The Breath of Dawn

by Kristen Heitzmann

  While sad, the story wasn’t too difficult to hear.

  But the professor ruined it by saying, “Not all the accounts have happy endings. You’ll find the most disturbing under the Hauntings section.”

  She looked up. “It’s haunted?”

  His eyes held a gleam. “What’s a historical recounting without a few ghost tales?”

  “You believe them?”

  “As a historian I neither believe nor disbelieve. I merely record.”

  “But you must have an opinion.”

  He gave a little shrug. “I don’t dismiss them out of hand. You asked me if I felt the misery in Vera’s cellar. I can’t say that I did. But on leaving, as I passed by one of the shackled beds, I felt a chill on my wrist as though something gripped it.”

  Quinn shuddered. “I am so not going down there again. What happened to the building? Did they tear it down?”

  “After the fire.”

  She slowly raised her eyes. “Tell me it was closed before it burned.”

  He met her stare in momentary silence. “The loss of life was limited to the very troubled soul who started it.”

  “Please don’t tell me how.” Quinn slid the papers into the envelope. She wasn’t a coward, but the story of someone burning alive was more than she wanted to hear.

  With an understanding nod, the professor drew on his pipe.

  In the kitchen, Morgan poured a thermal mug of coffee he’d brewed strong with a shake of salt to counter the bitter preground beans.

  Rick said, “If you didn’t brew it dark as mud, you wouldn’t have to salt it.”

  “If you bought decent beans, it wouldn’t taste like hose water.”

  “Decent beans to you is handpicked on a volcano in Hawaii.”

  “Or Papua New Guinea or—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Rick turned the sausage, onions, and potatoes in the large cast-iron skillet.

  Morgan watched with greater awareness than before. His brother had learned his way around a stove—something he might have to do, at the rate things were going. “Consuela’s resisting my invitation to join us out here.”

  “She’s established out there, friends, church, community. Even overpaying her, as I’m sure you do, doesn’t mean you can rip her up and make her grow here.”

  “Why don’t you say what you think, Rick?” He sipped his brew. “Don’t hold back.”

  Rick cocked a brow, amused.

  “How am I supposed to eat?”

  “Learn to cook.” Rick cast him a look. “Or hire someone else.”

  “From the vast labor pool up here.”

  Rick turned down the heat and whipped the eggs in a blue crockery bowl. “There’s Quinn.”

  Caught midsip, Morgan studied his brother. Rick could be infuriatingly hard to read. “She has her own business.”

  “With her own schedule that might work around meals for you and Livie.”

  “She’d be insulted.”

  “You pay well.”

  “It’s not only about money.” He cupped his daughter’s head. “It’s about fitting together. Consuela fits me. Us.” Half mother, half saint.

  “Yogurt, Daddy.” Livie held up a spoonful.

  He took the bite and gave her a grateful smile.

  “She’ll be there when you go back. This is temporary. Right?”

  Right, but Quinn was . . . what? Adorable. Feisty. In trouble? Richard Anselm was working on it, but keeping tabs on his end couldn’t hurt. He rubbed his jaw. “I guess I can give it a shot.”

  Rick turned the scrambled eggs with a slow spatula. “I doubt you’ll find her as reluctant as you think. Just turn on the charm.”

  That used to be easy. Now it was like pumping from an unprimed well, except for the times he had no control, like when she washed his wounded hand. A fresh wave flooded at the thought. Maybe that was the problem. He didn’t want to hire her. He wanted—

  “I’m done, Daddy.”

  “Okay, punkin.” He washed her up and watched her scamper off to the great room, where Quinn and the professor were talking. In seconds he heard Livie talking to Quinn and something tightened in his stomach. His little girl liked her.

  Yesterday, he’d seen her cook. She’d prepared the meal as thoroughly and lovingly as she’d prepared Vera’s house. Still, except what he’d experienced, he knew very little about her, and last night indicated something amiss.

  On his phone he checked his e-mail, and sure enough, found the reply from Richard Anselm. The person harassing Quinn was named Markham Wilder. He had two minor fraud convictions, both deferred until an embezzlement conviction that, combined, sent him to prison. He’d served four of a five-year sentence, was released on parole, no violent offenses on record.

  If she was involved with, married or related to someone like that, it could suggest a shady character, but he hadn’t seen it. Quite the contrary. She went over and above to do her part and earn her way. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to run a basic background check on her—nothing invasive, only cautionary—so he issued the directive.

  With the rental cabins, guests were Rick and Noelle’s way of life, and though the hospitality might be practiced, it seemed easy and sincere. Over breakfast, Quinn and Livie had to hold their own with the three men, but Quinn mostly ate and let them talk—the opposite of yesterday. She was hungry and still aching from pushing snow.

  When the professor asked about Noelle, Rick sighed. “She’s worse. Liam too.”

  She turned to Morgan. “I hope you and Livie don’t catch it.”

  “They’re practically quarantined.”

  Except for the trips they’d all been making into the sick zone. How she wished that was the worst of her worries.

  He said, “You okay?”

  “Yes.” She smiled too quickly. “Think we can reach Vera’s?”

  “I’m not shoveling the way, though you could try your technique.”

  “Ha-ha. So what’s the plan?”

  “For what?”

  “For today.”

  He tipped his head. “What would you like it to be?”

  Her heart did a quickstep when his eyes stroked her face that way. He must not realize the impact or he wouldn’t use it so indiscriminately. “Um, well . . .” Great. Stammering was so attractive.

  He said, “I brought the laptop if you need to check your business.”

  Her business felt like one loose thread in an unraveling rope, but she said, “Sure. Thanks. I’ll go quickly.”

  “No hurry.” He lifted Livie from her booster. “We have talking elephants.”

  It warmed her that he’d neither forgotten nor wormed out of the promise she’d made for him. He had depth and maturity and an uninhibited playfulness not reserved for the kids alone. As Rick cleared the plates and mugs, Morgan brought his computer to the table.

  She checked her auctions and e-mail. Hardly anything had changed since the night before. If she were home she’d probably list more items, but she didn’t wish she was. Finished, she went into the great room to keep her own promise to play animals, but Morgan had just set Livie down to watch Nemo on the small TV in the kids’ corner that also held a pint-sized table and chairs. She supposed Morgan’s elephants could only talk so long.

  He came over to her. “All done?”

  “The transactions and communications are pretty quick. It’s finding, researching, and listing the merchandise that takes the longest.”

  “I hope it leaves you some spare time.”

  “Of course.”

  “Because I want to ask you something.”

  She crossed her arms, puzzling over his tone.

  From the long narrow table behind the couch, he picked up a carved wooden pinecone with a spray of needles on the end of a curved branch. “It appears my housekeeper is reluctant to leave Santa Barbara. I guess it’s not fair to force it, so I wondered if you’d consider the job for the time we’re here.”

  Surprise and then disappointment hit. What had she expected?
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  “Obviously, you’d be able to keep running your business. I just need cooking, housework, and maybe some care for Livie. We could hash out the details.” He set the branch back down and aligned it at an angle. His voice softened. “You did an amazing job with the house. And yesterday’s meal.”

  Her mind raced as she pictured working for Morgan. Not what she might have preferred, but who was she kidding?

  “I know it’s coming from left field.”

  “A little, yeah.” She studied him for motivation but saw nothing ulterior. Unfortunately.

  “I’m in a bind, and Livie’s taken to you like a baby duck.”

  She looked over to where his daughter sat sucking her thumb and watching the baby fish in Nemo’s ocean. Time with her would be a treat.

  “I’ll pay—”

  “I don’t want to be paid.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Seeing the opportunity, she raised her chin and dove in. “If I cook and clean, can you get me a fake ID? The kind that stands up to scrutiny, with a real social security number?” He’d admitted his request came from left field. By his expression hers wasn’t even in the ballpark.

  Hands on hips, he dipped his head. “Why do you think I can do that?”

  “You have money. Resources. You make things happen.”

  “Legal things.” He spread his hand. “I might grease palms, but I don’t have underworld connections.”

  She slumped. It had been a stupid thought.

  “Why do you need to change your name?”

  She stared at the floor. “Someone wants to find me.”

  “The law?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t think so anyway.

  “The guy last night?”

  She nodded without meeting his eyes.

  “Your husband?”

  Now she did look up. “No. Yuck.”

  He pulled a side grin. “Okay, that’s out of the way.”

  “I’m not married or battered or abused.”

  “But you’re in trouble.”

  “I will be if he finds me.” Why had she thought Morgan could change that?

  “Is Quinn your real name?”

  “Yes. I don’t have a way to fake it either.” She wished she hadn’t brought it up. Now he knew, and there was no help coming.

  He rested a hand on the back of the couch. “You want to tell me about it?”

  “There’s no reason to, if you can’t help me hide.” All he was offering was a job, and she didn’t know if she could commit to that when she might have to take off. What if she was alone with Livie when Markham found her? She turned to go.

  He caught her elbow and turned her back. “I didn’t say I couldn’t help. I said I couldn’t get you a fake ID.”

  She searched his face. “Other than changing my identity, I’m not sure what would help.”

  “There’s more than one way to change your name.” He still had hold of her elbow, a warm, encompassing grasp.

  “Aren’t official changes public record?”

  “Sure.” He let go and crossed his arms. “How good is he at searching things out?”

  “Better than I am at hiding them. He got my cell phone number.” The slimy rat.

  “How serious are you about eluding him?”

  She took the phone out of her pocket and turned it on. As Morgan watched, she retrieved the text and held it out.

  He blinked at the words, then looked at her. “Not an idle threat?”

  “He just got out of prison.” She hated the hint of fear that found her voice and felt a responding anger that Markham had put her in this position.

  “You sent him there?”

  “He sent himself.” The anger pinched her brow. “I just . . . made his business known.”

  “So he’s angry. Doesn’t mean he’ll risk his freedom to kill you.”

  Except the part that Morgan didn’t know. “You’re probably right.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what to think. But I’m ready to run.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “It’s the best I’ve got.”

  He pressed his palms together in front of his chin. “Let me work on it.”

  Her heart skipped. “Really?” In Morgan’s mouth those words were magic.

  “I’m not making you a fugitive.”

  “Would I be?”

  “Yeah, honey. Obtaining a false identity is illegal.”

  She knew that, but still . . .

  Morgan studied her. For someone so gutsy, she seemed honestly spooked. And naïve. Death threats explained the first. Youth the second? “How old are you, Quinn?”

  She frowned. “Twenty-seven.”

  A couple years more than he’d have guessed by appearance, a couple shy by demeanor. “How do you feel about matrimony?”

  “I’m not against it.”

  “Ever been?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I think that’s our answer.”

  Her jaw fell slack.

  Yeah, rusty in the charm department. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We leave the country so there’s no immediate US record, have a civil ceremony that’s legal but not consummated. You’ll have your new identity, and you can help Livie and me as long as we need it.”

  Shock gave way to dismay, the lines of her face falling as she searched his. “This is you working on it?”

  While he hadn’t rehearsed his pitch, he hadn’t expected that adverse a reaction. “It’s a good solution.”

  “As a problem-solving exercise?”

  “You rated your problem pretty high.”

  She slumped. “I can’t believe this.”

  This time when he touched her elbow she slid it away. “There’s no risk and a full resolution of your identity crisis.”

  “No risk? There are vows involved.”

  “Civil vows can be as simple as ‘Do you wish to enter into this union? Yes. Do you? Yes. I pronounce you husband and wife.’” Saying the words caused a slight hitch. Was he problem solving, or seeing something worth pursuing and pursuing it? Wasn’t that his gift, recognizing and maximizing potential?

  Her eyes darted between his as though she might catch something different in one or the other. It was pretty straightforward, though obviously not what she’d envisioned. At least it was legal.

  She swallowed. “And then what?”

  “Then whatever you want.”

  “Divorce?”

  When she put it that way, it did sound harsh. “If you find someone else to be with, we’ll take care of it.”

  Her face flamed. “This has to be the worst proposal of all time.”

  Not what he’d intended. He was offering her a chance, not an insult. “Think of it as a merger. A mutual achievement of goals.”

  She formed the most withering expression he’d seen in years. “Is it some antisocial genius disorder? You can only seem human so long?”

  Ouch.

  “I thought . . . This morning it seemed . . .”

  The morning had been brilliant. And maybe it was as much about that as their situations. At this point, however, it didn’t seem wise to say so. He spread his hands. “I’ve made my pitch. Swing or let it go by.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Stunned and . . . wounded, she watched him take his daughter and walk out. Part of her realized he’d slipped into professional problem solving. Part of her regretted her attack. But the biggest thing she felt was dismay. Did she seem like someone who’d accept a merger for a marriage?

  She pressed her hands to her face, feeling stomped. It wasn’t his fault she’d imagined a spark. Too many times she’d made more out of something than he obviously felt. He’d shown her again and again in his curtness, his exits. Not. Interested.

  “Rick?” Noelle’s hoarse cry came from the top of the stairs.

  Quinn dragged her face out of her hands to see Noelle coming down with Liam in he
r arms. “Rick’s not here. They all went outside.”

  “Could you please find him?”

  “Of course.” She grabbed her coat and pulled on her boots. Outside, she followed the shoveled path that led to the barn and stable. Drawing herself up, she entered the long hay-scented space and halted just inside.

  Holding Livie on his shoulders, Morgan was chatting with the professor while Rick broke a section of hay from a bale and forked it into the first of a dozen stalls. That one held a stunning buckskin with intelligent eyes. In the next stall, a fiery roan snorted and tossed its head, demanding the recognition it deserved. Overshadowed, a gray horse, possibly a mare by the smaller stature, waited her turn. That was all of them she saw before telling Rick that Noelle needed him. “I think it’s Liam.”

  Immediately Rick’s focus shifted.

  Morgan said, “I’ll finish here.” And as Rick hurried out, Morgan lifted Livie off his shoulders and carried her over. “Do you mind?” as though minutes before he hadn’t inserted a blade between her ribs.

  She took the child, amazed when he picked up the pitchfork and worked capably around the horses. Rick was the cowboy, Morgan the mogul—or not.

  Leaving him with the professor, she carried Livie back to the house, noticing in the barn a tractor with a plow blade. Maybe escape was possible—though the desire felt less pressing when Livie’s little arms closed around her neck.

  In the great room, Noelle had bundled Liam in coat, hat, and gloves. Setting Livie back down by the cartoon, Quinn said, “How is he?”

  “He needs a doctor.”

  “Can Rick plow the road?”

  “There isn’t time. He’s taking Liam on horseback.”

  “Seriously?”

  “There’s less drifting under the trees.”

  “But where’s the doctor?”

  “In town. Dr. Bennington still practices even though he’s technically retired.” Noelle coughed wetly.

  “What about you?”

  “He’ll send an antibiotic back with Rick. He keeps a big boomer on hand for me.”

  Now, that was small-town medicine. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Would you mind watching Livie? I’m trying to avoid direct contact.”