A deliberate, conscious arrangement of his world.
A sense of control when everything else had gone to hell in a handbasket.
Ritual.
Like stopping on the way home from the airport to have a hot fudge sundae, he reflected as he studied the ice cubes in his glass of club soda.
What he'd come to think of as Mike's special time had started when their son had been four and acutely unhappy at having to go meet the father he scarcely knew at the airport His hyperactive son had pitched one of his ear-shattering tantrums right there in the midst of the disembarking passengers, embarrassing Raine and amusing Morgan.
Raine had tried diplomacy. Morgan had bypassed that and gone straight to bribery tactics. He'd placated his conscience by telling himself how infrequently he managed to spend time with the boy. Which is exactly what he'd told Raine when she'd accused him of spoiling him.
What should he have done? Step off the plane and immediately assume the role of stern disciplinarian? No way.
Because the visits with Mike had been so precious, Morgan had been a firm believer in quality time, which he hadn't wanted to taint with unpleasantness. Hoping his son might have inherited his own sweet tooth, Morgan had suggested stopping for ice cream. It had worked like the proverbial charm. Slick as sweat.
Just like that, another ritual had been born. First a kiss and an exuberant hug for Raine, then ice cream for the kid. Somehow it had been easier to slip himself into the fabric of their lives over gooey hot fudge.
Between bites, Raine had caught him up on domestic trivia. The status of the current house she was renovating—her job, she'd always called it. From the distance of an observer, Morgan thought that it was more like a crusade. Her way of contributing. Find a ramshackle derelict with promise, cut away the dross to reveal the gold, then make it shine—that was her strategy and her passion.
Once she'd described the precise status of each room, she'd invariably moved on to Mike's most recent humorous antic, always perceived by his doting parents to be an indication of the boy's brilliance.
Yes, he was a handful, but he was also a lovable kid, full of fire and curiosity and generous with hugs and kisses. All boy, with a white-blond cowlick that refused to be tamed, a spray of freckles on his blunt little nose and a knack for collecting scrapes and bruises, he'd been blessed with a grin that softened even the hardest heart. Naturally, he was destined for great things—once he settled down. Great things like his dad, Raine would always add with an impish grin that invariably made Morgan want to strut.
That settled to her satisfaction, she'd invariably moved on to the state of her father's always shifting state of well-being. All the while Raine talked, Mike would watch his father with big golden brown eyes lined with thick dark lashes tipped with gold on the ends just like his mom's. And then, slowly, Mike would begin to add his comments, until finally, by the time he was scraping the bottom of his dish for the last taste of fudge, the boy had been jabbering away a mile a minute.
Then, and only then, had Morgan really felt welcome.
Accepted.
Wanted.
Since Mike's death, Morgan hadn't been able to stand the taste of ice cream.
"Mr. Paxton? Sorry to disturb you, sir, but the captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belts sign."
Lost in thought, it took Morgan a moment to focus on the sleek blonde leaning over his seat. The head flight attendant, his mind registered. The senior attendant always worked first-class. One of the perks of the job, he'd been told once. No dealing with crying babies or nervous first-time flyers.
Morgan couldn't begin to list the number of flights he'd taken, beginning with that first cold, endless, gut-twisting trip to Nam on a military transport.
"Where are we?" he asked as he released the reclining mechanism on his mauve-colored seat and clicked the belt into place. After shoving up his tray and stowing the leather case with Raine's picture in it, he flicked his gaze to the small silver nameplate pinned over the attendant's right breast.
Cheyenne. He figured it wasn't the same name that appeared on her birth certificate. He'd run across too many wannabe actresses with similar names.
She leaned past him to glance out the window, offering him a closer look at her chest. A frequent opportunity to score was one of the perks of his job. One he didn't particularly want or need.
"Looks like we're just going over the Rockies," she said, turning to look him in the eyes. "We're about an hour from Portland."
He acknowledged that with a smile.
"Are you familiar with the city?" she asked, straightening with the lazy grace of a cat stretching in the sun.
"Never been there," he admitted.
Raine had moved there from Connecticut after they'd separated. She'd grown up sixty miles south in Salem. And like a little homing pigeon, she'd returned to the nest. Or close enough. Her father was only an hour away by car—and no doubt a steady, reliable presence in her life.
The thought had his mood darkening even more. Family was important to Raine. It was just a concept to him. A vague ideal. Personally, he had no desire to return to Kentucky. Ever. Since he and Raine had separated, he'd listed the network's New York City address as his official residence.
"If you're free, I know a great place for dinner," the attendant murmured, her voice pitched low and her blue eyes dark with sexual promise. "Marvelous seafood and a great wine list."
"Thanks, but I'm not free."
He held up his left hand in a gesture that had become automatic over the years. Her face didn't change. Obviously she'd already noted the wide gold wedding band. He'd never removed it since Raine had slipped it on his finger.
"If you change your mind in the next hour, the offer's open," she said before disappearing into the forward galley.
Unlike a significant number of his colleagues, both male and female, he'd never particularly relished this aspect of his success. Not even when he'd been single.
One-night stands had always seemed too much like the mindless rutting of animals he'd seen everyday growing up in the hills, the same kind of rutting his father had forced on his mother.
Morgan had grown up listening to his daddy's piglike grunts coming through the thin walls of the shack, agonizing over the small gasps of pain that were all his mama allowed herself during the ordeal.
May Paxton might have been small, sickly and helpless, but she'd also been proud. Not even Zebulon Morgan's crude cruelties had reduced her to begging.
Morgan drew a long breath and forced his mind away from the black memories. He had his daddy's big hands and powerful build, but not his temper or his cruelty. He was his own man, older now than his father had been when he'd died in prison.
Realizing he was scowling, Morgan forced his facial muscles to relax. Deliberately he let his eyelids drift closed, forcing his attention on the white light he envisioned flooding into him.
Light to counteract the dark and murky pull of the past.
Sunshine.
Raine.
His mouth quirked as he remembered telling her that her name was all wrong. There was nothing gloomy about her. Nothing to dampen a man's spirit. Just the opposite. Which was why he'd immediately started to think of her as his Sunshine Girl.
Sunshine Woman, you chauvinist, she'd corrected with an imperious grin. A liberated, independent, enlightened woman.
His fierce little fighter.
His wife.
Now he was on his way home to her. Hopefully to re-stake his claim. It had taken patience, a lot of slick maneuvering and a generous portion of bluff on his side, but in the end he'd managed to persuade the suits at the network to let him take his considerable sick leave and vacation time in one four-month block.
The divorce papers were in the bottom of his duffel, unsigned. He knew Raine could process them without his signature, but he was counting on her sense of fair play to give him a chance to plead his case before cutting him off at the knees.
His conscience
stung a little whenever he thought of the pressure he intended to apply. First he intended to plead burnout and play on her sympathy to let him hang around her place for a while. Just until he got back on track.
Hell, truth to tell, he was pretty much teetering on a knife edge, had been for months now. The headaches he'd suffered for nearly a year after his mother's disappearance had returned after Mike's funeral. Sharp talons tearing into his brain, blotting out sight and reason for hours on end. A pain so vicious, he was utterly helpless until the agony finally eased off. Most of the time they came in batches, sometimes daily. And then they'd disappear for months on end. Fortunately, he hadn't had one since he'd decided to fight for her.
The pain he felt now was more primitive. The sooner he made love to her the better.
His fierce hunger for her had started gnawing at him the moment he'd boarded the Concorde at Heathrow. If he hadn't been dragged down by the nearly twenty-four hours he'd gone without sleep, he might have spent the entire flight with his coat draped over his lap to hide the physical evidence of his arousal.
By the time he'd switched planes at Kennedy, he'd psyched himself into a more patient frame of mind. This time Raine deserved a proper courtship, with flowers and moonlight strolls and all the trappings that he'd been too besotted to bother with the first time around.
He'd already resolved to pay whatever price she exacted from him to get her back. Anything—including begging for her forgiveness, if that's what it took.
His mouth twisted in a grim, self-deprecating smile.
Morgan Paxton, on his knees. Never in his life had he groveled, not for anyone. He had a little too much of his mother's stubborn pride braided into his backbone to bend, he guessed. But for Raine, he would gladly beg and consider it fitting punishment—his penance, so to speak.
Wasn't that what those crotchety old guys in the Bible had had in mind when they talked about cleansing one's soul? Confess your transgressions, resolve not to sin again. Stand up and take your punishment like a man, no matter how much it hurt.
Okay, if that's what it took. No matter what Raine flung at him, Morgan figured he had it coming. The only penalty he wouldn't accept was losing her.
According to the talkative cabbie who'd recognized Morgan on sight and thus considered him a celebrity rather than just another airport fare, 372 Mill Works Ridge was in one of Portland's oldest and most historic sections.
Built on a bluff high over the Columbia River, six Victorian-style bungalows were all that remained of a once-huge complex that had comprised a log yard, lumber mill and railroad spur. Originally owned by the Waverly family, the bungalows had once housed the mill's managers and executives. As Portland had grown and prospered, the mill had, as well, but gradually the value of the land had outweighed the profit from the mill and the property had been subdivided.
A sprawling, upscale mall now occupied the spot where the mill had stood and a freeway traced the route of the old railroad line. Running east and west, Raine's street was only two blocks long and dead-ended into a barrier of gracefully arching river birches at the western end. As far as Morgan could see, there were three houses to a block, all made of wood and painted white, lined up like sparkling gingerbread cottages plopped down in the midst of a crinkle of lush green velvet.
It was a scene right out of a book on charming Americana. Slice-of-life stuff, the Norman Rockwell kind he'd done early in his career. Feel-good segments, soft news. Nothing remotely like the gritty, hard-edged pieces he did now.
Nostalgia rolled over him. Though he'd never lived this kind of halcyon life, never wanted to, he sometimes wished that he had the patience and staying power such a life required.
Watching a robin diligently pecking at something buried in the well-tended grass, he thought about the months he'd spent looking at sand and more sand. Suddenly he had a strong urge to slip out of his boots and run barefoot through the neatly cropped thatch that seemed to beckon like a cool drink in the dog days of August.
It struck him as damned pathetic that a kid who'd grown up wishing for a pair of shoes that fit had become a man who waxed sentimental over running barefoot through a strip of lawn not much wider than the average news studio.
"Like I said, this is a real nice neighborhood, even being so close to the mall and all," the cabbie declared as he opened the trunk of the taxi.
"Bet you can smell the river when the wind's right," Morgan agreed, flexing his stiff shoulders. Dead fish, diesel fumes and all.
One of two houses in the entire neighborhood with a second story, Raine's home stood like a graceful sentinel at the corner of the first block, the gingerbread shutters at the window and the front door painted an aggressive slate blue. Pretty lace curtains that made him think of hot steamy nights draped the first-floor windows. An elaborate wreath of dried flowers tied with a jaunty pink bow hung on the door, a pale reflection of the vivid blossoms tumbling from the beds artfully interspersed amid wildly blooming bushes.
A damned rainbow come to life.
Ruefully he glanced down at the cellophane-wrapped bouquet of yellow roses in his hand. Coals to Newcastle. Hell, he should have remembered how much Raine liked to putter in her garden, like a fussy little mama coddling her babies.
A born mother, that was Raine. A natural nurturer. All living things thrived under her care. Certainly he'd felt stronger after spending time with her.
"Good place for kids," the cabbie added. "Not much traffic."
"Wouldn't take much for a kid to tumble down that bank," Morgan pointed out as he shifted the roses to his left hand and reached into the trunk with his right to retrieve his garment bag and laptop computer.
"Yeah, guess you're right. Not having kids, I never thought of that kind of accident." The cabbie glanced toward the river. "Guess you never know."
"No, you never know."
A shaft of pain shot through Morgan, and he drew a hard breath. Though Raine had never come right out and blamed him for Mike's death, he knew he would never feel free of guilt, no matter how long he lived.
"Just leave the rest of that junk by the curb," he told the cabbie who shook his head as he hefted the last suitcase from the trunk.
"No problem carrying 'em to the door. In fact, I consider it a privilege. Like I said, I'm a journalism major myself. Only got two semesters to go before I graduate. I'm hoping to be a foreign correspondent like you, you know. We've got a lot in common."
"So you said."
The trip from the airport had taken forty-seven minutes.
The kid had used damn near every one of them to give Morgan his entire life story, complete with a rundown of all the menial jobs he'd taken to keep himself in school. Not that Morgan minded. There was something likable about the kid. Probably the Huck Finn freckles and wild carroty mop of hair poking out from under a sweat-stained Blazers cap.
Morgan had always been a sucker for a hard-luck story, possibly because he had one of his own to tell. Unlike this kid, though, he seldom spoke about it, and he tried never to look back. Unless, of course, his celebrity status and the widely publicized chronology of his humble beginnings forced him to do so. Like now.
"Way I figure it, I'll probably have to start at some local station like you did." The cabbie grinned up at him as they climbed the two steps from the sidewalk to the brick walk. "In Montana, wasn't it?"
"Idaho."
Morgan frowned at the memory of that brutal winter he'd spent in Coeur d'Alene. He hated snow, always had. He could never seem to get warm enough. Too many reminders of the miserable years he'd spent huddled in a cold, wet shack, trying not to shiver, lest his old man think he was complaining.
"I've already made a demo tape."
"Good idea."
Morgan stifled a sigh. In a year or two the kid's natural optimism would already be hardening into a jaded cynicism. No one stayed innocent for long in the news business.
"I put a little bit of everything on it. Weather and sports and straight news reporting. Show
my versatility, you know?"
"Couldn't hurt."
The cabbie had to skip a step to keep up with Morgan's long strides. "You started out doing weather, right?"
"Right."
And had had a devil of a time keeping the blasted, polysyllabic meteorological terms straight. Even with the reading he crammed into every spare minute, his hit-and-miss education had been a definite handicap.
"And then you went to outside reporting?"
"Yeah."
Mostly county fairs and horse auctions. Anything that had to do with dust and manure ended up on his schedule. KSPD News Director T. Graham Piggot hadn't been his biggest fan.
Hey, that kind of gig goes with that redneck accent of yours, pal. Besides, you got a real feel for cow dung.
Last he heard, Gray Piggot was still holding down the same messy desk, a major power in a very minor market, which just happened to be an affiliate of the same network that now paid Morgan Paxton the big bucks. No doubt good ol' Gray darn near bit through the stem of his ubiquitous pipe every time his former grunt reporter's face hit the screen. It wasn't much in the way of revenge for the thirteen months of hell he'd put in at KSPD, he thought as he climbed onto the porch, but it would do until something better came along.
"It's been great talking to you, Mr. Paxton," the kid said with a grin as he carefully lined up Morgan's scuffed leather bags along the porch railing.
"You, too, son."
Morgan had to set down his computer in order to snag his wallet from his pocket. A scowl crossed his face as he tucked the roses under his arm to free both hands.
The cabbie shook his head. "You already tipped me, remember? Helping with the bags is part of the service."
"Got something else to give you," he said as he plucked a business card from an inner pocket and gave it to the kid who accepted it with an embarrassing reverence.
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