Breath of Dawn, The (28 page)

She had prayed last night for the woman’s eyes to be opened and knew the Lord would handle it better than she or even Rick could. Destiny tossed his head when the stable door opened and Hannah stepped uncertainly inside. Was this the chance?

“Good morning,” Rick spoke over the mare’s back.

“I have to tell you something,” Hannah blurted.

Noelle stepped out of Destiny’s stall when the shrill tone put the animal on edge. While unafraid, she respected the power he might unleash in a confined space.

Rick rested his hand on Aldebaran’s haunch. “We’re listening.”

Hannah seemed to freeze.

“What is it, Hannah?” Noelle softened Rick’s approach.

Hannah looked at her as if she’d only just appeared. Rick had a powerful presence, but he wasn’t the only person around.

“Um,” Hannah said, “it’s Markham.”

“He’s here?” She shot a glance at the door, thanking God Liam was at playgroup.

Wide-eyed, the woman flushed. “I mean . . .
about
Markham.

“What about him?” Rick’s question released a torrent.

“Quinn tried to tell me, but I didn’t believe it. She’s always been
jealous.” Hannah gulped. “But she’s right. He was telling me . . . lies. Now he deserted me, and I need Quinn.”

Could there be a worse liar anywhere in the world? Noelle ached for her. “Hannah, I’m sorry he’s left you in this predicament.”

Without shifting course, she said, “Please tell me where she is.”

“Hannah.” Rick leaned on Aldebaran’s stall. “Why don’t you show us the respect we’ve given you and stop lying.”

In response, her face heated. She shouted, “Tell me where she is!”

At the outburst, Destiny banged a hoof on the stall as he balked sideways. Noelle reached over, gentling him.

“I’m sorry,” Rick said. “We can’t.”

They’d given Hannah hospitality overnight, when her distress and confusion were real. But the hostility coming off her now was tangible.

She cried, “She doesn’t deserve your friendship. She’s a liar and a thief. She stole Markham’s life. Why can’t you see that?”

Rick’s voice came soft but firm. “You should contact him to come get you.”

Her face reddened further, and her mouth worked as if struggling with what to say. “You should have helped him. Now he’ll shake your dust from his feet.”

Rick took out his truck keys. “I’ll drive you to the general store. He can meet you there.”

Noelle sighed. Erin said as long as Markham needed her, Hannah would be safe, but she couldn’t help wishing they had been able to convince her.

Exerting extreme control, Markham had taken the weepy Hannah back to Quinn’s house without losing it. He was not a violent man, despised violent men like the ones who’d raised him, whose greatest intelligence lay in realizing he was less effective with bruises and even so had not been able to restrain their fists and belts.

Thoughts of striking Hannah were like shrapnel in his brain—foreign and destructive. How could he blame her, when his own efforts had failed? It shook him to the core to think he might have
lost the ability to sway people. Selling the illusion was his gift. Without it, what was he?

Behind the wheel of his Toyota, he escaped Hannah and sought a way to relieve his fears. How risky would it be to show himself in town? He’d committed no violation they could prove, even if Quinn accused him. He’d only wanted to talk. Was reconciliation a crime?

Confidence swelled his chest. Innocent men didn’t skulk. Men with nothing to hide went where they wanted, when they wanted. He donned the mantle of innocence, feeling the assurance like a drug. He had a clue to follow. And every right to follow it.

The Maserati.

Of the two men who had towed it in, he guessed it must be Rick’s. He could not by any stretch believe it the other goon’s. And if he’d lent it to Quinn, the relationship might be more than the man wanted to admit. That explained how cagey he’d been at the ranch. It also explained his concern about her house. His wife must be blind.

Smirking, Markham entered the Roaring Boar Tavern. He sat among those lined up at the bar, a hearty lunch bunch who didn’t mind a beer or two before noon. After a time of camaraderie, he said, “Shame about that Maserati. You all see the dent?”

As he’d expected, that comment caused a noisy lament. And he’d been wrong. It wasn’t Rick, but his brother, Morgan Spencer, who held title. Quite the town hero, Morgan. Quite the legend. And, if they could be believed, quite the gold mine—though, as with any mine, the key was finding it.

Although everyone knew Morgan like a brother, not one had an address. “Oh, he stays at Rick’s. Yeah, he’s right up at the ranch. Stays up there with his little girl. Too bad about his wife. Awful thing.”

Markham tried again with the pockmarked bartender. “Just so I’m clear, Morgan
lives
at his brother’s ranch?”

“When he’s here, yeah. Been there”—the man shrugged—“around two years.”

Hannah had seen no one but Rick and his wife. And their kid.

“When he isn’t at the ranch, where does he live?”

Again the shrug. “Somewhere on the coast, I think.”

“East or west?”

“Don’t know. Maybe both.”

“Thought you guys were buds.”

The man smiled. “Yeah, Morgan’s great. Really gets the place going. Hasn’t been in much the last two years, but before the baby, he was a big-time regular. We’d see him every night he was in town.”

“And he never said where he spends the rest of his time.”

“All over the world, man. Consulting. Wrote some books too. I have signed copies, but I don’t read them. All that financial stuff goes over my head.”

“You wouldn’t have them here, would you?”

“Yeah!” The guy turned to the mirrored shelf showcasing bottles. Just beneath the giant boar’s head were two hardcover books. “I put them there since Morgan says the boar reminds him of the nun who taught third grade. Wicked sense of humor.”

Markham smiled, sick of this Morgan already. Taking the first book in hand, he recognized the man who’d come to Quinn’s with Rick—the suave, compelling expression twisting the knife. “So this is what it takes to get a Maserati.”

“Sweet ride. My life flashed before my eyes when he took me out. Worth every minute.”

He opened to the author bio, rife with creds and accolades—and no address, even in general terms. No “Spencer makes his home . . .” anyplace. He handed the books back. If Spencer was so important, he’d be on the Internet. More importantly, if he’d lent Quinn his Maserati, she might mean something to him. There could be greater potential here than even he’d imagined.

With Livie playing in the kitchen cabinets while Consuela washed windows, Erin slipped back upstairs to Jill’s workroom, drawn by a desire to know the woman Morgan had loved from his early manhood to this day—fifteen years of it spent apart. What kind of person inspired that in someone like Morgan?

When he’d left that morning, he assured her they’d be guarded. But what would guard her from her need to know his dead wife?
“I
know how deep you run, how hard you love.”
Celia’s words were like a taunt, and Morgan’s still a spear.
“I won’t do that again.”

Was she trying to invade that hallowed bond? Or did what she felt for Morgan lend itself to those who mattered to him? Could Jill fascinate her because she’d fascinated him? And in knowing his wife, might she better know him?

The questions swirled in her head without answers. Maybe it was the curiosity that had stung her time and again, but she wanted to know. With Markham she’d been driven to find the truth and expose the fraud. This was nothing like that. It wasn’t a desire to diminish Jill, but to understand.

She went in, noting an organization and order not unlike her own. The books in one bookshelf dealt with early development and educational theory, mental and emotional disabilities, creative learning and classroom management. That, coupled with the storage bins of supplies, indicated Jill had been a teacher. Specific manuals suggested she worked with severely challenged children. Of course.

Erin circled to another shelf unit that appeared to hold albums. They were dated by year, and she pulled the earliest one down and settled into the office chair. The album yielded page after page of children with obvious, and not so obvious, disabilities, learning and interacting singly and in groups. Jill had archived other people’s kids who may have passed through her life for only a short time. Yet they lived in these shelves, nine years of her work with them.

Beneath those were undated albums. Erin took the navy blue one farthest to the left and sat once again. Dappled light slanted in the window through the multi-trunk tree Consuela had called a madrone. Supposedly, the tree did not like to be touched or disturbed, and its location on the property as opposed to wild on the hills along the shore was unusual.

Opening the album, she saw what had to be an elementary-school portrait of Morgan. Even with teeth missing and a bad haircut, he displayed the heartbreaking good looks he’d grown into. She turned the page and found assorted pictures of him in various activities. This album chronicled his growing up, life radiating. With every shot, she fell deeper in love.

The boyhood form lengthened and hardened. Adolescence had been kind to Morgan. She ran her finger over his face.

And then, there she was. The silver-blond beauty had to be Jill. More athletic than she’d imagined, there were several shots of them in sports uniforms, a humorous one in business attire behind podiums as they debated for class president, Morgan obviously playing it for all he was worth, Jill coolly dismissing him. She wondered who’d won.

The prom picture took her breath. Morgan wore the rented tux as though born to it. Jill bore her crown like a true queen. Erin sighed. There’d been no dances at her school, maybe wisely, given what had happened to Jill and Morgan, but she couldn’t help a wistful longing.

What if she and Morgan had started out young and hopeful? If she’d never crossed Markham. If Morgan had never known Jill. Stupid thoughts and fruitless. These photos recorded what was real. Jill had loved and been loved by the man who might never truly do so again.

Erin closed the album and shelved it without taking another. Whatever she might learn from the remaining albums was more than she wanted to see.

E
rin couldn’t get over how December, at sixty-five degrees, still and clear, looked and smelled and felt like spring. Some trees had dropped their leaves while others had not. Brilliant flowers bloomed without ceasing. The ocean rolled in and ebbed out, as calm and timeless as a dream. After living her whole life where nature had seasonal behaviors, she couldn’t quite believe her senses.

Or maybe it had nothing to do with climate or environment. What she couldn’t believe was the wonder and magnitude of this life. She knew that, as unexpectedly as it had overcome her, it could all be snatched away. Noelle’s phone call had driven that home. It was only a matter of time before her choices caught up with her.

Where would that leave Morgan? And Livie. Her throat constricted.

“Look.” Livie ran across the damp sand on the private beach to deliver a piece of sea glass as blue as Morgan’s eyes.

“That’s special. Put it in your pocket.” She helped her secure the treasure, then straightened as a gull waddling by drew her gaze back to the surf. “Oh look, Livie.” She snatched the little girl up
and pointed to a harbor seal bobbing and diving a short distance out. “It’s a seal. Do you see it?”

Livie reached her arms out. “Can I hold it?”

“Only if it flops up here on the beach and gives us a hug.”

Livie giggled.

“Think that’s funny?”

When Livie giggled again, she couldn’t resist tickling just to hear the laugh get high and throaty. Livie squirmed but wanted more because she said, “Want to hug it.” And so they tickled and laughed all over again.

Then Livie nearly dove out of her arms. Erin turned, heart leaping as Morgan snatched his little girl and covered her face with kisses. Her arms squeezed so tightly around his neck it was a wonder he could breathe. Then she leaned back and pressed his face between her hands. “We play on a beach, Daddy.”

“You sure are.”

Erin said, “Consuela had the stairs repaired. Or I wouldn’t have risked them with Livie.”

“I noticed.” He looked back at the work.

“The yardmen had to do something, and we needed a way down.”

“Money well spent.”

“Glad you don’t mind. Because we have important things to do.” She wiggled Livie’s little hand.

“Such as?”

“Chase crabs, watch gulls, talk to neighbors and their dogs.”

He slanted her a look. “Which neighbors?”

“Mainly the voluptuous one who wants to know why you haven’t stopped in for a drink lately.”

“Uh-huh.” He looked annoyed. “She tried that with Jill too. And, in case you’re wondering, nothing’s ever happened.”

“I must admit I was.”

“Her innuendoes have innuendo.”

“She’s very attractive.”

“Artificially. She’s had a few minor movie roles and done some . . . modeling.” When he set Livie down, she danced around him in her little shoes, buoyed with glee at having him home.

Erin tipped her face up. “You said five days, and it’s only been three.”

“Funny thing, having people to come home to.”

“You missed us?”

“Eh, mainly Livie.” He shied when she punched him, then caught her wrist and pulled her close, mapping her face with his eyes. “Yeah, I missed you.”

He gave her the kiss she wanted, though it broke her heart just a little.

“I got to thinking I could break it up, kind of punch, counterpunch. I wouldn’t be away so long, but . . .”

“But you have to go back.”

“I do. Still, this could be the new consultation prototype. At least domestically.”

“I think in Livie’s world, days are years.”

“I think you’re right.” Threading their fingers, he turned to watch his tot in her hooded jacket prancing in the sand. The damp little divots left by her feet seemed somehow magical, as if they were witnessing elves or fairies dancing on the shore.

“Tell me she missed me a little.”

“She missed you a lot. But we managed.” At the water’s edge a tiny crab skittered out and back in the foam.

“I could see how mournful you both were as I came down.”

“That was a little silliness. The rest of the time we said, ‘Woe is me—won’t Morgan come home.’”

“You’re starting to tease as mercilessly as Noelle.”

She laughed. “The first time I saw you, I thought she was your wife. Then Rick came in and kissed her.”

“He makes sure there’s no confusion.”

She caught a rueful hint. “Was there?”

He shrugged. “We met her together. I gave it a shot, then Rick came in with the stealth play. A year later, Jill was back in my life.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to think what a mess it would have been if things had gone the other way.”

Erin nodded. “So.”

“So.” He threaded their fingers. “Does that bother you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good.” He let go and ran after Livie, who was chasing a plover, grabbed her into his arms, and tickled her neck and tummy with his face.

Watching, she fought to contain her emotions as ineffectually as the sea contained its waves. She shouldn’t be falling in love. She didn’t deserve them. And quite possibly—

Their play stopped, and Morgan handed Livie back to answer his vibrating phone. A pelican tossed its shadow over his face as it glided toward the sea. Another shadow passed over her heart as Morgan said, “Anselm. What is it?”

As he listened, the change in his face sent a weight like a stone to her stomach. It could be about work, but somehow she didn’t think so. A shift in his demeanor put the walls up between them.

“Okay. Thanks.” He pocketed the phone, swept Livie onto his shoulders, and said, “Let’s walk.”

“What’s wrong?”

“That was Richard Anselm, the PI.” His Nikes scritch-scritched on the damp sand. “You didn’t mention the FBI was involved in this thing with Markham.”

“FBI?” She shook her head. “It was a state conviction.”

“Maybe so, but Anselm’s search raised a flag. The feds came back at him with questions.”

“Why?”

“Never recovered the money. They believe he has an accomplice.”

Accomplice.
The stone in her stomach turned to ice.

“Erin.” He turned and faced her. “Is it your sister?”

“Hannah? No. I swear to you, it’s not.” Accomplice! That was completely wrong.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because she’s not . . . capable.” And because she knew the truth. Guilt bore down.

Searching her face, Morgan narrowed his eyes. She watched a grim suspicion rise. “What’s going on, Erin? Tell me the truth.”

The
truth
. Why would he believe it? Dread gripped her. Markham. The FBI. Now Morgan’s doubt.

She had prepared herself to run.
Don’t run!

If he didn’t believe her, how would they?

His face darkened. “Were
you
in it with Markham? Are you using me to double-cross your partner?”

Stung, she felt it all crashing in. He could think that after everything? Drawing a sharp, heated breath, she turned and ran.

Shocked, Morgan hollered after her, but she kept charging up the stairs and disappeared over the top. He’d hit hard, hoping to provoke whatever she hadn’t told him, and she’d run. Run!

With Livie in his arms, he made his way to the house and found Consuela staring at the front door, eyes burning. “Where is she going? What happened?”

Handing Livie to her, he hurried for the door. The camera showed the gate closing and a glimpse of her still running. He ran out the door, pushing his legs as he hadn’t in too long. Did Erin think she could literally run away? He pressed the button and squeezed through the gate as it opened.

Where was she? There, darting through the undergrowth in a draw dipping away from the road. He sped up, thankful he’d changed into jeans and sweatshirt and especially his Nikes before joining them on the beach. He cut down the way she’d gone, spurred by the knowledge there was no beach on this strip, only sandstone walls dropping into the sea.

“Erin! Stop!”

He could hear her now, rushing just ahead through the vines in the draw. Her cry gripped his heart. He broke through and almost went over as she had. With both hands, she clung to a springy tree trunk, her purse dangling from her neck.

Diving to his stomach, he gripped her wrists. “Stop kicking.”

She looked up, her face damp with sweat and tears. Still holding one wrist, he lunged and grasped the hollow of her other arm. Heaving back, he dragged her up, clawing her jeans and pulling her over, then rolled on top of her, furious.

She writhed. “Let me go.”

“Yeah, right.”

Chest heaving, she pushed and squirmed.

“Stop it.” He glared. “What are you doing?”

She gritted her teeth. “Let me go!”

He pulled her wrists up over her head and clamped them one-handed against the undergrowth. “I want answers, and I want them now.”

“I can’t breathe.”

He shifted only slightly.

“I’m not an accomplice.”

“Very convincing after this little stunt.”

She struggled again. “Get off.”

“If you try to run, I’ll take you down so hard you’ll wish you broke that ankle.”

She glared as though unbelieving.

“Did I mention I lettered in wrestling? I can twist you in ways you never imagined.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Not even close.”

“There’s a root in my back.”

He slid his hand under and felt it, then pulled her up to sit. “Start talking.”

“Why should I tell you a thing if you can believe what you said?”

“Forget I said it.”

“Forget?”

“Don’t turn this around on me. Tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything about the FBI.”

“But you do about the rest.”

She swiped the back of her hand over her cheek, leaving a dirty swath. Her heaving chest grew less insistent. “I couldn’t let them get away with it.”

“Them?”

“Markham, the elders, my . . . You can’t rub Scripture like a rabbit’s foot and make money fall from heaven. It’s wrong.”

He studied her. “I’m listening.”

Still aggravated, she seemed to resign herself. “Fine.”

“From the beginning.”

“Are you talking or am I?”

“You better start.”

Her face flushed with anger. “It started when my dad named Markham his assistant pastor. He’d needed help for a long time, but no one met his standards or shared his ideology. Markham was a perfect fit, as neolithic as my father.”

“Neolithic how?”

“Mainly the care and feeding of the weaker sex. It’s such an outdated story I’m embarrassed to tell it.”

“Plenty of denominations have that focus. It’s not always a bad thing.”

“Well . . . it was.”

“So your father . . .”

“Hired Markham, whom everyone admired. Such a fine young man of God. Such vision, such humility.” She made a gagging sound. “I smelled a rat from the start, but no one would listen. The women warned me not to question; the men just smiled as if I couldn’t understand.”

“Go on.”

“He started by collecting for special projects, then missions and disasters, just to warm people up to the joy of giving.
‘It is in giving you receive.’
Then he outlined his ‘vision,’ and I don’t mean plan. His was a vision straight from God and no snake handler could have played it better.”

Bloody tributaries sprang up on her scraped palm. She glanced down, then looked away. “As the boy had given up his loaves and fishes to feed the crowd, so God would multiply each sacrifice made as soon as the giving was complete.”

She shook her head. “People were taking out loans, signing over their IRAs. I think my father had concerns, but he disregarded them when he saw how the people responded to Markham’s prophecy. All the good that could be done if they kept believing that the more they gave, the more they’d get.” Her voice wavered. “I want to believe he believed it.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“Since no one would listen, I installed monitoring software on Markham’s computer. It recorded everything, including keystrokes. While he was being raptured up to the seventh heaven before their
eyes, I saw that the money God would multiply was going to an account in the Caymans.”

He was getting a bad feeling. “Erin . . .”

“All I did was transfer the funds.”

His breath made a slow escape.

“I didn’t want him to disappear with the money when the minister confronted him. But when I told my father, he said the account must be intended to keep the donations safe, and that they couldn’t stop until the miracle came.”

This was not sounding good.

Her brow furrowed. “When I tried to make him face reality, he acted like I was a disobedient child. He refused to believe I could see what he’d missed or that Markham was less than perfection.” Her voice broke. “So I told Markham I knew he was a fraud and the software would prove it. Then I went to the authorities and told them what Markham was doing. If my father was caught up, it was out of my hands.” She fought back tears.

His heart sank. “What happened?”

Huffing slightly, she said, “They believed the minister naïve and gullible but not culpable.”

“And the money?”