Night Angel

by Renee Reeves

  "You missed your appointment yesterday.” Jake scowled at Nick's blank look and resumed his search of the cupboard. He set a box of frosted flakes next to the milk, then strolled over to the coffee maker. “With Mr. Porter? The guy from Arizona who wants you to train his two appaloosa fillies."

  Nick scrubbed his hand down his face. The cup of coffee he had been holding landed on the table with a thump, sloshing some of the tepid brown liquid on the table. “Shit."

  He had totally forgotten. Of course, he hadn't thought of a damn thing except the episode with Morgan, which had left him cold, chilled all the way to his bones. And he still hadn't recovered, not if the fine trembling in his hands was anything to go by.

  Not a whole lot rattled him, but Morgan in the throes of a flashback or whatever the hell it was called, that sure as fuck did.

  He had to focus, get his mind on the here and now. The horses, the training. He couldn't let his emotions affect his business; it was all he had, all he was good at.

  But Christ he wished he knew what had happened to her. He had his suspicions, and all of them were ugly. He saw her in his minds eye, trying to fight him away the day of the accident, batting at him with her small fists, even though both of their lives had been at risk. Then, just the other day she had cowered on the ground at his feet, clearly expecting him to beat her. Maybe even kill her. Acid burned his throat and he swallowed convulsively, feeling as if his insides had been scraped raw.

  Jake was still standing at the counter, munching his cereal and staring at him like he was a bug under a microscope. “Well?"

  Nick looked up, having forgotten that his brother was still in the room. “Well what?"

  Jake rolled his eyes, “Jeez, Nick! The owner of the two Appaloosas? Wants you to train them? Remember?"

  Nick scrubbed a hand down his face, weariness setting in even though he had a full day ahead of him, “Yeah ... Damnit. That was my fault. I'll call him today and apologize.” Shit. He hated apologizing to anyone no matter the reason.

  Jake set his cereal on the table, pulled out a chair and straddled it backwards, then folded his arms over the curved oak back. Nick leaned back in his chair and groaned, recognizing that Jake was getting into therapist mode.

  "No need. I told him you had gotten sick and just to bring the horses on over in the next few days."

  Jake contemplated him another moment and his tone was much softer when he spoke, “You know, you either need to make a move on her or forget it. She's messing with you, and you never let anyone mess with you."

  Nick threw a glare at his younger brother. “Stay out of it, Jake. You don't know what you're talking about. Besides, you don't need to worry; I seriously doubt she wants to see me again, not that she did before."

  "Well, something needs to give. I've never seen you like this Nick. You're ... mopey."

  Nick rolled his eyes and shoved his chair back. Jake was like a gossipy old woman sometimes, always putting his nose where it didn't belong.

  It was damn tiring.

  Grumpily he growled, “I'm not,” and stalked over to the sink, dumping the remains of his coffee inside. Going over to the laundry room he yanked his pullover from the rack beside the back door and jerked it on over his head. Shoving his arms into the sleeves he sent Jake a sharp look. “You weren't there yesterday; you didn't see her reaction to me. I walked towards her, and for no reason that I could see, she dropped and cowered on the ground, covering her head like I was coming at her swinging an axe. You tell me what that means? Besides the obvious, that I scared the shit out of her. Talk about a major fuck-up."

  Jake stood and made as if to follow him. “But you said—"

  "Jake. Not now.” Nick shoved open the screen door, but hesitated before stepping outside, “Look, I'm sorry for acting like an ass. I'm not ... I'm just not used to this type of shit and it's got me—,” he ran a hand over his hair in frustration, wishing he had his brother's easy way with words and feelings, “hell, I don't know what I'm trying to say. Anyway, I need you to do me a favor. I was going to handle it myself but I don't think that's a good idea right now. Besides,” he glanced outside, watching the ever brightening sky behind the barn, “I need to put some time on the Draft cross."

  * * * *

  Lisa's voice hesitated over the phone line. “Is there something you're not telling me? Did something happen down there?"

  "No.” Morgan crossed her fingers, hating the lie. “Why?"

  "I feel like you're keeping something from me."

  Morgan bit the inside of her lip and twirled a strand of hair around her index finger. Several of the dark tips were fuzzy and broken. She had neglected getting a trim since before her move and now it was showing. “It's just stress. The move and being alone in a new place. I can't tell you how hard it is having to start your whole life over. I guess I'm just feeling a little lonely."

  At least that was true. She had called her cousin just to hear a friendly voice and also with the intention of telling her about the accident and the man she now lived near, but at the moment it didn't seem like such a good idea. For some strange reason, which she didn't want to inspect too closely, she wanted to keep her six-foot-plus neighbor to herself.

  Why? He almost certainly thinks you're psycho now, she thought to herself, the crazy neighbor across the woods. It almost sounded like a title for a nursery rhyme.

  According to the girl at the convenience store and the newspaper article Nick Evanoff was considered a local celebrity, world famous even. Morgan pictured the small-town gossips sitting on their sidewalk chairs and talking about their famous resident's insane female neighbor and closed her eyes as shame washed over her in a great wave, making her stomach churn and her throat burn with the urge to vomit.

  Shaking, Morgan pressed the phone into her shoulder and covered her nose and mouth with her palms, breathing deeply. In ... out ... In ... out...

  Groaning, she sank into the comfort of her living room sofa and curled up against the padded arm, closed her eyes and went limp, sapped of energy. She couldn't help her reactions, they just ... happened.

  "I'm tired Lisa ... this change has been really, really hard for me.” She didn't want to tell Lisa about how she had cowered behind the door for about twenty minutes after she had run screaming into her house. And why? Because his shadow had scared her, for Gods sake. “Sometimes I feel so out of control of my life."

  There was no getting away from the fact that Richard still controlled her, even from the grave, and she couldn't bear to hear the pity she knew would creep into her cousin's voice.

  Lisa sighed into the phone. “I know sweetie. But at least you have a life now."

  Morgan nodded before remembering that Lisa couldn't see her. “Yeah, true. I guess I have to remind myself how lucky I am ... all things considered."

  "You know you always have the option of plastic surgery."

  Immediately her hand went up to her cheek, one finger tracing the line of scars no longer hidden by cosmetics. “That costs a fortune, Lisa. I can't afford it right now.” Morgan snuggled deeper into the sofa cushions. “Maybe in a couple of years, if I can free up some of Richards money ... or if my work sells really well."

  "Maybe is right. I'm still shocked that the bastard left you anything. I mean with the way he treated you.” Lisa's anger was palpable over the phone line. “I hope he's rotting right now."

  "Lisa!” Morgan chastised.

  "What? It's true! We both know what he did. Hell, if I could pin a medal on the drunk driver that killed him I would!"

  Morgan dropped her forehead into her palm, letting the warmth of her skin soothe her sudden headache. “Please don't ever let anyone hear you say that, Lisa. Drunk drivers kill innocent people too, not just ones like Richard."

  Her cousin's deep, indrawn breath was loud over the phone. “Jeez ... I know that Morgan. I only meant that—"

  "I know what you meant,” Morgan interrupted, “believe me, I do. I'm the one living with what he did to me. B
ut I have to go now. There are a million things that I need to be doing besides getting you riled up over the phone."

  Lisa laughed lightly, “I'm sure there are. You'll call me anytime? No matter what?"

  Morgan smiled, warmed by the obvious concern, “You know I will."

  Feeling better she hung up the receiver and looked around her small kitchen. Dull, pea-green walls stared back at her.

  "Yuck.” She really had to do something about that soon.

  But for now, the day would be best spent with her canvas and paints.

  * * * *

  Several hours later Morgan stood back from the painting, assessing it. Tilting her head she studied it, trying to figure out exactly what was wrong. What was bothering her.

  Then it hit her. The cowboys’ face—it was too young, too fresh looking. Out of place. She wanted a tougher face, one that was rugged and belonged to the outdoors.

  She grabbed her palette knife and scraped at the canvas, carefully removing the young mans just-out-of-high-school-innocence and replacing it with strong, arrogant features and ice blue eyes.

  "Perfect.” She breathed. Satisfied, she took the canvas off of the easel and placed it on the drying rack near the window.

  At half past ten in the morning she was pleased with the progress she had made on the start of her new series, tentatively titled ‘Majestic Montana.’ Once the painting was thoroughly dry she would pack it up and ship it to Lisa for display in the gallery.

  Or maybe you'll keep it, and in the years to come, when you're old and lonely and kids are throwing rocks at your window trying to scare each other, you can gaze at it and remember the gorgeous man that told you you were beautiful. And you can wonder what it would have been like to meet him first, when you were normal and still had something left that was worth giving.

  The knowledge that she was damaged goods settled over her while she was cleaning up her painting supplies. There was nothing left of her but damaged muscles, scarred features, anxiety attacks, nightmares, and fear. Oh, and the occasional bout of depression.

  Satisfied that her paints and canvases were in order Morgan took a seat at her desk and started arranging papers and various odd items. Pens and paper on the left-hand corner just beside the stapler, yellow sticky pad conveniently next to the phone, pretty note cards decorated with baby animals in the top drawer. Her hand lingered briefly on the drawer handle, and then slid slowly down the polished wood to land on her stomach.

  She would never have a baby, would never feel the seed of a man she loved growing inside of her or experience the pain of childbirth. She would never be called mommy or organize birthday parties. No watching her child grow up and start a life of its own ... and no grandchildren to spoil.

  Nick would make beautiful children...

  Morgan shook her head, trying to not let the clawing depression find its way inside. Going into her bedroom and sleeping for days on end was so tempting, and would be so easy to do. In the past Nyquil had always been a big help, but now ... now she had her own home and was reasonably successful with her artwork. Certainly successful enough to support herself. She had no reason to be depressed and no time for self-pity. No right to feel self-pity.

  She knew there were many women in the world that were still in abusive relationships and had no way out, no one to help them and nowhere to go. They would never get out and would most likely die because of that relationship. You're one of the lucky ones, Morgan. So quit whining.

  She had escaped, certainly not by her own willpower, but that didn't matter. She was free. She would have good days and bad days just like everyone else, and like everyone else she would deal with the emotions and move on. Live day by day was all she could do.

  The distant sound of a door slamming jerked her around in her chair, making her heart stutter. Clasping the edge of the desk for support she stood up. Visions of Nick and the last time she had seen him flashed through her mind and clutching a fist to her chest Morgan hurried from her office to the kitchen window. A red and white older model Ford truck was parked in her driveway. A tall man with light brown hair was bent over the bed, his back to her. She let the curtain flutter back into place and, fishing for courage, went to the front door.

  "Hi.” She called uncertainly from the relative safety of her steps. “Can I—can I help you?"

  The stranger turned and smiled, openly friendly and Morgan found herself hesitantly smiling back.

  "Hey there. You must be Morgan.” He started towards her, long legs covering the ground quickly, signaling speed and strength. Morgan interlaced her hands, squeezing them in front of her.

  Richard's hobby had been running and every morning he ran, trying to keep himself in shape. She remembered his pounding footsteps ... pounding, running her down and easily catching her ... She broke out in a sweat, squeezing her eyes shut. Her back bumped into something hard, startling a squeak out of her and she opened her eyes, realizing that she was plastered against the side of her house and that the stranger stood stock still, watching her, an odd expression on his face.

  "I'm Jake,” he spoke slowly and distinctly, watching her carefully as if expecting her to bolt at any time, “Nick's brother."

  "Oh.” Oh God ... first she made a fool of herself in front of Nick and now again in front of his brother. Could she feel any more ridiculous? Morgan looked closely and saw a few familial resemblances, namely the height and build, and she could already tell that Jake was the more amicable of the two. “I'm sorry, I-I'm Morgan.” She relaxed, easing herself away from the house. “Morgan Fletcher."

  He grinned, instantly charming again, “Nick's working horses today, he's been getting a little behind and needed to catch up,” he said apologetically, spreading his hands wide as if to say ‘and here I am.’ “Anyway, he asked me to take a look at the barn, measure some boards and cut them for you."

  "Oh, uh ... okay.” Disappointment wedged in her gut; obviously she had scared Nick off with her loony reaction yesterday, and now she had given his brother a taste of it. She stepped off the porch and held out her hand to him, embarrassed by her reaction.

  Again.

  "It's nice to meet you."

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  Chapter 10

  His grip was firm, his fingers calloused and strong, but she felt nothing. There was no doubting that he was a handsome guy, gorgeous in fact, as tall as Nick with thick wavy brown hair and almost the same build as his brother. There were definitely some very good genes running in that family. But there was absolutely nothing. No tingles, no goosebumps, no lightening bolts, and no insane urges to touch him just for the sake of touching him.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. This, she could deal with. This was safe.

  "The boards are under a tarp beside the barn. You know, you really don't have to do this.” She glanced up at Jake who was keeping pace beside her. “It's neither of your responsibilities."

  Tools clanged together as they walked and he adjusted the belt slung over his shoulder. She noticed him wince slightly when he lifted his arm to adjust them. He gave her a wide eyed, incredulous glance, “Are you kidding, Nick would bite my head off if I went back without doing this. He told me you didn't have anyone to help you,” he grinned again and winked at her, making her blush, “so let us help you."

  "You said he's working with horses? I saw an article about him on the wall in Winnett's convenience store."

  Jake snickered, “Yeah, he gets grumpy every time he sees it. He's not much for attention."

  "But it's wonderful what you two do. I can't stand the thought of people abusing their animals, they're so helpless.” Morgan glanced up at him and smiled. Here she was, relaxed and easily having a normal conversation—small talk—with a man. It was so totally unlike her that unconsciously her back straightened and she moved to stand closer to him.

  "Yeah, we get some, like the one he's working with today, that have really been messed up. This one had to be shot with a tranquilizer dart just to get c
lose enough to get a halter on him in order to bring him home."

  Morgan gasped, feeling a sudden kinship with the unknown animal. “What happened to him?"

  Jake shrugged, “Just a plain mean-ass—excuse my language—owner. He starved and beat the horse when it couldn't work anymore. Nick heard about the horse from some people and the next thing I knew he had gone and gotten him. Threatened to hand the owner over to the police if he didn't give up the horse.” Jake grinned down at her, showing a dimple in his left cheek. Morgan could clearly see that he was proud of what his older brother had done. “Nick can be pretty persuasive."

  Oh, yes. She could imagine. The horse's owner had probably taken one look at the towering, savagely angry Nick Evanoff and handed the horse right over.

  "Who's Dalton?” she asked, changing the subject. “Nick mentioned him while searching around in my barn."

  He looked down at her and she realized he had green eyes. Not bright green, but more subtle, mossy. Funny, she had never met a man with green eyes before.

  "Dalton Ramsey was Eliza's husband. He died about five years ago and then Eliza was moved to a nursing home two years ago. You must have bought this place from their son."

  Morgan smiled, “Yeah, the real estate agent said the son was tired of the up-keep."

  Jake snorted and glanced around at the yard, “Yeah, I can see how much effort he put into it."

  The derision in his voice made Morgan look around, seeing through his eyes the unkempt yard, the peeling paint, and the numerous repairs that were needed. The obvious neglect was what had made her so determined to turn the place around.

  A wrench fell out of the toolbelt, landing with a heavy thud on the grass, and she bent down to pick it up. A big hand flashed by her temple and the wrench was snatched up. The world blurred and with a little cry Morgan sank to her knees on the ground, throwing up her hands to protect her face as nausea burned in her throat and she waited for the first hit from that big fist to land.