Cats. I can’t believe I’m seeing Cats!” Jan’s eyes actually shone from her sunken sockets. She’d washed her hair and agreed to wear the dress Michael provided. He could overlook the smell of cigarettes on her breath for the pleasure of her excitement. He didn’t tell her that if she let him take care of her, she could see shows like this more often. He would let the experience speak for itself—as only Cats might.
Jan had loved the soundtrack since she was a little girl, crying when the old cat sang “Memories.” But she usually resisted any attempts on his part to lure her into theaters or museums or anything that smacked of culture.
Sometimes Michael wished he hadn’t done so well. Then maybe Jan wouldn’t have chosen her sad existence for her own identity. But Cats was too big a temptation for her to resist, and if she enjoyed it enough, maybe he could lure her with another. Broadway was magic, and some of the new shows would tickle Jan if she just gave it a try. It had to beat getting high with Bud.
He watched her throughout the show, held her hand when she cried through “Memories.” She was so fragile—trying too hard and blowing it badly. Why couldn’t she see? She was young enough he could make her over like Eliza Doolittle, introduce her to the new members of the firm. He could increase her life expectancy, her quality of life a hundredfold.
But inside she didn’t trust him. Oh, he was the one she called when her car broke down or she couldn’t make rent, but she had never really forgiven him for taking William’s offer and leaving her behind. The difference in their ages would have caused a separation at some point but not so soon as William’s position had made it. She’d convinced herself she didn’t need him. And what she did now was punish him.
She knew her lifestyle hurt him, and she took adverse pleasure in wiping his nose in it. She did it to embarrass him, as well, and to keep him from forcing her out of it. He could bodily remove her, lock her up, choose her clothes, her companions, follow William St. Claire’s example—only Jan wasn’t compliant as Noelle had been.
Noelle. The evening crashed in on him. It should be Noelle at his side, glittering, drawing all eyes in the theater. He started to sweat, felt it beading on his forehead. It chilled in the air-conditioned auditorium and left him clammy. The show couldn’t end soon enough.
Jan glanced over as they stood to applaud. “That was tight, Michael. Made me glad to live in an alley. That’s where life really happens.”
He wanted to slap her, frustrated at her stupidity. He pushed her out between the seats and gripped her arm through the chandeliered lobby.
“Ouch. Where’s the fire?”
He loosened his grip. “Sorry.”
“I just can’t believe I’ve seen Cats. I’ve loved it so long.”
“I know.” He composed his fury. It wasn’t really Jan. It was Mother and Noelle and the pressure inside, as if he’d stepped on a mine and one move would blow him to pieces.
“I used to pretend I was a cat. You know that fire escape from our bedroom window?”
“With the broken ladder?”
She nodded. “But I’d climb up to that little ledge over the handrail. I even meowed, thinking another cat might come visit.”
It might have been a cute story except the only cats that might have visited in that neighborhood were likely rabid.
“Would you like to see another show?”
She shrugged. “I don’t care much for shows. Only Cats.”
“Want to see it again?”
She hesitated on that one, then shook her head. “Nope.” She swung her hips as three black men in tailored suits walked by, then sent them a glance over her shoulder. He didn’t tell her they were way out of her league.
They took the taxi first to Jan’s so he could see her safely in. There was a light inside. “Did you leave that on?”
She shrugged. “Probably Bud.” She reached for the door.
He caught her arm. “You don’t know?”
She smiled saucily. “Nice of you to be concerned, big brother. But I live here. It’s no big deal.”
“Let me get you another place.” He hadn’t meant to push it tonight, but it was out now. “Nothing fancy.” Just safe and clean.
“I like it here. Like I said, it’s where life happens.”
“Death happens too.” To punctuate his words, sirens screamed by with lights skidding across the building walls.
“Death happens everywhere.” She pulled open the door and climbed out. “Thanks for the show.” She walked away singing “Memories.”
———
Four days in her room, and Noelle was climbing the walls—or would be if she had the strength. The doctor said her developed dance musculature would help the healing but not to expect too much. Was it too much to hobble between the bed and the bath? She felt so weak, so trapped, and her mind was her enemy, wearing her down worse than broken bones and torn ligaments. She must get strong again. She must.
She heard voices in the dining room below: Rick’s and two others, the guests from Iowa. They were staying in the third cabin, which she couldn’t see from her window. She thought maybe Rick knew them. There seemed to be more camaraderie than usual in their discourse. They had nice voices. The woman laughed a lot, and Rick laughed with her. Noelle hadn’t heard him laugh so much before. She couldn’t catch the words, only the waves of conversation and the laughter.
A soft knock came at the door, and Marta wafted in with pancakes and bacon on a tray. Noelle straightened as Marta laid the tray across her knees. She wasn’t nearly as hungry for food as for human contact, even Marta’s brusque conversation.
“How are you today?”
“Better. Much better. Thank you, Marta.”
Marta cocked her head and studied her. She wasn’t easily fooled.
“A little tired of sitting around.” Noelle tried a smile. It must have passed.
“Well, you have to take it slowly. Can’t force things.”
Any slower and she’d stop functioning altogether. “How are the people from Iowa?”
“Nice.” Marta tucked in the corner of the bed sheet and straightened. “Friends of Rick’s.”
So she’d been right. Noelle felt a quirk of pleasure at her detecting skills. A year in this room and she’d have everything figured out. “Old friends?”
“Mmhmm.” Marta plumped a pillow up behind her head. “Better?”
“Thank you,” Noelle said. “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”
“They are.” Marta pulled a loose thread from the coverlet. “They’re leaving today.”
“Oh.” Noelle’s heart sank. She’d enjoyed imagining them as they conversed over meals. “Are the cabins rented out?”
Marta smoothed the corner of the spread. Noelle had made the bed when she got up to wash, but her efforts were clumsy, and she had climbed atop with the cover askew. Marta would probably love to tug it into place. “I don’t think so.”
No one to glimpse from the window, to hear through the floor. Noelle sighed. How had she ever thought she liked solitude?
“You’re getting lonely?” Marta was perceptive.
Noelle forced a smile. “No, I’m fine.”
“Can I bring you anything else? Something to read?”
Noelle shook her head. She looked at the window. What scenes she could paint with the trees changing color. But her paints were lost. The case had been crushed in Aldebaran’s fall. “No, I don’t need anything. Thank you, Marta.”
Marta left her, and Noelle stared at the food on the tray: the thick fluffy pancakes with a pat of butter melting down the center, syrup to the side, two strips of thick-cut bacon, fried crisp but not browned. It was extra work for Marta to fix a tray every meal, and Noelle could tell she made a special effort to coax her appetite. Maybe it was the medication, maybe just the suppressed functioning of her body as it healed, but Noelle barely tasted the food Marta went to such pains to provide. She ate anyway. She had to get strong.
She took the codeine only at night, when the pain of knitting bones and wrenched ligaments was too great for her to sleep. The stupor included dreams and visions, but they had increased again on their own, so what did it matter? These dreams were more fantastic than before, often repeating the same images. No, one image. A window filled with color and wings, long, sweeping wings. And they were more terrifying than the others.
She shuddered, then forced another bite of pancake. When she finished, she set the tray aside and looked around the room. The voices below had stopped. Rick and his guests must have finished eating. Maybe his friends were preparing to leave. Was he with them, saying good-bye? Would he miss them?
Noelle looked out the window. The autumn beauty was at its peak. They must regret having to leave such majesty. She saw the branch sway on a pine just outside as a dark gray squirrel with tufted ears pattered by and disappeared. Noelle chafed. She had been still long enough. She grabbed the crutches and pulled herself to her feet, wincing at the pain in her ribs.
She had more or less only moved between the bed and the bathroom. Now she meant to do more. She worked open the dresser drawer and took out her jeans. None would fit over the cast unless she slit the leg. She shook her head and put them back. Shorts would be cold, but the khaki pair was baggy enough to pull up over the cast. She took them and a sweat shirt.
After dressing, she opened the door and went along the balcony to the top of the stairs. They were wide, broad stairs, but still the sight was intimidating. She’d never used crutches before, and her leg was stiffly casted to midthigh. Not conducive to the bending required by stairs. Clenching her teeth, Noelle balanced the crutches on the first stair down, then with her cast extended, swung her other foot down. She released her breath. Fourteen to go and already she was winded. She was weaker than she thought. Her arms shook as she lowered the crutches again.
But before she could swing her leg down again, Rick bounded up. “What are you doing?” He caught her arm.
“I’m going outside.” She gripped the crutches tightly to keep her hands from shaking and met his gaze. She would not be dissuaded.
He stood there, barring her way, then suddenly reached around her waist and lifted her. The crutches clattered to the stairs. If he carried her back up, she would drag herself out on her belly! But he went down.
Mouth slightly agape, Marta opened the outside door. Noelle felt the rush of cool air with the keen scent of pine, always the pine. Rick carried her across the yard to a grove of aspens beside the stable. He set her down among the white trunks that seemed to watch her with their black eye-shaped sworls. She looked up. The sun had turned the leaves to paper-thin sheets of gold trembling in the bracing breeze. Overhead the cerulean sky spread cloudless from peak to peak over the valley. It was beautiful . . . so beautiful. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Did I hurt you?” Rick asked.
It had hurt when he grasped her, but not as much as working her way down with the crutches. And it wasn’t pain that brought the tears. She shook her head. “It’s just so wonderful.”
Rick’s own expression had softened and deepened. “Well, sit as long as you like. I’ll check back.”
As she watched his retreat, Noelle dropped her chin to her hands folded over her knee. She was in his debt, more deeply than she’d ever intended. How had that happened? She had tried so hard to be self-reliant, and here she was more dependent than ever. She was at Rick’s mercy.
Her chest tightened and the shakes came with vengeance. She raised trembling hands to her face, fought the image, but it came. Her heart hammered. She threw up her arms to ward off the talons of the hawk, the monstrous gaping beak, the amber eyes boring into her soul.
She cringed. It’s not real! She was never attacked by a hawk. She dug her fingers into her scalp. Her chest heaved as the image faded and was gone. Her arms dropped. Sweat beaded her forehead. She wiped it away. It was crazy. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe that’s why Daddy had run her life, and Michael . . .
She closed her eyes tightly. She would not think of him. It was all behind her. What she needed was a plan. She needed to get strong. She grabbed the cast on her leg, willing the bone to knit, the ligaments to fuse, the muscles not to wither. She would do it. She would heal herself, then somehow pay her debt and go away.
Her stomach lurched and she looked at the ranch house, golden in September light. Maybe she wouldn’t have to leave. She sagged against the tree, closed her eyes, and thought of all the days she’d spent there, the things she’d done and learned.
She had grown, and her art reflected it. She’d even learned to cook a little. She had trained Destiny. Even Rick admitted it worked better with her there—though he might just be saying that. He had a way of slipping in kind words when she wasn’t expecting it. Like telling his father she was competent. She sighed. He wouldn’t be saying that after what she’d done to Aldebaran. That had been stupid, so stupid it humiliated her to think of it.
But she hadn’t been thinking. She’d panicked, lost control. And she realized now it could happen again. The fear inside was not healed, was not even controlled. How could it heal when she couldn’t even look at it? She startled at the snapping twig and her eyes shot open.
Rick stood over her with a lunch basket. Marta must have sent it, but Rick didn’t leave it and go. He sat. “Are you doing all right?”
No. I’m falling apart, and I don’t know how to stop it. She nodded.
He tipped his head up and the light through the leaves played over his features. “Nothing like aspens in the fall.”
She followed his gaze up through the dappled gold to the azure sky. The sight soothed her and she longed to capture the shades on paper, to hold the moment forever, to take back inside with her when it was over. But she thought of the last time she had done that. Maybe it was better to let the moments pass.
“Are you chilly?” Rick’s glance touched her goosebumped leg below the hem of the shorts.
She shrugged. “I’m fine. This one’s warm.” She knocked her knuckles on the cast. “It’s the new look, you know.”
The corners of his mouth deepened. It sure took a lot to make him smile. He opened the basket and handed her a sandwich. “Turkey, I think.”
She took it, feeling the first hint of appetite. It must be the fresh air. “Did you have a nice visit with your friends?”
He glanced at her. “Yeah.” If he wondered how she knew, he didn’t ask. But he seemed more relaxed than the last time they’d spoken, when he’d carried her to her bedroom and left her there.
She wished she could recapture the ease they’d developed working Destiny. He must be training without her. She could smell the horses on him. “How are Hank’s foals?”
“Coming. The bay is quick. She’s learning well.” He unwrapped his sandwich.
“What did you name her?”
“Jasmine.”
“You like exotic names.”
Rick shrugged. “I suppose. Mostly a name should fit or mean something.” He bit and chewed his sandwich. “Like Noelle.”
“Oh, that.” She waved her hand. “I was supposed to be Michelle, but when I came the day before Christmas, Daddy chose Noelle instead.”
“First your birthday, then the Savior’s. Guess Christmas was something in your house.”
She laid the sandwich across her knee. “I only remember one. I was six. It was the year before my mother died.” She narrowed her eyes. “I can picture the house—every room glittering with candles, lights, fresh holly up the banister. Daddy told me not to run my hand on it, but I cut my palm anyway.”
One side of his mouth drew up. She knew what he was thinking. Maybe she was willful. There had been other things just like that. She’d be the model child, then some little thing like refusing the red tutu for her recital. She hated red. And red dresses especially. Her thoughts jammed, and she turned them back to Christmas.
“I had my own little tree in my room, all colored lights and dancing bears. . . .” She raised her sandwich. “That was our last Christmas.”
“Why?”
“After my mother died, Daddy . . . didn’t see the point.” She breathed the aroma of fresh bread, peppered turkey, and mayonnaise. “He always made a big deal of my birthday, though.”
Rick took a bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly. Noelle did the same. The breeze flicked her hair across her face. She brushed it aside and took another bite.
Rick said, “It must be hard to lose a parent so young.”
It must have been, but she could hardly remember. She remembered Daddy’s face, hard and gray, and the strict schedule that began and continued every day of her life after. She was too busy to miss her mother, too tired to mourn. But she’d grown used to that. It was something else that she never got used to—the look of fear on Daddy’s face as he crept into her room at night and hunched beside her bed.
She hadn’t understood his fear, but she absorbed it. Something must be wrong. Something bad would happen. And it had. She realized Rick was watching her with that probing look. The quiet between them grew awkward. She brushed her hair back with her fingers. “What did you name the other horse?”
“Dulcinea.”
She smiled. “Of La Mancha.”
Rick stretched out on the ground and pulled apart a branch of grapes. He shot her a half smile. “Maybe I got carried away on that one.”
She tried to reconcile the romantic names to the practical man. From what unplumbed depths did the names come? “It’s nice that you name them something special.”
“Dad raises some sweet horses. Aldebaran came from him.”
Guilt flushed her face. “How is she?”
“She didn’t break anything. Still favors the leg some, but not as much as you do yours.”
Noelle stared at her cast. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt her.”
He looked away. “I don’t blame you. I thought you knew that.”
He sounded sincere, but Noelle couldn’t meet his eyes.
He tossed his napkin in the basket and stood. “Guess I’ll get back at it.” He scooped up the basket. “Do you want to go in now?”
She shook her head. “Just a little longer?”
He cocked his hip and grinned. “Are you ever satisfied the first time?”
“Never.”
“I believe that.” He took off his worn leather jacket and hung it over her bare knee. “No sense getting chilled.”
She watched him walk away with his purposeful gait. The jacket warmed her leg, but her heart warmed more. Why had she feared him? How could she have thought he would hurt her? Because she’d been fooled before. No one was above doubt.
Rick came back out of the house and returned directly to her. He said, “Ms. Walker’s on the phone. Do you want to talk to her?”
She nodded. “I guess I should.”
“Hold on around my neck.”
She obeyed, and he lifted and carried her to the house. He had left the door ajar and he nudged it with his boot, then set her on the couch. The daybed had been removed, the room put back as it was before. He was obviously not planning her return to the lower level. Rick brought her the phone, then left.
“Hello?” As Noelle leaned back against the pillows and listened, her heart sank. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was a seasonal business. Not till June?” She shut her eyes. “Yes, if your friend in Boston will take them. Yes, by money order at this address. Thank you.” She turned off the receiver and dropped it to her lap. The shop closed for the winter? Her source of income gone, her body crippled . . . What more could possibly go wrong?
———
From the couch that evening, Noelle watched the light flicker warmly as Rick bent and poked the fire in the great stone fireplace. When he straightened, she gathered her gumption. “Rick, would it be possible for me to pay the winter’s rent next spring, when the gallery opens again?”
He squatted and slid the log deeper in. The fire played across his features, accenting the angles and planes as he finally turned and faced her. “Noelle, you need to be honest with me.”
A knot tightened her stomach. “About what?”
“Why you’re here.”
Her mouth went dry. “Is there a law against privacy?” Morgan would know that tone and back off.
Rick merely stood up. “Why can’t you talk to your father?”
“I don’t want to.” It sounded peevish.
He sat down on the table across from her. “I can’t decide anything until you level with me.”
It was fair. She was asking him to support her through this time, giving him no reason whatever for doing it. Maybe if she told him something—even that she didn’t know, couldn’t remember. Of course, then he’d think her nuts and be less inclined than ever to have her in his home.
Her pulse suddenly throbbed in her ears. The shakes started up her spine. She fought the panic, but it was no use. In a moment she would hear the flapping of wings, feel the talons in her flesh. The hawk coming for the kill.
“Tell me the truth, Noelle. I can’t keep you here unless I know the truth.” Rick’s voice compelled like no other. It wasn’t only Rick speaking but something else as well. She wanted to respond, to be free of the terror. Her heart rushed, then fear and fury stopped it.
She gripped her moist hands together. “If you want me out, I’ll go. There are other places.”
“I didn’t say I wanted you out. And where would you go with no money for rent?”
Her cheeks flamed. “Do you think I’m begging for charity? Ms. Walker has a place.”
“A shack.” He stood and paced to the window. “And it doesn’t go free.”
She raised her chin. “She’ll discount it for a higher percentage on my work.”
“You have to have sales to earn a percentage.” He swung his hand wide. “The shop’s closed.”
Noelle’s throat tightened. “She’s sending my stock to a Boston gallery.”
Rick cocked his jaw. A brief flash of anger crossed his face, the same anger he’d displayed on the shale slope. “Just tell me what I need to know.”
“You don’t need to know anything.” Her voice shook. She thought he might holler, might—
But the anger faded from his face, replaced by regret. He spread his hands. “Well, Marta’s leaving this week for the winter. I don’t take guests past September. I guess it’s best if you find another place.” He stalked to the door and went outside.
Her breath caught jaggedly. What had she done? Why didn’t she just tell him? What if she said, yes, I’m in trouble, Rick; I need your help. But she couldn’t. She pressed her hands to her face. What would she do?
She tightened her jaw. She should have enough money for the first month on Ms. Walker’s shack—the Taj Mahal. Ms. Walker had suggested it more than once as part of their partnership. After that, there’d be sales from Boston. There had to be. She picked up the phone and dialed. “Yes, Ms. Walker? Is your rental property still available?”
When she hung up, she saw Marta standing behind her at the doorway to the kitchen. “Could you please bring my crutches, Marta?”
Marta slowly shook her head but brought the crutches. Noelle didn’t want to hear her regrets. She took the crutches and started for the stairs. Up was easier, at least not as intimidating. Still hurt the ribs. That was one good thing; there were no stairs in Ms. Walker’s shack.
Marta followed. “I’ll help you pack your things.”
“I can manage.”
“Maybe you can. But I’d like to help.” Marta started on the dresser drawers.
Noelle was thankful for the assistance—as long as it didn’t include an opinion.
———
Rick pressed his knees into Destiny’s sides. The horse plunged through the creek and up into the forest. Overhead, stars pricked the sky in the deepening dusk. He climbed to the top of the hill where the trees stopped and Destiny’s hooves clattered on stone. He looked up to the sky.
God, I can’t break through. I can’t see my way. And now his anger turned to hurt. He dropped his head and pressed his palm to his forehead. He ached at the thought of turning Noelle out. Why had she even come? What was she there for? There had to be a reason. Maybe it was none of his business.
Then why did it feel like he was ripping his own heart out? “God, if you want something from me, say so.” He waited in the moonlight until calm returned to his spirit. He would talk to Noelle again. Maybe there was some way to get through. If she would trust him, he could help her. But the Lord was right. It had to come from her. He rode back, semi-hopeful, but he found Noelle in the entry, standing on her crutches with her tote and another bag on the floor beside her. She had obviously made up her mind.
“You’re leaving now?” His tone was dry.
“I called Ms. Walker. She’ll give me a ride.” Noelle wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Why was she so stubborn? Couldn’t she see he would help? Lord? What more could he say? He went to the cupboard under the bookshelf and pulled out the pine box he’d fashioned. He had intended to rub in an oil finish, but there wasn’t time for that now. He set it on the table beside her. She looked puzzled.
“Open it,” he said.
She did. Inside were her paints, brushes, and the easel he’d repaired. Sudden tears glittered in her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I picked them up when I went back for Aldebaran. I’m afraid the pictures were ruined in the rain.”
She didn’t answer for a long moment, then whispered, “Thank you.”
His spirit stirred. Maybe now . . . “Noelle . . .”
Tires ground on the gravel outside and she turned away. “There’s Ms. Walker. Will you please get the door?”
Rick lifted the wooden case and her bags as she gripped her crutches. He opened the door and let her out. Ms. Walker sat in her Land Rover, popping her gum. This was wrong. It had to be. Give me the word, Lord. Just give me the word.
The night was still and so was his spirit. The rest of him was anything but. He carried the tote and bag and put them into the backseat. He wanted to jerk them back out and carry them and Noelle right back upstairs. But God knew better, and if Rick acted against that belief, it would certainly be worse.
Noelle eased herself into the front seat. “Thank you, Rick. For everything.”
He took the crutches and slid them into the back with her bags. He’d done all he could. So he nodded, then watched the Rover turn and the taillights disappear. When the cold penetrated his woolen shirt, he went inside. Marta sent him a hopeful look, but he shook his head.
“I have pie straight from the oven,” she said.
He smiled. “Thanks, Marta.” If only pie would help.