A Rush of Wings

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “Rick …” She looked into his face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Next time you’ll know.” He gave her a brief smile.

  Next time. There’d be a next time. And she wouldn’t spoil it. She nodded, then slipped out of the corral and started down the meadow.

  With Rick gone to an auction the following day, Noelle’s hopes of proving herself with Destiny faded. She didn’t dare take him alone after learning what the animal could do to her. She was sore all over from her fall. How did Rick do it, day after day, getting tossed and climbing back up again?

  She sighed. She could saddle Aldebaran, ride out and paint, though riding the mare after Destiny wouldn’t be the same, even if it was his dam. And her creative energy was at low ebb. The muse had fled. Morgan was right; it could be dull at the ranch. She wished he had stayed longer.

  What would she do if she were home and feeling glum? Have a manicure, a facial? She looked down at her plain, clipped nails, thought of the women she might have called to have lunch at the club. She didn’t miss one of them, not one. But then, neither she nor Daddy had let anyone come too close. She had taken his cue there, picked up his suspicious nature.

  Instead, she’d poured herself into the arts, as he had the law. She’d graced Daddy’s table and philanthropic events, his prize, his model daughter. Compliant child; the phrase could have been coined for her. Whatever Daddy had valued, she’d aspired to.

  But now she was a woman. Did she even know what she wanted? She wanted to train Destiny. Why? Was that just another feather in her cap? No. There was something in his struggle, something to which she connected, though it did seem contradictory to fight for the chance to ride him yet want to see him free. How could she want two such opposite things? Freedom and control. They vied in her.

  She tossed back her hair, stood, and paced in her room. The walls seemed close. Her breath quickened. Panic built inside. She pulled open the door and stepped onto the landing. She was not trapped. She not in danger. As her breast stilled, she pulled the door closed and went downstairs. Marta hummed in the kitchen. Noelle wandered to the doorway and watched her wiping down the counters. Again that sense of purpose. Like Rick. They seemed to know their place in life, while she floundered.

  Marta looked up. “Come on in.”

  Noelle walked to the butcher-block table.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No, thank you.” What could Marta possibly provide that would make any difference at all?

  Marta smiled. “You’re stir crazy.”

  Noelle sighed. “It shows?”

  “You need to keep busy. Next to faith, work is the surest road to happiness and well-being.”

  Both Rick and Marta certainly ascribed to that. Work and faith. Were they happy? “I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Not painting today?”

  Noelle shook her head. “I wanted to continue with Destiny, but with Rick gone…”

  Marta rinsed the cloth in the sink, then squeezed it dry and hung it on the rack. “I’m just preparing to make bread. Want to help?”

  Noelle ran her fingers along the edge of the table. “I don’t cook.”

  Marta actually stopped. “Not at all?”

  Noelle licked her lips. “I’m sure Daddy would have provided a chef to train me, but, to be honest, I never saw the need.” Nor had she been welcome in the kitchen at home.

  Marta turned from the sink, appraising her. “That bad, hmm?”

  “Poor little rich girl.” Noelle gave her a brief smile.

  Marta chuckled. “Privilege can stifle ingenuity. We have so much we take for granted. Some of us more than others.” She didn’t say it unkindly, but Noelle felt rebuked.

  Had she taken her good fortune for granted? Expected all the service and benefits as her due? It was life, her life. Now she was trying to fit within a new reality. She could no longer expect things to be handed to her. Learning to cook might be just the next step to filling out the self she’d started defining as artist and horse trainer. “Do you think you could teach me?”

  “Do you want to learn?”

  Noelle looked about the tidy kitchen, tried to picture herself arms up to the elbows in dishwater, or cutting and mashing and beating a batter with a wooden spoon like Martha Stewart. Well, why not? She nodded.

  Marta opened the pantry door and pulled down a cream-colored apron. She handed it to Noelle. “Baking bread isn’t the easiest to begin with, but we can do it together.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marta took out the large mixer and bowl. “Get some hot water in the measuring cup there. Six cups steaming from the faucet.”

  Noelle read the lines on the measuring cup and filled it as Marta directed. By the time Marta measured out the yeast and honey, the water had cooled enough to add them. The mixture foamed up.

  “Now measure the flour and salt.” Marta showed her the amounts on the worn recipe card, though Marta didn’t seem to look at it much. “And the oil.”

  Noelle did as she was directed. Then Marta poured the yeast mixture into the bowl and lowered the heavy beaters. Noelle held the bowl steady as the beaters pulled and twisted the dough.

  At last Marta said, “Turn it out onto the floured board.”

  Noelle dumped the soft mass, and Marta demonstrated the kneading. Noelle buttered her hands as Marta had done and pressed them into the soft mass.

  “It’ll take more than that.”

  Noelle pressed the heels of her hands through to the board. She turned the dough and tried it herself. It took a while to master the rolling, wedging movement, but she enjoyed the light and springy feel of the dough and its warm, yeasty aroma. A simple pleasure.

  “That should do. Now we cover it and let it rise.”

  Noelle nodded. She had studied the concept of leavening; she’d just never seen it in the making, certainly never done it herself.

  Marta rummaged in the pantry, pushing and stacking items, then shook her head. “I’m clean out of vinegar. I’ll have to run to the market.” She turned and untied her apron. “There’s a stack of potatoes by the sink. Peel them and set them to boil in the pot there. When the bread doubles, punch it down and let it rise again.”

  Noelle hadn’t planned on doing more than the bread. But that had worked out rather well. “Okay.” When Marta left, she took up the paring utensil. Her first swipe slid over the potato skin with no result. She pressed the peeler hard and swiped again, gasping when it nicked knuckle. She held her finger under the running water, then tried again. The potato skin came off in small chunks.

  Annoyed, she wondered why she had volunteered. For that matter, she’d said nothing about peeling potatoes. But preparation was part of the cooking process. Did she want to learn, or didn’t she? Where was that satisfaction Marta exhibited? Next to faith, work brought the most happiness? She’d hate to see what faith was like.

  Noelle gouged the potato and caught her fingertip. With an unsavory word, she tossed the potato into the sink and sucked her finger, then turned to see Rick in the doorway, his expression singularly annoying. “Did you want something?”

  He leaned on the doorjamb. “Is Marta around?”

  “She went to the market. For vinegar.”

  “Oh. And you’re …” He raised a questioning hand.

  “I’m helping; what does it look like?” She should not have given him that ammunition, but he didn’t take it, just nodded slowly, raised his eyebrows, and left.

  She’d been rude, but he had caught her at her worst. Taking up the utensil, she hacked at the potato. She wished now she’d never walked into the kitchen. Marta made it look easy, bustling around as though there were nothing to turning out her wonderful meals.

  Noelle tasted blood on her fingertip but had no idea where to find a Band-Aid. Another cold-water rinse seemed to do the trick, but as with sewing the button, her gains of practical skills might leave her quite literally all thumbs. But she’d been given a task, so she kept on. Potato after potato.
She blew the strand of hair that fell over her eye and kept peeling until the stack was done. Then she rinsed the brown-speckled film and traces of blood from the spuds and put them in the pot. She clamped on the lid and turned the burner on high.

  Peeking at the bread in the bowl, she saw that it had indeed doubled in size. What had Marta said? Punch it down. She gave it a good punch and the dough collapsed, but when she raised her hand, it clung like alien tentacles. She had not buttered her hands. She pulled at the sticky dough, but then it clung to her fingers. She yanked free and washed off the excess dough.

  Well, that was taken care of. Noelle put the cloth back over the bowl. Now that it had to rise again, she could leave it. So she wandered out to the main room, peeked into Rick’s office. If he was through at the auction, maybe they could work Destiny, and she would prove capable and trustworthy in spite of his expression as he left the kitchen. She never claimed to be a farmwife.

  But the office was empty. She went down the hall to the back door, then stepped outside near the cabins. The first was still vacant, the next two rented by older couples enjoying the quiet mountain ranch. Wandering past, she squinted up the meadow. Was Rick working Destiny without her? She didn’t see him and the truck was in the yard, but he could have taken Orion up.

  She walked far enough to see that he wasn’t in the high training corral, then went back down. She glanced into the truck bed. There were a few items on the tack blanket against the cab but not much. The auction must not have been too exciting. So where was he now? The stable roof again? She walked around and checked, but he wasn’t there. With a sigh, she turned back and went inside.

  Her nostrils quivered at a terrible smell coming from the kitchen—and smoke. With a cry, she rushed down the hall. Smoke billowed from the pot on the stove. She grabbed the lid, then flung it to the floor as her palm seared. A hand gripped her shoulder, and Rick shoved her toward the sink and turned the faucet on.

  She held her hand under the cold rushing water that made her arm ache but took the sting from the burn. She held it there as long as she could stand it while Rick turned off the burner, grabbed a pair of hot pads, and moved the pot across the stove. It was charred black; what she’d seen of the potatoes when she pulled off the lid were shriveled and brown. All her work!

  He crossed to the sink and turned up her palm. “Let’s see.”

  The red welt throbbed. He pulled a knife from his pocket and at first she thought he meant to lance the burn. But he sliced off a pointed succulent spear from the plant on the windowsill. He slit it open and laid it on her palm. The gel inside felt cool and sticky and, amazingly, eased the pain.

  She eyed the leaf darkening slightly on her palm. “What is it?”

  “Aloe.” He took down a first aid kit from the cabinet over the refrigerator, applied an anesthetic ointment, and wrapped her hand with a thin layer of gauze.

  Though he was gentle, she winced. “What happened to the potatoes?”

  “The water must have boiled out.”

  Water. She hadn’t added any, but now she realized potatoes couldn’t boil without water. Her cheeks flamed, but before Rick could notice, Marta rushed in, waving at the smoke.

  “What on earth?”

  Noelle turned. “I—”

  “Sorry, Marta. We weren’t watching it.” Rick nudged Noelle toward the door. As Marta caught sight of the charred pot and started to exclaim, he pushed Noelle outside. “We’ll be down for lunch.” He herded her into the truck.

  She dropped her face to her fingertips. Couldn’t she do anything right? “I should have stayed and cleaned up.”

  Rick started the engine. “You don’t want to be in there just now.”

  Noelle dropped her hands to her lap, wincing at the pain in her palm. She was twenty-three years old and failed at even the simplest tasks. No, she’d never cooked a meal. Her apartment kitchen had been only decorative, thanks to take-out and delivery. In the bungalow she had used a toaster and microwave and coffeemaker, none of which required anything more than touching buttons. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the painful burn as Rick drove up the slope.

  What was he thinking? Why had he stepped in that way? Did she telegraph helplessness?

  He parked and turned. “You won’t want to hold the reins.”

  “I can do it.”

  He pushed open his door. “I want to try something different anyway.”

  Destiny waited at the gate. It gave her a pang to see him so still and willing. Where was the fight he’d shown yesterday? Rick had stayed out with him long into the evening after she left.

  Destiny nickered, obeisant as Rick approached. She felt cold inside. What had Rick done? His stroking hands and soothing tones, his uncompromising will had subdued the stronger animal. Without her to disrupt it, his gentle determination had won the horse’s heart. She reached a tremulous hand to Destiny’s mane, suddenly uncomfortable beside the man who could accomplish that.

  “Ready?” No preamble, no remonstrations about yesterday’s misconduct, as though he’d forgotten it completely.

  She glanced up briefly. “I’m ready.”

  He saddled but did not bridle Destiny. “Can you balance without the reins?”

  “Of course.” She mounted. “How do I direct him?”

  “You don’t.”

  She sagged. Was he reverting to the tether? It hung by the fence, but he made no move that way. “What are we doing?”

  “Have you heard of a horse hooking on? It’s when the animal chooses to work as one with its master. I think Destiny came to that last night, but I want to try it out.”

  Her curiosity piqued. Rick stroked Destiny’s head and muzzle. He gently chucked the horse’s chin, and the stallion bumped his nose into Rick’s chin. She stared. Destiny had returned the gesture! She watched, fascinated, as they playfully butted each other.

  Rick glanced up. “I’ve never done this with a rider. I don’t know if it will confuse him, but I thought you should be part of it. You might be so much baggage, or you might distract him. We’ll see.”

  So much baggage. Thank you very much.

  With nothing but his will connecting them, Rick faced east, his shoulder even with Destiny’s nose. He took a step forward and stopped. The horse likewise took a step. Rick strode five steps and the horse followed. He turned to his left, then to his right. The horse kept beside him, mirroring his movement.

  What force of character did Rick possess to so enchant the horse? And where did that leave her? She, too, moved with Destiny as Rick directed. Fear stirred. No. She wasn’t baggage.

  Rick turned, but the horse didn’t turn with him. Destiny seemed confused, or was it her own striving emotions the animal sensed? Rick reached a hand to the stallion’s head and turned him. She was disappointed by Destiny’s immediate obedience. She almost willed him to revolt. Don’t do it. Don’t acquiesce like a dumb, docile beast. Now she knew which she wanted—freedom for Destiny more than control.

  “Noelle.”

  She startled. “What?”

  “I’m trying to do something here. Are you with me or not?”

  Had he read her thoughts? Had her rebellion shown? She swung her leg over and jumped down. “I’ve had enough.” She ducked through the rails and walked away. She wanted to be alone, away from Rick, from Destiny, away from herself. She passed into the trees, breathing the scent of living pine sap. The forest was wild, untamed. But Rick had even taken the trees to form the walls and floor and roof of his house, his furniture. He’d shaped and fashioned them to his will, as he had Destiny.

  She reached out and touched the rough, sticky bark, put her face close and breathed the sweet, almost butterscotch scent. She ran finger over the bubbly crystallized sap and felt the strength of the tree. The breeze rustled its needles. She dropped her forehead to the bark and closed her eyes.

  She couldn’t blame Rick. He had been true to himself, never wavering. She was the one who’d betrayed what she wanted for the horse. Freedo
m and control could not coexist. Yet Destiny had seemed eager to please Rick, playful and peaceful. He’d lost the wild fear, the quivering hide, the rebellious arch of his neck. He marched proudly in step with the man who had claimed his affection. Was there peace in submission?

  A screech sounded in her mind, the sound from an open beak. Amber eyes. She cowered, searching the sky above the pines. What insanity was that? She was not a mouse or a rabbit to fear the sky. Not the sky. The hawk. Her chest constricted, and she wrapped herself in her arms. Why did that image persist?

  Rick had watched, surprised, as Noelle headed into the trees. Why had she quit? This was the most rewarding part of training, when the animal at last hooked on, when he joined you in his spirit and will. He had expected her to appreciate it, had anticipated her pleasure. Yet he’d felt her striving against him. Destiny had felt it, too, hadn’t known which way to go. But why?

  He opened his heart to the Lord’s wisdom. Had he done something wrong, hurt or offended her? He had employed extreme control of his temper the day before, had not lashed out, and today he’d given her a fresh chance. He thought over their encounters from the time Morgan left, at breakfast where he’d said he was going to the auction. Nothing offensive in that, though she’d obviously been disappointed.

  Then the scene in the kitchen … What on earth was she doing all that for anyway? But he hadn’t laughed or teased, as he’d been tempted. He’d resisted and left her to the task until he saw smoke coming from the kitchen window, after which he’d ministered to her burn and delivered her from Marta’s disapproval.

  He shook his head, unable to equate any of that with Noelle’s response. Walking away, she’d had that brittle look he’d first seen in her, at once broken and bewildered. Maybe he should talk to her. What would he say? He had questions, but he didn’t think she’d answer. He had answers, but she had to want to hear them.

  Lord? A strange, harsh verse from Zephaniah came to mind. “She obeys no one, she accepts no correction. She does not trust in the Lord, she does not draw near to her God.” He sensed a thread of truth. By all indication she didn’t know or reverence the Lord, but how would that apply to her behavior just now?