A Rush of Wings Page 7

  “And be vulnerable the next time?” William raised his eyes. “Defense law was safer. The feds don’t kidnap children.”

  “What happened to Noelle?”

  “The police found her tucked up next to the lions outside the public library.”

  “And the defendant?”

  “Not guilty.”

  Michael dropped his gaze. If the case was weak, even William might have lost it, but the fact remained he’d capitulated for Noelle, had broken what Michael had up to now considered an unbreakable code. It didn’t diminish William. If anything Michael admired his mentor more than ever and felt a keen kinship. They would both do anything to have Noelle back.

  “I took precautions after that, thought of every possibility. She was never vulnerable again. I made sure.”

  “Did she … was she damaged by it?”

  William’s pause was a moment too long. “Frightened. She was terribly frightened. But the psychiatrist said severe traumas are often forgotten completely. I’m sure she has.”

  Michael’s head spun. Severe trauma. Was that why she had overreacted, panicked, all but turned catatonic? Could he use that to explain—if it came to it?

  William pressed his palms to the desk. “Then, of course, there was Adelle. Her death created a whole new problem.”

  Michael switched tracks, glancing at the photograph of William’s late wife.

  “I could guard my daughter from danger, but … What control had I over sickness and disease?” William pushed back from the desk and stood. He walked to the window and looked out. “I screened everyone. Provided tutors instead of schools where illness propagated. But …” He dropped his head, shaking it slowly. “Did I push her away? In keeping her safe, did I smother her?” William turned around, as bleak as Michael had ever seen him. It was a measure of their relationship that he showed it now.

  Michael frowned. Hadn’t those been her words, or very nearly? But it wasn’t William she meant. Michael swallowed. The tendons in his neck drew taut. He wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but whom did that leave? He said, “You did your best.”

  William walked to his desk and perused the folders but seemed unable to make sense of them. “Where are we today?”

  Michael slipped naturally into the role being offered. With precision, he delineated the day’s work on the two primary cases. William remained pensive as they talked, but Michael sensed his focus returning. A remarkable man, William St. Claire. He would put the night behind him, the past behind him, even Noelle’s absence behind him. When they entered the court, William would be honed and ready. Sometimes Michael imagined himself William’s son. One day he would be, if only in law.

  The side streets were growing familiar as Noelle walked, eyeing light and shadow, a quaint house with a rose rambling up its terraced porch, a deserted mine tunnel with juniper across its mouth. Stopping in front of a yellow wood-frame house with a sagging porch and a bicycle against the rail, she studied the scene.

  The clump of aspen in the front caught the breeze and scattered tremulous shadows across the window. From the side a dog yapped, dodging as a boy lunged for the leash and skidded across the ground, then gained his feet and continued the chase. She smiled. The human spirit, Professor. She missed him.

  Shelby’s family had been replaced in the cabin by a hard-muscled pair of mountain climbers, the woman as long-limbed and focused as her husband. Today they were tackling the crags on the mountain above the meadow. Noelle could not fathom dangling by a rope attached to a belt, held only by a thin metal hook over a thousand feet of empty space. But those two seemed to thrive on it.

  The honeymooners’ cabin was now occupied by three potential eagle scouts and their leader, working on some mountaineering badge or award of some sort. The third housed a couple from Denver on a getaway for their tenth anniversary. Rick had spoken truly that his place was booked through the summer, though without the professor, she and Morgan were the only guests in the house.

  It was an odd arrangement and different from any living situation she’d had before. But she wouldn’t change it. Not even for the spacious and well-appointed bungalow she’d occupied on her father’s estate. Looking at the small yellow house before her, Noelle realized just how far from home she was.

  She shifted her case to the other hand and walked on. The shadows had lengthened, and she made her way down the rutted dirt road to the paved highway that cut through town, then crossed the gravel lot to general store. After searching the shelf, she laid a pack of gum with a dollar from her pocket on the counter. Rudy ground out his cigarette and gave her change.

  “Thanks.” She scooped it up and turned, smack into Morgan. Her dime and nickel went flying.

  He steadied her around the waist, laughing. “Where’s the fire?”

  She didn’t share his amusement. “Excuse me.” She backed out of his grip and retrieved her change from the floor.

  “Let’s have dinner.” Morgan reached for her case. “I’ll take you to the Roaring Boar. A little dinner, a little dancing…”

  She shook her head.

  “Come on, break loose a little.” His smile was contagious; white teeth and eye crinkles made her think once again of a GQ model. Morgan would fit into Daddy’s circle on looks alone. “They have barbecue brisket that’s to die for.”

  She glanced at Rudy behind the counter.

  Rudy nodded. “Good stuff.”

  With the two of them coaxing, how could she decline? “We’d have to let Marta know.”

  “Absolutely.” He motioned her out, then sent Rudy the raised eyebrows. Had they plotted it? Impossible. Neither knew she’d be there buying gum. Morgan simply found accomplices everywhere he went. And she’d fallen for it.

  He put her art case into the Corvette’s trunk, drove her back to the ranch, but caught her as she reached for the door handle. “Sit tight. I’ll tell Marta I’ve got you.”

  I’ve got you. A chill passed through her as he got out and went inside. What was she doing? She bit her lip and clenched her fists. He’d asked her to dinner, nothing sinister. So why were her palms sweating and her heart racing? Thoughts threatened to surface, but she forced them back, staring up into a thin, sappy pine, catching her breaths sharply.

  She was answerable to no one but herself. She could go with Morgan or not. Even now she could change her mind—go inside the house, her haven. She could … and call herself a coward. Sooner or later she had to stop avoiding life. She raised her chin. Sooner. A rush of confidence filled her.

  She released her clenched fists and managed to smile when Morgan returned, strutting like the handsome peacock he was. Let him strut. He might think he’d won, but the victory was hers. She had chosen. Her mind, her decisions, her life was hers.

  The Roaring Boar, true to its name, was boisterously noisy as they walked in. The high ceiling was heavily timbered with colorful heat ducts throughout. Above the long polished bar hung a boar’s head, looking as though it had charged through the wall.

  She grimaced. “I wouldn’t want to meet that in a dark alley.”

  Morgan held her chair. “Looks like the nun who taught me third grade.”

  She laughed, recalling a quote by Gelett Burgess: “To appreciate nonsense requires a serious interest in life.” Was Morgan ever serious? Or did he specialize in nonsense?

  He eased her chair in. “What are you drinking?”

  “Club soda … with lime.”

  He hung his head to the side. “Don’t tell me you’re underage.”

  “I’m not.”

  “On the wagon?”

  “I prefer club soda.” Nothing to dull her senses and leave her vulnerable. Nothing to weaken her control. Never again.

  Morgan sighed. “At least it’s not a sanctimonious reason. I’m past my Boy Scout days.”

  “Did you have any?”

  “Very briefly in the hazy past.”

  Morgan ordered drinks and a Texas brisket on a bun for each of them. “It’s the hous
e specialty. They’ll serve it in less than a minute with fries to boot.”

  “Less than a minute?”

  “No one orders anything else. If they did, the cooks would personally come out and flog them.”

  Again she smiled. She wasn’t sure how to take Morgan Spencer, but he did amuse her, and his words proved nearly true. She eyed the monstrous sandwich dubiously when it came.

  Morgan made a show of spreading his napkin on his lap. “Two hands; dive in. And no raising your pinkie.”

  Her glare only made him laugh. He was in rare spirits, though she didn’t take all the credit. He seemed to feed on the gathering crowd and rowdy atmosphere and the many people who came by their table to chat. He introduced her to more of her neighbors than she had yet met. Was there anyone in the room he didn’t know by name?

  As they finished eating, the band assembled and tuned, tested microphones, and practiced riffs on their instruments. Noelle watched them, keenly aware of Morgan watching her. When the band began to play, the room erupted with hoots and cheers. They did a classic bluegrass tune, “Wabash Cannonball,” and she felt its fervor grow just like the powerful train it bespoke.

  Morgan rubbed his hands. “It’s warming up now.”

  “They’re good.”

  “Come on.” Morgan stood and held out his hand. “I’m guessing you dance like an angel.”

  “Why?”

  “The truth?” He led her to the dance floor. “You have the legs for it.” He took her hands and broke into a country swing. He was smooth and swift and sure, with an almost liquid motion.

  Noelle laughed when he spun her out and back. “I don’t know this step.”

  “You follow like a dream.”

  “I’m trained in ballroom, ballet, and jazz. But I’ve never learned country swing.”

  He spun away and clapped, then grabbed her two hands and pulled them wide, coming chest to chest with her, then back out. “You may not know the moves, but you sure have a natural rhythm.”

  “Tell my jazz instructor that. She gave up on me. But then, she worked with Broadway hopefuls, and I was not in that league.”

  “I’d put you in a league all your own, Noelle. At the top of the class.”

  “I could swear that’s a line.”

  He laughed. “It’s true. I have an eye for quality, and you’re … prime.” He caught her down into a dip, and she noted the sharp cut of his Adam’s apple and the five o’clock shadow beneath his chin and along his throat. He held her there as the song ended; then the crowd applauded the band and he raised her gently.

  She shrugged out of the crook of his arm. “They don’t need much warming up.”

  “Oh, it gets warmer than this.” Morgan stood her to his right for the line dance. “Just follow me on this one. It’s total insanity.”

  “Oh no. No, I don’t do this…. I haven’t learned…”

  He tugged her back. “Forget learning. Just experience.” He stepped, kicked and turned, then lifted his foot and “slapped leather” as the song instructed by hitting the side of his shoe. They turned a quarter turn and started over. “You’re supposed to wear boots,” he called over his shoulder, “but I draw the line there.” Still, he was a chameleon, blending into the scene, taking on the mannerisms, the mood around him.

  Noelle faked her way through the dance as the line swept her forward and back, three steps to the right and kick, then again to the left. Spin, slap leather, quarter turn, repeat. It wasn’t that different from chorus line, but she’d hated that. She blew out her breath, relieved, when it stopped.

  The lead singer stepped up to the microphone. “Hey, I want to welcome everybody here tonight. We are gonna have a hand-clappin’, bootstompin’ good time, so grab on to your partner and get ready, ’cause we’re gonna shake the walls.”

  The small crowd roared, and more couples filled the floor. Noelle was pressed closer to Morgan than she intended to be, but he kept her on the dance floor the entire first set, teaching her new steps and moves, then stood up to the bar for a shot and a beer. She drank a fresh club soda, then went to the ladies’ room, which was relatively clean but cramped and lacking any continuity of color and design. The lavender stalls and crimson tiles made her cringe.

  As she washed her hands at the gold-flecked double sink, she glanced at her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed, and strands of hair escaped the reverse French braid. She tucked them in with her fingers, cooled her cheeks with damp palms, shook her hands, and looked for a dryer. She settled for the paper-towel dispenser and went out.

  Morgan had his back to the counter, elbows behind him. He watched her cross the room, even while he chatted with the tall brunette beside him. He drained the last half-inch of his beer and set the mug down. “Ready?”

  “For what?”

  “More hand-clappin’, boot-stompin’ good times.”

  “I don’t know that I’ll survive another set like the last one.” Though she had enjoyed the dancing more than she’d expected.

  “Well, you’re in luck. The second set is different.”

  “In what way?”

  “They open the mic.”

  “Like karaoke?”

  “Live accompaniment.” He led her by the elbow back to the table. “They’ll play oldies, classic rock, and country. What’s your preference?”

  “I’d say rock, but I don’t want to do it.”

  She sat down as the lead guitar announced the open mic, but Morgan took his seat, the crowd started chanting, “Morgan, Morgan, Morgan…”

  Noelle looked at him in surprise.

  “I guess they want me to lead off tonight.” He leapt onto the stage and took the microphone. “Good evening, all you gorgeous ladies and sorry-lookin’ gents.”

  Boos and hisses and laughter followed.

  “You might have noticed I have someone special with me tonight. Give a hello to Noelle St. Claire if you haven’t already.”

  Hoots and whistles. Noelle kept her eyes on Morgan. He turned and spoke to the drummer who raised his sticks and counted out the beat.

  Then the bass guitar came in. The lead threw back his head and howled, then played backup as Morgan began to sing “Little Red Riding Hood.”

  His imitation was better than his voice, which wasn’t bad. Noelle bit her lip, then laughed behind her hand. Morgan lit the place up. He had real talent, even if he wasn’t undiscovered star quality. She glanced around at the laughing, catcalling crowd. How could they help but respond to his antics? And, yes, he made a very believable big, bad wolf. At last he threw his hands into the air to absorb the applause, then jumped off the stage.

  Joining her at the table again, he took her hand in his. “What do you think? Carnegie Hall?”

  Noelle freed her hand. “Worse have made it. Where did you learn?”

  “Learn? As in musical instruction?” He looked amused.

  “Yes.”

  “No instruction. It’s kind of a family thing.”

  “Family? I can’t imagine Rick getting up and doing that.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. He can have fun when he wants to.” He downed the complimentary shot and raised his glass to the sender, a woman with flaxen braids. “I just do it better.”

  “Your hubris astounds me.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Anyone who can say ‘hubris’ with a straight face has a good share of it herself.”

  She had intended it jokingly, but he hadn’t missed a step. As a chunky blonde in tight jeans and a ponytail claimed the mic and began to sing “Austin,” Morgan accepted another complimentary shot and beer chaser.

  “You’re going to look and feel the way you did the other morning.”

  “Ah, but I’ve learned the secret to having a good time.” He put lips to her ear. “Never consider the consequences in advance.” His eyes were reckless bolts of blue. “Break free of the shackles of restraint and bow to Bacchus and Diana. The possibilities are endless. Let me get you something.”

  “No thanks.” So
me possibilities were not worth it.

  “Why not?”

  She merely shook her head. He sighed and downed the second shot, then led her back to the dance floor. She followed less eagerly. The lights had dimmed, and he drew her close as the band played and the blonde sang, not too poorly, the heartbreak strains of the Western love song.

  He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “You smell nice.”

  She turned her face away.

  “You’re not easily romanced, are you?”

  “I’m not interested.”

  He laughed. “Don’t break it to me gently, Noelle. Just say it as it is.”

  He stroked her cheek with his fingertips. “Oh, lady, you feel good.”

  She stiffened. “It’s getting late.”

  “Au contraire, mademoiselle, the night is as young as you are beautiful.”

  She fought the panic as she pulled free of his arms. “Why don’t you ask someone else to dance?”

  Rejection flickered in his eyes, but he shrugged. “Okay.” He seated her, ran his hand along her shoulders, and left. Her tension eased as he found a willing partner. More than willing. The woman with the flaxen braids. Morgan talked, and the woman laughed. He whispered, and she leaned close. He held her heart in his hands in those few moments alone. He might not be dangerous in the typical sense, but there were many kinds of peril.

  Noelle traced her finger around the edge of the cocktail napkin. An ice cube popped in her glass, and she studied the pale green cells of the lime. When she looked up, another woman hung on Morgan’s arm, even before he released the first.

  Rudy, from the general store, leaned over her table with a smile. “Want to dance?”

  She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m leaving now.” She got up and went out into the night. After a week of traipsing up and down from the town to the ranch, she knew the way, but once past the glow of the oldfashioned street lamps, she was amazed by the density of the darkness.

  She looked up. No moon. A shiver ran down her back. She over her shoulder at the Roaring Boar, still roaring, then sighed and started up the gravel road. By the crunch of gravel and the ridge of tufted grass, she knew the edge and kept inside it.