Breath of Dawn, The (34 page)

Seeing him across the table, Noelle hardly recognized Morgan. There was a lightness in him, as though the leaden grief had lifted. And Erin had a confidence and ease with him and Livie that was heartwarming to see. She’d been so worried about their rash marriage, but it had become this. What wondrous ways God had.

After the meal, Celia and Therese handled food storage, Tiffany and Tara cleared, and Steph loaded the dishes. Knowing they’d be extraneous, Noelle took Erin into the family room. “Have you settled into Santa Barbara?”

“Getting there. Morgan loves the place, and it’s hard not to.”

“I was afraid the memories . . .” She paused, not wanting to make Erin uncomfortable but imagining the awkwardness of Jill’s shadow.

“Of course they’re there. In the house. In his eyes.” Erin looked into the fire, then back. “We went to Jill’s grave.”

She raised her brows. “He asked you to?”

“I asked him. I thought it would help both of them. Consuela came too. It rained.”

“It rained at her funeral.” She pictured them there, and the images overlapped, Morgan as gray as the rain, insubstantial as a ghost himself. “Did he grieve?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes.”

“How did Livie do?”

“Remarkably well. For such a tiny elf, she has amazing gravitas.”

Noelle smiled. “I could say that about you. I don’t think either of them would be doing too well out there on their own.”

“Well, we’ve found a fit. I just hope it doesn’t all blow up.”

“You mean Markham?”

Her brow furrowed. “And the FBI.”

“What?”

She listened, dismayed, as Erin explained. It was so much worse than she’d known. “What does Morgan say?”

“He’s hoping your father will keep me out of jail.”

“Oh, good. I was going to suggest it, if he hadn’t already asked.”

“I don’t know that he’s asked. But he plans to. Morgan’s going
to interview a potential client in New York, and while he’s out there he’ll discuss my situation with your dad.”

“You’ll be in good hands.”

Erin sighed. “It’s so humiliating. What was I thinking?”

“You were only twenty-three.”

“Still . . .”

Noelle pressed a hand to her mouth and laughed softly. “I wish I’d seen Morgan’s face when you took off running.”

“It was not fun when he pinned me to the ground and threatened wrestling moves.”

Again she laughed.

Erin braced her hips. “You heard Markham. How would you like being accused of partnership with that rat?”

“It would be appalling.” But then she sobered, picturing the woman in exactly that position. “I’m so sorry for your sister.”

Erin’s face fell. “I know. I think, maybe I should call, maybe try again to help her see. But I’m the last one she would listen to.”

“Why is she like that?”

“I really don’t know. I told you before she didn’t accept my arrival. I guess it’s worse than I even knew.”

“Well, I’m very glad we’re sisters now.” She reached and Erin clasped her hands.

“You have no idea how glad I am.”

Morgan gazed at them, aglow with firelight. Even though Noelle’s beauty was epic, it was Erin’s that caught him in the throat. He hadn’t intended to love like this again. He knew the potential for loss, his fragile ability to prevent it. And yet like spring, it came, breaking through the frost.

He approached and hugged her from behind. “Surviving?”

She laughed. “So far.”

He glanced at Noelle. “Thanks for guarding her flank.”

“She holds her own.”

That she did. “I came to say Hank and Rick and I are going out.”

“Now?” Noelle raised her eyebrows.

“We’re picking up something Hank didn’t want around too early.” He nodded his head toward the kitchen.

“Oh,” the women said together.

He squeezed and released his wife. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“Okay.”

As he started out, Livie ran in and hesitated, confused to find both Erin and Noelle. He crouched, scooped her up, and said, “Have a hug for Auntie Noelle?”

Livie lunged into Noelle’s arms, tucking her head into the crook of her neck. She should have been Auntie all along, but he’d never planned on another mommy for her. Again the pang of love and fear. Maybe they’d always mingle. Maybe they always did. He walked out into the cold, frosty night.

Hank unlocked the truck and said, “I’ll keep it in the barn until Christmas morning. But the Turners are leaving town so I have to get it tonight.”

The new range and rotisserie oven would thrill Celia, who was eking every last breath from her old one. Rick climbed into the front, so Morgan got in next to Livie’s car seat. He noted it with a jolt. What if she had an emergency? If they transported her unsecured—
Boom.
The pounding heart, the beading sweat, his airway constricted. How long had he gone without this?

“Wait, Dad.” Forcing strength into his voice, he disconnected the base and carrier parts.

“Morgan?”

“Let me take this in.” He hoisted the seat with slippery hands. Where could his daughter be safer than in the heart of this home on a still winter night? But the panic came hard, not driven by reason. He practically stumbled.

Erin met him at the door and grasped the seat. “Good thinking,” she said, ignoring his shaking hands. Her eyes reflected him, pale and terrified, but she leaned over the carrier and kissed him. “She’ll be safe.”

Their gazes locked. He took her assurance like a drug. “Thanks.”

From the first attack she’d witnessed at Vera’s, her nonjudgmental, sometimes humorous responses were more of a tonic than any
sedative. His shoulders relaxed. His hands released the seat. Panic subsiding, he went out.

Setting the car seat by the door, Erin turned and saw Celia in the entrance to the dining room. “He’s leaving the seat for Livie, just in case. Is this okay?” She indicated its position by the door.

“That’s fine.”

She started back to Noelle and Livie, but Celia said, “Would you have tea with me?”

No. Thanks. Really. “Sure.” She turned to Noelle. “Are you . . .”

“We’re fine. Go ahead.” She settled into a chair and lifted a children’s book from the table. Liam must have been somewhere with his cousins, and Livie would like alone time with the woman she still missed.

Erin entered Celia’s lair. The scents of dinner had been replaced by the steamy, soapy scent of the dishwasher, the water whooshing inside.

“I already heated the kettle,” Celia told her. “I have a loose-leaf British tea, or would you prefer a caffeine-free herbal?”

“Herbal’s probably better before bed.”

Celia held out a basket with choices. Erin fingered through them and selected chamomile, which she didn’t really like but hoped would work its calming magic. Celia prepared and handed her a mug, then motioned her to a seat at the kitchen table. Erin breathed the steam, willing the herb to dull her senses.

“Would you like anything to sweeten that?”

“Nope. Thanks.”

Celia took her seat on another well-worn wooden chair. Her cup released a matching scent of chamomile. Calming her own nerves? Holding the tag, Celia gently swished the bag in her mug, and said, “I haven’t seen the Morgan at the table tonight in many, many years.”

Confused, Erin said, “I thought he always came for Christmas.”

“Not always.” Celia looked up. “But I didn’t mean he wasn’t present. Although essentially that’s true. Tonight he looked the way he used to when everything was possible.”

Erin removed the tea bag and set it on the holder. Celia must have seen him with Jill, happy at last to have the woman he’d longed for.

“You’re thinking of Jill.”

Erin raised her eyes, startled.

“Jill was a warm and caring woman, but what they went through in high school, and all those years later with Kelsey, impacted everything.” Celia sighed. “With time, they might have overcome it.”

“They didn’t have enough,” Erin murmured, raising her cup. Steam dampened her nose and lip as she carefully tested the temperature.

“A year and a half”—Celia sat back in her chair—“of brittle love.”

Though not spoken harshly, the descriptor still grated.

“A dream,” Celia said, “they’d held on to because they didn’t know what else to do.”

“It survived fifteen years of separation.” How could she not see the power in that?

“Much of what they had,” Celia said gently, “was what they imagined they might have had.”

Erin didn’t want to contradict, but she’d sat in Jill’s room, seen the pictures of their life. Yet snapshots couldn’t show it all. And maybe losing the potential could hurt as much as losing Jill.

“It’s a terrible loss. I’m not minimizing it.” Celia set her cup aside. “But what I saw just now, what passed between you and Morgan at the door, the way you took his fear inside yourself, the way he let you . . . That’s something not even I can do.”

Her heart quickened.

“I want you to know”—Celia reached over and squeezed her hand—“this family is blessed to have you.”

Amazed, Erin blinked back tears. “I’m blessed to have you.”

H
annah would not stop crying. Even though they were far more comfortable and she should be content, from the time they’d moved into Quinn’s other house, his every move, every word made her cry. It corroded his self-control until ungodly thoughts filled his mind. Biting, cutting words caught in his mouth. He held them back, and still she cried.

“It’s almost Christmas. I’ve never spent Christmas without my family,” Hannah sobbed.

He paced the living room.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop her.

“My mother needs me. She’s calling every day.”

Take the phone. Break it. Smash it. Smash her.

He couldn’t. He needed her. If anything could make Quinn come, it would be her poor, poor sister.

“Oh, Markham,” she wailed. “Just for Christmas.”

Only one thing would make that happen. “Will Quinn go home for Christmas?”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Did she last year?”

Hannah shook her head.

“The year before?”

“Not since she went away. No one’s seen her since she left.”

“Then why would we go?”

She burst into fresh tears.

He shot a burning glance into the kitchen. Saw the cabinet. Maybe there was something, something to make her sleep.
Make her stop, make her sleep, make her stop.

He walked stiffly in, tugged the knob. Locked, still locked. Moving as though something else animated his arms, he gripped a chair and drove the ladder-back knob through a milky pane of glass. Hannah shrieked.
Make her sleep, make her stop.

Reaching through the hole, he cut his arm. Blood pearled and streamed. He grabbed a bottle, a teeny tiny bottle. He read the label, one part standing out. LSD.
Yes . . .

Standing on the large wraparound porch with a mug of hot chocolate braced between her gloved hands, Erin swelled with gratitude. All the Spencers, plus three spouses, four grandchildren, and two significant relationships had stretched the Spencer hospitality to breaking. Squeezed with Morgan in the music room’s sofa sleeper, Livie’s portable crib right beside them, and surrounded by all the other guests and family, last night had felt like Livie’s storybook about a mitten stuffed with so many animals the seams finally popped.

But gazing through the lacy icicles jeweling the eaves and banisters, to snow-covered shrubs and laden tree boughs, snowfields stretching to an icy pond rimmed in sugared cattails, she thanked God Morgan hadn’t given in to her concerns and stayed in Santa Barbara. How could it feel like Christmas on the beach with soft sand and gulls? Although she supposed they’d make it Christmas wherever they were.

Sipping her chocolate, she looked toward the large white-and-gray stable and saw a man with a horse. Morgan. With a dim concern starting inside, she lowered the mug to the rail. He approached sedately, leading an animal larger than himself with no more than a word and a rein.

Six feet from the porch, he stopped. From her raised viewpoint, it seemed she looked eye to eye at the horse, a brown mare with a white blaze, two white socks, and a black-tipped tail.

She dragged her gaze to Morgan and made herself speak calmly. “I know you mean well.”

He smiled. “Come here.”

“I’m over it, Morgan. I can appreciate horses from a distance. They’re lovely.”

“Erin.”

Stuck to the porch by the same sand that had held her frozen before, she chewed her upper lip. He held out his hand. No, no, no, no, no. His draw was irresistible. Her feet moved. Leaving the cocoa on the rail, she took one step down, then another. The horse grew taller.

She said, “I’m just not . . .”

“Sure you are.”

She reached the snowy path and paused, eyeing the horse. It didn’t stomp. But it could. Didn’t toss its head. Though it might.

“She’s very well behaved.” He reached farther and caught her fingertips.

Heart tripping, she eased her hand into his. “What’s her name?”

“Maple Sugar.”

“Maple for short?” Her voice cracked.

He drew her to his side. “Stroke her neck. She likes that.”

Her hand no longer obeyed her brain. It was connected to his voice. Maple’s hide was smooth but not soft, her mane thick with stiff strands. Disney princess eyelashes framed her large, gentle eyes angled to take in the stranger making contact. Morgan brushed his hand down the mare’s long bony face, patting her cheek and stroking the velvety nose.

Erin looked into his face, imagining the boy who’d told the stockman he belonged to himself. It wasn’t true. More than anyone she’d ever known, Morgan belonged to everyone. She touched the mare again, feeling her warmth, the solid mass of her, the patience. Breathing the horsey scent, she put both hands on the mare, letting that satisfaction flow into her.

Morgan watched without speaking. She slid her hand to the horse’s face, drew it down to the soft, soft muzzle. As a child she’d
imagined kissing such a nose, imagined jumping astride and riding like a shooting star through the sky—dreams crushed by fear and an object lesson.

“Put your left foot in the stirrup,” Morgan said.

He couldn’t be talking to her.

“Take hold of the pommel and pull yourself up.”

She took a step back, and there was his hand against her spine, steadying her.

“You can do it.”

“I don’t want to. Really. I’m over it.” The mare slow-blinked.

“Hold this.” He pressed the leather reins into her hand. Stepping around her, he gripped the saddle and swung up behind it, settling easily astride. It seemed as though he and the horse had joined forces. Bending, he took the reins and held them to the far side of the mare, who stood calmly as though nothing had changed.

“Left foot in the stirrup.”

She closed her eyes.

“Swing yourself up. I’ll catch you.”

Her chest quaked as she stretched one shaky hand to the pommel. She raised and tucked her foot into the stirrup. Pushing up, she felt Morgan guide her leg over as she landed in the seat of the saddle.

“Tuck the other foot into the stirrup.”

She opened her eyes to find it. With his arms on either side of her, he touched the reins to the horse’s neck, turning the mare slowly. She held her breath, getting used to the strange sensation of an animal bearing her and praying Morgan knew what he was doing.

Except for the time she’d seen him care for Rick’s stock, she’d never thought of him as a horseman. Now she realized he’d grown up on this farm, and even if it hadn’t become his career, it was part of him. Slowly her spine relaxed. Morgan brushed a kiss on her jaw, speaking no other encouragement. She needed none.

At first she thought they’d go to the stable and be done. Instead, they rode toward the pond, the still morning spreading out around them, hooves muffled by snow. Clouds puffed from the mare’s nostrils. Morgan sat solid, and yet fluidly, behind her, guiding the horse by almost imperceptible means.

After a while he murmured, “What do you think?”

“It’s wonderful.”

He tightened his arms. “Couldn’t let anything hold you back.”

“I’m supposed to be careful what I wish for.”

“What could you wish for that you shouldn’t have?”

She sank back into him. “I love you.”

“I know.” He laughed softly in her ear.

“Is it crazy?”

“Yeah. But inevitable. I swear I fell in love before you served the pumpkin pie.”

Her heart swelled. “Do you think Rudy knew?”

“He saw it flashing like a neon sign.” Morgan eased the mare down and up a narrow ditch.

“Were you really afraid for me to leave, or was that strategy?”

“I really did panic. But having you there opened something inside me. It was like that skeleton key hidden away until one day it turns a whole new lock.”

“You do recall that lock secured dangerous illegal drugs.”

She felt him stiffen and said, “What?”

“I just realized we never took care of that. I was going to when you came and dragged me off to Paris.”

She giggled. “Like that took dragging. I think you meant it when you proposed. Or you could have handled it like Denise and who knows how many others.”

He was quiet so long, she turned in the saddle. “What?”

“It’s just sinking in that you’re right. Rick told me to offer a job, but I didn’t want that. I tried to meld the two into that ungainly proposal, but once the vows were spoken, I couldn’t pretend.”

She sank back against him. He’d called it preordained. “God made this happen for us, didn’t he.”

“Seems that way.”

“That’s . . . amazing.”

He tightened his arm around her. “Yeah.”

They rode in silence until he circled the mare back around toward the farm.

“We’re going in?”

“This being your first time on a horse, if you sit too long, you’ll get sore. These haunches aren’t feeling any too good to me either.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll have other chances. As I said, Livie needs a horse, and you may as well be able to mount up with her. I might look around for a nice spread with an ocean view somewhere in the Santa Ynez Mountains or the hills of Montecito. Get some champion stock—Andalusian, maybe.”

“And sell your wonderful home? Why?”

He pressed his cheek to her head. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s who I was. Who I tried to be with Jill. But it’s us now, and you were a girl who wanted a horse.”

Listening around the words, she guessed it wasn’t as much about a horse as it was about them. A new vision. Their own prototype.

Back at the house, she slid off awkwardly and let Morgan stable the mare.

Tara leaned on the porch railing. “First time riding?”

“Is it that obvious?”

Tara flashed her perfect white teeth. “Everyone starts sometime.”

“I suppose you were about two.”

“Eight months. As soon as I could sit up without falling over.”

Erin gaped. “That’s crazy.”

“Mom’s a believer in natural instincts. The sooner a girl bonds with a horse the better.”

She was rapidly re-envisioning Celia, and realizing how different this family was from hers.

“Just get a good instructor. You’ll catch up.”

As Erin climbed the steps, Tara took in her jeans and fitted coat, Hermes silk scarf, mohair hat, and mittens. “Paris again?”

“I’m afraid everything I have is Parisian.”

“Everything?”

“The clothes I had before got . . . lost.”

“Lost?” Tara crooked a brow in an expression very like one of Morgan’s.

“Someone broke into my house and trashed everything.”

“That’s horrible! Who do people think they are?”

She knew exactly who Markham thought himself.

“I’m always afraid someone will break into my dorm, but it has
security doors, and it’s a small school.” She crossed her fingers. “So here’s hoping.”

“What are you studying?” Erin picked up her deserted mug of chocolate. The skin at the top was starting to freeze.

“Well, everything, since I’m a sophomore. Core subjects, you know. But I want to major in theater, and if I don’t become a famous film star, then I’ll teach musical theater to underprivileged kids.”

Erin smiled. “Two good alternatives.” Tara had the beauty for film but seemed too pure for that industry.

“Polar opposites, I know. Fame and riches or penniless service.”

Amused by the dramatic tone, Erin said, “Musical theater must mean your talent is broad.”

“Acting, singing, dancing. Noelle taught me piano—for a little while—and then I had to take regular lessons. You’ll hear me tonight. Everyone, actually.”

“Everyone plays piano?”

“Different instruments or singing. Everyone performs something for the talent show. It’s the rule.”

A rule no one—most notably Morgan—thought to mention. “I can barely hold a tune.”

“Nuh-uh. I heard you singing to Livie.”

Now, that was an idea. Partner with Livie and let her steal the show. “Speaking of Livie, I better go see how she’s holding up with those rowdy boys.”

“Grammy’s watching.”

“Your mom might be more than ready for a break, especially since she’s trying to bake.”

“Okay.” Tara pushed off the rail and bounded down the steps. “See you.”

Erin carried the remains of her cocoa to the kitchen and set the mug down. Livie’s rush into her arms warmed her heart—and Celia’s apparently, no doubt relieved that not only Morgan but his little angel had opened to her. “How you doing, sweetie?”

“I doing great. Want to play animals?”

Noting the big-girl version of the question, she felt a tiny pang of loss. “Are there some?”

“Soft ones with bean stuffing.”

“Well . . .” She cocked her head. “Do they talk?”

“They do talk!” she insisted, tugging.

Erin sent Celia a smile before settling in at the toy box, where she entertained herself as thoroughly as Livie. Every now and then the boys barged in, their attention and energy wholly different and overwhelming. She laughed when all three “captured” her, tumbling on like a munchkin football team.

When Livie joined in, Erin fought back with tickling until Morgan and the other men came in. Perceiving rescue, she collapsed onto her back, arms outstretched as the various dads complied. Morgan extended a hand and got her to her feet. “I leave you alone for a minute . . .”