A Rush of Wings (13 page)

“You were only gone five days.” But his piece was back in her puzzle and it did fit.

“Well, I missed you.”

“Why didn't you take the job?”

He cocked his head. “I presented my proposal; they accepted. I'll be facilitating a sticky merger, so the Windy City is going to be home for a while. Want to come?”

“I don't think so, Morgan.”

“I'd show you a good time.”

“I have a good time here.” She pulled her hands free.

He shook his head. “Some things never change. But that's okay. No rejection fazes me. I have a heart of steel.” He gave her a suave smile. “Let's go somewhere. I only have tonight.”

Her heart thumped. “You came back for one night with me?” Did he expect she'd make it worth the trip?

“I came back for my car.” He brushed her arm with his fingertips. “But I'm accepting offers.”

“Your car?”

He nodded. “I left it in the barn. I just flew out to negotiate. Now that I know I'll be there awhile, I'll drive out.” He took her hand. “Come on.”

She let him lead her off the porch to the Corvette in the barn. He uncovered it and opened her door, expecting as usual to whisk her off on whatever adventure he envisioned this time. As she hesitated he cocked his head and hummed “Little Red Riding Hood.” She flashed him a glance. He was not the big bad wolf; she knew that. He was only Morgan. She slid into the seat and he closed the door.

Dusk was deepening as he backed out into the yard. Rick crossed behind them and went into the house. Morgan shifted into drive. “Have you eaten?”

She shrugged. “Marta's day off.”

“Good.” He pulled to a stop beside Rick's truck, climbed out and took an insulated container from the bed, then got back in and set it on her lap.

“What's this?”

“Picnic.”

She looked out at the deepening sky. Picnic?

He took the gravel road slowly since the rain had deepened the ruts and the Corvette rode low on the grasses rubbing beneath. In town, he turned right, heading up toward the national park. If he thought she was going to hike in the dark with elk and fox and bears and mountain lions . . .

He drove to a half-circular lookout and parked. She stared out at the early stars pricking the clear sky. Morgan got out and opened his trunk. What was he planning this time?

Near the edge of the lookout, beside the boulders that marked its drop, he spread a woolen blanket. On that, he placed a three-wick candle that he lit with a lighter. She climbed out and watched, gooseflesh rising on her arms in the evening chill. She was glad for the jeans she was wearing.

He came and took the insulated cooler from her, then noticed her shivers and handed it back. He reached into the car, took out his suit coat, and wrapped it over her shoulders. Then he took the cooler and placed it on the blanket. “Voilà. Picnic.” He motioned her to sit.

His jacket smelled of his cologne as she held it close around her. He unzipped the cooler and removed several packages. “French bread medallions, goose liver pâté, smoked gouda, and grapes.”

He took out a bottle of club soda and two plastic flutes. “Not my beverage of choice, but in consideration of your preference . . .” He poured her flute and passed it.

She sipped. “When did you plan all this?”

“In the airport. One of those gourmet shops.”

She smiled. “It's nice.”

“I would have chosen more, but Rick was antsy.”

Noelle imagined him waiting while Morgan compiled their picnic. She hadn't known he'd gone to the airport; he'd only said Denver. “We should have invited him.”

Morgan gave her just the look she expected.

She spread a medallion with pâté. “I'm sure he's hungry.”

“He's got a whole kitchen.”

That was true. But they had the starlit mountain vista and an orange moon creeping up the horizon. Rick would have blessed their food. She took a bite. “Delicious.”

Morgan pulled a grape from the stem. “So are you bored yet, holed up on the mountain with Rick and Marta and assorted guests?”

“Not very. And we had company.”

“A flatlander from Kansas with a fat wife and twelve kids.”

She cocked her head. “Wrong.”

“Who, then?”

“Your father.” She straightened the napkin across her knee.

“Dad was up?”

She nodded. “He brought Rick a pair of fillies to start. He was sorry to miss you.”

“I'm sorry too.”

“The best part is, he convinced Rick to let me ride Destiny.
And
train him.”

Morgan sat back with a grin. “Good for Dad. Bet it gave Rick fits.”

“He only convulsed once or twice.” She laughed.

“So how is it?”

“Destiny? It's . . .” She recalled the feeling of being on his back, sensing his mood and matching hers to it. “Beyond words.”

Morgan reached across and grasped her hands. His eyes were deep as the night shot with moonglow. “Promise me one thing when I'm gone.”

Her throat tightened. “What?”

“You'll stay just the way you are right now. You won't climb back into your shell.”

She searched his face, saw there something real and painful. He cared. He truly cared. “I promise.” But she was far from sure she could keep it.

T
he next morning's sun beat hot on Noelle's head as she perched on Destiny's back. Morgan had left an hour before in his Corvette, top down, music playing. He had asked her again to join him in Chicago. He wouldn't be Morgan if he hadn't, but it was out of the question, especially after the terrible night she'd had, wrenching awake from a dream more real than any of the others. She'd actually felt the plunge of the hawk, the assault of its talons. Her head beat now with the glow of amber eyes. Ridiculous. She'd never been attacked by a hawk.

Something had happened, obviously, to trigger such horrific dreams. One didn't leave everything and run halfway across the country without cause. And something kept her from returning or even communicating with that portion of her self. What fragments broke through her resistance triggered panic and nightmares. So, yes, something had happened. But it was now about moving on.

Noelle was safe at the ranch. She had her painting, and now she had Destiny. She had purpose and identity. Morgan wanted to find the real Noelle, but she wasn't trapped inside. She didn't exist—yet. The person who cowered in her dreams was not the real thing. She had nothing but scorn for that compliant being. She could stay buried forever.

Rick brought Destiny to a stop. “Are you ready?”

She tugged herself into the present. “More than ready.”

He unclipped the tether rope. She had the stallion to herself.
He was hers to control, or she was his. She absorbed his energy, the power of smooth muscles in his back and shoulders and loin. He was magnificent.

Rick stood close. “Easy now. Take him around. Let his energy control the pace.”

Noelle did as he said, thrilled by the horse's nervous power. She circled him, round and round, feeling him relax until he pranced obediently, willing and eager. She let out the rein, and he quickened his step, choosing his pace, working out his nerves.

She understood. She didn't need Rick's admonition to give Destiny his head. This was his time as much as hers.
You're free, Destiny
. A sudden urge seized her to let him run, to feel the rush of his speed, his wild blood. She stopped him before Rick. “Let me take him down the meadow.”

“No way.” He deflated her dream with two words. Who did he think he was?

“I can do it, Rick.”

He shook his head. “You can't handle him if he bolts.”

“I can; I know it.”

“He's getting restless. Take him around the corral.”

Around the corral, around the corral. The story of her life! Anger flaring, she kicked in her heels and immediately realized her mistake. Destiny bucked and twisted, his power unleashed. Her arms wrenched and strained. She lost her hold and slammed to the ground, her breath stopped by the impact.

She rolled, gasping, and saw Rick lunge. He stood over her, guarding her from Destiny's hooves as the horse reared and charged, then veered away, tossing his head. Air flooded her lungs, and she staggered up behind him.

He kept his eyes on the horse but clipped, “Are you all right?”

She drew a sharp, choppy breath. “Yes.”

He turned briefly, and she caught the full force of his expression. “That sets us back. Now he doesn't know what to expect from you. Or me.”

He was right. She swallowed her damaged pride. “I'm sorry.”

He looked at Destiny, standing nervously, pawing one hoof. “You'll have to get up again. He's enjoying what he did.”

Her heart jumped, but it wasn't fear. He was letting her try again, letting her undo her wrong. A rush of gratitude filled her.

He walked toward the stallion, confident and steady. If the horse
read his body language as well as she did, he would not run. Rick caught the reins and patted Destiny's neck. “Now come slowly.” He kept his attention on the horse but spoke to her.

She obeyed.

“Get on up.” He held Destiny's head while she mounted, then said, “And don't vent your temper on the horse again.” Though his voice was low, there was no mistaking his anger. He was a fine one to talk about temper.

If he had just let her take Destiny down! The moment had been right for both of them; she knew it. But Rick had to control, protect. She was sick to death of that kind of protection, as though she were some invalid or idiot with no will of her own. But she bit back her retort. She had mishandled it and wanted this opportunity too much. He had also put himself between her and Destiny's hooves.

“Talk to him now.”

She bent and stroked the stallion's neck, felt his hide quiver, then still. “I'm sorry, Destiny. I should never have kicked, no matter how provoking your master is.” She kept her voice soothing as she nudged the horse with her knees and avoided Rick's eyes.

The pain in her hip proved him right. She couldn't control the horse. Not yet. Maybe not ever if the animal pitted its strength to hers. Not even Rick had strength for that. It was in the mind, in the training, that they were able to manipulate Destiny at all. In the horse's own willingness. And it had been there. She had sensed it, matched it, then spoiled it. She tried to find the rhythm they'd had before but couldn't. Their connection had severed. She brought the horse to a stop and dismounted.

Rick took the reins without speaking. She had betrayed his trust, jeopardized his progress. She shied when he reached toward her, but he only touched a finger to her jaw, a scrape she only now became aware of. “Ask Marta for something to treat that.”

She nodded, knowing well enough the infection she could get from a scrape in a horse corral. Daddy had been manic about cleanliness, especially after contact with the horses. He'd been manic about anything threatening her health. Again the shadow, and a rush of wings in her ears. Was it Daddy?

Rick opened the gate to let her out. “Do you mind walking down? I want to finish here.” He meant remedy the damage she'd done. He wanted time with the horse alone. She had failed him and Destiny both.

“Rick . . .” She looked into his face. “I'm sorry.”

“Next time you'll know.” He gave her a brief smile.

Next time. There'd be a next time. And she wouldn't spoil it. She nodded, then slipped out of the corral and started down the meadow.

———

With Rick gone to an auction the following day, Noelle's hopes of proving herself with Destiny faded. She didn't dare take him alone after learning what the animal could do to her. She was sore all over from her fall. How did Rick do it, day after day, getting tossed and climbing back up again?

She sighed. She could saddle Aldebaran, ride out and paint, though riding the mare after Destiny wouldn't be the same, even if it was his dam. And her creative energy was at low ebb. The muse had fled. Morgan was right; it could be dull at the ranch. She wished he had stayed longer.

What would she do if she were home and feeling glum? Have a manicure, a facial? She looked down at her plain, clipped nails, thought of the women she might have called to have lunch at the club. She didn't miss one of them, not one. But then, neither she nor Daddy had let anyone come too close. She had taken his cue there, picked up his suspicious nature.

Instead, she'd poured herself into the arts, as he had the law. She'd graced Daddy's table and philanthropic events, his prize, his model daughter. Compliant child; the phrase could have been coined for her. Whatever Daddy had valued, she'd aspired to.

But now she was a woman. Did she even know what she wanted? She wanted to train Destiny. Why? Was that just another feather in her cap? No. There was something in his struggle, something to which she connected, though it did seem contradictory to fight for the chance to ride him yet want to see him free. How could she want two such opposite things? Freedom and control. They vied in her.

She tossed back her hair, stood, and paced in her room. The walls seemed close. Her breath quickened. Panic built inside. She pulled open the door and stepped onto the landing. She was not trapped. She was not in danger. As her breast stilled, she pulled the door closed and went downstairs.

Marta hummed in the kitchen. Noelle wandered to the doorway and watched her wiping down the counters. Again that sense of
purpose. Like Rick. They seemed to know their place in life, while she floundered.

Marta looked up. “Come on in.”

Noelle walked to the butcher-block table.

“Can I get you something?”

“No, thank you.” What could Marta possibly provide that would make any difference at all?

Marta smiled. “You're stir crazy.”

Noelle sighed. “It shows?”

“You need to keep busy. Next to faith, work is the surest road to happiness and well-being.”

Both Rick and Marta certainly ascribed to that. Work and faith. Were they happy? “I'm not sure what to do.”

“Not painting today?”

Noelle shook her head. “I wanted to continue with Destiny, but with Rick gone . . .”

Marta rinsed the cloth in the sink, then squeezed it dry and hung it on the rack. “I'm just preparing to make bread. Want to help?”

Noelle ran her fingers along the edge of the table. “I don't cook.”

Marta actually stopped. “Not at all?”

Noelle licked her lips. “I'm sure Daddy would have provided a chef to train me, but, to be honest, I never saw the need.” Nor had she been welcome in the kitchen at home.

Marta turned from the sink, appraising her. “That bad, hmm?”

“Poor little rich girl.” Noelle gave her a brief smile.

Marta chuckled. “Privilege can stifle ingenuity. We have so much we take for granted. Some of us more than others.” She didn't say it unkindly, but Noelle felt rebuked.

Had she taken her good fortune for granted? Expected all the service and benefits as her due? It was life, her life. Now she was trying to fit within a new reality. She could no longer expect things to be handed to her. Learning to cook might be just the next step to filling out the self she'd started defining as artist and horse trainer. “Do you think you could teach me?”

“Do you want to learn?”

Noelle looked about the tidy kitchen, tried to picture herself with arms up to the elbows in dishwater, or cutting and mashing and beating
a batter with a wooden spoon like Martha Stewart. Well, why not? She nodded.

Marta opened the pantry door and pulled down a cream-colored apron. She handed it to Noelle. “Baking bread isn't the easiest to begin with, but we can do it together.”

“Thank you.”

Marta took out the large mixer and bowl. “Get some hot water in the measuring cup there. Six cups steaming from the faucet.”

Noelle read the lines on the measuring cup and filled it as Marta directed. By the time Marta measured out the yeast and honey, the water had cooled enough to add them. The mixture foamed up.

“Now measure the flour and salt.” Marta showed her the amounts on the worn recipe card, though Marta didn't seem to look at it much. “And the oil.”

Noelle did as she was directed. Then Marta poured the yeast mixture into the bowl and lowered the heavy beaters. Noelle held the bowl steady as the beaters pulled and twisted the dough.

At last Marta said, “Turn it out onto the floured board.”

Noelle dumped the soft mass, and Marta demonstrated the kneading. Noelle buttered her hands as Marta had done and pressed them into the soft mass.

“It'll take more than that.”

Noelle pressed the heels of her hands through to the board. She turned the dough and tried it herself. It took a while to master the rolling, wedging movement, but she enjoyed the light and springy feel of the dough and its warm, yeasty aroma. A simple pleasure.

“That should do. Now we cover it and let it rise.”

Noelle nodded. She had studied the concept of leavening; she'd just never seen it in the making, certainly never done it herself.

Marta rummaged in the pantry, pushing and stacking items, then shook her head. “I'm clean out of vinegar. I'll have to run to the market.” She turned and untied her apron. “There's a stack of potatoes by the sink. Peel them and set them to boil in the pot there. When the bread doubles, punch it down and let it rise again.”

Noelle hadn't planned on doing more than the bread. But that had worked out rather well. “Okay.” When Marta left, she took up the paring utensil. Her first swipe slid over the potato skin with no result. She pressed the peeler hard and swiped again, gasping when it nicked
her knuckle. She held her finger under the running water, then tried again. The potato skin came off in small chunks.

Annoyed, she wondered why she had volunteered. For that matter, she'd said nothing about peeling potatoes. But preparation was part of the cooking process. Did she want to learn, or didn't she? Where was that satisfaction Marta exhibited? Next to faith, work brought the most happiness? She'd hate to see what faith was like.

Noelle gouged the potato and caught her fingertip. With an unsavory word, she tossed the potato into the sink and sucked her finger, then turned to see Rick in the doorway, his expression singularly annoying. “Did you want something?”

He leaned on the doorjamb. “Is Marta around?”

“She went to the market. For vinegar.”

“Oh. And you're . . .” He raised a questioning hand.

“I'm helping; what does it look like?” She should not have given him that ammunition, but he didn't take it, just nodded slowly, raised his eyebrows, and left.

She'd been rude, but he had caught her at her worst. Taking up the utensil, she hacked at the potato. She wished now she'd never walked into the kitchen. Marta made it look easy, bustling around as though there were nothing to turning out her wonderful meals.

Noelle tasted blood on her fingertip but had no idea where to find a Band-Aid. Another cold-water rinse seemed to do the trick, but as with sewing the button, her gains of practical skills might leave her quite literally all thumbs. But she'd been given a task, so she kept on. Potato after potato. She blew the strand of hair that fell over her eye and kept peeling until the stack was done. Then she rinsed the brown-speckled film and traces of blood from the spuds and put them in the pot. She clamped on the lid and turned the burner on high.