A Rush of Wings (31 page)

“Trust Him? Where was he when Michael beat me, raped me? When I snuck away and ran?”

“He was there. He brought you to the ranch.”

“To you?” She said it with such venom, he quailed. Her lip curled. “At least Morgan was honest. He didn't couch what he wanted in pious lies.”

Rick held his tongue. She was right. He'd been dishonest with everyone, including himself, pretending he only wanted her well-being, when he wanted her so much he thought his heart might tear in two inside him.

Suddenly she crumpled. “It hurts so much!”

He caught her in his arms, held her. But it wasn't enough. One mistake, one lapse, and he'd torn them apart. He hadn't taught her God's love by proving his own. He had made her fear God's. “The Lord's love is perfect, Noelle. And perfect love drives out fear. Please don't be afraid of that love.”

The fight left her, but he kept her in his arms as the twilight deepened around them. It was bone-chilling cold. If they remained any longer they'd both freeze. “Will you come back to the house?” Maybe that was one step she could take.

But she hesitated. “What about Morgan?”

“We made our peace.”

She closed her eyes, and he circled her shoulders in his arm. She shivered as he led her back across the field. He hoped she wasn't just coming in from the cold.

———

Noelle sat by the window in the morning light, gazing out at the snowy land. Where before it had seemed beautiful, now it looked bleak. Nothing was as it seemed. Everything had a dark side. Suppressed emotions surged inside her, ready to surface and explode. She jumped when Rick touched her shoulder.

“Morgan wants to say good-bye. He's out front.”

Good-bye to Morgan? How many had there been already? But she nodded, then went out alone into the thin sunshine.

Morgan leaned on the white Lincoln rental and pulled a wry smile. “Sure do enjoy Christmas at home. It's so peaceful.” He no longer
fooled her with his careless, ne'er-do-well veneer. He took her hands. “You all right?”

She nodded. “Are you?”

He patted his chest. “Heart of steel, remember? Jaw too.” He worked it side to side as proof.

She didn't believe him on either account. But what use was questioning it? He had his own shell, his persona. Maybe it was better to stay that way. Coming out was too much work and way too painful.

He reached up and rubbed a lock of her hair between his fingers, then bent it under her chin. “I tell you what, if things don't work out, look me up.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “But for what it's worth, Rick's a better man.”

She blinked back her tears. There were so many things she should say but couldn't.

He chucked her chin. “Hey. No shell.”

She sniffed.

“Good-bye, gorgeous.”

“Good-bye.” She went inside without watching him leave.

Rick stood in the kitchen, hands resting on the counter, staring out the back window at the fields where he'd found her yesterday. She had hurt him out there, but he hadn't defended himself. Just as he'd taken the blame for her fall, he now shouldered all of this. Why? She went and stood beside him.

He said, “Is Morgan gone?”

“I think so.”

He turned. “Noelle, I've been thinking. I have to get back to the ranch.”

Her heart jumped, then she realized he'd said
I
not
we
.

His tone was carefully neutral. “I've talked to Mom and Dad. You can stay—”

“You're leaving me here?” How could she face his family alone? Or was he trying to be done with it, with her?

He turned and took her hands. “Noelle . . .”

She tugged free, unwilling to hear whatever honorable words he couched it in. “You don't need to say any more.” She slipped the ring from her finger and tucked it into his palm.

“What—” He caught her arm as she turned.

She yanked it away. “I can take care of myself. I don't need you or your family.”

“Well, in case you hadn't noticed, I need you.”

She stood where she was. Rick needed her? Rick, who needed nothing but his land, his work, his God? Why would he say something so blatantly false?

His throat moved. “I was going to say you could stay here if you needed time. We can't go back together the way it is. But I guessed maybe you weren't ready to marry me now.” He bounced the ring in his palm, then closed it tightly into his grip. “I'd say my guess was good.”

She stood for a moment, staring into his eyes, then dropped her face to her hand and cried. His arms came around her, and she pressed into his chest, need surging inside. “Don't leave me. Please don't leave me.”

“I've stayed as long as I can.”

“Then marry me.” She could hardly believe she'd said it, but if that was all that stood between him taking her back with him . . .

It was a long time before he spoke. “I want you to be sure.”

She was sure. What more did she need than Rick and the ranch? She longed to see the crags in the snow, the golden log walls warmed by the fire crackling in the stone fireplace. She wished they'd never left. She wrapped his waist with her arms. “I'm sure.”

Rick held her close. He was less than confident. Especially with the ring still in his hand. Did she know he meant the vows to last? He stroked her hair, caught it in his fingers, and turned her face up. “It's forever, Noelle. No going back. No running away.”

Her throat worked. “I know.” She looked so vulnerable. Did she understand? Maybe her father had taken charge of her life for a reason. What sort of woman nearly died from inertia, as she had in Walker's shack? Again he sensed a brittle spirit. Could she make a decision? One as critical as marriage?

His heart twisted. If she couldn't, he'd make it for her. Otherwise he'd lose her. He knew it. “There's usually a process, preparation classes, mentoring. But if we go back together I can twist Pastor Tom's arm.”

Her whole face changed, lit from within. “Will he marry us at the ranch?”

He rested his forearms on her shoulders. “Let's marry in the church and live at the ranch.” He saw her resistance, but that was not negotiable.
“If we take our vows in God's sight, He'll make our union strong. A threefold cord can't be broken.” He might as well be talking to stone.

She showed no understanding and little inclination, but she said, “If that's what you want.”

Well, it was enough that she was willing. They would start out right, and he'd do better this time. With God's help.

W
illiam St. Claire stomped down the stairs in his dressing gown and slippers. Who would disturb him this late on a Saturday night? He pulled open the door. “Myron. What do you have?” He ushered him in.

Myron took off his hat. “First, let me say it's obvious your daughter does not want to be found. There's been no record of employment, no phone, no credit cards, no lease or mortgage agreements—nothing. I thought, until tonight, I'd be telling you it was pointless to retain me further.”

William's chest tightened. “Until tonight?”

“I have something. A hospital in Boulder, Colorado.”

William made a fist. His worst fears . . .

Myron raised a hand. “They treated a Noelle St. Claire for injuries sustained in a horse riding accident. Noelle rides horses?”

William held his voice steady. “It used to be a passion of hers.”

“She was released in September, the claim filed against liability insurance held in the name of Richard Spencer.”

William released his breath. “Richard Spencer?” He searched his memory. The name meant nothing to him.

Myron shrugged. “I'm booked to fly out tomorrow. I'll be in contact the moment I have anything.”

“Thank you for coming in person. I want to keep this between us for now.”

Myron nodded. “I'll be in touch.”

William closed the door. Richard Spencer. Had Noelle run off with a man? It was possible, though unlikely. He went to the study and poured a bourbon. But it would explain her lack of communication. If she was embroiled in some romantic affair . . .

He looked up at the portrait of Adelle, the only picture of her in the house. She looked terribly young. She had been young. Their own whirlwind romance swept them both into a life full of gaiety and . . . His throat tightened painfully. Wasted at twenty-seven by the ravaging cancer, she'd gone from the beautiful woman in the portrait to a morphine-dependent husk. In months. It had killed him—the best part of him, anyway—to watch her die.

Then he'd been afraid. Watching Noelle grow so like Adelle, the same sensitivity, the fragile beauty. He'd done everything humanly possible to keep her safe, but inside he knew there were things he couldn't control, and it ate at him. He dropped his face into his hand.

What had gone wrong? Why had she left? Should he call Myron off and leave her alone? Hospital injuries from a horse riding accident. He'd always worried about that, but she'd loved the horses so much. He clenched his jaw. He was entitled to answers, at least.

———

Noelle breathed deeply as Rick pulled open the door and let her in. Pine and woodsmoke. The familiar shadows of the main room vanished with the click of the lamp switch, and she looked up into the lofted strength of the house. No place had ever touched her as this ranch did.

Rick rubbed his palm over her back. “Nice to be home?”

Home
. She'd felt it the first time she looked out at the ranch spread before her, felt its solid beauty. After the hospital, after Walker's shack . . .
Oh yes
.

“Wonder if Simon's up still.” Rick glanced up the dark stairs. “Not from the looks of it. We'll let him sleep.” He went back out for the bags.

She wandered to the kitchen and turned on the light. A hot cup of tea would chase the chill from their bones. Whoever had fixed Rick's truck heater hadn't done the job right. She filled the kettle with hot water and put it on to boil, then took down Marta's tea tin.

She glanced at Rick's mail piled on the table. Maybe she'd have
another money order waiting. As she flipped through the envelopes, a business card slid from the stack. Her heart flipped inside her.
Myron Robertson, Private Investigator
. She jerked a glance over her shoulder.

“What's the matter?” Rick came in behind her, setting the bags down on either side of him.

She handed him the card with numb fingers.

“You know him?”

She nodded. “He's the investigator Daddy uses.”

Rick set the card down. “We're calling your father in the morning, anyway.”

She stared at him with a mixture of betrayal and disbelief. How could he say that so dispassionately? “What do you mean?”

“Noelle, I'm not a thief. I'll ask his permission—”

“He won't give it.”

At the whistle, Rick turned and took the steaming kettle from the stove. “If I can't have his blessing, at least I'll have his knowledge.”

She sank to the chair. What did she expect? Rick's sense of honor was overdeveloped. She should have known. Here they were, back in his hallowed halls, and he was once again the dictator. “What does it matter?”

He poured the steaming water over the tea bag in her cup. “It matters.”

“Why?”

He laid a teaspoon beside the saucer. “Because you can't keep blaming him for what Michael did.”

She tensed, expecting the flap of wings, the amber eyes. They didn't come, but just hearing Michael's name and thinking of Daddy's part in it . . .

Rick took down a box of saltine crackers, slid out one tube, and poured them onto a plate. “He couldn't have known, Noelle. How could he?”

How could he not? He had governed and guarded her, but still he'd hand chosen Michael. She shuddered.

Rick sat down and took her hands in his. Even at odds, his touch brought comfort. What power he had in his hands. She watched the muscles of his forearms ripple as he tightened his grip. She didn't want to listen, didn't want to think of Daddy and Michael. That was another life. She leaned close and kissed Rick.

He hadn't expected it. In his surprise she sensed her own power.
Without knowing, she'd taken an important step, another jab at the dragon. She didn't have to wait to be kissed. As Morgan said, it was her choice. She kissed him again, the pulse in his neck throbbing under her palm.

He took her shoulders and shifted her back from him, saying thickly, “You're not making this easy.”

She smiled. He didn't like his control threatened, and for the first time she experienced the thrill of affecting someone else. Intentionally putting forth her will.

“We'll call your father in the morning.”

Back to that subject? Not as easily distracted as she'd thought. She frowned.

“Someone's got to walk you down the aisle.”

“I can walk myself.”

He stroked her cheek. “I'm an old-fashioned guy.”

Hadn't Morgan told her as much? Another century, he'd said. “Then let it be Hank.” She lowered her lashes and parted her lips.

Rick broke eye contact, fighting her lure. “If it comes to that, Dad would be willing. But your father gets first chance.”

Power draining, she closed her eyes. “You don't know what you're saying.”

“Oh yes, I do.”

———

Michael Fallon stood in the marble entry of the weekend house of Ms. Clarice Overton. He took in the imposing foyer and the massive, crystal chandelier suspended from the towering ceiling. To his right, a sweeping staircase curved up, and at its base stood a life-size marble nude. Resting his gaze there, he thought how much he deserved tonight's entertainment.

Five months of hell warranted a respite, no matter how unsatisfying the replacement might be. After all, hadn't Saturday's
Post
listed him among the most eligible bachelors in New York's most powerful circles? He had clipped the article from the society page to keep it for Noelle when he found her.

He frowned. Yes,
when
he found her. Even though Sebastian had proved ineffective, he would find her. He handed his coat and scarf to the butler, then turned as Clarice caught sight of him.

“Michael.” She stepped away from her companions and swept into the entry.

Michael eyed her, an arresting face with too aristocratic a nose, but a figure that drew his attention immediately. She knew how to accent her best features to minimize her worst.

“How nice of you to come. I was trapped in a murderously dull conversation. You're my salvation.”

Michael laughed. “Somehow I've never pictured you needing redemption.”

“Nevertheless, your appearance here is the pinnacle of my success.”

“And why is that?”

“You, my dear Michael, are the prize sought at every event this season. And
I
am the first to acquire you.”

“How very mercenary.”

She laughed low, a manly laugh that shook her bosom—intentionally, he was sure.

With her on his arm, he walked into the ballroom—it couldn't be called anything less. Clarice soaked up the glances like a sponge, tipsy with her successful acquisition and the fine champagne carried on trays. Many of the faces were familiar either by acquaintance or reputation, and Michael was greeted with nods as they passed. Clarice was well connected. He might improve more than his personal life this weekend. But how the tongues would wag.

They circled the room, tittering here, tittering there. He didn't mind the attention, but Clarice had a way of wheezing up into her nose before she laughed that made him want to pinch it shut. Maybe he would. He stopped in front of a vibrant eight-foot oil abstract. It was ugly even to his eye. “Tell me, Clarice, what do you see in this?”

She slid her fingers inside the back of his tux and looked up at the work. “I see passion, vigor, obsession.”

“Amazing.”

“What do you see?” Her nails scratched up the back of his shirt.

Tacky, Clarice, and way too obvious
. “I see an artist with very little skill. I'm a realist. I want to see things as they are, not someone's warped representation.”

She pressed close. “Then how do you paint passion?”

He looked into her eyes, then let his gaze rove downward. “Passion is an experience, not a focal point. Art should reflect what causes passion and leave the experience to the beholder.”

“I have something passionate in the library.” Clarice wheezed into her nose. “Would you like a private viewing?”

Michael allowed her to lead him away from the crowd, knowing every eye followed them. William would hear of it, think Michael had at last recovered from the blow. Noelle would hear, somehow she would hear. And she'd come back. She would think he'd turned his sights elsewhere. But she would be wrong.

“Is this what you meant?” Clarice motioned upward to another massive work of terrible art.

He eyed the crude painting of a groping pair, grotesque really, with thick lines of green shadow that looked more like slime. He turned away, bored, and glimpsed a decorative easel holding a small, delicate work, so out of place amid Clarice's other choices, he asked, “What's that?”

“Oh, that. No passion at all.”

Michael crossed over and stopped before it. Something so subtle would be totally lost on Clarice. The glow of the craggy mountain, the cool growth beneath. The detail both portrayed and hinted. Michael almost felt he was there. “This, Clarice, is art.” Then his throat went dry. “Where did you get this?”

“It was a gift, but I can find out. Personally, I don't think much of it—”

Michael gripped the frame and wrenched it from the easel.

“Michael, what is it?”

He stared at the bottom corner.
Noelle St. Claire
. At last.

———

Noelle stood still just inside her bedroom door, hand on the knob. Last night Rick had shown her to the room with a wry smile, whispered, “good night,” and kissed her gently, then gone quietly to his own room. She heard him downstairs now with another male voice. Simon? Rick's friend had watched the ranch in their absence and was probably leaving now. She cracked open the door and saw them in the entry.

Simon shrugged. “Didn't seem threatening or anything. Just said her father was worried, wanted to know where she was.”

“What did you tell him?” Rick spoke low, obviously trying not to disturb her.

“I told him you were somewhere in Iowa and I didn't know when you'd be back, which was true since you hadn't told me a thing.” Simon
put on his coat. “I couldn't exactly claim I didn't know her when I'd already recognized the picture.”

Rick forked his fingers into his hair. “It's not a big deal. We're taking care of it this morning anyway.”

Simon handed the card back to Rick. “Not every day a P. I. comes looking for you, though, is it?”

Rick shook his head. “She had her reasons.” He slid the card into his shirt pocket. “Thanks for keeping the place.”

“Any time. Gets me away from Bruce and Rob. Nice to have a house to myself sometimes. Those guys . . . well, you know how they are.”

Rick smiled. He didn't seem overly worried, but Noelle's heart thrummed. Maybe she could make him see. When Simon went out, she started down. Rick closed the door behind his friend and turned. If she could just—

But he had the phone on the table beside the door. He held it up the moment she joined him.

She frowned. “No good morning?”

He wrapped his arm around her back and kissed her. “Good morning.” Then he sat her on the couch and handed her the phone.

She sighed loudly but dialed. The sooner this was done . . .

“Yes?” Daddy's tone was gruff. He must be busy already, but then, it was later there.

“Daddy?”

“Noelle! Where are you?”

But she didn't want to say that yet.

“What on earth are you doing? Why did it take so long for you to call? Do you realize what I've been through?”

Did he realize what
she'd
been through? She started to shake.

“Noelle? Talk to me!”

Fear became anger. “What do you want me to say?”

Her tone must have warned him. She could hear his collecting breath, as he called it. She imagined his eyes closed, his hand rubbing his face. “Tell me you're all right.”