A Rush of Wings (9 page)

“Forget it. You saw what he did today.”

Rick spoke calmly, but she snapped back, “You're awfully stubborn.”

He looked up from the horse with his serious brown eyes trained on her. “And you're awfully persistent. But you're not going to ride this horse.”

Turning, she stalked out, anger again surging inside. She shook her head, battling the irrational emotion, and crossed to the house. She quickly mounted the stairs and slammed her door behind her before dropping to the bed. Hands pressed to her face, she breathed deeply but found no relief.

Rick was impossible! And Morgan was too. He didn't show up for dinner, which was a strained affair, and if he came in at all that night it was after she slept—though it was a long while before she was able to.

———

Rick sat quietly before the Lord. It was one of those mornings he felt truly close; no questioning, no doubt about the sovereign presence of God. The awesome glory, the saving grace—as always he was humbled by it. Those moments were a gift he didn't take lightly. But it surprised him to have it come now.

He'd been distracted, busy. His thoughts were scattered, most of them landing on Noelle. She'd been irrationally testy the day before. Again he'd viewed her brittle edge. What was she doing in Juniper Falls? Why did she seem so . . . needy?

What did she need? And what was it to him? Why he felt responsible, he couldn't say. But he did. Morgan would laugh to hear that. Rick frowned.

Morgan had not come in last night. He guessed his brother and Noelle had fallen out, though if there was much of a relationship to fall out from he hadn't seen it. For Morgan to go so long with such little result was a novelty. Rick repented the thought. In the presence of God he had no right to think badly of his brother. He looked up to the rafters of the small wooden chapel and admitted he had no right any time. Morgan was who he was, and it would take an act of God to change that—as was necessary to change his own wayward ways.

They were all flawed. Rick pressed his back to the wooden pew and closed his eyes. He liked these moments before anyone else arrived. He had considered the priesthood for a time. But he'd never been sure, not sure enough to pursue it. Now he worshiped God in this small chapel with an assorted body of believers.

A traveling priest made the rounds once a month, and the other weeks Pastor Tom held services. They were a small enough congregation to come together in spite of their differences. For each one, the relationship was personal. Christ was real; serving Him, joy. Even his everyday work, raising horses and tending his land, Rick dedicated to God's service. It was a good life in spite of its worries.

His thoughts strayed again. And this time he let them go. Who was Noelle St. Claire? What did she need, what did she want? Why was she there—to provide Morgan a distraction? If Morgan wasn't careful, he'd get in deeper than he wanted to. Or was this time different?

Rick drew a slow breath. It wasn't his business. But it felt like it was.
What do you want from me, Lord? Show me your will
. The strongest
longing in him was to serve God with the heart of David. His Savior was so real at times it made everything else dim. So why did Noelle continue to shine? He closed his eyes and prayed,
Keep me from impure thoughts. Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely . . .
But that was part of the problem. His thoughts sprang right back where they'd been.

“ ‘I can do everything through him who gives me strength,' ” he murmured. He just needed to believe it.

———

Noelle woke up late, as cross and tired as when she'd lain down. Her sense of belonging had deserted her. As she dressed in jean shorts and a collared tee, she looked around the Spartan room with distaste. It made her Manhattan apartment look like a penthouse. The whole thing would have fit into her walk-through closet in Daddy's guest bungalow, not to mention the estate house itself. She sank to the bed and dropped her face to her hands. What was she doing anyway?

She took up her brush and ran it through her hair until it shone, then walked to the small mirror, tipped up her jaw, and examined her profile. She smiled bleakly. She had her mother's beauty. Nothing would change that, though gift or curse she wasn't sure. What if she could walk into a room without heads turning? If men didn't want to own her, control her—her throat tightened—destroy her? She shook her head. That was paranoid. Who was trying to destroy her?

She quickly braided her hair and went out. The house was quiet. No humming, no bustle. She realized it was Sunday, Marta's day off. She went into the kitchen and stopped short.

Morgan sat at the table, seemingly calm and alert, no sign of a hangover. He didn't say anything but poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to her. Had she misread him yesterday? Maybe his comments had been nothing, her reaction ridiculous, an emotional extreme.

She took the cup silently, avoiding his gaze as she sat down across from him. What was there to say? She certainly did not want to discuss yesterday, but sitting silently with Morgan was not an option. “Rick's at church?”

“His little catchall for sincere souls.”

That meant the other families at the ranch were too. She'd realized quickly enough that Rick's guests were almost all Christians. She didn't know whether he advertised it that way, but word obviously passed
within the ranks. She felt more than ever an outsider, and it rankled. “I've never known a praying man before,” she said, more sharply than she intended.

Morgan chuckled. “I always figured Rick would be the family priest.”

She sipped the coffee, then doused it with cream and tried to picture Rick in flowing robes and Roman collar. But contrasted with the last sight of him eating dust at Destiny's hooves, she failed.

At least Morgan resisted the Sunday morning call. “Why don't you go to church, Morgan?”

“I grew out of it.” He smiled sideways. “Why don't you?”

“I've never been, though I've studied the various world religions.”

Morgan glanced up. “So what do you believe?”

“I don't know. Nothing, I guess. I mean, not like faith. Maybe what I see and what I sense. I believe what I know.” She met his eyes, surprised by their penetrating gaze. “Do you believe in God?”

“There's a difference between believing and belonging.” He finished his coffee, stood, and poured another cup.

“I thought in Christianity you couldn't do one without the other.” Or was there an intellectual middle ground? Knowing without succumbing?

Morgan breathed the steam. “Believing in a higher power, even a Judeo-Christian God, makes more sense than any manmade explanation for the realities of life.” He motioned out the window. “Do you really think all that happened by accident?”

Incredible beauty had always stirred doubts of accidental design. But if it didn't happen from some cosmic explosion and myriad transformations of matter . . . “If there was some intelligent design—designer—wouldn't that being have some control over its work?”

He sipped and nodded. “Exactly. Only in this case, the extreme being gave each little creature his own choices—that freedom you find so intoxicating.”

“So you don't have to belong?”

He met her eyes, maybe reading more into her tone than she intended. “You have to follow the rules if you sign on. I have a hard time thinking inside that box.”

“So you believe in God but choose not to follow?”

He shrugged. “I understand my nature. Therefore, I know my eternal destiny, regardless of what I believe.”

“That's macabre.”

He laughed. “Maybe.”

Truck tires ground on the gravel outside. Through the window she watched Rick climb out. He didn't look like a puppet who belonged to a higher being or to anyone else for that matter. He looked confident, complete, almost as he had looked the night he'd played and sung to someone unseen. A finger of fear stroked her spine. What kind of being so overtook one that no physical presence was required?

He came inside. “Morning.” His brusque, candid manner dispelled her thoughts. Rick poured the coffee and drank, then sputtered, “Whew, Morgan.”

“I like it strong.”

“Strong is one thing. This is tar.”

Morgan turned to her. “Why don't we take a hike?” He acted as though nothing had happened between them the day before. Maybe nothing had. She had overreacted. Again. When would it stop, this triggering of fears that made no sense? She looked out the window. It was a brilliant day, and getting outside would ease her disquiet. But she didn't want to be with Morgan, not alone. “What about Rick?”

“It's his day of rest,” Morgan said.

Rick added water to his cup and gave her an enigmatic smile but didn't argue with Morgan. What would he do all day? Pray?

“No thanks.” She drained her coffee, then stood and rinsed the cup.

Morgan didn't stop her when she walked out, but he was at the base of the stairs when she came back down with her paints. “There's some beautiful scenery up in the national park.”

She paused two steps above him. “There's beautiful scenery right here.”

“We could drive to the foot of the trail and walk up.”

She leaned her hip to the banister. “I'm sure some of the other guests would be glad to go.” She went down past him.

He followed her out the door. “You'll need fresh inspiration to remain successful.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Spoken from the success guru?”

“You might be surprised.”

Resigned, she huffed out her breath. “All right, Morgan. Show me a scene I can't resist.”

The wind blew her hair as they drove up into Rocky Mountain
National Park and parked at the foot of the trail. It was hotter than she expected, in spite of the white, bulbous clouds building to the west. Morgan pulled a navy blue nylon pack from the trunk.

“What's that?”

“Water and snacks.”

“How responsible.”

“I told you so.” He took her art box and worked it into the pack, then shrugged it onto his back over the olive green shirt that accented his tan.

She could do worse for a tour guide. When he didn't push, he was good company. She followed him to the base of the trail and started up the winding path. It rose gently, then more steeply up the mountain until it rounded a curve and zigzagged up. He reached out and helped her over a rocky stretch, then led the way on up. As they came out above the trees, the full heat of the sun hit them, and Noelle sagged against the stony outcropping. Flushed and perspiring, she took the water bottle Morgan handed her.

“You okay?” He eyed her dubiously.

“I'm not used to this.” She bent at the waist, pressing her diaphragm until all the used air in her lungs was expressed, then straightened and drank from the bottle.

“You should be acclimated.”

She held the back of her palm to her forehead. “Guess I'm a lightweight. You look like you just strolled Park Avenue.”

“I run.”

“I dance.” Though she hadn't maintained her routine.

He smiled. “Maybe you should pirouette the trail.”

“Very funny.” She drank again, gazing out across the pine slopes with rocky crags like balding pates. In the distance she could see lower lands, golden pale, stretching away to hazy distances.

“See anything you can use?”

She shook her head slowly. “It's too broad. A watercolor wouldn't catch it.” It called for oils on a sweeping canvas. “It's amazing though.”

Morgan pointed. “There's the town, and there to the left is Rick's ranch. Pretty little piece.”

“It's beautiful.” The sight brought a quiver to her heart. “How did he get it?”

Morgan leaned against the rock wall beside her. “He and Dad purchased the land. Rick built the place.”

“Literally?”

Morgan nodded. “Log by log, with his own trees and a little help from his friends. He even built most of the furniture.” Pushing off from the wall, Morgan slipped the pack from his back and set it down. “He's a real mountain man. Should've lived in the old days.”

The breeze caught her hair, and she brushed it out of her eyes. “And you?”

“Strictly twenty-first century. I live in the moment.” He reached out and turned her face to him. “Like this moment. Right now.”

“Morgan.” Why did he have to make her uncomfortable when he could be so charming?

His gaze intensified. “What fate brought you here, Noelle?”

She moved out of his hand, unwilling to think again of some higher being directing her universe. “I brought myself.”

“What are you doing in my life?”

“I'm not.” Her heart started pounding, and she turned away. Had he fooled her in the kitchen? Hidden his feelings to get her alone on the mountain? Her back stiffened.

“You can deny it all you want. But you're here for a reason.”

She shook her head.

“It's because you need me.”

Blood pulsed in her ears. “I don't need anyone.”

“I'm not saying you love me. I might be nothing to you. But you need me.” He looked supremely confident of that.

Did she? Was there some cosmic accident that brought them together for . . . “For what?” She scarcely spoke it.

“To break through.” He took her hands in his. “Somewhere in there is the real Noelle. But something won't let you out.”

His touch sent shards of panic through her. She pulled against his hands. He resisted. Part of her knew he was trying to help. Part of her sensed the absurdity of her reaction. But she started to shake, fear crawling her spine. Her throat cleaved. “Please, Morgan.” Her voice broke.

In her mind a hawk cried. The sunlight shone red through its tail. She could imagine the talons pressed up into its creamy breast. Its shadow ran across her face and her breath would never come again. Fear would paralyze her chest until—“Please!”