A Rush of Wings (19 page)

It was awesomely beautiful, and she remembered Professor Jenkins.
Yes, Professor, I am in love with the beautiful
. Or had she found part of the divine as well? Her breath came in quick, tremulous bursts. Even Morgan attributed the beauty to God.

And suddenly, there was more than root and stone, more than mist and light. Something live, something more real than life quickened and surrounded her. She felt it. She wanted it.
Tell me. Show yourself
. She closed her eyes against the tears that stung behind her lids.

How long she stood that way she couldn't say, only that time seemed suspended. Was this the being Rick worshipped and obeyed? The one
in whom Morgan believed but to whom he could not belong? Was it even real, or did she imagine it—a fantastic journey of the mind?

A raindrop touched her finger, and she looked up. The darkened clouds had moved in like a giant rolling wave, and with them something else, something sinister that strove against her, denying the other presence. “No . . .” Fear crawled her spine, and with it a memory dark and uncertain, her voice small and afraid, “Are you God?” And the answer gruff and sarcastic, “Yeah, kid. I'm God.” Panic raced in. What was that thought? She couldn't connect it to anything she knew, yet suddenly she felt exposed.

Swiftly, she gathered her things and tucked them into the wooden case. In her haste, she pinched her finger in the easel and drew her breath sharply at the sting. Thunder rumbled. Aldebaran stamped, restive in the damp, then threw up her head and whinnied. Noelle's heart jumped at the answering neigh from below. Rick called out and she sagged. She was in for it now.

Where was the one who had drawn her? Where the voice she had followed? It had deserted her. She was alone, stripped of the glory and bare in her disobedience. Swiftly she strapped the case onto the saddle and mounted as Rick came up through the fog.

His face was dark as the gray, roiling clouds above. “I told you not to come up here.” His anger hit her squarely.

“I didn't go over the shale, I—”

“You think you're above the rules, don't you? You won't listen to sense; you just keep pushing the limits!” He'd never yelled before, had never shown her this side. She saw him now as a man, strong and capable of anything.

Her trembling grew so violent she knew it must show. Inside her surged an animal need to flee. With a cry, she kicked in her heels and the mare jumped forward, plunging down over the shale.

“Noelle!”

She kicked Aldebaran, frantic for escape. The shale shattered. The horse slid, twisted, and crashed down hard. Noelle screamed as pain shot through her, the mare's weight suffocating as the animal thrashed, then stumbled up. Noelle gasped, pain slicing her head, shooting through her leg. Once again time suspended, but this time the void was cruel.

Above her the pine spires danced a dizzy spiral. Around her, bits of shale tumbled and rolled. Rick was coming. No, he passed her by,
leading Orion down on foot. He would leave her to the mountain. Her heart raced, then stilled, so still she was uncertain it beat.

She moaned, fighting the blackness. She had feared the sky, but it was the ground that broke her. The glory she had imagined was gone. It was too sublime. She had no right to grasp it. She had trespassed on the gods and even now slipped into the darkness.

Then Rick was beside her, touching, probing, willing her back into her flesh, back to the pain. His probing hands hurt, and with a jolt she remembered his rage. She pushed up and fought him.

“Lie still.” He eased her back to the ground, took off his jacket, and laid it over her. “Where does it hurt?”

“My leg.” Straining, she caught a glimpse of her leg bent at a sickening angle.

“Where else?”

“My head.” She gasped as he fingered the spot turning spongy at the back of her skull.

His hand ran down her neck and along her spine. “Here? Anywhere on your back? Your neck?”

Could she be paralyzed? It had been Daddy's fear that a fall from a horse could cripple her. He'd almost forbidden the riding lessons, until she had wept and begged. Noelle closed her eyes as Rick's hands studied her spine. She had already moved her head, raised up to fight him. “No. My leg. My leg.” That pain seized her consciousness.

Slowly he slipped his arm beneath her shoulders and then her knees. “I'm going to lift you onto Orion.”

Her leg shifted, and she screamed. “Don't, Rick!” Her breath caught raggedly.

“If I don't, I'll have to leave you here and get help. I don't have my cell phone, and by the time search and rescue could get up here you'd be soaked through and in shock.” His tone was calm and soothing, explaining her reality.

She hadn't noticed the rain coming down. It sifted through the needles of the trees. She could feel it on her cheeks, cold and terrible. She braced herself for the pain, but even so cried out when her leg moved again. Her stomach heaved.

Rick splinted the break with one large calloused hand while he wrapped his arm around her upper body. Then he let go the leg and lifted her swiftly. She screamed again. She couldn't stop it. Her thighs shook uncontrollably as he swung her onto Orion's back.

“Hold on.”

She made her hands clench the saddle horn, though her head throbbed and everything whirled. Had she mentioned her head? Now that she was upright, it pounded with relentless force.

Rick climbed up behind. “Rest your leg on mine so it doesn't swing.” When she didn't respond, he maneuvered his leg snugly against hers.

Her head reeled. Were they moving, or was it everything else? Fresh pain surged until she no longer identified the damaged parts. Every part of her shook now, though she was wrapped in Rick's jacket. It was oversized and reminded her—a flash of something. She was crying in the back of a car, and a man's stiff woolen coat was wrapped around her. Another disconnected fragment. Like the voice, “Yeah, kid. I'm God.” In that strange accent.

She couldn't remember more. But she needed to. Why? She fought the dark confusion. Everything was swirling out of focus. What was real? She leaned against Rick's chest and groaned when the horse started down the steep slope. Every stride jarred her. The throbbing in her head dulled as stupor set in.

Arms were around her, and she felt their pressure, holding her firmly, trapping her. She fought the restraint, sudden terror rising up. “No,” she moaned. “Michael, no!”

———

Rick swallowed his dread. Her loss of consciousness was bad. He kept talking, calling her name, but she didn't respond. She had drifted into some fearful place and fought against his arm before collapsing. Now she lay limp, and he could only hope to get her to the ranch and call for an ambulance. Why hadn't he grabbed the cell phone? He'd carried it every day looking for fire. But now when he needed it most . . .

He held Noelle's inert weight with one arm and directed Orion with the other. He stopped trying to make her respond and focused on reaching the ranch. He should have known, but he hadn't anticipated—

His anger surged again. What was she thinking, going over the edge like that? She could have killed herself and the horse. Aldebaran. He hated to leave her up there on the slope, but lamed up as she was, he couldn't take the time to lead her. His first responsibility was to Noelle.

She felt fragile in his arms, as he'd known she would from the
first. It was as though the brittleness he'd seen had transferred from her spirit to her body. She was a wounded bird, but he couldn't splint her up. She needed a hospital.

He kicked himself. Why had he scared her like that? What caused the anger that replaced his concern? He had sensed danger and gone looking, not to holler or blame. But seeing her up there, precarious at the edge, in the storm on the shale . . .

And then he knew. He'd been broadsided by the enemy. His concern had left him open, and Satan had twisted it to anger. He had focused on her disobedience when he should have seen her fear. He should have spoken gently, eased her down. But he hadn't. Rick looked up to heaven and the rain ran down his face. He'd been chastised, and he nodded. He deserved it.

S
omething pressed on her eyelids like weights, and then she realized it was her eyelids. A throbbing awareness kindled and strove through the mire that slogged her mind. Her eyes flickered open, but light and substance swam in the murky depths. White, pocked tiles, lights, metallic bars . . .

Her leg was stiff and elevated, her chest tightly constricted, her head throbbing a rhythm with no tune. Her mouth was filled with down, a thick, cloying dryness. She breathed the cool, sweet air from the tube taped to her lip. Another tube ran from her arm to the bottle overhead.

A face leaned over. “How're you doing?”

She couldn't place the face. She didn't know the voice. She tried to answer, swallowed the dryness in her throat, then closed her eyes again.

Darkness. A cold shadow taking form. In the back of her mind, she knew it, somewhere deep . . . Suddenly the shadow moved with great sweeping wings, and in a rush came recognition and terror. Her eyes flew open and the shadow fled.

The light was different than before, warmer, softer. She located the source, a lamp by the chair in the corner, the chair where Rick sat, composed, as she'd seen him a hundred times. Why did she imagine him angry? Was it another warped dream? Maybe she was crazy.

A quick glance confirmed different walls and ceiling. How long
had she lain in limbo, caught between fear and pain by the gauzy mists of oblivion? And had Rick been there with her all along? She stilled her breath and watched him a moment before he felt her scrutiny and looked up. No spark of ire touched his eyes. They were warm brown orbs, velvety soft, not angry as she remembered. Had she imagined it?

He stood and came to the bedside. “Are you awake?”

Was she? She moistened her lips and felt the oxygen tube beneath her nostrils. She took only tiny, shallow breaths, but the air smelled sweeter. One hand was wrapped in tape, which held a needle in her vein, the clear tube spiraling up to the bottle hanging above her.

Rick leaned on the bed rail, the muscles of his forearms rippling. He was potently present, like the cleansed earth after the rain. Or was it the calm before the storm? Would he lash out now when she was helpless? A flash of memory:
“I told you not to come up here.”

She expected panic, but it didn't come. Maybe she was too weak.

He clasped his hands together. “I'm sorry, Noelle.”

Her mind stumbled. She had missed a turn, skipped a link. Maybe the mists still held her.

“I shouldn't have spoken to you that way.”

What way? What had he said?

“Can you forgive me?” He said it simply, but she didn't understand. What was he asking? What did he want?

She nodded, but her neck was so stiff, she wasn't sure he noticed.

“The doctor says you're improving. The surgery went well.”

“Surgery?” Her voice was a ghost of its normal self. She didn't remember any surgery. How could they do surgery without her consent?

“Yeah. They removed that stubborn streak.” He cracked a surly smile.

She frowned. He was teasing. Poking fun. Making light of . . . “What's really wrong with me?”

He expelled a slow breath. “Compound fracture in the leg, ligament damage repaired by the surgery, bruised ribs, and a concussion.”

Her head felt like mush. There had been a man in a coat, talking, explaining and explaining though she hadn't understood him, then a clipboard. She supposed he'd explained her injuries and she had agreed to the surgery. How strange not to remember.

“What happened?”

“You took a fall. On the shale.”

Shale. The shale slope? The ledge? Bits of images came to her.
Sunlight and fog. Rick's face in the rain. A horse's back tipping up, the hooves flailing to the side. . . . “Aldebaran?”

“She'll mend.” But his voice had thickened.

Noelle closed her eyes. She could almost sleep again. But the door swung opened and someone bustled to her bedside. She thought of Marta, but the voice was high and throaty.

“Checking your vitals, honey. You're looking better today.”

“Am I?” Noelle opened her eyes. And what did she mean by today? Was it a different day?

“Sweetie, if I looked so good after what you've been through, I would think I'd died and gone to heaven.”

Died and gone to heaven
. How close had she come? Was there a heaven, a hell? Some mass delusion for weak-minded people, or maybe her mind had lost touch with reality and looked for any alternative.

The nurse checked the intravenous bag. “Before you know it they'll have you in rehab. We have a real wiz down there—Kelly will fix you up like new. Or better.” The nurse marked the chart. “Anything you need, honey? Some juice?”

Noelle shook her head even though her throat still felt like cotton. As the door closed behind the nurse, all she could think was,
Rehab. Surgery
. She fought the panic. How would she pay? The money she had left wouldn't cover this expense, nor could she hope to earn it through the gallery. She could not file through her insurance without revealing where she was. She was trapped.

Her thoughts flashed to her father, and her chest tightened painfully. No. She closed her eyes against the tears, and again sleep beckoned. She couldn't sleep. How could she rest with worry gnawing her mind? She shuddered, then felt the warmth of Rick's voice.

“Don't worry, Noelle. You'll heal.”

He didn't understand. He didn't know. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I need to get out of here, Rick. I can't pay for this. I . . . don't have insurance.” She didn't know what to expect, but she expected more than his bland expression.

“We'll figure it out.”

How? How did people do things when they had no money with which to do them? How did people deal with expenses beyond their means? She had never known want, never faced need. She had never even wondered before.

She must make him understand. “I can't—”

“Don't worry.” Now he leaned close, the rail pressing into his arms. His look compelled her trust, her belief.

She sank back. “I should never have gone up there. I should have listened to you.”

“Yeah.” He arched his eyebrows and nodded. There was neither condemnation nor anger in his tone. He merely acknowledged the truth. She didn't understand him. Why was he no longer angry? He had every right to be.

He took her hand between his palms. “It's going to be all right.”

How could it be? She felt drained, empty, afraid. All she had gained, all her safety and freedom were gone.

Rick released her hand, but she wanted to grasp his again.
Don't leave. Don't abandon me . . .
He stepped back, and that one step seemed a chasm. “Get some rest now.”

Noelle watched mutely as he pulled open the door and with one last glance, left her. A tear slid down her cheek. Her throat ached, and the dull throbbing in her head intensified, as did the fear. What would she do? She was immobile, in debt, helpless, and the dark dreams seemed more real than the waking. She felt utterly terrified.

———

Rick didn't miss the fear in Noelle's eyes as he left the room. Sure, it was natural to be apprehensive after an accident and injury like hers. But there was something more, something raw in her. What did she fear? It couldn't be him. He hadn't been that angry. And even if he had raised his voice, was that enough to risk her life?

Now this new thing. Why was she without funds or insurance if what Morgan believed was true? Did she come from money? And if so, why couldn't she access it? What about the people she had talked about in her delirium? What about her father?

He needed answers. He wasn't one to pry. But in Noelle's case, something told him he had to. If she was in danger—the kind of danger he saw in her face, felt in her trembling, heard in her whimpering—he needed to know.

He shook his head. “Lord, guide me here. Don't let my emotions get in the way of your plan.”
Sure
. Outwardly he might have control of his emotions, but inside, holding her injured and helpless . . .

He remembered the time the rock swallow had flown into the picture window at home. He must have been eight or nine. He had
heard the thump and run outside. The soft downy feathers of the bird's breast ruffled as he scooped it into his hands. The flutter of its heart had been so quick and shallow.

He had held it, warm, and waited. He remembered the sudden frail grip of its feet on his finger when he thought it would open its eyes and fly. But it hadn't. Its heart had stilled, and it had grown cold in his hands. He remembered his tears as he carried it across the field, scraped out a grave, and covered it with earth and leaves.

Noelle reminded him of that bird, flying blindly, unaware of the glass. Why? It was time he found out. At least enough to know what to do next. Rick went first to her room and searched through her things. He found her identification, credit cards, phone card—insurance card. Why did she say she had none? Concussion?

There was a picture of an older man, sharply dressed and poised. Her father? Rick checked the back side, but there was only the year.
1999
. He turned it over and studied the man's features again. She'd spoken of her father, or rather to him, in her delirium, in rushing streams Rick couldn't follow. Mr. St. Claire was the responsible party on her insurance card even though her driver's license put her age at twenty-three.

Did she live at home? Was she Daddy's girl? Then why did she run away? He looked at the photo again, trying to see something in the features that would indicate a monster. Would she carry his picture if he was as bad as that?
Lord?
But his spirit didn't quicken. For now, he'd believe William St. Claire to be what he seemed. Still, it wouldn't hurt to find out what he could.

Rick went downstairs and logged on to the Internet. His search brought him to a Web page that he studied at length. Actually, William St. Claire was more influential than he had seemed. A flourishing legal practice and a philanthropic foundation for underprivileged youth. Morgan's impressions had been right on. Were his own completely crazy? How could Noelle St. Claire possibly need his help? Then he pictured her brittle fear. Was that real? Or was he still trying to save the bird?

———

Michael hurried through the rain to the taxi. William's man Myron had uncovered nothing more than Sebastian, which at least proved Sebastian wasn't lying. So that left Michael's own list. He gave the
driver an address. Seeing the friends face-to-face gave him the opportunity to read body language, a skill he'd developed almost as acutely as William St. Claire.

So far, no one had betrayed any hidden agenda, and their ignorance had been sincere. But there were men on the list Michael had wondered about before, men he knew would do anything for their chance at Noelle. And guys from her art school, flakes and freaks, he'd thought, but maybe not. Maybe not.

He told the taxi to wait and hurried out to the next door. Thankfully it was covered by a small peaked roof. His questions evoked the same response there as they had at the last address. “Noelle? No, I haven't seen her. Is everything okay?”

“When was the last time you saw her? Did she seem nervous, afraid?” Michael made sure to plant that thought.

“I don't think so. Has something happened?”

A guilty person would not lead the conversation that direction, but Michael probed anyway, until he was sure, then disengaged. Another dead end. “If you hear anything, call me.”

Back to the taxi. After seven more stops, Michael gave the driver a different sort of address. They arrived at an elite boutique that specialized in one-of-a-kind designs. Michael paid him and got out. The place closed in three minutes, but they wouldn't flash the lights on him. They knew him too well.

The elegant proprietress approached, her gray hair in a chignon at the nape of her neck, her classic skirt and jacket impeccable, her nails flawless. Diamonds glittered in her ears. “Good evening, Mr. Fallon.”

“Good evening, Jacqueline.”

“Something for Noelle?”

It was ludicrous; he didn't pretend otherwise. But he sent his gaze over the tasteful displays. “Yes. Something special for her homecoming.”

———

As Rick carried her into the house, a rush of relief flooded Noelle. She was home. She was safe. Maybe it wasn't rational to feel that, but she couldn't help it as once again the log walls embraced her. Her heart rushed with their comfort, and she drank in the room as she might the face of a loved one.

But one thing was different: a daybed near the fireplace mounded with pillows. Rick headed that way. The unstained frame was smooth
as satin and smelled of freshly hewn pine. He must have just built it. He'd built it for her.

“Oh, Rick . . .”

He settled her in across its length, elevating her leg on soft, tweedy pillows at the end. “I don't suppose you'll be doing stairs for a while, and this way you won't be stuck in your room.”

His kindness humbled her. That he would think how confined she would feel in her room . . . She wished she had words to thank him. They were there, just jumbled up in her throat behind the tears.

She stroked the soft pine of the bed's back. “You built it.”

“It's just logs.”

It wasn't just logs. It started as logs, then became a bed, beautiful in its simplicity. His hands had transformed the rough logs into a couch for her.

He said, “There's so much wood felled from the fire lines. Someone needs to use it before it rots.”

She looked up. He didn't fool her. Maybe there was wood, but he had made this bed out of kindness, and sympathy, perhaps. Again her throat filled.

His face gentled. “This way Marta can see to you easier.”