A Rush of Wings (30 page)

“Wait until you've opened the rest.” Celia laughed. “Morgan, how could you?”

He chuckled. “They had her name all over them.”

When the family gifts had been exchanged, Noelle handed out the portraits she had done of each of them, finished in the wood frames Rick had fashioned unknowingly. She dropped down next to Morgan.
“Yours isn't framed, Morgan, because I didn't know you were coming.” She'd only asked Rick for seven frames. “I painted it from memory.” She had certainly not sat and sketched him in the difficult time since he had arrived.

He slipped the paper off and gazed at the likeness of his face. She had painted him as she remembered him best, blue eyes sparkling with fun, mouth drawn into a droll smile. He spoke softly. “You have a pretty remarkable memory.”

Last she knelt beside Rick and handed him his portrait. She had used an early sketch of him leaning back against the fence with Destiny behind him. Beyond that were the craggy peaks of the ranch. His pose showed his strength, his mastery, but she had also captured his gentleness.

He laid it across his knees, took her hands, and kissed her. “This one goes in the main room.”

“Well.” Hank patted his thighs and stood. “Time for Mass.”

Noelle glanced up at Rick, and he raised an eyebrow. “Midnight Mass. It's a tradition.” He helped her to her feet.

“You can't be serious. You're going to church now?”

“Come with me.” He gave her that deep-eyed look.

She knew what it meant to him. She saw Celia watching. Morgan as well. What could it hurt? It was still her choice, her decision.

But when she reached the door of the church, she froze.
God's house
. The phrase leapt to her mind. And it brought a stark terror. Why? Why would God's house scare her so? Again the picture flashed. A tall robed figure with giant wings. Not a bird as she'd first thought. A man. An angel? Why would she be afraid of an angel?

Unaware of her terror, Rick led her through the door with his fingertips to her lower back. The church glittered with candles. Green garlands with red-and-gold ribbon wrapped the pillars. She glanced up fretfully, but there were only small rectangular windows, dark with night sky.

It was a modern, semi-attractive building, unlike the churches in New York. At least the ones she knew of. It didn't seem imposing enough to house Rick's God. Maybe it didn't. That thought relaxed her. She looked toward the altar.

A statue of a man hung in the death throes of suffering on a cross. Not a man to people like Rick; it was Jesus, the Savior, the Christ.
“And
the Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us. . . .”
The son of God, the Creator, the one to whom Rick gave complete allegiance.

She wondered, now, how Rick would choose between them. He clasped her hand, but glancing up, she saw his eyes, too, on the cross. His choice would still be for his God.

She looked up at the tortured face of this Jesus. What kind of father allowed his son to suffer like that? Her chest tightened. What kind chose a rapist for his daughter? She trembled. She loved Rick. She couldn't help that. But she wanted no part of his God.

M
ichael left the noise and the lights and the flowing champagne. He closed the door on the madrigal carols, the smell of cider and eggnog sufficiently spiked to assure a Christmas morning hangover. As he passed William's office, he glanced at the dark doorway.

William participated only in the earliest part of the annual Christmas party, where the partners all made their remarks and thanked everyone for diligence and competence, with a few words for those whose efforts had risen above. But he had left directly after as always. This year Michael couldn't stomach the party either. The gag gifts, the hilarity, all those fakes posturing the good life, pontificating bounty and good wishes.

He pulled on his cashmere overcoat and took the elevator down. He walked the streets, festive with lights, music playing from speakers and sung on street corners.

He felt more alone than ever before—and that was saying a lot, since he always felt alone, different. Most of his life he'd been alone, either in actuality or in his own mind, a latchkey child, though his mother was actually home. He'd been small, an easy mark. Then, as a sullen adolescent whose genius had been recognized but who was almost too bitter to grasp the sudden change of fate. Almost. But not quite.

Plucked from his degrading environment by William St. Claire's Foundation for the Gifted and given the highest education, he remade himself into what he should have been. By absorbing every nuance of
expression, voice, and carriage, he'd accomplished transformation—made himself in William St. Claire's image.

And he'd been honored tonight by the partners, honored for his accomplishments over the last year, his value to the firm. William had spoken especially warmly. But for once, it didn't suffice. Michael felt like a fake, like the rest of the fakes. Every day he pretended, and tonight, during this season of goodwill to all, he wanted most of all to hurt someone.

He had thought, irrationally, that Noelle would come home. Not that she and William celebrated the holiday—he knew they didn't—but that she would be there anyway. For her birthday, maybe. Or just because this was the time of year families came together. His tension rose. It always did when he thought of family or the idyllic picture the word conjured.

Stopping abruptly, he hailed a cab and climbed in. At Jan's he got out. He didn't ask the driver to wait. He took the concrete stairs down to the “garden” level and knocked. Jan pulled the door open, Bud hanging on her neck like a gorilla. A crowd swarmed behind them in the tiny room. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of booze.

Jan staggered under Bud's weight and giggled. “Hi there, Michael. Join the party.” She sloshed her beer at him, and he stepped back sharply.

“Oops.” She hunched her shoulders and laughed.

Michael turned on his heel. He took the steps two at a time and pressed through the door into the night. Jan was Mother all over. Well, let her rot.

———

William sat before the portrait of Adelle. The blush in her cheeks was rosy with health, the whisper of a smile full of promise. The photographer had captured the gossamer softness of her hair, hanging in a golden cloud to her slender shoulders, shoulders he could cup in the palms of his hands, bending low to breathe her perfume.

He looked into the blue eyes, blue as the sky above the Seine on whose banks they had met the Christmas Adelle turned twenty. Paris. Though fifteen years her senior, he had married her two months later, and Noelle arrived by their next Christmas together.
Christmas. Noelle . . .
Today was her twenty-fourth birthday.

And she spent it without him. Not so unusual. A woman of twenty-
four certainly had better ways to celebrate than with her old stick of a father. Surely there were myriad things she'd rather do. After all, it wasn't only her birthday. It was Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve. He looked down into the glass he held. The clumped ice cubes stood up over the bourbon like an iceberg and chinked against the side when he raised his glass to Adelle's portrait with a grim smile. “Joyeux Noël, my dear.” And he drained it.

———

Christmas seemed unnaturally quiet the next day with Rick's sisters off delivering homemade goodies to their neighbors. Morgan was out somewhere. In the living room Celia knitted on the couch. Beside her Hank conversed with Rick, but Noelle didn't listen. Last night had unsettled her. Something lay beneath the surface, something triggered by Rick's church. But she couldn't grasp it. Didn't want to.

“Good time to build up your line with new blood,” Hank droned on. “With Rawlings' stallion, Aldebaran could foal . . .”

Noelle stood up from her place in the corner. Let them talk horses, horses, horses. She threw on a coat and went outside. Fingers of frigid air reached into her collar, and she pulled the coat closer. She hadn't realized it was so cold. But a walk would warm her up.

She should have worn a hat and gloves, but it wasn't worth going back in for them. She shoved her hands into the pockets. Plodding through the snow, she made her way to the corral beside the stable and leaned on the white fence. One of Hank's mares ambled over to snuffle her hands.

Noelle wished she had brought her something. “Hello there.” She stroked the soft gray muzzle, ran her hand down the brown neck and the long, coarse mane. “I haven't met you yet.”

“Miss T.”

Noelle jumped as Morgan reached around her to pat the horse's head.

“Tiffany named her. Kind of a play on Misty but with emphasis on her own initial.”

Where had he come from? She glanced toward the house, saw his prints in the new soft snow.

He leaned on the fence beside her. “You were impressive last night.”

“Everyone was.”

He reached for her hand and examined the ring. “Rick has classier taste than I thought. Or did you choose it?”

“We went together.”

“Quick engagement for someone who didn't want a relationship. Or were you just waiting for the right brother to ask?”

It could look that way—probably did to Morgan. But she hadn't wanted a relationship. Rick had made it happen, almost without her. She looked into Morgan's face. “I never meant to hurt you. There are things you don't know. . . .”

He closed her fingers into his. “Why didn't you tell me?”

She turned away. Because he wasn't safe. He was as broken as she, and somehow she'd seen that. Rick was whole. Rick would make her whole.

He brought her hand to his lips. “Come away with me. Let me take you to Paris.”

“Morgan, don't.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Are those the only words I'll ever get from you? Can't it once be, ‘Morgan, do'?” He pulled her close. “What if I'd been there when the shell came apart?”

Her pulse throbbed in her throat. “I don't know.”

He gripped her chin. His kiss was ardent and demanding, but she felt herself respond. How could she?

Morgan lurched away as Rick's fist sent him sprawling to the snow. Noelle gasped at Rick's wrath unleashed, the rage she'd sensed on the mountain. He grabbed Morgan by the collar, but she caught his arm.

“Rick, stop!”

His muscles tensed and rippled. “Don't ever touch her again.” He dropped Morgan, grabbed her sleeve, and pulled her toward the house.

Her heart raced. “He didn't mean anything.”

“Yeah, right.” The vein in Rick's temple pulsed and his face was set.

She began to tremble. “You shouldn't have hit him.”

He stopped, turning his full thunderous gaze on her. “No? Were you enjoying yourself? Maybe you wanted it. I've heard Morgan's good.”

“Stop it.”

“Maybe I should have let him make love to you right there in the snow.”

Her hand stung from the slap she delivered as Rick turned away
and stalked to the house. From the corner of her eye, she saw Morgan holding his jaw. Shaking with more than the cold, she turned away, limped through the gate and out over the field.

Rick went straight to his room and threw off his coat. His cheek flamed from Noelle's slap, and he shook out the knuckles of his right hand. He'd never been violent before. Never struck someone in anger. He knew it was wrong, but—He spoke through clenched teeth. “Morgan had it coming.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

Rick spun to face his father. “I'd do it again.”

Dad's stance was firm. “If you can't trust Noelle, then you'd better rethink that engagement ring.”

“It's not Noelle.”

“Isn't it? Would it matter what Morgan did if you knew it meant nothing to her?”

Would it?
Rick unclenched his hands. “Yes, it would matter. Doesn't it ever matter what Morgan does? We all make excuses for him, but it matters, Dad. You know what Morgan is.”

His father flinched. “He's your brother.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Stand by and watch? You don't know what she's been through.” All the weight of her need crushed in on him.

“You have to let Noelle decide.”

“She has decided.” He watched the lines draw tight over his dad's face.

“I'll not have you striking your brother. Not here, not ever. Do you understand?”

Rick made one curt nod. When Dad left, he ran his hand over his face. The departing rage left a cold ache. He dropped to his knees. “Jesus . . .” He caught his head in his hands. Noelle needed protecting. Of course she did. Their tenuous relationship, her hard-fought trust. She had asked him to keep her safe. He'd promised.

And Morgan's good looks, his charm, his womanizing . . . Would everyone always excuse him? Did his early mistakes earn him ever-lasting mercy?

Yes
. As did all of theirs.

Rick felt the knot in his belly. Maybe his wasn't righteous anger. Maybe part was pure, unredeemed jealousy. Did he doubt Noelle? Did
she carry a torch for Morgan? Which of his conquests hadn't? But she'd resisted him.

Not today.

Rick groaned.
Lord, I'm weak. Show me what to do
. He stretched his fingers painfully. He had struck Morgan with all his strength, then turned that same fury on Noelle—if not physically, then with words. He'd deserved the slap. He held his head in his hands and prayed for peace, for wisdom, forgiveness.

When he came out, he found Morgan alone on the porch. “Can we talk?”

Morgan kept his gaze straight ahead.

Rick leaned against the post. “Morgan, I know you had feelings for Noelle. . . .”

“Had?”

Rick faced his brother squarely. “I'm asking you to let it go.”

Morgan glanced over. “And if I don't?”

Rick felt the throb in his knuckles. “I don't want to fight you, but I will. It's not just about your wanting her and my wanting her. There are things she's been through.”

“So I heard.”

“She told you?”

Morgan shook his head. “Only your ears are hallowed enough for the details.”

Rick reached a hand to Morgan's shoulder. “I didn't want it this way.”

“Well, if you didn't, and she didn't, who did?” He cracked a wry smile.

Rick gathered himself. He needed Morgan to understand. “I love her.”

Morgan nodded. “I could have, too, given half a chance.”

“You had a chance, Morgan.”

“You think I don't know that!” He slapped the post, then dropped his head to his outstretched arm. “She's the only one who came close.”

“She's not Jill.”

“Yeah . . . I know.”

“I'm sorry about the jaw.” Rick reached out his hand, hopeful of reconciliation.

“You've got a mean hook.” Morgan gripped his hand. “You better
go find her. I don't know what you said to make her slap you, but it must have been worse than anything I tried.”

Rick guessed it was. He started down the steps.

“West.” Morgan pointed.

Rick headed that way. “Noelle!” His voice carried through the deepening dusk. “Noelle!” No answer, but he caught sight of her, sitting, knees wrapped in her arms. Her head was down. She didn't raise it when he approached.

He knelt on the ground before her. Still she wouldn't look, so he cupped her face and made her see him. “I'm sorry.”

Her gaze slid from his face. “I need to go home.”

It landed like a rock in his belly. “You mean the ranch?”

She shook her head.

“Why?”

“It's where I belong.”

Damp cold seeped into his knees from the ground. “You belong with me.”

She wouldn't answer.

“Noelle, I'm sorry I lost my temper. I know that frightened you, and God knows I wish I hadn't. But that doesn't mean—”

“You think it's my fault, don't you?”

“What?”

Dewy eyes draped with lashes turned on him. “That I was raped. You think I wanted it, that I made it happen.”

He stared at her. Not only was it the first time she'd said right out what had happened to her, but worse by far was how she had twisted his words, taken a meaning he never intended. “Listen to me, Noelle. I never blamed you. I never would.”

She burst up from the ground. “You and your God! You're so pure, aren't you! Never dated, never kissed a woman, never—Well, I hate you, and I hate your God!”

Rick froze.
Lord, what have I done? Don't hold this against me. Forgive me. Mend this wrong
. Tears stung his eyes as he stood up. He didn't care that she saw. “Noelle . . .”

“I just want to go home.” Her voice broke.

“If you want to go, I'll take you. But you're not going alone.”

She screamed, “I am alone! I didn't ask you to love me, and I don't want to love you!” Tears ran down her face.

He pulled her into his arms. “Then don't. I might let you down, Noelle, but God never will. If you can't trust me, trust Him.”