The Breath of Dawn

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “Oh.” Quinn turned back toward the building. “You want me to bring—”

  “Heavens no. I’ll come to you.”

  “Um. Okay.” She gave RaeAnne her address with a tiny twinge.

  “That’s it? No argument? No, ‘I bought it and it’s mine’?”

  “Of course not. You said there were personal things you wanted.”

  When RaeAnne arrived, Quinn let her in and pointed to the storage containers. “Help yourself, though I’m pretty sure I didn’t pack a locket. Unless it’s inside something else.”

  RaeAnne’s deep-set eyes pooled, tears beading on mascara-crusted lashes as dense as caterpillar fur. “You restore my faith—you and Rick and Noelle. People who know how to treat one another.”

  It seemed that since they’d parted, something more than grief had dampened RaeAnne’s spirits.

  “But . . .” RaeAnne waved a hand. “You don’t want to hear my woes.”

  “I have two ears that work.” Quinn pulled the lid off one of the containers she hadn’t begun to inventory. She’d immediately unpacked the Hummel figurines in near-mint condition in spite of overcrowding in one of Vera’s glass hutches. She had them set out on her long tables for photographing and knew for a fact none harbored jewelry. The little faces were as innocent as they appeared.

  “I took off four days to handle Mom’s affairs, and I just found out I’ve been put on notice at work. What kind of world is that?”

  “What do you do—national security?”

  That got a laugh. “I work for an advertising company.”

  “Ah, very time sensitive.” Quinn pulled the next container down and sat on the cold floor since all the table space was taken with the porcelain peasants. “No one covering you?”

  “That’s the problem.” RaeAnne hunkered down a little less easily. “My overeager assistant. I’ve had some health issues this year, and he’s filled in more than I wanted.”

  “But if you’re back tomorrow . . .”

  “How can I be? I haven’t found the locket.”

  Quinn cocked her head. “It means that much?”

  “It means everything. My dad’s picture’s in it.” She looked up. “A picture I’ve never seen . . . as I’ve never seen him.”

  “Seriously?”

  RaeAnne nodded. “Mom said when she died I could see him, and not a day before. Now she’s gone and he’s nowhere to be found.” Tears welled up again. “She might have directed me to it in her last moments if I’d been there, but obviously . . .” She spread her hands.

  “Maybe it’s in a safe deposit box or with a lawyer.”

  “She banked online and never made a will, except what she wrote out by hand. It said, ‘Everything to RaeAnne—obviously.’” She laughed softly. “That was Vera in a nutshell.”

  “There might be a letter in the paper stacks, telling you where to find it.”

  “Maybe. But that could take months to sort through.”

  Quinn reached into her container. “Well, let’s start with what we have.”

  After searching the remaining bins, RaeAnne rocked up to her feet with a groan. “I’ll have to ask for an extension. If it ends up being permanent, we’ll just have to make do.”

  “You can’t lose a job over this. I’ll find the locket, now that I know what I’m looking for. I’m already sorting the rest.”

  “Quinn, it could be anywhere. I mean anywhere. I found a ring tied up in a sock.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t planned on scrutinizing every item of clothing and sheet of paper.

  “I know it’s too much to ask.” RaeAnne pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her nose. “But I could give some money back for the extra time.”

  “I might find it first thing tomorrow.”

  “And it could take weeks. If I didn’t have to come back and clean the place for sale, I’d give back all you paid and call it even.”

  If there were things squirreled away, the sorting alone would be monumental, but considering she had more time than money, Quinn said, “That’s fair.”

  “It is? Would you do it? Just having it off my hands . . .” Again the tears pooled. “Between Vera’s arrangements and the house and my job, I’m a wreck.”

  “You don’t look a wreck.” Every hair was still in place.

  “I’ve lost six pounds worrying. And yes, I can afford to, but I’m more likely to have a stroke than a heart attack from all this.”

  Quinn touched her arm. “Be kind to yourself. This isn’t easy.”

  RaeAnne dug into her purse and retrieved the bills they’d exchanged earlier. “You sure?”

  “Are you?”

  They laughed.

  “If I fly back tomorrow, will you keep me posted?”

  “The minute I find it, you’ll know. And if it’s right away, we’ll renegotiate.”

  “Oh!” RaeAnne grabbed her into a hug. “You are the sweetest thing.”

  Enveloped by the warmth and sincerity, Quinn returned the hug, touched and intrigued by the woman and her tale. Such gestures were beyond the scope of her job, but somehow it felt right.

  The next morning, dressed in black jeans, ankle boots, and an embroidered kimono-shaped sweater from a different estate, she paused in front of the Alpine Patisserie, with blue shake-shingle roof and white letters etched on the glass. At the window table, she saw Noelle, elegant in designer jacket and jeans—no mistaking that quality.

  The man sharing the parlor-style table fit her perfectly, polished, urbane, and way too handsome, with nearly black hair and fine, angular features. He wore his well-fashioned clothes with as much ease as Noelle. A matched set.

  Reaching behind the table, he brought up the last thing she’d expected—a fairy child, maybe two years old, with dark wispy hair and such precious features Quinn stopped, hand pressed to her heart. They were a family. Nothing amazing in that, so why did she feel such pathos?

  When the little girl leaned in to kiss her daddy’s mouth, something almost piercing—

  “Going in?” a rugged guy in a Stetson asked while the young boy with him hung back by his arms to open the door.

  She hadn’t decided yet, but the little guy held the door so earnestly, she said, “Thanks.”

  Red-faced with exertion, the kid beamed, then ducked in when the man took over the door. Heading for the counter, Quinn scanned the menu board, catching with the corner of her eye the newcomers joining Noelle and her husband.

  The boy, who looked about four, ground the metal feet of a parlor chair over the tile floor like a file on a washboard and slid into place at the table. The man removed his hat, bent, and kissed Noelle, a hand wrapping the back of her neck in a brief, telling gesture. What?

  Quinn stopped pretending to read the board and ordered hot green tea. Captivated by the three adults and two children, she carried the mug to a seat with a view. She’d always been an excellent people reader. Not, as it turned out, that it mattered.

  She squeezed the tea bag by its string around the spoon, then set both on the table. The little girl spoke earnestly to the man who held her. Quinn could have sworn she was his child, their features and coloring so similar.

  When Noelle asked the boy his choice, he cried, “Chocolate crepes!” The kid could have a career in broadcasting.

  “Choc-late crepes,” the fairy child mimicked with far less volume and precious pronunciation.

  Noelle went to the counter and placed their order. When she turned with the tray, their glances met. “Quinn? Hello.”

  Sipping her tea, Quinn raised her fingers in a wave, then lowered the cup when Noelle stepped toward her. “Your kids are cute.”

  “Oh.” Noelle glanced over her shoulder. “The little girl’s my niece, but that rascal Liam is mine.”

  So the little girl was the first man’s, and Noelle really was with the rancher. Thus the truck, not the Jaguar. “Liam looks like his dad, his expressions especially.”

  “And every bit as determined.” She laughed softly. �
�Want to join us?”

  Quinn looked at the overcrowded table. “I’ll just finish my tea and run. I’m cleaning out Vera’s house.”

  “That’s a project.”

  To say the least. “How’s Matilda?”

  “Not much fazed, I think. Our properties adjoin and the grass tastes the same on our side. But if she does prefer the other, it won’t be a problem. My husband, Rick”—she tipped her head his way—“made RaeAnne an offer on the land.”

  “What about the house?”

  “She’ll sell that separately.”

  “Mommy!” Liam hollered.

  Noelle cast another glance over her shoulder. “Better feed my starving child.”

  Quinn watched her and then, more openly, the little ones. If the girl was her niece, then the first man was her brother, or married to her sister. She couldn’t get a clear view of his ring hand. But when the husband, Rick, said something, the other man’s expression shifted. Brothers. They were brothers. Quinn sat back and sipped, an unfamiliar sensation in her chest.

  Morgan frowned. Rick’s attempt to interest him in the slight, dark-haired woman irritated him almost as much as Noelle’s ever-present concern. “For future reference, Rick, my own eyes work just fine.” Though small, the woman would never be inconspicuous.

  “They don’t see three inches past Livie.”

  “What else is there to see?” He spoke over his daughter’s head as she dipped a fingertip in the chocolate.

  “Me, Uncle Morgan!” Liam declared.

  He frowned at the kid. “Who are you again?”

  “Liam!”

  Noelle shushed him. “Don’t encourage it, Morgan. This shouting is not cute.”

  Morgan grinned. “Oh yeah. Little Will.”

  “Wil-li-am. Liam!” He pressed the side of his hand into the middle of the crepe, oozing chocolate out both ends. “I’m not little Will. I’m Liam.”

  “Don’t play with your food.” Rick nudged his hand off the crepe.

  “Livie does.”

  “Livie’s two.”

  Producing a tiny fork-spoon from his pocket, Morgan gave it to his daughter. “Tools are what separate us from the animals.”

  “That and opposable thumbs,” Rick said.

  “And the ability to reason,” Noelle rounded it out.

  “Hands work better.” Liam gave the crepe another karate chop.

  Morgan had to smile at Rick getting a kid more headstrong than he. Olivia on the other hand was perfect—sweet-natured and affectionate, with an impish streak like a vein of silver and a gold dusting of feistiness. Why would he ever look past that?

  “I’m just saying,” Rick said, lowering his voice, “at some point that little girl’s going to want a mother.”

  Not to put too fine a point on it. For almost two years now, Livie had shared Noelle with Liam as a sibling would, though no sibling had yet . . . Or had one . . . He narrowed his eyes. “Something you guys haven’t told me?”

  “How did you do that?” Rick leaned back in his chair.

  Morgan rubbed Livie’s back as she switched her little fork from one hand to the other, testing proficiency. “You say go get a life; you mean yours is moving on.”

  “I didn’t say go get a life.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. But that’s the point, isn’t it?”

  Noelle touched his hand. “It’s not because I’m pregnant—”

  “But you are.” Had they gone four years between children because of him and Livie?

  “What’s pregnant?” Liam stuffed a drippy end of chocolate crepe into his mouth.

  Living on a brood ranch, he presumed the kid had an inkling, but neither parent offered insight.

  Noelle leaned in. “We want you to be happy.”

  Her version of happy. He didn’t contradict. His second book, Ten Spectacular Ways to Fail—and Why CEOs Choose To, had flown up the bestseller list faster than Money Magic by the Success Guru. There was no reason to believe his nearly completed work-in-progress would do any less.

  Like Beethoven, the subject of TSO’s metal rock opera, Morgan Spencer brought forth brilliance from agony, birthing as great a fame and wealth as the “vaporous wizard,” who refused signings and tours, as he had being the turnaround specialist who took corporations from ashes to blazing suns.

  Everything he touched thrived—except the people he loved, and he’d be damned, literally, before he lost Livie. “Jesus loves you,” Kelsey had told him in the letter he read after she died, in the crash when he almost joined her, in his heart even now. But that love had an edge so sharp, blood spilled before he ever felt the blade.

  The past two years, with help from Rick and Noelle, he’d been everything Livie needed, present and more than accounted for. But he’d disrupted their lives long enough. He tuned back in to their conversation as Rick said he had fencing to tear out from the new pasture.

  Noelle lowered her cup. “RaeAnne took your offer?”

  “Yep. Now she just needs to dump the house.”

  The house. Morgan tipped back in his chair as a thought occurred. Out of sight of Rick’s log complex, but close enough if Livie needed Noelle. His real home waited in Santa Barbara, but for now . . .

  CHAPTER

  2

  Morgan parked the Range Rover that replaced his Maserati during inclement months in front of the house he’d come to see. Unlike Rick’s western log house and cabins, this single-level ranch was nothing special, a rectangle with a peaked center, probably a low cathedral ceiling in the living room. Not looking for permanence or even investment, he only cared that it was livable in this step toward independence for his daughter and himself.

  If not for Livie, he’d have thrown himself into the all-consuming milieu where he turned coal into diamonds—to hear the pundits tell it. Instead he’d put to paper the tenets of his success and welcomed their use by any and all.

  Maybe he would return to the corporate world, but it could not be traumatic for Livie. And so he got out and surveyed the house. No sign indicated a listing yet, and he’d just as soon make an offer without real estate agents. His lawyer could handle the details. The bell made an asthmatic wheeze he wasn’t sure carried anywhere.

  Trying the door when no one came, he found it open and called, “Hello?” He’d like a quick look to make sure nothing ruled the place out.

  The woman who exited the bedroom caught him by surprise. It was the one from the bakery. “You’re RaeAnne?”

  She looked equally taken aback. “Quinn.”

  He took in the elfin features, the dark tumble of hair moments from jailbreak from its clip. “Does that come with a first name?”

  “Quinn Reilly. Quinn for my grandpa’s favorite hound.”

  “You’re named after a dog?” And admitting it.

  “Not just any dog. A bluetick hound with a nose like none before or since.”

  “Huh.” In spite of himself he ran his eyes down her slight figure in jeans and threadbare sweatshirt that reminded him of one he wore on his balcony when he didn’t care if the salt air drifted in.

  “Did you want something?” She placed her hands on her hips.

  “To see RaeAnne about the house.”

  “Oh. She flew home. I have a number though.”

  “That would be good.” He looked around. “Can I walk through?”

  “Not easily. I’m going through Vera’s stuff.”

  “I just need a sense of the place, to see if it works.”

  “For you?” Surprise found her eyes, though he didn’t know what difference it made to her.

  He cocked his head. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me. I’m just doing a job.”

  He nodded. “I’ll take a quick peek and get out of your way.”

  She shrugged and went back to the bedroom; at least he thought there was a bed under the heaping clothes. Quinn pulled a pair of pants from a drawer and checked it methodically—pockets, lining, seams—then added it to the pile on the bed.
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  “Looking for something?”

  “I’m . . . sorting.”

  “Thoroughly.”

  She cast him a look. “Yep.”

  He found her laconic approach to conversation interesting. He hadn’t experienced many women who said less than necessary. Taking a quick cruise through the single level that would keep life with Livie simple, he returned to Quinn, still sorting clothes. “Is there a basement?”

  “A cellar.” She sat back on her heels. “I understand it’s not habitable.”

  “Oh?”

  “This house was built on the foundation of an asylum.”

  “No way.”

  She shrugged. “That’s what RaeAnne said. They sent people up the mountain to ‘rest their minds.’”

  Not at all sure he wanted to live over an asylum, but diabolically intrigued, he said, “Have you seen it?”

  “No.”

  “Want to?”

  “No.”

  He leaned on the doorframe. “Aren’t you curious?”

  “I see plenty of cellars.”

  “Not haunted.”

  She rested her palms on her thighs. “Do you see all this? RaeAnne’s mother kept every piece of clothing she ever owned.”

  Rick had not noticed her for nothing. She had a sort of spark. “Come explore and I’ll help you haul those clothes out.”

  She cocked her head. “You’re scared to go alone?”

  “I could use a shield.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Do you have a name?”

  “Morgan.”

  “Does that come with a first name?”

  A smile tugged the corners of his lips. “Morgan Spencer. Now come on, let’s see that cellar.”

  Reluctantly, she rose.

  He swung his arm. “Lead on.”

  She raised what might have been ordinary eyes but were instead espresso brown with lighter starbursts around the pupils. “I’m not going first.”

  “Scared?”

  “The one in front gets all the spider webs.”

  Something opened up in his chest, something like amusement. “Okay. I’ll take the webs. Just show me the way.”

  “I don’t know it.”