A Rush of Wings (36 page)

He sat down on the end of the conversation couch, crossed his leg over his knee, no doubt hoping she'd complete the semicircle so they could chat. “Not what's wrong, Noelle, but how to make it right.”

She picked up the Venetian-glass paperweight from the windowsill. It always amazed her how heavy glass could be when it broke so easily. “We've discussed this already. I don't need a shrink.”

“Shrink.” He snorted. “A counselor, Noelle. A therapist . . . a priest!”

She slammed down the glass dome. “A priest, Daddy?” She started toward him. “What priest? Perhaps you'd have one to recommend?”

He squirmed. “Maybe I would if I thought it would do any good.”

“Who, for instance?” She waved her hand. “In your vast experience?”

“You could start with your mother's priest, who baptized you, Father Matthis at the cathedral.”

Her mouth dropped open. She couldn't hide her surprise. “What?”

He waved a hand. “It was your mother's foolishness.” He looked as though he regretted his words.

But it struck a chord. “She took me to church?”
“We're going to God's house, Noelle.”

Daddy dropped his hands to his knees. “Your mother was pious. We had a ceremony. Dribbled water on your head. So what?”

“And that's the only time I went?”

“She took you on Sundays. You were too little to remember.”

But she did remember. The windows . . . bright, colorful stained-glass windows. Noelle started to shake. Why? Michael was gone. There was nothing to fear.

“But after—” He caught himself and cleared his throat.

“After what?”

He gripped his hands together. “Sit down, Noelle.”

“I don't want to sit. I want to know what else you haven't told me.”

He removed his dinner coat and hung it over the back of the couch. “It's not what I haven't told you. It's what you don't remember.”

She felt her throat closing in. What didn't she remember? A red-robed man, giant wings, someone grabbing her from behind. A hand clamped to her mouth.
“Mama!”

“There was an incident.”

She wanted to slap him. Stop talking jargon! “What happened to me, Daddy?”

“You were abducted when you were five years old. From the church while your mother was distracted.”

Her legs felt like gauze. “Why?” She dropped to the end of the half-circle couch. “Why did they take me?” He waited so long to answer, she turned to him. “Daddy?”

“They wanted me off a case.”

It felt like a knife inside her. She'd been taken, terrified, and—A door slammed in her mind. “What case?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't matter? They took me because of you, and it doesn't matter?” Her words pierced his control, brought pain to his eyes.

“It was a federal case I was prosecuting. We had broken a ring of Russian-Mafia drug smugglers. Our man had deep connections.”

The strange accent. She shuddered. No wonder she hated anything close to a Russian accent. Frustration welled up. How much of her life—her likes and dislikes, her fears and aversions—were based on this “incident”?

She stood up, arms shaking at her sides. “What did you do?”

His eyes came up, met hers. “I removed myself.” He folded and unfolded his hands.

“Compromised your principles?”

“They—had—my—daughter.” His voice shook.

Images flashed. Stone walls, towering pillars. She tried to focus on what Daddy had said. It was his fault she'd been taken. She forked her fingers into her hair, walked to the window. Her mother's portrait was reflected in the cold glass, black with night.
“Whisper in God's house, Noelle.”
Mama's hand holding hers as they knelt one knee, then stood. Mama told her to wait in the seat, but Noelle wandered over to see the window.

She pressed her eyes shut. It was Michael the Archangel fighting the devil. The devil was black and looked like a lizard with a man's head and bat wings. But the angel was all in red, with a thick muscular leg showing through the cut in his robe. His foot was pressed to the devil's neck and he held a sword upraised.
Michael the Archangel. Michael
.

She'd been standing under the window while Mama talked to someone behind a curtain. The angel was supposed to be good. But he looked so fierce. And then someone had grabbed her. But the hand was so tight on her mouth she couldn't breathe. She kicked, but he was too big. He lifted her, carried her. He was bigger than Daddy, bigger than anyone she knew.
“Are you God?”
He shoved her into the car.
“Yeah, kid. I'm God.”

His accent. Her whole being shuddered as she glimpsed the face in her memory. Not Michael's, another. She put a hand over her mouth and fought waves of nausea.

Daddy stood and came to her. “They said you had blocked it out, a protective amnesia. You seemed . . . after a while you seemed all right. You smiled, you played, you . . . Only your sessions with the psychiatrist
upset you. What point was there in continuing? What point in making you remember?”

Her mind slammed shut again. “You were right, Daddy. What point was there?”

R
ick walked to the upstairs landing, stopped, and looked around him. It was amazing what reconfiguring shape and dimension could do. Instead of independent rooms along a hall, it was a gathering of interconnected spaces. Instead of the linear motel feel, his house now felt like a home. He had built the house practically but now altered it for beauty, imagining it as Noelle would see it with her artist's eye.

Except none of it mattered. He stood there as if he'd woken up in someone else's house by accident. He'd never felt that way before, as though he didn't belong in the very house he'd built log by log. Standing there, he felt like a stranger. He'd never minded being alone, hadn't really felt alone when he was. He'd felt complete and satisfied, and time didn't come at him like some enemy he had to battle off.

He knew his place, his routine. Knew what he needed to do, and he did it. He'd made his ranch a place folks could relax and enjoy themselves in the beauty of nature. He'd protected it from fire and storm, giving both the land and the animals the care required. Now, looking around, he felt as though it had all been a dream. This was reality, this aching loneliness.

He tugged on the jeans that had slipped down his hips, then realized he needed to tighten the belt. It had slid into its well-worn notch when he dressed. Now he moved it one hole tighter. Then Rick rubbed the back of his neck, working out the crick that had formed, and started down the staircase he had widened and curved into the main room.
He slid his hand down over the maple banister he'd built, stained, and oiled to replace the straight pine railing. It deposited him into the one room that had hardly changed.

Bright summer sunlight spilled through the front window in a golden splash over the coffee table. Dust motes rode the beam to his Bible and collected on its cover. Rick crossed the room and picked it up, then wiped the dust with the roll of his sleeve. He flipped the Bible open and felt the urging. He could read it, he could study it, he could even believe it. He just couldn't understand it. And besides, there was a bigger issue. Whatever else, he was no hypocrite. With his heart so hard, how could he seek God's presence?

He laid the book down, went to the kitchen and swigged a cup of reheated coffee, then headed outside. He saddled Destiny and rode up to the high corral where he had started installing the metal gate before he ran out of daylight the night before. He tethered the horse to graze and set to work.

Sweat dampened his brow. He raised his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. He tightened the bolt one final tug, then stood and swung the gate. It moved smoothly, and he stuck the wrench into the saddlebag, then turned and saw Pastor Tom puffing up the meadow on his stocky, rheumatic legs.

Rick considered meeting him halfway to save him the climb but remained where he was. It was the pastor's idea to come. Rick hadn't asked him. Tom waved, too breathless to greet him, and swiped a handkerchief over his forehead. The July sun was hot. He ran a hand through his thinning gray thatch and looked around. “Sure is beautiful up here so close to God.”

Rick didn't respond.

Pastor Tom knew better than to hedge this issue. “I guess you know why I've come.”

Rick jerked one side of his mouth. “You're drumming up business?”

The pastor smiled, but it was halfhearted. “It's been months, Rick.”

Rick gathered the hammer and lever and slid those into the saddlebag as well. Months. He tried not to think of time in chunks, measured amounts.

“What's keeping you away?”

Rick cinched the bag.

Pastor Tom wiped the back of his neck, then shoved the hand-kerchief into his pocket. “Now is when you need your faith.”

Rick leaned on the corral and looked up the slope. “It's not faith, Tom. It's forgiveness.”

“Of whom?”

Rick frowned. “You need to ask?”

“There are several possibilities. God? Noelle? Her assailant, yourself . . .”

“Myself?” Rick turned.

The pastor sat down on an upturned stump. “Ah, Rick. Nothing's as simple as it seems. When the fabric of life frays, not just one thread is affected, but many. When Noelle was hurt, you were all hurt. Perhaps her attacker most of all.”

Rick gripped the board. “Michael Fallon?”

“You have no window to his soul.”

“I don't care.”

The pastor gripped his knees. “Judgment is a dangerous thing. Brings out our own darkness.”

Rick slammed the top board of the corral. “Are you suggesting I'd hurt Noelle as he did?”

Tom stood up. “I'm suggesting that sin is sin, and unless you are sinless, you'd do well to forgive.”

It was true. No arguing that. Just humanly impossible. The main thing Rick felt these days was anger. He'd given Noelle his heart and soul. . . . And maybe that was it. Had he given her what should have been God's? Or worse, become to her what God should have been? If he'd shared his faith instead of his love, could she have stood against the blow instead of shrinking into the voice that apologized but had nothing else to say?

Rick turned away. “I'm sorry, Tom. I'm just not there.”

“Then let me be there for you. All of us. Come to church tomorrow.”

Rick shook his head. It would be false.

“Then I'll keep praying.”

Rick took a shovel from the rifle case on Destiny's saddle, unfolded the handle, and scooped a pile of manure onto the heap outside the corral. He kept shoveling while the pastor made his way back down. There was a time when Rick would have appreciated the prayers. Now it seemed so futile. When he finished mucking the corral, he rode Destiny down.

Nearing the house, he was surprised to see Morgan leaning against
his Corvette parked in the yard. Rick swung down from the stallion's back and shook Morgan's hand.

“I see you tamed him.” Morgan nodded toward the horse.

“Yeah.” But it was Noelle who had tamed them both.

Morgan smiled. “How's life?”

“Ask Pastor Tom; he's got all the answers.”

Morgan sobered. “I'm sorry about Noelle.”

Rick slapped the dust from his jeans. “So . . . what are you doing here?”

“Just passing by.” Morgan tossed his car keys in his palm.

“Mom sent you.”

Morgan laughed. “No, I swear. Just thought I'd drop in for a while. You don't have any beautiful guests we can fight over, do you?”

“I don't take guests anymore.”

“Mmm.” Morgan nodded.

“Well, I'm busy.” Rick tugged Destiny's rein.

“What's with the beard?”

Rick rubbed his jaw and shrugged.

Morgan said, “Stable the horse and have a beer with me.”

“I don't have any beer.”

Morgan reached behind his seat. “I do.”

Rick studied his brother. What was his point? Was this some conciliatory gesture? But then, he shrugged, why not? He put Destiny into the small corral and followed Morgan inside.

Morgan set the twelve-pack on the table beside the door and looked around him. “I guess you
have
been busy.” He climbed the stairs. “Wow. Done some major remodeling.” He walked across the landing and into the master suite. “Fireplace, Jacuzzi, deck.” He whistled softly. “Your room?”

“No.” Rick's throat tightened. He felt like grabbing Morgan and removing him bodily. “I sleep down the hall.”

Morgan turned. “You're worse than I thought.” He gripped his shoulder. “But I know what you need.” He went back out to his car, opened the trunk, and returned with two bottles. “Cuervo Gold and my old friend Beam. Got any limes?”

Rick shook his head.

“Then we'll have to drink it straight.”

———

Rick woke with a head like a volcano and a mouth full of soot. He rolled over and groaned. His jaw was on something hard, and he squinted open his eyes. Tile. Half his body was wedged under the table, and his face lay on the tiles before the fireplace. He felt like he'd been thrown and trampled. Slowly he slid out from under the table and rose to one elbow.

Morgan sat on the couch, fingers folded behind his head. “Now that you've done it my way, what do you think?”

Rick scowled. His head throbbed, and his stomach felt like something had died there.

Morgan reached for a glass on the table. “Here. This might help.”

Rick looked at the glass. “What is it?”

“Bitters and soda.”

Rick took it. It couldn't be worse than what he'd downed last night. What had Morgan given him? He took a drink and slouched against the hearth. “How'd I end up here?”

“You just lay where you fell.”

Rick rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn't remember. Morgan had poured, and they'd talked broken hearts. Rick had probably spilled more than he wanted to know. But he couldn't remember ending up on the floor. “Is there a point?”

Morgan leaned forward, elbows to his knees. “Thought you should see how bad it could get.”

As if he didn't know already. Rick hung his head into his hands. “Real considerate of you.”

“The question is, what are you going to do now?”

“About what?”

“No-elle.” Morgan drew out her name in two long syllables.

Rick stared at him. “What's there to do? She wants no part of me.”

“Yeah. Her shell's probably Faberge by now.”

Whatever that meant. Rick swigged the rest of the fizzy brown drink. It did settle his stomach. He stretched his arms. They seemed functional. He was less sure of his legs. “Did you do this on purpose?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?” Did Morgan hope to destroy whatever fiber he had left?

Morgan sat back and crossed his ankles. “Wanted you to see where self-pity could land you.”

“You're a good one to talk.”

“I'm speaking from experience.” Morgan looked down at his hands. “If I'd had the guts thirteen years ago, I might have Jill with me now. My kid wouldn't be dead. And I sure wouldn't greet each morning with that.” He nodded toward the empty bitters glass.

Rick looked at his brother. He'd never heard Morgan mention his baby. Not since it all happened. He had no proof that incident still ate him. He must be seriously concerned to bring it up now.

Morgan leaned forward. “First it's pride. You think she ought to come to you, only she doesn't. And then you think you can do without her. And you can, but there's a hole growing inside. Pretty soon it takes all your energy just filling that hole.”

Rick swallowed hard. He was waking up now, or maybe Morgan's morning-after draft was working. He rested his forearms on his knees. “I don't know, Morgan. I've thought it through so many times, so many ways. But the first and only thing she wanted was away from me. She never wavered.” He shook his head. “I couldn't reach her, couldn't touch her. She was . . . stone.”

“Have you tried since?”

“No.”

“Then take it from me.” Morgan stood up. “Don't wait too long.” He reached down.

Rick gripped Morgan's wrist and got to his feet. Blood pounded to his head. Morgan might have chosen a less painful object lesson. But this one was pretty effective. He scrunched his eyes, then stretched his face. By the slant of the sunlight, the horses were probably frantic. They never waited so long for food and freedom. But the thought of his daily routine depressed him. “You hanging around?”

Morgan pulled his keys from his pocket. “Like to, but I've got other problems to solve.”

Rick looked at his brother again. He hadn't thought about that lately, how Morgan made a living cleaning up other people's messes. Maybe it was that hole inside he kept trying to fill. “I'll walk you out. The stock probably thinks I died.”

Morgan laughed. “I wondered for a while myself.”

“No thanks to you.”

“You will.” Morgan slapped his back. It sent a jolt straight to Rick's head.

They shook hands at the car and Rick watched Morgan drive away. Even the sound of the car made his head throb. One thing was certain.
He would not turn to the bottle. But he knew Morgan's message had been more symbolic. Maybe he was sinking into self-pity. So far it had just felt like preservation.

He let the horses out to pasture. He'd been keeping them in at night with the mountain lions repopulating.
Should I call Noelle?
He closed the stable door and went to the barn. The roof leak was molding the hay. That was first on his agenda.
But before I call Noelle?

Rick leaned his arm on the post.
Lord?
Nothing. Naturally. You had to listen to hear. And he just wasn't ready. He turned and strode to the house. Maybe Morgan was right. He paused with his hand over the receiver, then took the phone and punched the number. He'd dialed it so many times in his mind he knew it from memory.

“St. Claire.”

“Mr. St. Claire, this is Rick Spencer. I'm calling for Noelle.”

The pause was expected. But he said, “One moment, Rick. I'll get her.”

Rick waited, anticipated the sound of her voice, steeled himself for its impact. No matter what she said, he would have the sound of her voice.

“Rick?” It wasn't Noelle. William cleared his throat. “I'm sorry. She's not available.”

Why? How is she? Make her talk to me
. Rick didn't say any of it, just thanked William St. Claire and hung up. He went out, pulled on his gloves, and hung his tool belt over his hips. The ladder reached the lower end of the barn roof.

Before he climbed, he tied a rope around his waist. When he reached the top of the ladder, he tossed and tightened the rope to the cupola, then pulled himself up. The sun came off the steel like an oven. It was going to be hot work. Rick tugged the hat lower on his forehead and prepared to roast.