Breath of Dawn, The (2 page)

The next morning, dressed in black jeans, ankle boots, and an embroidered kimono-shaped sweater from a different estate, she paused in front of the Alpine Patisserie, with blue shake-shingle roof and white letters etched on the glass. At the window table, she saw Noelle, elegant in designer jacket and jeans—no mistaking that quality.

The man sharing the parlor-style table fit her perfectly, polished, urbane, and way too handsome, with nearly black hair and fine, angular features. He wore his well-fashioned clothes with as much ease as Noelle. A matched set.

Reaching behind the table, he brought up the last thing she’d expected—a fairy child, maybe two years old, with dark wispy hair and such precious features Quinn stopped, hand pressed to her heart. They were a family. Nothing amazing in that, so why did she feel such pathos?

When the little girl leaned in to kiss her daddy’s mouth, something almost piercing—

“Going in?” a rugged guy in a Stetson asked while the young boy with him hung back by his arms to open the door.

She hadn’t decided yet, but the little guy held the door so earnestly, she said, “Thanks.”

Red-faced with exertion, the kid beamed, then ducked in when the man took over the door. Heading for the counter, Quinn scanned the menu board, catching with the corner of her eye the newcomers joining Noelle and her husband.

The boy, who looked about four, ground the metal feet of a parlor chair over the tile floor like a file on a washboard and slid into place at the table. The man removed his hat, bent, and kissed Noelle, a hand wrapping the back of her neck in a brief, telling gesture. What?

Quinn stopped pretending to read the board and ordered hot green tea. Captivated by the three adults and two children, she carried the mug to a seat with a view. She’d always been an excellent people reader. Not, as it turned out, that it mattered.

She squeezed the tea bag by its string around the spoon, then set both on the table. The little girl spoke earnestly to the man who held her. Quinn could have sworn she was his child, their features and coloring so similar.

When Noelle asked the boy his choice, he cried, “Chocolate crepes!” The kid could have a career in broadcasting.

“Choc-late crepes,” the fairy child mimicked with far less volume and precious pronunciation.

Noelle went to the counter and placed their order. When she turned with the tray, their glances met. “Quinn? Hello.”

Sipping her tea, Quinn raised her fingers in a wave, then lowered the cup when Noelle stepped toward her. “Your kids are cute.”

“Oh.” Noelle glanced over her shoulder. “The little girl’s my niece, but that rascal Liam is mine.”

So the little girl was the first man’s, and Noelle really was with the rancher. Thus the truck, not the Jaguar. “Liam looks like his dad, his expressions especially.”

“And every bit as determined.” She laughed softly. “Want to join us?”

Quinn looked at the overcrowded table. “I’ll just finish my tea and run. I’m cleaning out Vera’s house.”

“That’s a project.”

To say the least. “How’s Matilda?”

“Not much fazed, I think. Our properties adjoin and the grass tastes the same on our side. But if she does prefer the other, it won’t be a problem. My husband, Rick”—she tipped her head his way—“made RaeAnne an offer on the land.”

“What about the house?”

“She’ll sell that separately.”

“Mommy!” Liam hollered.

Noelle cast another glance over her shoulder. “Better feed my starving child.”

Quinn watched her and then, more openly, the little ones. If the
girl was her niece, then the first man was her brother, or married to her sister. She couldn’t get a clear view of his ring hand. But when the husband, Rick, said something, the other man’s expression shifted. Brothers. They were brothers. Quinn sat back and sipped, an unfamiliar sensation in her chest.

Morgan frowned. Rick’s attempt to interest him in the slight, dark-haired woman irritated him almost as much as Noelle’s ever-present concern. “For future reference, Rick, my own eyes work just fine.” Though small, the woman would never be inconspicuous.

“They don’t see three inches past Livie.”

“What else is there to see?” He spoke over his daughter’s head as she dipped a fingertip in the chocolate.

“Me, Uncle Morgan!” Liam declared.

He frowned at the kid. “Who are you again?”

“Liam!”

Noelle shushed him. “Don’t encourage it, Morgan. This shouting is not cute.”

Morgan grinned. “Oh yeah. Little Will.”

“Wil-li-am. Liam!” He pressed the side of his hand into the middle of the crepe, oozing chocolate out both ends. “I’m not little Will. I’m Liam.”

“Don’t play with your food.” Rick nudged his hand off the crepe.

“Livie does.”

“Livie’s two.”

Producing a tiny fork-spoon from his pocket, Morgan gave it to his daughter. “Tools are what separate us from the animals.”

“That and opposable thumbs,” Rick said.

“And the ability to reason,” Noelle rounded it out.

“Hands work better.” Liam gave the crepe another karate chop.

Morgan had to smile at Rick getting a kid more headstrong than he. Olivia on the other hand was perfect—sweet-natured and affectionate, with an impish streak like a vein of silver and a gold dusting of feistiness. Why would he ever look past that?

“I’m just saying,” Rick said, lowering his voice, “at some point that little girl’s going to want a mother.”

Not to put too fine a point on it. For almost two years now, Livie had shared Noelle with Liam as a sibling would, though no sibling had yet . . . Or had one . . . He narrowed his eyes. “Something you guys haven’t told me?”

“How did you do that?” Rick leaned back in his chair.

Morgan rubbed Livie’s back as she switched her little fork from one hand to the other, testing proficiency. “You say go get a life; you mean yours is moving on.”

“I didn’t say go get a life.”

“No, you wouldn’t. But that’s the point, isn’t it?”

Noelle touched his hand. “It’s not because I’m pregnant—”

“But you are.” Had they gone four years between children because of him and Livie?

“What’s pregnant?” Liam stuffed a drippy end of chocolate crepe into his mouth.

Living on a brood ranch, he presumed the kid had an inkling, but neither parent offered insight.

Noelle leaned in. “We want you to be happy.”

Her version of happy. He didn’t contradict. His second book,
Ten Spectacular Ways to Fail
—
and Why CEOs Choose To
, had flown up the bestseller list faster than
Money Magic by the Success Guru.
There was no reason to believe his nearly completed work-in-progress would do any less.

Like Beethoven, the subject of TSO’s metal rock opera, Morgan Spencer brought forth brilliance from agony, birthing as great a fame and wealth as the “vaporous wizard,” who refused signings and tours, as he had being the turnaround specialist who took corporations from ashes to blazing suns.

Everything he touched thrived—except the people he loved, and he’d be damned, literally, before he lost Livie.
“Jesus loves you,”
Kelsey had told him in the letter he read after she died, in the crash when he almost joined her, in his heart even now. But that love had an edge so sharp, blood spilled before he ever felt the blade.

The past two years, with help from Rick and Noelle, he’d been everything Livie needed, present and more than accounted for. But he’d disrupted their lives long enough. He tuned back in to
their conversation as Rick said he had fencing to tear out from the new pasture.

Noelle lowered her cup. “RaeAnne took your offer?”

“Yep. Now she just needs to dump the house.”

The house. Morgan tipped back in his chair as a thought occurred. Out of sight of Rick’s log complex, but close enough if Livie needed Noelle. His real home waited in Santa Barbara, but for now . . .

M
organ parked the Range Rover that replaced his Maserati during inclement months in front of the house he’d come to see. Unlike Rick’s western log house and cabins, this single-level ranch was nothing special, a rectangle with a peaked center, probably a low cathedral ceiling in the living room. Not looking for permanence or even investment, he only cared that it was livable in this step toward independence for his daughter and himself.

If not for Livie, he’d have thrown himself into the all-consuming milieu where he turned coal into diamonds—to hear the pundits tell it. Instead he’d put to paper the tenets of his success and welcomed their use by any and all.

Maybe he would return to the corporate world, but it could not be traumatic for Livie. And so he got out and surveyed the house. No sign indicated a listing yet, and he’d just as soon make an offer without real estate agents. His lawyer could handle the details. The bell made an asthmatic wheeze he wasn’t sure carried anywhere.

Trying the door when no one came, he found it open and called, “Hello?” He’d like a quick look to make sure nothing ruled the place out.

The woman who exited the bedroom caught him by surprise. It was the one from the bakery. “You’re RaeAnne?”

She looked equally taken aback. “Quinn.”

He took in the elfin features, the dark tumble of hair moments from jailbreak from its clip. “Does that come with a first name?”

“Quinn Reilly. Quinn for my grandpa’s favorite hound.”

“You’re named after a dog?” And admitting it.

“Not just any dog. A bluetick hound with a nose like none before or since.”

“Huh.” In spite of himself he ran his eyes down her slight figure in jeans and threadbare sweatshirt that reminded him of one he wore on his balcony when he didn’t care if the salt air drifted in.

“Did you want something?” She placed her hands on her hips.

“To see RaeAnne about the house.”

“Oh. She flew home. I have a number though.”

“That would be good.” He looked around. “Can I walk through?”

“Not easily. I’m going through Vera’s stuff.”

“I just need a sense of the place, to see if it works.”

“For you?” Surprise found her eyes, though he didn’t know what difference it made to her.

He cocked his head. “Is that a problem?”

“Not for me. I’m just doing a job.”

He nodded. “I’ll take a quick peek and get out of your way.”

She shrugged and went back to the bedroom; at least he thought there was a bed under the heaping clothes. Quinn pulled a pair of pants from a drawer and checked it methodically—pockets, lining, seams—then added it to the pile on the bed.

“Looking for something?”

“I’m . . . sorting.”

“Thoroughly.”

She cast him a look. “Yep.”

He found her laconic approach to conversation interesting. He hadn’t experienced many women who said less than necessary. Taking a quick cruise through the single level that would keep life with Livie simple, he returned to Quinn, still sorting clothes. “Is there a basement?”

“A cellar.” She sat back on her heels. “I understand it’s not habitable.”

“Oh?”

“This house was built on the foundation of an asylum.”

“No way.”

She shrugged. “That’s what RaeAnne said. They sent people up the mountain to ‘rest their minds.’”

Not at all sure he wanted to live over an asylum, but diabolically intrigued, he said, “Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“Want to?”

“No.”

He leaned on the doorframe. “Aren’t you curious?”

“I see plenty of cellars.”

“Not haunted.”

She rested her palms on her thighs. “Do you see all this? RaeAnne’s mother kept every piece of clothing she ever owned.”

Rick had not noticed her for nothing. She had a sort of spark. “Come explore and I’ll help you haul those clothes out.”

She cocked her head. “You’re scared to go alone?”

“I could use a shield.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you have a name?”

“Morgan.”

“Does that come with a first name?”

A smile tugged the corners of his lips. “Morgan Spencer. Now come on, let’s see that cellar.”

Reluctantly, she rose.

He swung his arm. “Lead on.”

She raised what might have been ordinary eyes but were instead espresso brown with lighter starbursts around the pupils. “I’m not going first.”

“Scared?”

“The one in front gets all the spider webs.”

Something opened up in his chest, something like amusement. “Okay. I’ll take the webs. Just show me the way.”

“I don’t know it.”

“What?”

“I’ve been going through the stuff, not exploring the house.”

“Might be stuff down there.”

She shuddered. “That’s creeping me out.”

Since he hadn’t seen a door elsewhere, access was probably in the kitchen. The room had very little floor or wall space with all the tables, hutches, cabinets, and a rolling dishwasher. The linoleum popped and crackled like little firecrackers under their feet.

She enclosed herself in her arms. “You know, I’m not—”

“Can’t back out now,” he said. “We need a nose like none before or since.”

“All right. I thought I saw something . . .” She leaned around a massive mahogany hutch. “Is that a door?”

He leaned too and saw it. “Now see, you’re living up to your name.”

Head tipped, she slid him a look. His mouth twitched.

Together they angled the hutch away from the wall, and with a yank, the door opened to stairs much older than the house. “Cool,” he said as a musty draft drifted up. He tried the old wall switch to no effect. “Hmm.”

“No doubt there’s something in here to use.” Quinn pulled open drawer after drawer until she found a flashlight, banged it a few times to get the lamp on, then flashed the dim beam.

“That should work.” Taking it, he stepped onto the stairs, pushing a stringy spider web aside. “They seem sturdy, but tread carefully.”

He could feel her close behind him, her creaks immediately following his. Thick dust without footprints coated the stairs. The iron railing wobbled but held. Nearing the bottom, he shot the light wide. “Whoa.”

She gripped the back of his shirt. “Are you kidding me?”

The space was filled with iron beds, carts, commodes, rubber tubing, and unidentifiable paraphernalia.

She tightened her grip. “Are those chains?”

He focused the beam on a bed rail. “I think you’d say shackles.”

“I’m beyond freaked.”

He took the final step down.

“Wait, wait, wait. We’re not going in.”

“Don’t chicken out now.” He trailed the light slowly across the darkness, pausing on a glass-faced cabinet near the wall. “Check that out.” He felt her straighten, interest kindling as the light ran over dusty bottles on the inner shelves. “Tinctures of newt and eye of bat?”

She shifted her grip to his arm, excitement trumping concern. “Can we get to it?”

“I thought we weren’t going in.” Swinging the lantern beam to illuminate her face, he eyed her, all pent-up energy and impatience.

“Do you think we’ll die?”

“No, but squeeze any harder and I might lose that arm.”

“Oh!” She looked down and let go.

He swept aside a dust-coated cobweb and moved between two beds stacked sideways on his right and three to his left.

“Who would build a house on top of all this?” Her voice sounded thin.

“Someone who didn’t want to dig and pour a new foundation.”

“With all these things inside?”

“Know what it’ll take to clean it out?”

“No. But I guess I’ll find out.”

He half turned.

“I bought the contents of the house, so it’s my problem.”

He pushed through several carts, the wheels of one wailing like a ghost. “You could contact a museum.”

“Like anyone would want this junk.” But when he illuminated the drug cabinet, she moved past him and wiped the glass with her sleeve. Didn’t make much difference as far as he could tell. The glass itself looked milky.

She pulled the metal knob. “It’s locked. Think we can carry it up to the light?”

She seemed serious. The cabinet was his height though narrow, hardwood and beveled glass. “You’d be risking the contents.”

“Not if we keep it tipped just right.”

He shrugged. “High or low on the stairs?”

She looked over her shoulder. “I guess realistically I better take top.”

“Good call.” It put her backward for the climb, but he’d bear
the weight. “Just a sec.” He stuck the flashlight into his waistband in back, sending an insipid light to the ceiling that prevented total darkness as they dislodged the cabinet. They pushed it through the path he’d made, then hoisted it up each riser, the bottles jangling against each other.

At the top, they brought the cabinet into the scant remaining floor space and slowly righted it. Even so the bottles tinkled and tumbled. “I guess a locksmith could get it open.”

She fingered the knob and keyhole. “I have a whole box of skeleton keys someone collected for about two hundred years.”

“Long-lived.”

“I mean the keys date back—” She caught the joke and said, “One of those might work.”

He dragged his thumb through the dust along a crease. “Or you could leave it sealed. Let it keep its secrets.”

She turned. “Why?”

“It’s been in the dark a long time.”

“Don’t you want to know what’s in the bottles?”

Turning pensive he asked, “What’ll you sell this for?”

“I have no idea. I don’t usually handle furniture.”

“I’ll give you a thousand dollars—as is.”

“What?”

“I want to keep it here in the kitchen.”

“It’s not your kitchen.”

“It will be. I’m making RaeAnne a cash offer.”

She crossed her arms in clear frustration. “We brought it up to see inside.”

“One thousand five hundred, intact with the bottles.”

“Are you insane?”

A smile twitched. “Think I belong down there? In the shackles, maybe?”

Her expression left no doubt. “I want to open it.”

“Then refuse my offer.”

She squirmed in the trap. With almost no context, he couldn’t guess which way she’d go. But he could nudge. He took out his checkbook, wrote one thousand five hundred dollars to Quinn Reilly, and tore it off. “That’s the deal, take it or leave it.”

She snatched the check. “I’m not showing you anything else before I see it myself.”

“Fair enough,” he said. With the exercise ended, the ache inside returned like a guard who’d looked away for a second, then resumed scrutiny.

Watching him leave the kitchen, Quinn had the same sensation she’d experienced outside the patisserie—desolation. One moment those indigo eyes probed and teased, the next they caved in like bad ice, leaving fathomless black water.

She moved down the hall and jumped when he came out of the bedroom behind a heaping pile of clothes. “What are you doing?”

“I told you I’d haul these out.”

“I didn’t think you meant it.”

“I wouldn’t say it otherwise.” His lackluster tone had a razor-thin edge.

She watched him carry armful after armful of clothes to his Range Rover until at last he came back inside, rubbing his hands from the chill.

“That’s all I can fit. Where do you want them taken?”

“There’s a church in town that sends them to a mission.”

He nodded. “I’ll drop them with Pastor Tom.”

“You know him?”

Now the edge found his eyes, but in truth, Morgan didn’t seem like a man who’d know the pastor by name.

“Right.” She broke the stare. “Thanks for your help and . . . purchase.” She’d been too flabbergasted to haggle.

“You’re welcome. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

She hadn’t admitted to searching, but he’d obviously analyzed and drawn conclusions. If she was smart she’d do the same. Maybe he didn’t have fifteen hundred dollars and his check would bounce. That suspicion seeped in with an acidic burn.

She still had possession of the cabinet, so it wouldn’t matter except in principle. Still, she couldn’t stand dishonesty, hated it almost as much as cruelty. Being the victim of lies as a little child
had first baffled, then demoralized her. Now it infuriated her to encounter even senseless, supposedly harmless deceit.

Bundling into her coat, she hurried to her truck and drove home, parking not at her little house but the big metal storehouse barn on the side of the property. Chafing her chilly hands, she fired up her laptop and searched Morgan Spencer.

Moments later, her jaw fell slack. “Oh. My.”

Videos, images, articles, and blogs. Awards, events, international corporate news. She read one business article about his second
New York Times
bestseller.
Elusive corporate specialist Morgan Spencer avoids the public eye as his fame and success crescendo. . . .

Quinn gaped. She’d clung to a world-famous mogul. Huffing a laugh, she shook her head. She should have charged five thousand.