Breath of Dawn, The (19 page)

“But have you wondered why they chose that word? In bed, we are what we are. And when we come together, we are what we are together. Speaking for myself, knowing you is pretty awesome.”

It was awesome. And she wanted him so much it scared her. But still she said, “Could we talk?”

With only a second’s hesitation he said, “Sure,” and settled her back against him.

Naturally, she could think of nothing to say.

He pulled a crooked smile. “Favorite ice cream?”

She elbowed him.

“You’re making this harder than it has to be. Just picture Paris.” He kissed the crook of her neck.

She groaned. “That was another world, another me.”

“You’re my wife. And for what it’s worth, I’m—”

“For what it’s worth? Do you think this is about you?”

“I’m not sure what it is.”

She dropped her head to her arm. “I just feel . . .” Dazed. Confused. Scared. Paris had been a dream and a cold awakening. To experience such love, then such raw unresolved pain . . .

He stroked her arm. “There’s no pressure. We can sleep. We can talk. Whatever moves you.”

She shifted around, circled his neck, and kissed him.

He raised his brows. “Interesting conversation starter.”

“Do you think I’d have dared that a week ago?”

He tugged a piece of her hair with a contemplative expression. “I get it.”

“You’re this person I . . . okay, fantasized about.”

Again the humor in his eyes.

“We had a snowball fight. A . . . turkey dinner.”

“Don’t forget the furniture moving.”

“A haunted cellar and a drug deal.”

“Way more interesting than dinner and a movie.”

She loved the way he did that, catching the flow and spirit and letting it take them. He leaned in and kissed her long enough to still her doubts and quicken her heart.

“I don’t want to mess up.”

“Why do you think you could?”

Like the asylum’s “porcelain doll,” she’d been fed a heaping dose of stricture and criticism, something she’d successfully conquered until now.

He murmured, “Erin,” in a tone that reminded her of all he’d done and why.

As she wrapped his neck again, her wedding band caught and scattered lamplight, infusing her uncertainty with hope and longing. It was possible. They could make it real, couldn’t they? Maybe they already were.

Leaving Erin sleeping, he went shirtless to the window in the elegantly appointed sitting room, a sensation like vivisection once more destroying any hope of rest in the city that never slept either. He’d been swept up by her sweetness, her energy, the way she spoke, the way she laughed, that half-vixen, half-vestal cast to her eyes that called to everything physical inside him. Sex was easy—it was great. It was not the whole story.

It complicated. It claimed. It demanded an emotional, spiritual engagement or the beast stayed hungry. He recognized the void, but couldn’t fill it from reservoirs drained dry and cavernous. And it was dangerous, dangerous ground.

He might live to fix, but God knew he could also break. He could destroy. He closed his eyes and saw, not his precious Livie, but the daughter he’d lost. Sometimes it seemed that single glance she’d sent through the thick hospital glass had emblazoned on his mind, eyes his color in a face swollen and peeling, a ravage of dying that ended heartbeats later.

Erin had no part in that pain. It was Jill’s sorrow and despair that had joined and mingled with his, their love that found a way through. What would she think now? Did this betray her? He ground his fists into his sockets.

What would she say if she could answer? “I never loved anyone but you”?

He dropped his head into his hands, loss rising from his chest to his eyes, grief unexpressed like rusty water from a well. Corrosive. Toxic. These tears would not cleanse if they fell. He should have done this work before he tried again. It wasn’t fair—

He stiffened when Erin’s warm hand touched his clammy arm. He wanted to resist, to make her go. Instead he turned. “It’s been two years. I thought I was past this.”

“You’ve been everything for Livie. When did you grieve?”

He opened and closed his mouth.

She slid her hand down his arm. “You’re cold.”

She was right. His body felt rigid with cold, as though nothing could thaw it. He reached, and she pressed into him, warmth and softness and strength. He found her mouth and took it.

In his kiss, she felt the wound, the loss, the shattered pieces of him. When he pressed his face to her hair, she held him, feeling their age difference closing—feeling older even, stronger. She could almost see something breaking open inside him, something he savagely defended. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.” He moved away, as though fearing his grief might devour her. He went to the sofa and sank down. “There’s too much you don’t know.”

She sat down beside him, waiting.

“I’m not going to . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Talk about Jill?”

“About everything.” His hand fisted. “Her, me . . . all that’s come before.”

They sat in the glow of city lights through the window, his reluctance an uninvited guest.

“I crashed on my bike once,” she said, “and all these pebbles got ground into my knee. One was imbedded so deeply they missed it. A week later the infection had burned up and down my leg and the lump turned a streaky, fiery red.” She tucked her foot up underneath her. “I thought I’d suffered enough the first time they pulled the stones out and demanded they leave it alone. Because I’d been indecorous, my father made the nurse leave it. Three nights later I woke, crying with pain only excising the wound could relieve.”

A clear and simple message. “How old were you?”

She blinked. “I don’t know, maybe four.”

Feeling a faint spike of anger, he ran a finger over the knee protruding beneath her robe as though it might still bear the wound. Perhaps inside it did. Slowly, he worked into the silence she offered. “When Jill got pregnant, I’d have married her, but her dad said she’d aborted the baby, and I would never come near his daughter again.” A rippling rage passed through the muscles of his jaw.

“The official version was a summer mission trip, but she went somewhere to have the baby, to give her up.” Again emotion clogged his voice. “The adoptive family cherished her. Kelsey.” His face twisted. “They called her Kelsey.”

Her heart tugged.

“As I told you, she contracted leukemia. When she was fourteen it came out of remission with a vengeance. The only chance, since she had no siblings, was an allogeneic bone marrow transplant.” He swallowed. “At best it’s a half match with either parent. Jill’s DNA didn’t work. So she had to find me.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I wish to God I hadn’t matched either.”

She ached.

“It gets technical, but in essence my healthy bone marrow attacked her depleted body. She died from graft-versus-host disease.” His voice turned to sand. “You can’t imagine what it felt like knowing part of me was in there killing her.”

“Morgan, I’m so sorry,” she breathed.

“Sometimes I think, if I could destroy something so innocent . . .” He pressed his hands to his face like claws, then slowly drew them down. “I’m just not sure what’s left. If I can do— what good I can be to you.”

Everything inside her softened. “Maybe I can be some good to you.” Her eyes pierced his defenses.

Sinking back into the tale she’d told, he gripped her knee and said, “What kind of person makes a child pay for being afraid?”

T
he Manhattan office Morgan took her to the next morning was beyond her imagining. Where did one even get such posh furnishings? The paintings on the walls were signed originals. Sculptures on the side tables should have been in a museum. People hustled about with purpose, making no sound on the Aubusson carpets overlaying the coral-toned marble tiles. Oiled wood and leather scented the cool air as they moved along the spacious corridor.

“Morgan.” A man who perfectly matched his surroundings rose from behind a burled-wood desk when they were ushered in.

“Hello, William.” Morgan and the silver-haired man shook hands warmly. “Thanks for receiving the packages.”

“Of course. Ellen saw to them.”

So this was the New York shipping address.

Morgan said, “William, this is my wife, Erin.”

Now she received the warmth of his greeting, though there was steel in his handshake and a keen appraisal in his eyes. “I hadn’t heard. Congratulations.”

“We married in Paris,” Morgan said, “and are just now getting back.”

“Ah, Paris.” His voice filled with nostalgia. “My summer there with Noelle has fondly lodged in my memories.”

“This is William St. Claire,” Morgan said. “Noelle’s father.”

“It’s so nice to meet you.” This gracious opulence was exactly what she had imagined Noelle came from.

William interlaced his fingers. “How’s your little girl?”

“She’s amazing.”

“And my daughter? The truth, if you don’t mind.”

Morgan tipped his head. “She makes light of the pneumonia?”

“She does.”

“They caught it early, and I think she’s doing better.”

William nodded seriously. “I still worry.”

“I understand.” They shared a grim smile. Parenting had pitfalls. “Well, you’re working and we have a flight to catch. Thanks again for receiving the packages.”

“You’re very welcome. And my sincere congratulations.” He nodded to her. “A delight to meet you.”

“And you.”

On the elevator down she remembered Noelle saying she’d been raised with fear and trembling. Must be nice, though, to know your father cared.

At the congested street, thick with the smell of exhaust and humanity, two assistants stacked boxes on dollies and loaded them into the SUV taxi. Either she had ended up with much more Parisian clothing than she recalled buying, or the hotel had put only an item or two in each box. She looked at Morgan, who offered no comment.

Last night had left no mark on his impeccable appearance. If anything, he seemed to move a little easier, like the tin man lubricated after standing too long in the storm.

He joined her in the cab. “Ready to go home?”

The thought of returning brought a bruising reminder of what she’d run from. “I have a mess to clean up.”

“Your house?”

“And maybe my warehouse. I didn’t take time to look.”

“You can’t go back there, can’t take the chance of Markham seeing you.” Reading her face, he said, “Are you insured?”

She sighed. “Until Vera’s I never accumulated much. And I didn’t
think of the things as mine, because in the back of my head, I thought one day I might have to leave them.”

“You knew that before the threats?”

“Markham threatened to make me pay the day they sentenced him.” The gleam behind his ice-cold eyes had made it seem there were two different people in one body. She shuddered.

“It’s a lot to deal with, and I haven’t exactly helped.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Laying all that on you last night.”

Did he really think silence would be better? “I appreciate you telling me. Noelle made sure anything you wanted me to know came directly from you.”

“Were you asking?”

“Only about the panic.”

“That’s the least of it—believe me.”

After glimpsing the rest, she said, “I do.”

After landing in snowy Colorado, Morgan transferred their luggage to the Range Rover he’d left at the airport. His anxiety rose with every passing minute. He needed to see his little girl and know she was safe, know she was well. He flat-out needed Livie.

Pressing his speed above the road conditions, he noticed Quinn’s—Erin’s—discomfort and eased off. He was having a harder time thinking of her in terms of his wife the farther from Paris and nearer they got to home—which wasn’t even home, merely a cocoon that provided the illusion of immunity.

He looked at her. “I guess we should talk about what happens now.”

She drew her knee up, pressing the heel of her sock into the seat and locking her leg in the bend of her arms. Her shoes nested on the floor. “You said I can’t, but I need to get a couple things from my house. A jewelry box and a photo.” She tried to hide it, but tears pooled, and her voice thickened. “If they survived.”

He watched the change come over her. She’d been almost matter-of-fact about losing merchandise, but those two things mattered. “I’ll check it out, once we get a feel for what’s been happening.”

She blinked the tears back and nodded.

He slowed for a vehicle struggling with the grade, waited for a chance, then moved around it. “I bought Vera’s as a halfway house to wean Livie off Noelle. I don’t think that’ll work now.”

“Thank God. I don’t ever want to set foot in there again.”

“You still haven’t told me what happened.”

“I did. There’s something evil in that house.”

“Erin, we were in there multiple times. And in the cellar.”

“Call me crazy. I know what I felt.”

“Why that time and no other?”

“There were others, just not as awful. No voices or laughter.”

He couldn’t help staring. “You’re serious?”

She nodded. “I don’t think it’s any mystery someone burned the place.”

He gave a slow nod. “Then I don’t want Livie there for one more minute.”

“You believe me?”

“I know there are angels. Kelsey taught me that. Stands to reason the opposition fields a team.”

“So what will we do?”

“Go home to Santa Barbara.”

She tipped her head. “Where Consuela is.”

“Yes.”

“If she’s there, what will I do?”

“Erin, you’re my wife. You’ll do whatever you want to.”

“But my part was—”

He squeezed her thigh, and triggered a slight leg jerk. “Forget the cooking equals identity equation. We blew that up in Paris.” For better or worse.

She couldn’t miss his edgy tone but only said, “I’ve never been to California.”

He tried to picture her there but found Jill instead, looking the way she had the night she went out and got crushed beyond recognition. His pulse raced. His head pounded. The palms of his hands slickened. “Erin.”

“Yes?”

“Can you drive?”

Catching his condition, she lowered her knee and shoved her shoes back on. He swung over to the shoulder. While she climbed out and came around, he rested his forehead on the wheel, trying to breathe. She opened the door. Teeth clenched, he got out. This had to stop.

The distance she scooted the seat up made him realize all over again how little she was. Didn’t have Jill’s hurdler’s legs by any stretch. But that relationship was gone. He had to learn how to keep it from interfering. And find a cure for cancer. And bring world peace.

He thanked her for taking over as she pulled into the lane.

“Want to talk about it?”

“I think I’ve said enough.” As the panic subsided, he sighed. “There’s just residue.”

“I understand.”

“I really hope you don’t, because it’s something you can only comprehend if you’ve been there.” He was creating distance again and couldn’t stop it.

To combat the bright mountain glare, she flipped the sun visor down and saw his photographs.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Is that Kelsey?”

“Far right.” As though the bald head didn’t say it all.

“She looks like an angel.”

“Yeah.” His voice rasped.

She said nothing about Livie or Jill. Stretching, he pulled the photographs down and slipped them into his pocket.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I can’t keep living in the past.” As they entered town, he said, “We’ll stay at the ranch tonight.”

“That’s fine, if they don’t mind me—”

“You’re my wife,” he reminded her again. “I bet they kind of expect it.”

“Doesn’t mean they’ll like it.” She made the turn up to the ranch, the tires getting sluggish in the snowpack.

“They like you. Rick tried to get me interested the first time he saw you.”

“What?”

“At the patisserie.”

“No way.”

“I don’t joke about that stuff. Seriously annoyed me.”

She studied him for sincerity.

“That’s when I decided to move out. I was crowding them, and they were crowding me.”

“And here we are,” she said, literally and figuratively, as she parked. “You want to go in first?”

He crooked a smile. “In case of spider webs?”

“In case of flying daggers.”

“They’ll be aimed at me.”

“That’s hardly fair.”

He preferred it that way. Handing her down from the truck, he stood a moment with his hands on her waist. “Want me to carry you over the threshold?”

“Don’t you dare.”

He was so tempted. Taking her hand, he went inside, calling, “Livie?” From the kitchen came the patter of little feet. He ran to meet her, swung her up, and tossed her in the air. She came down with a hug around his neck, and he held and held and held her.

The cinnamon scent of snickerdoodles wafted from the kitchen as he at last loosened his hold. He couldn’t imagine Noelle baking, or it smelling good if she did. He raised his eyes from the crook of Livie’s neck . . . and saw his mother.

“Welcome back,” Celia said with a somber smile.

He didn’t ask what she was doing there. Either Rick or Noelle must have filled her in. Now he wished he’d let Erin wait outside. “Mom.” He turned and drew Erin to his side. “This is my wife, Erin. Erin, my mother, Celia.”

Their greetings were stiff.

“This is . . . a surprise.” Erin cleared her throat.

“Oh yes. It is.”

Erin unbuttoned her coat. “You’re visiting?”

“I’m here to learn why two people who just met had to leave the country and marry.”

Morgan said, “That was all me.”

She pulled a thin, unconvinced smile.

“Do I smell cookies?” He raised his brows.

“Livie’s helping Grammy bake.” Celia brushed the little girl’s arm.

With Livie on his hip, he clasped Erin’s hand and followed his mother to the kitchen. Releasing Erin, he snatched a warm confection, bounced it a few times on his palm to cool, and popped it whole into his mouth, talking around it. “Where’s Noelle?”

“Upstairs resting.”

He swallowed the rich chewy mass. “Rick?”

“Out with your dad.”

“Dad’s here too? Don’t tell me you brought the girls.”

“Your father and I flew out.”

This was serious if they flew. He handed a cookie to Erin. “No one makes snickerdoodles like Celia Spencer.”

“Anyone who follows a recipe can,” Celia said.

“No, trust me, there’s no guarantee of that.” Livie clung, so he didn’t try to put her down.

Erin bit in and nodded. “Wonderful.”

He knew from experience, their opinion of her cookies meant zip. Nothing stopped a glacier on its course.

“So, Erin,” Celia said, “what can you tell me about yourself?”

Erin looked at the firm-faced woman with penetrating eyes and almost said, “Good question.”

“You’re younger than Morgan.”

“I’m twenty-seven.” Being small, people thought her younger than she was.

“You’re from here?”

“No. I’ve been in Juniper Falls about six months, a couple other towns before that.”

“What do you do that requires moving so often?”

“I have my own business, buying from estate sales and trading on eBay. Different locations keep things fresh.”

Celia waited for more with an expression that said nothing less than opening a vein would satisfy.

Erin raised her chin. “I like kids and dogs, drive a truck, and I’m not after Morgan’s money.” Celia’s brows jumped. Morgan straightened as she went on. “For reasons on both our parts, marriage made sense and so here we are.”