Breath of Dawn, The (4 page)

“I’m a little caught between here.”

Apologizing, he fit his lanky form back into his truck and drove around the house, through the pasture gate to the tumbledown fence. Quinn tied the bandanna over her mouth and nose, went inside, and applied a fine mist around the perimeter of the dining room to quell any dust-borne virus. Half an hour later, when she went to the kitchen sink to wash her hands, she saw Morgan in the pale golden pasture working beside Rick with, seemingly, no harm done.

Morgan didn’t have Rick’s rustic edges, but seeing them together again, the similarities stood out. Morgan shook his head at something Rick said, and Rick shrugged. Just two guys, brothers. And yet there was something compelling in their interaction, a sibling substance of respect and affection. Not always a given, she well knew.

Feeling like a spy, she took a step back and bumped her heel into the foot of the asylum cabinet. She thought again how the locket could be in there. This was her chance to change Morgan’s mind, but she’d have to tell him RaeAnne’s tale to get any traction, and she felt protective of something so sensitive. Admitting that wasn’t the only reason she wanted a look, she left the kitchen with her word intact.

She’d given the bleach time to work and started sorting and clear
ing. Though it was a mild solution, the fumes made her eyes water. The dust made her sneeze. The bandanna helped with both, but she was relieved to step out of the dining room when her phone rang.

Sadly, it was RaeAnne hoping for good news. After finding the earring and pin, they had both believed yesterday’s clothes would yield the locket, but now she told her, “Sorry, not yet. I’m attacking the dining room now, and then, of course, there’s the cellar.”

“Do you think it could be down there?”

“Anything’s possible.” She described the cabinet she and Morgan had found, hoping RaeAnne might say, “Quinn, you have to look inside.” But it didn’t happen, so she said, “There are any number of places it could be down there.”

“I had no idea. Oh, Quinn, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The job had certainly expanded. “It’s okay.”

“Can you use that stuff in the cellar for your online store?”

“I have no idea. I mainly sell collectibles.” She peered through the dining room doorway to the cabinet. She’d been after the bottles until Morgan claimed it. And speaking of that, “Did you get an offer on the house?”

“I meant to tell you, it’s sold.”

And his brother had no idea.

“We close in November.”

“That was fast.”

“Full price too.”

Naturally.

“Isn’t that a godsend? Real estate is hardly moving these days. And in an out-of-the-way place like Juniper Falls, I thought it would take forever.”

Out-of-the-way was exactly why she’d landed in Juniper Falls. “Do you want any of what’s in the cellar?”

“What on earth would I do with it?”

“Sell or donate to a museum? It could be valuable.”

“You know, I’ll just leave that to you.” Her voice caught. “Quinn, what if you don’t find the locket?”

She wished she could assure her. “You’ve gone this long without knowing, RaeAnne. Would it be so awful to keep it that way?”

“Feels like it.” She sniffled. She’d just lost her mother and had counted on seeing who her dad was.

“I’m doing my very best.”

“I know that. I could see you would.”

Quinn stared at the still-heaping dining room. “If you think of anything else your mom might have said, or any peculiar ways she had that might shed some light . . .”

“I’ve been racking my brain. She had plenty of peculiar ways, like moving to that mountain at seventy. Can you imagine?”

Quinn leaned against the wall. “I guess old age is as good a time as any to do something. There’s so much less to lose.”

RaeAnne said, “I never thought of it that way. You have such interesting insights.”

A knock at the kitchen door startled her. “Oh. Someone’s here. I better go.”

“Okay, but—”

“I’ll let you know the minute there’s news.” Ending the call, she admitted Morgan, holding his bleeding hand. “Yikes.”

“It looks worse than it is,” Morgan told her, “but can I use the sink?”

“Your sink? In your kitchen?”

Not quite, but close enough.

She emptied and removed a basin, then turned on the water. “How come Rick didn’t know?”

He hissed as the water streamed over the gash running from the web of his thumb across the pulpy part of his palm.

Leaning in, she winced. “Barbed wire?”

“Rick’s pulling it out so the horses won’t get cut.”

“Guess you didn’t think about gloves.” She turned his hand under the stream for a better look, her hair brushing his cheek. “When was your last tetanus shot?”

He drew a husky breath. “I’m up to date, Nurse Reilly.”

She darted a look. “And cranky. Does blood make you dizzy? I knew a six-and-a-half-foot lavender farmer who fainted at the sight of it, especially his own.”

He hissed again when her ministration ran the water over the jagged end in the web. “I don’t intend to faint.” Holding his teeth aligned, he reached for a paper towel.

“Don’t.” She pulled it away. “Let me get a fresh roll.” She ripped the plastic off a new roll of towels. “I’ve been all over the house with that other.” She tore off two sheets and quickly folded them, then reached for his hand, briefly drying the back side before pressing the packing to his palm.

His chest was not functioning correctly. “I could do this, you know.”

“It’s hard one-handed while you’re streaming blood.”

“I think I’ve got it now.”

She looked up, almost right under his chin and close enough he could tell the starbursts in her coffee-dark eyes were amber. She slid her hand off as he took over the pressure, then turned off the water. “If your buying the house was a secret, I’m afraid I blew it. I assumed your brother—”

“It’s no big deal.” Finally taking his eyes from her face, he noticed the bandanna around her neck. “You riding herd?”

She gave the scarf a little tug. “On mice.”

He didn’t want her to be cute and funny and helpful and caring.

“The bandanna’s in case of hantavirus.”

Good. He made a slow nod. Think of disease. Mice. Scat.

Her chin had a soft point that rounded up to the base of her lip. His eyes felt hooded, because they wouldn’t rise any higher.

“Are you okay?”

He must have run a lot of blood down the drain to feel so light-headed and tongue-tied.

“Lean against the counter.”

“I don’t need to.” But he did it, keeping pressure on his throbbing palm and glad for the pain.

“So I brought the skeleton keys I mentioned to try in the cabinet.” She motioned toward the box on the big mahogany hutch.

He welcomed the distraction. “Did you find one that works?”

“I didn’t try any. It’s your cab—”

At the sound of Rick’s truck, he pushed off the counter and moved toward the door. “If it matters to you, go ahead.”

“That’s not what I—”

He pulled open the door and stepped out.

“—meant.”

It wasn’t quite a slam, just an awkwardly closed door.

Rick eyed him when he got in the truck. “Stitches?”

“Probably.”

Doc Bennington was older than Moses and no plastic surgeon, but he could still stitch up a slashed palm. As long as the hand worked, what was one more scar?

Rick dropped him off at the faded blue Victorian house Doc retired in and practiced from. With no office help, he didn’t take appointments or insurance, which put some people off—thankfully. There was only one patient ahead of him, a woman with a howling cough that sounded like a wolf-seal crossbreed. After that, Doc took a look at his palm, probed and stretched, and finally tacked it with several stitches, using a numbing agent that would have put down a horse.

He wrote a scrip for antibiotics and painkillers they filled at the drugstore-minimart. Back at the ranch, he found Noelle reading to both kids on the brown leather couch in the slanting sunrays through the great room window. Livie’s intense expression revealed astonishing concentration, but Liam immediately jumped down and ran to him.

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

“Alligator bit it.”

Liam’s eyes got big. “Where is it? Can I see?”

“Nah. Took one taste of Uncle Morgan and flew away.”

“Alligators don’t fly.”

“They don’t? Must have been a pterodactyl.”

“Can I see?” His brown eyes widened even more.

“Too late—it’s gone.” Morgan roughed the kid’s head.

Noelle’s fair brow furrowed with concern. “What happened?”

“Just a cut.”

“Five stitches,” Rick supplied, coming in behind.

“I want to see the pterodactyl,” Liam bellowed.

“Uncle Morgan’s imagining things,” Rick told him.

“Nuh-uh. He said.”

“Sometimes grown-ups exaggerate.” Rick patted Liam’s head. “So, Morgan. Something you want to tell us?”

Question courtesy of Quinn Reilly. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I bought a house.” He settled in beside his tiny girl.

Noelle turned with just the mix of surprise and worry he’d expected.

“Livie and I are moving to Vera’s. I’ll get Consuela out here to keep house and cook.” He hadn’t expected to leave them speechless.

“But . . .”

“You guys need your space. This’ll help me wean Livie from this situation without too abrupt a change, while I figure out what’s next.”

“That wasn’t necessary, Morgan.” Rick planted his hands on his hips.

“Yeah, it is. She’s two years old.”

Noelle said, “That’s still a baby.”

“Thus the halfway house.”

She caressed Livie protectively, wondering, no doubt, if something she’d said or done prompted his decision.

“It’s not you. Or Rick. It’s just time.”

She nodded. “You’ll still be close.”

“For a while. As soon as Livie’s ready, we’ll go home. You have another focus now.” Noelle was the only mommy Livie knew. But it wasn’t working anymore. She was an only child, not the middle offspring of this combined effort.

Unconsciously Noelle touched her belly. Imagining who she’d bring into the world this time? Jill had speculated endlessly—boy or girl, fair or dark, lively or calm, smart, of course, and beautiful.

Her pregnancy had been a breeze, hardly a moment’s discomfort until she got big enough to need backrubs, a role he accepted wholeheartedly since he played such a small part in the rest of it. The memory formed a furrow between his brows.

“Down to the right. Now up, up . . . okay over to the left.”

“Your whole back, in other words.”

“Just where the baby pushes.”

“Here?” He squeezed her neck.

“Well, if you insist.”

“Baby pushing here?” He squeezed her ankle.

“Just a little.” Giggling, she’d taken the whole body massage.

Livie climbed into his lap, pushing up and wrapping his neck. How did she always know? She caught his face and kissed his mouth, her precious lips rough with a tiny beaklike sucking callous from her likewise calloused thumb.

He hugged her close, breathing her baby scent. Noelle was right. She was still so small. But he was right too. Standing up, he swayed, a little woozy. Doc Bennington was of the old-school mindset that pain meds should render you senseless. “Livie and I will be taking a nap. If anyone hears her wake up and I don’t, please barge in.”

He felt their stares as he’d felt Quinn Reilly’s. As he’d felt . . . her. Intensified, no doubt, by blood loss and painkillers.

L
ong after Morgan left, he remained on her mind. Not her business, Quinn told herself, since his bleeding hand bore a wedding ring. Even if his marriage was in trouble, as the sadness and isolation might indicate, it didn’t involve her.

Given her own situation, getting involved would be doubly unwise. She shook her head with a self-deprecating laugh. Not to mention who the man was. She didn’t even understand what he actually did. Author, sure, but turnaround specialist?

With a sigh, she locked up and went home. Tempted to get online and read more about him, she avoided her computer in the barn and went into the house instead. The little she’d gleaned was enough to know about someone off-limits. He’d made that clear, leaving like that when she had only tried to be helpful. That handsome rose had thorns—not big flesh-ripping thorns, but the little ones that pricked an unsuspecting finger that throbbed for days. He could at least have thanked her for the use of the sink . . . his sink. Almost.

She tipped her head back with a groan. She’d gone into the house to stop thinking. At this rate she might as well work on
Vera’s haul. But no, she’d eat first. She slid the iPod she’d acquired, already loaded with someone’s songs, into the dock and touched a playlist. As LeAnn Rimes started in with “Blue,” Quinn wondered what kind of music a corporate mogul listened to.

Enough! Turning up the plaintive lament, she grabbed a whisk and used it as a mic, certain no one could tell her voice from LeAnn’s. In her kitchen, no one said otherwise.

After vegetable chowder and crusty, chewy bread, she went out back to the warehouse, valued and listed the perfume bottles online, and then chose a DVD from the stacks. She went back inside and watched it in bed with the small DVD player on her lap. Almost every sale had DVDs, and since she hadn’t watched movies growing up, these last four years she’d worked through people’s collections before listing them online.

It was a bit haphazard but was culturally educational. Anything too stupid, gross, or violent, she closed back up and moved on. Beyond that, she’d enjoyed everything from Disney’s
Aladdin
to
Schindler’s List
. Now teary from
Finding Neverland
, she snuggled into the covers and had only just dropped off when her phone jarred her awake. She pushed aside her blanket and snatched it up. “Hello?”

“Did you hear?”

She stiffened. “Hannah?”

“He’s getting out.”

The words doused her like ice water.

“He’s getting out and you’ll pay for what you did.”

Quinn pressed a hand to her racing heart. Hannah was only repeating what she’d heard—the original far more chilling.
“You’ll pay for this,”
delivered in a tone so cold it freeze-dried her bones. Had she thought prison would rehabilitate him, that he’d leave her alone when he got out?

It hadn’t even been the full five years. Good behavior? Bribes? Lies? Her voice shook. “Hannah, how did you get this number?”

The signal ended. She clenched her fists. Only three people from her old life had her cell phone number, and while none seemed inclined to use it, neither would they give it to Hannah. Or would they?

Her nails made painful dents in her palms. Releasing her fists, she pulled up the rose-colored comforter. The last person who slept beneath it hadn’t died, merely included it in their moving sale, but still, she shivered.

With vigorous strokes, Morgan toweled his hair and face. He hadn’t anticipated Consuela’s negative response—in loud and colorful Spanish. Yes, the climate and terrain would be a shock, but he paid her to meet his household needs. She was doing that in Santa Barbara, but right now he needed her in Juniper Falls.

Brushing his teeth, he studied his reflection. She would call him gaunt and scold him for not eating. Good. Consuela loved a cause. He lathered and took up his razor. She knew his expectations, his preferences. She knew . . . everything. It would only be until Livie understood the two of them were a family of their own. But if that was his goal, why bring Consuela?

He frowned. This practice of questioning himself had never been part of his makeup. Until Jill died, every decision—good and bad—had been clear and purposeful. Then he let her go out, encouraged it, assuring her he and Livie would be fine, everything would be fine.

He closed his eyes. They weren’t fine. How could they be? But he slowly pulled the razor along his jaw. Keeping up appearances.

“Daddy?”

“Coming, peanut.”

Twenty minutes later, he’d dressed Livie in a long-sleeve Onesie and tights, minuscule blue jeans, a fuzzy loopy sweater, coat, hat, gloves, and boots. Satisfied his little girl was better fortified than an armored truck, he started out from his cabin to the main house. Golden leaves drifted on the frigid morning air, small gusts tossing them up.

He’d watched quite a few seasons on the ranch over the years, on visits to refresh between high-powered consultations and the year spent healing in body and spirit after Kelsey died, when he’d launched his Vette over a cliff—unintentionally. He’d loved that Corvette.

He should be healing now, and maybe he was. It was just that Livie took so much. . . . No, she didn’t take it. He gave. Whatever was inside, he poured into her. And maybe that was the best healing could get.

Livie curled her arms around his neck, chattering. Her vocabulary dazzled him. Everything about her dazzled him. He answered her queries with the smile growing on his face. She’d be okay. They’d be okay. This change was a small one.

He hoped Rick was making breakfast, since Noelle’s cooking was an exercise in diplomacy. Unfortunately it was Noelle in the kitchen, stirring oatmeal. He kissed her cheek, then settled Livie into her little seat. Liam came roaring in, flying a fighter jet over his head, and chaos reigned until Noelle provided his cereal.

He was simply high octane. Constructively channeled, he’d do fine. Noelle, on the other hand, looked a little green.

“How are you feeling?”

“Lousy.” She sighed. “How well am I hiding it?”

He gave her a sympathetic pat. “Where’s Rick?” He half listened while he tied the bib around Livie’s little neck, provided a spoon and the small bowl of oaty-mush. She didn’t know the difference.

“Want some?”

“Just coffee.” Noelle’s brew would be trial enough. His mouth watered thinking of Consuela’s meals. How had he gone so long without her? Or was his appetite only now awakening? The sooner he got that ball rolling, the better. But rolling Consuela was like opening the tomb—it took supernatural power.

“Maybe I’ll have Consuela cook for you too, give you a break.”

“What about your house in Santa Barbara? If she comes here, who will keep that?”

A good question. She’d held down the fort out there over all his absences, not only this extended one. “I’ll have to figure that out, I guess.”

As soon as Livie finished eating, he bundled her up and carried her out the front, where she decided it was better to walk. Leaning on the rail while she one-stepped the stairs up and down on tiptoes, he heard someone’s approach. Through the aspen and spindly pines, he watched Quinn coming cross-country from Vera’s.

With the drug worn off and no current blood loss, he had no reason for the tightening in his chest, the constriction in his throat. It must be guilt for overreacting, for leaving so rudely.

It didn’t stop when she got there, when she crouched down beside Livie on the stairs and said, “Hi, sunshine.” Or when she tipped her head and added, “She’s stunning, you know. You’ll be fending off strapping young men with a stick.”

“Didn’t realize that included scrappy young women.” What was with the edge?

“Ha-ha.”

Taking that as a joke showed a tendency to see the best in people, including insolent men. As she straightened, Livie watched with keen and innocent interest, another barometer in Quinn’s favor.

“Is this where you’re living?”

“Until I move.”

“Right. As it happens, I was coming to ask Noelle how to find you.”

He waited.

“Salvation Army’s coming for the furniture, but I thought one or more of the old hutches and cupboards in the kitchen would look better with that asylum cabinet than something new.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you hustling me?” Buying the cabinet had been an experiment. Now she was hitting him up for more?

“I mean I won’t have them take anything you want to use.”

“Oh.” He’d misread her intention, but she didn’t back away or rise to the accusation, only corrected his error. This woman held her ground, unobtrusively. “We’ll come have a look.” He scooped Livie up, since her little strides would take two weeks to reach the house he had not begun to think of as his. Probably never would. It was a world between worlds. A waiting place.

Quinn walked quietly, in the mode he’d first encountered instead of yesterday’s chattiness. She’d taken a clue from his rudeness then and now, and he felt a hint of remorse. There was no excuse for discourtesy, especially when she was only taking care of business. As they went in, he noticed the progress she’d made in the rest of the house. While it was still overcrowded with furniture, she’d radically reduced the clutter. Hard worker, Quinn Reilly.

Livie said, “Down, Daddy.”

He glanced at Quinn. “Do you mind?”

“That’s your call.” She pulled the woolen cap off her curly hair. The stuff had a mind of its own but looked soft and shiny. “Remember, I bleach-treated the dining room for the mouse droppings.”

“I’ll keep her out of there.” He did wonder, though, how risk averse Quinn was—a sort of thought he hadn’t entertained for quite a while. Appetite and curiosity. Had his brain begun the slow, grinding churn of a frozen engine starting again after long disuse?

She led the way to the kitchen. “I’m sure you won’t want all of this, so pick what stays, and they’ll take the rest.”

He took Livie’s hand and followed Quinn to the kitchen. The asylum cabinet stood exactly as he’d left it. The box of keys still perched on the counter by the sink. “Any luck with the lock?”

Quinn folded her arms. “I haven’t tried.”

That surprised him, especially since he’d freed her to. “Could be good to have a key.”

“It could.”

Quinn looked down at Livie, still enraptured by his child. He couldn’t really blame her. While he was not that guy who used his daughter as a babe magnet, Livie didn’t know it. She just shined.

“I’ll keep that big mahogany hutch.” He pointed to the piece they’d pulled away from the cellar door. “To block the cellar back up, so Livie won’t even think about it.”

She peeled a sticky note from a pad and stuck it to the wood.

He looked at the other pieces, some pressed oak, some painted but still showing good bones. “Why don’t you sell the furniture? You could get something for these antiques.”

“I’d have to haul and ship it.” She indicated her small stature. “Not happening.”

“No one to give you a hand?”

“I’m a sole proprietor.”

Didn’t mean she couldn’t get help, but he let it go. “How’s it going downstairs?”

“I haven’t started.”

“Not to rush you, but my closing is scheduled for the end of next week.”

She raised her brows.

“It’s an uncomplicated sale. No liens or financing.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have the cellar emptied by then.”

“We can work on it.” He almost said
together
before recalling he needed life simple.

“I still have to deal with the dining room and clean everything for your walk-through.”

“You’re cleaning too?”

“I traded RaeAnne service for stuff.”

He looked around. “Then you ought to sell these antique cupboards and tables. Take pictures and post them at Rudy’s general store. I bet they’re snatched up in a few days. People like local pieces, and these have obviously been around awhile.”

“How would I deliver—”

“Post them for pickup. Or use your truck. I’ll help you load.”

“With your injured hand?”

He looked at the bandage on his palm as though it had just appeared there. Doc’s treatment was hazy, but not Quinn’s. “It’s stitched shut.”

“How many stitches?”

“Enough to hold it through eternity.”

“Or until you get them out.”

“Or that.” A smile touched his mouth. “Doc doesn’t work halfway. I’ll be fine.”

She chewed her lower lip. “I’d have to search comparable pieces for pricing.”

“Or just decide what you want.” From the wallet in his back pocket he took a blank check and wrote it for six hundred dollars. “For mine.”

She looked from the check to him. “I already sticky-noted it to stay.”

He set the check on the table. “That’s no more than it’s worth.” He’d intentionally kept it reasonable yet high enough to induce her to try the others. She’d be cheating herself otherwise.

“Why do I feel bad?” A search of her face showed she did.

“Because of what I said, about hustling me. But I came here intending to buy, not take.”

Still hesitant, she nodded. “I guess I will post the others at the store, if the guy’ll let me.”