The Still of Night (15 page)

He gripped the door’s edge. “You spoke to my mother?”

“I needed to find you.”

A surge of anger. She had no right. What could be so important she had braved his mother, and Mom had directed her to him? Cold dread washed over.

“I had to, Morgan. Just let me explain.”

Irritated, he stepped back and motioned her in.

She paused inside the entry, glancing around the main room. “This is Rick’s place?” An attempt at normalcy, like the small talk she’d made the other night to polish the splintered gash between them.

“His humble abode.” He closed the door, hoping she felt as trapped as he did.

“It’s nice.” Her gaze paused on the grand piano. “Who plays?”

Morgan nodded up the stairs. “Rick’s wife. She’s sleeping off a flu— especially rough, since she’s pregnant. Happily, if you can believe that.” He passed by her. “Drink?”

“No thank you.”

As she followed him around the couch to the gathering space before the huge stone fireplace, his nerves rose up in static electric response, each nerve isolating from the next, drawn irresistibly toward her. He resisted by putting as much space between them as the setting allowed.

Her hands gripped the handles of her purse. Where was her confidence in the charm and acceptance that had always drawn people to her? Why did she suddenly draw from him a traitorous compassion?

“Morgan …”

He pressed a forearm to the massive half-log mantel and fixed her with a lionlike stare. “Yes?”

“Could we sit?” She lowered herself to the dun-colored couch.

He ignored the suggestion. She was not as beautiful as some of the women he’d dated. But there was an attractiveness that went beyond her features, her long, toned figure. A personality and intelligence that hollered “get to know me.” She’d had the same spark fifteen years ago, and it angered him to acknowledge it still.

His gaze sent a satisfying flush up her throat, but then she seemed to be fighting tears. He hadn’t expected that. She must be more keyed up than he’d realized. He resisted moving toward her as he might have. Why should he comfort her? Yet it tugged anyway. “You had something to say?”

“Yes, I …” Her voice broke and she pressed her hands to her face. “I don’t know how to tell you.”

That from the girl who had already given him the best and the worst news in his life? She’d shown up without invitation, begged her way in, and now thought she could stammer and cry? Losing patience, he crossed over, sat down, and took her hands from her face. Her gray eyes were awash with some hurt, deep and terrible. Was it catharsis, forgiveness she wanted? Dread and calm mingled. “Just tell me.”

She drew a deep breath. “Morgan, I never aborted our baby. I gave her up for adoption.”

He dropped her hands, denial searing his mind. Their baby wasn’t dead? Comprehension grew. The images that had formed his guilt were false. The disgust, which had grown like cancer inside him every time he remembered the girl he had loved … He shoved up from the couch unable to stand her closeness. Fifteen years, believing he had fathered a child she’d chosen to destroy. And now …

“It was the best thing for all of us. She’s had a good home, a Christian family.”

His throat cleaved. It had all been a lie. Why? He searched her face as though the answer could be found there. Grief, anxiety, and fear—but nothing he could grasp. And then the realization washed through him. She had lied to be rid of him and their child.

Hands clenched, he strode to the window. It was her so-called right—her body, her choice. So what brought her here now? Why this tearful episode, this encroachment on his life? Even if the other night had shown her he was doing well financially, she could hardly sue for child support. Not when she’d given the baby away—without his consent.

“What do you want?” He spoke to the glass but, shaded as it was by the porch, even that held her reflection.

She pressed clasped hands to her knees. “Morgan, she has leukemia. Acute lymphocytic leukemia.”

He took that in with no sensation, his responses uncharacteristically inactive.

“They treated her four years ago and controlled it. But she came out of remission and chemotherapy isn’t working. She needs a bone marrow transplant from someone genetically connected.”

He expelled his breath and dropped his head as the pieces clicked together. “You don’t match.” His voice was dust.

“No.”

“Why else would you need me?” He turned from the window.

“Morgan, I …”

He walked to the mantel and leaned, but it offered scant support. A child. A daughter out there somewhere, the fruit of his love for Jill. Not dead. But dying. Her words sank in. Leukemia. He knew the gravity of that disease. His daughter had leukemia. He clenched his hands and the muscles of his arms pulled like ropes.

“Morgan …”

“Just tell me what I need to do.” He turned enough to see her blink back her tears. What did she expect?

“There are initial blood tests.” She reached into the purse at her feet and drew out a card. “This is the oncologist at the Yale Cancer Treatment Center. You can contact him for instructions. If there’s a match, he’ll tell you what happens next and they’ll … let Kelsey’s family know.”

“Kelsey.” His voice rasped, and his own hand shook as he rubbed it over his hair. His
daughter
. “I want to see her.” The words were out before he thought of all that would mean. Then he turned fully. “I want to see her.”

Jill struggled again for words. “It’s not that easy, Morgan.”

Easy? Did she think this was easy?

“She’s very sick, and Cinda … her parents don’t want to add stress.”

Her parents. A mother and, of course, a father. He dropped his chin to his chest. He was nothing but the sperm donor. The girl out there knew nothing about him or anything he’d accomplished or ever would. He couldn’t see her; he could only make another biological donation.

Jill scribbled a number on the back of the card. “In case you need to reach me. I’m sorry, Morgan.”

He didn’t answer. Anything he said now would draw blood.

Jill started to stand, but a motion overhead caught her eye. A woman walked out across the balcony, amber hair hanging just below her shoulders. One hand rested on her swelling abdomen through the sage green robe that hung to midcalf. It must be Rick’s wife, and she was beautiful.

She came down to the bottom of the stairs and gave Morgan a smile just touching her lips but deep in her gray-green eyes. She cared for him, cared a lot. Then she turned. “Hello. I thought I heard voices.” She stifled a cough and cleared her throat.

“You shouldn’t be up.” Morgan’s concern was real, and Jill felt a spear of envy.

“I needed some tea.” Her voice rasped. He moved toward her, but she held up her hands, palms forward. “I don’t want to share my germs.” She looked again to Jill.

Resigned, Morgan said, “This is Rick’s wife, Noelle.”

Jill stood up, her throat tightening when he didn’t present her. “I’m Jill Runyan.”

As Noelle sent a quick, knowing glance to Morgan, cold needles pricked Jill’s flesh. Noelle knew who she was. Had they talked? Had Morgan told her all about their difficult past? She had to go. She’d done what she had come for.

Morgan said, “I’ll get your tea,” and strode to the kitchen.

“Thank you.”

Jill had a hard time picturing her as a mountain rancher’s wife. Her bearing suggested graciousness and culture. In fact, Jill more easily imagined her with Morgan than Rick. Another spear. That was absurd, but seeing his solicitude toward this woman after the raw anger he’d shown moments ago …

Jill reached for her purse, but Noelle took a seat on the piano bench, far enough away to avoid contagion. “I’m sorry if I interrupted.” Her voice was hoarse and weak. Why had she come down? Had she sensed Morgan’s distress?

Jill sighed. “I was just leaving.”

“Can’t you stay awhile? I’m sure it was a long drive up.”

Not long enough. She had been as unprepared for Morgan as she’d been for Kelsey. And at the moment, she wasn’t sure which meeting had hurt more. How could she gracefully decline?

The last thing Morgan wanted would be her staying another minute after the news she’d brought and the wounds she’d opened. But that wasn’t Noelle’s problem. It was no one but hers, and now Morgan’s. If only she hadn’t needed to drag him into it. The look in his face would stay with her too long, and his words.
“Why else would youneed me?”

She met Noelle’s soft gaze. Healthy, she must be stunning. But just now her expression probed. “Is Morgan all right?” Again the concern in her tone.

“I gave him some difficult news.” Jill looked down at the floor, hearing the hum of the microwave in the kitchen. In minutes Morgan would be back.

“It’s not his family?” Noelle’s love there was obvious, too.

Jill imagined her with all Morgan’s family, his sisters and Rick and Celia and Hank, people she had once imagined—she stopped that thought. “No. It’s personal.” Tears threatened again. She blinked them away.

Noelle tried to speak but coughed, then, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Morgan came in with a steaming teacup and handed it to Noelle. He gently raised her chin. “You should go back to bed.”

That was not a simple brother-in-law relationship. But then, was any relationship with Morgan simple? Jill ached in ways she had not begun to explore but knew she would whether she wanted to or not.

She gripped her purse. “I need to go.”

Noelle stood up. “It was nice to meet you, Jill.” She coughed hard.

An engine sounded outside, the crunch of gravel. Morgan left Noelle’s side and took Jill’s elbow, more to hasten her out, she suspected, than any courtesy. Had they covered it all? Would he do what was needed?

Jill wanted to escape, but the door opened before they reached it. The space filled with Rick, taller than Jill remembered him, and he’d filled out from the lanky youth he’d been to a muscular man. He stopped short, resting one hand on the knob, his eyebrows darting up at the sight of her.

“Jill.”

Wonderful. A family reunion. How many more Spencers must she face before this was over? “Hi, Rick.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. He must hate her as much as the rest of them, though his expression was enigmatic.

She’d done what she had to; now she wanted out. Morgan had taken his pound of flesh, and he was the only one with cause. The questions were there in Rick’s face, but she owed him nothing. Morgan could tell him whatever he wanted.

Morgan pressed his hand to her lower back. “She was just leaving.” He eased her past Rick and onto the porch, kept his hand on her all the way to the car, then turned her abruptly. “What does my mother know?”

The gusting wind robbed her breath. He moved to block her face from the wind, but his expression battered her more.

“I had to tell her why I needed you.” That was poorly phrased, and he didn’t miss it? “To find you, why I needed to find you.”

A momentary amusement washed his face, at her awkwardness, she was sure. “You certainly know how to go for the gut, Jill.” It was the first time he’d spoken her name, and it didn’t sound endearing. “Dare I hope this is our last encounter?”

“You can handle everything through the center.” The wind slapped her face, and she raised a hand in defense. “But it has to be soon.”

His face hardened. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

A swelling of relief. “I know.”

“Do you?” There was such poverty in that question, it hurt. What sort of father would he have been? Interactive and warm like Hank? Upright like her own—with whom she had not really spoken in too long, not since her pregnancy had put a wall between them. She’d disappointed them so badly. Her family, Morgan’s. And herself.

She reached for the car door, but he opened it first, a shade of his old chivalry. She got in and he closed the door without another word. Before she had the key in the ignition, he turned and went into the house.

CHAPTER

10

M
organ went straight through to the kitchen, took the bottle of bourbon from the cabinet, and started for the back door.

“Morgan.”

He ignored Rick, but the second swing of the screen told him his brother had followed him out. He turned. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“After you’ve killed it with the bottle?”

“Yeah.”

Rick gripped his shoulder. “What is it? What did she want?” His extra inches made Morgan squint up in the brightness to meet his gaze.

Wind gusted, then passed. Morgan raised the bottle in a toast.

“Congratulate me. I’m a father.”

“What?” Rick dropped his hand from Morgan’s shoulder.

“It seems Jill didn’t abort my daughter; she just gave her away.”

Rick stared at him, taking it in as slowly as Morgan had. “She came to tell you that?”

“No. That information was not important enough.”

Rick shook his head. “What, then?”

Morgan’s chest constricted. “My daughter has leukemia. She needs a bone marrow transplant. Jill thought I might fill the bill.” He watched Rick grasp the situation as his face matched the turmoil threatening his own control. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine his daughter. Kelsey. “Rick, I need to be alone.”

“Then leave me the bottle.”

Morgan gripped its neck. “I’ll just buy another.”

“Not on Sunday.”

The screen swung and Noelle came out, squinting in the sunlight, its brightness illuminating her illness. She didn’t need this. Why was Rick making it an issue?

She shaded her eyes. “Come back in, Morgan.” She coughed and kept coughing. Rick wrapped an arm around her shoulders and sent him a look. Don’t make it worse. Don’t make her worry. He should never have come. If he hadn’t gone to Rick’s, he wouldn’t have attended the reunion, wouldn’t have seen Jill … What was he thinking?

He had a daughter who needed him. She must be fourteen, just a little older than Todd. Whatever he was doing for Todd was nothing to what he could do for his own daughter. But just now he needed a drink, needed it badly, though at eleven in the morning that didn’t look good. He expelled his breath. All he wanted was to be alone. His stomach burned, and his mouth watered for the oblivion he’d find two thirds into the bottle.