The Breath of Dawn

by Kristen Heitzmann

  She tipped her head back with a groan. She’d gone into the house to stop thinking. At this rate she might as well work on Vera’s haul. But no, she’d eat first. She slid the iPod she’d acquired, already loaded with someone’s songs, into the dock and touched a playlist. As LeAnn Rimes started in with “Blue,” Quinn wondered what kind of music a corporate mogul listened to.

  Enough! Turning up the plaintive lament, she grabbed a whisk and used it as a mic, certain no one could tell her voice from LeAnn’s. In her kitchen, no one said otherwise.

  After vegetable chowder and crusty, chewy bread, she went out back to the warehouse, valued and listed the perfume bottles online, and then chose a DVD from the stacks. She went back inside and watched it in bed with the small DVD player on her lap. Almost every sale had DVDs, and since she hadn’t watched movies growing up, these last four years she’d worked through people’s collections before listing them online.

  It was a bit haphazard but was culturally educational. Anything too stupid, gross, or violent, she closed back up and moved on. Beyond that, she’d enjoyed everything from Disney’s Aladdin to Schindler’s List. Now teary from Finding Neverland, she snuggled into the covers and had only just dropped off when her phone jarred her awake. She pushed aside her blanket and snatched it up. “Hello?”

  “Did you hear?”

  She stiffened. “Hannah?”

  “He’s getting out.”

  The words doused her like ice water.

  “He’s getting out and you’ll pay for what you did.”

  Quinn pressed a hand to her racing heart. Hannah was only repeating what she’d heard—the original far more chilling. “You’ll pay for this,” delivered in a tone so cold it freeze-dried her bones. Had she thought prison would rehabilitate him, that he’d leave her alone when he got out?

  It hadn’t even been the full five years. Good behavior? Bribes? Lies? Her voice shook. “Hannah, how did you get this number?”

  The signal ended. She clenched her fists. Only three people from her old life had her cell phone number, and while none seemed inclined to use it, neither would they give it to Hannah. Or would they?

  Her nails made painful dents in her palms. Releasing her fists, she pulled up the rose-colored comforter. The last person who slept beneath it hadn’t died, merely included it in their moving sale, but still, she shivered.

  With vigorous strokes, Morgan toweled his hair and face. He hadn’t anticipated Consuela’s negative response—in loud and colorful Spanish. Yes, the climate and terrain would be a shock, but he paid her to meet his household needs. She was doing that in Santa Barbara, but right now he needed her in Juniper Falls.

  Brushing his teeth, he studied his reflection. She would call him gaunt and scold him for not eating. Good. Consuela loved a cause. He lathered and took up his razor. She knew his expectations, his preferences. She knew . . . everything. It would only be until Livie understood the two of them were a family of their own. But if that was his goal, why bring Consuela?

  He frowned. This practice of questioning himself had never been part of his makeup. Until Jill died, every decision—good and bad—had been clear and purposeful. Then he let her go out, encouraged it, assuring her he and Livie would be fine, everything would be fine.

  He closed his eyes. They weren’t fine. How could they be? But he slowly pulled the razor along his jaw. Keeping up appearances.

  “Daddy?”

  “Coming, peanut.”

  Twenty minutes later, he’d dressed Livie in a long-sleeve Onesie and tights, minuscule blue jeans, a fuzzy loopy sweater, coat, hat, gloves, and boots. Satisfied his little girl was better fortified than an armored truck, he started out from his cabin to the main house. Golden leaves drifted on the frigid morning air, small gusts tossing them up.

  He’d watched quite a few seasons on the ranch over the years, on visits to refresh between high-powered consultations and the year spent healing in body and spirit after Kelsey died, when he’d launched his Vette over a cliff—unintentionally. He’d loved that Corvette.

  He should be healing now, and maybe he was. It was just that Livie took so much. . . . No, she didn’t take it. He gave. Whatever was inside, he poured into her. And maybe that was the best healing could get.

  Livie curled her arms around his neck, chattering. Her vocabulary dazzled him. Everything about her dazzled him. He answered her queries with the smile growing on his face. She’d be okay. They’d be okay. This change was a small one.

  He hoped Rick was making breakfast, since Noelle’s cooking was an exercise in diplomacy. Unfortunately it was Noelle in the kitchen, stirring oatmeal. He kissed her cheek, then settled Livie into her little seat. Liam came roaring in, flying a fighter jet over his head, and chaos reigned until Noelle provided his cereal.

  He was simply high octane. Constructively channeled, he’d do fine. Noelle, on the other hand, looked a little green.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Lousy.” She sighed. “How well am I hiding it?”

  He gave her a sympathetic pat. “Where’s Rick?” He half listened while he tied the bib around Livie’s little neck, provided a spoon and the small bowl of oaty-mush. She didn’t know the difference.

  “Want some?”

  “Just coffee.” Noelle’s brew would be trial enough. His mouth watered thinking of Consuela’s meals. How had he gone so long without her? Or was his appetite only now awakening? The sooner he got that ball rolling, the better. But rolling Consuela was like opening the tomb—it took supernatural power.

  “Maybe I’ll have Consuela cook for you too, give you a break.”

  “What about your house in Santa Barbara? If she comes here, who will keep that?”

  A good question. She’d held down the fort out there over all his absences, not only this extended one. “I’ll have to figure that out, I guess.”

  As soon as Livie finished eating, he bundled her up and carried her out the front, where she decided it was better to walk. Leaning on the rail while she one-stepped the stairs up and down on tiptoes, he heard someone’s approach. Through the aspen and spindly pines, he watched Quinn coming cross-country from Vera’s.

  With the drug worn off and no current blood loss, he had no reason for the tightening in his chest, the constriction in his throat. It must be guilt for overreacting, for leaving so rudely.

  It didn’t stop when she got there, when she crouched down beside Livie on the stairs and said, “Hi, sunshine.” Or when she tipped her head and added, “She’s stunning, you know. You’ll be fending off strapping young men with a stick.”

  “Didn’t realize that included scrappy young women.” What was with the edge?

  “Ha-ha.”

  Taking that as a joke showed a tendency to see the best in people, including insolent men. As she straightened, Livie watched with keen and innocent interest, another barometer in Quinn’s favor.

  “Is this where you’re living?”

  “Until I move.”

  “Right. As it happens, I was coming to ask Noelle how to find you.”

  He waited.

  “Salvation Army’s coming for the furniture, but I thought one or more of the old hutches and cupboards in the kitchen would look better with that asylum cabinet than something new.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you hustling me?” Buying the cabinet had been an experiment. Now she was hitting him up for more?

  “I mean I won’t have them take anything you want to use.”

  “Oh.” He’d misread her intention, but she didn’t back away or rise to the accusation, only corrected his error. This woman held her ground, unobtrusively. “We’ll come have a look.” He scooped Livie up, since her little strides would take two weeks to reach the house he had not begun to think of as his. Probably never would. It was a world between worlds. A waiting place.

  Quinn walked quietly, in the mode he’d first encountered instead of yesterday’s chattiness. She’d taken a clue from his rudeness then and now, a
nd he felt a hint of remorse. There was no excuse for discourtesy, especially when she was only taking care of business. As they went in, he noticed the progress she’d made in the rest of the house. While it was still overcrowded with furniture, she’d radically reduced the clutter. Hard worker, Quinn Reilly.

  Livie said, “Down, Daddy.”

  He glanced at Quinn. “Do you mind?”

  “That’s your call.” She pulled the woolen cap off her curly hair. The stuff had a mind of its own but looked soft and shiny. “Remember, I bleach-treated the dining room for the mouse droppings.”

  “I’ll keep her out of there.” He did wonder, though, how risk averse Quinn was—a sort of thought he hadn’t entertained for quite a while. Appetite and curiosity. Had his brain begun the slow, grinding churn of a frozen engine starting again after long disuse?

  She led the way to the kitchen. “I’m sure you won’t want all of this, so pick what stays, and they’ll take the rest.”

  He took Livie’s hand and followed Quinn to the kitchen. The asylum cabinet stood exactly as he’d left it. The box of keys still perched on the counter by the sink. “Any luck with the lock?”

  Quinn folded her arms. “I haven’t tried.”

  That surprised him, especially since he’d freed her to. “Could be good to have a key.”

  “It could.”

  Quinn looked down at Livie, still enraptured by his child. He couldn’t really blame her. While he was not that guy who used his daughter as a babe magnet, Livie didn’t know it. She just shined.

  “I’ll keep that big mahogany hutch.” He pointed to the piece they’d pulled away from the cellar door. “To block the cellar back up, so Livie won’t even think about it.”

  She peeled a sticky note from a pad and stuck it to the wood.

  He looked at the other pieces, some pressed oak, some painted but still showing good bones. “Why don’t you sell the furniture? You could get something for these antiques.”

  “I’d have to haul and ship it.” She indicated her small stature. “Not happening.”

  “No one to give you a hand?”

  “I’m a sole proprietor.”

  Didn’t mean she couldn’t get help, but he let it go. “How’s it going downstairs?”

  “I haven’t started.”

  “Not to rush you, but my closing is scheduled for the end of next week.”

  She raised her brows.

  “It’s an uncomplicated sale. No liens or financing.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll have the cellar emptied by then.”

  “We can work on it.” He almost said together before recalling he needed life simple.

  “I still have to deal with the dining room and clean everything for your walk-through.”

  “You’re cleaning too?”

  “I traded RaeAnne service for stuff.”

  He looked around. “Then you ought to sell these antique cupboards and tables. Take pictures and post them at Rudy’s general store. I bet they’re snatched up in a few days. People like local pieces, and these have obviously been around awhile.”

  “How would I deliver—”

  “Post them for pickup. Or use your truck. I’ll help you load.”

  “With your injured hand?”

  He looked at the bandage on his palm as though it had just appeared there. Doc’s treatment was hazy, but not Quinn’s. “It’s stitched shut.”

  “How many stitches?”

  “Enough to hold it through eternity.”

  “Or until you get them out.”

  “Or that.” A smile touched his mouth. “Doc doesn’t work halfway. I’ll be fine.”

  She chewed her lower lip. “I’d have to search comparable pieces for pricing.”

  “Or just decide what you want.” From the wallet in his back pocket he took a blank check and wrote it for six hundred dollars. “For mine.”

  She looked from the check to him. “I already sticky-noted it to stay.”

  He set the check on the table. “That’s no more than it’s worth.” He’d intentionally kept it reasonable yet high enough to induce her to try the others. She’d be cheating herself otherwise.

  “Why do I feel bad?” A search of her face showed she did.

  “Because of what I said, about hustling me. But I came here intending to buy, not take.”

  Still hesitant, she nodded. “I guess I will post the others at the store, if the guy’ll let me.”

  “He’ll let you.” He didn’t imagine many people turned Quinn down, and Rudy was even less likely. Before he started looking for reasons to stay, he said, “I’ll see you around,” and let his daughter and himself out the back door. They started across the pasture through the trees. This time, she could take as many tiny steps as she wanted.

  Quinn looked at the second check Morgan Spencer had written her and wondered if it would be worth more as a collector’s piece from the elusive success guru than at face value. The thought of auctioning his signature brought a laugh. Maybe she’d be awestruck if he wasn’t so starkly human.

  She looked out and saw them under the trees—Livie staring up the white bark of an aspen to the wealth of golden leaves, Morgan staring at his child as though she were worth far more than gold. Quinn pressed a hand to her heart. How could his wife leave them? Or had he left her? No, he’d have taken off the ring. Either he hoped to reconcile, or else . . . That wasn’t possible. And if that was the case, the sorrow made sense, the loss in his eyes.

  She backed away from the window when he sent a glance over his shoulder. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her watching. She went out the front door to her truck. Using the camera she kept there, she photographed the antiques, drove to her place to price the items and print the pictures, and brought them to the general store.

  “Sure you can hang the pictures,” the brawny guy behind the counter told her. “Tape them to the window by the door. I’ll point them out and spread the word.”

  “Okay. Are you Rudy?” And when he nodded, she said, “Thanks, Rudy.”

  He must have done a good job of talking them up, because, within the hour, a woman bought two of the hutches for displaying her porcelain dolls, and a couple hours later, Rudy called to say a friend of Vera’s wanted the pressed-oak cupboard but couldn’t pick it up.

  She told him, “No problem,” and for the second time that day, sought Morgan at Noelle’s ranch. Dressed in a collared shirt and khakis, he came out on the porch as she pulled up and powered down the passenger window. “Did you mean what you said?”

  “I always do.”

  “Then I could use you.”

  He reached inside for a coat, then moved down the steps and let himself into the truck. Not a huge man, he still seemed to shrink the space. “First sale?”

  “Third, actually. The first things were picked up.”

  “You must have priced them to move.”

  “Anything’s more than I would have had.” She pulled out. “The oak cupboard’s going to a woman right in town.”

  The thing was heavier than sin, though, both of them struggling. “If you pop your stitches I’m going to feel bad.”

  He flexed his hand. “I know where to find the doc.”

  Together they shoved the cupboard on the packing blanket onto the tailgate and into the bed. “This—” she huffed—“is why I don’t sell furniture.”

  He eyed her. “You’re pretty strong for your size.”

  The unaccustomed warmth was out of proportion to what might not even be a compliment. It just felt good to have someone in her corner. “If Minnie has stairs, we’re in trouble.”

  Minnie did have stairs, but the cupboard stayed on the first floor in the kitchen, where they got it after removing the door at the hinges. She absolutely would never sell furniture online.

  Going back outside as the sun sent scarlet flame across the rosy sky, Morgan raised his head. “Hear that?”

  She said, “Elk.” The screeching bugle was unmistakable.


  “Someone’s proud of himself.”

  “That noise would make me run.”

  His mouth pulled sideways. “Good thing you’re not a lady elk.”

  She cast him a glance. “Thanks for not calling me a cow.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he pulled the truck door open.

  She left him at Noelle’s and went home herself. The more she saw of him, the less she could imagine his alter ego. Without the Internet pictures proving his fame, he’d be just a guy—a devastating guy with as much baggage as she.

  Watching Quinn leave, Morgan turned at the sound of hooves as his brother cantered into the yard on his fine roan stallion. A dark rust color and perfectly proportioned, Destiny had great bloodlines, and Rick knew how to make the most of it. With his expert training, Destiny’s foals brought top dollar.

  Man and beast halted by mutual consent with a stilled power awesome to behold, especially knowing how many times Rick had landed in the dirt and gotten back on to accomplish it. “Was that Quinn’s truck?” he said.

  Morgan nodded.

  “Problems with the house?”

  “I helped her move something.”

  Rick dismounted. “It’s a huge undertaking for one person. You ought to help her out.”

  “I just did.”

  “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Rick stroked the horse’s neck. “It is your house.” He was saying more than that.

  “Not yet.” Unlike Rick, Quinn hadn’t made his helping personal. At one time their playful repartee would have prompted an invitation for more. Either she read his boundaries or the edges warned her off—a good thing either way.

  Noelle came out with Livie and called them for dinner.

  Rick said, “I’ll just see to Destiny,” and headed for the stable.

  Morgan joined Noelle and reached for his child. “Hey, jelly bean.”

  She smiled. “Not jelly bean.”

  “Sweet pink cotton-candy bean.”

  “You . . . green jelly bean.”