Breath of Dawn, The (26 page)

In more pain than she’d let on, Erin delighted in the waterfall wall, tiny songbirds, and green and flowering plants of Morgan’s atrium. Outside at the beach and in this indoor garden, winter had
gone away. It would be easy to believe everything else had gone too. What if Markham never found her?

That possibility sank in and began to swell. This could be her future, and it was bright with possibility. As soon as she was on her feet, she’d find some way to be useful.

Livie came running in and butted into the couch to halt her momentum. “Look.” She held out a rock. Erin received the item for inspection as Livie explained, “It round and smooth,” though her
th
came out
v.
Erin smiled, liking
smoov
as a description for something that had rolled and tumbled its rough edges off.

“You’re right,” she said. “Do you know this color?”

Livie lifted her chin and announced, “White and gray spots.”

She’d only expected the main color, white, and wasn’t sure she’d even get that. Impressed, she touched Livie’s tiny nose. “You’re so smart.” She glanced over at Morgan standing quietly.

His gaze encompassed them both. “Cooking and cleaning is nothing. Keeping my little girl happy when I can’t be here is the world to me.” He sat down on the edge of the chaise. “My mistake was offering you a job, when what I needed was a wife and a mother for Livie.”

“I can’t help thinking I limited your choices.”

He tipped his head. “I only needed one.”

She nudged him with her good foot. “There isn’t a woman on the planet—”

“Hypotheticals are useless.”

Livie tipped her face up. “Hear the birdies, Daddy?”

He looked up too. “I hear them.” Then back down to her. “My business takes me away for chunks of time. That’s why I haven’t worked in that capacity for two years. Please don’t worry about what else you should be doing. Livie’s what matters.”

“Okay.” How would she have reacted at the ranch if he’d come in and said, “I’d like you to be Livie’s mother.” Her chest made a small collapse.

“What?” His brow creased.

“It’s just . . . How can you know I’ll be good for her?”

“Part of what I do, maybe the biggest part, more than any num
bers my analysts run or strategies I devise, is reading the people I’m dealing with. I’m not even sure it’s conscious.”

“You’ve read me?”

“I’ve watched, listened, internalized.”

She swallowed. “What do you see?”

“Someone I trust with Livie.” The words might have been disappointing, but not from Morgan, not when the first thing she’d seen in him was his intense love for his child.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“I’ll be downstairs working if you need me. You have your phone?”

She touched it in her pocket. “Sort of.”

“I’ll get the new one ordered. It’ll be a second phone on my plan, no name attached.”

She nodded, her situation closing in again.

“Need anything else?”

She looked at Livie. “Will she want toys or . . .”

“With the rocks, plants, and water feature, I doubt it.” He spread his hands. “I’ll have Consuela bring you some books for when she’s environmentally saturated, but I don’t expect that to be soon.”

After a time Consuela lured Livie to lunch with a cinnamon twist she called a churro that looked and smelled much better than the commercially available version.

She said, “I will bring you a tray, Señora, when the little one is settled.”

“I can come—”

“Señor Morgan’s orders.”

Erin settled back in the couch, considering the fact he’d ordered Consuela, not her. Smarter than your average bear. She lowered her foot to the floor, tried the ankle, and flinched. Not a bad plan, keeping it raised. She winced again putting it back where it had been.

“Are you in pain, Señora?” Consuela breezed in with a plate of roasted chicken on a bed of savory rice with crisp lightly charred sliced vegetables.

“I’m all right. Is Livie . . .”

“Señor Morgan is with her. Can I bring you something else?”

“There’s an envelope in my room with papers in it.” Packing
up, she’d stuffed it in her carryon. Last night she’d dreamed of Vera’s cellar—probably a combination of talking to RaeAnne and feeling alienated herself. If Morgan had Livie, she could take this time to read the history from the professor and try to understand her unnerving encounter.

“I will get it,” Consuela said, as though it was her joy.

“Thank you.” RaeAnne’s mother had lived there twelve years. How had she not been creeped out of her mind? Or had she . . .

Hoarding everything, hiding her treasures in bizarre places. If Vera had been quirky to start with, might something else have twisted her tendencies? The house had felt fortified. But what if the evil lay within, feeding her fear and insecurity until she all but hid among her things?

Nibbling her chicken, Erin removed the file from the envelope and found, as the professor said, a Hauntings section. She slipped her finger in at that divider and stopped, the chicken going dry in her throat. She went instead to Famous Patients.

She didn’t recognize the names of the celebrities who had received clandestine alcohol rehabilitation, though people of the time would probably have known them. But halfway down the list, her jaw fell slack. She stared at the name on the page.
Raymond Hartley.
A side note said:
stage actor.

Erin laid the file across her knees and stared. RaeAnne’s dad had been treated in the Juniper Falls asylum for insomnia, rage, and suicidal depression. She closed her eyes and groaned. How would she tell RaeAnne?

She opened her eyes when Morgan entered with a plate of food. “Livie?”

“Wrapping another helpless human around her finger.” He sat on the low wrought-iron table beside her, though there were two perfectly good chairs on the other side of that. “Consuela says you’re in pain.”

“I told her I’m fine.”

“She doesn’t believe you.”

She slanted him a glance. “I’ve taken care of myself for quite a while now.”

“Welcome to my world,” he said ruefully.

“Well, you can’t take care of yourself.”

He fake punched her shoulder but didn’t argue.

“Good to be back at work?”

His face softened. “Good to be back.”

Unsure of the subtle clarification, she studied him.

With a bite poised, he said, “Not all who wander are lost, but I was.”

She squeezed his hand. “Welcome back.”

He lowered his fork, his eyes stroking her, but then he leaned away. “If we start something now, I won’t be getting back to work. And there’s a lot to do before I leave.”

“Leave?”

“The consultation. My team went on standby when I took off for Paris. They need a quarterback.”

“When do you go?”

“As soon as things are settled here.”

She set down her fork. “So . . .”

“Depends on you and Livie.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Five days max. I’ll have covered everything I can beforehand.”

“You think Livie will be okay with me?”

“Erin, she led the way. If I hadn’t seen her gravitate, it would never have entered my mind to marry you.”

“You didn’t think of it until I told you about Markham.”

“I didn’t ask until then.”

She canted her head.

“It’s true. From the instant you made her animals talk.”

Her laugh burst out.

“That was a defining moment.” He ate the strip of zucchini.

Every time he spoke, she fell deeper and deeper.

She set her plate down. “Morgan, I need to tell you something. You can help me figure out what to do.”

“My
raison
—”

“Yes, I know.” She nudged him again.

He caught her hand and held it, setting his plate aside as well. “Shoot.”

She told him what was in Vera’s journal, since RaeAnne had
already shared—at length—about the locket. He raised a brow at the age difference, though by his expression he found it entertaining. “But here’s the strange part. He was treated at the asylum in Juniper Falls.”

Morgan cocked his head. “Really.”

She showed him the account. “He’s still in town somewhere. RaeAnne wants to meet him, and . . . she wants me to go with her.”

He frowned. “In Juniper Falls. Didn’t we just make a dramatic escape from there?”

“Yes.”

“And your question is?”

“I know. I do. But I feel bad for RaeAnne, and I thought maybe you’d see a way it could work.”

“The only way it works, Erin, is by knowing Markham’s out of there.”

She sighed. “That’s the same answer I got.”

M
organ worked solidly for the next hours with a peace of mind that felt like an altered state. With Livie safe and content, and Erin no longer considering him an emissary of the dark lord Sauron, in spite of his playlist, he felt a terrifying contentment. It was completed by the excellence of Consuela’s yellowfin tuna caught fresh that day and baked with lime and cilantro, and followed by homemade flan that could grace heaven’s table. He’d been forgiven for coming home without warning, for staying away so long.

The only minor concern was that the ankle pain or something else had Erin pecking at her plate. She didn’t seem distressed, exactly, but he didn’t want her hiding it if something was wrong. After an hour of hide-and-seek with Livie, he let his child unwind with a few scenes of
Finding Nemo
and helped Erin up the stairs.

“Consuela suggested I soak the sprain in salts.”

“Consuela’s a wise woman.” Steeling himself, he led her past the room she’d used and into the master suite. Shadows parted as he touched a switch and the lamp came on.

Erin faltered. “You want me in here?”

“It’s a pretty nice tub.” One end had a continuous inflow of
heated water, while the other drained over an edge and recycled. He helped her sit on the tile platform, then lit Consuela’s version of aromatherapy candles, all blessed at the mission. “I’ll get Livie to bed and see you in a while.”

She definitely worked at her response. Worried about tonight? He should have kissed her on the beach. Then at least she wouldn’t be wondering.

When his little trooper was thoroughly cared for, he headed back. After the traumatic drive, he hadn’t imagined Livie would transition so well. It reminded him she had a pretty solid core for such a little waif. Like someone else.

Finished with her bath, Erin wrapped in the hotel robe Morgan had purchased in New York. All through dinner, his loss had seeped into her mind. He’d spent the night mourning, and she couldn’t imagine how he’d go from that to anything else, even though his spirits had seemed lighter.

“You want to tell me about it?” he said, coming up behind her as she stood before the foggy mirror.

She’d have to get used to him reading her moods. “Just wondering how you’re doing,” she said.

Turning her to face him he said, “Can I show you?”

He was so at ease, he put her at ease. It couldn’t be painless to be where he’d loved his wife, but as he’d said on the beach, this was what he had, and what he had he gave. And tenderly, she gave back.

Somewhere before dawn, he said, “Erin?”

“Mmm.”

“You awake?”

Not enough to open her eyes without a compelling reason.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Should I be worried?”

He nuzzled her neck. It tickled and she tucked her chin, so he tugged her hair. “Are you listening?”

“I’m defending myself.”

He ran his hand down her arm. “I was thinking that just because I don’t love you as much as I will, doesn’t mean I don’t.”

She turned her face and opened her eyes. “Say that again?”

“You should have paid attention.”

She pushed his chest.

Clasping her hand, he held it there. “We’ve been married six days.”

She could hardly believe it wasn’t even a week since they’d been in Paris changing her identity. “So you love me six days’ worth?”

He stroked her fingers. “Have to add Thanksgiving—that was great. And hauling that herniating cabinet.”

“The talking animals.”

“Technically that was Thanksgiving, but I’ll give it to you.”

“Finding the locket and the journal.” Like sleuths in an adventure.

“Psychedelic drugs and shackled beds.”

She threaded her fingers with his. “And how about the sink and paper towels for your bloody hand?”

“Unforgettable.” His eyelids hooded with the memory.

“It should count twice since you were crabby.”

“Oh, I see how it works.”

She sobered. “Do we have to subtract wrecking the Maserati?”

“It was just a dent.” He stroked the skin above her elbow.

She shoved her hair behind her ear and studied him. “Happy almost-a-week anniversary.”

He reached up and freed the hair she had just contained, then drew her in for a kiss. She settled her face in the crook of his neck, warmth and joy communing.

When the sound of Livie crying penetrated her fog, she startled up to see Morgan, dressed impeccably, carrying the child to her. Livie clung to his neck, but he gently extricated her.

“Hey, honey. Hey.” Erin drew her in and kissed her wispy hair.

“I’m in meetings all morning, maybe longer.” Morgan slipped three storybooks into the bed beside her. “I’ll call with an update.”

“Did something happen?”

“Belcorp took a downturn. If today goes okay with you two, I’ll start the consult tomorrow. There’s a lot on the line.”

“We’ll be okay.”

His kiss was minty and long enough to convey a hint more than good-bye. He pressed another on Livie’s head and left. Morgan, the success guru, in his glory.

When Hannah arrived, Markham looked as happy as she expected him to be, the role for this minister’s daughter one of his very best—scorned prophet. She so admired his forbearance.

Bleakly, she wrung her hands. “I’m sorry for taking so long and—”

“Hannah. None of that matters.” He held out his own worthy hands, and as tentatively as she did anything, she took them. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Joy and fear stormed her eyes. “But I don’t know why, Markham.”

“Because I need your help.”

Shivering in the cold mountain air, she said, “You really do?”

She was begging affirmation more than confirmation. With a nod he gave both. “You’re the only one who can help in this way.”

No fear now—only zeal. “What can I do? Tell me.”

He formed an earnest expression. “The Lord has revealed that I must forgive your sister face-to-face.”

She looked stunned and offended. “But, Markham, how can you?”

“I don’t know how I can, only that I have to.”

He sent a pained stare to the ground, then back. “Do you know what a wound like this can do? It creates a foothold . . . for evil.” He had the timbre just right. This was what he did, his gift, his art, his grand performance.

But there was also a ring of truth. Wounds did create footholds, and nature abhorred a vacuum. Maybe he’d been born vengeful. Or maybe he’d learned it. He only knew it succored him when all the injuries he’d sustained whispered in his ears. “It isn’t a request. We are ordered to forgive.”

And when the sinner won’t repent, put them out and treat them as you would a tax collector or harlot. Quinn had sinned against him, and when she failed to repent he would exact payment in full.

Her eyes filled. “Oh, Markham. I don’t think I can forgive.”

“You have nothing to forgive, Hannah. I was the one she sold for thirty pieces of silver. The burden to forgive is mine.”

She half whispered, “I would do it for you, if I could.”

Simple soul. “I would never ask it.” He led her into Quinn’s house, which he’d cleaned up from his rampage once he knew he’d be putting on the face. All the damaged things were in the Dumpster behind the grocery mart, so it looked as though she’d cleaned out and taken off, leaving only the few pieces of salvageable furniture.

“This is Quinn’s house?” Hannah looked around.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t she have things?”

He let his face fall. “I’m afraid your phone call gave her the wrong idea.”

Stricken, her mouth fell open. “I only said she should pay for wronging you.”

“I know. But she took it seriously. She thinks I’m out to get her.”

Anger washed over Hannah’s face. “It’s the other way around.”

“Well, she’s convincing. The man at the store turned a shotgun on me before I could begin to explain. Someone else ran me off the road.” He indicated her Tahoe outside the kitchen window. Her father had bought Hannah the large, heavy vehicle because her driving was as challenged as she.

Gulping, she whispered, “You could have been killed.”

That hadn’t occurred to him in the moment. Only the rage of defeat. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“No! You should.”

“What if I’ve put you in danger?”

Her eyes darted between his in a frenzied motion. “Would they hurt me?”

Eleven years older than Quinn, she couldn’t hide the weakness leaking through the cracks. He’d recognized a tool at first glance. Simple church mouse awaiting her messiah. Who better than he?

“You’re in no danger, Hannah. You’re Quinn’s big sister. And you’re worried about her.”

“I am?”

“You’re afraid of what I might do.”

She flushed. “No. Never.”

“You had to come and warn her. What reason would they have to keep you two apart?”

A slow comprehension filled her eyes. “You want me to say that about you?”

“Whatever it takes to lift the burden.”

“Oh, Markham.”

He closed his eyes, letting some of the real pain show. “I tried to do something
miraculous
, but the Lord turned his face.”

“No. It wasn’t the Lord. It was Quinn who despised you. I will never understand why.”

“Why isn’t important.” He fought tears. “Only doing this.”

She nodded solemnly.

“You’ll go to the ranch where she cooks, talk to the people she knows.”

Her eyes grew fervent, her heart burning inside her. “Yes.”

“Tell them you need to find your sister.”

He walked her back out to the Toyota, which was still warm.

“You . . . you want me to go alone?”

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes.” Her lip trembled.

He frowned in consternation. “I could ride in back and hide under the blanket, but I can’t be seen, Hannah. She’s turned these people against me.”

“Like last time.” Her voice trembled.

The last time he went to prison. This time would be different, very different.

He got into the back seat but didn’t cover up yet. It was too demeaning. He gave her directions to Rick’s ranch, but as the general store came into sight, gusting wind flapped the tarp up on a car being towed by a flatbed truck. He cried, “Wait!”

Jumping, Hannah almost killed the engine.

The tarp flapped wildly, uncovering the Maserati, wrecked.

“What is it, Markham?”

He stared at the car Quinn had crashed—proof she hadn’t gotten far. But where was she? As Rick and the fool with the shotgun got out of the truck and fought the tarp back over the Maserati, Markham hid his face from Hannah, lest she see Satan’s own wrath in his eyes.

When the men went inside, he told her, “Pull around to the far side of that store.”

She did as he said, sliding to a stop in the slushy lot.

“Listen carefully.” He gave the instruction slowly, though there was no guarantee she’d get it right. “Run in and ask what happened to your sister’s car.”

“My sister’s—”

“The Maserati.”

Her jaw fell slack. “That car on the truck? How could—”

“She took the money, Hannah. The money I tried to use for God—
she
used for that.” He pointed a finger at the graven idol.

“Oh, Mark.”

He hated when she shortened the name he’d created but didn’t correct her this time. “Go, Hannah. Your sister’s in trouble. You want to help her.”

The fury in her face might be hard to hide.

“You’re afraid for her, Hannah. You’d better be. She could lose her soul.”

“She has.”

“The only way we can help is to find her. Find her for me, Hannah.”

As she walked around to the front, he crept to the store’s back door and tried the knob. Finding it locked, he took out a pick and worked it open. Pulling silently, he slipped inside and moved to the slightly open door that separated the store from what appeared to be a small apartment. From that vantage, he watched Hannah enter.

“Please.” She rushed to the men, who were looking for something in a bin. “What happened to my sister’s car?”

The shopkeeper with the ginger ponytail straightened. “I’m sorry. What?”

“The Mas-erati.” Her face broke. “It’s my sister Quinn’s.”