A Rush of Wings (8 page)

“We'll miss Marta's meal anyway.”

She slowed. He was right, and she'd hardly touched her lunch, an overcooked chicken breast sandwich with a nasty sauce they passed off as southwestern ranch.

“We'll compromise. There's a place up the canyon toward Juniper Falls.”

“Let me guess, barbecue brisket that's to die for.”

“Authentic Bavarian cuisine.”

She looked away, tempted against her better judgment. But now that he'd mentioned it, her mouth watered. “It's on the way back?”

“It is.”

“Is it far?”

“Nowhere near what we've walked.”

She eyed him dubiously. Last night had shown her all she needed to know.

“My best behavior. Scout's honor.” He held up the Boy Scout fingers, but his eyes were mischievous.

“You said you'd put that behind you.”

“I can resurrect it.”

She looked into his persuasive face. He was used to succeeding, she could tell. But he had been a patient and amusing companion, had given up his day for her. “Okay, we'll make an
evening
of it.”

He clasped both hands over his heart. “Have I ever exulted so?”

“Probably.” She started to walk, but he caught her arm.

“Duck into a dressing room and put on that wine-colored dress.”

The only dress she had purchased, and as she recalled, Morgan had pulled it off the rack. Intending for her to wear it with him? “What about you?”

“I've got slacks and a jacket in the car.”

She frowned. He carried a change of clothes in his car?

He raised scout fingers again. “Be prepared.”

Nothing surprised her anymore.

Morgan checked his watch. “I'll take what you don't need to the car and meet you back here in fifteen minutes. That leaves no time for browsing.”

She sighed. “Fine.” The nearest dressing room was probably the one she had just left, so she went back there and put on the sleeveless burgundy dress. The scoop neck revealed her collarbones and sternum, and the soft fabric molded to her shape, before falling just above the knee. It was more than flattering; it was inviting. Exactly what Morgan didn't need, but she should have thought of that before she bought it. She removed the tags and dropped them into the bag, then found the nylons and heels she'd bought to match.

Where had she thought she would use it all? She hadn't. She'd just shopped. But Morgan had probably planned it. She had a sudden inspiration. He'd said fifteen minutes, but she'd go fast. Putting her other clothes into the bag, she went out and quickly searched the racks. Just something to—There, the rose blouse with soft ruffled sleeves. Not perfect, but it would do. She snatched a size small from the rack and carried it to the checkout counter.

He must be waiting by now. She paid for the blouse, had the clerk remove the tags, then stood in the three-way mirror and put it
on over the dress, tying it at the waist. No
Vogue
statement, but less revealing by far.

She went to meet Morgan. He waited in khaki slacks and the golf shirt he'd worn down, a navy sports coat and garment bag over his arm. He really did keep a dressy casual change in the car. Obviously prepared for his opportunities. What was she doing? He raised his brows and said, “What's with the blouse?”

“You like it? Good.”

He took her bags without further comment. After stuffing the rest of her packages into the trunk, they left Denver behind. The Edelweiss Chalet was not far up the canyon. It perched on the edge of a shallow, stony creek, a portion of which pooled into a circular pond. Spotlights sent rays from the footbridge across the water, and at the edge, Canada geese and ducks squatted with their heads under their wings for the night.

With the pine tree shutters, gingerbread trim, and stony mountain canyon surroundings, the restaurant did look Bavarian. “You weren't kidding about authentic.”

“Nope.” Morgan climbed out and slipped his suit coat on.

“Maybe they'll have an accordion playing ‘oompah.' ” She giggled.

He went around and opened her door. “I'll have him serenade you.”

“You mean you won't do it yourself? How disappointing. No karaoke accordion.”

He gave her a hand out. “I have my limits.”

“Really.”

“Really.” He caught her elbow and led her in.

The room was packed with tables, red-and-white chintz curtains on the windows, giant beer steins along the walls—and a stocky accordion player at the far end rocking the flexible side of his instrument as his fingers played.

Morgan leaned close and whispered, “ ‘Beer Barrel Polka.' Wanna dance?” He pinched her elbow with a wry grin as a wide-hipped woman showed them past the old couple cheek-to-cheek on the tiny dance floor to a table near the window overlooking the pond.

The hostess's ample bosom was tightly confined by her stiff white blouse, perhaps accounting for her pained expression. “Enjoy your
dinners.” She stood their menus on the table but her face never changed. Noelle refused the bait in Morgan's expression as he seated her.

“Now,
fraulein,
we'll pretend this is a
biergarten
in the Tyrol, guzzle a stein or two, and enjoy the oompah.”

“All but the stein or two.”

Morgan took his seat. “
Weiner schnitzel
without beer is like cake without icing, cream without sugar, day without—”

“Then have beer with your schnitzel, but remember we have to make it up the canyon. I'm not walking.”

“I tell you what. I'll be responsible and you . . .”

Noelle opened the menu. “What would you recommend?”

“I have no clue, but we'd better be ready when
Frau
Sauerkraut returns, or else.”

Noelle hid her laughter with the menu. “She's not a server, only the maître d'.”

“Look around you.”

She did. The two buxom waitresses in German costume were very similar in shape, if less daunting in demeanor.

Morgan's mouth pulled sideways. “It's a family operation.”

Rolling her lips inward against the smile, Noelle set down her menu. “I won't be able to face any of them now. You order for us, and I'm going to the ladies' room.”

He sat back. “Lose the blouse while you're in there.”

She walked into the bright, twin-stalled ladies' room. After washing up, she stood at the counter and untied the knot of the blouse. It was really about trust. Her pulse throbbed. She held the ends apart and stared into the mirror, then tied them up again. Morgan would be disappointed.

She squared her shoulders and wound her way back to the table. His indulgent smile showed he had expected her refusal. So why did he push her? She looked down and saw the menus were gone from the table. “What did you order me?”

“Tripe and brains.”

She shook her head as he stood and held her chair.

He ran his hand up her back and briefly squeezed the nape of her neck. “I took the fraulein's suggestion for the night's special,
Jaeger Schnitzel
with
spaetzle
and red cabbage.” He raised one eyebrow. “I thought it prudent.”

She laughed again and something hard softened inside. She didn't need to know what, just allow it.

Riding up the canyon after dinner, she relaxed in the soft leather seat, warm and drowsy. In all, she had enjoyed the day very much, certainly more than the one before. Morgan was indeed a chameleon. He'd been true to his word, no remnant of the raucous cowboy, and he hadn't come on to her at all.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

She turned his way and smiled. “I was thinking I had a nice time with you.”

“I had a nice time with you too, Noelle.”

It was dark when they reached the ranch, the sky pierced with stars. He let her out and went around to the trunk. She had actually made a haul, she noticed as he unloaded the bags, handing her the first few so he could carry the rest. She went ahead of him to the porch and climbed the stairs.

He stopped her at the door, setting his load down. “What's the hurry?”

Recognizing the routine, she kept hold of her bags. “Thank you for driving me down, Morgan. And for dinner.”

“You're welcome. Did you notice the stars?”

“I watched them all the way up.” She couldn't help glancing again, then caught herself. “Would you mind opening the door?”

He gave a quick laugh. “Sure. I'll even carry up your bags. No tip required.”

Y
ou're not concentrating, Michael. It's not like you to let a detail slip that can cost us so badly.” William frowned.

“I'm sorry, sir. I don't know how I could have overlooked that exhibit.”

William sat back in his chair. They were both wearing thin. Their client, the celebrated target of a defense department investigation, was furious they'd slipped up. William cared little for that.
He
was furious himself they'd slipped up. If he had to lose a case, it should be on the merit of the prosecution, not his own failure.

“I have no excuse, William. I missed it.”

William nodded. He far preferred such an admission to any number of plausible excuses, the top one being Noelle's continued absence and the pain that was causing Michael Fallon. Though they hadn't discussed her disappearance in the last week, he saw the strain, knew it was on both their minds. And it shouldn't be. Not with a case going bad as this one was. “What do we have left?”

“Ilse Blandon.”

William scowled. “They'll tear her to shreds.”

“She's Smythe's only alibi.”

“And you and I both know it's full of holes. I don't like holes.”

“I don't either.” Michael's face was earnest. “But since I missed the receipt, I have no choice. Let me examine her. I can make her sympathetic to the jury, William.”

“I've no doubt. The problem is the cross-examination will annihilate whatever you do.”

“Not if she's prepared.”

William pressed his palms to the desk. “I'm sure you don't mean to tamper with the witness.”

“Of course not.” His eyes, however, said that was exactly what he meant.

“Michael.” William eased back in his chair. “Sit down.”

“Sir.” Michael took the chair.

“There are two hard and fast rules in this firm. The first is we don't lose. The second is we don't cross lines. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir. We win.”

His brazen misinterpretation amused William. “We win within the parameters.” He stood and walked around the desk. “We can cut a deal.”

“No.” Michael paced. “Smythe is my responsibility.”

William pursed his lips. “Our constitution says he's innocent. Make Farrar prove otherwise, Michael.”

“Then let me make Ilse sing.” Michael's eyes took on a sharp ferocity.

“Make her sing without tampering. Parameters, Michael, let us sleep at night.”

Michael released a sharp breath. “You're right, William. It's only that . . . I blame myself.”

“We all might have missed it. It happens.”

Michael sat without answering, still made no excuses. Then he stood up, nodded, and went out.

Michael was intense. That was a great advantage, but William wondered sometimes if the fire inside might one day consume the young man. He hoped his words had found their mark. Knowing that they did everything according to the law was the only means to peace in this business.

Michael hated facing William St. Claire with his failure. Anyone might have missed it? Not William St. Claire. No detail escaped the senior partner—not a travel account receipt that put the defendant at a place he shouldn't have been at a time that matched the testimony of the prosecution's main witness.

William would not have missed it. Never. Yet he had not blamed,
and for that Michael was supremely grateful. His failure with Noelle had been hard enough to bring to William, but if he failed professionally too . . . Not after he'd worked so hard!
Parameters
.

He pressed his eyes shut. He prided himself on knowing William's mind, matching his will to the older man's, reaping his wisdom and cunning. But this time, losing would be his fault alone. And lose they would, unless he could make the jury believe . . .

Winning was not an end; it was a means. And Michael did not really care whether he slept at night. He couldn't fail William, not now, not after Noelle. Even more than he craved Noelle, he needed William's acclaim. If he were careful, so very careful that not even William suspected . . . Michael headed for his office. He needed to think, to think hard.

———

“Three paintings sold, Morgan.” Noelle could not keep the news to herself as she strode into the patisserie and found him at the counter.

“Bravo.” He turned, clapping without sound, then motioned her ahead of him in line.

“In just two weeks, I've found success.”

He leaned his hip to the counter. “Were you lacking it before?”

“You don't understand—you couldn't.” She'd been afraid to check with Ms. Walker at the two-week mark. But she'd girded herself and gone in. And three of the paintings were gone, the sales verified by Ms. Walker and the percentage paid in cash at her request. Ms. Walker had hemmed, but Noelle convinced her to pay cash with as little explanation as she could manage.

She pointed to two flaky croissants in the glass case, then held a hand up to Morgan. “Don't take out your wallet. I'm buying.”

He chuckled. “By all means. Now tell me what I don't understand.”

Noelle handed one croissant on waxed paper to Morgan, paid the girl, then took the other and turned. “This is totally new.” She headed for the patio. “This is the first time, the first thing I've done that . . . well, that earned money.”

Laughing, Morgan held her chair. “And you're just full of it, aren't you? I see dollar signs in your eyes.”

“It's not that, it's . . . it's not even the money; it's that I did it myself.” Noelle took a long breath. She couldn't make Morgan understand
what this meant to her. He would have to know how things had been, how she'd been, how different and alien she was from all of this—to be sitting with him now in this Rocky Mountain place with cash she'd earned in her pocket.

The sunlight warmed the butcher-block table where they sat, but the mountain breeze was cool. Where else did the air feel so fresh? She bit into the croissant, savored its buttery richness, and enjoyed having Morgan there to share the moment.

He pulled the end from his roll, leaving fluffy tatters dangling from his fingers. “Supposing I know nothing about the headiness of success, what is it you feel most?”

Noelle sent her gaze across the street to the small church perched above an ancient stone wall. “I feel safe.”

“Safe?” He hunched forward. “Now, that's not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with the scalloped edge of the paper napkin.

“Proud. Hungry. Invincible.” He squinted one eye. “Safe?”

Noelle lingered over her bite, unsure herself why she'd chosen that word. “I wasn't sure I could do this, make it on my own, with no one's help. But I can.” She met his eyes. “I can find myself.”

“And that's safe? Trust me, you might not like what you find.”

She studied the handsome lines of his face, softened by fewer late nights and more fresh air. Did he dislike what he saw in himself? She supposed that was true of everyone to some degree. She might disappoint herself as well. But it didn't matter. “For the first time I can be whatever I want.”

He matched her gaze and held it. “Is it that easy?”

“Now that I'm free.”

“Free?” He snorted. “Now, that's naïve.”

She sat back and toyed with the edge of the napkin. “Not if every moment of my life has been scheduled with tutors and charity events and one function after another. Imagine being guarded at parties and chauffeured everywhere and told with whom to speak and whom to avoid. Every breath you take and every step monitored and controlled.”

His expression told her she'd said more than she intended. “Go on.”

Dropping her eyes to her croissant, she kicked herself. “That's all.”

“Come on, now. You've been here almost a month and that's the
most I've had from you.” His smile was coaxing, but his eyes probed deeper.

She should have known better than to put Morgan on the scent. Unlike Rick, who respected her privacy, Morgan kept nosing, prodding, cajoling.
So tell us, Ms. St. Claire, about your celebrated father and all the high profile cases he's won. Tell about the bodyguards, the bevy of servants, the privileges you've had to replace a normal life. Share what it's like to grow up with your friends handpicked and scrutinized, your dates . . .
Her heart slammed her ribs. She started to shake.

Morgan leaned back in his chair. “That makes me crazy, you know. Here I've been the picture of responsibility. And I'm not getting anywhere with you.”

Her throat tightened. It was her own fault. She had let the surprise of her success take her off guard, and Morgan was too savvy to miss the chance. Why did he have to ruin the moment? She pushed her chair back from the table. “There's nowhere to get.”

“There might be if you'd give it half a chance.”

She stood and walked off the patio. His chair scraped as he scrambled to follow.

“Hey.” He caught her arm as she started up the street.

She shook him off. “I don't want a relationship.”

He caught her elbow again. “Fine. There's nothing like a relationship to ruin a good time.”

Always glib. A line for everything. Suddenly he seemed as flimsy as the men who pandered to her father. He was nothing more than a shell, an actor playing a part. He was nothing. She kept walking.

“Okay.” His voice softened. “I'm sorry I asked. It's just . . . you've gotten to me.”

She didn't like the change in his tone. It was honest, free of bravado. She didn't want to hear the real Morgan. She didn't want to think of him as anything but the half-crazy ne'er-do-well he seemed. She turned up the gravel road.

“Ah, come on.” He slung his arm over her shoulder. “You don't have to play hard to get. I'm easy. I'll marry you, diamonds and all.”

An image hit her hard, a diamond ring, slipped from her finger into a velvet box. Her stomach knotted, and she yanked herself free. “Don't ever say that again, Morgan. Not even in jest. Just leave me alone.”

She spun and left him standing in the street. Every part of her shook, and the depth of the emotion terrified her. Where had it come from,
this fury, this . . . engulfing panic? She didn't care how hurt Morgan was. She didn't want him to want her. She never asked him to. Marry her? Diamonds and all? She pictured her finger again with a stone the size of a marble, then closed her eyes against the memory.

She couldn't look. She had reveled in confidence just moments ago, felt new, changed. And Morgan had swept it away. No, not Morgan. She'd done it herself, opened a past she couldn't look at yet, couldn't consider. Noelle clenched her fists and kept walking. Her breath came quick and short, as it had her first trip up that road.

Panic accented it. Her hamstrings burned, but she kept walking past the house and on up the meadow. She wished she could walk to the edge of the world and step off. She wished she could walk right out of herself. Every time she found safety, freedom, happiness, something brought her back.

She gripped her arms around herself to stop the trembling and kept walking. Endorphins released by the exertion slowly eased the panic as she approached the corral in the high pasture, huffing.

It appeared the colt was in a temper today. She winced as Rick landed hard in the dirt. Destiny hadn't done that for a while, but part of her didn't blame him. Why should he be forced to follow Rick's commands? Though she herself had wanted to ride the horse, she saw it differently now.

Rick stood up slowly and slapped the dust from his jeans. With a hand to his lower back, he limped forward. He obviously meant to get back on. She had to hand it to him. He was determined. Destiny reared, then circled. Rick waited.

She came up to the fence. “Maybe you should leave him alone.”

He didn't turn, kept his eyes on the horse. “Can't. Especially now. If I leave it at this, he'll figure throwing me's the way to win.” He walked slowly toward the horse. Destiny back-stepped and snorted.

“Come on, boy. Come on.”

The colt tossed his head. Noelle wanted him to buck, to kick, to run for his freedom. She wanted him to break through and fly to the mountains. His sides quivered. He whinnied, then put his nose into Rick's outstretched hand.

No. Don't give up. Don't surrender. Stay free
.

“That-a-boy.” Rick ran his hands over the stallion's neck and got hold of the reins. He slowly pulled them tight until he had control. Then he swung back up and the stallion sidestepped but didn't rear.

Noelle's heart sank. Maybe there was no escape.

“I'm going to ride him down, let him run it out. Can you get the gate?”

She worked the loop loose and pulled open the gate. Rick thundered down the meadow, giving Destiny his head. She couldn't tell which of them was more determined and guessed it was a toss-up. But they couldn't keep it that way; one's determination would destroy the other's.

She plodded back down, spent and cross. Rick was rubbing the horse down by the time she got to the stable. Destiny's coat shone over his smooth musculature, and he held his neck arched. It seemed Rick had dominated but left him his dignity. Maybe that's all there was.

She let Destiny snuffle her hand, feeling a desperate kinship. “He's amazing.”

“That's why I've babied him so long. I don't usually put up with so much, but this one . . . he's special. One in a million.” His love for the horse was in his voice. But if he loved Destiny, how could he bear to break his will?

“You're not going to sell him, are you?”

Rick shook his head. “I have too much pain invested.”

What about Destiny's pain? If she rode him she'd give him his head, let him have his way, let him fly with her wherever he wished. Maybe she'd even let him go. She stroked the horse's nose. “I know I could—”