breath. “I should know better than to trust you to Rick.”

Something seemed wrong in that statement, but her thoughts were still thick. He smelled of Acqua di Gio, the scent she'd given Daddy for his birthday.

Morgan waved a hand in front of her face. “Hello? Are you in there?” He took the bouquet back and laid it on the table.

She wet her lips. “It must be the codeine. I feel very slow.”

“Well, you look good enough to eat.” He cupped her cheek, his palm cool and dry, his eyes cobalt.

“You'd better settle for Marta's barbequed chicken.”

“Aha. Not so slow as you pretend.” He leaned close. “But let me see . . . hmm . . .”

“What are you doing?” She pulled away from his hand.

“You made me a promise. I'm not so sure you've kept it.”

She looked away, finger-combed her hair, stroking back the fringe of bangs that now reached her cheekbones. She did not need Morgan psychoanalyzing her.

He chucked her chin. “Did you miss me?”

“I've been a little preoccupied.”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “There wasn't a lonely night I didn't think of you.”

“You don't have lonely nights.”

“Do I dare believe you're jealous?” He smiled crookedly.

“Probably. You're a master of delusion.”

“Ouch.” He leaned over the pitcher on the table. “What does Marta have in there, persimmon juice?”

“I'm sorry.” She sighed. “That was unkind.”

“And untrue; I've no delusions left.” He unwrapped the flowers and stood them in the pitcher, to her great amusement. She could hardly wait to see Marta's reaction to that repeat of her own performance. He reached over and knocked on her cast. “Sure wish I could take you dancing.”

Undaunted as always. She shook her head. “I'm pretty boring these days.”

He reached across her shoulder, slid his fingers into the hair behind her neck and cradled her head. “Never boring, my dear.” His eyes engaged, deepened. His lips parted.

She knew what was coming and froze. With Morgan's kiss her muscles tightened. She pressed against his chest, and he backed off.

“What?”

Where was Rick? Marta? Why didn't someone come in?

“You look like a deer in the headlights.”

What could she do? Scream, cry, beat him with her fists? Ridiculous, yet it was how she felt. “Why did you do that?” Her voice was tight.

“Because you need kissing.” He spoke frankly, as though he'd simply identified a problem and corrected it.

Her jaw clenched. “No, I don't.” That was the last thing she needed—not now, not from Morgan, maybe never again.

He toyed with the hair that lay across her shoulder. “You promised you'd quit hiding. I just want you to be free.”

“Like you, Morgan?”

He spread his hands. “Exactly. What you see is what you get.”

“And everyone gets everything.”

“Well, not everyone.” He dropped his gaze to her lips.

She turned away. Was she supposed to feel special?

He sank back, shaking his head. “What do you want, Noelle?”

“I don't want anything.”

“Everyone wants something. You're just so mixed up, you don't know what it is anymore.” He ran a finger over her hand. “You know what I think?”

“Do I want to?”

He snorted. “Probably not, but I'll tell you anyway. I think you don't believe a thing you say.”

She bristled, but he went on.

“I think you want to be loved . . . adored, maybe. I think you want some man to lose his head over you.”

She brought up her chin. Tears stung her eyes. “What makes you think some man hasn't?”

Morgan studied her a long moment. “Is that it? Did you come here on a broken heart?”

She turned away, angry that once again he had drawn more from her than she intended. But he grasped her shoulders, gently pulled her to his side, and brushed her temple with his lips.

She stiffened. “Don't.” She could not face those tender feelings. They triggered something else, something she didn't want to grasp.

“Okay.” But he kept her in his arms, fingers loosely interlocked across her collarbone, until some weak comfort seeped in. Morgan meant well. She knew that. On some level she trusted him, but he wouldn't leave it alone. Now he'd pressed a new barrier by kissing her. Why did it bother her so much?

Rick came in, blowing on his reddened hands. He looked as though he'd worked himself raw, and his expression had soured. He was definitely angry. “There's a nasty drizzle out there, Morgan, and it's cold enough to freeze. You'd better give yourself time in the morning.”

Morgan saluted, then as Rick went into the office and shut the door, he said, “What's eating him?”

Noelle didn't answer. What could she say?
I won't tell Rick what he wants to know—who Michael is, what happened, and what will happen if . . .
But she couldn't think about that.

Morgan stroked her shoulder with his thumb, and she sensed his concern, his confusion. She hadn't asked him to come, but he had.

She looked up. “You're leaving in the morning?”

“Got to. But we could make tonight worth remembering.” He formed his rogue's smile.

His persistence astounded her, though she realized it was partly intended to provoke. He simply would not let her close down. “If you think that, you've wasted your trip.”

He squeezed her shoulders. “I have no illusions, even if I do have to leave in the morning.” He wore the expression of a naughty boy who knew he was adored. “Will you miss me?”

She sighed, unwilling to lie altogether. “If I say yes?”

“I'll kiss you.”

She bit her lip. “Then no.”

He kissed her anyway.

She fought the panic that rose up. She wanted it to be all right,
but it wasn't. Her heart pounded, and she pushed away again. She had to. She struggled to get up but couldn't.

Morgan caught her hands together. “Don't freak out on me.”

She pulled against his grip.

“Stop, Noelle.” The sharp words commanded.

She stopped fighting and closed her eyes against the tears. She could almost feel the talons in her flesh. She couldn't stop him. Couldn't . . .

“What is it?” Morgan's voice was soft.

Both Rick and Morgan. Why couldn't they leave her alone? “Nothing.”

“Well, excuse me, but I have kissed a few women, and no one's ever acted like I had the plague. Perdition is not contagious.”

Tears burned. He was so far from understanding what really—Images suddenly flashed in her mind: a dark closet with louvered doors, a hand.
“Give us a kiss.”

“Hey.” He stroked her cheek.

She opened her eyes, caught his hurt before he masked it. For a moment she wondered what Morgan needed. What drove him? But she didn't want to know. “I can't, Morgan.”

“Fine.” He could leave, spend the night on the town. But he sat with his arm crooked around her shoulders until Marta brought Noelle's meal on a tray and called him to the dining room. One cabin family with teen kids joined him there. Rick emerged from the office and passed by without speaking. She felt invisible.

Picking at the food on her tray, Noelle could hear Morgan engaging them all, the life of the party as always. He talked about the spoiled family who owned the corporation he was trying to reorganize. His anecdotes brought gales of laughter. She might have joined in; it was hard to resist Morgan's humor, but her isolation spared her.

Instead she was left with her thoughts. And that was dangerous. Her head ached and she had no appetite, but Marta would be hurt if she didn't eat something. She looked up at the log ceiling. She had felt so content when Rick first carried her inside. Now . . .

Morgan came and leaned in the doorway, keys in hand. “Let's go to town. If you can't dance, you can still listen.”

She smiled. “If I could, I would, Morgan. But there isn't a part of me that doesn't hurt.”

He dangled the keys from his finger. “Ever read Flannery O'Connor?”

Noelle tipped her head. “Some.” Did he have some instruction for her from that tragic, if genius, author? Would he advise her to look more deeply into life, see its ugliness? She shuddered, but Morgan didn't say anything like that.

He took a paperback from the pocket of his coat that hung by the door. “Someone gave me these stories on the plane.” He came and stood over her. “Going to eat that?” He indicated the food on her tray.

She shook her head. No sense pretending.

He set the tray on the table beside the pitcher of flowers, then pulled the blanket up around her and took his place beside her. He couldn't be serious. But he must be. He opened the book. Morgan would stay home and read to her, when he could have the crowd at his feet? It was too much to take in.

———

In the office, Rick ran the numbers four times. The accounts were in order, he just couldn't think straight. He shut down the computer and sat before the blank screen. Morgan was in rare form. Reading by the fireside? It surprised him Morgan could still read. Was there no limit to his efforts? He never worked so hard for so little reward. Didn't he see?

Rick rubbed his eyes. Or was he the one who had it wrong? He pictured Noelle tucked into Morgan's arm. It did seem to be working at last. Morgan was wearing her down, little by little, and maybe she'd meant it that way all along. Maybe she knew the harder Morgan had to fight the more he'd want the prize. Maybe it was her game as much as his. But Rick felt a check in his spirit—or was it his pride? Or something else?