A Rush of Wings (22 page)

“Are you chilly?” Rick's glance touched her goosebumped leg below the hem of the shorts.

She shrugged. “I'm fine. This one's warm.” She knocked her knuckles on the cast. “It's the new look, you know.”

The corners of his mouth deepened. It sure took a lot to make him smile. He opened the basket and handed her a sandwich. “Turkey, I think.”

She took it, feeling the first hint of appetite. It must be the fresh air. “Did you have a nice visit with your friends?”

He glanced at her. “Yeah.” If he wondered how she knew, he didn't ask. But he seemed more relaxed than the last time they'd spoken, when he'd carried her to her bedroom and left her there.

She wished she could recapture the ease they'd developed working Destiny. He must be training without her. She could smell the horses on him. “How are Hank's foals?”

“Coming. The bay is quick. She's learning well.” He unwrapped his sandwich.

“What did you name her?”

“Jasmine.”

“You like exotic names.”

Rick shrugged. “I suppose. Mostly a name should fit or mean something.” He bit and chewed his sandwich. “Like Noelle.”

“Oh, that.” She waved her hand. “I was supposed to be Michelle,
but when I came the day before Christmas, Daddy chose Noelle instead.”

“First your birthday, then the Savior's. Guess Christmas was something in your house.”

She laid the sandwich across her knee. “I only remember one. I was six. It was the year before my mother died.” She narrowed her eyes. “I can picture the house—every room glittering with candles, lights, fresh holly up the banister. Daddy told me not to run my hand on it, but I cut my palm anyway.”

One side of his mouth drew up. She knew what he was thinking. Maybe she
was
willful. There had been other things just like that. She'd be the model child, then some little thing like refusing the red tutu for her recital. She hated red. And red dresses especially. Her thoughts jammed, and she turned them back to Christmas.

“I had my own little tree in my room, all colored lights and dancing bears. . . .” She raised her sandwich. “That was our last Christmas.”

“Why?”

“After my mother died, Daddy . . . didn't see the point.” She breathed the aroma of fresh bread, peppered turkey, and mayonnaise. “He always made a big deal of my birthday, though.”

Rick took a bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly. Noelle did the same. The breeze flicked her hair across her face. She brushed it aside and took another bite.

Rick said, “It must be hard to lose a parent so young.”

It must have been, but she could hardly remember. She remembered Daddy's face, hard and gray, and the strict schedule that began and continued every day of her life after. She was too busy to miss her mother, too tired to mourn. But she'd grown used to that. It was something else that she never got used to—the look of fear on Daddy's face as he crept into her room at night and hunched beside her bed.

She hadn't understood his fear, but she absorbed it. Something must be wrong. Something bad would happen. And it had. She realized Rick was watching her with that probing look. The quiet between them grew awkward. She brushed her hair back with her fingers. “What did you name the other horse?”

“Dulcinea.”

She smiled. “Of La Mancha.”

Rick stretched out on the ground and pulled apart a branch of grapes. He shot her a half smile. “Maybe I got carried away on that one.”

She tried to reconcile the romantic names to the practical man. From what unplumbed depths did the names come? “It's nice that you name them something special.”

“Dad raises some sweet horses. Aldebaran came from him.”

Guilt flushed her face. “How is she?”

“She didn't break anything. Still favors the leg some, but not as much as you do yours.”

Noelle stared at her cast. “I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt her.”

He looked away. “I don't blame you. I thought you knew that.”

He sounded sincere, but Noelle couldn't meet his eyes.

He tossed his napkin in the basket and stood. “Guess I'll get back at it.” He scooped up the basket. “Do you want to go in now?”

She shook her head. “Just a little longer?”

He cocked his hip and grinned. “Are you ever satisfied the first time?”

“Never.”

“I believe that.” He took off his worn leather jacket and hung it over her bare knee. “No sense getting chilled.”

She watched him walk away with his purposeful gait. The jacket warmed her leg, but her heart warmed more. Why had she feared him? How could she have thought he would hurt her? Because she'd been fooled before. No one was above doubt.

Rick came back out of the house and returned directly to her. He said, “Ms. Walker's on the phone. Do you want to talk to her?”

She nodded. “I guess I should.”

“Hold on around my neck.”

She obeyed, and he lifted and carried her to the house. He had left the door ajar and he nudged it with his boot, then set her on the couch. The daybed had been removed, the room put back as it was before. He was obviously not planning her return to the lower level. Rick brought her the phone, then left.

“Hello?” As Noelle leaned back against the pillows and listened, her heart sank. “Oh, I didn't realize it was a seasonal business. Not till June?” She shut her eyes. “Yes, if your friend in Boston will take them. Yes, by money order at this address. Thank you.” She turned off the receiver and dropped it to her lap. The shop closed for the winter? Her source of income gone, her body crippled . . . What more could possibly go wrong?

———

From the couch that evening, Noelle watched the light flicker warmly as Rick bent and poked the fire in the great stone fireplace. When he straightened, she gathered her gumption. “Rick, would it be possible for me to pay the winter's rent next spring, when the gallery opens again?”

He squatted and slid the log deeper in. The fire played across his features, accenting the angles and planes as he finally turned and faced her. “Noelle, you need to be honest with me.”

A knot tightened her stomach. “About what?”

“Why you're here.”

Her mouth went dry. “Is there a law against privacy?” Morgan would know that tone and back off.

Rick merely stood up. “Why can't you talk to your father?”

“I don't want to.” It sounded peevish.

He sat down on the table across from her. “I can't decide anything until you level with me.”

It was fair. She was asking him to support her through this time, giving him no reason whatever for doing it. Maybe if she told him something—even that she didn't know, couldn't remember. Of course, then he'd think her nuts and be less inclined than ever to have her in his home.

Her pulse suddenly throbbed in her ears. The shakes started up her spine. She fought the panic, but it was no use. In a moment she would hear the flapping of wings, feel the talons in her flesh. The hawk coming for the kill.

“Tell me the truth, Noelle. I can't keep you here unless I know the truth.” Rick's voice compelled like no other. It wasn't only Rick speaking but something else as well. She wanted to respond, to be free of the terror. Her heart rushed, then fear and fury stopped it.

She gripped her moist hands together. “If you want me out, I'll go. There are other places.”

“I didn't say I wanted you out. And where would you go with no money for rent?”

Her cheeks flamed. “Do you think I'm begging for charity? Ms. Walker has a place.”

“A shack.” He stood and paced to the window. “And it doesn't go free.”

She raised her chin. “She'll discount it for a higher percentage on my work.”

“You have to have sales to earn a percentage.” He swung his hand wide. “The shop's closed.”

Noelle's throat tightened. “She's sending my stock to a Boston gallery.”

Rick cocked his jaw. A brief flash of anger crossed his face, the same anger he'd displayed on the shale slope. “Just tell me what I need to know.”

“You don't need to know anything.” Her voice shook. She thought he might holler, might—

But the anger faded from his face, replaced by regret. He spread his hands. “Well, Marta's leaving this week for the winter. I don't take guests past September. I guess it's best if you find another place.” He stalked to the door and went outside.

Her breath caught jaggedly. What had she done? Why didn't she just tell him? What if she said, yes, I'm in trouble, Rick; I need your help. But she couldn't. She pressed her hands to her face. What would she do?

She tightened her jaw. She should have enough money for the first month on Ms. Walker's shack—the Taj Mahal. Ms. Walker had suggested it more than once as part of their partnership. After that, there'd be sales from Boston. There had to be. She picked up the phone and dialed. “Yes, Ms. Walker? Is your rental property still available?”

When she hung up, she saw Marta standing behind her at the doorway to the kitchen. “Could you please bring my crutches, Marta?”

Marta slowly shook her head but brought the crutches. Noelle didn't want to hear her regrets. She took the crutches and started for the stairs. Up was easier, at least not as intimidating. Still hurt the ribs. That was one good thing; there were no stairs in Ms. Walker's shack.

Marta followed. “I'll help you pack your things.”

“I can manage.”

“Maybe you can. But I'd like to help.” Marta started on the dresser drawers.

Noelle was thankful for the assistance—as long as it didn't include an opinion.

———

Rick pressed his knees into Destiny's sides. The horse plunged
through the creek and up into the forest. Overhead, stars pricked the sky in the deepening dusk. He climbed to the top of the hill where the trees stopped and Destiny's hooves clattered on stone. He looked up to the sky.

God, I can't break through. I can't see my way
. And now his anger turned to hurt. He dropped his head and pressed his palm to his forehead. He ached at the thought of turning Noelle out. Why had she even come? What was she there for? There had to be a reason. Maybe it was none of his business.

Then why did it feel like he was ripping his own heart out? “God, if you want something from me, say so.” He waited in the moonlight until calm returned to his spirit. He would talk to Noelle again. Maybe there was some way to get through. If she would trust him, he could help her. But the Lord was right. It had to come from her. He rode back, semi-hopeful, but he found Noelle in the entry, standing on her crutches with her tote and another bag on the floor beside her. She had obviously made up her mind.

“You're leaving now?” His tone was dry.

“I called Ms. Walker. She'll give me a ride.” Noelle wouldn't meet his eyes.

Why was she so stubborn? Couldn't she see he would help?
Lord?
What more could he say? He went to the cupboard under the bookshelf and pulled out the pine box he'd fashioned. He had intended to rub in an oil finish, but there wasn't time for that now. He set it on the table beside her. She looked puzzled.

“Open it,” he said.

She did. Inside were her paints, brushes, and the easel he'd repaired. Sudden tears glittered in her eyes.

He cleared his throat. “I picked them up when I went back for Aldebaran. I'm afraid the pictures were ruined in the rain.”

She didn't answer for a long moment, then whispered, “Thank you.”

His spirit stirred. Maybe now . . . “Noelle . . .”

Tires ground on the gravel outside and she turned away. “There's Ms. Walker. Will you please get the door?”

Rick lifted the wooden case and her bags as she gripped her crutches. He opened the door and let her out. Ms. Walker sat in her Land Rover, popping her gum. This was wrong. It had to be.
Give me the word, Lord. Just give me the word
.

The night was still and so was his spirit. The rest of him was anything but. He carried the tote and bag and put them into the backseat. He wanted to jerk them back out and carry them and Noelle right back upstairs. But God knew better, and if Rick acted against that belief, it would certainly be worse.

Noelle eased herself into the front seat. “Thank you, Rick. For everything.”

He took the crutches and slid them into the back with her bags. He'd done all he could. So he nodded, then watched the Rover turn and the taillights disappear. When the cold penetrated his woolen shirt, he went inside. Marta sent him a hopeful look, but he shook his head.

“I have pie straight from the oven,” she said.

He smiled. “Thanks, Marta.” If only pie would help.

S
hack
was a generous term for Ms. Walker's rental. One week there was like solitary confinement in the most dissolute penal system in America. Noelle looked around the cramped area that housed the tattered couch, single lamp, lumpy bed, and kitchen. Well, kitchen stretched the definition: a white gas oven that practically blew up when she lit it, a tiny refrigerator, and a Formica table with one foot missing and two vinyl chairs.

She sat down in the peeling chair, dropped her elbows to the table, and wept. This place was hideous and ugly and dirty and cold. Why hadn't she told Rick what he wanted to know? Her anger flared, and she shoved back from the table. She reached down and threw her shoe at the spider on the wall, then sighed.

Yesterday she had made her way on crutches to every business in town that stayed open through the winter. No one needed extra help when they scaled back for local business only. No one needed a hobbled woman with no work experience.

So where did that leave her? Thanks to Rick's gift, she could paint and hope that the gallery in Boston would sell her watercolors. Ms. Walker had sent off the last of her work, then closed up and left town, leaving a post-office box address at which she would accept any new work.

Noelle reached for the case Rick had made, ran her fingers slowly over the smooth wood. His eyes had been so gentle when he presented
it, and regretful. Would she ever understand him? But that didn't matter anymore.

The ranch had been a haven for a time, but she no longer needed it or him. She had a new place and a means to support herself—if the paintings did as well in Boston as in the local gallery. Of course, at Ms. Walker's shop the tourists were looking specifically for local art. In Boston she would be competing with a much higher quality of artists and myriad styles and themes.

What if nothing sold at all? Noelle looked around her. In this depressing place it was easy to imagine complete meltdown.

———

Michael was on fire. He'd won the case. Even at second chair, it was his work, his finesse, his points that turned the jury. William was thorough, but Michael had been brilliant. And William knew it, demonstrated by his nudge when they walked out together with their client to the whirring cameras, the microphones shoved into their faces. William was putting him first.

With his breath turning white in the cold, Michael accepted the spokesperson's position, while William pushed Burton Wells through to the car. Michael raised a hand to quiet the barrage of questions. He wanted to make a fist and punch the air in victory, but he straightened his coat and looked gracious.

The questions came fast, and he answered. “As you know, Mr. Wells was clearly exonerated. We're very pleased. . . . The city will have to look elsewhere to solve its case. . . . Yes, I hope they'll find Ms. Baker's assailant. . . . I have no information on other suspects. . . . Mr. Wells will be spending time with his family where he belongs. Thank you very much.”

He stepped down and pressed his way through the crowd respectfully. He loved it. He wanted to smear the grins off every face when they lost, but when they won? The press was his fan club. Whether they meant it or not. He got into his cab. William's limo had already left. But they were meeting in an hour, and Michael anticipated the congratulations.

He wasn't patting himself on the back; he was exulting in overcoming the almost crippling ache he carried inside every day now. William didn't know. No one knew. Michael had re-created himself so
thoroughly that not even William suspected he dreamed every night of Noelle. Dreamed of finding her, holding her, and more.

She was out there somewhere, and sooner or later she would contact her father. Michael had to maintain his professional and personal relationship with the man whose esteem he coveted as desperately as Noelle's love. Then he would have both.

———

Inside the limousine, William toasted Burton Wells. Their glasses clinked and William sipped the Dom Perignon he kept for such occasions. He was pleased to represent and vindicate an innocent man. And he was humbled by the depth of gratitude he saw in Burton's eyes. “I guess we'll both sleep tonight.”

Burton nodded silently. He'd been a man of few words throughout the ordeal. A class act. Though the circumstantial evidence had shown opportunity, they could prove no motive for Burton to have attacked his young neighbor. There had been racial bias—accusations and innuendos against the only African-American in the gated community.

But not once had they drawn on that for their defense. Burton had not wanted the ACLU or black extremist groups riding this wave. He wanted to be cleared as an individual, not a black man done wrong. He smiled now, an elegant, satisfied smile. “I think we will. Unless, of course, Taniya has other designs.”

William smiled, then sobered. “There will be difficulties.”

“I'm prepared for that.”

“No, you're not. A verdict of not guilty is not the same as innocent.”

The lines in Burton's face lengthened and deepened as they passed the guard station and pulled into the circular drive. “A man in my position is used to suspicion. How can that black man afford a house like this? Did he make his money in drugs?” The tendons pulled tight in his neck. “I will sleep tonight, regardless of what my neighbors think.”

William nodded. He had done his job well. More than that, Michael had done his. Looking at Burton now, he could well believe this client no longer needed his advice. He held out his hand. “It's been an honor.”

Burton gripped it, then grinned. “Right back at you.”

William chuckled as Burton climbed from the limo. He glanced at his watch. Nearly an hour before he and Michael were meeting
for dinner. He crossed his hands behind his head. “Just drive, John. Tavern on the Green by seven.” The only thing that could have made this evening better was to share it with Noelle. He closed his eyes and tried to keep the hurt and worry from spoiling the moment. Myron Robertson had not found her. Yet.

———

Noelle stared out the dingy window. The first of November, and the snow fell in earnest. October's rent and half of September had taken all but twenty-three dollars of her money. She had no phone and would soon have no utilities according to the latest notice. Perhaps it would be a while before they actually disconnected her, but she kept the heat low to limit the debt until she earned something.

Her leg itched in the cast, and she raised it to the table. It was long past time to have it removed, but she had no transportation back to the hospital, nor funds for a follow-up visit, not to mention the physical therapy they'd expect. Enough was enough. She took the serrated knife from the drainer on the sink and hacked at the plaster until the blade snagged in the wrapping beneath. Then she pulled apart the two halves and scrutinized the small scar at the side of her knee, the shin where the bone had knit, and the withered muscles. Then she scratched the skin red.

She put her foot on the floor and tried her weight. It hurt a little, but mostly it was weak. She would exercise it tomorrow. Right now she was too discouraged. She dropped to the chair. How had she come to this? Every choice had been hers. Had she used her freedom so poorly, or did forces conspire against her? Forces? Or God?

Rick's God. If He existed, He was no doubt as grim and unswerving as Rick, as unyielding, uncaring . . . Unbidden she recalled Rick's head bowed in the corner of her hospital room, the warmth and comfort of his grip as he stilled her fears, his payment of her bills—and the look in his face when he gave her back her paints, her livelihood.

Was he uncaring? Hadn't he tried to help? It was her own refusal to trust him that had her where she was. But how could she tell him? How could she give substance to the nightmare? He asked too much. She dropped her chin to her palm. Maybe . . . maybe her paintings would sell in Boston.

———

Rick paced to the window and looked out at the snow. December twelfth. He loved winter's solitude, the physical labor of repairing and building. He liked connecting with neighbors he saw less frequently in the summer when his ranch was in use. In the winter, Bruce and Simon would stop by and they'd play backgammon or brag about their hunting and fishing. In winter he sat by the fire and read, played his guitar.

Rick looked at it now, leaning against the couch, and thought of Noelle, of the night she'd seen him play, of the way he'd wanted to play for her. In twelve days she would have a birthday. Would she celebrate with friends in town? The people he talked to said she kept to herself. Rudy saw her when she needed paper, which meant she was painting, using the materials Rick had gathered from the mountainside and repaired.

Maybe things were going fine and she'd found the independence and control she wanted. Maybe his doubts were groundless. He shook his head. She'd made it very clear that she didn't need his help. So why the nagging concern?

He paced the room again. She wasn't far. He could go down and visit, see how she was getting along, how the leg was healing. In a way it was his responsibility to know. He had accepted medical responsibility, at least.

But then he pictured her wounded face when he tried to get answers. She did not trust him, did not want his help. If he hadn't forced the issue . . . But, no, he'd done what he had to. They couldn't live together on the ranch the way they'd been, not just the two of them, not the way things had developed. If he didn't interfere now, maybe she'd go home and face whatever had made her run. That thought left a sizeable hollow.

He forced himself to sit. What was it? Why was he so stir crazy? He glanced at the Bible on the table. Maybe he should have made a better effort. He rested his head in his palms. Then he dropped to his knees and prayed.

———

Noelle pulled open the cupboard and groaned. Part of a box of oatmeal and a handful of tea bags . . . and on the table Ms. Walker's final notice. Though she had waived the signing of a lease, Ms. Walker did expect to be paid. Both November and December's rents were past due, but Noelle had used all of her cash. If she didn't pay the rent by
the end of the week, she was out, and nothing had sold. At least no money had arrived from Boston.

She raised her brows and stared at the table where her paints were spread. Maybe no one liked her work anywhere but here. Her head spun, and she blinked away the dizziness. She limped across the cracked linoleum and sat down at the table. Outside the smudgy window, snow blanketed the ground and fell again, soft and silent.

She lifted the paintbrush that lay beside the jar and stared at the paper. What was the use? A racking cough seized her and shot fire through her chest. She dropped the brush, staggered to the bed, and lay down, grabbing the covers up as her teeth chattered together.

Scarcely aware of time passing, she lay with fever raging. Her trembling was so violent her muscles ached from exhaustion. As the sun sent its last, weak rays over the mountain, she dragged herself across the floor to the sink and drank directly from the faucet, then staggered back. She just . . . needed . . . sleep.

Dreams faded in and out of her consciousness. Professor Jenkins stood at the table in her father's library and drilled her Latin.
“The human spirit and part of the divine.” I don't know it, Professor. It doesn't exist. “It exists, Noelle, in the beautiful. You must find it . . . find it . . . find it . . .”

The real Noelle. Morgan held out the eggshells.
“Come out. Come out and dance. Dance with me.” I can't. My leg is broken. I can't dance. I can't.

“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”
The light was so bright it hurt her eyes.
“The truth. Tell me the truth, Noelle.”
Rick's eyes probed. He held the guitar and sang words she didn't know. She felt her resolve crumbling. No. No. . . .

———

Rick banged again. If she didn't answer that, he'd kick the door down. He had tried yesterday with no luck, but he would bet she wasn't out in today's snow. Maybe she meant to ignore him, and she had the right, but . . .

Noelle opened the door, and he couldn't help but stare. Her eyes and cheeks were hollow, her lips cracked. Her hair hung in strings. The bones of her hand on the door stood out, skeletal through her
skin. The flannel nightshirt and leggings hung on her, and her lips and fingernails were blue.

He hid his shock and held out the envelope. “This letter came for—”

“Thank you.” She snatched it and shoved it into the pocket of her nightshirt.

That was it. He'd done what he had to, brought her mail, and she was obviously not welcoming him inside. He started to turn, then pushed the door wide, shoved past her, and went inside. His breath formed a cloud. “Noelle, it's cold as a tomb in here!” And the place was a hovel.

“I've had a cold and been in bed.” She coughed and held her ribs.

Rick looked hard at her where she stood, shivering and clammy. “Your power's off?”

“I keep it low.”

He reached for the light switch and flicked it up. Nothing happened. He crossed the room, pulled open the cabinet, then the refrigerator. He spun. “What's going on?”

Again a cough racked her. She slumped against the wall and sank to the floor. “Just leave.” She closed her eyes.

Rick yanked the cover from the bed and wrapped it around her. She didn't fight him, and he wasn't surprised. She was weak and limp as a kitten as he lifted her and carried her out to the truck.

But when he slid her into the seat, she seemed to come to. “What are you doing? I didn't ask for your help.” She coughed again as he tucked her legs in.

His anger surged. “No, you didn't.” He shut the door and walked around, forcing composure. Even so, he didn't look her way when he climbed in. The sight of her feverish eyes, hollow cheeks, the blue tinge of her lips . . .