Breath of Dawn, The (6 page)

As she hurried through the early twilight, Quinn’s breath made a cloud that curled around her cheeks. The ranch nestled in a valley surrounded by pink granite crags dressed up with conifers and aspen. The log cabins seemed to grow out of the pale grasses and red gravel of the yard. Low airy foliage bore the remainder of red and orange leaves, dulled now by the passing light.

The dry heads of wild flowers rustled as she neared the second of three cabins, larger than the first by maybe a bedroom, but not as large as the third, family-sized. One front window spilled light
onto the porch. She’d approached him for help before, but not in his own place nor asking anything he hadn’t offered.

Their interactions had run the gamut from playful to shuttered, so there was no way to anticipate her reception. She had to wonder why he’d gone without a word, after the excitement of finding the locket. Maybe Livie’d had an accident or . . . something he couldn’t mention with a quick good-bye. Maybe walking out and slamming doors was his typical departure, though he hadn’t slammed anything this time and the first could have been an accident of his injured hand.

When she knocked, he called, “Come in.”

Sure he didn’t realize the knock was hers, she said, “It’s Quinn.”

After a pause, he said, “Door’s open.” He looked up from his laptop when she entered, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Sitting on the couch, dressed in a gray V-neck sweater and faded jeans, he could be any guy—but wasn’t.

“I’m not stalking you.”

One tiny muscle at the corner of his mouth flickered, but he’d apparently lost his former congeniality. His eyes had a blue blaze she hoped related to whatever he was working on, since the look had teeth.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

He didn’t say otherwise.

“I would have done this at Vera’s but you left.” When he still didn’t answer, she drew a bolstering breath. “It’s about the locket. RaeAnne’s afraid it will be lost in the mail. She can’t come out for it. So I thought you might have a way . . . to . . .”
do what regular people can’t
. The words formed, but she couldn’t say them.

“To . . .”

“Accomplish it?”

“Don’t you ship things all the time?”

“Yes! I do. And I would, but there’s the
Castaway
thing.”

He frowned.

“Packages washing onto a beach, being used to open coconuts?”

He said, “I’m sorry—how is this my problem?”

She blinked, feeling beyond foolish. “It’s not. But I imagine you get things done in ways the rest of us—”

“The rest of you?”

“People who aren’t Morgan Spencer.”

“Aha.” He sat back. “You’ve been busy.”

“That first time we met. I wanted to know if your check would bounce, so I searched you.” How did he make his eyes so flat? “And found the business articles and stuff. You know. Your books and the . . . thing you do.” She sounded thirteen. Where was the conspiratorial connection, the easy parlance? Hadn’t they faced a spooky cellar and solved a mystery and—

“Leave me the locket. I’ll get it to RaeAnne.”

Deep freeze. “I was going to package it . . .”

“Leave me the locket.”

If helping was what he did best, he could work on his presentation. But then, who did she think she was, petitioning someone like him? He could swat her off like a fly, and basically had. She took out RaeAnne’s treasure and set it on the table where his feet rested. A little deeper and she’d make a full bow. She straightened and walked out.

Morgan watched the door close behind her. Part of him recognized his rudeness, but the rest had felt her in his home like high noon on sunburned skin. He didn’t want to react to her. He’d realized that mistake at Vera’s and scrammed. Then there she was, invading his space, his privacy. She’d searched him? Thought he’d rip her off?

And yeah she’d interrupted something. His assistant, Denise, had threatened resignation, claiming he could set up an automatic rejection on the corporate Web site if he continued to avoid the high-level consultations that required his on-site involvement. For most of two years, the recession had provided plenty of lower-level rescues he’d handed off to his second-string players, giving cyber support as needed.

Nothing international or encompassing enough that he’d have to leave Livie. In addition he’d written the books. Turning in the last one had felt like an abdication, a transfer of power. Or was it simply a cop-out? How many would take what was on the pages and actualize it?

His team called the books advertising. Even an instruction manual like the newest couldn’t infuse that something God had wired into him. He was no Steve Jobs, but in his little piece of the universe he seemed to be unique.

And Denise had a point. It was what he did—in the life when any of that mattered. Still, her insistence grated. That on top of Consuela’s threatened defection suggested wholesale mutiny. And he hadn’t seen it coming. As he hadn’t anticipated Quinn’s impact. With creeping incrementalism, she’d invaded not only his thoughts and feelings, but now his environment.

“Daddy. Eat a fishy.” Livie climbed onto the couch with him.

He accepted the goldfish cracker Livie raised to his lips and thanked her. Lowering her sippy cup, she gave him a milky kiss. He pulled her in for a hug, certain she could sense his unease. Would it kill him to accept one request, make one physical foray into the field?

He looked at the locket lying on the table, recalled the fun of finding it. What Quinn researched was public domain. She’d done nothing anyone else couldn’t. So why did it feel personal, as if she’d made an assault and occupied him? Heat rushed through his skin as nerves or blood vessels pulsed.

“Daddy.” Livie gripped his chin and turned his face.

“What, honey?”

“That a mad face, Daddy.”

“Is it? What should we do about that?”

“Make it happy.” She pressed her finger into the side of his mouth, stretching his lips.

He held the smile in place. “Is that better?”

She flashed her chipmunk smile.

He kissed her soft dark hair, a downy cloud of curls around her head, not unlike Quinn’s in toddler form. “Eat your blueberries.”

Instead she plucked one cracker-dusted berry through the spill-proof lid of the snack dish and fed it to him.

“Mmm. Yummy.”

Livie popped one into her mouth and chewed vigorously. He couldn’t bear to think of leaving her for any amount of time, but maybe he owed her just that. He reached for the laptop and
responded to Denise.
You’re not going anywhere. Choose ONE project and set it up.

He didn’t imagine her doing a Snoopy dance. More like rolling her eyes and thinking, About time, loser. He shut down the laptop and snuggled his little girl, hoping he’d taken one healthy step in the right direction.

Quinn left Morgan’s, feeling chastised by the high-powered professional. Good intentions she had, but good judgment? Not lately—as Hannah’s phone call reminded her.
“He’s getting out and you’ll pay.”

She had pushed that call out of her mind, but this scuffle with Morgan brought home how things could turn on a dime. She thought she’d found a good place to be, an innocuous occupation, some potential friends. A man . . .

She sighed. Not even dreams put her and Morgan in any real-life involvement, but having no illusions didn’t mean he hadn’t impacted her. He and his precious child. Why couldn’t she get them out of her head?

After pulling up the garage door in the steel barn, she parked inside, got out, and looked around, disheartened at the thought of losing her merchandise. She couldn’t take much if she had to leave, nothing if she had to run. She didn’t think Markham could find her. She used a store name for her business, so even if someone told him what she did, he wouldn’t recognize it as hers. Her mother knew she’d bought a house, but Quinn hadn’t told her where. She had sent no cards or letters, had no landline phone with a number in any directory. It should be okay.

She chose a DVD that had no chance of having a romantic thread and stepped outside. Her breath made a thicker fog now, as twilight gave in to dusk. She entered her little house, darkness covering every inch of the A-frame. It crawled over her like smoke. What if he was waiting for her? Would anyone notice if she went missing? RaeAnne might call to thank her when she got the locket. Morgan would want the stuff out of the cellar, but he could take care of it himself.

Would anyone check her house? Would anyone know where to look—or care? When they found her remains, Noelle might say, “My goodness, if only I’d known.” But she didn’t know. No one did. Except the ones who’d been there.

Swallowing hard, she switched on the light. Nothing jumped except her own skin. The place was so small, she could see everything, including the loft, from the door. Someone could be in the closet or bathroom, but they’d have to make it down the steep stairs to jump her. She checked them anyway.

Back in the kitchen, she tried to think of something for supper. At this rate her lip might be the only thing she chewed. God said it wasn’t good for man to be alone. It was worse for woman. She should get a dog.

A dog could sense trouble. A dog could go in first and growl and raise its hackles. A dog would bark at night if someone tried to get in. And most of all, she wouldn’t be alone.

Trembling, she took cheddar, tomato, and whole wheat bread from the fridge and assembled it for toasted cheese. The money from Morgan would buy a dog. Not a puppy—she needed help now—but not too old either. She was depending on it. Just an unfortunate soul who’d lost a family and had no companionship. She’d check the nearest shelter and let the animal choose her. She’d know when it was right.

Noelle straightened from the toilet and wiped her mouth. Swishing mouthwash almost started the reflex again, but she resisted and crept back to bed. Rick held the cover up, concern etching his face. As she settled in, he worked his thumbs and fingers up and down her back in slow, deep circles.

She murmured, “If we ever split up, I get your hands in the settlement.”

“We’re never splitting up.”

“Lucky you. You get to keep your hands.”

“I wish I could do more.”

She rolled to face him. “It’s only nine months of misery.” She pulled a grim smile. “I’m four down.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Settling her head in the hollow between his chest and shoulder, she said, “What do you think of Quinn?”

“Who?”

“You know who.” She squeezed his arm.

“What am I supposed to think? I’ve seen her twice.”

Morgan, she was sure, had an opinion—or the old Morgan would have. Rick had an opinion, too, somewhere deep inside, where he kept thoughts in appropriate order. At first she’d found that so strange, his faith-guided life. Now it was a pillar she clung to when dreams and memories seeped in.

“I like her. I’d like to know her better.”

“You think she needs a friend.”

“You feel it too?”

“No.” His eyes crinkled with sun-weathered skin, even in winter. “I just know you.”

“Well.” She ran her hand over his lean muscled arm. “What about inviting her to Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Who’s cooking?”