A Rush of Wings (21 page)

Morgan was hooked, that was certain. To fly out for one night just to see she was all right—or had he other plans? Would Morgan disregard the house rules? Given the chance, Morgan would disregard anything.

Rick pulled the dust cover over the monitor. He was almost glad for Noelle's injuries that kept her in the open where he could watch, listen. He shook his head. Was it only a few days ago he'd carried her off the mountain, limp and trembling in his arms? His fault, yes, but he'd done the best he could to right it, covered her bill, spent hours at her hospital bedside, made a comfortable place for her where he'd know what she needed.

And then he had carried her home, seen her joy and gratitude, felt his heart swell at having her back inside his walls. But it had certainly been downhill from there. First his fruitless attempt to get answers, then Morgan's return to the scene.

He dropped his head to his palms.
God, why did you bring her here? What is your purpose? Don't you know I'm only a man? If you want me to help her I'm willing, but don't make me choose
. He clenched his fists against his forehead.
Morgan is my brother
.

———

When Noelle woke the next morning, her eyes were heavy, but the first thing she saw was Morgan in the corner chair. How long had he been watching her sleep? It couldn't be late; the morning light was dull in the window. But he seemed sharp and professional already.

His overcoat lay across his knees. He really was leaving, and soon. Why had he come? To comfort her? She'd fallen asleep while he read, hardly the response he'd wanted. She gingerly raised up onto her elbow, wincing with the pain in her ribs. “You're going now?”

He nodded.

Rick came to the kitchen door. “Coffee, Morgan?”

“I'll get Starbuck's at the airport.” He stood and put on his overcoat against the drizzle outside.

Noelle sensed his disappointment. He'd expected more from this trip, more than she'd given him. Why? She had told him from the start . . .

He crossed the room to her, smiled wryly, and leaned over. “You're a gorgeous morning after.” He caught the back of her head and kissed her lips.

She didn't panic this time and that was something, she supposed. “Thanks for a wonderful time.” His eyes were amused, yet still hinted of regret. He gave Rick a careless wave and walked out.

She stared after him, unsure what to feel. As his rental car started and left the yard, she glanced at Rick. His expression was inscrutable. There was none of the warmth, the care he had shown in the hospital or when he'd brought her home. No anger either, but his face was as unyielding as the crag she had ridden up to paint.

He straightened in the doorway. “I have guests coming in from Iowa tonight. I think you'd be more comfortable in your own room with some privacy.”

Her heart sank. “All right.”

“I'll have Marta get it ready for you.”

“I'm sorry for the trouble.”

“It's no trouble. Oh . . . Morgan asked me to give you this.” He handed her a box, then left.

She opened the box. Inside were two halves of an eggshell held together with a rubber band. Puzzled, she slipped off the band and they fell apart. Inside was a slip of paper. She unfolded it.
To the real Noelle. Anytime
.

She leaned back on the pillows.
Oh, Morgan
. She looked at the shell halves, amazingly thin and fragile. She could crush them with her fingers. But her own wasn't so easy to break through. When did the running end and the healing begin? Or did it ever? She closed her eyes. What Morgan wanted she couldn't give. She didn't love him. Maybe she would never love again. She could live with that; why couldn't he?

Rick didn't stay in for lunch but grabbed a sandwich and took it back outside. Marta brought hers on a tray: grilled cheese and tomato soup, comfort food for both her condition and the weather. Noelle lifted Morgan's book. Why had he stayed reading to an invalid when he could have lit up the Roaring Boar and made his trip worthwhile? Because he hadn't flown out for a night at the Roaring Boar. He'd flown out for her.

I will not panic
. So Morgan cared. Maybe. Maybe it was all part of his act. And now he was gone with nothing more than a kiss between them. Most women would thrill to his kiss. He hadn't had to say it. She was just . . . what? Paranoid?

She flipped open the Flannery O'Connor book to “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” Dark reading, but it seemed to fit both her and Morgan's state, people making decisions with no idea of the tragic consequences they'd set in motion. She settled in, then realized she had reread the same page again and again. The hours dragged. Rick did not come in. She had no doubt he could find work to keep him out twenty-four-seven if he wanted.

He was angry, and maybe his God was as well. She glanced at the Bible near Rick's chair. He had picked it up from the floor and replaced it on the table. But she didn't touch it. She didn't want to know his God. Believing didn't help Morgan, and belonging was unthinkable. She covered her face with her hands and sank into the cushions.

“Noelle?” Rick woke her from a doze. “Are you ready to go up now?”

She glanced up the stairs to the open door and imagined how the walls would close in on her. She almost begged to stay down, then swallowed the ache. “Yes.” She pushed herself up, ignoring the pain, and reached for the crutches.

His expression softened. “I'll get you.” He lifted her into his arms.

She was too aware of his strength as he carried her up, his muscles, his will, his determination. She couldn't fight that. She couldn't even argue. He set her down gently, then went back for the crutches and leaned them on the wall beside her bed. “You'll manage all right in here.” He wasn't asking; he was informing.

She nodded. “I'll be fine.”

“Marta can bring your meals up.”

Her throat tightened. She hoped he couldn't see how trapped she felt.

“All right, then.” He left her.

She searched the room with her eyes. It seemed even more Spartan than before. Plain, serviceable, empty. She straightened her shoulders. She needed nothing more.

C
ats.
I can't believe I'm seeing
Cats
!” Jan's eyes actually shone from her sunken sockets. She'd washed her hair and agreed to wear the dress Michael provided. He could overlook the smell of cigarettes on her breath for the pleasure of her excitement. He didn't tell her that if she let him take care of her, she could see shows like this more often. He would let the experience speak for itself—as only
Cats
might.

Jan had loved the soundtrack since she was a little girl, crying when the old cat sang “Memories.” But she usually resisted any attempts on his part to lure her into theaters or museums or anything that smacked of culture.

Sometimes Michael wished he hadn't done so well. Then maybe Jan wouldn't have chosen her sad existence for her own identity. But
Cats
was too big a temptation for her to resist, and if she enjoyed it enough, maybe he could lure her with another. Broadway was magic, and some of the new shows would tickle Jan if she just gave it a try. It had to beat getting high with Bud.

He watched her throughout the show, held her hand when she cried through “Memories.” She was so fragile—trying too hard and blowing it badly. Why couldn't she see? She was young enough he could make her over like Eliza Doolittle, introduce her to the new members of the firm. He could increase her life expectancy, her quality of life a hundredfold.

But inside she didn't trust him. Oh, he was the one she called when
her car broke down or she couldn't make rent, but she had never really forgiven him for taking William's offer and leaving her behind. The difference in their ages would have caused a separation at some point but not so soon as William's position had made it. She'd convinced herself she didn't need him. And what she did now was punish him.

She knew her lifestyle hurt him, and she took adverse pleasure in wiping his nose in it. She did it to embarrass him, as well, and to keep him from forcing her out of it. He could bodily remove her, lock her up, choose her clothes, her companions, follow William St. Claire's example—only Jan wasn't compliant as Noelle had been.

Noelle
. The evening crashed in on him. It should be Noelle at his side, glittering, drawing all eyes in the theater. He started to sweat, felt it beading on his forehead. It chilled in the air-conditioned auditorium and left him clammy. The show couldn't end soon enough.

Jan glanced over as they stood to applaud. “That was tight, Michael. Made me glad to live in an alley. That's where life really happens.”

He wanted to slap her, frustrated at her stupidity. He pushed her out between the seats and gripped her arm through the chandeliered lobby.

“Ouch. Where's the fire?”

He loosened his grip. “Sorry.”

“I just can't believe I've seen
Cats
. I've loved it so long.”

“I know.” He composed his fury. It wasn't really Jan. It was Mother and Noelle and the pressure inside, as if he'd stepped on a mine and one move would blow him to pieces.

“I used to pretend I was a cat. You know that fire escape from our bedroom window?”

“With the broken ladder?”

She nodded. “But I'd climb up to that little ledge over the handrail. I even meowed, thinking another cat might come visit.”

It might have been a cute story except the only cats that might have visited in that neighborhood were likely rabid.

“Would you like to see another show?”

She shrugged. “I don't care much for shows. Only
Cats
.”

“Want to see it again?”

She hesitated on that one, then shook her head. “Nope.” She swung her hips as three black men in tailored suits walked by, then sent them a glance over her shoulder. He didn't tell her they were way out of her league.

They took the taxi first to Jan's so he could see her safely in. There was a light inside. “Did you leave that on?”

She shrugged. “Probably Bud.” She reached for the door.

He caught her arm. “You don't know?”

She smiled saucily. “Nice of you to be concerned, big brother. But I live here. It's no big deal.”

“Let me get you another place.” He hadn't meant to push it tonight, but it was out now. “Nothing fancy.” Just safe and clean.

“I like it here. Like I said, it's where life happens.”

“Death happens too.” To punctuate his words, sirens screamed by with lights skidding across the building walls.

“Death happens everywhere.” She pulled open the door and climbed out. “Thanks for the show.” She walked away singing “Memories.”

———

Four days in her room, and Noelle was climbing the walls—or would be if she had the strength. The doctor said her developed dance musculature would help the healing but not to expect too much. Was it too much to hobble between the bed and the bath? She felt so weak, so trapped, and her mind was her enemy, wearing her down worse than broken bones and torn ligaments. She must get strong again. She must.

She heard voices in the dining room below: Rick's and two others, the guests from Iowa. They were staying in the third cabin, which she couldn't see from her window. She thought maybe Rick knew them. There seemed to be more camaraderie than usual in their discourse. They had nice voices. The woman laughed a lot, and Rick laughed with her. Noelle hadn't heard him laugh so much before. She couldn't catch the words, only the waves of conversation and the laughter.

A soft knock came at the door, and Marta wafted in with pancakes and bacon on a tray. Noelle straightened as Marta laid the tray across her knees. She wasn't nearly as hungry for food as for human contact, even Marta's brusque conversation.

“How are you today?”

“Better. Much better. Thank you, Marta.”

Marta cocked her head and studied her. She wasn't easily fooled.

“A little tired of sitting around.” Noelle tried a smile. It must have passed.

“Well, you have to take it slowly. Can't force things.”

Any slower and she'd stop functioning altogether. “How are the people from Iowa?”

“Nice.” Marta tucked in the corner of the bed sheet and straightened. “Friends of Rick's.”

So she'd been right. Noelle felt a quirk of pleasure at her detecting skills. A year in this room and she'd have everything figured out. “Old friends?”

“Mmhmm.” Marta plumped a pillow up behind her head. “Better?”

“Thank you,” Noelle said. “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”

“They are.” Marta pulled a loose thread from the coverlet. “They're leaving today.”

“Oh.” Noelle's heart sank. She'd enjoyed imagining them as they conversed over meals. “Are the cabins rented out?”

Marta smoothed the corner of the spread. Noelle had made the bed when she got up to wash, but her efforts were clumsy, and she had climbed atop with the cover askew. Marta would probably love to tug it into place. “I don't think so.”

No one to glimpse from the window, to hear through the floor. Noelle sighed. How had she ever thought she liked solitude?

“You're getting lonely?” Marta was perceptive.

Noelle forced a smile. “No, I'm fine.”

“Can I bring you anything else? Something to read?”

Noelle shook her head. She looked at the window. What scenes she could paint with the trees changing color. But her paints were lost. The case had been crushed in Aldebaran's fall. “No, I don't need anything. Thank you, Marta.”

Marta left her, and Noelle stared at the food on the tray: the thick fluffy pancakes with a pat of butter melting down the center, syrup to the side, two strips of thick-cut bacon, fried crisp but not browned. It was extra work for Marta to fix a tray every meal, and Noelle could tell she made a special effort to coax her appetite. Maybe it was the medication, maybe just the suppressed functioning of her body as it healed, but Noelle barely tasted the food Marta went to such pains to provide. She ate anyway. She had to get strong.

She took the codeine only at night, when the pain of knitting bones and wrenched ligaments was too great for her to sleep. The stupor included dreams and visions, but they had increased again on their own, so what did it matter? These dreams were more fantastic than before, often repeating the same images. No, one image. A window
filled with color and wings, long, sweeping wings. And they were more terrifying than the others.

She shuddered, then forced another bite of pancake. When she finished, she set the tray aside and looked around the room. The voices below had stopped. Rick and his guests must have finished eating. Maybe his friends were preparing to leave. Was he with them, saying good-bye? Would he miss them?

Noelle looked out the window. The autumn beauty was at its peak. They must regret having to leave such majesty. She saw the branch sway on a pine just outside as a dark gray squirrel with tufted ears pattered by and disappeared. Noelle chafed. She had been still long enough. She grabbed the crutches and pulled herself to her feet, wincing at the pain in her ribs.

She had more or less only moved between the bed and the bathroom. Now she meant to do more. She worked open the dresser drawer and took out her jeans. None would fit over the cast unless she slit the leg. She shook her head and put them back. Shorts would be cold, but the khaki pair was baggy enough to pull up over the cast. She took them and a sweat shirt.

After dressing, she opened the door and went along the balcony to the top of the stairs. They were wide, broad stairs, but still the sight was intimidating. She'd never used crutches before, and her leg was stiffly casted to midthigh. Not conducive to the bending required by stairs. Clenching her teeth, Noelle balanced the crutches on the first stair down, then with her cast extended, swung her other foot down. She released her breath. Fourteen to go and already she was winded. She was weaker than she thought. Her arms shook as she lowered the crutches again.

But before she could swing her leg down again, Rick bounded up. “What are you doing?” He caught her arm.

“I'm going outside.” She gripped the crutches tightly to keep her hands from shaking and met his gaze. She would
not
be dissuaded.

He stood there, barring her way, then suddenly reached around her waist and lifted her. The crutches clattered to the stairs. If he carried her back up, she would drag herself out on her belly! But he went down.

Mouth slightly agape, Marta opened the outside door. Noelle felt the rush of cool air with the keen scent of pine, always the pine. Rick carried her across the yard to a grove of aspens beside the stable. He set her down among the white trunks that seemed to watch her with their
black eye-shaped sworls. She looked up. The sun had turned the leaves to paper-thin sheets of gold trembling in the bracing breeze. Overhead the cerulean sky spread cloudless from peak to peak over the valley. It was beautiful . . . so beautiful. Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Did I hurt you?” Rick asked.

It had hurt when he grasped her, but not as much as working her way down with the crutches. And it wasn't pain that brought the tears. She shook her head. “It's just so wonderful.”

Rick's own expression had softened and deepened. “Well, sit as long as you like. I'll check back.”

As she watched his retreat, Noelle dropped her chin to her hands folded over her knee. She was in his debt, more deeply than she'd ever intended. How had that happened? She had tried so hard to be self-reliant, and here she was more dependent than ever. She was at Rick's mercy.

Her chest tightened and the shakes came with vengeance. She raised trembling hands to her face, fought the image, but it came. Her heart hammered. She threw up her arms to ward off the talons of the hawk, the monstrous gaping beak, the amber eyes boring into her soul.

She cringed.
It's not real!
She was never attacked by a hawk. She dug her fingers into her scalp. Her chest heaved as the image faded and was gone. Her arms dropped. Sweat beaded her forehead. She wiped it away. It was crazy. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe that's why Daddy had run her life, and Michael . . .

She closed her eyes tightly. She would not think of him. It was all behind her. What she needed was a plan. She needed to get strong. She grabbed the cast on her leg, willing the bone to knit, the ligaments to fuse, the muscles not to wither. She would do it. She would heal herself, then somehow pay her debt and go away.

Her stomach lurched and she looked at the ranch house, golden in September light. Maybe she wouldn't have to leave. She sagged against the tree, closed her eyes, and thought of all the days she'd spent there, the things she'd done and learned.

She had grown, and her art reflected it. She'd even learned to cook a little. She had trained Destiny. Even Rick admitted it worked better with her there—though he might just be saying that. He had a way of slipping in kind words when she wasn't expecting it. Like telling his father she was competent. She sighed. He wouldn't be saying that
after what she'd done to Aldebaran. That had been stupid, so stupid it humiliated her to think of it.

But she hadn't been thinking. She'd panicked, lost control. And she realized now it could happen again. The fear inside was not healed, was not even controlled. How could it heal when she couldn't even look at it? She startled at the snapping twig and her eyes shot open.

Rick stood over her with a lunch basket. Marta must have sent it, but Rick didn't leave it and go. He sat. “Are you doing all right?”

No. I'm falling apart, and I don't know how to stop it
. She nodded.

He tipped his head up and the light through the leaves played over his features. “Nothing like aspens in the fall.”

She followed his gaze up through the dappled gold to the azure sky. The sight soothed her and she longed to capture the shades on paper, to hold the moment forever, to take back inside with her when it was over. But she thought of the last time she had done that. Maybe it was better to let the moments pass.