She looked away. His mother was right about the error they’d made, but quit? She clenched her teeth. No. And he knew it.
“Daddy!” Livie came running out as though terrified he’d left again.
Erin watched them reconnect with a lump in her throat. She had no business in his life. How had she fooled herself?
As he scooped Livie up, Morgan said, “I need to put her down for a nap.” He looked back toward the house. “And smooth some feathers.”
“Your family deserves the truth. You may as well tell them. Then we can all stop pretending.”
“Erin.”
She wiggled Livie’s little hand. “Want to come nap with me, sweetie?”
To her surprise, Livie leaned out of Morgan’s arms into hers. Rubbing the sleepy child’s back, she walked wearily to the cabin.
Morgan watched them go, regretting his careless words, though maybe she was right about the rest. Get it all out there and forget pretending. People married for all kinds of reasons. Theirs weren’t the worst.
As he started for the house, Rick and their dad drove up and parked. Morgan gripped Hank’s hand and hugged him tight. “Hi, Dad.”
“Well, son. You got your mom on an airplane.”
“She’s shared her concerns.”
Hank nodded. “You look good.”
Did he?
“Might that mean it’s not as dire as she thinks?”
He shook his head. “Nothing’s as dire as Mom thinks.”
“Marriage is serious business, Morgan.”
“We had serious reasons.”
“I’m eager to hear.”
Rick looked around. “Where’s Quinn?”
“Erin took Livie to the cabin to nap.”
“Erin?”
“Let’s all go in. I’ll explain.”
His family listened soberly as he laid out the situation. Maybe he should have waited for Erin to be part of it, but this way he took the brunt of their reactions.
“There are any number of ways to help someone hide,” Hank said, “that don’t involve a lifetime commitment.”
His mother crooked a brow. “Did you leave the back door open?”
“We rejected the celibate union option. It was”—he shrugged—“Paris.”
Noelle’s eyes moistened. “That was Quinn’s choice too?”
Did she think it wasn’t? “Yes. And please call her Erin. We need a fresh start.”
“With a fake name?” She looked pained.
“It’s her middle name.”
“Morgan.” Hank shook his head. “I’d think by now you’d have more sense.”
Had to love the irony, a world-renowned problem solver being scolded by his family for his solution. “Erin’s side is only half the equation. Livie’s taken to her completely. We can be a family.”
“How?” his mother demanded. “Without love.”
Just because he wouldn’t stake himself out on a rock like Prometheus for an eagle to gouge out and feed on his liver every day didn’t mean he couldn’t make marriage work with Erin. Physical and practical were two good legs to stand on. “I care about her. And I respect her. She’s tough and fair and kind. Good qualities for Livie to experience.”
“In a nanny.”
The lingering scent of snickerdoodles seemed too sweet, even cloying. “I’m not pretending to have it figured out. But it’s done, and I’d appreciate your support.” He managed to keep the edge from his voice—barely. He was smart, he was sober, and he deserved their confidence.
Rick was the first to reach across the dining room table. “Congratulations. I liked Quinn—Erin—from the start.”
“I like her too.” Noelle still looked teary. “But I feel responsible.”
“Responsibility lies squarely with us.” Funny how naturally he spoke of them as a unit. She might be upset, but he’d felt the tensile strength of their joining. They wouldn’t let go.
His mother sighed. “Since we’re here again, we’ll support you as we did before.”
Since we’re here again? As if this were as irresponsible as getting Jill pregnant? In their eyes it might be. He hoped to heaven it would not be as painful.
CHAPTER
17
Livie wouldn’t let go when she tried to put her in the crib, so Erin snuggled into the extra bed with her and fell asleep breathing her baby scent. She fought consciousness every time it tried to arise, disinclined to face contention and disappointment—theirs or hers—until a hand cupped her shoulder. Having no choice, she opened her eyes.
Morgan’s gaze was deceptively soft and warm. “I see she’s got your number.”
Waking with a squeak, Livie tumbled over her and climbed into his arms.
“That’s how it starts, and pretty soon she owns you.”
“I can think of worse things.” The little monkey held her daddy as if she’d never let go. It hurt to watch.
“I’ve tamed the dragons if you want dinner. Mom’s cooking.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Your body clock’s off, but we should try to get on track.”
“Maybe in the morning.” She wasn’t tired anymore. It was pure avoidance.
His voice softened. “Do I have to beg?”
What was he talking about?
“If Noelle doesn’t see you’re all right, she’ll worry herself sick.”
Faking fine wouldn’t fool Noelle, whose doubts were visible from the start.
“At least come and eat.”
Livie caught his face between her hands. “Eat cookies, Daddy. Snick-er-doos.”
“After real food, munchkin.”
“Cookies are food, Daddy. No squirrels.” She shook her head seriously. “No giraffes. Cookies.”
He squeezed her. “See what I mean?”
Oh, she saw. That little girl had her with that first stolen glance.
Morgan settled his gaze back on her. “Please.”
Resigned, she shoved the hair behind her ears. She ought to fix herself up, but she couldn’t manage to care. Morgan bundled Livie and planted her on his shoulders. She donned her own coat, one of the only things she’d had before, since it had been on her when Markham had his rant. Even so, the frigid mountain wind bit her cheeks and singed her nostrils.
“Hey.” Morgan came up beside her. “What’s the rush?”
“Getting it over with, I guess.”
“You do take things head on.”
That was not proving the best policy, as her newest scars attested.
In the great room, Rick surprised her with a shoulder hug. “Welcome to the family.”
Caught in the throat by his kindness, she barely managed, “Thanks.”
Noelle came and squeezed her, whispering, “Are you okay?”
She answered with a reassuring look. Of course she was.
An older version of Rick with whitening hair and Morgan’s striking indigo eyes held out his hand, then gave her a gentle, patting embrace. “Welcome, Erin. I’m Hank.”
She smiled. “Hi.”
By the clattering of utensils and Liam’s loud comments, she guessed they’d find Celia in the kitchen. Avoiding her, or simply busy?
“We’re about ready to eat,” Noelle said. “Want to help serve?”
Her mind filled with Miracle Max in The Princess Bride. “While you’re at it, why don’t you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?” She said, “Sure.”
Amazingly, Celia turned from the stove with something like kindness. “I’m glad to have the whole story. And I’m sorry for your trouble.”
“I’m sorry for yours.” That gave Celia pause, but Erin had meant it sincerely. This decision affected them all. Christmas, for instance. She’d be the awkward stranger they went out of their way to treat politely.
“What can we do?” Noelle spoke gaily enough to disguise nausea, pneumonia, and emotional distress.
“It’s ready to serve.” Celia handed Noelle a huge bowl of plain pasta. Erin took a plat
ter of chicken, lightly breaded and crisply sautéed, and Celia followed with a tureen of Marsala gravy. Oh yes, she would eat, and bless the hands that made it.
She meant no one any harm, and if she could undo the cause of their concern, perhaps she would have. It was so far from the simple merger that Morgan had suggested, they should be investigated for racketeering. When he seated her with a stroke of his hand across her shoulders, it took all she had to mask the wash of disappointment.
Through the meal, he asked questions about his sisters and other family members—as much to fill her in as to catch up, she guessed. The only questions directed at her were banal. Although everyone worked hard to include her, by Morgan’s pronouncement, she was clearly on the outside looking in. As it would be, year after year after year.
She’d answered otherwise, but Noelle sensed Quinn’s—Erin’s—distress. Understandable with what Morgan had said. Fresh anger flared. Why would he voice such a hurtful thing? And if he didn’t love her, or intend to love her, how did he justify what he’d done?
She’d told Erin to trust him, to count on him, to believe he’d do what he said. But her new identity didn’t require intimacy, Paris or not. She knew that had been half tongue-in-cheek, but she could imagine Erin entranced by the place and far more by the man. If Morgan displayed even half his charm, how could she not believe it real?
Rick had warned her Morgan might not return to full emotional capacity, but he could fake it with finesse. She looked across and found him reading her. He must see the anger. In fact, she blamed herself just as much for knowing he was vulnerable and pushing them together. His easiest connection was physical, yet Erin must have imagined something beyond that to be blindsided by his declaration.
She’d seen her friend’s interest and compassion. Morgan’s vulnerability coupled with his beauty and magnetism would have sucked her in like the vortex of a storm. His gaze intensified, but she couldn’t give him what he wanted—exoneration.
She shifted her attention to Livie feeding Erin a noodle. Erin ate it with gusto, sparing the child any hint of distress. Morgan said they had developed an uncanny bond. At least that was hopeful.
The thought of Livie leaving caused a hollow ache. But Erin and Livie would bless each other. And maybe Morgan too. She had to believe he could heal. She only wished he’d done that first.
Walking his wife and daughter to the cabin, Morgan was keenly aware of how it should be and wasn’t. By telling the truth, they’d eliminated any reason to feign relationship, and what little there’d been had evaporated, as shown by Erin’s avoidance of physical or emotional contact.
In the cabin, he went through Livie’s bedtime routine, got her down to sleep, and came out to find Erin with a quilt and pillow on the couch by the stove. “Are you cold?”
“No, it’s warm.”
“The bedrooms are warm too.”
“This is fine.”
“Erin.” He sat on the low table and faced her. “They were careless words.” He wished she hadn’t heard. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I appreciate your honesty more than you know. I only wish I’d known before.”
Flames from the stove reflected in her eyes. He got up and closed the iron door so he wouldn’t watch himself burn. “We knew going in—”
“And should have left it at that.”
He tipped his head back, frustrated. “I care about you.”
“I’m grateful.”
Grateful? He felt like swearing. He’d never claimed anything but affection and attraction. He’d thought her more resilient than this. Or maybe this was resilience. He said, “You take our bedroom. I’ll go in with Livie.”
“That bed’s too small. And it’s your bedroom, Morgan. I’m fine here.” Her expression and tone were firm and earnest.
Too whipped to argue, he got himself to bed. And lay awake.
Though he didn’t know what exactly they’d pledged, he felt pretty sure it wasn’t to love and cherish each other until death. They were joined in a civil union as binding as a contract. By mutual agreement they’d validated the contract. Now she was changing the terms.
He tossed onto his side, wanting what he couldn’t have and resenting it. He respected her too much to fake a capacity for love he no longer possessed, yet there must be some way—and then the thought came. He wouldn’t let Erin near her house, but he and Rick could go.
In the Tahoe now parked under the balcony behind the A-frame house, Markham dreaded another soul-withering day of waiting. His newest supplies were running out. He was starting to smell. He thought of the mess he’d made in the house, but maybe it didn’t matter. He’d survived filth before.
Making up his mind, he stalked inside, picturing Quinn living here, a doll in a doll’s house. The spoiling food he’d strewn around her kitchen smelled, but not as badly as it might have, since there was no meat or milk, only bread and vegetables and everything from her cabinets. His shoes stuck to the honey on the floor.
He left them by the broom closet and climbed in his socks the ladderlike stairs to the tiny bathroom. Keeping his ears peeled, he stripped and got into her shower, pleased by the thought of invading her space after the humiliations she’d caused him.
He turned on the water and jumped back, swearing. As he waited for ice-cold water to warm up in the tiny, confined space, he realized he might not hear something downstairs. Having learned to never leave himself vulnerable, he took the blade from his pants pocket and rested it on the pedestal sink, near to hand, should he need it.
The curtain lay in tatters on the floor, but it didn’t matter what mess the water made. There was still shampoo in the punctured bottle, and he enjoyed the hot shower until he remembered the one he had shared with the other felons as if he were in some stinking commune. The supposedly nonviolent offenders like himself still found means to deride and dominate. And then there were the guards. Pushing, grabbing, tapping, prodding as though driving sheep who didn’t know what direction to go.
He dried himself with the slashed towel, breathing it for a scent of Quinn, but it had been too long. She hadn’t returned the whole time he’d been waiting. By the fresh food in the kitchen he had assumed she wouldn’t be long. Even if he hadn’t thrown it around, it would have been spoiling by now.
Shame came over him. He should not have given in to the violence. She might have come and seen it and fled during one of his absences. A stupid mistake. A rusty man’s mistake—a previously caged animal reacting. He was smarter than that, above it in every way.
He pulled his clothes back on and replaced the blade. As he stepped into the bedroom, the rumble of a powerful engine penetrated the thin walls. Creeping to the window, he watched a truck park outside the steel building. Anticipation rose like baking soda in vinegar until he saw it wasn’t Quinn.
Two men got out, one tall and western in jeans and Stetson, the other black-haired and sophisticated, maybe a lawyer to the rancher. Adrenaline coursed through him as they slid open the steel door and surveyed his handiwork. A cold drip slid between his shoulder blades.
Fear and fury mingled. Who were they, and what were they doing there? This was Quinn’s place, and by extension, his. Trespassers, meddlers beware. Knife in hand, even outnumbered, if he had to, he could make them bleed.
“Thorough, wasn’t he.” Morgan took in the damage with Rick, the possibility that Erin’s warehouse had been spared erased by the sight of smashed and scattered merchandise. Her flat-screen monitor had made a popular target judging from the inky-looking shatter beneath the surface. The tendons in his neck pulled tight when he imagined her working there so conscientiously.
He shook to think mere chance, or God’s providence, had her at RaeAnne’s when Markham struck. The savage destruction indicated he’d misjudged the threat. Whatever the conviction record showed, Markham’s present mood was violent.
Rick looked at him. “What do you want to do?”
“We’ll call the sheriff. Let a deputy come have
a look.”
Snow was coming harder as Morgan scrutinized Erin’s home. If she lived this simply, no wonder she’d been overwhelmed in Paris and New York. He told Rick, “I need to check the house for a couple things.”
Rick looked over with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know, Morgan. Something doesn’t feel right.”
Maybe not, but he needed to do it anyway. “It won’t take long.”
“All right. I’ll keep watch.”
He used his elbow to push open the damaged door and waited. He thought he heard a drip of water, but given the damage, anything could be leaking. Wearing his black leather gloves, he headed straight for the stairs, guessing Erin would keep what mattered near her when she slept. Reaching the loft, he caught the scent of soap and moved quickly. The bathroom air felt damp. Someone had showered.
Adrenaline kicked in. He searched the tiny room. Empty closet. Empty balcony. No one under the bed. He scanned the chaos and saw in one corner an inlaid wooden music box, its lid hanging open by a hinge, no jewelry. He slid the box into the pocket of his black cashmere overcoat.
Moving to the head of the bed, he lifted shredded pillows, blankets, a smashed lamp. And there, between the headboard and the wall, a 4x6 picture frame. Warmth coursed through him with a pang of compassion when he saw Quinn, maybe seven or eight years old, fishing with a man on a riverbank. Standing point beside them, a bluetick hound.
Hearing Livie, Erin waited a moment for Morgan to respond, then realized she was alone with the child.
“Hi, sweetie.” She helped her out of the crib, removed her Pull-Up, and led her to the bathroom. Eager to be done showering before Morgan appeared, she used his shampoo on herself, and baby shampoo on the child, then snuggled Livie like an Inuit tot in a thick cushy towel and dried herself with the other.
She wiped off the steamy mirror and had a look. Her long thick lashes needed no help, but for the sake of appearances she brushed a film of plum powder over her eyelids and shined her lips with a wand of gloss. Livie wanted gloss too. She smoothed it over the impossibly small mouth.
The Breath of Dawn Page 21
