A Rush of Wings (7 page)

“Oh, it gets warmer than this.” Morgan stood her to his right for the line dance. “Just follow me on this one. It's total insanity.”

“Oh no. No, I don't do this. . . . I haven't learned . . .”

He tugged her back. “Forget learning. Just experience.” He stepped, kicked and turned, then lifted his foot and “slapped leather” as the song instructed by hitting the side of his shoe. They turned a quarter turn and started over. “You're supposed to wear boots,” he called over his shoulder, “but I draw the line there.” Still, he was a chameleon, blending into the scene, taking on the mannerisms, the mood around him.

Noelle faked her way through the dance as the line swept her forward and back, three steps to the right and kick, then again to the left. Spin, slap leather, quarter turn, repeat. It wasn't that different from
chorus line, but she'd hated that. She blew out her breath, relieved, when it stopped.

The lead singer stepped up to the microphone. “Hey, I want to welcome everybody here tonight. We are gonna have a hand-clappin', boot-stompin' good time, so grab on to your partner and get ready, ‘cause we're gonna shake the walls.”

The small crowd roared, and more couples filled the floor. Noelle was pressed closer to Morgan than she intended to be, but he kept her on the dance floor the entire first set, teaching her new steps and moves, then stood up to the bar for a shot and a beer. She drank a fresh club soda, then went to the ladies' room, which was relatively clean but cramped and lacking any continuity of color and design. The lavender stalls and crimson tiles made her cringe.

As she washed her hands at the gold-flecked double sink, she glanced at her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed, and strands of hair escaped the reverse French braid. She tucked them in with her fingers, cooled her cheeks with damp palms, shook her hands, and looked for a dryer. She settled for the paper-towel dispenser and went out.

Morgan had his back to the counter, elbows behind him. He watched her cross the room, even while he chatted with the tall brunette beside him. He drained the last half-inch of his beer and set the mug down. “Ready?”

“For what?”

“More hand-clappin', boot-stompin' good times.”

“I don't know that I'll survive another set like the last one.” Though she had enjoyed the dancing more than she'd expected.

“Well, you're in luck. The second set is different.”

“In what way?”

“They open the mic.”

“Like karaoke?”

“Live accompaniment.” He led her by the elbow back to the table. “They'll play oldies, classic rock, and country. What's your preference?”

“I'd say rock, but I don't want to do it.”

She sat down as the lead guitar announced the open mic, but before Morgan took his seat, the crowd started chanting, “Morgan, Morgan, Morgan . . .”

Noelle looked at him in surprise.

“I guess they want me to lead off tonight.” He leapt onto the stage
and took the microphone. “Good evening, all you gorgeous ladies and
sorry
-lookin' gents.”

Boos and hisses and laughter followed.

“You might have noticed I have someone special with me tonight. Give a hello to Noelle St. Claire if you haven't already.”

Hoots and whistles. Noelle kept her eyes on Morgan. He turned and spoke to the drummer who raised his sticks and counted out the beat. Then the bass guitar came in. The lead threw back his head and howled, then played backup as Morgan began to sing “Little Red Riding Hood.”

His imitation was better than his voice, which wasn't bad. Noelle bit her lip, then laughed behind her hand. Morgan lit the place up. He had real talent, even if he wasn't undiscovered star quality. She glanced around at the laughing, catcalling crowd. How could they help but respond to his antics? And, yes, he made a very believable big, bad wolf. At last he threw his hands into the air to absorb the applause, then jumped off the stage.

Joining her at the table again, he took her hand in his. “What do you think? Carnegie Hall?”

Noelle freed her hand. “Worse have made it. Where did you learn?”

“Learn? As in musical instruction?” He looked amused.

“Yes.”

“No instruction. It's kind of a family thing.”

“Family? I can't imagine Rick getting up and doing that.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised. He can have fun when he wants to.” He downed the complimentary shot and raised his glass to the sender, a woman with flaxen braids. “I just do it better.”

“Your hubris astounds me.”

“No, it doesn't. Anyone who can say ‘hubris' with a straight face has a good share of it herself.”

She had intended it jokingly, but he hadn't missed a step. As a chunky blonde in tight jeans and a ponytail claimed the mic and began to sing “Austin,” Morgan accepted another complimentary shot and beer chaser.

“You're going to look and feel the way you did the other morning.”

“Ah, but I've learned the secret to having a good time.” He put his lips to her ear. “Never consider the consequences in advance.” His eyes were reckless bolts of blue. “Break free of the shackles of restraint
and bow to Bacchus and Diana. The possibilities are endless. Let me get you something.”

“No thanks.” Some possibilities were not worth it.

“Why not?”

She merely shook her head. He sighed and downed the second shot, then led her back to the dance floor. She followed less eagerly. The lights had dimmed, and he drew her close as the band played and the blonde sang, not too poorly, the heartbreak strains of the Western love song.

He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “You smell nice.”

She turned her face away.

“You're not easily romanced, are you?”

“I'm not interested.”

He laughed. “Don't break it to me gently, Noelle. Just say it as it is.” He stroked her cheek with his fingertips. “Oh, lady, you feel good.”

She stiffened. “It's getting late.”

“
Au contraire,
mademoiselle, the night is as young as you are beautiful.”

She fought the panic as she pulled free of his arms. “Why don't you ask someone else to dance?”

Rejection flickered in his eyes, but he shrugged. “Okay.” He seated her, ran his hand along her shoulders, and left. Her tension eased as he found a willing partner. More than willing. The woman with the flaxen braids. Morgan talked, and the woman laughed. He whispered, and she leaned close. He held her heart in his hands in those few moments alone. He might not be dangerous in the typical sense, but there were many kinds of peril.

Noelle traced her finger around the edge of the cocktail napkin. An ice cube popped in her glass, and she studied the pale green cells of the lime. When she looked up, another woman hung on Morgan's arm, even before he released the first.

Rudy, from the general store, leaned over her table with a smile. “Want to dance?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but I'm leaving now.” She got up and went out into the night. After a week of traipsing up and down from the town to the ranch, she knew the way, but once past the glow of the old- fashioned street lamps, she was amazed by the density of the darkness.

She looked up. No moon. A shiver ran down her back. She glanced
over her shoulder at the Roaring Boar, still roaring, then sighed and started up the gravel road. By the crunch of gravel and the ridge of tufted grass, she knew the edge and kept inside it.

The darkness was almost tangible, giving the illusion of substance, and she stopped suddenly, reaching out to touch what appeared to be there. All her senses probed the darkness, but her hand slid through empty air. Nothing, only her mind playing tricks. She licked the dryness from her lips.

Suddenly from her left, a huge beast leapt onto the road before her, and she had just time to make out the shape of an elk before it bounded down the other side. Her heart pounded in her ears as she stood frozen. “Just an elk!” she gasped. “Just an elk. Morgan, I could shoot you!”

She thrust forward, anger replacing the fear. She climbed until she felt the grade cease, then, cresting the rise, saw the lights of the ranch below. Relief washed over her. She had made it back alone, once again proving her independence, and Morgan Spencer could roar all night at the Boar for all she cared.

She opened the door softly and stepped inside. The mellow golden light of a single lamp warmed her. Beside it, Rick sat on the hearth in the great room, head bent as he softly picked an acoustic guitar. He played, unaware of her presence, with a tender yet compelling mien, his fingers deft on the strings, urging the melody from wood and steel and singing softly.

So he
was
musical. She had only half believed Morgan. Rick's voice was deeper, and she was strangely moved, though she couldn't catch the words that sounded like
Selah, Selah . . .
It was more the mood of it. She tried to imagine Rick on the stage like Morgan and failed. There was something too . . . intimate, too private, in what he did. She felt like an intruder.

Looking up, he stopped, but there was no embarrassment. “Where's Morgan?”

“He wasn't ready to leave.” Rather than stand there looking as awkward as she felt, Noelle sat down on the couch across from him. “I thought you'd be sleeping.” He was definitely the early to bed, early to rise sort, and she'd hoped to sneak in with no one aware of her predicament.

“I wasn't sure you'd make it home in one piece.”

He'd waited up for her? She wasn't sure what to make of that.

“Did you walk back?”

“Yes.”

He frowned. “Morgan should know better than that.”

“He was occupied when I left.” She hooded her eyes to hide the annoyance. He probably would have seen her home, but she hadn't wanted to break up his fan club. “I didn't know you played.”

“I don't get it out much until winter.” He slipped the strap from his neck.

“It was beautiful—what you were playing.”

“Thanks.”

She wanted to ask him to play more but couldn't gather the courage. He shut the case and tucked the instrument into the closet. “Guess I'll call it a night.”

“What about Morgan?”

“He'll find his way. Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you.” Looking after him, she mused that he'd handled the guitar with the same strong gentleness as he did Destiny. He was an anomaly; on the one hand hard and immovable, on the other almost vulnerable.

She didn't wonder about his musical training. She recalled the professor's words to her. Rick was no trained animal. He tapped something deeper than notes on a page. He brought music from inside himself.

Why, then, did he do it all alone with no one to appreciate it? Or was that really such a mystery? Didn't she also perform her best when no human eyes were there to judge, no other ear to approve or disapprove? Wasn't there joy in the act itself?

A longing awakened in her, one she'd ignored these last weeks. It throbbed in her chest with each beat of her heart. Music was one thing she'd left behind with regret, one thing she missed. Looking around with a feeling of displacement, she sighed.

It didn't matter. All she needed was shelter and anonymity. The rest was trappings. She left the lamp on and went upstairs, closed and locked her door. Tension still knotted the tendons in the back of her neck, and she reached back and rubbed it out.

It wasn't just the trek through the dark and the fright from the elk. It was Morgan's arms around her as they danced and the brush of his fingers on her cheek. She pressed her eyes shut and clenched her hands. She had handled it. She was in control. But the shakes came anyway.

N
oelle entered the stable late the next morning. She had slept in for the first time since arriving at the ranch and felt a little groggy because of that. Rick had the string horses stabled and was grooming them. She leaned on the stall. “Is something happening?”

“I have a group coming up to ride.” He drew the rubber-toothed currycomb across the horse's hide with swift, gentle strokes, working the loose hair out and leaving its sides shining and sleek. “If you're wondering, Morgan made it in last night. Late.”

“At least my leaving didn't spoil his party.”

“Nothing spoils Morgan's party.”

She stepped into the stall and laced her fingers in the horse's mane. “You're not very much alike.”

He ran the brush down the wither and foreleg. “Nope.”

She stroked the mare's head as he curried. “There are similarities, though. Features, mannerisms, though you're more . . . purposeful.”

“Is that right.” Rick leaned an arm on the horse's back and eyed her.

“And you both have a certain sideways grin—see, there it is now.” She enjoyed his discomfiture as he dropped his head and worked a tangle from the mane.

“You're observant.”

“My art instructor had me sit for hours doing nothing but scrutinizing details. If I was painting a still life, he'd have me observe each
flower's center, feel the texture of the petals, note the rigidity in each stem. Then he'd seat me at a distance where none of those things could be seen. But I had internalized my subject, and he believed I could then capture it more fully on paper.”

“Could you?”

“With varying proficiency.”

He nodded. “You still learned something valuable.”

“What?”

“To see what's around you.”

It surprised her that he would consider that valuable. He seemed too practical to value observation for its own sake.

“I kept Aldebaran for you.” He hung the comb on the wall. “Should I saddle you up?”

“No thanks. I'm going to town this morning. Unless, of course—” she gave him her most entreating smile—“you want to saddle Destiny for me.”

“Nice try.” He smiled back, flashing white teeth, even except for one lower tooth that crowded forward. There was nothing smug in the smile, only unrelenting stubbornness—and a dose of amusement.

She shook her head and went out. Pausing at the stable door, she glanced back over her shoulder and found him still watching. He wasn't ogling, just watching with that look she didn't understand.

In the house, she lifted the stack of watercolors she had selected as her best. The case was still in Morgan's trunk, so she carried them loose to town. The tourist section displayed T-shirts, bumper stickers, and ceramic curios; some, as Morgan had aptly described, so crass or tacky they made her cringe. The best sported mountains, pine trees, aspen leaves, and the fragile purple columbines with gold-lettered
COLORADO
to differentiate them from other states' knickknacks.

Then she approached the fine arts gallery she had seen when searching out rental possibilities. The door stood open. Paintings displayed on walls and easels surrounded sculptures and pottery that showed some promise and imagination. Would her watercolors join their ranks? Noelle drew a deep breath and went in. “Ms. Walker?”

The woman stood up from behind the counter and tugged her fuchsia blouse down over her ample belly. It was probably a rayon blend, but she'd produced enough static to make it cling. Her sandals squeaked as she walked around.

Ms. Walker was a far cry from the stately gallery owners to which
she was accustomed, but Noelle hid her thoughts. Too much rested on this contact. “I'm Noelle St. Claire. I've brought the paintings we discussed.”

“Let's have a look.” Ms. Walker tongued her gum between her side teeth and cheek.

Noelle set her work on the counter. She'd had her talent acclaimed by friends, fellow students, and instructors, and she had the professor's opinion. But she'd never had it appraised for sale, never needed a commercial value assigned to her art. Now so much hung on this . . . eccentric woman's opinion.

Ms. Walker raised the bifocals that hung by a tropical-print cord around her neck. One by one, she scrutinized the paintings. “Hmm. I like your use of color and light. You do catch the mood.”

Noelle's hope piqued. She knew what original watercolors cost. She'd purchased some that inspired experimentation and improvement of her own style. But that was before she'd ever considered making a living by it. And those were New York galleries.

“I'll tell you what, I'll frame these six, and we'll see how they do. It's a fifty-fifty split minus the cost of the frame.”

Fifty-fifty seemed low, but she nodded. It was a starting point, to see if she actually could support herself with her art. The town population would not be a sufficient customer base, but the continuous influx of shoppers—bus people, as Morgan called them—were her hope.

She signed the consignment agreement, then walked out of the shop and looked down the quaint main street with a sense of partnership. She was represented now among the ranks of residents and businesses. One more step toward independence. With her steps lightened, she fairly ran up the road.

When she reached the top of the rise over the ranch, Noelle threw her arms up and laughed. If these paintings sold, it would be the first independently profitable thing she had ever done—monetarily, at least. And the cash she still kept secreted in her makeup bag no longer limited her.

For the first time, she thought past that day, past tomorrow. She felt certain the paintings would sell, certain her efforts would be rewarded. She scanned the mountains around her. Could she make a life for herself away from what she'd known before? She had been thinking in temporary terms; now she could make it permanent. The ranch as her home? Why not?

She strode swiftly toward the ranch. There were things she needed if this was to be home, more clothing certainly. It was laughable how she'd managed with what she'd brought. And there must be better art stores in Denver. She had the skill, and now she had the outlet. If she meant to take it seriously, pursue art as a profession, better brushes, paint, and paper would make a difference.

She stopped outside the house and looked up at its solid log walls, the porch like arms crossed around its heart. Yes. As her paintings sold, she would renew her cash and make a life for herself. When one of the cabins became available, it could be her own place. She walked inside, heady with anticipated success. All she needed now was transportation. She started upstairs, then heard Marta scolding in the kitchen and went that way instead.

Hunched over his coffee at the kitchen table, Morgan groaned. “Leave off, Marta. I feel bad enough as it is.”

It seemed Bacchus and Diana were having their revenge. Recalling her fright last night, Noelle tried not to gloat. She needed a favor, and Morgan was her best bet, though she wasn't sure yet whether guilt or charm would serve her better.

As she stood undecided, he reached up and took her hand. “A thousand apologies for not seeing you home.”

Guilt, then. “It'll take a thousand after the fright that elk gave me in the dark.”

He winced. “Sorry.”

“However, I'm feeling magnanimous.”

“You are?” He glanced up.

“Celebratory, actually. Ms. Walker accepted my work on consignment.” She removed her hand from his grip.

Rick walked in behind her. “What work is that?”

Noelle turned. “Paintings.”

Rick headed for the sink, ran his hands under the water. “Marta, where's that lemonade you promised?”

“In the refrigerator.”

He toweled his hands. “Ms. Walker doesn't have the best reputation, Noelle. You sure you want to do business with her?”

“It's the only fine arts gallery in town.”

“So what if she's a charlatan.” Morgan rubbed his temple. “More unholy alliances have proved fruitful.”

“Exactly.” Noelle smiled and watched it penetrate his fog. She had him right where she needed him. “And I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything.” He again captured her hand.

“I want to borrow your car.”

“Anything but that.”

She sat down on the bench beside him. “Morgan, I need to shop. Some real stores.”

“Real stores.”

“In Denver, I assume. I need clothes and art supplies.” She glanced at Rick. Maybe she should have tried for his truck.

Morgan toyed with her hand. “Well, I owe you one. I'll drive you down.”

That wasn't what she'd planned. “If I could just borrow—”

“I love you, baby, but you can't take my car.” Morgan released his grip and pressed a palm to his forehead. “Just give me a chance to kill this headache.”

Noelle wasn't at all sure she wanted to get back into the car with Morgan—certainly not spend the day with him. The helplessness of her situation crashed in again. She was no freer than she'd been. But that would change. She would change it. Somehow.

Rick leaned against the counter with his glass of lemonade. “Don't make her walk home this time.”

Morgan scowled. “I don't need a lecture from you.”

“You might do well to listen to your
younger
brother.” Marta snatched his mug and swiped a cloth over the table. “If you had half his sense and twice your conscience—”

Morgan suddenly stood and took Noelle by the arm. “Let's get out of here.”

But she stopped at the stairs. “Just a minute.” Though she had credit cards in her wallet, she would not use them. She ran up, took money from the floral bag, and went back down. He ushered her out the door, and she resolutely climbed into the Corvette, understanding his reluctance to lend the vehicle. She never had driven winding mountain roads, had actually driven her own car very infrequently. The limo had been more convenient.

“John, I'll need the car brought around at two. Sheila, see that my dress is pressed by four. Daddy, I'll have dinner in the library.”
She cringed. That wasn't life. It was some sort of fairy tale. Daddy had built a tower and
put her in it. Only he'd given the key to . . . Noelle pressed her eyes shut and drew a long breath.

“You okay?” Morgan reached across and fastened her seat belt.

“Yes.” Whatever she encountered in this world could hardly be worse than the nightmare flashes of whatever happened before. But that was over now. She had both the means and the will to adapt and make this life her own. No more fear, though Morgan's driving kept her on the edge. She didn't know whether his head had stopped throbbing, but it was certainly clear enough to drive with intensity. He seemed relaxed and confident, but she was used to their chauffer. Morgan downshifted for the grade but slowed very little. Well, she had asked for it.

He said, “Let's see a little of the city.”

Classic Morgan. But it wouldn't hurt to expand her knowledge. If Denver was the nearest major city, she ought to know it a little at least. “All right.”

They drove an hour and a half down, toured the city, walked through downtown, shopped some stores and boutiques, and had lunch. Though nice enough, Denver was hardly awe-inspiring.

As though he'd read her mind, Morgan said, “It's not the Big Apple.”

She didn't want it to be. That was the old life. This was new, different. She was too. “It has its own character.”

“Every city does, I guess.”

They located an art store, and though they were not cheap, she bought a substantial supply of quality materials, unsure when she would get down there again. Then he drove her to a mall and parked in a far space of the covered lot, where he no doubt hoped to avoid dings on his doors. She had rarely shopped in malls, preferring boutiques and catalogues and even more exclusive shops that created one-of-a-kind designs.

But she wasn't buying that sort of clothes, and it was heady to think of shopping from a rack, ordinary clothes for ordinary people. It took some getting used to. But four hours later, she handed Morgan another bag and started for the next store.

He caught her arm. “Noelle, you look gorgeous in everything you've bought”—which wasn't so much considering everything she'd tried—“but I've paid my debt.”

She had hardly thought about him, except when she'd pirouetted
in the triple mirrors and caught his appreciative looks. She hadn't intended to torture him, but he was obviously exasperated, something one of her chaperones would never have shown. But then, Morgan wasn't in Daddy's employ.

He spread his hands. “What is it with women and shopping? How can changing clothes three thousand times in four hours put such a shine in your eyes?”

She smiled. Maybe now they were even. “I just want to look—”

“No.” He took her hand. “Why don't we have dinner and catch a movie.”

She tensed at the earnest look in his eyes, the touch of his hand. A shard of panic shot through her and must have shown.

Morgan tucked his chin. “Look, I'm sorry I came on to you last night. You are a little piece of perfect, but it won't happen again. Let's just make a night of it and enjoy ourselves.”

She'd gotten what she needed; now he was exacting payment. But she owed him nothing. She pulled her hand away. “I think we parked on the west side. We should get up the mountain before dark.” Especially if his night driving was as intense as the rest.

“Before dark? You turn into a pumpkin?” He cocked his head.

She started walking.

He caught up and hooked an arm over her shoulders. “Come on, Noelle. I deserve something for all this.”

She shrugged him off.

“Dinner and a show.”

“No thanks.” She quickened her step.