A Rush of Wings (14 page)

Peeking at the bread in the bowl, she saw that it had indeed doubled in size. What had Marta said? Punch it down. She gave it a good punch and the dough collapsed, but when she raised her hand, it clung like alien tentacles. She had not buttered her hands. She pulled at the sticky dough, but then it clung to her fingers. She yanked free and washed off the excess dough.

Well, that was taken care of. Noelle put the cloth back over the bowl. Now that it had to rise again, she could leave it. So she wandered out to the main room, peeked into Rick's office. If he was through at the auction, maybe they could work Destiny, and she would prove
herself capable and trustworthy in spite of his expression as he left the kitchen. She never claimed to be a farmwife.

But the office was empty. She went down the hall to the back door, then stepped outside near the cabins. The first was still vacant, the next two rented by older couples enjoying the quiet mountain ranch. Wandering past, she squinted up the meadow. Was Rick working Destiny without her? She didn't see him and the truck was in the yard, but he could have taken Orion up.

She walked far enough to see that he wasn't in the high training corral, then went back down. She glanced into the truck bed. There were a few items on the tack blanket against the cab but not much. The auction must not have been too exciting. So where was he now? The stable roof again? She walked around and checked, but he wasn't there. With a sigh, she turned back and went inside.

Her nostrils quivered at a terrible smell coming from the kitchen—and smoke. With a cry, she rushed down the hall. Smoke billowed from the pot on the stove. She grabbed the lid, then flung it to the floor as her palm seared. A hand gripped her shoulder, and Rick shoved her toward the sink and turned the faucet on.

She held her hand under the cold rushing water that made her arm ache but took the sting from the burn. She held it there as long as she could stand it while Rick turned off the burner, grabbed a pair of hot pads, and moved the pot across the stove. It was charred black; what she'd seen of the potatoes when she pulled off the lid were shriveled and brown. All her work!

He crossed to the sink and turned up her palm. “Let's see.”

The red welt throbbed. He pulled a knife from his pocket and at first she thought he meant to lance the burn. But he sliced off a pointed succulent spear from the plant on the windowsill. He slit it open and laid it on her palm. The gel inside felt cool and sticky and, amazingly, eased the pain.

She eyed the leaf darkening slightly on her palm. “What is it?”

“Aloe.” He took down a first aid kit from the cabinet over the refrigerator, applied an anesthetic ointment, and wrapped her hand with a thin layer of gauze.

Though he was gentle, she winced. “What happened to the potatoes?”

“The water must have boiled out.”

Water. She hadn't added any, but now she realized potatoes couldn't
boil without water. Her cheeks flamed, but before Rick could notice, Marta rushed in, waving at the smoke.

“What on earth?”

Noelle turned. “I—”

“Sorry, Marta. We weren't watching it.” Rick nudged Noelle toward the door. As Marta caught sight of the charred pot and started to exclaim, he pushed Noelle outside. “We'll be down for lunch.” He herded her into the truck.

She dropped her face to her fingertips. Couldn't she do anything right? “I should have stayed and cleaned up.”

Rick started the engine. “You don't want to be in there just now.”

Noelle dropped her hands to her lap, wincing at the pain in her palm. She was twenty-three years old and failed at even the simplest tasks. No, she'd never cooked a meal. Her apartment kitchen had been only decorative, thanks to take-out and delivery. In the bungalow she had used a toaster and microwave and coffeemaker, none of which required anything more than touching buttons. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the painful burn as Rick drove up the slope.

What was he thinking? Why had he stepped in that way? Did she telegraph helplessness?

He parked and turned. “You won't want to hold the reins.”

“I can do it.”

He pushed open his door. “I want to try something different anyway.”

Destiny waited at the gate. It gave her a pang to see him so still and willing. Where was the fight he'd shown yesterday? Rick had stayed out with him long into the evening after she left.

Destiny nickered, obeisant as Rick approached. She felt cold inside. What had Rick done? His stroking hands and soothing tones, his uncompromising will had subdued the stronger animal. Without her to disrupt it, his gentle determination had won the horse's heart. She reached a tremulous hand to Destiny's mane, suddenly uncomfortable beside the man who could accomplish that.

“Ready?” No preamble, no remonstrations about yesterday's misconduct, as though he'd forgotten it completely.

She glanced up briefly. “I'm ready.”

He saddled but did not bridle Destiny. “Can you balance without the reins?”

“Of course.” She mounted. “How do I direct him?”

“You don't.”

She sagged. Was he reverting to the tether? It hung by the fence, but he made no move that way. “What are we doing?”

“Have you heard of a horse hooking on? It's when the animal chooses to work as one with its master. I think Destiny came to that last night, but I want to try it out.”

Her curiosity piqued. Rick stroked Destiny's head and muzzle. He gently chucked the horse's chin, and the stallion bumped his nose into Rick's chin. She stared. Destiny had returned the gesture! She watched, fascinated, as they playfully butted each other.

Rick glanced up. “I've never done this with a rider. I don't know if it will confuse him, but I thought you should be part of it. You might be so much baggage, or you might distract him. We'll see.”

So much baggage. Thank you very much
.

With nothing but his will connecting them, Rick faced east, his shoulder even with Destiny's nose. He took a step forward and stopped. The horse likewise took a step. Rick strode five steps and the horse followed. He turned to his left, then to his right. The horse kept beside him, mirroring his movement.

What force of character did Rick possess to so enchant the horse? And where did that leave her? She, too, moved with Destiny as Rick directed. Fear stirred. No. She wasn't baggage.

Rick turned, but the horse didn't turn with him. Destiny seemed confused, or was it her own striving emotions the animal sensed? Rick reached a hand to the stallion's head and turned him. She was disappointed by Destiny's immediate obedience. She almost willed him to revolt.
Don't do it. Don't acquiesce like a dumb, docile beast
. Now she knew which she wanted—freedom for Destiny more than control.

“Noelle.”

She startled. “What?”

“I'm trying to do something here. Are you with me or not?”

Had he read her thoughts? Had her rebellion shown? She swung her leg over and jumped down. “I've had enough.” She ducked through the rails and walked away. She wanted to be alone, away from Rick, from Destiny, away from herself. She passed into the trees, breathing the scent of living pine sap. The forest was wild, untamed. But Rick had even taken the trees to form the walls and floor and roof of his house, his furniture. He'd shaped and fashioned them to his will, as he had Destiny.

She reached out and touched the rough, sticky bark, put her face close and breathed the sweet, almost butterscotch scent. She ran her finger over the bubbly crystallized sap and felt the strength of the tree. The breeze rustled its needles. She dropped her forehead to the bark and closed her eyes.

She couldn't blame Rick. He had been true to himself, never wavering. She was the one who'd betrayed what she wanted for the horse. Freedom and control could not coexist. Yet Destiny had seemed eager to please Rick, playful and peaceful. He'd lost the wild fear, the quivering hide, the rebellious arch of his neck. He marched proudly in step with the man who had claimed his affection. Was there peace in submission?

A screech sounded in her mind, the sound from an open beak. Amber eyes. She cowered, searching the sky above the pines. What insanity was that? She was not a mouse or a rabbit to fear the sky. Not the sky. The hawk. Her chest constricted, and she wrapped herself in her arms. Why did that image persist?

Rick had watched, surprised, as Noelle headed into the trees. Why had she quit? This was the most rewarding part of training, when the animal at last hooked on, when he joined you in his spirit and will. He had expected her to appreciate it, had anticipated her pleasure. Yet he'd felt her striving against him. Destiny had felt it, too, hadn't known which way to go. But why?

He opened his heart to the Lord's wisdom. Had he done something wrong, hurt or offended her? He had employed extreme control of his temper the day before, had not lashed out, and today he'd given her a fresh chance. He thought over their encounters from the time Morgan left, at breakfast where he'd said he was going to the auction. Nothing offensive in that, though she'd obviously been disappointed.

Then the scene in the kitchen . . . What on earth was she doing all that for anyway? But he hadn't laughed or teased, as he'd been tempted. He'd resisted and left her to the task until he saw smoke coming from the kitchen window, after which he'd ministered to her burn and delivered her from Marta's disapproval.

He shook his head, unable to equate any of that with Noelle's response. Walking away, she'd had that brittle look he'd first seen in her, at once broken and bewildered. Maybe he should talk to her. What
would he say? He had questions, but he didn't think she'd answer. He had answers, but she had to want to hear them.

Lord?
A strange, harsh verse from Zephaniah came to mind.
“She obeys no one, she accepts no correction. She does not trust in the Lord, she does not draw near to her God.”
He sensed a thread of truth. By all indication she didn't know or reverence the Lord, but how would that apply to her behavior just now?

She had intentionally vied with him. But he wasn't her master. She owed him no obedience, beyond basic cooperation. She was the one who'd forced the issue, enlisted Dad, and won the chance to work together for the goal. Had their success disappointed her?

Maybe she only wanted the challenge. By all indications she was exactly what Morgan thought her—a wealthy ingénue trying out the world for size. Was she just bored and spoiled enough to only want what she couldn't have? Then why did his heart sense brokenness? Or was he so out of his league that discernment failed him?

He pushed away from the rail, turned back to the horse, and noticed Destiny's gaze had also followed her. Rick grinned. “You don't have to hook on to everything, horse.”

Destiny butted him with his nose, and Rick returned the affection. With a last glance over his shoulder, he returned to the center of the corral, Destiny on his heels.

T
he smell of burnt potatoes lingered when Noelle went inside. Marta's humming did not entice her in that direction; instead she gave the kitchen a wide berth. She wouldn't make that mistake again. Standing in the main room, she missed Morgan. They could have hiked or spent time in town. She would have known what to expect, how to be with him.

On the table lay Rick's Bible, the words that connected him to some invisible being who claimed to be truth, who wanted absolute submission. She imagined all the movies she'd seen where some black-coated fanatic wielded the Bible like a weapon. Was it magic, like a staff or wand? Was Rick under its spell and therefore empowered to subdue helpless creatures?

“Is that you, Noelle?”

She cringed. “Yes, Marta.” And reluctantly she stepped into the kitchen doorway. She may as well make her apologies and be done with it.

Marta waved toward four golden loaves of bread steaming on the table. “I thought you'd like to see how it turned out.”

Noelle stared. “That's the bread?”

“As pretty as any I've made myself.”

The loaves had a wholesome, rich aroma that filled the kitchen, in spite of the potatoes. The bread had worked. They were beautiful. A flickering satisfaction eased her wounded pride.

“Now.” Marta rested her knuckles on her hips. “We've got work to do.”

“You . . . want me to help?” Noelle asked.

“Hungry guests expect dinner. You want to learn, don't you?”

Noelle tipped her head. “I'm not sure I do anymore.” But she couldn't stop looking at the beautiful bread. Four plain loaves, yet she felt as proud of them as her paintings. She glanced at the pot, half filled with some soapy white liquid. “What were the potatoes for?”

“German potato salad. That's why I needed the vinegar.” The whole reason she had gone to the market, but Marta shrugged. “No matter. We'll make do without.”

Like Rick, Marta was giving her another chance. She thought of Rick in the corral with Destiny. She'd been unfair in her judgment. He had done something wonderful and she'd scorned it. Maybe now she could make it up to him. “Let me wash up.”

Marta's smile sent warmth that buoyed Noelle as Marta showed her how to flour and fry the chicken, slice and steam the carrots. It didn't bother her to have Marta scrutinize and correct, since it was done gently and she sensed a true concern in the older woman. There had been few enough women in her life, and Noelle had been close to none. Not even a good female friend.

She looked at Marta. Thirty years separated them, maybe more. They were opposite in personality, polar in beliefs. Marta was measured and faithful; Noelle was fed up with restrictions. But there was no judgment just now in the older woman.

“It's kind of you to help me,” Noelle said.

Marta poured the oil and vinegar into a cruet. “I'm a Titus-two woman.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“In the Bible, book of Titus, chapter two, the older women train the younger ones. Don't find many interested in what I know, though. Seems they're more into computers or the stock market or . . . well, just about anything.” Even while she talked, Marta's hands were busy adding herbs and seasonings to the cruet. “Not much respect for keeping a home these days, cooking and cleaning.”

Noelle pointed out the obvious. “It's not really necessary, is it? With fast food and—”

“See any golden arches from that window?” Marta jutted her chin.

Noelle smiled. “Not here. Or I might never have thought of learning, and I am glad to be, in spite of being culinarily challenged.”

Marta laughed. “You're not challenged, just disadvantaged.”

Disadvantaged?

“Don't hang your mouth open. Plenty a rich person has been neglected where it counts.”

“But, Marta . . .”

“I don't doubt you've had privileges enough; you're obviously well educated in some areas. But if you don't mind me saying so, there's something missing, isn't there?” Marta's voice softened.

Noelle looked down at her hands. “Why do you think that?”

Marta held the knife above a sprig of fresh parsley. “Am I wrong?”

Noelle sighed. “I don't know.” She hoped the woman wouldn't probe further. Something missing? How about whole chunks of her memory?

Marta minced the parsley. “The heart of everything is faith. Without it, life has no meaning. With it, everything is ennobled. Even scrubbing that pot.” She jutted her chin toward the burned potato pot.

“Do you want me to—”

“No.” Marta shook the dressing, then poured it from the cruet. “You can toss this with the salad tongs. Lightly, so you don't crush the tomatoes.”

Noelle did as Marta directed, blending the herbs and oil and vinegar into the cucumber and tomato salad. It smelled delightfully pungent. At Marta's direction she placed the bowl into the refrigerator. Preparing the meal was easy with Marta there telling her each step. Marta's knowledge and confidence gave her courage to try.

Maybe that was it for Destiny too; he felt secure in Rick's guidance. He succumbed because he wanted to, not because he couldn't help himself. Was she the one who had misunderstood?

Noelle heard Rick come inside and climb the stairs. He must be washing in his room, but he would be down to eat. As Marta heaped the chicken onto the platter, Noelle tore a small square of foil. With deft fingers she folded and twisted the foil into a tiny origami swan. She grabbed a sprig of fresh parsley and laid it atop the mound of chicken, then tucked in the swan.

Marta raised her eyebrows. “What's that?”

“Garnish.” Noelle heard Rick in the dining room. Did he smart
from her earlier lack of enthusiasm? She had behaved poorly. She drew a deep breath, then carried the platter to the table, a peace offering.

He didn't look angry. When she set the chicken before him, he breathed the aroma. “Mmm. Nothing like fried chicken to cover the smell of burnt potatoes.” There was teasing amusement in his eyes, certainly not the mood she'd expected. He bent and touched the tiny wing of the swan, the only thing on the table totally hers. He raised his eyebrows. “Nice touch.”

“Thank you.” She gathered her breath. “Speaking of touch, you did an amazing job with Destiny.”

“It's not over. He's just turned a corner.”

“A big corner.”

“It's all about trust.”

But unlike Destiny, she'd had her trust betrayed. Something had made her run away, something gave her a jaded eye, caused the panic attacks, the fractured images. Even if she couldn't remember what, she recognized the effects. Broken trust was not easily fixed, and the only way she knew to be safe was to trust only herself.

———

Michael shooed the fluffy white-and-gray Shih Tzu from his leg. When it persisted, he kicked its ribs with the toe of his loafer.

“Michael!” His mother's face pinched.

The dog must be even more brainless than her last, as it still yapped at his ankle. He reached down and snatched it up by the scruff.

“Oh, Darling, Darling. Don't hurt Darling, Michael.”

He tossed the dog into the coat closet and closed the door.

“Now, what kind of place is that for a dog?” His mother pouted.

“I won't be here long. Then you can save Darling from the dungeon.”

She stepped close and stroked his suit lapel. “You look very handsome today. Were you in court?”

“Yes.”

“How did it go?”

He pushed her hand aside and strode into her living room. “How do you think it went, Mother?”

“I bet you were superb.”

“Well, you're wrong.” He turned to face her. “I was ineffective. I failed to connect with the jury, to convince them of anything I said. I
fumbled and forgot my point and acted like an imbecile. William St. Claire took over for me.” His mentor's action wrenched his insides and played over and over in his mind. A second failure.

“But why?” His mother pulled her boa-trimmed robe tighter at the waist and headed for the wet bar. She couldn't stand his failure and took it personally. That was the one good thing to come from today's humiliation, seeing it upset his mother. Michael seethed. To be replaced by William, in court, in progress. He flinched.

William's decision had been right. He had seen the need and acted on it. The truth was, Michael couldn't keep the facts straight, could hardly concentrate. He'd dreamed of Noelle and wakened weeping. Actually weeping. It was getting worse. Time was not healing the wound; it was festering it. It ate at him like a cancer.

If he could just find Noelle and make her understand. How could she stay away so long? Had she contacted William again? Had she told him? No. William St. Claire would have him prosecuted, imprisoned, and disgraced if he knew. Michael rubbed a hand over his face. Didn't she know losing her was worse than any of that?

The ice clinked in his mother's glass as she approached. “Have a drink, dear. It will soothe you.”

“Soothe me, Mother? It makes me an animal.”

She smiled. “Don't be silly.”

“No? Ask Noelle if you don't believe me.”

His mother stopped, paused her glass halfway to her mouth. “She's back? Have you spoken to her? Is everything all right?”

“No. No. And no.” He smiled wickedly. “I have no idea where she is, and I'd be the last to know.”

Mother sank into the couch, her robe parting to reveal more than Michael ever wanted to see. She was oblivious. “But why? What happened?”

“I told you; I'm an animal.”

“You're a god. Adonis.” She raised her glass in toast, then gulped her drink.

Michael sneered. “Adonis was not a god. Only a lowly youth loved by a goddess.”

“Noelle is no goddess. How could she be and reject you?” Another gulp.

By the glaze in her eyes, she'd had a few before he came, the mint
on her breath when she greeted him a shabby clue. Though why she bothered, he didn't know. “And how is your liver today?”

She glared. “I'm as fit as you.”

Michael laughed. “Oh, Mother, that's rich. As I'm not fit at all.”

“You've never had a sick day. We have pure genes.”

Michael walked to the couch and hovered over the pathetic woman who'd birthed him. “So did the Caesars. And as you know, they were all quite mad.”

He left her with her mouth hanging open in fear and dismay. At least that parting shot was effective. If mother had been on the jury . . . But that thought was too ludicrous to pursue. He went to meet Sebastian in Central Park. Sebastian could track anything in cyberspace, but Noelle had done nothing, it seemed, that could be caught in his web. She had left her car with its global tracking system right on the estate, had used no phone or credit card, opened no account, not even checked e-mail or surfed the Web. Had she climbed into a cave? How long would two thousand dollars last? Or did she have help? Was she with someone else?

His gut knotted. Oh, she had denied it, but . . . He swiped a handkerchief over his suddenly perspiring brow as he stalked to the taxi at the curb. He
was
going mad. There was no other explanation. As hard as he tried, he couldn't think, couldn't focus, couldn't function.

———

William had made up his mind. He had to consider everything. And the truth was, his shining star was falling. It was common enough in the profession, with the hours, the mental acuity required, the stress. But William knew it was more than that. Noelle had crushed Michael's spirit when she left. And as there had been no word from her since that solitary phone call, he could not even discuss it, persuade her to consider the pain she caused. Time to think was one thing. Total abandonment, another.

Yes, she had the right to time alone, time to think, to do whatever she was doing. William paced across his plush carpet, making no sound at all. Wherever she was after nearly two months, did she consider Michael at all? William understood heartache. He read the signs in Michael, but he couldn't let it affect their work. He had the firm to think of, their clients and their reputation. The other partners were rightly concerned. He stopped before the picture of Noelle.

She had never been so reckless, certainly not with another's hopes and feelings. He'd taught her to be charitable. Even if Michael had upset her, hurt or angered her, surely this was excessive! She was ruining him, and there was no way to communicate, to remedy that.

Or was he misreading it all? His first reaction had been to doubt Michael, but dealing with Noelle's absence together these last two months had cemented a kinship with Michael and affected an irritation toward Noelle. Maybe that was unfair, unnatural after all the years centered around her. But then her disappearing for two months was equally unnatural.

Margaret's voice came over the intercom. “Michael Fallon for you, sir.”

William drew a slow breath. “Send him in.”

Michael looked like a man reaching meltdown. At any moment, the explosion would blow him apart. He tried hard to mask it, but William saw the strain as clearly as he might in a witness ready to break.

Michael cleared his throat. “I know what you have to say, William.”

“Do you?” William motioned him to a chair.

“Do you mind if I stand?” He was brittle enough to break.

“Sit down, Michael. This isn't a sentencing.”

Michael sat. William took another side chair instead of the one behind his desk. They were friends, colleagues, mentor and pupil. They were almost father and son, except for Noelle's apparent change of heart.

Michael took a pen from the desktop and studied it, clicking the end in and out. A vein pulsed in his temple. “You're justified in your decision, sir.”

“Am I?” William folded his hands.