A Rush of Wings (3 page)

“That's about it,” Morgan said. “Unless you want to tour the main house.”

No need for that if the center cabin was hers. She looked up the slope to a white-fenced corral high up the meadow. Several horses were pastured outside it. One, it seemed, was being worked.

Morgan followed her gaze. “Rick raises good quarter-horse stock.”

Even at that distance, Noelle recognized the shape. From an artistic viewpoint the quarter horse was less symmetrical, less elegant than other breeds but splendid in its own right. As a girl she had loved horses, had drawing pads full of them. She'd spent as many hours drawing thoroughbreds as riding them.

And here she was on a horse ranch. What irony. Or was it? She was making her own decisions now, consulting no one. Maybe she had willed this place for herself, created this reality. And why not? It made as much sense as anything else.

She took in the wide, steep meadow as though she'd brushed it there on a giant sheet of stiff rag paper, then breathed life into it and stood back to watch. As she did, a horse and rider charged down the meadow and came to a sliding halt before them in a scatter of gravel. The man leapt from the roan's back as the horse reared, then stood nervously, tossing its head and chafing the reins, its raw power barely contained. The animal was magnificent.

The man spoke low, gentling the stallion with his hands until it stopped fighting, though the sheen on its hide rippled still with barely suppressed energy. He led the horse to the holding pen between the
barn and stable, then returned. This was the owner of the ranch. It must be. His was a Rocky Mountain face, angles and shadows, eyes the color of earth.

“Hi there.” He pulled off his work gloves and smiled. “Rick Spencer.”

Morgan spoke for her. “This is Noelle St. Claire. She wants a place to stay.”

“When?”

She answered for herself. “Now . . . today.”

Rick swatted a darting fly away from his face. “I'm afraid all the cabins are taken. Booked solid through the middle of August.”

Morgan said, “There's room in the house, Rick.”

Rick glanced at his brother, then back to her. “That's against my policy. I'm sorry.”

“Professor's got a room. So has Marta.” Morgan's tone was congenial, but Noelle felt an undercurrent between them. If Rick rented rooms in the house, why wouldn't he rent her one?

“Marta's on staff.”

“And the professor?” Noelle smoothed a strand of hair back behind her ear and used the information Morgan had provided.

Rick hooked his thumbs into his belt. “How long did you want to stay?”

How long? She hadn't thought that far. “Indefinitely, I guess.”

“Did you try in town?”

She looked back down the road toward the town. “The only place was—”

“The Walker rental.”

She turned back, sensing by his tone he would not suggest it. “That's right.”

He squinted past her. “Ms. St. Claire, I don't rent rooms in the main house to women.”

Had she heard him correctly? What sort of Neanderthal was he? A quick glance toward his brother revealed a cloaked amusement. “Doesn't that violate fair-housing standards?”

He never flinched. “It's for your protection.”

A shadow crossed her spine, but she ignored it. “Morgan's already told me Marta's dangerous. Who else should I fear?” She couldn't believe she'd said that after running like a rabbit these last days. Her words actually sounded combative, and yes, there was something inside her
that wanted to fight, something that battled against her normal restraint and compliance. The blind fear that had driven her here fell away in its wake. She would not be afraid!

Rick brushed his jaw with the back of one hand, a subtle change in his eyes. Submission? Compassion? “I guess there's room in the house. Nothing fancy.”

She searched his face. Did she look like she needed fancy? Did she telegraph who she was, what she came from? “That'll be fine.” She had won. She had taken a stand and beaten him down. Terror and exhilaration vied. She turned to the corral. “Your horse is wonderful.”

He followed her gaze. “That's the first time he's made it down without throwing me.”

“What's his name?”

“Destiny.”

A thrill passed through her.
Destiny
. “Why?”

He shrugged. “It just came to me when he was born.” He glanced at the horse circling his confinement, his roan hide still quivering and nostrils flaring.

Noelle followed the stallion's stride with her eyes. “He's spirited, but not mean tempered, I'd say. He wants to obey but can't get rid of the wild.”

Rick appraised her. “Sounds like you know horses.”

“Some.” She smiled.

Morgan groaned. “Don't get him going, Noelle. He'll have you standing out here in the sun all day.”

Rick slapped the dust from his pants and gave Morgan a raised eyebrow. “Come on, then.”

She followed him to the house with Morgan behind, a sudden misgiving tugging her insides. Though she'd fought for the right to stay, she knew nothing about either of them. Could she walk inside the house with two men, on a ranch she knew nothing about, where no one would think to look?

But that was exactly why she was there. Maybe she hadn't created this place, but she'd found it, homed to it with some instinct that had to be truer than following where others directed. She was no longer blind and mute. Something else had awakened within her: resolve.

She stepped inside and lifted her tote once again to her shoulder, looking up at the lofted ceiling of the main room. It was more like a
lodge than a house, she thought. But it welcomed her as few places did. She sensed . . . what? Haven. Yes, haven.

“Give me just a minute.” Rick strode into the kitchen off to the right of the main room.

Morgan motioned for her to go in as well, though she would have considered the kitchen off limits. Shouldn't there be a sign that said
Employees Only
? Or was this a place where people came and went from the kitchen without disdainful looks from the staff? Green plaid curtains hung at the window above the sink where Rick washed up, providing the only color beyond the golden hue of the logs.

She tugged the strap of her tote higher onto her shoulder and cleared her throat. “You haven't given me a rate.”

Rick looked back over his shoulder. “If I don't know how long you're staying, I'm not sure how to charge you.”

“What are my options?”

He washed the dust and sweat from his face. “For a single room, twenty-five a night, one fifty a week, or let's say . . . four hundred a month.”

She hid her amazement. “I'll take it for a month at a time.” Nowhere on Long Island would she find a closet for that. But while he was in the mood to be generous . . . “Meals are included?”

Morgan smiled, obviously enjoying her tactic. He was certainly easier to read than his brother

Rick turned the faucet off and shook his hands. “The cabins have kitchens, but not the rooms. Unless you want to take your meals in town, you can join us in the dining room. I'll let Marta know.”

“Are there others on staff?”

Rick wiped his hands dry. “Just Marta.”

“She's all you need,” Morgan added. “Housekeeper, cook, and drill sergeant.” He winked.

“And don't you forget it.” Marta bustled into the kitchen from what must be the dining room. Spare in stature with mousy hair streaked with gray, she moved deliberately, wasting no motion. For her small size she seemed to fill the room with energy.

Her skin crinkled over pointy bones, but her smile was warm, touching Noelle with a motherly affection foreign to her. In her experience, there were two types of domestics. The lazy ones who served because they had no drive to do better, and the ones like Marta who thrived on their work and generally ran things accordingly.

Noelle noted the lighthearted affection in both men's faces. There were also two kinds of employers, those who made their help family and those who made them feel servile. She saw by his demeanor which kind Rick was and lowered her guard.

He hung the towel in its place. “Marta, this is Noelle. She's taking the first room upstairs.”

Marta gave her hand a brief, tight squeeze. “Glad to have you, dear.”

“We all are,” Morgan added.

Rick reached for her tote. “I'll show you your room.”

She surrendered the bag and followed him up the stairs to a wide hallway that crossed the main area as a balcony, then led to rooms on either side. She stopped behind him at the first door.

“This room has a three-quarter bath, shower only. There's a tub in the full bath at the end of the hall, but it's common use. I'll have Marta bring up linens.” He opened the door and set her tote inside. “The meal schedule's on the door. My office is directly downstairs. You can bring your payment there when you're settled and pick up your key.”

That was it? No contract, no questions? Noelle glanced in, then turned back on a sudden impulse. “Are the horses for use?”

“Can be. You'll need to sign a waiver.” He seemed on the verge of saying something more, then merely appraised her. His was not an expression she knew, not containing the interest she'd recognized at once in Morgan's. “Well, if you need anything, Marta and I are usually around somewhere.”

“Thank you.” When he left her, she surveyed the room: the bed made of cleanly hewn pine logs the same color as the walls; a bureau, also pine; a writing table and chair. It was as though the room was made out of the mountain.

Crisp, white curtains hung at the window. From there, she viewed the woods that grew behind the house. Fat mountain chickadees flitted from branch to branch on the tall, scraggly pines, and a magpie hollered raucously from the rail.

Noelle closed the door behind her. She hoisted the tote onto the bed and dumped the contents—some clothing, toiletries, and a makeup bag that held the cash she'd taken out of her account. She opened it, took out four crisp bills, and folded them into her shorts pocket, then searched the room for someplace to stash the rest.

The absurd simplicity of her space left her few options. From what
she'd gleaned of Rick, there would be no loose floorboard, and Marta's obvious efficiency ruled out the mattress. Noelle looked again at her makeup bag. Maybe obvious was best. She brought it into the bathroom and set it on the wooden shelf under the mirror.

Then she crossed to the bed, gathered up her personal items, and added them to the shelf as well. Until she thought of something better, it would do. Marta didn't strike her as the snoopy sort, whatever Morgan said in jest, and if Rick was uncomfortable with her even being in the house, he would hardly raid her room. She closed her eyes and allowed the tentative peace to grow. Inside the solid walls she felt small and enclosed. She felt safe.

D
ownstairs, Rick went into the office, moved the mail from the chair to the desk, and sat. He booted up the aging Pentium tower and glanced up as Morgan leaned on the doorjamb.

“Not your typical mountain mama,” Morgan said.

Rick opened his bookkeeping program. “Nope.”

“Don't pretend you're impervious. I heard the rates you stammered.”

“I didn't stammer.”

“Well, you gave her the deal of the century. You even threw in meals.”

“I always include meals for the rooms without kitchens.” Though he did usually charge them separately. Rick brought up the ranch accounts. Finances were good at the moment. Last week's sale had put him ahead, the cabins were solidly booked, and what he took in from Miss St. Claire, he could sock away toward feed. Besides, she had the look of a sparrow needing to light.

And that was the only reason she now had a room in the main house against the policy he'd established from the start—fair housing notwithstanding. He didn't rent rooms to single women because the house was also his home. He didn't advertise the ranch. Word of mouth brought people who knew it was a Christian operation, and he ran it accordingly. Reputations were hard to salvage, and he guarded both his and his guests'.

Morgan looked pensive. “What do you suppose her story is?”

“I don't know.” Rick brought up the column
Long-term Guests
. He hadn't had many stay monthly before. Though he could rent the cabins as residences, he preferred vacationers and had no trouble keeping them rented by days or weeks. And as the cabins were only minimally heated, they were summer lodgings only.

“She comes from money.”

Rick typed in Noelle's name. “You don't know that.”

“Oh, come on. You haven't lived your whole life on this mountain.”

He keyed in her room and the fee he'd named. “It's her business.”

“I suppose. Well, I saw her first, so I'm trumping you.”

“You don't have to trump. I don't date my guests.”

Morgan clicked his fingers. “Good thing I don't have your reservations.” He pushed off the doorjamb. “This R and R might turn out more interesting than I thought.”

Rick paused his typing and gave his brother a glance. Morgan always saw possibilities, but Rick sensed something brittle in Noelle St. Claire. She wasn't looking for excitement.

———

After folding her meager wardrobe into the bureau, Noelle eyed the small but clean shower. The thought of running water was ambrosia after traveling, especially in the sooty tour bus. She'd inhaled enough secondhand diesel to taste it still. Rick hadn't seemed impatient for payment, so she stripped and showered, holding her face to the stinging spray. Her skin tingled.

She was coming back, awakening from the daze. She rubbed herself dry with the coarse, white towel and hung it on the wooden rod on the log wall. Everything was hard, rustic. No pampering heat lamp, no lush towels, no elegant wall coverings, only bare wood. No amenity she would have previously expected as a matter of course. The lack invigorated her.

She dressed in shorts and a sleeveless cream knit shirt. Now that she had a place to stay she would see the town, get to know her surroundings. She'd never done anything like this, and she had to get it right. She bit her lip, wondering at that thought. At some point she would have to face reality, but since it presently eluded her, she would
take each thought as it came. She locked the door from the inside and crossed the landing that overlooked the main room downstairs.

The heavy log walls angled up two stories to the vaulted ceiling. A stone fireplace dominated one wall with bookcases flanking either side. Across the fireplace was a massive log mantel, and above that hung a plain wooden cross, pine like the rest. It was the only ornament in the room.

No feminine touch softened the space. No color accented the pale wood, lichen-covered stone, and saddle-tone leather couches. No curtains blocked the view from the wide front window. It was a man's place, untouched by a decorator's hands, almost primitive in its simplicity.

She went down and found the office underneath her own room. No one was inside, but a metal key lay on the desk with her name on a yellow Post-it. The note said, “Please leave your rent on the desk.” He probably didn't realize she had cash. She took out the four hundred-dollar bills but couldn't leave them lying there. She would give them to him later but took the key now. She put both money and key in her pocket and walked out.

Morgan sat in the corner chair in the main room, one leg crossed over his knee. As she passed, he looked up from his newspaper. “All settled in?”

“Yes.” No need to tell him she hadn't yet paid. She started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

A quiver of fear licked up like a flame. It wasn't him. It was inside her, like a frayed nerve reacting and not knowing when to stop. What was dangerous, what wasn't? And when would it stop? It was a perfectly ordinary question, and she answered, “To look at the town.”

“Want a ride?” He folded the paper down over his knee.

“No thanks.”

He stood anyway and met her at the door with an easy stride. “The walk down's not so bad, but up's a bear. Much worse than my bite.”

Had he sensed her fear? Her mind whirring over endless possibilities of danger? She could drive herself crazy with
what-if
s. And the walk up the gravel road was daunting. “All right.” An instant trembling chased up her spine, but she resisted it.

He fished his keys from his pocket. “How'd you get up here?”

“I walked.” She passed through the door he held.

“I mean up to Juniper Falls.”

“The tour bus.”

“Aha.” He closed the door behind them. “So what brings you here?”

“I liked the look of it.” The questions were inevitable, but she hoped her terse answers would discourage him soon. She slid into the fawn leather seat of his car. Of course, his was the Corvette. “What does FSTLN mean?”

“Hmm?”

“Your license plate.”

“Oh. Just add vowels.”

Noelle solved it in her head, and as the gravel flew behind his tires, she fastened her seat belt. Though the grasses brushed the underbelly of his car, he drove with just enough velocity to keep her attention without putting her over the edge, literally. Then he parked in the central lot outside the general store.
Fast lane
indeed. She surveyed the street before her as he walked around to let her out.

“To the right, tourist row, down that way, the real town. Which will it be for starters?”

She followed the sweep of his arm with her gaze. “The real town.”

“It is something of a relic. The theater, for instance, was converted from an opera house in the forties and still shows a whopping one movie at a time, at least six months later than anywhere else.”

Noelle smiled. “Quaint.”

“Here's the bank. It was robbed fourteen times in its first year, 1884. So they called in the Congregational minister, had him bless the place, and it's never been hit since.”

Noelle stared at the stone structure. It looked like a toy compared to the skyscraping bank buildings of New York City. Finches fluttered around its eaves, ducking in and out of the tiny apertures, and a mud-and-daub nest in one corner showed where a pair of rock swallows had raised a spring brood. “That's interesting.”

“Coincidence, really. The silver shipments stopped changing hands here and went to Golden instead.”

She smiled again. “Sounds like you know your history.”

“I got all that from the professor.”

“Professor . . .”

“Jenkins, your fellow guest at the ranch.”

“Who else is there?” Since she had a guide, she may as well use him to learn what she could.

“A family from Michigan, three members of a Pathfinder Club, and a couple on their honeymoon. Won't see much of them. But the professor likes to gab.” They passed a hardware store, a drugstore, and an ice-cream parlor.

Noelle paused at the French patisserie. “Is it any good?”

“Want to try it?”

“No, just wondering.” She started on before he could encourage her to share one of the pleasant umbrella tables on the patio. It was one thing to catch a ride and let him show her around, another altogether to linger and chat over pastries.

The general store she'd already seen, and there was a modern, though tiny, grocery mart. Across from that a square stone building housed the library, post office, and city hall. Next to that was the Roaring Boar Grill and Saloon, made of red granite with huge rough beams supporting a peaked roof.

Morgan stopped. “That's it, except for private residences, the church there, and behind it the new community center for civic activities.”

“Such as?” She looked at the low-peaked warehouse-type building that looked completely out of place behind the old stone church.

“Oh, you know, Elks Club, ladies guild . . . a quilt show now and then. Pure excitement.”

Noelle smiled. He was irreverent but amusing, and her intimidation lessened. But her head throbbed and she was uncommonly tired.

“You okay?” Morgan eyed her.

She nodded. “My head aches.”

“That's the altitude. Drink lots of water. You'll acclimate in a few days. You want to see the tourist strip?”

“Not really.”

“There just might be a curio you can't live without—ceramic hind end of a horse with the clever quip ‘Rocky Mountain quarter horse.' Even has a slot for quarters. I won't tell you where.”

Noelle groaned.

“I bought one for Rick in honor of his profession, but I haven't seen it displayed.”

“I can't imagine why.” She stepped over a missing chunk of sidewalk.

“All sorts of treasures. Bottle of fool's gold that people buy to prove they really are.”

“No thanks.”

“Don't want you to miss out on the priceless finds that bring the bus people every day.”

“I'll bear responsibility.”

He shrugged with an emphasized sigh and led her back to the car. He held her door open and she climbed in, steeling herself for the drive. In truth, though he rode the edge, he was an accomplished driver, far safer behind the wheel than she'd be on those curves. As Morgan's Corvette hugged the road up to the ranch, she looked down at the town nestled below.

He glanced over. “Sleepy little afterthought, isn't it.”

She nodded. But it was perfect. No one would expect to find her in a little place like Juniper Falls. She could just disappear. When they reached the ranch, she went up to her room, tucked her legs beneath her, and sat on the bed. She'd landed. And now her life was her own. She breathed deeply.

———

After a short nap and several glasses of water, Noelle's head had stopped aching. But she was hungry. She checked the schedule on the door and thankfully started down for dinner. A thin, stoop-shouldered man was already seated at the table; the professor, no doubt. She noted his Roman patrician nose and deep-set umber eyes beneath graying brows. His short-cropped beard had a dark brown
V
between two gray patches on his chin. She wondered if it was cleft underneath.

Rick spoke from behind her. “Noelle, this is Professor Jenkins, here for a couple of weeks on sabbatical. Professor, Noelle St. Claire.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Professor.”

He nodded formally with a smile. “Likewise, Ms. St. Claire.”

Rick took the chair at the head of the long pine table, and Noelle sat on his left across from the professor. Two middle-aged men and a slightly older woman were introduced, and Noelle guessed them the Pathfinders Morgan had mentioned. The family from Michigan must be using their own kitchen, and, as Morgan had suggested, the honey-moon couple did not join them.

Morgan followed Marta in from the kitchen as she carried the first steaming platter to the table. “You can't say that, Marta. I dated a girl
so nice her worst nightmare was not getting to heaven. No joke. She dreamed she was in line behind Mother Teresa, and St. Peter told the bent old woman, ‘You could have done more.' She dragged me through more good deeds—”

“There's nothing wrong with wanting to better the world.” Marta turned back for the kitchen.

“Don't I know. Just gotta have fun doing it.” Morgan took his place and winked at Noelle.

It could have been a family argument, a naughty nephew and a favorite aunt. She wondered if Marta was related, but the physical characteristics were too disparate. Though, to be sure, Rick and Morgan were different enough. Marta laid out the meal: pork chops, potatoes, buttered peas, and rolls still steaming—exactly the kind of fare Noelle had expected there. Marta's swift, concise motions were like the darting of a ground squirrel, but at last she stopped and stood at the foot of the table.

Noelle laid her napkin in her lap and reached for the rolls, then stopped, fingers extended, as Rick bowed his head and said, “ ‘I will extol the Lord with all my heart in the council of the upright and in the assembly.' ”

She stared. She couldn't help it. Never would she have taken him for a praying man, though now the cross over the mantel made sense.

“For this food we are deeply grateful. Bless it for our use in your service, O Lord. Amen.”

Amen
s surrounded her. Catching Morgan's amusement, she dropped her gaze. She hadn't meant to be so transparent, especially with Morgan more attentive than she wanted.

The professor turned to her. “Visiting from New York?”

She looked at him in surprise and with more than a little concern. “How did you . . .”

“I detect an accent.”

“My tutor would be disappointed to hear that.” Noelle sliced open the steaming potato, noticing the glance Rick and Morgan shared. She shouldn't have said that either. She wasn't used to guile.