A Rush of Wings (4 page)

“I'm a bit of a linguist, you see—a trained ear.” The professor leaned forward. “While you lack the obvious accent, your diction does betray you. Long Island?”

She gave him a slight smile, but her heart thumped. Since she'd
given her name, it would be a simple matter for them to trace her back to . . . But why would they? She'd done nothing wrong. She could go where she pleased, do what she pleased. What she'd lived before was the farce. This was real.

Morgan passed the rolls. “How's the book coming, Professor?”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “I'm ruminating. That's the most important part.” He nodded to Noelle. “I'm writing a history of western expansion through the anecdotes of small towns such as Juniper Falls.” The timbre of his voice belied his spare, lanky frame, the long, almost delicate fingers with which he precisely cut his meat. He had the hands of an academic.

She responded politely, thankful when Morgan engaged him and the professor's attention shifted from her. As he and Morgan conversed, with interjections from the hikers, the talk washed over her, just as it had so many times with her father and his associates. She felt invisible and was content to remain so.

Morgan seemed undaunted when Professor Jenkins corrected him. He shrugged carelessly and offered his rebuttal. Even she could tell he was fudging, but the professor took pains to correct him again. Rick said little but had the look of a man who attended every detail.

She was glad to be left to her thoughts. The food was like heaven. Marta was a good chef. Or maybe it was simply the first meal not from a machine that she had eaten in days. Whichever, its simple comfort and satisfaction was a healing balm. She cleaned her plate without shame.

Morgan engaged her eyes. “There's a band at the Roaring Boar tonight. Want to go?”

“No thanks.”

“It's a good band,” he coaxed.

She shook her head. “Not tonight.” Or any night. She handed over her plate to Marta's waiting hands, excused herself, and left the table.

She went to the bookshelves that flanked the fireplace and searched the titles. There were classics from Homer to Mark Twain with a few by Michener and Clavell. Quite a few by C. S. Lewis and T. S. Elliot, whom she hadn't read. Tom Clancy was the only current New York Times bestseller among them.

The other shelf held travel guides, historical, wildlife, and nature books. She found a Rocky Mountain botanical guide not unlike the
one she'd studied for the Northeastern states. She slipped it from the shelf as Morgan approached.

“You can't possibly think that would be more entertaining than a night on the town with the best band the Boar sports.”

She turned to him. “I'd like to recognize the plants I encounter here.” To own and absorb this strange place, to make it hers.

“That's what the daytime's for. The night was made for fun.”

She had him pegged now, but merely opened the cover of the botanical and said, “No thanks.”

“We'd have a good time.”

She expected he would. But she was not there for a good time. “No thank you, Morgan.”

This time he shrugged and left without her. And that was telling as well. He might coax, but he didn't force the issue. She released a slow breath. She was learning, reading them, apprehending her situation and those others within it. She glanced up from the book as Rick crossed to the door after Morgan. “Excuse me. Are these for anyone's use?”

He took a jacket from the hooks and reached for the doorknob. “Help yourself.”

Through the front window she watched him cross to the stable. It seemed he wasn't joining Morgan in town. He was going back to work. For brothers, they could hardly have been more different. If she'd had a brother or sister, would they be her opposite? Staring at the darkening window, she imagined a sister, brave, brash, and outspoken.

With a sigh, Noelle carried the botanical guide to her room. No doubt many of the plants, trees, and flowers pictured would be ones she already knew. But mountain flora had to differ from that of sea level, and she was genuinely interested in what she might find in her new environment. Before she settled in, though, she checked the money in the makeup pouch from the shelf, counted each bill. She should have taken more than two thousand dollars, but she had only been thinking of travel money, hadn't thought past her escape.

Paying bills had never occupied much of her thoughts. It was automatic; she either signed for her expenses or used a credit card. She never carried cash. To walk around with four hundred dollars in her pocket—She realized with a jolt that she hadn't given Rick her payment. It was still in that pocket.

But he hadn't asked for it. Was he a careless businessman? It seemed contrary to what she'd noted as his methodical and diligent nature.
Well, she could hardly chase him down as the evening drew toward dusk. She left the rent in her pocket and replaced the makeup bag on the shelf. The money ought to be in a bank, even the little one in town, but an account could be traced. She would have to figure that out, but tonight she was too tired.

After changing for bed, she read until her eyes would not stay open, then turned out the lamp and curled under the coverlet. She had never slept in a place so unfamiliar, except on the numerous buses from the past days, and already that seemed like a strange interlude, a pinch in time that may not be real. Lying in the pine bed, she drifted into a warm, nebulous calm. The sleep that had been fitful as she traveled now came heavily, and she gladly succumbed.

Without warning, she sensed the shadow above her, heard the beating of the wings. All her flesh trembled, and she crouched, pulling the grass down around her. But the blades were too thin and brittle to conceal her. Helpless, she grasped at them, frantic to cover herself, then, despairing, turned her face up to the cruel beak and talons.

W
illiam St. Claire sat in his office. He stared at the plaques on his wall—certificates, awards, and mementos of achievements that did nothing to lighten his mood. Not after a miscarriage of justice, a guilty man set free. He was not fool enough to believe every client innocent of the charges against him, though the Constitution presumed so. But this time the realization of his client's probable guilt came after he had accepted the case. It didn't change his job; the man was entitled to defense, the best his money could buy, and William had billed accordingly. But where was the strength of the system? Why was it so easy to win? And why was his heart still in prosecution after all these years?

The prosecutors should do their job as effectively as he and Michael did theirs. He sighed. He was getting old—he would turn fifty-nine this year. He sat down in the smooth leather chair and massaged the back of his neck. Where were the answers he'd thought he knew? How brash and arrogant he'd been as a young man. But no more. Now he understood too much and believed too little.

Ordinarily when he felt this gloomy he would call Noelle, have her come for supper. Simply seeing her restored his spirits. But that wasn't possible just now, was it? Ohio. Was she there, or had it been only a stop along the way? And why had he withheld her location from Michael?

Maybe Michael could have suggested some reason his daughter would be calling from a pay booth in Columbus, Ohio. But then, maybe not. And something had kept William from telling. Did he
trust Michael? As much as he trusted anyone besides Noelle. He sighed. It would sort itself out. He had to believe that and not let irrational fears make a bogeyman in every shadow.

Noelle was safe. She had sounded calm. And if she'd never done anything like this before, it wasn't as though she couldn't do it now. She was twenty-three years old. Hardly a child, certainly not the vulnerable child she'd been when . . . His stomach seized. Would it ever cease, the physical reaction to the memory, to the awful, awful memory?

Or was it another instinct? One he should heed? It wouldn't hurt to learn where she was. He wouldn't interfere, just . . . He pinched the bridge of his nose. Where was the balance? His daughter was grown and intelligent, and she has assured him she was fine. His need to know should not violate her right to privacy. He would wait . . . for now.

———

Noelle awoke to the scolding of a magpie outside her window. The early morning sunshine poured into the room, and she stared at the log walls and ceiling, then made sense of it as full consciousness returned. Hardly a vestige of the dream remained, and she felt surprisingly refreshed. She slipped out of bed.

When she had showered, she pulled her hair into a loose French braid. She dressed in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt. She could hear Marta humming in the kitchen as she started down the stairs, a homey sound that cut straight to her heart. The staff at home would never draw attention to themselves that way.

She replaced the botanical guide, then wandered into the dining room and noted the long table set with plates, white stoneware on wood. An extra table leaned against the wall, and shelves held stacks of dishes, glasses, and mugs to accommodate many more guests than were currently at the ranch. This room also was unadorned, everything serviceable, bare. This morning it seemed bleak. It cried out for some artistic touch, even a simple centerpiece.

Glancing around the room, she saw what she needed. Taking with her a glass water pitcher and knife from the shelves, she went outside. The air was chilled, raising the flesh on her arms and legs, in spite of yesterday's heat. How could it be so cold in July? But that was something else to file in her memory about her new environment at that elevation.

Shivering, Noelle filled the bottom fourth of the pitcher with small stones and water from the creek. The smell of the juniper grew pungent
as she sliced the tender branches and stood them in the pitcher. She carefully added thorny stalks of wild roses, then went in and set the pitcher in the center of the table, turning it one way, then edging it back just a little.

“That's nice,” Rick said behind her.

She spun, her heart leaping like a rabbit to her throat.

“Sorry I startled you.”

She drew a sharp breath. “It's okay.” But it took some time for the jolt to pass.

Marta bustled past with the coffee cake. She stopped and eyed the floral arrangement. “What's all this?”

“Flowers.” Rick took the cake from her with a soothing glance.

Marta raised her eyebrows, then went back to the kitchen.

Noelle knew that look. Her cheeks heated. What was she thinking? She was a guest, not a resident. “I should have asked.”

Rick set the coffee cake on the table. “Marta's . . . practical. She thinks a water pitcher is for water.” He slid out her chair, but before she sat, Noelle took the four hundred dollars from her pocket and held it out to him. “I meant to give you this yesterday. I didn't want to leave it on the desk.”

He took the bills with just a hint of surprise, then tucked them into his shirt pocket. “Thanks.”

“I'm sorry I forgot. But you didn't ask.”

He shrugged. “I knew where to find you.” He eased the chair in as she sat.

Marta returned with coffee and fruit wedges, then made a third trip, returning with sizzling sausages and hard-boiled eggs. The family from Michigan, two stout adults and three preadolescent kids, followed the steaming platter to the table. They'd used their kitchen last night, but they must have preferred Marta's breakfast to their own—with good reason.

Rick seated the mother beside Noelle and greeted the kids by name. For all his reserved temperament, he was a warm host.

“I'm Shelby.” The woman held out her hand, soft and short-fingered.

Noelle squeezed and released it. “Noelle.”

“Up here alone, are you?”

Noelle nodded. Would her business be discussed at every meal?

“I
dream
of slipping away alone.” Two deep dimples appeared in
Shelby's cheeks when she smiled. “But this crew wouldn't survive if I did.”

Marta came to stand at the end of the table, and Noelle guessed they wouldn't be waiting for the Pathfinders or honeymoon couple. The food was hot and ready. She flicked her eyes up to Marta, who seemed to have put the flower arrangement from her mind. Her face was serene as she stood, head bowed, while Rick prayed.

“ ‘Happy the man who fears the Lord, who finds great delight in his commands.' Lord, you are the source of all joy. Bless this day and this food for our nourishment. Amen.”

Noelle kept her hands in her lap and did not stare. This was obviously a ritual he would repeat each time they ate. When he finished, the kids grabbed for the coffee cake, scolded by their mother but not dissuaded from grabbing the pieces with their hands and plopping them on their plates. Noelle took the platter from Shelby and helped herself with the server from the other side. The cake was still warm and she smelled its lemony sweetness.

“Coffee?” Marta held the pot above Noelle's cup.

“Thank you.” Noelle took a bite of cake. It was moist and light and the tiny gray poppy seeds crunched in its softness. She savored it silently. Why did everything taste better here—even with the children shoving whole sausages into their mouths and mashing their boiled eggs? Everything seemed more vibrant, more real. She added cream to her coffee and glanced at Rick.

His features were regular, not the sort to turn heads wherever he went, not like Morgan's, not like . . . She shuddered away from another image, forced her mind back to Rick. He moved with controlled mastery, and his forearms, bared beneath the loosely rolled denim sleeves, were lean-sinewed like the horse he had ridden yesterday, his hands calloused but clean. He dug his fork into the cake with a determined stroke.

“Room all right?” He met her glance for a moment.

“Yes, it's fine.” She had slept well enough.

“Too bad you didn't get a cabin.” Shelby patted her hand. “They're so cozy. We had a fire last night.”

“We popped popcorn in a weird black box on a handle.” The oldest boy looked exactly like his mother, though more thickly freckled.

“And Sean dropped it in the fire.” His younger brother was a smaller copy with thick freckles across his nose.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Boys.” Shelby's husband had a high, thin voice.

“Well, he did.”

“Did not.”

Shelby rolled her eyes as though Noelle knew how it was. In truth, she knew no such thing. She thanked Marta for warming her coffee, then sliced into her boiled egg and lightly salted the slice. She had wondered if Marta would join them, but except to replenish the coffee, she stayed in the kitchen. Noelle had never given thought to it at home. That's where the servants belonged. Why, here, did it seem strange?

Everything seemed strange. She felt drunk with possibilities. She was free, independent, alone. It was deliciously heady. The reasons that made such a step impossible for Shelby might be different, but it was no less a step for Noelle. Never again would she be trapped. Never would she allow anyone power over her. She was not invincible, but now she would be shrewd.

Shelby's family filled the room with noise: questions, bickering, laughter, and excuses from Shelby. Noelle was glad they were there. It would be uncomfortable to sit at the table alone with Rick. He responded pleasantly enough to anything directed his way but didn't seem to generate conversation. She thought of her father, though there was very little to connect them. William St. Claire was the epitome of class and culture, and Rick seemed . . . unconcerned with either. Two different worlds, though maybe the same type of man packaged differently. With the exception of religion.

Noelle looked at Shelby's husband. His head was round as a bowling ball, the dark hair thinning on top to reveal a sheen. Even shaved he bore a five o'clock shadow, and his nose was a small round bulb. He was shaped like an inverted spark plug, but Noelle guessed when he took to the mountain on his bicycle he was tougher than he looked.

When they were nearly finished eating, Morgan came in, collapsed into a chair with a groan, and reached for the coffee carafe Marta had left on the table her last trip through.

Rick slid it closer. “Morning.”

Morgan nodded. His eyes were heavy, one cheek still creased from whatever he had lain on, no doubt without moving. His night at the Roaring Boar must have been quite entertaining.

“Well . . .” Shelby seemed to take that as her cue. “I guess we'll be
off for the day. Taking the bike trail, you know.” She nudged Noelle's arm.

Why did the woman assume Noelle knew and understood all her thoughts and duties? Noelle smiled politely as Shelby gathered her chicks and herded them from the room. Then she turned to Rick. “I'd like to ride this morning. Is there a procedure?”

The corners of his mouth deepened, though she wasn't sure what amused him. “Greenhorn or equestrian?”

She wasn't altogether sure what he meant by greenhorn, but equestrian certainly fit, and she answered accordingly.

“Then the procedure is you sign my waiver and I get you saddled and show you the boundaries. The ranch borders the national forest, and it's easy to get lost up in there. If you ride well enough to go on your own, you'll still have to stay within the area I show you.” He tossed down his napkin and stood.

Noelle followed him out of the room with a last glance back. If Morgan realized he was alone, it didn't matter. His forehead rested on his palm, supported by his elbow to the table. His other hand clutched the cup of coffee he had yet to drink, and his eyes were closed.

They went first to the office, where Rick put her rent payment into his cashbox, then took a clipboard from the wall. It was a standard liability waiver, which Noelle knew meant very little in case of accident. Anything could be challenged, and personal injury suits were almost always settled out of court. But she would not be getting injured. She signed her name.

In the barn, Rick saddled a bay mare and a buckskin gelding. The buckskin appeared to be the only non-quarter horse he owned. “You've ridden a lot?”

“I'm competition trained.” She didn't tell him her equestrian training had ended at age fourteen and she'd ridden only sporadically since. It wasn't something one forgot.

He gave no indication her declaration had impressed him anyway as he held the head of the mare for her to mount. She took up the reins, prepared to extinguish his doubts.

Again that sideways smile. “She won't respond that way. She's trained Western.”

“Oh.”

“Hold both reins together.” He adjusted them in her hands. “That's why they're tied like that.”

“I see.”

Rick looked her over, adjusted the stirrup, then mounted the buckskin. Swinging the horse's head around, he clicked his tongue. Noelle experimented with the reins until she felt the mare's ready response. It was different but not difficult to adjust. Her training in all other aspects was complete. He'd see that for himself.

The pale gold grass of the meadow rasped under the hooves. On either side, the slopes up to the rocky crags were wooded and carpeted with spongy kinnikinnick and wild roses, both plants she recognized from the mountain botanical guide. The quiet seemed to swallow her as they passed under the trees.

Her senses heightened. The hooves softly crunched the rusty pine needles, releasing their scent. She could almost feel the pristine secrets of the wood opening to her. Wisdom and knowledge. If she stayed to listen, what would she learn?

Rick turned in the saddle. “There's no fence dividing the national forest and the ranch, so keep to this side of the stream.” He indicated the larger stream to her left, and she nodded. They came out of the trees and skirted the fenced pasture, which held an inner corral. She guessed that was a training corral, and no animals were inside it.