The Return of Rafe MacKade

The MacKade Brothers Series

Book One

Nora Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Ten years after disappearing from Antietam, Maryland, the bad boy has returned. Cleaned up and successful now—and still dangerously good-looking—Rafe MacKade sets the town on fire, and tongues wagging.

Lovely newcomer Regan Jones is intrigued—what kind of man could cause this sort of talk? She’s just about to find out….

To bad boys everywhere

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Prologue

The MacKade brothers were looking for trouble. They usually were. In the small town of Antietam, Maryland, it wasn’t always easy to find, but then, looking was half the fun.

When they piled into Jared’s secondhand Chevy, they’d squabbled over who would take the wheel. It was Jared’s car, and he was the eldest, but that didn’t carry much weight with his three brothers.

Rafe had wanted to drive. He’d had a need for speed, a thirst to zip along those dark, winding roads, with his foot hard on the gas and his foul and reckless mood chasing behind him. He thought perhaps he could out-distance it, or perhaps meet it head-on. If he met it, bloodied it, conquered it, he knew he would just keep driving until he was somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

They had buried their mother two weeks ago.

Perhaps because his dangerous mood showed so clearly in Rafe’s jade eyes and in the cold set of his mouth, he’d been outvoted. In the end, Devin had taken the wheel, with Jared riding shotgun. Rafe brooded in the back seat with his youngest brother, Shane, beside him.

They were a rough and dangerous group, the MacKade boys. All of them tall and rangy as wild stallions, with fists ready and often too eager to find a target. Their eyes, MacKade eyes, all varying shades of green, could carve a man into pieces at ten paces. When the dark mood was on them, a wise man stayed back eleven or more.

They settled on pool and beer, though Shane complained, as he was still shy of twenty-one and wouldn’t be served in Duff’s Tavern.

Still, the dim, smoke-choked bar suited them. The slam and crack of the balls had just enough of a violent edge, the gaze of the scrawny-shouldered Duff Dempsey was just uneasy enough. The wariness in the eyes of the other customers, gossiping over their beers, was just flattering enough.

Nobody doubted the MacKade boys were out for trouble. In the end, they found what they were looking for.

While a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, Rafe squinted against the smoke and eyed his shot. He hadn’t bothered to shave in a couple of days, and the rough stubble mirrored his mood. With a solid smack, a follow-through smooth as silk, he banked the cue ball, kissed it off the seven and made his pocket.

“Good thing you’re lucky at something.” At the bar, Joe Dolin tipped back his beer. He was, as usual after sundown, mostly drunk, and mean with it. He’d once been the star of the high school football team, had competed with the MacKades for the favors of pretty young girls. Now, at barely twenty-one, his face had begun to bloat and his body to sag.

The black eye he’d given his young wife before leaving the house hadn’t really satisfied him.

Rafe chalked his cue and barely spared Joe a glance.

“Going to take more than hustling pool, MacKade, to keep that farm going, now that your mama’s gone.” Dangling his bottle from two fingers, Joe grinned. “Heard you’re going to have to start selling off for back taxes.”

“Heard wrong.” Coolly Rafe circled the table to calculate his next shot.

“Oh, I heard right. You MacKades’ve always been fools, and liars.”

Before Shane could leap forward, Rafe shot out his cue to block the way. “He’s talking to me,” he said quietly. He held his brother’s gaze another moment before he turned. “Isn’t that right, Joe? You’re talking to me?”

“I’m talking to any of you.” As he lifted his beer again, Joe’s gaze skimmed over the four of them. At twenty, Shane was tough from farm work, but still more boy than man. Then Devin, whose cool, thoughtful gaze revealed little. Over Jared, who was leaning negligently against the jukebox, waiting for the next move.

He looked back at Rafe. There was temper, hot and ready. Recklessness worn like a second skin. “But you’ll do. Always figured you for the biggest loser of the lot, Rafe.”

“That so?” Rafe crushed out his cigarette, lifted his own beer. He drank as they completed the ritual before battle, and customers shifted in their chairs to watch. “How’re things going at the factory, Joe?”

“Least I get a paycheck,” Joe shot back. “I got money in my pocket. Ain’t nobody going to take my house from over me.”

“Not as long as your wife keeps putting in twelve-hour shifts working tables to pay the rent.”

“Shut your mouth about my wife. I earn the money in my house. I don’t need no woman paying my way, like your mama had to do for your old man. Went through her inheritance like it was water, then up and died on her.”

“Yeah, he died on her.” Anger and guilt and grief welled up inside him. “But he never laid a hand on her. She never had to come into town hiding behind scarves and dark glasses, and saying how she took a fall. Only thing your mother ever fell over, Joe, was your father’s fist.”

Joe slammed his beer onto the bar, shattering the glass. “That’s a lie. I’m going to ram that lie down your throat.”

“Try it.”

“He’s drunk, Rafe,” Jared murmured.

Those lethal green eyes sliced toward his brother. “So?”

“So there isn’t much point in breaking his face when he’s drunk.” Jared moved a shoulder. “He’s not worth it.”

But Rafe didn’t need a point. He just needed action. He lifted his cue, studied it, then laid it across the table. “You want to take me on, Joe?”

“Don’t you start in here.” Though he knew it was already too late, Duff jerked a thumb toward the wall phone. “You make any trouble in here, I’m calling the sheriff, and the lot of you can cool off in jail.”

“Keep your damn hand off the phone,” Rafe warned him. His eyes were hard enough to have the bartender backing off. “Outside,” he said simply.

“You and me.” Curling his fists, Joe stared at the MacKades. “I ain’t having your brothers jumping in on me while I whip your butt.”

“I don’t need any help with you.” To prove it, the moment they cleared the door Rafe pivoted to avoid Joe’s swing, rammed his fist into Joe’s face and felt the first satisfying spill of blood.

He couldn’t even have said why he was fighting. Joe meant less to him than the dust in the street. But it felt good. Even when Joe got past his guard and connected, it felt good. Fists and blood were the only clear solution. When he felt the satisfying crack of knuckles against bone, he could forget everything else.

Devin winced, then tucked his hands philosophically in his pockets when blood spurted from his brother’s mouth. “I give it five minutes.”

“Hell, Rafe’ll take him down in three.” Grinning, Shane watched the grunting opponents wrestle to the ground.

“Ten bucks.”

“You’re on. Come on, Rafe!” Shane shouted. “Whip his sorry butt!”

It took three minutes, plus thirty nasty seconds with Rafe straddling Joe and methodically pumping a fist into his face. Since Joe’s eyes had rolled up white and his arms were limp at his sides, Jared stepped forward to drag his brother away.

“He’s finished.” To decide the matter, Jared rammed Rafe up against the brick wall of the bar. “He’s finished,” he repeated. “Let it go.”

The vicious rage drained slowly, fading from Rafe’s eyes, uncurling his fists. Emptying him. “Let go, Jare. I’m not going to hit him again.”

Rafe looked to where Joe lay moaning, half-unconscious. Over his battered body, Devin counted out bills for Shane. “I should have factored in how drunk he was,” Devin commented. “If he’d been sober, it would’ve taken Rafe the five.”

“Rafe would never waste five full minutes on a punk like that.”

Jared shook his head. The arm that was restraining Rafe slipped companionably around Rafe’s shoulders. “Want another beer?”

“No.” He glanced toward the window of the bar, where most of the patrons had gathered to watch. Absently he swiped blood from his face. “Somebody better pick him up and haul him home,” he called out. “Let’s get out of here.”

When he settled in the car again, the aches and bruises began to make themselves known. With half an ear, he listened to Shane’s enthusiastic play-by-play of the bout and used Devin’s bandanna to mop more blood from his mouth.

He was going nowhere, he thought. Doing nothing. Being nothing. The only difference between him and Joe Dolin was that Joe was a drunk on top of it.

He hated the damn farm, the damn town, the damn trap he could feel himself sinking into with every day that passed.

Jared had his books and studies, Devin his odd and ponderous thoughts, Shane the land that seemed to delight him.

He had nothing.

On the edge of town, where the land began to climb and the trees to thicken, he saw a house. The old Barlow place. Dark, deserted and haunted, so it was said. It stood alone, unwanted, with a reputation that caused most of the townspeople to ignore it or eye it warily.

Just as they did Rafe MacKade.

“Pull over.”

“Hell, Rafe, you going to be sick?” Not concerned so much as apprehensive, Shane gripped his own door handle.

“No. Pull over, damn it, Jared.”

The minute the car stopped, Rafe was out and climbing the rocky slope. Brambles thick with thorns and summer growth tore at his jeans. He didn’t need to look behind or hear the curses and mutters to know that his brothers were following him.

He stood, looking up at three stories of local stone. Mined, he supposed, from the quarry a few miles out of town. Some of the windows were broken and boarded, and the double porches sagged like an old woman’s back. What had once been a lawn was overgrown with wild blackberries, thistles and witchgrass. A dead oak rose from it, gnarled and leafless.

But as the moon wheeled overhead and the breeze sang chants through the trees and tall grass, there was something compelling about the place. The way it stood two hundred years after its foundation had been laid. The way it continued to stand against time, weather and neglect. And most of all, he thought, the way it stood against the distrust and gossip of the town it overlooked.

“Going to look for ghosts, Rafe?” Shane stood beside him, eyes gleaming against the dark.

“Maybe.”

“Remember when we spent the night there, on a dare?” Absently Devin plucked a blade of grass, rolled it between his fingers. “Ten years ago, I guess it was. Jared snuck upstairs and started creaking doors. Shane wet his pants.”

“Hell I did.”

“Hell you didn’t.”

This incited the predictable shoving match, which the older brothers ignored.

“When are you leaving?” Jared said quietly. He’d known it, saw it now in the way Rafe looked at the house, into it, beyond it.

“Tonight. I’ve got to get away from here, Jare. Do something away from here. If I don’t, I’m going to be like Dolin. Maybe worse. Mom’s gone. She doesn’t need me anymore. Hell, she never needed anybody.”

“Got any idea where you’re going?”

“No. South, maybe. To start.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the house. He would have sworn it was watching him, judging him. Waiting. “I’ll send money when I can.”

Though he felt as though someone were wrenching off one of his limbs, Jared merely shrugged. “We’ll get by.”

“You have to finish law school. Mom wanted that.” Rafe glanced behind, to where the shoving match had progressed to wrestling in the weeds. “They’ll handle themselves okay once they figure out what they want.”

“Shane knows what he wants. The farm.”

“Yeah.” With a thin smile, Rafe took out a cigarette. “Go figure. Sell off some of the land, if you have to, but don’t let them take it. We have to keep what’s ours. Before it’s over, this town’s going to remember the MacKades meant something.”

Rafe’s smile widened. For the first time in weeks, the gnawing ache inside him eased. His brothers were sitting on the ground, covered with dirt and scratches and laughing like loons.

He was going to remember them that way, he promised himself, just that way. The MacKades, holding together on rocky ground no one wanted.

Chapter 1

The bad boy was back. The town of Antietam was buzzing over it, passing fact, rumor and innuendo from one to another, the way the guests at a boardinghouse passed bowls of steaming stew.

It was a rich broth, spiced with scandal, sex and secrets. Rafe MacKade had come back after ten years.

Some said there would be trouble. Bound to be. Trouble hung around Rafe MacKade like a bell around a bull’s neck. Wasn’t it Rafe MacKade who’d decked the high school principal one spring morning and gotten himself expelled? Wasn’t it Rafe MacKade who’d wrecked his dead daddy’s Ford pickup before he was old enough to drive?

And surely it was Rafe MacKade who’d tossed a table—and that fool Manny Johnson—through the plate-glass window of Duff’s Tavern one hot summer night.

Now he’d come back, a-riding into town in some fancy sports car and parking, bold as you please, right in front of the sheriff’s office.

Of course, his brother Devin was sheriff now, had been for five years last November. But there’d been a time—and most remembered—when Rafe MacKade spent more than a night or two in one of the two cells in the back.

Oh, he was as handsome as ever—so the women said. With those devil’s good looks the MacKades were gifted—or cursed—with. If a female had breath in her body, she’d look twice, maybe even sigh over that long, wiry build, that loose-legged stride that seemed to dare anyone to get in the way.

Then there was that thick black hair, those eyes, as green and hard as the ones in that little Chinese statue in the window of the Past Times antique store. They did nothing to soften that tough, sharp-jawed face, with that little scar along the left eye. God knew where he’d gotten that.

But when he smiled, when he curved that beautiful mouth up and that little dimple winked at the corner, a woman’s heart was bound to flutter. That sentiment came directly from Sharilyn Fenniman who’d taken that smile, and his twenty dollars for gas, at the Gas and Go, just outside of town.

Before Rafe had his car in gear again, Sharilyn had been burning up the phone wires to announce the return.

“So Sharilyn called her mama, and Mrs. Metz got right on her horse and told Mrs. Hawbaker down at the general store that Rafe maybe plans to stay.”

As she spoke, Cassandra Dolin topped off Regan’s coffee. The way snow was spitting out of the January sky and clogging streets and sidewalks, there was little business at Ed’s Café that afternoon. Slowly Cassie straightened her back and tried to ignore the ache in her hip where it had struck the floor after Joe knocked her down.

“Why shouldn’t he?” Smiling, Regan Bishop loitered over her mulligan stew and coffee. “He was born here, wasn’t he?”

Even after three years as a resident and shopkeeper of Antietam, Regan still didn’t understand the town’s fascination with comings and goings. It appealed to and amused her, but she didn’t understand it.

“Well, yeah, but he’s been gone so long. Only came back for a day or so at a time, once or twice in ten whole years.” Cassie looked out the window, where the snow fell thin and constant. And wondered where he had gone, what he had seen, what he had done. Oh, she wondered what there was out there.

“You look tired, Cassie,” Regan murmured.

“Hmm? No, just daydreaming. This keeps up, they’re going to call school early. I told the kids to come straight here if they did, but…”

“Then that’s what they’ll do. They’re great kids.”

“They are.” When she smiled, some of the weariness lifted from her eyes.

“Why don’t you get a cup? Have some coffee with me?” A scan of the café showed Regan there was a customer in a back booth, dozing over his coffee, a couple at the counter chatting over the stew special. “You’re not exactly overrun with business.” Seeing Cassie hesitate, Regan pulled out her trump. “You could fill me in on this Rafe character.”

“Well.” Cassie nibbled on her lip. “Ed, I’m going to take a break, okay?”

At the call, a bony woman with a frizzed ball of red hair stuck her head out of the kitchen. Sparkling-framed glasses rested on her scrawny chest, above her bib apron. “You go ahead, honey.” Her low voice rasped from two packs of cigarettes a day. Her face was carefully painted from red lips to red eyebrows, and glowed from the heat of the stove. “Hey there, Regan. You’re fifteen minutes over your lunch hour.”

“I closed at noon,” Regan told her, well aware that her clocklike schedule amused Edwina Crump. “People aren’t looking for antiques in this kind of weather.”

“It’s been a hard winter.” Cassie brought a cup to the table and poured coffee for herself. “We’re not even through January, and the kids are already getting tired of sledding and making snowmen.” She sighed, careful not to wince when the bruise on her hip ached when she sat. She was twenty-seven, a year younger than Regan. She felt ancient.

After three years of friendship, Regan recognized the signs. “Are things bad, Cassie?” Keeping her voice low, she laid a hand over Cassie’s. “Did he hurt you again?”

“I’m fine.” But Cassie kept her eyes on her cup. Guilt, humiliation, fear, stung as much as a backhand slap. “I don’t want to talk about Joe.”

“Did you read the pamphlets I got you, about spousal abuse, the women’s shelter in Hagerstown?”

“I looked at them. Regan, I have two children. I have to think of them first.”

“But—”

“Please.” Cassie lifted her gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right.” Struggling to hold back the impatience, Regan squeezed her hand. “Tell me about bad boy MacKade.”

“Rafe.” Cassie’s face cleared. “I always had a soft spot for him. All of them. There wasn’t a girl in town who didn’t moon a few nights over the MacKade brothers.”

“I like Devin.” Regan sipped at her coffee. “He seems solid, a little mysterious at times, but dependable.”

“You can count on Devin,” Cassie agreed. “Nobody thought any of them would turn out, but Devin makes a fine sheriff. He’s fair. Jared has that fancy law practice in the city. And Shane, well, he’s rough around the edges, but he works that farm like two mules. When they were younger and they came barreling into town, mothers locked up their daughters, and men kept their backs to the wall.”

“Real upstanding citizens, huh?”

“They were young, and always seemed angry at something. Rafe most of all. The night he left town, Rafe and Joe got into it over something. Rafe broke Joe’s nose and knocked out a couple of his teeth.”

“Really?” Regan decided she might like this Rafe after all.

“He was always looking for a fight, Rafe was. Their father died when they were kids. I’d have been about ten,” she mused. “Then their mama passed on, right before Rafe left town. She’d been sick nearly a year. That’s how things at the farm got so bad around then. Most people thought the MacKades would have to sell out, but they held on.”

“Well, three of them did.”

“Mmm…” Cassie savored the coffee. It was so rare to have a moment just to sit. “They were barely more than boys. Jared would have been right about twenty-three, and Rafe’s just ten months behind him. Devin’s about four years older than me, and Shane’s a year behind him.”

“Sounds like Mrs. MacKade was a busy woman.”

“She was wonderful. Strong. She held everything together, no matter how bad it got. I always admired her.”

“Sometimes you need to be strong to let things go,” Regan murmured. She shook her head. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t push. “So, what do you think he’s come back for?”

“I don’t know. They say he’s rich now. Made a pile buying land and houses and selling them again. He’s supposed to have a company and everything. MacKade. That’s what he calls it. Just MacKade. My mother always said he’d end up dead or in jail, but…”

Her voice trailed off as she looked through the window. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “Sharilyn was right.”

“Hmm?”

“He looks better than ever.”

Curious, Regan turned her head just as the door jingled open. As black sheep went, she was forced to admit, this one was a prime specimen.

He shook snow from thick hair the color of coal dust and shrugged off a black leather bomber jacket that wasn’t meant for East Coast winters. Regan thought he had a warrior’s face—the little scar, the unshaven chin, the slightly crooked nose that kept that mouth-watering face from being too pretty.

His body looked hard as granite, and his eyes, sharp green, were no softer.

In worn flannel, torn jeans and scarred boots, he didn’t look rich and successful. But he sure looked dangerous.

It amused and pleased Rafe to see Ed’s place was so much the same. Those could be the same stools at the counter that he’d warmed his seat on as a child, anticipating a sundae or a fountain drink. Surely those were the same smells—grease, frying onions, the haze from Ed’s constant cigarettes, an undertone of pine cleaner.

He was sure Ed would be back in the kitchen, flipping burgers or stirring pots. And sure as hell that was old man Tidas snoring in the back booth while his coffee went cold. Just as he’d always done.

His eyes, cool, assessing, skimmed over the painfully white counter, with its clear-plastic-topped plates of pies and cakes, over the walls, with their black-and-white photos of Civil War battles, to a booth where two women sat over coffee.

He saw a stranger. An impressive one. Honey brown hair cut in a smooth chin-length swing that framed a face of soft curves and creamy skin. Long lashes over dark and coolly curious blue eyes. And a sassy little mole right at the corner of a full and unsmiling mouth.

Picture-perfect, he thought. Just like something cut out of a glossy magazine.

They studied each other, assessed each other as a man or woman might assess a particularly attractive trinket in a shop window. Then his gaze shifted to land on the fragile little blonde with the haunted eyes and the hesitant smile.

“Son of a bitch.” His grin flashed and upped the temperature by twenty degrees. “Little Cassie Connor.”

“Rafe. I heard you were back.” The sound of her giggle as Rafe plucked her from the booth had Regan’s brow lifting. It was rare to hear Cassie laugh so freely.

“Pretty as ever,” he said, and kissed her full on the lips. “Tell me you kicked that idiot out and left the path clear for me.”

She eased back, always fearful of wagging tongues. “I’ve got two kids now.”

“A boy and a girl. I heard.” He tugged the strap of her bib apron, and thought with some concern that she’d lost too much weight. “You’re still working here?”

“Yeah. Ed’s in the back.”

“I’ll go see her in a minute.” Resting a hand casually on Cassie’s shoulder, he looked back at Regan. “Who’s your pal?”

“Oh, sorry. This is Regan Bishop. She owns Past Times, an antique and decorating store a couple doors down. Regan, this is Rafe MacKade.”

“Of the MacKade brothers.” She offered a hand. “Word’s already traveled.”

“I’m sure it has.” He took her hand, held it, as his eyes held hers. “Antiques? That’s a coincidence. I’m in the market.”

“Are you?” She’d risk her dignity if she tugged her hand from his. From the gleam in his eye, she was sure he knew it. “Any particular era?”

“Mid-to-late-1800s—everything from soup to nuts. I’ve got a three-story house, about twelve hundred square feet to furnish. Think you can handle it?”

It took a lot of willpower for her to keep her jaw from dropping. She did well enough with tourists and townspeople, but a commission like this would easily triple her usual income.

“I’m sure I can.”

“You bought a house?” Cassie said interrupting them. “I thought you’d be staying out at the farm.”

“For now. The house isn’t for living in, not for me. After some remodeling, restoring, I’ll be opening it up as a bed-and-breakfast. I bought the old Barlow place.”

Stunned, Cassie bobbled the coffeepot she’d fetched. “The Barlow place? But it’s—”

“Haunted?” A reckless light glinted in his eyes. “Damn right it is. How about a piece of that pie to go with the coffee, Cassie? I’ve worked up an appetite.”

Regan had left but Rafe had loitered for an hour, entertained when Cassie’s kids burst in out of the snow. He watched her fuss over them, scold the boy for forgetting to put on his gloves, listened to the big-eyed little girl solemnly relate the adventures of the day.

There was something sad, and somehow soothing, about watching the girl he remembered settling her two children at a booth with crayons and books.

A lot had stayed the same over a decade. But a lot had changed. He was well aware that news of his arrival was even now singing over telephone wires. It pleased him. He wanted the town to know he was back—and not with his tail between his legs, as many had predicted.

He had money in his pocket now, and plans for the future.

The Barlow place was the heart of his plans. He didn’t subscribe to ghosts, under most circumstances, but the house had certainly haunted him. Now it belonged to him, every old stone and bramble—and whatever else it held. He was going to rebuild it, as he had rebuilt himself.

One day he would stand at the top window and look down on the town. He would prove to everyone—even to Rafe MacKade—that he was somebody.

He tucked a generous tip under his cup, careful to keep the amount just shy of one that would embarrass Cassie. She was too thin, he thought, and her eyes were too guarded. That weary fragility had been thrown into sharp relief when she sat with Regan.

Now there was a woman, he mused, who knew how to handle herself. Steady eyes, stubborn chin, soft hands. She hadn’t so much as blinked when he offered her a shot at furnishing an entire inn. Oh, he imagined her insides had jolted, but she hadn’t blinked.

As a man who’d earned his keep on the wheel and deal, he had to admire her for it. Time would tell if she’d hold up to the challenge.

And there was no time like the present.

“That antique place, two doors down?”

“That’s right.” Cassie kept one eye on her children as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee. “On the left. I don’t think she’s open, though.”

Rafe shrugged into his jacket and grinned. “Oh, I bet she is.”

He strolled out, hatless, jacket open, his footsteps muffled by the cushioning snow. As he’d expected, the lights were on inside Past Times. Instead of seeking shelter inside, he studied her window display and found it clever and effective.

A sweep of blue brocade like a pool of shimmering water flowed over varying levels. A bright-eyed porcelain doll sat on a child-size ladder-back rocker, an artful tumble of antique toys at her feet. A snarling jade dragon curled on a pedestal. A glossy mahogany jewelry box stood open, glittery baubles spilling out of its drawers as though a woman’s hands had slid through them in search of just the right piece.

Perfume bottles were arranged in pretty sunbursts of color on an enameled shelf.

Put the sparkles up front, he thought with a nod, and rope the customers in.

Sleigh bells hung on the door tinkled musically when he opened it. The air inside was spiced with cinnamon and cloves and apples. And, he realized after a deep breath of it, of Regan Bishop. The subtle and sultry perfume he’d noted in the café just teased the air.

He took his time wandering. Furniture was meticulously arranged for traffic patterns. A settee here, an occasional table there. Lamps, bowls, vases, all doing double duty as display and decoration. A dining room table was gracefully set with china and glassware, candles and flowers, as if guests were expected any moment. An old Victrola stood open beside a cabinet filled with 78s.

There were three rooms, each as polished and organized as the last. Nowhere in her inventory did he notice a single speck of dust. He paused by a kitchen hutch filled with white stoneware dishes and blue-tinted mason jars.

“It’s a nice piece,” Regan said from behind him.

“We have one like this in the kitchen at the farm.” He didn’t turn. He’d known she was there. “My mother kept the everyday dishes in it. White ones, like these. And glasses. Thick ones that didn’t break easy. She threw one at me once when I sassed her.”

“Did she hit you?”

“No. Would have if she’d meant to.” Now he turned and flashed that killer grin. “She had a hell of an arm. What are you doing in the middle of nowhere, Regan Bishop?”

“Selling my wares, Rafe MacKade.”

“Your wares aren’t half-bad. How much for the dragon in the window?”

“You have excellent taste. It’s five-fifty.”

“That’s steep, Regan.” Reaching out, he slipped open the single gold button of her navy blazer.

She found the little gesture oddly intimate, but refused to comment on it. “You get what you pay for.”

“If you’re smart, you can get more.” He tucked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and began to wander again. “How long have you been in town?”

“Three years last summer.”

“From?” When she didn’t answer, he glanced back, lifted one of those sexy black brows. “Just making conversation, darling. I like to get a handle on the people I’m doing business with.”

“We haven’t done any business, yet.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. “Darling.”

His laugh erupted, quick and charming. Little ripples of response skidded up her spine. He was, she was sure, the man every mother had ever warned her daughter about. As tempting as it was, business was business. And it always came first.

“I think I’m going to like you, Regan.” He tilted his head. “You sure are a looker.”

“Making conversation again?”

“An observation.” With a smile hovering around his mouth, he glanced down at her hands. She wore rings, pretty, glittery stones and twists of gold. “Any of those mean anything that’s going to get in my way?”

Her stomach fluttered. Her spine stiffened. “I’d say that depends on which way you’re heading.”

“Nope,” he declared. “You’re not married. You’d have tossed that in my face. So.” Satisfied, he sat on a red velvet love seat, tossed his arm over the curved back. “Want to sit down?”

“No, thanks. Did you come in to do business, or to talk me into bed?”

“I never talk women into bed.” He smiled at her.

No, she thought, he’d just have to flash that smile and crook his finger.

“Business, Regan.” Relaxed, he crossed his booted feet. “For now, just business.”

“All right. Then I’ll offer you some hot cider.”

“I’ll take it.”

She moved through a doorway, into the back. Alone, Rafe brooded for a moment. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious, hadn’t realized he was quite so attracted. There had been something about the way she stood there, in her tailored blazer and tasteful jewelry, her eyes so cool and amused, her scent just short of hot.

If he’d ever seen a woman who announced a thorny road, it was Regan Bishop. Though he rarely chose the smooth path, he had too much on his plate to take the challenge.

Then she came back in on those long, glamorous legs, that pretty swing of hair half curtaining her face.

What the hell, he thought, he could always make room on his plate.

“Thanks.” He took the steaming enameled mug she offered. “I figured on hiring a firm out of D.C. or Baltimore, maybe taking some time to hunt through some shops myself.”

“I can acquire anything a firm in D.C. or Baltimore can, and offer a better price.” She hoped.

“Maybe. The thing is, I like the idea of keeping the business close to home. We’ll see what you can do.” He sipped the cider, found it hot and pungent. “What do you know about the Barlow place?”

“It’s falling apart. I think it’s a crime that nothing’s been done to preserve it. This part of the country is usually careful with its historic areas and buildings. But the town ignores that place. If I had the means, I’d have bought it myself.”

“And you’d have gotten more than you bargained for. The house is solid as rock. If it wasn’t so well built, it’d be rubble by now. But, it needs work…” he mused, and began to picture it all in his head. “Floors to be leveled and sanded and sealed, walls to be plastered or taken down, windows replaced. The roof’s a mess.”

He brought himself back, shrugged. “That’s just time and money. When it’s ready, I want to put it back the way it looked in 1862, when the Barlows lived there and watched the Battle of Antietam from their parlor window.”

“Did they?” Regan asked with a smile. “I’d have thought they’d have been cowering in the root cellar.”

“Not the way I imagine it. The rich and privileged watching the show, maybe annoyed when cannon fire cracked a window or the screams of the dead and dying woke the baby from its nap.”

“You’re a cynical one. Being rich wouldn’t mean you wouldn’t feel horror if you had to watch men dying on your front lawn.”

“The heart of the battle didn’t get quite that close. Anyway, that’s what I want—the right colors, trim, wallpaper, furnishings, doodads. The works.” He had an urge for a cigarette and banked it. “How do you feel about redoing a haunted house?”

“Interested.” She eyed him over the rim of her mug. “Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“You will before it’s done. I spent the night there once, as a kid, with my brothers.”

“Creaking doors, rattling chains?”

“No.” He didn’t smile now. “Except the ones Jared arranged to scare the guts out of the rest of us. There’s a spot on the stairway that’ll turn your skin to ice. You can smell smoke near the living room hearth. And you can feel something looking over your shoulder when you walk down the hallways. If it’s quiet enough, and you’re listening, you can hear sabers clash.”

Despite herself, she couldn’t quite suppress a shudder. “If you’re trying to scare me off the commission, you won’t.”

“Just laying out the blueprint. I’ll want you to take a look at the place, go through the rooms with me. We’ll see what kind of ideas you have. Tomorrow afternoon suit you? About two?”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll need to take measurements.”

“Good.” He set his mug aside, rose. “Nice doing business with you.”

Again she accepted his hand. “Welcome home.”

“You’re the first one who’s said it.” Enjoying the irony, he lifted her hand to his lips, watching her. “Then again, you don’t know any better. See you tomorrow. And, Regan,” he added on his way to the door, “take the dragon out of the window. I want it.”

On the way out of town, he pulled his car to the side of the road and stopped. Ignoring the snow and the icy fingers of the wind, he studied the house on the rise of the hill.

Its broken windows and sagging porches revealed nothing, just as Rafe’s shadowed eyes revealed nothing. Ghosts, he mused, while snow drifted silently around him. Maybe. But he was beginning to realize that the only ghosts he was trying to put to rest were inside him.

Chapter 2

The beauty of owning your own shop, as far as Regan was concerned, was that you could buy and sell what you chose, your hours were your own to make, and the atmosphere was your own to create.

Still, being the sole proprietor and sole employee of Past Times didn’t mean Regan Bishop tolerated any slack. As her own boss, she was tough, often intolerant, and expected the best from her staff. As that staff, she worked hard and rarely complained.

She had exactly what she’d always wanted—a home and business in a small rural town, away from the pressures and headaches of the city where she’d lived the first twenty-five years of her life.

Moving to Antietam and starting her own business had been part of her five-year plan after she graduated from American University. She had degrees in history and business management tucked under her belt, and by the time she donned cap and gown she’d already earned five years experience in antiques.

Working for someone else.

Now she was the boss. Every inch of the shop and the cozy apartment atop it was hers—and the bank’s. The MacKade commission was going to go a long way toward making her share a great deal larger.

The minute Rafe left the afternoon before, Regan had locked up and dashed to the library. She’d checked out an armload of books to supplement her own research volumes.

By midnight, when her eyes had threatened to cross, she had read and taken notes on every detail of life as it applied to the Civil War era in Maryland.

She knew every aspect of the Battle of Antietam, from Lee’s march to his retreat across the river, from McClellan’s waffling to President Lincoln’s visit to a farm outside Sharpsburg. She knew the number of dead and wounded, the bloody progress over hill and through cornfield.

It was sad and standard information, and she’d studied it before. Indeed, her fascination with the battle and the quiet area into which it had exploded had influenced her choice of a home.

But this time she’d been able to find bits and pieces on the Barlows—both fact and speculation. The family had lived in the house on the hill for almost a hundred years before that horrible day in September of 1862. Prosperous landowners and businessmen, they had lived like lords. Their balls and dinners had enticed guests from as far as Washington and Virginia.

She knew how they had dressed—the frock coats and lace and the hooped skirts. Silk hats and satin slippers. She knew how they had lived, with servants pouring wine into crystal goblets, their home decorated with hothouse flowers, their furniture glowing with bee’s wax polish.

Now, negotiating snowy, windy roads under sparkling sunlight, she could see exactly the colors and fabrics, the furnishings and knickknacks that would have surrounded them.

Chiffoniers of rosewood, she mused. Wedgwood china and horsehair settees. The fine Chippendale chest-on-chest for the master, the graceful cherrywood-and-beveled-glass secretaire for his lady. Brocade portieres and rich Colonial blue for the walls in the parlor.

Rafe MacKade was going to get his money’s worth. And, oh, she hoped his pockets were deep.

The narrow, broken lane leading up to the house was deep in snow. No tire tracks or handy plow had marred its pretty, pristine—and very inconvenient—white blanket.

Annoyed that Rafe hadn’t taken care of that detail, Regan eased her car onto the shoulder.

Armed with her briefcase, she began the long trudge up.

At least she’d thought to wear boots, she told herself as the snow crept past her ankles. She’d very nearly worn a suit and heels—before she remembered that impressing Rafe MacKade wasn’t on her agenda. The gray trousers, tailored blazer and black turtleneck were acceptable business wear for an assignment such as this. And, as she doubted the place was heated, the red wool coat would come in handy, inside, as well as out.

It was a fabulous and intriguing place, she decided as she crested the hill. All those flecks of mica in the stone, glinting like glass in the sunlight, made up for the boarded windows. The porches sagged, but the building itself rose up tall and proud against the bitter blue sky.

She liked the way the east wing jutted off at a stern angle. The way the trio of chimneys speared from the roof as if waiting to belch smoke. She even liked the way the broken shutters hung drunkenly.

It needed tending, she thought, with an affection that surprised her. Someone to love it, and accept its character for what it was. Someone who would appreciate its strengths and understand its weaknesses.

She shook her head and laughed at herself. It sounded as though she were thinking of a man—one, perhaps, like Rafe MacKade—rather than a house.

She walked closer, through the deep, powdery drifts. Rocks and overgrown brush made uneven lumps in the snow, like children under blankets waiting to do mischief. Brambles were sneaky enough to grab at her trousers with sharp, wiry fingers. But once the lawn had been lush and green and vivid with flowers.

If Rafe had any vision, it would be again.

Reminding herself that the landscaping was his problem, she puffed her way to the broken front porch.

He was, she thought with a scowl, late.

Regan looked around, stomped her feet for warmth and glanced at her watch. The man could hardly expect her to stand out in the cold and the wind and wait. Ten minutes, tops, she told herself. Then she would leave him a note, a very firm note on the value of keeping appointments, and leave.

But it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek in the window.

Maneuvering carefully, she inched her way up the steps, avoided broken planks. There should be wisteria or morning glories climbing up the side arbor, she mused, and for a moment she almost believed she could catch the faint, sweet scent of spring.

She caught herself moving to the door, closing her hand over the knob before she realized that had been her intention all along. Surely it was locked, she thought. Even small towns weren’t immune to vandals. But even as she thought it, the knob turned freely in her hand.

It was only sensible to go in, out of the wind, begin to site the job. Yet she pulled her hand back with a jerk. Her breath was coming in gasps, shockingly loud on the silent air. Inside her neat leather gloves, her hands were icy and trembling.

Out of breath from the climb, she told herself. Shivering from the wind. That was all. But the fear was on her like a cat, hissing through her blood.

Embarrassed, she looked uneasily around. There was no one to see her ridiculous reaction. Only snow and trees.

She took a deep breath, laughed at herself, and opened the door.

It creaked, of course. That was to be expected. The wide main hall gave her such a rush of pleasure, she forgot everything else. Closing the door, she leaned back against it and sighed.

There was dust and mold, damp patches on the walls, baseboards ruined by gnawing mice, spiderwebs draped like filthy gauze. She saw rich, deep green paint, creamy ivory trim, the buff and shine of waxed pine floors under her feet, a runner blooming with cabbage roses.

And there, she thought a hunt table, with a Dresden bowl spilling more roses, flanked by silver candlesticks. A little walnut hall chair with a pierced back, a hammered brass umbrella stand, a gilded mirror.

How it had been, and could be, spun through her mind, and she didn’t feel the cold that sent her breath ahead of her in clouds as she wandered.

In the parlor, she marveled over the Adam fireplace. The marble was filthy, but undamaged. She had twin vases in the shop that would be perfect for the mantel. And a needlepoint footstool that was meant for weary feet in front of this very hearth.

Delighted, she pulled out her notebook and got to work.

Cobwebs dragged through her hair, dirt smudged her cheek, dust covered her boots, as she measured and plotted. She was in heaven. Her mood was so high that when she heard the footsteps, she turned with a smile instead of a complaint.

“It’s wonderful. I can hardly—” She was talking to thin air.

Frowning, she walked out of the parlor and into the hall. She started to call out, then noted that there were no footprints in the dust but her own.

Imagining things, she told herself, and shuddered. Big, empty houses made all sorts of noises. Settling wood, wind against the windows…rodents, she thought with a grimace. She wasn’t afraid of mice or spiders or creaking boards.

But when the floor groaned over her head, she couldn’t muffle the shriek. Her heart flew straight to her throat and beat like a bird’s. Before she’d managed to compose herself again, she heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing.

She was across the hall in a dash, fumbling for the knob when it hit her.

Rafe MacKade.

Oh, he thought he was clever, she thought furiously. Sneaking into the house ahead of her, creeping through the back, she imagined. He was up there right now, doubled over at the idea of her bolting from the house like some idiotic Gothic heroine with a heaving bosom.

Not on your life, she thought determinedly, and straightened her shoulders. She thrust her chin up and marched to the curving stairs.

“You’re not funny, MacKade,” she called out. “Now, if you’ve finished your pathetic little joke, I’d like to get some work done.”

When the cold spot hit her, she was too shocked to move. The hand she’d gripped on the rail went numb with it, her face froze with it. There, halfway up the graceful sweep of stairs, she swayed. It was her own whimper that broke her free. She was up to the first landing in four effortless strides.

A draft, she told herself, cursing her own sobbing breaths. Just a nasty draft.

“Rafe.” Her voice broke, infuriating her. Biting her lip, she stared down the long hallway, at the closed and secretive doors that lined it. “Rafe,” she said again, and struggled to put irritation in her voice, rather than nerves. “I have a schedule to keep, even if you don’t, so can we get on with this?”

The sound of wood scraping wood, the violent slam of a door, and a woman’s heartbroken weeping. Pride forgotten, Regan flew down the stairs. She’d nearly reached the bottom when she heard the shot.

Then the door she’d rushed to meet groaned slowly open.

The room whirled once, twice, then vanished.

“Come on, darling, snap out of it.”

Regan turned her head, moaned, shivered.

“All the way out, pal. Open those big blue eyes for me.”

The voice was so coaxing, she did. And found herself looking into Rafe’s.

“It wasn’t funny.”

A bit dizzy with relief, he smiled and stroked her cheek. “What wasn’t?”

“Hiding upstairs to scare me.” She blinked to bring the world back into sharp focus and discovered she was cradled on his lap on the window seat in the parlor. “Let me up.”

“I don’t think so. You’re still a little shaky on your pins. Just relax a minute.” He shifted her expertly so that her head rested in the crook of his arm.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re white as a sheet. If I had a flask, I’d pour some brandy into you. Never saw a woman faint as gracefully, though. You sort of drifted down, gave me a chance to catch you before your head knocked against the floor.”

“If you expect me to thank you, forget it.” She shoved, found him unmovable. “It’s your fault.”

“Thanks. It’s flattering to think the sight of me has a woman dropping at my feet. There.” He traced a finger down her cheek again. “That brought some color back.”

“If this is the way you do business, you can take your job and—” She ground her teeth. “Let me up.”

“Let’s try this.” Lifting her, he plopped her down on the seat beside him. “Hands off,” he added, lifting his. “Now why don’t you tell me why you’re ticked off at me?”

Pouting, she brushed at her smudged trousers. “You know very well.”

“All I know is, I walked in the door and saw you doing a swan dive.”

“I’ve never fainted in my life.” And she was thoroughly mortified that she had done so now—in front of him. “If you want me to work on this house, scaring me into unconsciousness isn’t the way to do it.”

He studied her, reached into his pocket for the cigarettes he’d given up exactly eight days before. “How did I scare you?”

“By walking around upstairs, opening and closing doors, making those ridiculous noises.”

“Maybe I should start off by telling you I got held up at the farm. I didn’t leave until fifteen minutes ago.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t blame you.” If he wasn’t going to smoke, he had to move. Rising, he strolled over to the hearth. He thought he caught a whiff of smoke, as from a fire that had recently died. “Shane was there—and so was Cy Martin. He’s mayor now.”

“I know who Cy Martin is,” she said testily.

“You should have known him in high school,” Rafe mused. “He was a complete ass. Anyway, Cy dropped by to see if Shane could plow his lane. He was still there when I left. Fifteen minutes ago. I borrowed Shane’s four-wheel to make the hill. Parked it and came to the door in time to see your eyes roll back in your head.”

He walked back to her, stripped off his coat and tucked it over her legs. “By the way, how’d you get in?”

“I—” She stared at him, swallowed. “I opened the door.”

“It was locked.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Lifting a brow, he jingled the keys in his pocket. “That’s interesting.”

“You’re not lying,” she said after a moment.

“Not this time. Why don’t you tell me what you heard?”

“Footsteps. But there was no one there.” To warm them, she tucked her hands under his coat. “Boards creaking upstairs. I started up. It was cold, bitterly cold, and it frightened me, so I went to the landing.”

“You were scared, so you went up instead of out?”

“I thought you were up there. I was going to yell at you.” Her smile was weak, but it was there. “I was furious that you’d managed to make me jump. Then I looked down the hallway. I guess I knew you weren’t there. I heard wood scrape, and a door slam hard and someone crying. Then I bolted.”

He sat beside her again, put his arm around her shoulders in a friendly squeeze. “Who wouldn’t?”

“A shot,” she remembered. “I was almost down the stairs when I heard a gunshot. It made my ears ring. Then the door opened, and lights-out.”

“I shouldn’t have been late.” Unexpectedly, he leaned over and gave her a quick, casual kiss. “Sorry.”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“The thing is, some people feel things in this place, some don’t. You struck me as the cool, practical type.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Oh, really?”

“Single-minded,” he added with a grin. “It seems you have more imagination than I expected. Feeling better now?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you don’t want to sit on my lap again?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

With his eyes on hers, he brushed a cobweb from her hair. “Want to get out of here?”

“Absolutely.”

He picked up his coat. “I’d like to take you somewhere.”

“That isn’t necessary. I said I was…” She stood and, as he held his ground, bumped into his chest. “Fine,” she managed.

“Business, darling.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, flicked a finger over the square-cut aquamarine at the lobe. “For the moment. I think we can find someplace a little warmer and more hospitable to hash out the details.”

That was reasonable, she decided. Perfectly sensible. “All right.”

She picked up her briefcase and walked ahead of him to the door.

“Regan?”

“Yes?”

“Your face is dirty.” He laughed at the smoldering look she shot at him, then scooped her up in his arms. Even as she stuttered a protest, he carried her over the broken porch. “Got to watch your step,” he told her, setting her on her feet next to a Jeep.

“I make a habit of it.”

“I bet you do,” he murmured as he rounded the hood.

He maneuvered his way down the lane, circled around her car and kept going.

“I thought I’d follow you,” she began.

“Since I don’t think you mean to the ends of the earth, let’s just take one car. I’ll bring you back.”

“From?”

“Home, sweet home, darling.”

In the snow, with the sun glazing the white fields, the MacKade farm was Currier and Ives pretty. A stone house with covered porch, an arched roof on the red barn, weathered outbuildings and a pair of golden dogs, barking and yipping and kicking up snow completed the scene—one that appealed to Regan.

She’d driven past the MacKade place countless times—when the fields were brown and furrowed from the plow, when they were high with hay and corn. She’d even stopped once or twice when Shane was riding his tractor, and thought how completely suited he seemed to be to the land.

She couldn’t picture Rafe MacKade in the same scene.

“You didn’t come back to farm, I imagine.”

“Hell, no. Shane loves it, Devin tolerates it. Jared looks on it as an ongoing enterprise.”

She tilted her head as he parked the Jeep beside his car. “And you?”

“Hate it.”

“No ties to the land?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I hated farming.” Rafe hopped out of the Jeep, clucking at the leaping golden retrievers. Before Regan could step down into the foot-deep snow, he’d plucked her up.

“I wish you’d stop that. I’m perfectly capable of walking through a little snow.”

“City boots. Pretty enough, though,” he commented as he carried her onto the porch. “You’ve got little feet. Stay out,” he ordered the dogs. Smoothly he opened the door, elbowed it aside and carried her in.

“Hey, Rafe, what you got there?”

Grinning, Rafe shifted Regan in his arms and winked at Shane. “Got me a female.”

“Good-looking one, too.” Shane tossed the log he held onto the fire, straightened. His eyes, the color of fog over seawater, warmed in appreciation. “Hi there, Regan.”

“Shane.”

“Any coffee hot?” Rafe asked.

“Sure.” Shane kicked the log into place with his boot. “Kitchen’s never closed.”

“Fine. Now get lost.”

“Well, that was certainly rude.” Regan blew her hair out of her eyes as Rafe carted her down the hall and into the kitchen.

“You’re an only child, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Figured.” He dropped her into one of the cane chairs at the kitchen table. “What do you take in your coffee?”

“Nothing—black.”

“What a woman.” He stripped off his coat, tossed it over a peg by the back door, where his brother’s heavy work jacket already hung. From a glass-fronted cupboard, he chose two glossy white mugs. “Want anything to go with it? Some hopeful woman’s always baking Shane cookies. It’s that pretty, innocent face of his.”

“Pretty, maybe. You’re all pretty.” She shrugged out of her coat with a murmur of appreciation for the warmth of the room. “And I’ll pass on the cookies.”

He set a steaming mug in front of her. Out of habit, he turned a chair around and straddled it. “So, are you going to pass on the house, too?”

Biding her time, she studied her coffee, sampled it, and found it superb. “I have a number of pieces in stock that I think you’ll find more than suitable when you’re ready to furnish. I also did some research on the traditional color schemes and fabrics from that era.”

“Is that a yes or a no, Regan?”

“No, I’m not going to pass.” She lifted her gaze to his. “And it’s going to cost you.”

“You’re not worried?”

“I didn’t say that, exactly. But now I know what to expect. I can guarantee I won’t be fainting at your feet a second time.”

“I’d just as soon you didn’t. You scared the life out of me.” He reached over to play with the fingers of the hand she’d laid on the table. He liked the delicacy of them, and the glint of stones and gold. “In your research, did you dig up anything on the two corporals?”

“The two corporals?”

“You should have asked old lady Metz. She loves telling the story. What kind of watch is this?” Curious, Rafe flicked a finger under the twin black elastic bands.

“Circa 1920. Elastic and marcasite. What about the corporals?”

“It seems these two soldiers got separated from their regiments during the battle. The cornfield east of here was thick with smoke, black powder exploding. Some of the troops were engaged in the trees, others just lost or dying there.”

“Some of the battle took place here, on your fields?” she asked.

“Some of it. The park service has markers up. Anyway, these two, one Union, one Confederate, got separated. They were just boys, probably terrified. Bad luck brought them together in the woods that form the boundary between MacKade land and Barlow.”

“Oh.” Thoughtful, she dragged her hair back. “I’d forgotten the properties border each other.”

“It’s less than a half mile from this house to the Barlow place through the trees. Anyway, they came face-to-face. If either of them had had any sense, they’d have run for cover and counted their blessings. But they didn’t.” He lifted his mug again. “They managed to put holes in each other. Nobody can say who crawled off first. The Reb made it as far as the Barlow house. Odds are he was half-dead already, but he managed to crawl onto the porch. One of the servants saw him and, being a Southern sympathizer, pulled him inside. Or maybe she just saw a kid bleeding to death and did what she thought was right.”

“And he died in the house,” Regan murmured, wishing she couldn’t see it so clearly.

“Yeah. The servant ran off to get her mistress. That was Abigail O’Brian Barlow, of the Carolina O’Brians. Abigail had just given orders for the boy to be taken upstairs, where she could treat his wounds. Her husband came out. He shot the kid, right there on the stairway.”

Sadness jolted straight into horror. “Oh, my God! Why?”

“No wife of his was going to lay her hands on a Reb. She herself died two years later, in her room. Story is that she never spoke a word to her husband again—not that they had much to say to each other before. It was supposed to be one of those arranged marriages. Rumor was he liked to knock her around.”

“In other words,” Regan said tightly, “he was a prince among men.”

“That’s the story. She was delicate, and she was miserable.”

“And trapped,” Regan murmured, thinking of Cassie.

“I don’t suppose people talked much about abuse back then. Divorce…” He shrugged. “Probably not an option in her circumstances. Anyway, shooting that boy right in front of her must have been the straw, you know. The last cruelty she could take. But that’s only half of it. The half the town knows.”

“There’s more.” She let out a sigh and rose. “I think I need more coffee.”

“The Yank stumbled off in the opposite direction,” Rafe continued, murmuring a thank you when she poured him a second cup. “My great-grandfather found him passed out by the smokehouse. My great-grandfather lost his oldest son at Bull Run—he’d died wearing Confederate gray.”

Regan shut her eyes. “He killed the boy.”

“No. Maybe he thought about it, maybe he thought about just leaving him there to bleed to death. But he picked him up and brought him into the kitchen. He and his wife, their daughters, doctored him on the table. Not this one,” Rafe added with a small smile.

“That’s reassuring.”

“He came around a few times, tried to tell them something. But he was too weak. He lasted the rest of that day and most of the night, but he was dead by morning.”

“They’d done everything they could.”

“Yeah, but now they had a dead Union soldier in their kitchen, his blood on their floor. Everyone who knew them knew that they were staunch Southern sympathizers who’d already lost one son to the cause and had two more still fighting for it. They were afraid, so they hid the body. When it was dark, they buried him, with his uniform, his weapon, and a letter from his mother in his pocket.”

He looked at her then, his eyes cool and steady. “That’s why this house is haunted, too. I thought you’d be interested.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, set her coffee aside. “Your house is haunted?”

“The house, the woods, the fields. You get used to it, the little noises, the little feelings. We never talked about it much; it was just there. Maybe you’d get a sense of something in the woods at night, or in the fields, when the morning was misty and too quiet.” He smiled a little at the curiosity in her eyes. “Even cynics feel something when they’re standing on a battlefield. After my mother died, even the house seemed…restless. Or maybe it was just me.”

“Is that why you left?”

“I had lots of reasons for leaving.”

“And for coming back?”

“One or two. I told you the first part of the story because I figured you should understand the Barlow place, since you’re going to be involved with it. And I told you the rest…” He reached over and loosened the duo of black buttons on her blazer. “Because I’m going to be staying at the farm for a while. Now you can decide if you want me to bring you here, or if you’d rather I come to your place.”

“My inventory’s at the shop, so—”

“I’m not talking about your inventory.” He cupped her chin in his hand, kept his eyes open and on hers when he kissed her.

Softly at first, testing. Then with a murmur of satisfaction, deeper, so that her lips parted and warmed. He watched her lashes flutter, felt her breath sigh out and into his mouth, felt the pulse just under her jaw, just under his fingers, throb. The smoky scent of her skin was a seductive contrast to her cool-water taste.

Regan kept her hands gripped tight in her lap. It was shocking how much she wanted to use them on him. To drag them through his hair, to test the muscles under that faded flannel shirt. But she didn’t. Her mind might have blurred for just an instant with astonished pleasure, even more astonishing greed, but she managed to hold on to her focus.

When he leaned back, she kept her hands where they were and gave herself time to level her voice. “We’re business associates, not playmates.”

“We have business,” he agreed.

“Would you have pulled that maneuver if I’d been a man?”

He stared at her. The chuckle started low, bloomed into a full laugh while she squirmed at the ridiculous way she’d phrased the question.

“I can give you a definite no on that one. I figure in that case you probably wouldn’t have kissed me back, either.”

“Look, let’s clear this up. I’ve heard all about the MacKade brothers and how they’re irresistible to women.”

“It’s been a curse all our lives.”

She would not smile—even if she had to clamp her teeth together. “The point is, I’m not interested in a quick roll, an affair, or a relationship—which should cover any and all possibilities.”

Damned if she wasn’t even more alluring when she went prim. “I’m going to enjoy changing your mind. Why don’t we start with the quick roll and work our way up from there?”

She rose sharply and pulled her coat on. “In your dreams.”

“You’re right about that. Why don’t I take you out to dinner?”

“Why don’t you take me back to my car?”

“All right.” Unoffended, he got up to pluck his coat from the peg. After he’d shrugged it on, he reached out and flipped her hair out from the collar of hers. “Nights are long and cold this time of year.”

“Get a book,” she suggested on her way down the hall. “Sit by the fire.”

“Is that what you do?” He shook his head. “I’m going to have to add a little excitement to your life.”

“I like my life just fine, thanks. Don’t pick me—” The order ended with an oath as he scooped her up. “MacKade,” she said with a sigh as he carried her to the Jeep, “I’m beginning to think you’re as bad as everyone says.”

“Count on it.”

Chapter 3

It was a good sound. The thud of hammers, the buzz of saws, the whir of drills. Through it came the jingle of a radio set to country music, so that Wynonna wailed over the clomp of boots and male voices.

It was a noise, the music of labor, that Rafe had known all of his life. This was different from the clatter of the milking barn, the hum of a tractor in the field. He preferred it. He’d chosen it the day he left Antietam.

Construction work had probably saved him. He had no problem admitting he’d been looking to rumble when he roared out of Washington County a decade before on his secondhand Harley. But he’d needed to eat, so he’d needed to work.

He’d strapped on a tool belt and sweated out the worst of the frustration.

He still remembered when he’d stepped back and looked at the first house he’d had a part in building. It had come to him in a flash that he could make something that mattered. And that he could make something of himself.

So he’d saved, and he’d sweated, and he’d learned.

The first place he’d bought, in central Florida, was little more than a shack. He’d choked on drywall dust, hammered until his muscles wept with the strain. But he’d made a profit, and used that to buy again. To sell again.

In four years, the tiny shoestring company called MacKade had earned a reputation for reliable, quality work.

Still, he’d never stopped looking back. Now, standing in the parlor of the Barlow place, he understood he’d come full circle.

He was going to make something in the town he’d been so hell-bent to escape from. Whether he stayed or not after he was done was undecided. But he would, at least, have left his mark.

Hunkered down in front of the fireplace, Rafe studied the stone hearth. He’d already gone to work on the chimney, and was covered with soot and grime. She’d draw, he thought with satisfaction. The first thing he was going to do, when the new lining was installed to bring it up to code, was build a fire. He wanted to watch the flames and warm his hands on them.

He wanted just the right andirons, the right screen. He could depend on Regan for that.

With a little smile, he picked up his trowel to mix a bucket of mortar. He had a feeling Regan could be depended on for most anything.

With care, precision and enjoyment, he began to repoint the stone.

“I figured the boss would be sitting at a desk, running figures.”

Rafe glanced back and lifted a brow. Jared stood in the center of the room, his gleaming black shoes resting on a spattered drop cloth. For some reason, his black Wayfarer shades didn’t look out of place with his gray pin-striped three-piece suit.

“That stuff’s for lawyers and bookkeepers.”

Jared took off the sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his suit jacket. “And think what the world would be without them.”

“Simpler.” Rafe stuck his trowel in the mortar and gave his brother a once-over. “On your way to a funeral?”

“I had business in town, thought I’d drop by and see how things are going.” He glanced around the room, then back toward the hall when something crashed, someone cursed. “So, how’s it going?”

“Steady.” Rafe sighed when Jared took out a slim cigar. “Blow some of that over here, will you? I quit ten really long days ago.”

“Reforming yourself?” Obligingly, Jared walked over, crouched. He smoked lazily as he and Rafe frowned meaningfully at the stone. “Not too shabby.”

Rafe knocked a fist against the rose-grained marble. “An Adam, pal.”

Jared grunted, clamped the cigar between his teeth. “Need a hand around here?”

Blandly Rafe looked down. “You’re wearing your lawyer shoes.”

“I meant over the weekend.”

“I can always use another back.” Pleased with the offer, Rafe picked up the trowel again. “How’s yours?”

“As good as yours.”

“Still working out?” He gave Jared’s biceps a testing punch. “I still say gyms are for sissies.”

Jared blew out a stream of smoke. “Want to go a round, bro?”

“Sure, when you’re not dressed so pretty.” To torture himself, Rafe sucked in secondhand smoke. “I appreciate you handling the settlement on this place for me.”

“You haven’t got my bill, yet.” Grinning, Jared straightened. “I thought you were crazy when you called and told me to go after it. Then I did a walk-through.” He turned, still grinning. “And I knew you were crazy. You practically stole the place, but I figure it’s got to cost you two times the purchase price to make it livable.”

“Three times,” Rafe said mildly, “to make it the way I want it.”

“How do you want it?”

“The way it was.” Rafe scraped the edge of his trowel over stone, leveling his mortar.

“That’s always a tough one,” Jared murmured. “You don’t seem to be having a problem with labor. I wondered if you would, considering the place’s rep.”

“Money talks. Lost a plumber’s assistant this morning, though.” Wicked amusement sparkled in his eyes. “They were checking pipes in one of the second-floor johns. This guy claims someone clamped a hand on his shoulder. He was still running when he made it to the road. Don’t guess he’ll be back.”

“Any other problems?”

“Nothing I need a lawyer for. Did you hear the one about the lawyer and the rattlesnake?”

“I’ve heard them all,” Jared said dryly. “I keep a file.”

With a chuckle, Rafe wiped his hands on his jeans. “You did good, Jare. Mom would’ve liked seeing you duded up like that.” For a moment, he said nothing. There was only the scrape of trowel on stone. “It’s weird, staying at the farm. Mostly just me and Shane. Devin spends half his nights on a cot in the sheriff’s office. You’re in that fancy little town house in the city. When I hear Shane get up in the morning, it’s still dark. The idiot’s whistling, like going out to milk in January’s just a boatload of laughs.”

“He’s always loved it. He’s kept that place alive.”

“I know.”

He recognized the tone, shook his head at it. “You did your part, Rafe. The money you sent back made a difference.” Eyes shadowed, Jared stared out the grimy window. “I’m thinking of selling the place in Hagerstown.” When Rafe said nothing, Jared moved his shoulders. “It seemed practical to keep it after the divorce. The market was soft, and we’d only built up a couple years’ equity. Barbara didn’t want it.”

“Still sore?”

“No. The divorce is three years past, and God knows it was civilized. We just didn’t like each other anymore.”

“I never liked her.”

Jared’s lips quirked. “I know. Anyway, I’m thinking of selling, hanging out at the farm for a while, until I find the right place.”

“Shane would like that. So would I. I missed you.” Rafe swiped a grimy hand over his grimy chin. “I didn’t realize how much until I got back.” Satisfied with the re-pointing, he scraped his trowel on the edge of the bucket. “So, you want to put in some honest labor on Saturday?”

“You buy the beer.”

Rafe nodded, rose. “Let’s see your hands, city boy.”

Jared’s response was crude, simple, and uttered just as Regan stepped into the room.

“Nice mouth, Counselor,” Rafe said with an easy smile. “Hello, darling.”

“I’m interrupting.”

“No. The guy from the gutter here’s my brother Jared.”

“I know. He’s my lawyer. Hello, Jared.”

“Regan.” Jared found an empty can of soda and doused the stub of his cigar. “How’s business?”

“Picking up, thanks to your little brother. I have some estimates, figures, suggestions, paint and fabric samples,” she said to Rafe. “I thought you’d like to look them over.”

“You’ve been busy.” He crouched again, flipped over the top of a small cooler. “Want a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Jare?”

“One for the road. I’ve got another appointment.” Jared caught the canned soft drink on the fly, then took his sunglasses out of his pocket. “I’ll let you two get down to business. Nice to see you again, Regan.”

“Saturday,” Rafe called out as Jared left the room. “Seven-thirty. That’s a.m., pal. And lose the suit.”

“I didn’t mean to chase him off,” Regan began.

“You didn’t. Want to sit down?”

“Where?”

He patted an overturned bucket.

“That’s very gracious of you, but I can’t stay. I’m on my lunch hour.”

“The boss isn’t going to dock you.”

“She certainly will.” Opening her briefcase, Regan took out two thick folders. “Everything’s in here. Once you have a chance to look through it, let me know.” For lack of anywhere better, she set the files across two sawhorses. She looked back over her shoulder, toward the hall. “You’ve certainly jumped right in.”

“When you know what you want, there’s no point in wasting time. So how about dinner?”

She looked back, narrowed her eyes. “Dinner?”

“Tonight. We can go over your files.” He tapped a finger against them, left a smudge of soot. “Save time.”

“Oh.” Still frowning, she combed her fingers through her hair. “I suppose.”

“How’s seven? We’ll go to the Lamplighter.”

“The where?”

“The Lamplighter. The little place off of Main, at Church Street.”

She tilted her head as she visualized the town. “There’s a video store at Main and Church.”

He jammed his hands in his pockets with an oath. “Used to be a restaurant. Your place used to be a hardware store.”

“I guess even small towns have their changes.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t have said why it annoyed him. “Like Italian?”

“Yes. But the closest Italian place is across the river, into West Virginia. We can just meet at Ed’s.”

“No. Italian. I’ll come by about six-thirty.” Needing to gauge his time, he pulled a watch from his pocket. “Yeah, I can do six-thirty.”

“That’s a nice one.” Without thinking, she crossed over, took his wrist gingerly in two fingers to get a better look at the pocket watch. “Hmm…American Watch Company, mid-1800s.” Already appraising, she turned the watch over to study the case. “Sterling, good condition. I’ll give you seventy-five for it.”

“I paid ninety.”

She laughed and shook back her hair. “Then you got a hell of a bargain. It’s worth a hundred and fifty.” Her gaze danced up to his. “You don’t look like the pocket-watch type.”

“Wear one on your wrist on the job, they end up smashed.” He wanted to touch her. She looked so neat and tidy that the idea of mussing her up was enormously appealing. “Damn shame my hands are filthy.”

Alerted, she released his wrist, brushed one hand against the other. “So’s your face. But you’re still pretty.” After shifting her briefcase strap more comfortably on her shoulder, she stepped back. “Six-thirty, then. Don’t forget the files.”

She’d changed three times before she caught herself. A business dinner, Regan thought as she dropped down on the padded stool of her vanity, was a business dinner. Her appearance was certainly important, but it was secondary.

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