The Breath of Dawn Page 13

  The call ended.

  He hadn’t really expected the guy to give his name, but it was worth a try before going to the next level. He pictured Quinn’s face, the fear quickly hidden behind bravado. It only punctuated what he already knew. She had guts. But why did she need to?

  He’d almost sat beside her on the couch, close enough to touch. Instead he kept his distance, and had to wonder why. He thought of the eggshell in its box in Noelle’s drawer. Nice move, turning his gift from so long ago around on him.

  Yeah, Quinn intrigued him, amused him, attracted him. But he knew better, no matter what Noelle said. It hurt to care. So forget personal. Deal with what he saw.

  He speed dialed the investigator he used to check backgrounds and search for anything untoward in potential projects. Richard Anselm had sniffed out crimes and vices by white-collar kings that instantly disqualified them from consideration. He’d find something if it was there.

  As it was earlier on the West Coast, he caught Anselm awake and gave him the phone number to search.

  “This connected to a corporate client?” Anselm asked without remarking on the substantial passage of time since they’d talked.

  “It’s personal. I’ll tell Denise to keep it separate.” And in the next call, he instructed her to pay Anselm’s bill from his private account.

  “Anything else?” she said.

  “How’s everything there?”

  “Fine, except for Consuela. She’s going to have a stroke if you keep insisting she move.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s just a little while.”

  “She wants you here, not her there. Do you know there are about twenty-seven different kinds of devils? She’s called you all of them.”

  “It’s beautiful here.”

  “It snows.”

  “Hardly at all.” He refrained from inspecting the window.

  In the night, Noelle rose and tiptoed to Liam’s room. His temperature was elevated, but it matched her own. While not exactly robust, she’d never considered herself infirm, until the pneumonia compromised her respiratory system. Pride before a fall.

  Caressing Liam’s cheek, she prayed he had Rick’s constitution, and then, satisfied that he was sleeping as comfortably as possible, she crept back to her room.

  “Is Liam okay?” Rick’s voice was soft and alert.

  She had tried to slip into bed without disturbing him. “I think so. He’s sleeping.” Her own throat felt like a war zone. Pain made a headband from one ear to the other and spread like a veil down her neck and over her forehead like a blusher.

  He took her hand when she lay back down. “You’re hot.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  Smiling indulgently, he felt her face. “I’ll get you more Tylenol.”

  She didn’t argue. It wouldn’t kick the headache, but it might reduce the fever. As long as she could breathe without a swamp in her chest, she’d deal with the rest.

  The wind made a long howl and buffeted the window. Morgan had been smart to keep Quinn and the professor from leaving. It must have been a grueling drive for Rudy, though he might have stopped at the store and slept in his emergency apartment. That was a lot closer than all the way home. Dr. Jenkins, thank goodness, had no macho compulsions.

  Rick returned, and she swallowed the pills, thanking him in a raspy voice. He climbed in and kissed her temple. “I’m trying not to worry.”

  “I know.”

  He spread his hand over her belly. She rested hers over it, knowing he was praying for the child as well. After a moment she said, “I think Morgan’s starting to heal.”

  “Because he likes Quinn?”

  “You saw it too?”

  “I know my brother.”

  “It’s been so long.”

  “It has.”

  Her voice rasped. “I like her too, Rick.”

  “Don’t get your hopes too high. It’s Morgan.”

  She pressed in close to him. Though wildly popular and successful, Morgan hadn’t always made the greatest choices. “But . . .”

  “You didn’t see him the first time he lost Jill. If he’s been numb and it starts to hurt . . .”

  He’d been a teenager when they broke up. “He’s different now. Refined.” Rick knew she didn’t mean dignified but tempered by fire.

  “I hope you’re right. It’s just hard to see past old junk.”

  “We all have it. Except maybe you.”

  “That’s convicting.” He ran a thumb over her cheek. “Thanks for setting me straight.”

  For two people who’d started out so different, they’d found an amazing synergy.

  He pressed his lips to her fiery forehead. “I’m blessed to have you.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “It’s so mutual.”

  Through the interminable night, Quinn went over every other way she could have handled things and landed right back where she was. She could not have let it go, could not turn a blind eye once she knew. She was sure of that. It was the rest that gave her nightmares.

  She opened heavy eyes to a dim light filtering into the room. Pushing up in the bed, she shoved the hair back from her face and looked at the window. She’d have looked out, but it was blocked with snow. Shivering, she pulled on socks and padded to the warmer room that held the wood stove. The embers in the base looked like dragon eggs that scattered into fiery butterflies when she added a small log.

  Not knowing how long the hot water would last, she hurried in the shower, but her hair could not be quickly washed. There was too much of it. Thankfully, the stove had efficiently warmed things up by the time she stepped out. She dried her hair, hank by hank, with the towel, then dressed. Her watch read 8:16. She didn’t know when the Spencers got up, or if Noelle would even leave her bed, but she was not hanging around with nothing to do except think depressing thoughts and read depressing tales.

  She gathered Noelle’s provisions and the envelope from the professor, pulled on her coat and gloves and opened the door, then shut it against the collapsing wall of snow. Not good. She looked around for a shovel but found only the scooper for the wood stove. The small kitchenette with tiny fridge, two-burner hot plate, and sink yielded nothing more useful than a saucepan. If she were buried in an avalanche she’d use it. As it was . . .

  The drift outside was probably highest where it had piled against the cabin. So, what, she’d body slam through it? Sounded good. Another person might throw wood on the fire and hope someone came for her. But Morgan had Livie. Rick had a sick family. And she was not waiting around for help.

  Leaving Noelle’s items to be retrieved later, she stuffed the envelope inside her coat and cinched the waist, then pulled up and tied the hood snugly around her face. Steeling herself, she opened the door, blocking with her body the fresh cascade of snow. Blinking in the white glare, she pushed forward and realized how little body mass she had compared to the chest-high drift.

  Though it only extended about six feet and gradually diminished, making a path with nothing but her hands would not be easy. Powder slipped under her coat sleeves as she worked, soaking and freezing her wrists. Her tights and leggings were soaked. She’d chosen the skirt and sweater for Thanksgiving dinner, not to become a human plow.

  Once she was fully outside the door, she pulled it shut. Pressing her back into it gave more power to her arms and legs. After clearing about two feet, her biceps started to burn. At two and a half feet, her shoulders felt like hot coals searing into her neck. She paused to rest, leaning into the snow so even her downtime might have some effect.

  Turning back would have been hard if not impossible, because the drift had collapsed behind her, filling in the gap. She straightened, raised her arms, and pushed again. If she were a prisoner of war, no amount of pain would allow her to stop. If her life depended on it, she’d have fought through anything. Unfortunately, she had only boredom and frustration driving this decision.

  Once again she rested. And when she started again s
he beat at the snow less methodically, her motions jerky. Wind blew a choking layer off the drift into her face. She tucked her chin down and away, but it caught in her lashes and the hair escaping her hood.

  “Quinn!”

  She turned at the shout and saw Morgan. The drift at his door was only about three feet high. With Livie in a carrier on his back, he used a shovel to dig through it, then marched through knee-high snow to her massive drift. Working at the far end, he shoveled snow side to side until he broke through.

  She said, “A shovel sure makes a difference.” Brushing snow off her coat, she saw him staring. “What?”

  “You didn’t get my text?”

  Thinking of texts could ruin her day. “I don’t have the charger, so I turned off my phone.”

  “It said for you to call when you woke up and I’d dig you out.”

  “That would have been a good one to get.” Though perfectly clear of clouds, the air around them glistened with ice crystals.

  He brushed snow off her shoulders and back. “You’re lucky it wasn’t over your head.”

  “I’d have stayed put if it were.”

  “Not sure I believe that, coming from a human snowman.”

  “Snow girl!” Livie corrected.

  “Yeah, punkin. Snow girl.”

  “Snow woman if we’re getting technical.”

  “Yeah but size-wise—”

  She socked him.

  “Hey. I just saved you.”

  “I didn’t need saving, but thanks for nothing.” She packed a snowball and tossed it at his chest.

  “Oh-ho-ho.” He packed one, and since she had nowhere to run, she ducked past him, high-stepping through the partly shoveled snow. His throw hit her shoulder blade, and she swept up another snowy wad. Morgan was a crack shot, and his next one knocked the snow out of her hands.

  “Hey.”

  “I don’t want you throwing wild and hitting Livie.”

  “Oh sure. Hide behind the baby.”

  He pushed through and stopped chest to chest, a dark gleam in his indigo eyes. “Those are fighting words.”

  Her heart hammered as she reconsidered her position.

  “Let me shed my precious cargo and I’ll school you in warfare.”

  She had no doubt he would. “No thanks. I’m a pacifist.”

  “As I recall, you started this skirmish.”

  “You insulted my size.”

  He looked her up and down.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Watch it.”

  “Or what?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Uh-huh.” He slid his arm around her back. “Making threats you can’t back up?”

  She raised her chin. “I can.”

  “Mmm. I’m pretty sure you can’t take me.”

  She’d be lucky if she could talk without squeaking.

  He roved her face with those penetrating eyes. He was no heartbroken dad. That disguise hid a consummate seducer. She put a hand to his chest and stepped back. It was that or give up breathing.

  Eyes still heavy with portent, he pulled the shovel from the drift. “Follow me.”

  The demand amused more than irritated her, as they couldn’t move more than three feet. He laid into a five-foot-tall drift between them and the main house.

  Feeling extraneous, she said, “Want some help?”

  He turned. “You can take Livie.”

  Together, they moved the carrier from his back to hers. The pack and whatever was in it weighed twice as much as his child, and after plowing through her own drift, she worked hard to stand up straight. How had he shoveled with Livie on his back?

  Morgan cleared the big drift and a smaller one after it, then paused, looking up. “Somehow, I don’t think you’re leaving today.”

  She studied her half-buried truck and the drifts all along the drive, not to mention the roads. Even the sun blazing in an electric-blue sky would need time. “At least we have leftovers.”

  “I see you land on the rosy end of the attitude spectrum.”

  “Right in the reality middle. Things are what they are, so go with it.”

  He dug the shovel in. “Not a bad philosophy.”

  Livie leaned toward her ear. “Want to playammals?”

  It took a moment to translate the unusually babyish word, but then she said, “Sure. And Daddy can make the elephants talk.”

  Shovel paused, he cast a look over his shoulder. She smiled. There were more subtle forms of warfare than he’d ever imagined.

  From Liam’s bedroom window, Noelle watched Quinn and Morgan in the snow. Her breath caught at their playfulness, something she hadn’t seen in Morgan except with the children for a long, long time. When he reached around and held Quinn, she pressed a hand to her heart, hoping at last his shell might finally be cracking.

  “Mommy,” Liam croaked.

  She turned and lifted him from his bed, cradling his head in the crook of her shoulder like a smoldering coal against her own feverish skin. He snuggled deeper. Sad to admit, she loved the tender stillness that came when he was sick. Since she never got to cuddle and hold him for long on healthy days.

  They settled in the rocking chair, expertly shaped by Rick to fit her and their child, and thought about their conversation last night. Morgan had been through so much, and grief could manifest in many ways. While some people implied he’d left the spotlight to lick his wounds, it was in fact the opposite. He’d set aside his wounds to raise Livie with joy and constancy.

  Maybe he’d wept in private, but she doubted that. She suspected his panic attacks were an outgrowth of restraint and avoidance. They’d been terrible at first, one reason he and Livie stayed in the house those first months. He didn’t want to be incapacitated if she needed someone. After a time they’d tapered off, but not, she guessed, because he’d resolved the grief. More that he’d grown accustomed to it.

  Perhaps their return was grief demanding acknowledgment and resolution. And maybe that meant he was trying to love again. She wanted him to have someone who loved and believed in him, who cherished him.

  She lowered her head to Liam’s and rocked. She’d felt no stirring yet from the tiny one inside but prayed her illness would not affect that new life. She prayed the infection would not become the prolonged ordeal she knew it could. She prayed Liam would heal quickly. And she prayed that what she’d just seen in Morgan would spread and grow.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Quinn looked up when Rick came out of the house with a shovel of his own and watched the two men apply themselves in silent competition. When his path met Morgan’s, they shared a look she couldn’t quite catch but guessed well enough when Rick looked her over, fighting a smile.

  “Morning, Quinn.”

  Leaning on his shovel, Morgan said, “She was taking the linebacker approach to clearing her drift.”

  Rick nodded. “We’ll find you some dry clothes.”

  Let them laugh. She stomped off on the porch and followed them in, shedding Livie and the snowiest layers at the door.

  As Morgan removed his child from the pack and toted her to the kitchen, Rick said, “Noelle should have something that’ll work for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  The professor stood at the fireplace leaving only a hint of pipe tobacco over the scent of woodsmoke. Quinn hugged herself at the cozy scene.

  “I see you brought your reading.” He nodded to the folder she’d uncovered beneath her coat. “Did you start it last night?”

  “Not alone.” She gave him a sheepish smile.

  After her lousy night and the morning’s exertion, she’d have preferred stretching out on one of the soft leather couches and snoozing. But she joined the professor at the fireplace, her tights starting to steam by the time Rick brought her a pair of black elastic-waist pants and a softer-than-owl-fluff gray sweater. Rick and Morgan and the professor looked as fresh as the new-fallen snow, and she felt more than a little bedraggled.

  Excusing her
self, she changed in the bathroom, rolling the ankles and sleeves. She’d found a matched set of exquisite lingerie tucked inside the outer clothing, the likes of which she had never felt or worn. Coming out, she smiled at Dr. Jenkins, the only one left in the great room. “Should we dive in?”

  His eyes brightened in response. “I think we should.”

  They sat on the hearth, looking at the first of the anecdotes he’d collected. From the kitchen came the smell of sausage and onions. Maybe potatoes. Someone could cook. Her stomach rumbled. She’d only had one meal yesterday, and while it was a substantial one, she was ready for another.

  “Ah yes,” Dr. Jenkins said, scanning the tale. “The porcelain doll.”

  “Is this a good one or a tough one?”

  “Interesting, I’d say. It’s one of the oldest stories from early in the asylum’s history. The woman believed herself a porcelain doll and refused to do anything that might chip or crack her.”

  “Like . . . move?”

  “Very little. She sat and stared, very pretty, and just like a doll on a shelf.”

  “Did she talk?”

  “If spoken to, but only in phrases like ‘Don’t touch I’ll break.’ Or ‘Such a pretty doll.’ When they wheeled her in a chair for meals and to take the sun, she never moved a muscle, and was easily posed, holding it sometimes for hours.”

  “How awful.”

  “And rather a waste, don’t you think, since there was nothing physically keeping her from a full life.”

  “What could they do?”

  “An orderly noticed she was more active in sleep than awake, and when the doctor questioned her during the restless episodes, she readily discussed her dreams while seemingly still dreaming. Apparently, as a child, she’d been imprisoned by rules and expectations and punished for the slightest infraction until safety lay in doing nothing but looking pretty. So she became a doll upon the shelf.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Unfortunately that isn’t recorded. Perhaps divulging the dreams allowed her to discard her impression of herself as helpless, breakable, and inanimate.”