A Rush of Wings (10 page)

Morgan released her.

The expulsion of her breath hurt, and she sucked the new air into her lungs. “I want to go.”

“Where?”

Someplace safe, safe from the shadow of the hawk
. “Back. I want to go back to the ranch.”

He stood a long minute, trying to reach her, trying to find what he thought he saw. The real Noelle? Then he sighed and shook his head. He waved his arm down the trail. “After you.”

She didn't care that she hadn't painted a stroke, that she'd climbed all that way with nothing to show for it. She started down the steep trail. The panic attacks were worsening, and she didn't know what caused them or how to stop them. Her foot slipped on loose gravel and she slid.

Morgan gripped her elbow. “It won't help to break your neck. I promise not to eat you, even if I am the big bad wolf.”

It wasn't Morgan. She knew that. But things he did, things he said, caused her panic. Why? Because he was trying to break through? She shuddered, slipped again, and reached out instinctively for his arm. It was crazy to reach for and run from him at once.

“Wait a minute.” He helped her down the steep bend, then seated her on a tumble of huge, smooth boulders. “Calm down. Relax. Breathe.”

He was right. It was ridiculous. But she couldn't control her emotions. Thoughts pulsed in her mind. Images. Wings. He waited silently, no doubt thinking her insane. She pressed her fingertips to her forehead and closed her eyes.

“Here.” He handed her a chocolate chip granola bar. “It'll get your blood sugar up.”

“Thanks.” She took it, trying for normalcy, and ate it in silence. It seemed to help, but maybe it was just the panic passing. She should explain, but how could she when she didn't understand it herself?

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.” She steadied her breath, stilling the inner trembling. She wanted to be strong. Had to be. She knew that much, in the same way she'd known to run. Instinct.

Morgan handed her a fresh Evian. She drank without speaking, then handed the empty bottle back.

“Turn.” He nudged her shoulders until she faced away from him,
then with slow strokes rubbed the stress from her neck. The muscles relaxed in spite of her. “You okay?”

“Yes.” But she wasn't. And they both knew it. She stood up and walked at a normal pace, forcing herself not to hurry. At the car, he paused before letting her in, his hand resting on the small of her back, but his touch was no longer menacing. Morgan wouldn't hurt her. Would he?

The drive was silent. Maybe now he would believe she was not in his life for any reason at all. But his words troubled her as she went up to her room and sat alone. Who was the real Noelle? What did Morgan hope to see? The person she had been? The helpless, pleasing, dutiful person others ruled? She had left her behind as a snake sheds its skin, leaves it lying useless in the sand. But who was she now? Maybe she was nothing, a speck of insignificance in a universe whirling out of control.

Morgan thought there was more inside her. And there was: hurt and fear and a rage that would wash him away—and underneath all that, the reason. One she couldn't face. Fine. She didn't have to. She had run once, she could do it again. But she felt a painful reluctance. Why? She had no roots here. Her roots had been sheared, and maybe they'd never grow again.

As she sat on the bed, her abdomen cramped. She hurried to the bathroom and saw the evidence of her monthly flow. With a hard expelled breath, she dug a tampon from her toiletries. No wonder she'd been so weak and fatigued; hormones, most likely, had caused her emotional overload, though she'd never had such an extreme shift.

Sudden volatile trembling assailed her as she staggered from the bathroom and collapsed onto the bed. She wrapped herself in her arms and drew up her knees to her chest. She made no sound but the quick rasping of her breath. Why did she feel such tremendous relief?

M
ichael put on his hand-tailored gray suit coat over the crisp, white shirt and strode out of his office. The lights still showed under William St. Claire's door, but he didn't head that way. He'd accomplished all he could on that front. He'd been brilliant, made Ilse Blandon so sympathetic a witness the jury had fairly cheered. And he'd done it without compromise, William's way.

Not that he would have lost sleep over a less ethical tactic, but the challenge was greater, the success sweeter. And the court had adjourned before cross-examination. The jury would sleep on his presentation. All good. He went out of the office and took the elevator down. Even at six o'clock it was damp and sweltering.

Leaving the air-conditioning was like entering a sauna, but the smell of the city was no cedar steam. He hailed a cab and snapped directions to the driver, his elation rapidly dissipating. They inched along, but Michael was in no hurry to arrive. He forced this trip on himself at disgustingly regular intervals, but he would just as soon never reach his destination.

He flipped open his laptop, inserted a disk, and paid no further attention to the traffic until the driver hung his head back. “Here we are.”

Michael peered up at the decent, brown brick apartment building. He paid the driver and went inside. The elevator was sluggish as usual, rising up to the thirteenth floor. Of course, it didn't say thirteen on the
elevator. The buttons discreetly jumped from twelve to fourteen, but he had pointed out how ludicrous that was when everyone knew the next floor up from twelve was thirteen. He smugly remembered his mother's consternation at that. One more superstition, one more excuse.

The poodle-shaped sign on the door read
Frieda
in tiny black paw prints. He let himself in. His mother sat in the center of a white, circular sectional. One hand cradled a mixed drink, the other the latest
Enquirer
. She glanced up and spread her lips into a wide, wet smile. “Michael . . .” She patted the couch beside her.

“Hello, Mother.” He eyed the dog hair matting its surface and remained standing. But he kissed her when she craned her neck up. “Where is the yapping mongrel?”

Her face pinched. “I called you seventeen times last week. Ruby had a seizure, a series of them.” Her eyes teared up. “A brain tumor. I had to put her down. The doctor said it wasn't treatable.” Her hand trembled when she drank.

“Good riddance.” Michael pulled one side of his mouth up.

“You're a dreadful son! I know you got my messages. I sent every one through your highfalutin voice mail, and you never called.”

“But I'm here now.”

“Pour me another drink.”

He took the glass and filled it with bourbon, then added a splash of coke to feed her delusion. He handed it back. “Have you heard from Jan lately?”

Her lips shriveled. “Of course not. You only ask to torment me. You know she never calls, never. Never comes to see me, never writes. She pretends she has no mother, that I'm dead or worse. I might even be dead, and she'd never know, never care.”

Michael waited until she finished. “Well, then, have you heard from Noelle?”

She sagged into the couch. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

Her eyes shot up to his. “Of course I'm sure. Do you think I'm senile?”

At the rate she was killing brain cells, it was a distinct possibility. His non-answer annoyed her most of all.

“Why do you come? Do you enjoy causing me pain?”

“I want to know if you hear from her.”

Her gaze became piercingly clear. “Why?”

“She's gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“Vanished.”

She fluttered a hand to her chest. “Abducted?”

“No. She left.”

“She left you?”

“Yes.” His voice was brittle. “Hard to believe, isn't it, Mother?”

“You drove her away,” she whimpered. “The one person who would have loved me, who would have been a daughter—”

“Don't fool yourself. She pitied you, nothing more.”

“Beast. Bas—”

“Go ahead and say it. Who did sire me, anyway?”

She turned away, drowning her upper lip in bourbon. She was well on her way tonight. One more, maybe two, before she passed out.

Michael's lip raised in disgust. “I never can remember which affair it was that resulted in Janet, either. Poor Dad. But then, you never had much use for him. At least he had the sense to die. I shudder to think, though, what would become of you if I didn't foot the bills.”

She reached for his hand. “Oh, Michael, don't torment me. Sit down here beside me.”

With a grimace, he lowered himself to the couch.

She stroked his hand. “What would I do without you? You're the only one who cares, the only one who ever did.”

“I hate to disillusion you, Mother, but I don't care. Caring went by the wayside long ago, thrown into a heap with love and trust . . . the nice intangibles that people think they can't live without. But I assure you it is quite possible. Other things take their place: power, greed, avarice . . .”

“Don't talk that way. You only do it to frighten me.”

He laughed bitterly. “It's the truth. A good dose of your blood runs in my veins, Mother, drowning out whoever's genes formed the rest of my DNA. Except for the pathetic crutch of alcohol, I'm quite similar to you.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and hung. “Don't do this to me.” Her mascara ran down one cheek in a blackish streak.

“Have I upset you? There, now.” He reached for a tissue. “Blow your nose and have a swipe at your face. You should know not to listen to me. I stopped listening to you years ago.” He waited while she blew her nose, then stood and refilled her glass. “Better?”

She nodded.

“Then I'll be on my way.”

“I'm going to buy a new dog.” The ice cracked in her glass.

He draped his suit coat over his arm. “How nice.”

“Don't you want to know what kind?”

“No.”

She waved her glass. “I may want you to help me choose.”

He reached for the door. “Leave me a message.”

Another cab took Michael home. He went directly to the bedroom and hung his coat. He removed his tie and looped it over the rack, then eyed his posterior for dog hair. It appeared most had remained on the couch. He opened his top shirt button as he went to the kitchen and checked his phone messages.

“Michael, it's Janet; please call.”

He frowned, listened through the next ones, skipped several after a word or two, then called her. “Hello, Jan. What's up?”

“Oh, Michael. Did you work late?”

“I went to see Mom.” His eyes traveled the edge of the black ceramic counter to the black-and-silver wash guard behind the kitchen sink. He wiped a fingerprint from the edge with the cloth that hung on the chrome bar.

“How is she?” Jan's voice was small.

“It's all right, Jan. You don't have to pretend with me. What did you need?”

She cleared her throat. “I hate to ask again, but . . .”

“Just say it.”

“My dump of a car. Now it's the carburetor. They said it could be over a thousand dollars before they're done.”

He sighed. “Dump it, Jan. You can't afford to park it anyway.”

“I have to have my wheels. Michael, I . . .”

“All right. Send me the bill.” He'd resurrect the decayed machine yet again. At least she didn't have to worry about it being plundered and stripped, which was the main reason he didn't replace it. The worst she faced was having it towed as abandoned scrap. A new car would make Jan a target in the neighborhood she called home.

“Thanks a bunch.”

Her gratitude was automatic and expected, as were his services. He smiled grimly. But after all, it was Jan, and whom else did she have?
Who else had there ever been for her? He lowered the phone, but she spoke again.

“Michael . . .”

“What's that?” He returned the receiver to his ear.

“I heard Noelle is missing.”

Where? How did she hear?
“I don't know that missing is correct. She knows where she is.”

“What happened?”

He leaned against the chrome barstool and stared across the room at the silver-framed oil painting. The hawk stared back. “I'm not really sure.” He shook his head. “No, that's not right. I know why she left but not why things happened as they did.”

“You must feel awful.”

He laughed dryly. “It rivals anything we knew before.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah.”

She sniffed. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know.”

“Michael?” Her voice was plaintive and he knew what was coming. “Should I go to see Mother?”

“No.” He twisted on the stool to look at the small photograph of his sister that sat on the corner of his kitchen counter: elfin features, a scrawny frame draped in a black miniskirt and knee-high vinyl boots. “She'd swallow you whole.”

“Thanks.” She sounded like a child running off to the candy store. He'd absolved her once again.

Michael hung up the phone and pinched the flesh between his eyebrows. He'd pay Jan's bill when it came. He didn't send her money; never sent her money. Just paid the bills when she requested. He rubbed the back of his neck. Except for their blond hair, he bore little physical resemblance to Jan. More so to his mother, unfortunately.

His hand started to shake. He cursed his mother aloud. She had tainted him. Somehow she had tainted him. Why else would he have failed so badly with Noelle? The aching seized him. Where was she?

He dialed Sebastian. “Anything?”

“And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” The creak of Sebastian's chair was audible over the phone.

“Don't play games with me. Have you found Noelle?”

“Well, I would have, but the most I can tell you is she withdrew
two thousand dollars from her bank account. She's using cash, man. That makes my job a little harder.”

“Why would she use cash?”

“Hello. So guys like me can't tell guys like you where she is.”

Michael frowned. Noelle had thought that out? He knew she wasn't stupid, but her education hadn't exactly included eluding people. What instinct was she operating on?

“Keep trying. Cash runs out.” Even if she earned a paycheck—which he couldn't imagine her doing—she'd need a bank account to cash it. No way would Noelle think to use a pawnshop or anything of that sort. Sooner or later she'd revert to what she knew. Then he'd have her.

———

Noelle sat with her portfolio open across her knees. Outside, the night was deep, but the main room was warmly lit. In the golden glow, she studied her paintings, one by one, deciding which to bring Ms. Walker next. She eyed them critically, preferring to reject them herself rather than see them passed over by Ms. Walker's demanding eye.

Perched on the edge of the hearth, Rick rubbed his saddle with soap. She breathed the nostalgic smell and remembered days spent in stables when she was as gangly as the thoroughbreds she rode—her most carefree days.

Morgan hadn't mentioned her attack on the mountain. Instead he'd been purposely non-confrontational, spending the last couple of days with the other guests, especially two young women from Dallas whose
Thy-ank you
s expressed how grateful they were for his attention. Both nights he'd stayed out late in the town and dragged painfully out of bed the next morning—but not this evening.

Marta had retired to her room, and Noelle was alone with the two brothers she was beginning to trust. It wasn't so unusual, considering her male-dominated life. Most of her life she'd been surrounded by Daddy's friends. The turbulence inside her just days ago had eased. She felt almost peaceful, even though she was still miles away from all she'd known and whatever she'd fled.

She didn't want to think back or forward. For now it was enough to take each day as it came. As Morgan said, live in the moment. Maybe he had it right after all. She glanced at him, recalling her first impression. He no longer looked out of place. He belonged, and, in spite of
the strain between them, so did she. Yes, she belonged in this place, with these two dissimilar men, with Marta, with the ever-changing flux of families and individuals who came to stay, then moved on.

Rick turned the saddle across his knee. “So when are you leaving?”

Noelle startled, but he wasn't asking her.

Morgan rested his arms along the back of the beige couch. “I fly out in the morning.”

Morgan was leaving? She stared from one to the other. “Fly out where?”

He uncrossed his ankles and sat forward. “Chicago. I have an interesting prospect.”

A prospect? Is that what he'd been doing all day closed inside Rick's office? “You mean you're getting a job?” From the edge of her eye, she caught Rick's smirk and realized how she'd sounded.

Morgan frowned. “Work isn't a foreign concept to me, Noelle.”

“I didn't mean that. It's just . . . sudden.” She closed the portfolio. She hadn't spoken to Morgan alone since their hike. Even if she had, what could she tell him? And what would it change?

“Sudden? This is the longest I've ever stayed.” He stood up and stretched. “But I seem to have exhausted my possibilities here.”

“So you're just leaving?”

His smile twisted. “I'm touched, Noelle. I'll imagine you missing me.” He blew her a kiss and started up the stairs.

Imagine her missing him? Why should she? But as she watched him climb, she wondered. Like the professor, he'd made his mark—even more so. But now she realized she didn't know Morgan at all. What kind of job was he trying for?