The Still of Night (11 page)

Rick sat down. “Is it bad?”

“Yeah.” Morgan set the mug on the corner of the nightstand where Rick sat.

“Noelle’s worried.”

“Sorry.” He sort of remembered seeing her last night. Probably made a fool of himself.

“She said you saw Jill.”

Morgan leaned back and groaned. “It’s too early for this.”

“It’s past noon. We’ve been to church and back hours ago. You’ve missed breakfast and lunch.”

Morgan’s stomach recoiled. “Good.” Especially at the thought of Noelle’s fare. He reached for the mug and gulped, then sent a sideways glare at Rick. “Two subjects are off limits, little brother. Food and Jill.”

“How was she?”

Morgan shook his head.

“Married?”

“No.” Though why on earth not, he had no idea. Any man alive would find her attractive, adorable, addicting.

“You were supposed to go, Morgan. I know it.”

“Fine. I went.” The coffee coursed down his throat. It needed a shot of Johnny, but at least it was strong.

“I wish you could have worked it out.”

“I did.” Morgan replaced the mug on the night table and straightened enough to know his head was in truly sorry condition. “If I never see Jill Runyan again—”

“Morgan.” Something in Rick’s tone stopped the thought in Morgan’s mind. “Look at you. You’re a wreck.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You have more natural ability, more God-given talent, and Lord knows the lion’s share of the Spencer looks.”

Morgan stared at his brother. Where was this going?

“And you’ve spent the last fifteen years trying to destroy yourself.”

Morgan cleared his throat. “I’ve found a little success along the way.”

Rick huffed, shaking his head. “More success than you needed professionally and financially. I know what you’ve accomplished, in spite of yourself.”

“Does this have a point?”

“How long are you going to let this thing with Jill drive your life?” Morgan stretched his fingers over his forehead. “This thing with Jill ended a long time ago.”

“No it didn’t. Face it, Morgan.”

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck and ignored him.

“You thought Noelle could make you forget.”

“All right!” The force of the words through clenched teeth sent pain rippling through his head. “Do you know what it’s like to see the woman who killed your child? To feel the visceral poison of the attraction you once had, still have? The wanting, the hating.” He swallowed hard and cursed Rick.

Rick gripped his shoulder. “If you don’t forgive her, it will destroy you.”

Morgan slapped his hand off. “Get out.” He threw off the sheet and tried to stand, then collapsed back on the bed.

“I know how much you love her, Morgan. I know how it hurts. You pulled me out of the pit when Noelle left.”

“That’s my job.” Morgan felt drained. “I’m the big brother.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you listened for a change. You’re lucky you didn’t die last night, driving up here in your condition. Is that it, Morgan, a death wish?”

Morgan didn’t answer. Let Rick say his piece.

“You owe God more than that, and somewhere inside you know it.”

“The Lord made a bad investment in me.” Morgan shrugged. “He can sell it off anytime.”

“But He won’t.”

Morgan closed his eyes. Definitely easier on the head that way.

“Accept it, Morgan.”

He didn’t want to know what.

“Peace and forgiveness. That’s what you need.”

Peace. That sounded good right about now. If he didn’t open his eyes, would Rick go away? Pain thrummed. And not just in his head. Seeing Jill had awakened the ugliest parts of him. Maybe he should get out, go somewhere else. Paris—the Champs-Elysées. Australia. Norway. Antarctica. Would any place be far enough?

He opened his eyes at the tap on his door. Rick had left it open and Noelle peeked in. “Are you decent?”

His mouth quirked. “If I’m not, it’s your fault.” He vaguely recalled her pulling back the sheet so he could collapse into bed last night.

She came in with a small glass, brown and fizzing. “Here.”

Morgan took it. “Bitters and soda?”

“I found the bitters in your cabinet. All I had was Sprite to mix in.” Her eyes were shadowed. The last thing she needed in her condition was sleep deprivation.

Morgan raised the glass in toast. “To my savior.”

Rick frowned, but Noelle just looked sad.

Morgan couldn’t stand that. He gulped the bitters, which would help the state of his stomach, if little else. “Now get out and let me clean up.” He seriously needed the bathroom, and he’d had all he could take of their concern.

Rick wrapped Noelle’s shoulders with his arm and led her out. Morgan chugged the rest of the bitters, then dragged himself up and staggered to the bathroom. He closed the door with a groan, then emerged later, toweling his head dry. It had been a long time since he’d messed himself up this bad. He rubbed his face and dropped the towel.

Gingerly he pulled on some navy Ralph Lauren cargo shorts and a coordinating yellow-collared shirt. His shoes had to be somewhere. He pulled one loafer from under the bed, holding his head as he stood up, and slipped it onto his bare foot. The other was nearby. Now to pack a few things. Within half an hour, he was ready. He picked up his bag and went down the hall.

Noelle was in her studio, painting a watercolor still life. He’d noticed she tended toward even smaller themes these days. This one was a glass vase with cut flowers and a blue-and-white cloth bunched beside it. She was washing the upper edge of the paper, and with her arm raised, the bulge in her belly was more pronounced. She turned, took in his bag. “No, Morgan.”

“Gotta learn one of those words without the other, my dear.”

She laid down her brush as he approached. “Why are you leaving?”

He set down his bag and cupped her shoulders. “You’re in no condition to play nursemaid to a prodigal.”

Again that sadness in her eyes. It twisted his gut. “Besides, I have places to go.” He slid his fingers into the hair that hung over her neck. “I’ll think of you while I’m strolling the Champs-Elysées. We never had the chance.”

“Please don’t go like this, Morgan.” Her tone was sincere. Just his luck that by the time she begged him to stay, she was already married to Rick and carrying his child. He knew very well where her heart was, and what did that leave for him? Pity? He swallowed the bitterness in his throat. He needed to get control, and he couldn’t do it with Rick preaching and Noelle worrying.

She rested her hand on his arm. “That’s not all your things. Are you coming back?”

He shrugged. “I might.”

“Morgan …”

He bent and kissed her cheek, then remembered another just as smooth, accented with feathery blond hair. What if he’d kissed Jill last night, taken her into his arms as he’d wanted to when he saw her approach—just stood up and pulled her into his arms and kissed her? His pulse raced as he slid his hands from Noelle’s shoulders. “Be good.”

Her eyes held his. “Can I say the same to you?”

He smiled. “Gotta have fun doing it.” He chucked her chin lightly. “Tell Rick good-bye.”

She didn’t try to stop him, just watched as he went out the door with one last wave, then headed down the stairs and outside. The sun tortured his eyes as he reached the gravel. The ache in his head defied the aspirin he’d swallowed. He squeezed his shoulder blades back with a low grunt, then opened the trunk and put in his soft leather travel bag. He turned when Todd sauntered up.

“Where are you going?”

Morgan eyed the kid. “Not sure.”

Todd’s pointy face glared. He leaned close, staring, and sniffed, then backed off. “You’re messed up.”

“No.”

“Yes you are. I smell it.”

“I brushed my teeth.” Who was this punk kid to jump on his case?

“It’s in your skin.”

Morgan scowled. “I showered.”

“It comes out anyway. I remember.”

Expelling a hard breath, Morgan rested his hands on the open trunk frame. “Your dad?”

Todd kicked his toe into the dirt. “Why’d you get drunk?”

Morgan squinted. Why in heaven’s name had he come to Rick’s ranch? “I don’t answer to you.”

“Yeah.” Todd’s face was all snarl. He walked away with a bigger chip than he’d come with.

“Todd.” With a sigh, Morgan caught up to him, grabbed his arm, and turned him. “You’re right. I got messed up last night, drank more than I should, and right now I feel like something you don’t want to step in.”

“Why?”

Morgan looked at the angry, defensive kid. He did not have an answer. He had no answers at all.

Todd’s eyes darted to the side. “I wanted you to talk to Stan.”

Morgan’s head throbbed. “What about?”

“You and me doing stuff.”

Doing stuff? Morgan swallowed. This kid was not his responsibility. Some undersized, overcharged kid … Then he realized Todd had not sworn even once. His chest squeezed. “What sort of stuff?”

Todd shrugged. “I’ve got all these chores now. Like they think it’s gonna help me get responsible.” He shot him a glance. “But after … we could talk or somethin’.”

What had he started? “Don’t you talk to Stan?”

Todd shrugged.

“Why not?”

Todd kicked his toe into the dirt in a steady rhythm, raising a little cloud. “He gets all mad if I swear or say something he doesn’t want to hear.”

Morgan sagged. He did not need this. He looked at the car waiting to carry him away, somewhere, anywhere.

“Go ahead.” Todd must have followed his gaze. He turned away.

“Where is Stan?”

Todd glanced over his shoulder. “What do you care?”

Nothing
. Morgan almost turned and headed for his car. Instead, “I’ve got time if you want me to talk to him.”

“What difference does it make if you’re leaving anyway?”

Morgan sighed. “Todd, would you get Stan?” Why was he standing there begging the kid?

“He’s in the cabin. Hold on a minute.”

Morgan waited. Todd came out of the cabin with Stan, and Morgan took another good look at the man. Taller than average height, though he stooped, sandy hair thinning, perpetual bags under the eyes but a strong chin.

Stan shook his hand formally as though they hadn’t just spent the week in some proximity. Though counting all the “sightseeing” drives the family had taken, they hadn’t connected as much as they might have. “Todd says you’d like permission to do things with him?”

Morgan glanced at the scrawny spin artist, then back to Stan. “Thought we could try out some hiking trails, take in a movie or two.”

Stan rested his hands on his hips and nodded. “Since you’re Rick’s brother, I don’t see why not.”

Yes, any brother of Rick’s must be good as gold. Stan’s sense of smell must not have Todd’s acuity.

Stan nodded toward the bag in the trunk. “Were you going somewhere?”

Todd’s eyes darted and Morgan’s met them. “No.” He could tell himself the word came without thinking, but it hadn’t. Somewhere between tossing the bag into the trunk and shaking Stan’s hand, he’d decided not to leave.

Stan’s eyes ran over the rest of the car. “What do you do, Morgan?”

“I’m a corporate consultant, troubleshooter. I solve people’s problems.”

Stan nodded. “Must do all right with it.”

Morgan formed a quick smile. “Yeah.”

“He’s not as rich as Bill Gates,” Todd said.

“Todd.” Stan frowned.

Morgan laughed. “That’s okay. I told him that.”

“Well. Todd has some work to finish up.” Stan raised a hand. “Just let me know when you want to put something together—with Todd, I mean.”

Morgan nodded. “Sure.” Stan seemed a decent enough guy, though he’d jumped to a conclusion comparing him to Rick. Still, Todd could do a lot worse. As they walked off, Morgan pulled his bag from the trunk and started back into the house.

Noelle had begun the vase and stems when he went back upstairs. She turned and smiled, guessing in advance his change of heart.

“I guess I’ll stay awhile, unless you’ve fumigated my room.”

She shook her head. “What changed your mind?”

He glanced behind him. “Todd.”

Noelle’s smile spread, reading more into it than there was. But then, maybe not.

“Just a few days probably. That’s all the quiet I can stand.”

“You’re welcome as long as you like. You know that.”

He did. Though he and Rick were as opposite as two brothers could be, there was a bond between them. Maybe more so since Noelle had entered the picture, strange as that seemed. Someone less than Rick might be jealous and suspicious, especially when Morgan pressed the limits. Instead he freely offered his home, his family. Morgan nodded. Sometimes he needed that.

CHAPTER

7

J
ill stared at the letter, an impersonal sheet of paper typed by uncaring hands, the scrawl of a signature at the end. She felt light, as though gravity had suddenly released her, then realized with a crash it had not. Her head struck the edge of the table. Pain.

“Jill!” Shelly rushed in, slamming the measuring cup onto the table and crouching beside her. “Did you faint? Are you sick?”

Jill cleared the shock from her head. Sick? No. But her heart did not believe it.

“You have not been eating, girl.”

That was true. Yet she’d gotten up at dawn every morning and run, hoping the exercise-induced dopamine would suffice. She had poured herself into tutoring the students who qualified for the extended schoolyear program while she had waited to hear the results. And now …

“What’s this?” Shelly snatched the letter.

Feebly Jill tried to take it back.

Shelly stood up. “What is this?” Her face paled, her mouth hung slack. “Pre-transplant bone marrow test results? Jill! Are you dying?”

Jill dropped her face to her hands. “No,” she said flatly. “My daughter is.”

Shelly dropped her hip against the cabinet, mouth open, staring as though Jill had suddenly turned green and sprouted antennae.

“A bone marrow transplant is her only chance for cure.”
Tears stung
and her throat burned. “I don’t match, Shelly.” And she broke down, shaking with the terrible sobs that came. “I don’t match.” She was vaguely aware of Shelly rejoining her on the floor, arms coming around her. She buried her face in Shelly’s neck. “Oh my God, my God.” Would He ever stop punishing her?