A Rush of Wings (2 page)

The hours passed, and he felt immobile, paralyzed. He'd done everything, been everything she wanted, everything she needed. He'd played by her rules. What more could she expect? He slammed his fist on the table.
Where, where, where?

He had taken Noelle's absence to William St. Claire, hoping the man would mobilize a search. William had means he couldn't dream of. But William hadn't acted as he hoped, and Michael didn't dare tell more than he had. He dropped his head to the table and groaned. Where was she? He never dreamed she would run away.

He woke with the morning light sifting through the shade in horizontal bands. He rose, retrieved the photograph from the floor, and looked again at the face behind the cracked glass. If William wouldn't act, he would find her himself. And if his means were less straightforward than William's, it couldn't be helped. He set the picture on the table and went to the phone. “This is Michael Fallon; give me Sebastian.”

Sebastian Thorndike came on the line. “Hey, Mr. Fallon.”

“I'm calling in that favor.”

Quiet. “What do you want?”

“I'll meet you at six at the Cove Grille.”

Michael got into the shower, standing so the water hit the back of his neck and shoulders. Less than an hour later, he walked into the firm of St. Claire, Meyers, and Harrison. One day it would also be Fallon.

“Michael.” William motioned him in as he passed his office.

“Yes, sir.” Michael approached the mahogany desk.

“I'd like you to hear this.”

Michael's throat tightened as he recognized Noelle's voice on the message. Would she say more than—but she didn't. In fact, she said nothing to indicate why she'd gone, where she'd gone. He made a show of relief, but his heart hammered. “When did she call?”

“Earlier.” A non-answer.

“From where?”

William shook his head. “A pay phone. I suppose she wants space.”

Michael's pulse raced. William knew where; it was impossible he didn't. But he wasn't saying more. He was testing Michael, watching as only William St. Claire could.

William fixed him with an offhand scrutiny Michael had observed in the courtroom. What was he looking for? “At least we know she's all right. We can wait for answers.”

Michael forced himself to nod. She could be in the city still, at some hotel or with some friend, though he had already racked his brain and contacted everyone he could think of.

“Now, put that aside. Here's what I have for the court today. As we discussed, you'll do the opening statement . . . since the majority of the jury is female.” William gave him a wry smile and stood. He accepted cases only on merit, either precedent setting or high profile, and then only if he believed the client could have acted within the law. But he was not above using every weapon in their arsenal, even, as he had once put it, Michael's good looks and magnetic gaze.

William circled the desk, rested a hand on Michael's shoulder, and spoke instructions he would have thought of himself. The man was savvy, but already their minds worked alike, mentor and student, senior and junior partner, master and protégé.

Two hours later, adrenaline surged as Michael faced the jury, making deliberate eye contact with each member, speaking smoothly, sincerely, and without condescension. Systematically, he refuted each of the prosecution's claims, painting a wash of doubt over the scene depicted by the opposing attorney's allegations.

Their client could be guilty as sin, hiding inside the loopholes, but Michael would so cloud the issue, the jury would stagger. It was a fine line with their sort of clients anyway. The ultra-successful. Not one had risen to the top through hard work and sweat. Not one started with Michael's disadvantage. If they twisted the law in unethical practices, bent the wording or intent, no one screamed. It was only failure or
stupidity that landed them in a courtroom—the two things Michael couldn't abide.

But the money was in defense law, not prosecution. Money made every successful defense worth it, and it gave him the personal power he would wield shortly with Sebastian Thorndike. When you successfully defended a guilty man and both of you knew it, that set up a certain
quid pro quo
. He didn't assume his usual clients were guilty of the crime with which they were charged—only the crime of having life too easy.

Thorndike was different. Michael had accepted that case himself, defended it against William's better judgment—and won. It was one of the times Michael had stood up to William, but a man like Thorndike came in handy, something William would not understand.

Mr. St. Claire worked this side of the law for neither money nor power. The Rhodes Scholar Harvard lawyer was anything but needy. No, William practiced defense because he believed in the system. He actually believed in the maxim innocent until proven guilty, and he believed he must make the court prove its claim. His archaic ethics precluded methods employed by other firms, but that just made the challenge greater. William also believed in winning.

Michael returned to the table beside William and received the slightest nod of approval. It was all he needed. He knew he had achieved his goal, to set up a relationship with the jury. Now he and William would subtly work that relationship, ever so subtly.

At a quarter till six, Judge Morril banged the gavel and adjourned the court. Michael wasted no time. He caught a cab at the curb. The Cove Grille was crowded as he made his way between the red-and-white checked tablecloths to the back. The air smelled of charbroiled fish and fries, but he wasn't hungry. Sebastian waited in the corner, taking up most of one side of a booth for four. Michael took his place across from him.

“What is it I can do for you, counselor?” Sebastian's neck was the color and texture of raw chicken.

Michael pulled out a handful of photographs and spread them on the table.

Sebastian whistled. “Looks like a class act.”

“She's William St. Claire's daughter.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “And?”

“I want to know what she buys—when and where.”

“A debutante with a credit card? Give me something challenging.” Sebastian spread hands so smooth he must lotion them by the hour.

Michael crowded the table. “Bank account, airline, traffic violation, manicure, anything. Find her in the system and tell me where she is.”

“What did she do, torque the old man off?”

“No.” Something in his tone must have clued Sebastian.

He looked up. “This is personal?”

Tossing a fifty-dollar bill on the table, Michael stood. “Buy yourself some dinner.”

He went next to Noelle's bungalow, paying the taxi and keying in the code to the west gate of the St. Claire estate. He let himself into her place, passing silently through each room. How tastefully they were decorated, colorful and imaginative, so reflective of Noelle.

He had searched it before, looking for her when he realized she had gone. Now he looked for her essence, for anything that would guide him to her. He stopped in the bedroom, looked in the closet still filled with the Donna Karan, Vittadini, and Scassi wardrobe he had provided piece by piece. She had taken none of it with her.

He pulled open the drawer of the bureau and ran his eyes and then his hands over the silky negligees. His fingers knotted in the flimsy fabric. Lifting a rose silk teddy, he brushed it against his cheek, breathing in the scent of her.

W
ith the bus still humming, Noelle woke in the reclined seat, her palm pressed to her cheekbone. She could feel a bruise, though it didn't show through her skin. She'd noticed nothing when she washed her hands in the terminals, but now she touched her fingers to it, wondering. Other aches intruded, also invisible, and for a moment her mind groped for a reason. But she refused to give it substance, closing it away and locking it tightly in the part of her thoughts and emotions that were thankfully nonfunctional.

Absently, she worked her fingers around the back of her neck. After three days of travel her body protested the inactivity. The same automatic brain waves that had made her move were now saying stop. But not here, not in the city. She wanted someplace obscure. With her tote heavy on her shoulder, she exited the bus.

Inside the Denver terminal, she perused the departures board, noted the Rocky Mountain tour bus listing and its departure time. She grabbed a sandwich from the vending machine, then headed for the counter and purchased a ticket, counting the cash out onto the Formica surface. One more ride and she would stop.

She slid her hand up the smooth metal bus rail, found a window seat, and looked out. The roar of the engine joined the hissing of the brakes as diesel exhaust wafted past. She scrunched her nose. Her senses were awakening, the numbing cloud of panic lifting. She was no longer in shock but was still somehow removed.

Maybe she should have taken her car. It had been her first thought as she'd crammed her tote full. But the need for anonymity had impressed upon her mind, so she had left the BMW at the bungalow and taken a cab to the bank, then to the bus depot. By then her mind had grown hazy. Her first actions had been frantically decisive. After that she'd moved automatically.

But now she took stock of her surroundings. No one shared her seat because her tote strategically barred them. But she slowly became aware of voices and faces around her. What was this disembodiment? She looked at her hand lying on the armrest. The other hand too.

They were her own, but she felt disconnected. She should have paid better attention to psychology. Fight or flight. She chose flight because . . . because . . . She shook her head. That part of her mind wasn't operating, only the animal part that said run. This numb part simply asked, why?

She looked back out the window. Leaving behind the noise and congestion of the city, the bus made its slow, winding ascent. She watched from the rectangular window with the first interest she'd felt since leaving, studying the land as it passed. It seemed at once strange and wonderful.

Pink stone crags towered, unyielding, up both sides of the canyon, sparse, scraggly juniper clinging to their lower edges. Beneath them, lanky pines thrust pointed spires to the sun, marching up the slope amid slender white-barked trees with pale green leaves, tremulous in the breeze. And now she did respond. Something in her was still able to feel, to appreciate.

With a wheeze and hiss, the bus stopped in the small mountain town, and the tourists piled out. Noelle did not follow the crowd up the street to the shops. She stood in the red gravel lot of the sturdy log building and read the sign: Juniper Falls General Store.
General Store?
Was she in a time warp as well?

She looked up the street where her busmates were dispersing into shops. For a moment her courage failed. The land around her was vast, unyielding, more wild and terrifying than Central Park at its worst. Too unknown, too . . . untamed.

But she hoisted her tote and went inside. The wooden floor creaked loudly, and she jumped, her mind overcompensating for its earlier malaise. There was nothing fearsome about this quaint shop.

The burly bearded man behind the counter looked up from his
American Angler
magazine. “Better than a bell.” He grinned, two lower teeth missing.

When she didn't move, his grin widened. “Don't worry; it's the only spot that does it.” He hooked a thumb into his suspender just under the grizzled ginger beard. “Did you lose your tour?”

Noelle set the tote down and rubbed her shoulder. “I'm not shopping. I'm looking for rental properties.”

He shook his head. “You're about six weeks too late. Everything gets snatched up at the start of the summer.” He took a drag on the cigarette that lay in the tray. “Everything but the Walker place, and trust me, you don't want that.”

Noelle's heart sank. It hadn't occurred to her that this place might not have what she needed. “Cost doesn't matter.”

He sent the smoke out the side of his mouth. “It's not cost, it's condition. Though to hear Ms. Walker talk, it's the Taj Mahal.” He shook his head.

“Isn't there anything else?” She was too tired to think of boarding the bus, to drift uncaring again. She would chafe every mile.

The man squinted one eye, considering. “You could try the Spencer ranch. But as far as I know, he's full up.”

Hope flickered. That was two possibilities. In spite of this man's lack of encouragement, she'd try them both. “Where is the Walker rental?”

He walked to the door, automatically avoiding the creaky board, and pointed. “Two blocks up on the corner there's an art gallery. The back side on that same block is the Walker place. You'll know it when you see it.” He swung his arm the other direction. “Then you'll want that gravel road away up there. Take you to Spencer's.”

Noelle saw the zigzagging cut that marked the road climbing the slope behind the town. “Thank you.” She shouldered her bag.

“You walking?”

She glanced back. “Yes.”

“Air's thin at this altitude.”

She nodded, but thin air or not, her legs were all she had. She headed up the street the way the tourists had gone. They were happily milling in and out of the shops. She found the art gallery with a flamboyant window display: an oil of a trumpeting elk with an enormous frame upon a draping of turquoise velour—tacky; a bronze bear with twin young and a wolf carved from driftwood—not bad.

Though a far cry from the galleries she frequented, on a different day she might have gone in just to wander between rows of canvas and absorb style, technique, and theme. But right now her need was to find a place to alight. She had flown as far as she could.

Almost directly behind the gallery around the next corner she found it. There was no question in her mind this was the Walker rental. The sign in the front—
For Rent
—seemed a perpetual fixture. The residence behind the sign looked far less permanent. A good wind could collapse the sagging structure with one final sigh.

Noelle turned and studied the town from there. Several dozen houses dotted the hills in the immediate vicinity. Stores lined the highway, and another cluster of houses bordered the creek side. All the streets off the highway were red gravel. It was certainly not the kind of place anyone would think to look for her.

But she needed a place to live, and Walker's Taj Mahal was not it. She looked up the high gravel road the storekeeper had indicated, shifted her heavy tote, and sighed. The sooner she started, the sooner she'd get there. The mountain air was warm and clean, the sun a fiery untamed ball, burning on her bare shoulders unprotected by her cotton tank.

She breathed in the pine fragrance as she walked, her Italian leather sandals grinding on the gravel. She bent to examine the flowers that grew in the middle of the road, tiny yellow heads with lavender daisy-like petals. A bee hung drunkenly from one tiny bloom, then buzzed to the next. Whatever traffic went up that way must keep to the shallow ruts for them to grow undisturbed like that.

When was the last time she'd seen something wild struggling for existence? Some non-hybrid, wind-scattered seed standing firmly where it landed, just as she did now? The tiny flower gave her courage; strength proved elusive.

As the slope steepened, her breath labored, burning in her chest. Her feet were weights. Thin air? She felt as though she battled some unseen force just taking one step after another. It couldn't help that she'd hardly eaten all the time she traveled and exercised less. At the road's summit, she dropped her head into her hands until the dizziness passed. Her hair slid in silken threads over her fingers, then she tossed it back and looked ahead.

The road ended at the ranch, broadening to a wide gravel apron where a tan pickup and a new red Corvette made an incongruous pair.
On one side of the yard were the stables and barn. Directly across stood the large, golden-hued log house wrapped in a sweeping porch with a swing suspended in the corner.

Beside the house, three small cabins nestled in the tall pines, and two more vehicles were parked there, a nondescript sedan and a white SUV with bicycles on the back. The middle cabin had no car outside, and, with rising hopes, she envisioned it hers. It looked homey in a rugged western way and decidedly sturdier than the Walker rental.

Beyond all this, the meadow climbed to the base of a craggy peak. A rocky stream wound down the center of the meadow and on behind the house. Noelle could imagine it murmuring as she breathed in the wild-flower scent carried on the breeze.

She was too tired to truly appreciate the beauty, but it touched her nonetheless. There was something solid, serene, implacable in the scene before her, and she quickened to it. Though vastly different from anything in her experience, it felt like home. And that was crazy, because home was many miles and a past life away. She walked down the last bit of road, then climbed the porch steps, set down her tote, and knocked.

In his khaki shorts and golf shirt, the man who opened the door looked like a summer cover of GQ, his casual elegance more suited to Daddy's club than a horse ranch in the Rocky Mountains. His too-blue eyes and suave features brought walls up inside her in spite of his easy smile. It didn't matter. Once she'd climbed the steps and felt the porch surround her, she had determined to stay.

She drew herself up. “Excuse me for coming without an appointment, but I was told you might have a cabin to rent?”

He brushed his fingers through his black hair and leaned against the doorjamb. “That would be my brother. I'm just freeloading.”

He had none of the shiftless look—in fact the opposite. But there was nothing menacing in his smile, and if she gave in to the irrational anxiety, she may as well go home. There would be no place safe enough. Besides, she'd seen the tour bus heading down while she climbed the gravel road, and it was here or the Taj Mahal. “May I see your brother, then?”

“He's up on the high pasture somewhere, but he'll be down later.”

A diminutive elderly woman bustled up behind him. “Hello, can I help you?”

“I'm handling it, Marta.” He half turned from the doorway, yet
Noelle felt no diminishment of his attention, and his next statement was for her. “Want to come in and wait?”

Of course he would ask. He wouldn't expect her to stand on the porch. But she shook her head. “I'll just look around.”

“I'll show you.” He held out his hand. “I'm Morgan Spencer.”

It was a natural gesture, an everyday connection, the sort people made on the street or in boardrooms or at a party. It wasn't threatening, but somehow things had blurred, and his outstretched hand brought a tension to her neck like a crane slowly pulling the tendons taut.

Training and common sense won out, and she reluctantly took it. “Noelle.”

“Just Noelle?”

“Noelle St. Claire.” A thought flashed that she shouldn't have given him her real name. Yet the need for anonymity did not come naturally. Why wouldn't she use her name? It had always opened doors.

“St. Claire. And I can just picture you on the Champs-Élysées.
Enchanté,
mademoiselle.” He bowed his head and released her hand.

She smiled in spite of herself. His charm made him less menacing—not that he was truly menacing. That was the worst of it, the way she looked at people now with a shrinking inside she could not account for. She hauled her tote back to her shoulder, but he reached for it.

“You can leave that inside.”

She resisted his gentle tug. “I'll hang on to it.”

A small sideways smile, then he controlled it and leaned close. “You're right. Marta's dangerous.”

Noelle glanced through the open door where Marta had been. That wasn't what she'd meant, and it must seem strange for her to cling to the heavy bag. Wouldn't a bellhop take her luggage at any hotel? Reluctantly, she let him set it inside the door against the wall.

He closed the door. “Now stretch, take a deep breath, and relax.”

Did she look so tense? She straightened her shoulders, relieved to be free of the weight, drew a slow breath, and sent her gaze back over the yard.

“Where to first?” He swung his arm.

She didn't hesitate. “The stables.” She'd know more about this place by seeing the stables than anything else. Little chance they'd house the sort of horse to which she was accustomed, but her expectations were low.

Morgan motioned for her to precede him down the steps, then
took the lead across the apron to the stables. “You won't see much. The horses are out.”

She would see enough, see what kind of place she'd come to. She entered the enclosure and breathed in the smell of leather and manure and hay. She looked over the neat, orderly tack accessories, bridles, saddles, currycombs, and hoof picks. The animals were well kept and cared for. No dark, dingy stalls for droop-necked nags. That spoke well for the rancher and confirmed her desire to stay.

They went back out and Morgan showed her the barn filled with sweet hay and barrels of grain, a tractor blade, and other tools and machinery. It was also a workshop, she concluded. He walked her past the guest cabins, each one a different size and shape, not one plan repeated three times. The builder was either creative or haphazard. She guessed the former.