A Rush of Wings (23 page)

“Where are you taking me?”

“Dr. Bennington.” He started the engine and headed for the small, gray Victorian house up the hill from the highway on Bragg Street.

“He's retired.”

“How do you know?”

She coughed, a deep, hollow hack. “Rudy told me months ago, when I first came.”

“He sees almost as many patients now as he did in regular practice.
People just don't bother him with inconsequential stuff.” But her condition was hardly inconsequential. Had she no sense at all? He parked in front of the white wrought-iron fence.

He scooped up Noelle and carried her up the porch steps and into the back room of Dr. Bennington's home, sharp with antiseptic air. He was so angry it made him shake, but he set her on the examining table and backed off.
Calm down. This isn't about you. You did what you had to
.

But he kicked himself anyway. And he ought to kick her. Well, not literally. But what did it take? How stubborn could she be?

Dr. Bennington hung the stethoscope on his neck. “How long have you been coughing?”

“I'm not sure.” Her voice was weak.

The doctor listened to her breathe. “Umhmm.” He examined her leg, feeling the muscle tone with his slightly palsied hand. “This leg isn't looking so good either.”

Noelle didn't answer. Her eyes had closed, and she lay wheezing on the table. She looked as though a breeze would blow her away. The doctor clamped Rick's shoulder. “Step out now while I examine her.”

He waited outside, the floorboards lamenting his pacing feet until Dr. Bennington joined him. “How is she?”

The doctor kept his gravelly voice low. “Pneumonia. Dehydration. The fever's wasted her, no doubt, but I don't think she's eating well. Is she anorexic?”

Rick shook his head. “I don't know. I'd guess just broke.”

Dr. Bennington made a note on his chart. “I injected an antibiotic that should kick in with a bang. You'll have to fill this prescription elsewhere.” He handed him the slip. “I'd say take her to the hospital for an IV, but she'd probably pick up a worse infection, and those young scalawags wouldn't know pneumonia from tetanus.”

Dr. Bennington's opinion of current medical care was well-known. “I'd say if you can get some fluids in her she's better off up here. With proper care, she'll be all right.” He turned briefly to the door. “I wouldn't leave her unattended, though.”

Rick hardened his resolve. “I'm taking her to my place.”

“Good. Once she's well enough to stand and walk, we'll worry about the leg. I can't imagine what kept her from getting help sooner.”

Rick could. But this time he'd do more than imagine.

———

Lying on the table in the doctor's office, Noelle rolled to her side. Something crinkled in her pocket, and she felt the envelope Rick had brought her. Rising to her elbow, she tore it open and read:
Dear Ms. St. Claire, Your talent has been well received. Enclosed please find a money order per your request . . .
Noelle sat up and stared. Her head spun, and after all the other delusions, she was unsure whether she imagined what she read. But it was there on the money order. It must be real.

She clutched the letter to her chest. She had no idea her paintings could sell for so much, far and above what she had earned through Ms. Walker. Maybe Rick had been right—maybe Ms. Walker had kept back more than her share. What did it matter now? With money like this . . .

“Good news?” Rick came in with the doctor.

She handed him the letter, still riding the burst of energy the news had infused in her. “Dr. Bennington, may I pay you when I've cashed this money order?”

“You may. But now I want you in bed directly. You need plenty of rest these next days if you don't want to end up here again.” He extended a hand to help her down.

Rest
. Yes, she needed it. If she was going to continue her success, she must get well. A wave of exhaustion extinguished her false strength. Her head spun, but she kept her feet and allowed Rick to support, but not carry, her to the truck.

She hated to ask anything of him, but right now she was too weak to manage alone. “Rick, can you cash this for me at the bank?”

He turned the key and the engine roared. “I can.”

“Now?”

“No.” Rick backed the truck. “You heard the doctor.”

“I'll rest better with the money in my hand.” She may as well have talked to the wall.

He only shook his head and started up the road to his ranch. She noticed his direction but didn't argue. She couldn't bear the thought of setting foot once more into Ms. Walker's rental. Besides, her eviction notice was probably in the mailbox. Eviction. Had she even known that word before?

She glanced at Rick. His jaw was set, his hand firm on the wheel.
She could sense his controlled fury. Why was he angry? How had she offended him? What business was she of his?

He eased her out of the truck, wrapped in the coverlet. In the cold, still air she could smell its rank odor. What must he think? He made no comment but replaced the blanket with a thick green afghan as he settled her onto the couch. Then he went to the kitchen.

She looked around her, dismayed by the comfort she still found in the familiar log walls. Outside the window the evening had deepened, and the moon shone through the icy clouds on the snow-covered spruce. In spite of the room's warmth, she shivered.

Rick handed her a cup of instant chicken broth. “This'll warm you up.” His words were gentler than his grim face.

She sipped. It tasted good, and the warmth coursed down her throat. How long had it been? Too long. For the moment she could focus on nothing but the hot, salty broth, and it warmed her from the inside. The steam moistened her face as she blew the surface cool enough for the next swallow and the next. She drained the cup and set it on the table.

Rick tossed another log on the fire, then turned. “Why didn't you tell me you needed help? Or call Morgan?”

“Morgan?” How many months had it been since he'd gone? How would she even know where to find him? And what would he care?

Rick spread his arms. “Is it so bad to admit you need a hand?”

Not when he put it that way, but it hadn't seemed so clear. “I thought . . .” The cough burned her chest.

“Listen to you. That's pneumonia.”

“I didn't know.”

“Like you didn't know your power was out?” He didn't shout, but each word was stressed.

Her anger flared. “I
didn't
. They must have shut it off when I was in bed.” She frowned. “I didn't know the town hibernated all winter. I couldn't find work, and I had no way to get anywhere else.”

“Not without asking.”

She hadn't the energy to argue. She wanted sleep. She wanted peace. “So what do we do now?”

His expression softened, and he released a slow breath. “I guess you should take a long, hot bath and go to bed.”

She smiled weakly. “I don't think anything's ever sounded so good.”

Bathing in the tub in the bathroom at the end of the hall, she let the hot water soothe her aches. Her scalp tingled from her scrubbing, and though she felt dozy, it was not the same delirious exhaustion as before.

She closed her eyes and exulted. To soak in a decent tub instead of the chipped and rusting one at Ms. Walker's was ambrosia, but she shouldn't overdo it. Soon she would be too loose to move. She stood and took the towel from the rack. Her head spun, but only for a moment.

She could almost feel her strength returning. It was as though her body knew she'd come home.
Home
. She toweled dry, then wrapped herself in the thick terry robe that hung on the door. It enveloped her in spongy warmth . . . and smelled of Rick.

Well, he hadn't brought her clothes along when he burst in to play rescue ranger, and she would not even consider dressing in the sweat-stained things she'd worn these last days. She tied the robe at her waist and limped painfully down the hall to her room.

Her room. She collapsed on the bed and stared at the log ceiling. She pulled the covers up around her. Her heart rushed with longing. Surely he'd let her stay. Surely . . .

R
ick jolted up in bed, wakened so suddenly he wasn't sure why. Then he heard Noelle and scrambled from the covers. He pulled on his jeans as he rushed for her room. She didn't answer his knock so he pushed the door open. In her bed, she thrashed, throwing up her arms, fending off some unseen attack.

He hurried over and caught her hand. “Noelle.”

She sprang up and fought him, striking with her fists. He took a jab in the jaw before he caught her arms and grabbed her close. “It's all right. It's okay now.”

Her chest heaved in sharp wheezing breaths as the fight left her, but she shook uncontrollably, and he stroked her back, willing her peace. “It's all right.” He soothed her like a spooked foal, gentling the fight and fear from her. “It's all right now.”

She was in his robe. It swallowed her up and she seemed more fragile than ever. Her hair was satiny soft, her cheek warm and damp beneath his palm. His own heart quickened with a powerful warmth, a warmth so real and right it staggered him.

He fought to restrain the rush, to remember everything he'd told himself for months. But when she slowly raised her face, he cupped her cheek and kissed her. He hadn't planned it, hadn't intended it, but there was no denying it. Her lips charged his with sweet desire, but it was not his purpose to seduce her, just to comfort if he could. He cradled her head against his neck, gaining control and clinging to it.

She whimpered. “It was horrible. He was there . . . at the door. And there was nowhere to hide in the dirty little room.” Her tears collected in the hollow of his throat. “And it was there, above him, the hawk with the horrible beak and the amber eyes. So big . . . so awful.”

She was still in the throes of the dream. He didn't expect it to make sense. He just stroked her back, willed away the fear, and silently prayed.
Lord, help me. I'm over my head, out of my head. Hold me firm
.

She pulled away, and he let her go. Her throat worked, but whether she meant to speak or merely fought her tears, he couldn't tell. He waited, unwilling to force her, though he needed the truth now more than ever.
Oh, God, let her be ready
.

“I need to tell you about Michael. Now, before I make myself forget again.”

So he'd been right. This Michael was the problem. He nodded, afraid that anything more would scare her away. “I'm listening.” He cupped her hand in his.

“I don't know if you can understand how it was. My father is a very powerful man.”

Rick nodded. He knew that already. But her father wasn't Michael. Where was she going with this?

She drew a shallow breath. “So powerful he built, well, a human fortress for me. Everything I did, everywhere I went was planned. You could almost say I was guarded.”

“Bodyguards?”

“I suppose. My friends, my teachers, the men I dated, they were all screened and approved . . . or not.”

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but Rick didn't say so aloud.

“Then there was Michael.” Her hand trembled in his cupped palm. “He was Daddy's protégé, handsome, amusing, brilliant. He'd so completely won Daddy, I was tired of hearing about him before I'd ever seen him. Maybe I was jealous or a little threatened . . . I don't know. I resisted all Daddy's attempts to introduce us.”

She wheezed and cleared her throat. “I knew what Daddy wanted, but I was no longer a child, and I was not about to let him handpick the man he thought I should marry. What century did he think it was? So I rebelled—until I saw Michael for myself.” She shuddered. “We met on my twenty-second birthday. Michael was . . . He had something about him, some energy. It was magnetic, overwhelming.” Her hand dropped to her lap.

“Soon I was seeing more of him than anyone else. Eight months past my birthday, we were engaged.”

Something traitorously close to jealousy stung his heart.

She turned and stared at the wall. “Then things changed. He changed. First it was just comments. If he'd given me something, he'd ask why I wasn't wearing it. He chose our friends, our entertainment, everything. And he told me how to dress, how to act. It was worse than all the years of Daddy's protection. He controlled . . . no, he owned me.”

“And your father allowed it?”

“I allowed it.” The despair in her voice tugged his heart. “And it got worse.” She was scarcely above whispering now. “If I voiced an opinion or disagreed with him, he got angry.”

Rick's hand tightened reflexively. “You didn't tell anyone?”

“In between he'd be so . . . wonderful.” She pulled her hand free and swiped the tears. “I know what you think.”

“No, you don't.” He said it softly. He could lose her here. He saw the signs.

She cleared the thickness from her throat. “I was . . . ceasing to exist. No other friends. Only Daddy and Michael with their mutual adoration.”

That explained her refusal to talk to her father. She must feel betrayed. She'd been betrayed. Whether William St. Claire knew it or not. Rick couldn't imagine her hurt. But he sensed it wasn't over. Her sudden gaze hit him like a blow.

“When I broke off the engagement, Michael went crazy. He was sure I had someone else, was obsessed with the idea.” She pressed her palms to her eyes. “He swore he would never let me go. He hit me, then . . .” Her breath came short and quick. “I can't see the rest—it fragments.” She shuddered.

She didn't have to spell out the rest. He knew what had happened. Rick caught her hand, willing her strength, then as her tears came, he pulled her close and let her cry.

Her voice broke with the sobs. “So I ran.”

Fury surged inside him, but he stroked her hair, kept her close to his chest. How had he not suspected? It had been there in her face, her inability to trust. Too many things came clear. “Does Morgan know?” His voice was raw.

“No one knows.”

Not true. God knew, and now he knew. All the glimpses he'd had
of her struggle came together and made sense. And the Lord would show him what to do with it—if he didn't get in the way. This was no time for the sort of things stirring inside his own soul.

He held her until he sensed her exhaustion, then laid her gently back. When he was certain she slept, he went down and searched God's Word. As he read, he wrestled with the rage. Rage at Michael for hurting her, at Morgan for coming on to her, at himself . . .

Oh, Lord, I asked you to show me, but I don't know what to do with it. I didn't mean to care the way I do, and that's the last thing she needs. But it's there, deep inside, where I can't root it out
.

He turned back to the Bible. His eyes ached as he read. His body cried for sleep, but he had no peace. Suddenly one line stood out on the page, and he read it again.
“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”

He glanced out at the paling sky.
“Love each other deeply.”
It wouldn't be hard to get to that, at least on his part. He was already further along than he wanted to think. But what about Noelle?

“Love covers over a multitude of sins.”
Could his love cover the sins against her? Could he love deeply enough to take away her pain? He dropped his forehead to his palm. Not alone, he couldn't. But with Christ loving through him . . .

He closed the Bible, pulled on his coat, and drove to the small house beside the church. Pastor Tom did not rise with the sun. That was evidenced when he shuffled to the door, bleary eyed. His gray hair stood up in peaks. “Rick.”

“I'm sorry to wake you.”

Pastor Tom pulled the door wide. “Come in. Whoo, it's cold. That'll wake me if nothing else.”

Rick followed him into the small kitchen.

“Mind if we sit with a cup of coffee?” The pastor reached for two stained ceramic mugs.

“I could use it.”

Rick waited while Pastor Tom ran the water through the coffee maker, then breathed the comforting aroma. He sipped the coffee, letting the heat and caffeine bolster him. “This is confidential.”

“I guessed it might be.”

Rick told him Noelle's story. When he had finished, Pastor Tom reflected his own concern. His bushy gray eyebrows drew almost
together in one line as he cupped his mug in his gnarly hands. “I'm no expert on rape, but I know enough to say her trust won't come easily.”

“I don't expect it to be easy. I just want to do the right thing.”

Pastor Tom leaned back, crossed his hands against his chest. “What are your feelings for her?”

The pastor had read more into his telling than he intended. “Pretty dangerous.”

Pastor Tom smiled. “I thought so. Has she faith?”

Rick shook his head. “Not that I've seen.”

“Then that's the starting point. Share your faith with her.”

That wasn't what he wanted to hear. He wanted something concrete, practical. Sharing his faith with one as closed as Noelle was like teaching a horse to fly. She lacked the right equipment.

He felt a prick of conscience. Wasn't every human being created with a sense of God, a need and a longing unfulfilled by anything else? Hadn't Satan's attack on the mountain shown as much? Why would the lord of darkness be concerned with someone who had no chance, no hope of salvation?

And how could he think of loving her—He stopped short in that thought. Did he love her? How could he if he couldn't share his faith, his belief, his love for God, and his trust in God's grace? He felt the doubts crowd in.

Feelings were one thing. They were not predictable, not dependable. Love was a commitment, a promise, a joining together as one. How could two from such different worlds as his and Noelle's come together in any way that made sense? But even as he thought it, he realized he wanted it.

“I can try that, Tom. But there's the practical problem also. I can't exactly winter alone with her at the ranch.” If last night was any indication, her vulnerability would make quick work of his resolve. He was more likely to fall from grace than she to attain it.

“How about your family?”

“Send her to Iowa?”

“Take her to Iowa.”

Rick considered that. They'd be willing, he knew. She already had Dad's affection, and his mother would welcome her. He felt a selfish reluctance that made it all the more clear he couldn't keep her at the ranch.

Pastor Tom leaned forward, his gaze piercingly clear. “Rick, do you realize she may not return your affection? That you may help her in every way—even bring her to faith—and have nothing to gain?”

The words shredded his prideful assurance. Yeah, he knew better than to expect success where even Morgan had failed. But, then, his intentions weren't the same. “I know that.”

“Then take her to your family, surround her with warm hearts and faithful spirits. Teach her what it means to belong.”

Belong. He felt the quickening in his spirit.
Yes
. He nodded. “Thank you, Tom.”

———

Noelle awoke to the familiarity of her own room. She had half expected to find Rick still holding her hand, but the room was empty. Maybe she'd dreamt it. But no, he'd been there. Even in his absence she felt his comfort.

Her heart jumped with the thought, but it scared her. There was more than comfort in his arms last night. She'd wanted his kiss, asked for it. What was wrong with her? How could she even think . . .

She limped to the bath and washed. The burning in her chest was gone except when she coughed, and even that was lessening. The injection must have been a potent one, and she rubbed the aching spot where she'd received it. But if it did the trick, that's all that mattered.

She made her slow descent downstairs. The house was silent. She missed Marta's humming, but Marta was gone for the winter. Rick wasn't in the kitchen. She leaned against the refrigerator to catch her breath, then pulled open the door. Every shelf was stocked. What an incredible sight.

Rick came in and tossed the newspaper on the table, then leaned over her to see into the refrigerator. “Something exciting in there?”

His ease calmed her. “I was reveling in the sight of food.” She closed the door and turned.

He smiled. “You must be feeling better.”

His smile churned her emotions. She didn't want what he was making her feel. She said, “I'm sorry for last night.”

“What part are you sorry for?”

“Waking you.” She breathed the scent of woodsmoke in his shirt. Her pulse quickened.

“What about the rest?”

“I'm not sorry I told you. You deserved the truth.”

He raised her chin. “And the rest?”

He meant his kiss, his touch. She remembered the first time she'd
seen him gentling Destiny with his hands. He'd held hers with the same comforting power. Did he know how healing his touch was?

He released her chin. “Have a seat, and I'll make you breakfast.”

“You?”

“Yes, me. And I won't poison you either.” He pulled out the carton of eggs and a chunk of ham. “Go on, sit. You shouldn't even be out of bed.”

“I feel much better. That injection—”

“Oh.” Rick patted his shirt pocket. “This is yours.” He set a prescription bottle on the table.

She picked it up and read the antibiotic label. “Thank you.” She sat down at the little table and watched him crack the eggs into the bowl, then whisk them together with milk. He set that aside and diced the ham.

“You know what you're doing.”

He added the ham to the bowl. “You bach it long enough, you learn.”

“Then why do you have Marta?”

He went to the refrigerator and took out half a bell pepper. “Marta's worked summers here since I built the place. She frees me up for other things in the busy months.” He diced the pepper and stirred it into the eggs. Then he poured it all into the skillet with a sizzle.