“What happened?”
“He asked my name and I said Morgan Spencer and told him my family got lost.”
Erin drank it in, amused. “What did he do?”
“He put me on his horse and walked us to a microphone, then asked the announcer to call the lost Spencer family to meet Morgan at the bandstand.”
Her whole face lit. “Livie has that. She not only knows exactly who she is, she’s sizing up the rest of us as well.”
He leaned in and kissed her. “I love that you see that.” He kissed her again. She had told him days were like years to Livie, but now it seemed they were putting years into days, learning each other at a feverish pace and a cellular level.
She brushed his cheek with her fingertips, her eyes shiny and mysterious, her puckish features adorable. “When I was little I wanted a horse. Some of the people in the church had land and animals, and I wanted a horse so much I could hardly stand it. I read stories about them, drew pictures of them, dreamed and begged. And finally my dad took me to see one that was for sale.
“I was so excited I almost cried.” She rested her hand on his arm. “The mare was brown with a white blaze, and I already knew all the promises I would make if I could only have her.”
He tipped his head, sensing a twist.
“As I drew close, I realized how big she was, and being—as you incorrigibly observe—diminutive in stature, it gave me pause. As I stood, the mare stomped a hoof and tossed her head, that giant muzzle coming up. All of a sudden, I was afraid. It was like someone opened my head and poured fear in like sand. It sank down and stuck my feet to the ground, froze my hands to my sides. I was terrified of the thing I loved most in the world.”
“And?”
“My father turned to me and said, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’”
Morgan hissed a breath between his teeth. “He should have put you on her back.”
She formed a faint smile. “It was more important to make his point.”
“That natural affections would endanger you?”
“That I couldn’t trust myself to know best, even about my own heart.”
“Are you still afraid of horses?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Haven’t really explored it.”
So, yes, but the lesson hadn’t kept her from wishing or taking chances. She’d followed her conscience and found her own two feet. That strong, feisty woman he’d first seen was the real deal, her core, in spite of misunderstandings and questionable judgment. Quinn Erin Reilly Spencer had more substance than her diminutive stature suggested.
Erin hurried out of the shower to answer her phone. Swabbing that side of her head with the towel, she raised the phone to her ear and answered without concern since almost no one had her number.
“Quinn? Hi, it’s RaeAnne. I hope I’m not getting you from something, but I just haven’t stopped thinking of you and had to call.” She spared a second to breathe, then, “How are you and that hunky husband?”
Erin laughed at the impossibility of expressing the strides they’d made, even since Noelle had asked her the same question. “It’s kind of amazing, actually.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so happy. And his little girl?”
“She’s wonderful. I thought she’d miss Noelle so much, and she does, but Morgan’s been so integral in her life, it’s not as painful a separation as he’d feared. It’s like he’s her true north, and even at two she’s navigating by his constant love.”
“Oh.” RaeAnne sniffled. “You made me cry.”
“I guess that was sort of a Hallmark commercial.” She laughed. “How are you?”
“Oh, you know, still wanting answers or closure or whatever.”
It hit her that she hadn’t told her about Raymond Hartley’s asylum file. Toweling dry with one hand, she strode to the bathroom and hung it, then pulled on her robe. “Well, are you sitting down?”
“Ye-es. What is it?”
“You remember those historical accounts of the asylum your mom’s house is on?”
“You were getting up the gumption to read them when we finished Mom’s journal.”
“Well, except what Dr. Jenkins and I read at Thanksgiving, I hadn’t read any more until I got out here.”
“And?”
“RaeAnne, your dad was treated there.”
“At the mental hospital?” She took a long indrawn breath. “What for?”
“These are stories, not actual files, so remember it’s hearsay.”
“And I’m not a court of law.”
“They treated him for rage and suicidal depression.”
“Wow,” she breathed. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“Maybe it’s how he wound up in Juniper Falls, and then your mom came as well.”
“Makes all kinds of sense.”
She thrust her fingers into her wet hair. “If it was really bad, that might be a reason Vera didn’t tell you more about him.”
“There you are again, making everything better.”
“I wish I could make it better, or at least help you see him.” But she told her about Markham and her sister being in Juniper Falls and a little of why that wasn’t a good thing.
“Your own sister?”
“Afraid so. But they can’t stay there forever, and as soon as it’s clear, we’ll go meet your dad.”
“Please do not put yourself at risk.”
She pressed a hand to her heart. “Morgan won’t let me.”
“I’m so happy you have him.”
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Me too.”
Having come so far, she really had no excuse for her mind’s continued nagging. But when Morgan slept, wrapped in dreams that made his eyelids tremble, she slipped out and moved silently down the hall. She turned on the light, took the three remaining albums from the shelf, and sat cross-legged on the floor.
The first album held wedding photos. After a gap of fifteen years from that prom picture, the two tenacious lovers reunited, every moment, every smile, every kiss chronicled. Other faces and figures filled out the scenes, but only Jill and Morgan held her. Photo after photo, she felt drenched in them, drunk in them.
The next album showed them in various places, engaging activities—and throughout it all, Jill’s lithe beauty, Morgan’s charisma. In the third, she watched Jill’s belly swell, saw them outfit the nursery, attend birthing classes, the list of names considered and rejected. And then, Olivia Joy.
She heard a sound and saw Morgan in the doorway, hair spiked, features edgy.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, in a voice like a wraith, then realized the stupidity of that remark. “Of course you do. I won’t—”
His gaze lifted and moved around the walls. “I forgot this room.” He came and sat on the floor beside and against her, his angled knee, shin, and thigh forming a backrest for her, one hand resting on her far shoulder, the other hand on her near arm. In almost every way, he encompassed her.
Looking into his deep blue eyes, she said, “I needed to face my fear.”
He looked down at the album in her lap, the pictures of mother and daughter. He saw the other albums lying near, surely knew their contents had been revealed, scrutinized, absorbed. His voice was soft and thick, but steady. “She had none of Noelle’s issues. Pregnancy, like everything else she did, came easy. Livie’s birth, a breeze, though I didn’t say that to her.”
“Smart man.”
“She’d have been a great mom.” Sawdust filled his voice. “She loved kids so much, fought for them, bled for them.” He glanced at the shelf. “Did you see her students?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
His brow tightened. “It killed her giving Kelsey up. I think that’s why she didn’t marry, couldn’t . . .”
“Replace you?”
He squeezed her arm. “When Livie came, all that fell away. She might have finally . . . healed.”
She could imagine Livie healing any ill. She’d fallen in love with his child before she kn
ew she loved this man.
“I’m sure women hate to be compared. But your way with Livie reminds me of Jill.” He glanced over to gauge the impact. “You’re hardly alike in any other way, but in that . . .” He ran a hand down her arm, his eyes getting dark and serious. “You know what I want?”
“What you usually want?”
His voice got husky. “I want babies with you.”
Her heart skittered.
“I know that probably feeds into the whole gender manipulation issues you’ve escaped, but there it is.”
She searched his face for hints of insincerity. As always with Morgan, he meant what he said. “Because I’m like Jill?”
“What I saw and loved in her I can see and love in you, and it doesn’t mean I want you to be her. Deep inside, so deep it’s more than visceral, I want children with you.”
She drew a ragged breath, amazed it came at all. She pushed her hair behind her ear and managed, “Someday?”
He whisked the hair back where it had been, then bunched the unruly stuff even closer around her face. “Unless you’re taking measures your chastity in Paris would seem to rule out, we haven’t exactly prevented it.”
She felt her eyes widen as that truth sank in. In this whole heart-searching, mind-bending whirlwind, she’d poured herself into caring for Livie, healing Morgan, and guarding her heart. She felt callow, infantile to have not considered that ramification.
He stroked her cheek. “For what it’s worth, I’d want it this way—God’s time without our interference.”
“Even after . . .”
“Kelsey?”
She nodded.
“I was an irresponsible kid when Jill got pregnant. A lot of people, her own parents, thought that mistake should be erased.” Anger stirred in his eyes. “But as painful as it turned out for us, any other baby at any better time wouldn’t have been Kelsey. She wouldn’t have been on this earth to impact so many lives, to bring hope to dying kids and restoration—to her mother and me.” He swallowed. “Someday look up her Web site. She was the miracle we might have thrown away.”
He sent his glance around the room. “But that, and all of this, is before.” He returned his gaze to her. “This thing between us—it’s not only physical. And it’s not just how good you are with Livie. Sometimes when I look at you . . . it feels preordained.”
CHAPTER
28
Standing in Morgan’s well-appointed home office, Erin admired his efficiency as he prepared to leave early the next morning. But he stopped everything when a wasp-waisted woman in a fitted gray suit entered through the outside door without escort or announcement from Consuela.
With only a hint of surprise, he said, “Erin, this is my assistant, Denise.”
In moments like this she realized how much about Morgan’s life she still had to learn.
The other woman’s surprise was even greater when he said, “Denise, meet my wife, Erin.”
This was news, and Morgan was enjoying it.
“Hello, Erin.” Denise had porcelain skin, but a faintly indented line across one cheekbone and another on her jaw suggested scarring. Some kind of accident, maybe.
“Hi.” Erin smiled, amazed it hadn’t occurred to her that Morgan had actual people working for him. He had talked metaphorically about teams and quarterbacks, but Denise didn’t fit that mold, and she had access to the house. Consuela he’d mentioned, so why not Denise?
The sharp-featured blonde gave him a pointed look. “Private ceremony?”
“We married in Paris.”
“Oh. The delay for Belcorp. And the purpose of your current restructuring?”
“I also have a two-year-old.”
“Yes. Of course.”
He looked at his watch. “I thought we were meeting at the airport.”
“There’s a complication.” Her stance softened. “Glen Conyer had surgery at three o’clock this morning, an emergency appendectomy.”
Morgan lowered his hand. “Is he doing all right?”
“It had ruptured, so recovery won’t be routine.”
Morgan considered. “I don’t think we can delay. Who do we have who can come in as support?”
Waiting while they discussed names and business issues, Erin studied Denise. Her corn-silk blond hair pulled into a twenties-style twist appeared natural, her figure a human equivalent to the original Barbie dolls, before social concerns reduced the bust and expanded the waist.
Morgan said, “No, I’m not replacing him. They can work in tandem when he’s back on his feet.”
“The analysis doesn’t require two.”
“Well, I won’t bring someone in and then ditch him or her. And when Glen’s ready, his position will be there.”
“Or we could have another project queued up.”
He quirked a brow. “Have one in mind?”
“I have.”
“Okay. We’ll talk about it on the way.” He took his briefcase and came around the desk. Leaning in, he kissed the wife he’d failed to mention to the likewise unmentioned assistant and murmured, “We’ll talk tonight.”
Feeling strange, she wandered back, past Consuela’s apartment and the home gym and into the kitchen, pondering the rather vast office with two desks and an assistant who carried a key. Consuela must have read her mind—something she did as eerily as Morgan—because she said, “You met the assistant.”
She laughed. “That obvious?”
“She is not as hard as she seems. It is the . . . face she wears.” Consuela hung the towel she’d used on the dishes and slid the plate onto the stack.
“No one would doubt she’s indispensable.” If unmentionable.
“She has been with Señor Morgan for years. For some of them, she lived in the guest house.” She motioned to the cottage at the opposite side of his property from the pool.
“On the premises? Why?”
“The boyfriend. Señor Morgan said choose the emergency room or him. If she wanted to die, he would find a new assistant.”
She pictured the ghostly scars on Denise’s flawless face and felt dreadful. “She chose Morgan.”
“In the work,” Consuela emphasized. “It was never personal. Too much . . . bad feelings.”
“Why did she move?”
“Señora Jill, she was not so . . . confident. There was—” Consuela made a motion with her hands—“friction. So Señor reopened his office downtown and made a place for Denise.”
“And the boyfriend?”
Her face darkened. “He’s a bad one. Still he bothers her. But I think there is money.”
“From Morgan?”
“It keeps the wolf from the door.”
Hitching a ride with Denise hadn’t been the plan, but it worked well since they needed to resolve the personnel situation. As she drove to the Santa Barbara airport in Goleta, he called his first choice of accountants who came close to Glen’s proficiency. Before they reached the airport parking, Alyssa Vogler had joined the team and would meet them in LA.
Denise’s heels clicked beside him as they processed through the new terminal and boarded their flight. They were actually airborne before she said, “Your wife?”
“My wife.” He smiled.
“You could have texted me that your personal emergency included a honeymoon.”
“I could have. But time was limited, and now you know.” Their relationship was starkly professional, yet she’d resented his first marriage and might his new one as well.
“At least you won’t worry about Olivia while we’re on task.”
He smiled slightly. “At least.”
“Of course, you had Consuela.”
“Yes.”
“So it isn’t only for the child, is it.”
“No.”
She nodded. “Good. Once word is out, it will ease any lingering concerns about your state of mind.”
“Good thing.”
“I’m serious, Morgan. Perceptions rule.”
“Indeed.”<
br />
“Wouldn’t you rather have people congratulating your marriage than condoling your loss?”
He swallowed. “I would.”
“We should plan an event. Introduce her. Get the word out in all the right places.”
“No.”
She cast him a glance. “Why not?”
“It’s not good timing.”
“It’s excellent timing. We’ll get press.”
“Yeah, well, not right now.”
“Are you back or aren’t you?” She eyed him critically.
He only smiled.
Markham brought Hannah with him, not only to prove his devotion, but also to have her aboard in case they were questioned. Poor Hannah, still looking for her sister and no one will help. He turned up the road toward Rick’s ranch.
She gripped the armrest, clearly concerned. “Why are we going here?”
“It’s not where you think.” Instead of proceeding to the ranch, he took a narrow driveway that cut diagonally through pine trees and aspen to a house not nearly as unremarkable as Lydia had said. It was larger and more livable than Quinn’s other. She must have been touched and amazed by the gift.
He climbed out of the car, and Hannah tentatively followed. At the locked front door, he searched for the key and found none. The back door was likewise locked, contrary to Lydia’s assertions about the town. But he’d come prepared. From his wallet, he took a pick and worked it carefully until the lock released.
“How did you do that?” Hannah’s awe was tinged with fear. Why would a holy man have that skill?
He lowered his chin, then gave Hannah a reluctant yet confidential look. “I don’t tell many people this. In fact . . . I’ve never told anyone.”
She fairly trembled with the honor and responsibility.
“My poor mother had a head injury. Often—I am sorry to say—she forgot I lived there, caring for her. The paranoia made her change the locks every time she suspected intruders, so learning to use lock picks helped both of us through a difficult time.”
“Oh, Markham. What a hard, hard thing.”
The Breath of Dawn Page 33
