A Rush of Wings (26 page)

“Ignorance is bliss.” Rick's eyes were on his menu.

He didn't fool her. His remark sounded callous, but she knew he'd never hurt or condone the mistreatment of any animal. Why did he hide his sensitivity? Was that his weak spot? At least in his opinion?

The waiter returned and Noelle ordered. “Scallops in lemon angel hair.”

The waiter noted it. “Salad?”

“Endive with balsamic vinaigrette.”

“Soup?”

“Minestrone.”

Rick ordered steak skillet fried with mushrooms and Kalamata olives. He hadn't ordered for her, hadn't even suggested anything. But when the waiter left, he said, “Fishy marshmallows, hmm?”

“What?”

“Scallops.”

She smiled. “Only if they're not fresh.”

“This is the finest restaurant in town, but we're not exactly on the coast.”

She frowned. He was right about scallops. If they weren't done right, they'd be awful. And no, they weren't on the coast. But when their bowls of spicy minestrone arrived, she breathed the piquant steam with pleasure. She could tell a true minestrone from the steam alone. That boded well for the scallops. She lifted her spoon, but Rick caught her fingers and bowed his head.

“ ‘Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being, praise his holy name.' Thank you for your providence. Amen.”

She glanced around as he blessed their food. Even in public he wouldn't forego it. “You're the only person I've seen pray.”

“In this room or ever?”

She had meant in the room, but if he wanted to include the rest of her life, he could lump that in too. “Why do you do it?”

“Everything I have is God's gift. I'd be nothing without His grace. It's only right to say thanks.”

“Everything you have you've built with your own hands. You raise the horses—”

“He created them.” He took a spoonful of soup.

“That's so archaic.”

He dipped his spoon again. “How do you know?” His eyes came up, serious and challenging. “How do you know that my beliefs are wrong, outdated, stupid?”

She'd never said that, but it could have sounded that way.

“Have you studied Christianity?” He rested his spoon in the bowl.

She clasped her napkin in her lap. “It's all through history. The Inquisition, the Salem witch trials . . .”

“How about Christ? Studied Him?” Rick's voice stayed low, but his eyes deepened.

“No.” She met his gaze with her own. She was not about to search
out the power she'd glimpsed on his worn pages.
“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. . . .”

“Are you afraid you'll learn something you'll have to believe?”

“I don't
have
to believe anything. And I'm not afraid.” But it had terrified her to sense something bigger, more powerful than anything human. It was ludicrous. Some trick of the mind, a Jungian bogeyman from a collective unconscious . . . The image flashed into her mind. A red-robed figure with sword and wings, giant swooping wings and light blazing through its face . . . Someone grabbing her from behind, someone so big she was swept off her feet and carried, a hand clamped over her mouth. Her lungs seized as though the hand even now stifled her breath.

Rick's face changed. He reached across and took her hand. “I'm sorry.” He apologized more than anyone she'd ever known. But she couldn't answer.

“Noelle?”

She fought the panic. Why now? He closed her hand in both of his, and it was like a rope she clung to. She couldn't be carried away while he held on. The shakes started. She wanted to run, but if she let go she'd be lost. Her head pounded. Was she losing her mind?

“Please forgive me.” Rick's voice was so gentle it hurt.

“It's not you.” Bright, colorful light and someone grabbing from behind . . .

“What, then?” He couldn't understand. How could he?

She shook her head. “I don't know.” Tears stung her eyes. “I feel like I should remember, that there's something there, but . . . it can't be real. It's not part of the other—I'm almost sure. It's deeper, more vague. Maybe it's a dream, maybe . . .”

The waiter came with their salads, but Rick didn't let go. Their server sensed enough to leave the plates and go without asking if they were finished with the soup they'd hardly touched. The terror passed and the image faded.

Noelle's breath eased. She looked at her hand in Rick's and, sighing, pressed his fingers. “It's gone.” She slipped her hand out and pushed aside the minestrone that had been so promising.

He nudged it back. “Try it.”

She looked up into his face. She'd lost her appetite, but he wanted her to try. She dipped her spoon and tasted it. The flavor was rich and spicy, though it had cooled to lukewarm. Her mouth responded and
her stomach. She was hungry after all. They ate their soup in silence. Then she reached for her salad.

Rick glanced up. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Want to talk about it?” He wasn't pushing, just offering.

She took a bite. “This salad is good. They used an aged vinegar.”

He reached for his own, but she could see food wasn't first in his mind.

She handed him the glass ramekin of crumbled bleu cheese. “It's better with a little of that.”

He took it. “I don't like bleu cheese.”

“It's an acquired taste. That's what Daddy always said. I guess I acquired it.”

“Noelle . . .”

“Have you been here before?” She speared a fringed leaf.

“Twice.”

“With a date?” She took the bite.

He drew a slow breath. “I took my mother for Mother's Day, and Therese for her birthday.”

“Haven't you ever dated?” She wanted him to say yes, to ease the pressure that was building inside.

“Not like this.”

What did he mean? She speared another bite compulsively.

He said, “I don't think it's fair to set up emotional attachments unless there's a possibility of permanence.”

Her fork squeaked on the plate like fingernails on a chalkboard. Permanence.

He said, “I haven't dated because I haven't met someone I thought I could spend my life with.”

She stared at her plate, glistening with speckled oil and fragments of endive. She waited, but no trembling began.

Rick watched Noelle squirm. He finished his salad and pushed his plate aside. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I'm not.”

He half smiled. “I don't have Morgan's flexibility with the truth.”

“I don't want you to.”

The waiter brought their entrées, and Rick eyed Noelle's scallops dubiously. He'd take his steak any day.

The waiter smoothed the cloth across his arm. “Anything else I can bring you?”

They shook their heads and thanked him. Rick cut into his steak, then glanced up as Noelle tried a scallop.

She chewed it slowly, then smiled. “They must fly them in fresh.”

He should not have bought the dress. In it—across from him with that smile—she made his heart rush. He was falling in love. There were no other words for it.

“Would you like one?” She held up a creamy scallop.

He took his bite of steak. “No thanks.”

“Chicken?”

“Chicken I would do, but round, squashy fish?” He shook his head.

“This is a night of firsts.” Her eyes actually teased.

He laid down his fork. It was a first to be there with her, to have said the things he said. To have meant them. He passed her his side plate, and she laid the scallop in its center, then passed it back. He nudged the scallop with his fork.

“It's dead.” She almost giggled.

He speared it and brought it to his mouth. The aroma stopped him, but he made a second pass and got it in. He chewed, swallowed, and took a drink of lemon water from his stemware.

“Well?”

He looked into her green eyes. “Edible. Just.”

She smiled down at her plate. “It's an acquired taste.”

“Ever tried Rocky Mountain oysters?”

She raised her brows. “How can you have oysters from the mountains?”

“They're not exactly seafood.”

She twisted a noodle around her fork. “I don't want to know.”

“It's an acquired taste.”

She laughed. Their eyes met and held. He remembered the day they'd been caught in the rain. He should have known then. Maybe he did.

Now he wondered how he'd had her under his roof and not marveled at her slender fingers. He watched her dab her mouth with the linen napkin and noted her soft, pink lips. Long curving lashes veiled her eyes when she glanced down, but when he caught the full thrust of their focus, they were mesmerizing.

She daintily savored each bite as he made quick work of his steak
and fettuccine. She was as graceful as a swan, fragile as a snowflake, and sitting across from her Rick felt such a powerful need to protect that it crushed out all other senses. Whatever had frightened her before seemed to have passed, but he'd felt her trembling, had seen the panic. He would do anything to keep her safe.

“May I present our dessert tray?” The waiter hovered once again beside the table.

Rick raised his brows, but Noelle shook her head. He said, “Just the check, thanks.”

He rested his fingertips on the small of her back as they walked out. The dress was soft, but he could feel the bones of her spine through it. Too thin still. But he couldn't afford Antonio's every night. Mom's cooking would have to do.

He parked Therese's car beside his mother's Taurus station wagon. The thin covering of snow crunched beneath his loafers as he walked around for Noelle.
Loafers
. How far would he go? He helped her out of the car and walked her to the door, then stopped her.

She sparkled in the porch light like the fairy princess she was. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

He leaned his palm on the wall beside the doorjamb and thought about kissing her. “First date should be special.” He hadn't waited all these years to do it poorly.

A strand of hair slipped across her shoulder and she caught it back with her fingers. “It was special.”

His heart raced. “I'd really like to kiss you good-night.” If she shied at all he'd back off.

She said, “Well, then I'd have an answer for Tara.”

“What?”

She gave him an impish smile. “She wants to know if her big brother is a good kisser.”

“Oh, great.” He pushed off the wall and tried to hook his thumbs in his belt, but the suit coat got in the way. He raised his hands and dropped them at his sides. “And I'm supposed to kiss you after that?”

She started to laugh, and he pulled her into his arms, tipping her back. “Here's what you tell Tara.” He pecked her lips. “And here's what you keep to yourself.” He kissed her deeply. He couldn't help it.

Noelle kissed him with surprising joy. She felt closer to him than she had since the night she told him about Michael. But, then, he'd
kissed her that night too. This time was different, but even now he was not coming on to her, he was sharing himself.

They parted, but he rested his wrists on her shoulders, fingers locked behind her neck. He seemed reluctant to let go, and she almost hoped he wouldn't. But he reached behind her and opened the door. The house was quiet, and he flicked on the light to hang the gray woolen wrap Therese had loaned her. He slipped it from her shoulders and hung it in the closet. Then without warning, he kissed her again, turning out the light with his elbow. He pulled her tightly to his chest and whispered hoarsely, “Good night.”

“Good night,” she whispered back, but he didn't let her go. They stood a long time holding each other, not moving, not speaking. Then he let go. She made her way down the hall, slipped into Therese's room, and undressed in the dark. She felt for a hanger and hung the dress on the rack, then stroked her fingers over it once more.

Rick had chosen it; Rick had bought it, wanted her to wear it. And he had liked her in it. It had shown in his face all through the evening. She thought of Morgan asking her to wear the wine-colored dress, to lose the blouse that hid its revealing cut, of Michael choosing svelte and expensive gowns made especially to show her off.

Now Rick. Was she a fool? Then she felt his arms again, holding her, just holding her. He gave more than he asked. She slipped into her bed.

———

Noelle screamed, but no sound came. Her heart raced faster than any human heart as she cowered beneath Michael, hovering on wings with the talons of a hawk. She saw every detailed feather, the rings of scaly skin ending in deadly claws. The golden eyes broke her will, claimed her spirit. He screeched and dived, and she threw her arms over her head.

Suddenly Rick was there, standing over her, eyes filled with wrath. Michael's talons tore into his flesh, laying bare the bone of his shoulders. She screamed again, then wrenched her mind to consciousness and opened her eyes to the darkness.

She gripped the bedcovers against her throbbing heart. And she remembered—the picture on his wall, the picture of the hawk. She had stared at it, transfixed, dissociating, the hawk coming in for the kill less terrible than Michael's attack. But this time Rick had been
there, standing above her as he had when he guarded her from Destiny's hooves.

She stared into the darkness, forcing away the memory of his torn flesh, his bare bone. He had taken the attack in her place. And now the shakes began. She lay down, but she knew sleep wouldn't come.

W
ith the aroma of roasting potatoes wafting into the living room from the kitchen, Noelle sat sketching Tara curled like a kitten on the couch, reading. The older daughters were helping their mother, but Celia didn't want Noelle in the kitchen. She'd offered early on and been politely refused.

So she took the opportunity to sketch Tara for her Christmas portrait. Not only did it save her from showing her culinary ineptitude, but also it gave her a chance to be still and quiet. She had told Rick she was healed, but though the antibiotic had cured the pneumonia, she still wasn't strong. The dreams and lack of sleep didn't help.

Noelle looked from the sketch to Tara. The child was a good study, her blossoming beauty, her energy, even contained as it was at this moment. She was a little spoiled, and it showed around the mouth, but she had an exuberance that was hard to resist. It was rare to find her so quiet, and that was another reason Noelle seized the moment.

But at the squeak of tires on the snow outside, Tara sprang up catlike to her feet. She pushed her face to the window, fingertips resting on the sill. “It's Morgan!” She rushed to the kitchen. “Mom, Morgan's here!”

Morgan
. As if things weren't crazy enough. Noelle went to the window. Now she'd see him with his family, see them all together. And the energy would rise. It had to if Morgan were there. She felt tired
just thinking of it, but Tara urged, “Come on, Noelle,” and tugged her along with the rest of them through the door.

Noelle hung back on the porch as Morgan climbed out of a white Lincoln with rental plates, looking as roguishly handsome as ever. She smiled when his surprised eyes met hers over the heads of his swarming sisters. He hugged each one but squeezed Tara until she squealed. Then, as Noelle tensed, he came to her with rakish purpose. “Hello, gorgeous.”

She started to answer, but he pulled her into his arms and bent to kiss her. She barely turned her face, and his lips brushed the corner of her mouth and cheek. Her heart hammered, then she felt Rick beside her, his hand on her back. Morgan looked from her to Rick and their eyes locked. Then he turned away and greeted his parents.

Celia had missed none of it, and Noelle sensed her protective anger. She kissed Morgan's cheek and held him a moment longer than she might. “Oh, it's so good to have you.”

Morgan shook Hank's hand. His father pulled him into a hug and patted his back. “Hello, son.”

Rick spoke in Noelle's ear. “It's cold. Come inside.”

But she knew it wasn't the cold he avoided. She went with him, aware, even as she turned, of Morgan's gaze.

“Don't worry about it,” Rick said as soon as they were inside the door.

But she looked up into his face and saw his own discomfort. She said, “I didn't know he was coming.”

“He doesn't—”

The door pushed open and the family crowded in. Noelle stepped aside, her back pressed against Rick's chest. She might have found comfort in that if Morgan hadn't noticed. She didn't want this. Too much had happened. Too much had changed. Morgan was another life, another Noelle. She was healing now. Couldn't he see?

Celia clicked her tongue. “Don't you ever tell us you're coming? Some things never change.” But she patted his chest. “Oh, Morgan, you look fine.”

Noelle was amazed by the display. After what Rick had told her, she had imagined Morgan the black sheep. But in the eyes of each person she watched, he now seemed the returning hero. Only Morgan could accomplish that.

“I'm fine, Mom. I spent last week in Paris.” He glanced at Noelle. “Strolled the Champs-Élysées.”

“Not fair!” Tiffany squealed. “You can't even speak French.”

“I know how to ask for the bathroom.”

She pinched him.

“Ow. It's not my fault my clients have holdings in Paris—which amazingly seem to have escaped their inept management.”

She wailed, “I'm the one who should see Paris. I've studied three years of French!”

Hank put a hand to Morgan's shoulder. “Take your things to your room, Morgan. Mother has dinner ready.”

“Which room?”

“Rick's in the study, so you get the den.”

Morgan groaned. “Not the old rollaway. I'll get a motel.”

“There's a new pullout in there.” Celia patted him again on her way to the kitchen. “Hurry, now, before the steaks char.”

Morgan lifted his bag and headed down the hall. Noelle wished he would take a motel room. The tension in all the adults was thick as pudding, though thankfully the girls seemed to have missed it. Rick relaxed behind her, but she felt tight and worried now that her presence would spoil the holiday for all of them. Oh, why had Morgan come?

But sitting across from him at the dinner table, she couldn't miss the pleasure his unannounced visit brought his family. She gleaned that he hadn't been there last year, and that made this appearance all the better. Or worse. Though his sisters hung on his stories and jokes, Noelle heard the strain in his voice.

He played his part anyway, raconteur extraordinaire. “I could see the guy understood every word I spoke. Most French have some English at least, but he just ignored me. So I took the woman's hand and kissed it. Suddenly, in perfect English, he gave me the directions.”

Morgan looked from his mother to Noelle. She dropped her gaze, suffocating in Rick's tension every time Morgan looked her way. She could have cut it as she did her meat.

“If you spoke French he'd have answered you the first time.” Tiffany ripped her roll in two. “I would have asked directions in French.”

Morgan chucked Tiffany under the chin. “Next time I'll take you along. My translator.”

“Not fair!” Tara dropped her fork and it clattered to the floor.

Noelle was thankful for the distraction, anything that took Morgan's eyes from her. She cut a bite and forced herself to chew.

Hank tossed down his napkin. “You boys want to see the stallion Burt Rawlings has for sale? He's giving me first look if I come tonight.”

Noelle turned to Hank. How could he ask something so mundane in the midst of this strain? She was certain Rick would refuse, but he nodded. “I'll have a look.”

“You can't bid against me.” Hank held up a finger.

“I'm not in the market. Just like to see what's out there.”

“Morgan?” Hank raised his eyebrows.

Morgan shook his head. “Don't care what's out there, Dad. Not in horses anyway.”

Hank and Rick stood. Was he really leaving? After standing guard all through the meal, he'd just leave her to Morgan? Celia began clearing the dishes, and Noelle stood to help, but Rick's mother waved her off. “We'll get it, Noelle. You relax.”

In other words, stay out of the way and don't cause any more trouble than you already have. Noelle got the message, but why did Celia think this was all her fault? It was Morgan who'd pushed things. She had given him no reason to think—

Morgan waited for her in the living room. “Let's take a walk.” He held out one of his sister's coats.

Resigned, she slid her arms into the sleeves, and he pulled it over her shoulders with the all too familiar stroke of his hand. She followed him out. Her breath was white in the moonlight as she limped down the stairs and started along the drive beside him. “I can't go too fast.”

“Really.” He turned. “I'd say you went plenty fast.”

“I meant my leg.”

He wasn't distracted. “What's between you and Rick? He's sending daggers every time I get near you.”

She looked out along the fences. What was between them? She thought of their date, their kiss, her dream. Last night it had all seemed so right. With Morgan she was still broken, but with Rick . . .

Morgan stopped and took her hands in his, stared hard into her face. “Don't tell me you think you're in love with him.”

Was she? “Morgan . . .”

“I don't believe it!” He dropped her hands. “Why?”

She shook her head, searching for words. If she loved Rick it was because he never forced it, never . . .

Morgan kicked a piece of ice across the surface of the snow, then stared up at the sky. “What about us?”

Her heart ached. “Morgan, it's been months since I've seen or even heard from you. A lot has happened.”

“Obviously.”

“You were never serious—”

“How could I be? You freaked out every time I got close. I've never spent so much time and emotion on a woman I didn't even sleep with!”

Noelle trembled. “You wanted what I couldn't give.”

“But you could give it to Rick?” Morgan laughed coldly. “I didn't think he had it in him. Mr. Celibate.”

She burned. “Rick hasn't touched me. He knows . . .” Her throat constricted.

“What?” He sent her a bitter glance. “I suppose you told him everything you couldn't tell me?”

Noelle shivered. Her chest grew tight. Yes, she had told Rick. And it had cost her every defense she had. Except Rick himself. He'd been there in her dream, but he wasn't there now to stem Morgan's anger. She started to shake, and Morgan gripped her arms.

“Don't you dare panic.” He searched her face. “You have no reason to fear me. I never hurt you, Noelle. I never would.”

Tears stung her eyes. “I'm sorry, Morgan.” She gripped her hands together beneath her chin and drew a jagged breath. “I can't control it.”

He shook his head. “That's where you're wrong. It's all in your control. You just have to take it. Don't let this thing get hold of you.” He pulled her close until her fists lodged between them. “You're in charge, Noelle. Not Rick. Not even me.”

She swallowed. Maybe he was right. She had to take control somehow. That wasn't what Rick believed. But she couldn't do it his way. God's way. She lowered her face wearily. Maybe Morgan was right.

———

Rick paced the study in the dark. Three paces out, three paces back before he might knock his shin into the pullout frame. How many
years had it been since Morgan spent Christmas with the family? Two? Three? Why this one? Why now?

Noelle was asleep when he came home. Or at least she was closed into her room with the lights out. It wasn't that late, though Dad had talked extensively with Burt Rawlings. After the initial pleasure of seeing a fine horse, Rick had chafed every minute. But he'd gone along to show Dad everything was under control. He'd suspected the invitation was Dad's way of taking charge of the situation. Only Morgan hadn't kept step. As usual.

Rick turned and paced. His mind churned. How could he help Noelle with Morgan interfering? Help? Rick clenched his fists. It had gone past that, hadn't it? He expelled a sharp breath and closed his eyes. He loved her. He wanted her with him, at the ranch, sharing his life, his love, his faith.

Pastor Tom had said to start with faith, but could he? Shouldn't he first show her human love so she could understand divine? Especially now, with Morgan muddying the waters. Rick turned and paced. No doubt Morgan had cornered Noelle at the first chance. What had she told him?

Rick gripped his hands together. He hadn't made his intentions known. Did she understand that he would never have gotten to this point if he didn't believe the Lord had directed him to love her? And that didn't mean check it out, see if it feels right. It meant commit. He didn't do things half way.

Rick turned.
Lord, you've charged me with her care. You had to know I would love her
. Of course God knew. God had intended it. Rick rubbed a hand over his face. How else could he make sense of her appearance at the ranch, the way things had happened since, the way he felt? He'd lived with Noelle under his roof two months, another three worrying about her in town. Not a lot of time, but long enough to make her part of his life.

Maybe it wasn't the sort of courtship he would have planned. The Lord knew better. He'd laid her on his heart from the moment He directed him to let her stay. Of all the places she could have run, she'd come to him. He was the one she trusted with the truth of her situation. Not Morgan. He checked that thought. He did not want to pit himself against his brother.

Lord, show me
. Even as he said it, he wasn't sure he wanted to see. What if it wasn't God's plan? Did he imagine his own purpose as God's?
Mom's doubts, Morgan's interference . . . Rick spun and paced too far. He hit his shin and jumped back with a stifled exclamation. Holding his shin, he spun and sat down on the thin mattress over the springs.

He bowed his head and waited for the pain to pass. Then with his head still bowed he whispered,
Lord, take my thoughts captive. Align my will to yours
. But something inside felt treacherous. Human desire. For the first time, he came close to understanding Morgan.

———

Noelle could hardly breathe with the tension so heavy the next morning. Would breakfast never end? Morgan gave halfhearted answers; Rick spoke hardly at all. Celia looked as though she hadn't slept. Even Tara was glum. Noelle would have given anything to hear her chatter and Morgan's bravado and all the other voices at once.

But nothing broke the quiet except a few painfully polite comments. And it was her fault. She'd seen the closeness of this family. She'd been a part of it. Now she felt like a pariah. As soon as Tara stood to clear her plate, Noelle excused herself as well. She went to her room, sat on the edge of the bed, and looked at the wall. What could she do?

Rick tapped the door and came in. “Let's go for a drive.”

She looked up bleakly. “Back to the ranch?”

He smiled, and her heart jumped. As he held out his hand, she took it. It didn't seem so bad when she was alone with Rick. Maybe they could go back to the ranch. Morgan's coming had changed things. Rick might see it differently now. He led her into the hall, then dropped hold of her hand when they reached the living room and stepped out.