Breath of Dawn, The (21 page)

“Thorough, wasn’t he.” Morgan took in the damage with Rick, the possibility that Erin’s warehouse had been spared erased by the sight of smashed and scattered merchandise. Her flat-screen monitor had made a popular target judging from the inky-looking shatter beneath the surface. The tendons in his neck pulled tight when he imagined her working there so conscientiously.

He shook to think mere chance, or God’s providence, had her at RaeAnne’s when Markham struck. The savage destruction indicated he’d misjudged the threat. Whatever the conviction record showed, Markham’s present mood was violent.

Rick looked at him. “What do you want to do?”

“We’ll call the sheriff. Let a deputy come have a look.”

Snow was coming harder as Morgan scrutinized Erin’s home. If she lived this simply, no wonder she’d been overwhelmed in Paris and New York. He told Rick, “I need to check the house for a couple things.”

Rick looked over with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know, Morgan. Something doesn’t feel right.”

Maybe not, but he needed to do it anyway. “It won’t take long.”

“All right. I’ll keep watch.”

He used his elbow to push open the damaged door and waited. He thought he heard a drip of water, but given the damage, anything could be leaking. Wearing his black leather gloves, he headed straight for the stairs, guessing Erin would keep what mattered near her when she slept. Reaching the loft, he caught the scent of soap and moved quickly. The bathroom air felt damp. Someone had showered.

Adrenaline kicked in. He searched the tiny room. Empty closet. Empty balcony. No one under the bed. He scanned the chaos and saw in one corner an inlaid wooden music box, its lid hanging open by a hinge, no jewelry. He slid the box into the pocket of his black cashmere overcoat.

Moving to the head of the bed, he lifted shredded pillows,
blankets, a smashed lamp. And there, between the headboard and the wall, a 4x6 picture frame. Warmth coursed through him with a pang of compassion when he saw Quinn, maybe seven or eight years old, fishing with a man on a riverbank. Standing point beside them, a bluetick hound.

Hearing Livie, Erin waited a moment for Morgan to respond, then realized she was alone with the child.

“Hi, sweetie.” She helped her out of the crib, removed her Pull-Up, and led her to the bathroom. Eager to be done showering before Morgan appeared, she used his shampoo on herself, and baby shampoo on the child, then snuggled Livie like an Inuit tot in a thick cushy towel and dried herself with the other.

She wiped off the steamy mirror and had a look. Her long thick lashes needed no help, but for the sake of appearances she brushed a film of plum powder over her eyelids and shined her lips with a wand of gloss. Livie wanted gloss too. She smoothed it over the impossibly small mouth.

With Livie dressed in her magical clothes, she uncovered some magical ones herself in a box just inside the door. As suspected, it held things she hadn’t picked out in the boutiques. While she’d been trying on and debating, Morgan must have been buying anything that struck his fancy.

She slipped into fitted jeans and a sweater that felt like woven silk. She pictured a million industrious silkworms in tiny French berets spinning the threads that felt so fine against her skin. Soft and yet warm. A miracle of nature. Before, she had blended modern and vintage clothes from estate sales into her own style. Now she was wearing haute couture.

Erin Spencer, pseudo wife of turnaround genius Morgan Spencer. She carried the rich—and generous—man’s daughter toward the house. At the stable, she saw Hank, not Rick, caring for the horses. Interesting.

Finding Liam in the great room surrounded by oversized Legos, Livie squirmed down to play.

Erin joined Noelle and Celia in the kitchen. “Where’s Morgan?”

“He and Rick went somewhere early.” Noelle looked her over. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.”

Celia said, “Would you like some tea?” And sounded like she meant it.

Taking the mug, Erin sipped steaming Earl Grey and remembered that first hot chocolate with Liam and Noelle. She’d left that naïve girl on the streets of Paris, and it was time to accept the choice she’d made. Blaming Morgan wasn’t productive, or even fair. He hadn’t promised or pretended to love her. She’d mistaken it in his touch.

Livie ran in for Noelle to kiss her bumped finger, then accepted banana slices from her grandma. Liam strode in with boyish energy and strident commentary, receiving a mug of milk and bananas with peanut butter. Into the melee, Rick and Morgan came, Rick in crewneck sweatshirt and jeans, removing his Stetson. Morgan’s overcoat was dusted with snow, but he didn’t remove it.

She met his eyes, wishing everything in her wasn’t drawn to him like Echo to Narcissus. When he beckoned with his head, she followed him out. “I didn’t know where you went, so I showered Livie. I hope that was okay.”

“It’s great. But I’ll show you where I went.” He drew her into the great room and took something from his coat pocket.

She gasped, seeing the jewelry box her grandma, now gone, had given her.

He adjusted the lid and said, “It can be fixed.”

Of course it could. When he produced the small framed photo, she half laughed, half cried, “Pops.”

“I thought so.” He clasped her wrist. “Erin . . .”

“Thank you.” She pressed her forehead to his wet coat sleeve with a stifled sob. “Thank you.”

His arm came around her. “Erin, listen.”

Face still pressed to his sleeve, she raised her eyes.

“Someone used your bathroom.”

“What?”

“It smelled like soap, and the shower was wet.”

Her stomach roiled. “Markham?”

“Can you think who else?”

“No, but . . .” Her euphoria fled. “He was there?”

“I didn’t see him. I got out as soon—”

Hank came in with a cheery greeting. “Breakfast ready?”

“I don’t know, Dad.” Morgan’s tone took the smile from the older man’s face. “But we need to leave.”

“Trouble?”

“Trouble.” Morgan turned. “We’ll need things for Livie, Erin. You and I can make do with our carryons, and we’ll ship the rest.”

“Okay.” Having a task helped her control the fear. In the back of her mind, she’d known she would have to run. Now, it seemed, she wouldn’t be alone.

Skulking on the Tahoe roof beneath the balcony while the man searched Quinn’s bedroom had infuriated him, but Markham hadn’t moved until the way was clear. If the man had come onto the balcony, he’d have seen the vehicle beneath. If he’d leaned over, Markham would have slit his throat.

But they’d gone. He didn’t know who they were. Friends of Quinn’s or agents acting on her behalf? It didn’t matter. Now that they’d come, his strategy had to change. No more waiting where he might be discovered.

He got into the Tahoe and headed toward town, parking at the general store instead of the grocery mart where he’d shopped for supplies. It looked like a fixture in the heart of town where someone might know everyone. He entered with anticipation and jumped when, just inside the door, a floorboard popped.

“Better than a bell,” said the fool behind the counter.

“You can say that again.” Markham hid his annoyance.

“What can I do for you?”

Forming his face into the role, Markham played a good-old boy. “I was hoping you could help me out. I’m looking for Quinn Reilly.” He held out the photo he’d carried along.

The big guy’s face went soft. “Nice picture.”

He hadn’t asked for commentary. “Have you seen her?”

“Not since Thanksgiving.”

Bingo. “She’s out of town?”

“Could be visiting family or something.”

“Oh, she’s not talking to her family. Big blowup.”

The man frowned. “That’s too bad. When?”

“A while back.” Markham plied the lie. “That’s why I’m here, to see how she’s doing.”

“I don’t know.” The guy had the brain of an ox. “You might ask Rick. He had her at the ranch on Thanksgiving. She cooked the whole meal.”

“Did you say ranch?” The pieces clicked into place. She worked for the men—one of them anyway. The rancher Rick. “Where would I find it?”

“It’s up that road a couple miles.” The man pointed. “Past the only other driveway and all the way to the end.”

Markham grinned. “Thanks a lot.” He shook the man’s hand as if he’d sold him a car. People landed in two categories: suspicious and gullible. He considered it a gift to be able to shift ninety percent into the second group.

Chuckling, he started up the gravel road to the ranch, thinking how it might take only that pawn to capture the queen. As he drew near enough to see the spread—log buildings backing to a minor creek and beautiful pasture stretching up a crag-bordered valley—he imagined Quinn bustling like a little worker bee in their kitchen.

She’d been so diligent, so observant—so suspicious from the first glance. He’d known she’d be trouble, but hadn’t imagined how much. He braked at the crest of the rise, debating whether to bide his time or make a bold approach. He decided on the latter, mainly because he was sick to death of biding time.

Erin felt Noelle’s distress as she looked from her to Morgan and asked, “Right this minute?” She’d been deeply involved in both their lives the last two years, mothering Livie as she did her own son, who would also be impacted. No doubt Morgan had considered those details when he made his original plan—all changed now.

With his daughter on his hip, he said, “Could you make Livie some car snacks?”

That meant they were driving, Erin guessed, though they hadn’t discussed it.

“I’ll do that.” Celia pressed a hand on Noelle’s shoulder. “You finish your breakfast.”

They all froze when the doorbell rang. Legs trembling, Erin gripped Morgan’s arm, needing the contact she’d avoided last night.

“Anyone expecting someone?” Rick looked specifically at Noelle, then shot a glance at them. “Get your family out of sight, Morgan.”

Hank flanked Rick to the door and stayed off to the side as she and Morgan and Livie ducked into the pantry and turned on the light.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He put a finger to his lips. Pressing close to him and Livie, she heard the house door open, then the slick salesman voice that turned her stomach.

“Hello. Are you Rick?”

Rick said, “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Ken West, a friend of Quinn Reilly. I was told she works for you.”

She and Morgan shared a look.

“Who told you that?” Rick sounded vaguely friendly, but nothing like his normal warmth.

“The guy down at the store. Said she cooked or maybe catered your Thanksgiving dinner.”

Rudy. The trapped breath hurt her chest.

Morgan whispered, “He didn’t know.”

Of course not.

When Rick neither denied nor confirmed, Markham went on. “I’m hoping you can tell me where to find her. I tried calling but can’t get service. Must be the mountains.”

She pictured Rick standing there, his stoic face inscrutable. As Morgan’s hand tightened on her shoulder, she realized she was shaking, but with fear or fury she couldn’t tell.

Then Hank’s voice came. “Everything all right, son?”

In the dining room, someone silenced Liam when he started to ask what was happening.