The Fall of Shane MacKade

The MacKade Brothers Series

Book Four

Nora Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Shane MacKade loved women. He loved the look of them, the smell of them, the taste of them—everything about them. So the last thing he expected was to become a one-woman man. And even more surprising was that it was the Ph.D.-toting academic Rebecca McKnight that had him heading for a fall. Are Shane’s days as a bachelor over? It’s a possibility….

For those who’ve taken the fall

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Ice covered the shoveled walk from the house to the milking barn, and the path was slick with it. The predawn air was cupped by a dark sky chiseled with frosted chips of white stars. Each gulp was like sipping chilled razor blades that sliced, then numbed, the throat before being expelled in a frigid steam.

Wrapped in a multitude of winter layers, from long johns to knitted muffler, Shane MacKade headed toward the milking parlor and the first chores of the day. Unlike his three older brothers, he was whistling between his teeth.

He just plain loved the frosty and still hour before a winter sunrise.

His oldest brother, Jared, was nearly seventeen, and went about the business of running a farm like an accountant approaching a spreadsheet. It was all figures to him, Shane knew, and he supposed that was well enough. They had lost their father two months before, and times were rough.

As for Rafe, his restless fifteen-year-old soul was already looking beyond the hills and fields of the MacKade farm. The milking and feeding and tending of stock was simply something to get through. And Shane knew, though they never really talked about it, that their father’s death had hit Rafe the hardest.

They had all loved their father. It would have been impossible not to love Buck MacKade, with his big voice and big hands and big heart. And everything Shane knew about farming—everything he loved about the land—had come straight from his father.

Perhaps that was why Shane didn’t grieve as deeply. The land was there, so his father was there. Always.

He could have talked about that thought with Devin. At fourteen, Devin was already the best of listeners, and the closest to Shane’s own age. Shane was going to make the big leap to thirteen next Tuesday. But he kept the thought—and the feeling—to himself.

Inside the milking parlor, the first of the stock shifted and mooed, tails swishing as they were prepped. It was a simple enough process, could even be considered a monotonous one. The cleaning, the feeding, the attaching to machines that would pump the milk from cow to pipe, from pipe to tank for storage. But Shane enjoyed it, enjoyed the smells, the sounds, the routine. While he and Devin dealt with the second line of stock, Rafe and Jared led those already relieved of milk outside again.

They made a good team, quick and efficient despite the numbing cold and early hour. In truth, it was a job any one of them could have handled alone, or with very little help. But they tended to stick together. Even closer together these days.

Still, there were chickens and pigs to see to yet, eggs to gather, muck to shovel, fresh hay to spread. And all this before they gobbled down breakfast and climbed into Jared’s ancient car for the drive to school.

If he could have, Shane would have skipped the school part entirely. You couldn’t learn how to plow and plant, how to harvest or judge the weather by tasting the air, from books. You couldn’t learn from books how to look into a cow’s eyes and see that she was ailing.

But his mother was firm on book learning, and when she was firm, she was immovable.

“What the hell are you so happy about?” Grumbling, Rafe clanged stainless-steel buckets together. “That whistling’s driving me crazy.”

Shane merely grinned and kept on whistling. He paused only long enough to talk encouragingly to the cows. “That’s the way, ladies, you fill her up.” Content as any of his bossies, Shane moved down the line of milkers, checking each one.

“I’m going to pound him,” Rafe announced to no one in particular.

“Leave him be,” Devin said mildly. “He’s already brain-dead.”

Rafe smiled at that. “It’s so damn cold, if I hit him, my fingers would probably break off.”

“Going to warm up some today.” Shane patted one of the cows waiting in the stanchions to be hooked for milking. “Get up into the thirties, anyway.”

Rafe didn’t bother to ask how Shane knew. Shane always knew. “Big deal.” He strode out of the milking parlor, toward barn and hayloft.

“What’s eating him?” Shane muttered. “Some girl dump him?”

“He just hates cows.” Jared stepped back in, smelling of grain.

“That’s stupid. You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you, baby?” Shane gave the nearest cow an affectionate swat.

“Shane’s in love with cows.” Devin flashed the wicked MacKade grin, which had a dimple flickering at the corner of his mouth. “He has better luck kissing them than girls.”

Immediately insulted, Shane narrowed his eyes. “I could kiss any girl I wanted to—if I wanted to.” Under the layers of clothing, his lean, rangy body was on full alert.

Recognizing the signs, Jared shook his head. He just didn’t feel like a tussle now. There was too much work to do, and he had a big test in English Lit to worry about. Devin and Shane were too evenly matched, and a fight between them could go on indefinitely.

“Yeah, you’re a regular Don Juan.” He said it only to focus Shane’s attention, and temper, on him. “All the little girls are puckered up and waiting in line.”

Devin made a long, loud kissing noise that made Jared want to slug him. As Shane pivoted to do just that, Jared stepped between them. “But before you make their hearts flutter, lover boy, the water trough’s iced over. These cows are thirsty.”

Aiming a glance that promised Devin retribution, Shane stomped outside.

He could kiss a girl, Shane thought as he hacked at the ice. If he wanted to. He just wasn’t interested.

Well, maybe he was a little interested, he admitted, blowing on his fingers to warm them. Some of the girls he knew were starting to get pretty interesting shapes. And he’d felt an odd sort of tingling under his skin when Jared’s girl, Sharilyn, wiggled up against him when they were packed into the front seat of Jared’s car the other day.

He could probably kiss her, if he wanted. He set the iron bar aside, looking toward the milk barn as the stars winked out overhead. That would show Jared a thing or two. They all figured he didn’t know what was what because he was the youngest. But he knew plenty. At least he was starting to imagine plenty.

Hauling up the bar again, he clumped over the slippery, snow-packed ground to the pig shed.

He knew how sex worked, all right. He’d grown up on a farm, hadn’t he? He knew how the bull went crazy and white-eyed when he smelled a cow in heat. He just hadn’t thought the whole thing looked like a whole hell of a lot of fun…but that had been before he began to notice how girls filled out their clothes.

He hacked away the layer of ice for the pigs and, leaving his brothers to finish up the milking, dealt with the feed.

He wished he was grown-up. He wished he could do something to prove he was—besides holding his own in a fight. As it was, all he could do was simply wait until he was older, and know that then he could take control of his life.

The land was his. He’d felt that in his bones, as long as he could remember. As if at birth someone had whispered it in his ear. The farm, the land. That was what really mattered. And if he wanted a girl, too—or a whole platoon of them—he’d get that, too.

But the farm was what counted most.

The land, he thought, looking over the snow-coated fields as the sky grayed with dawn and turned explosive at the tips of the eastern mountains. The land his father had worked, and his father before that. And before that. Through droughts and floods. Through war.

They’d planted their crops, and brought them in, he thought, dreaming a little as he walked toward the fields. Even when war came, right here, with Confederate gray and Union blue clashing in these very fields, and in the thick woods just beyond, the farm had stayed whole.

He knew just what it would have been like, turning the rocky soil behind a horse-drawn plow, your back and shoulders aching, your hands raw. But the crops would be planted, and you would see them grow. Corn springing up, spreading, hay waving and going gold with summer.

Even when the soldiers came, even when their mortars and black powder singed the drying cornstalks, the land stayed. Bodies had dropped here, he thought as a chill crept up his spine. Men had screamed and crawled through their own blood.

But the land they had fought over, fought for, didn’t change. It endured.

He flushed a little, wondering where that word had come from, that word and the strong, almost dizzying emotion behind it. He was glad he was alone, glad none of his brothers could see. He didn’t know how to tell them that he knew the farm had been his responsibility before, and would be again.

But he knew.

When he heard the sound behind him, he stiffened and, shouldering the bar again, turned with his face carefully closed, free of emotion.

There was no one there.

He swallowed hard. He was sure he’d heard a sound, a movement, then a small, weak cry. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the ghosts. They lived here, as he did—in the fields, in the woods, in the hills. But they terrified him nonetheless.

Gathering all his young courage, he moved around the shed, toward the old stone smokehouse. It was probably Devin, he told himself, or Rafe, or even Jared, trying to get a rise out of him, trying to make him bolt, as he’d nearly bolted the time they spent the night in the old Barlow place, on the other side of the woods. The haunted house, where ghosts were as thick as cobwebs.

“Get a life, Dev,” he said, loudly, loudly enough to calm his speeding heart.

But when he rounded the building, he didn’t see his brother, or even any tracks in the snow. For an instant, just a quick, tripping heartbeat, he thought he saw a figure there. Crumpled, spilling blood over the ground, the face as white as the untouched snow, the eyes dulled with pain.

Help me. Please help me, I’m dying.

But when he stepped forward there was nothing. Nothing at all. Even the words that rang in his head faded away in the wind.

Shane stood there, a young boy with his whole life a wonderful mystery yet to unfold, and stared at the unbroken ground. He stood there, shuddering, as the cold reached through the layers of clothes, through his flesh and into his bones.

Then he heard his brothers laughing, heard his mother call from the kitchen door that breakfast was ready and to get a move on or they’d be late for school.

He turned away, closed his frightened mind off to what he had seen and what he had heard.

He walked back to the farmhouse, and said nothing of that one jolting moment to anyone.

Chapter 1

Shane MacKade loved women. He loved the look of them, the smell of them, the sound of them, the taste of them. He loved them, without reservation or prejudice. Tall, short, plump, thin, old, young, their wonderful and exotic femaleness pulled him, drew him in. The slant of an eyelash, the curve of a lip, the sway of a shapely female bottom, simply delighted him.

He had, in his thirty-two years on earth, done his very best to show as many women as possible his boundless appreciation for them as a gender.

He considered himself a lucky man, because the ladies loved him right back.

He had other loves. His family, his farm, the smell of bread baking, the taste of a cold beer on a hot day.

But women, well, they were so varied, so different, and so delicious.

He was smiling at one now. Even though Regan was his brother’s wife, and Shane had nothing but the most innocent and brotherly feelings for her, he could appreciate her considerable female attributes. He liked the way her deep blond hair curved around her face. He adored the little mole beside her mouth, and the way she always looked so sexy and so tidy at the same time.

He thought if a man had to pick one woman and tie himself down, Rafe couldn’t have done better.

“Are you sure you don’t mind, Shane?”

“Mind what?” He caught her quirked brow as she lifted the newest MacKade onto her shoulder. “Oh, the airport run. Right. I was just thinking how pretty you look.”

Regan had to laugh. She was frazzled, Jason MacKade, her youngest son, was squalling, her hair was a mess, and she was afraid she smelled more like Jason’s diapers than the scent she’d dabbed on that morning.

“I look like a madwoman.”

“Nope.” To give her a breather, Shane took Jason from her and jiggled the three-week-old baby into hiccups. “Just as pretty as ever.”

She glanced over to the playpen she’d set up in the back room of her antique shop, where her toddler, Nate, napped through the chaos. He had the look of his father, she thought, with a burst of love. Which meant, of course, that he had the look of his uncle Shane.

“I appreciate it. I can use the flattery. I really hate to ask you, though.”

Shane watched her pour tea and resigned himself to drinking it. “It’s not a problem, honey. I’ll pick up your college pal and get her back to you safe and sound. A scientist, huh?”

“Hmm…” Regan handed him a cup, knowing he could juggle that and his infant nephew and a few more things besides. “Rebecca’s brilliant. Over-the-top brilliant. I only roomed with her one year. She was fifteen, and already a sophomore. She ended up graduating, summa cum laude, a full year ahead of me and the rest of her class. Pretty intimidating.”

Regan sampled the tea, and the relative quiet now that Shane had Jason calmed down to bubbling coos. “It seemed she was always in some lab, or the library.”

“Sounds like a barrel of laughs.”

“She was—is—a serious type, and tended to be shy. After all, she was years younger than anyone else in school. But we got to be friends. She’d have come for the wedding, but she was in Europe, or Africa.” Regan waved vaguely. “Somewhere.”

Shane was thinking nostalgically of his own fifteenth year, when he had learned the intricacies of the back-hook bra. In the dark. “It’s nice you’ve got a pal coming to visit.”

“Well, it’s kind of a working visit for her.” Regan gnawed her lip. She hadn’t mentioned Rebecca’s purpose, except to Rafe. She supposed if she was going to dragoon Shane into meeting her friend at the airport, she ought to make it clear.

She studied him as he made faces at the baby, then nuzzled Jason. All the MacKades were stunners, she thought, but there was something about Shane. Just an extra slice of charm, she supposed.

He had the looks, of course. That thick, midnight-black hair that he now wore in a stubby ponytail. The thin, bony, mouth-watering face, with its angles and planes, lush mouth, flashing dimple and thickly lashed green eyes. His shade of green was dreamy, the shade of an ocean at twilight.

He had the build—tall, rangy, muscled. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, long, long legs. It showed to advantage in jeans and work boots and flannel.

He had the charm. All four MacKades had it to spare, but Regan thought there was an extra dollop in Shane. Something about the way his eyes lingered on a woman, the quick, appreciative grin when he spoke to one, be she eight or eighty. That easygoing, cheerful manner that could explode into temper, then, just as quickly, edge away into a laugh.

He’d probably scare the hell out of poor, shy Rebecca.

“You’re awfully good with him,” she murmured.

“You keep making babies, honey, I’ll keep loving them.”

Amused, she angled her head. “Still not ready to settle down?”

“Now why would I want to go and do that?” He looked up from Jason, and his eyes danced with humor. “I’m the last single MacKade. I’m honor-bound to hold the fort until the nephews start springing up.”

“And you take your duty seriously.”

“You bet. He’s asleep.” Shane lowered his head and kissed Jason’s brow. “Want me to put him down?”

“Thanks.” She waited until Shane had Jason settled in the antique cradle. “Rebecca’s expecting me. I wasn’t able to catch her before she left for the airport.” Frazzled all over again, Regan ran her fingers though her hair. “The babysitter canceled, Rafe’s in Hagerstown getting building material. Cassie’s got a full house over at the inn, Emma’s got the sniffles, and I just couldn’t ask Savannah to help out.”

“Last time I saw her, she looked ready to pop.” To demonstrate the condition of Jared’s wife, Shane made a wide circle with his arms in front of his flat belly.

“Exactly. She’s too pregnant to drive a three-hour round trip, and with a furniture delivery being rescheduled for this afternoon, I didn’t know who else to call and impose on.”

“It’s no trouble.” To prove it, he kissed the tip of her nose. “I don’t suppose she’s as pretty as you, is she?”

Regan chuckled at that. “How am I supposed to answer that and not sound like a jerk? In any case, I haven’t seen her in…five years, I guess. The last time was on a quick trip to New York, and she was hip-deep in some paper she was writing. She’s four years younger than I am and has two doctorates. Maybe more. I can’t keep up.”

Shane didn’t wince. He liked women with brains as much as he liked women without them. But he knew the old routine about smarts and wonderful personalities. He didn’t think he was going to be picking up a beauty queen at the airport.

“Psychiatry and U.S. history for sure,” Regan continued. “Kind of an odd mix, but then, Rebecca’s unique. I remember she minored in some sort of complex math, and there was science, too. Physics, chemistry…she did postgrad work on that at MIT.”

“Why?” Shane wondered out loud.

“With Rebecca it would be more a matter of why not. She’s got what they call a photographic memory. Sees it, reads it, files it up there,” Regan said, tapping her head.

“And she’s a shrink?”

“She doesn’t have a private practice. She consults, writes papers, lectures. I know she used to donate a day a week to a clinic. She wrote a definitive paper on…well, some psychosis or other. Or maybe it was a phobia. I’m a business major. Anyway, Shane—” Regan smiled brightly and patted his hand “—she’s into parapsychology. As a hobby.”

“Into what? Is that like ghostbusting?”

“It’s the study of the paranormal. ESP, psychic phenomena, ah…hauntings…”

“Ghosts,” Shane concluded, and this time he did wince. “Don’t we have enough of that around here already?”

“That’s the point. She’s interested in the area, the legends. It’s different for you, Shane,” Regan hurried on, knowing her brother-in-law’s aversion to local legends. “You grew up with it all. The Barlow house, the two corporals, the haunted woods. The whole idea of hauntings is one of the main reasons Rafe and I have been able to make such a success out of the inn. People love the idea of staying in a haunted house.”

Shane only shrugged. Hell, he lived in one. “I don’t mind all that. It’s just when tourists want to go tramping around the farm that—”

The look in her eye stopped him, made him narrow his own. “She wants to tramp around the farm.”

“She wants the whole picture, and I know she’d like to spend some time out there. But that’s totally up to you,” Regan said quickly. “You need to get to know her a little. She’s really a fascinating woman. Anyway, I wrote down her flight number and so forth.” Regan offered him a sheet of paper.

“You still haven’t told me what she looks like. I doubt she’s going to be the only woman off that flight from New York.”

“Right. Brown hair, brown eyes. She used to wear it just sort of pulled back, or…hanging down. She’s about my height, thin—”

“Skinny or slim? There’s a difference.”

“I guess more on the skinny side. She may be wearing glasses. She uses them to read, but she used to forget to take them off and she’d end up running into things.”

“A skinny, clumsy brunette with glasses. Got it.”

“She’s very attractive,” Regan added loyally. “In a unique way. And, Shane? She’s shy, so be nice.”

“I’m always nice. To women.”

“All right, be good then. If you don’t spot her, you can have her paged. Dr. Rebecca Knight.”

Airports always entertained Shane. People were in just as much of a hurry, it seemed to him, to get where they were going as they were to get back from wherever they’d been. Everyone hit the ground running, loaded down with carry-ons. He wondered what it was about the places people chose to leave that didn’t appeal enough to keep them there.

Not that he was against travel. He just figured he could get anywhere he really wanted to go by sitting behind the wheel of his pickup. That way, he was in charge of time and distance and speed.

But it took all kinds.

He also figured he could spot Regan’s college pal—since she was a woman, and he knew women. She’d be in her mid-twenties, about five foot five, skinny, brown hair, brown eyes, probably behind thick glasses. From Regan’s brief rundown, he didn’t imagine Rebecca Knight had a great deal of style, so he would look for a plain, intellectual type, with a briefcase and practical shoes.

He loitered at the gate, eyeing a pair of flight attendants who were waiting for a change of crew. Now that, he mused, was a profession that drew pretty women. It almost made a man feel there’d be some advantage in being stuck in a flying tin can for a few hours.

As passengers began to pour out of the gateway, he judiciously shifted his attention. Businessmen, looking harried, he noted. The suit-and-tie brigade. No amount of money could convince him that it would be worth wearing a suit for eight to ten hours a day. Nice-looking blonde in sleek red slacks. She gave him a quick, flirtatious smile as she passed, and Shane pleased himself by drawing in the cloud of scent she left behind.

Pretty brunette with a long, ground-eating stride and big, wide gold eyes. They reminded him of the amber beads his mother had kept in her good jewelry box.

Here came Grandma, with an enormous shopping bag and a huge, misty-eyed grin for the trio of children who raced up to hug her knees.

Ah, there she is, Shane decided, spotting a slump-shouldered woman with brown hair scraped back in a frowsy knot. She carried an official-looking black briefcase and wore thick, laced shoes and square glasses. She blinked owlishly behind them, looking lost.

“Hey.” He gave her a quick, flashing smile, and a friendly wink that had her backing up three steps into a frazzled man lugging a bulging garment bag. “How’s it going?” He reached down to take her briefcase and had her myopic eyes going round with alarm. “I’m Shane. Regan sent me to fetch you. She had complications. So how was the flight?”

“I—I—” The woman pulled her briefcase protectively against her thin chest. “I’ll call security.”

“Take it easy, Becky. I’m just going to give you a ride.”

She opened her mouth and made a squeaking noise. When Shane reached out for her arm to reassure her, she gave him a solid thwack with the briefcase. Before he had decided whether to laugh or swear, he felt a light tap on his arm.

“Excuse me.” The pretty brunette cocked a brow and gave him a long, considering study. “I believe you may be looking for me.” Her mouth, which Shane noted was wide and full, curved into a dryly amused smile. “Shane, you said. That would be Shane MacKade?”

“Yeah. Oh.” He glanced back at the woman he’d accosted. “Sorry,” he began, but she was already darting off like a rabbit pursued by wolves.

“I imagine that’s the most excitement she’s had in some time,” Rebecca commented. She thought she knew just how the poor woman had felt. It was so miserable to be shy and plain and not quite in step with the rest of the world. “I’m Rebecca Knight,” she added, and thrust out a hand.

She wasn’t quite what he’d expected, but on closer study he saw he hadn’t been that far off. She did look intellectual, if you got past those eyes. Rather than practical shoes, it was a practical haircut, as short as a boy’s. He preferred hair on a woman, personally, but this chopped-off do suited her face, with its pointy, almost foxlike features.

And she was probably skinny. It was just hard to tell, with the boxy, shape-disguising jacket and slacks, all in unrelieved black.

So he smiled again, taking the long, narrow hand in his. “Regan said your eyes were brown. They’re not.”

“It says they are on my driver’s license. Is Regan all right?”

“She’s fine. Just some domestic and professional complications. Here, let me take that.” He reached for the big, many-pocketed bag she had slung over her shoulder.

“No thanks, I’ve got it. You’re one of the brothers-in-law.”

“Yeah.” He took her arm to steer her around toward the terminal.

Strong fingers, she noted. And a predilection for touching. Well, that was all right. She wouldn’t squeak, as the other woman had—as she herself might have a few months before, when faced with a pure, unadulterated male.

“The one who runs the farm.”

“That’s right. You don’t look much like a Ph.D.—on first glance.”

“Don’t I?” She sent him a cool sidelong look. She’d done a lot of mirror-practicing on that look. “And the woman who is probably even now hyperventilating in the nearest ladies’ room did?”

“It was the shoes,” Shane explained, and grinned down at Rebecca’s neat black canvas flats.

“I see.” As they rode down the escalator toward baggage claim, she turned to face him. Flannel shirt open at the collar, she noted. Worn jeans, scarred boots, big, callused hands. Thick black hair spilling out of a battered cap, on top of a lean, tanned face that could have been on a poster selling anything.

“You look like a farmer,” she decided. “So how long a drive is it to Antietam?”

He debated whether or not he’d been insulted or complimented and answered, “Just over an hour. We’ll get your bags.”

“They’re being sent.” Pleased with her practicality, she patted the bag over her arm. “This is all I have at the moment.”

Shane couldn’t get over the sensation—the uncomfortable sensation—that he was being observed, sized up and dissected like a laboratory frog. “Great.” It relieved him when she took shaded glasses from her jacket pocket and slipped them on.

He was used to women looking at him, but not as though he were something smeared on a slide.

When they reached his truck, she gave it a brief look, then gave him another as he opened the door for her. She granted him one of those cool smiles, then tipped down her glasses to peer at him over them.

“Oh, one thing, Shane…”

Because she’d paused, he frowned a little. “Yeah?”

“Nobody calls me Becky.”

With that she slid neatly onto the seat and set her bag on the floor.

She enjoyed the ride. He drove well, and the truck ran smoothly. And she couldn’t help but get a little glow of satisfaction at having annoyed him, just a bit. Men who not only looked as good as Shane MacKade but had the extra bonus of exuding all that sex and confidence weren’t easy to take down a peg.

She’d spent a lot of her life being intimidated on any kind of social level. Only in the past few months had she begun to make progress toward holding her own. She’d become her own project, and Rebecca thought she was coming along very well.

She gave him credit for making easy conversation on the trip, annoyed or not. Before long they were off the highway and driving on winding back roads. It was a pretty picture, hills and houses, pastures and trees that held their lush summer green into the late, hazy August, an occasional horse or grazing cow.

He’d turned the radio music politely low, and all she could really hear from the speakers was the throb of the beat.

The cab of the truck was neat, with the occasional strand of golden dog hair drifting upward, and the scent of dog with it. There were a couple of scribbled notes attached by magnet to the metal dash, a handful of coins tossed into the ashtray. But it was ordered.

Perhaps that was why she spotted the little gold twist of a woman’s earring peeking out from under the floor mat. She reached down and plucked it up.

“Yours?”

He flicked a glance, caught the glint of gold and remembered that Frannie Spader had been wearing earrings like that the last time they…took a drive together.

“A friend’s.” Shane held out his hand. When the earring was in it, he dropped it carelessly amid the coins.

“She’ll want it back,” Rebecca noted idly. “It’s fourteen-karat. So…there are four of you, right?”

“Yep. Do you have any brothers, sisters?”

“No. But you run the family farm?”

“That’s the way it worked out. Jared has his law practice, Rafe’s into building, Devin’s the sheriff.”

“And you’re the farm boy,” she finished. “What do you farm?”

“We have dairy cattle, pigs. Grow corn—feed mostly, but some nice Silver Queen—hay, alfalfa.” He could see she was taking it all in with those big intense eyes, and he added, very soberly, “We’ve had ourselves a nice crop of potatoes.”

“Really?” In unconscious sympathy with the beat whispering through the speakers, she drummed her fingers on her knee. “Isn’t that a lot of work for one man?”

“My brothers are there when they’re needed. And I take on some 4-H students seasonally.” He moved his shoulders. “I’ve got a couple of nephews coming up. They’re eleven now. I can usually con them into believing they’re having fun when they’re feeding the stock.”

“And is it fun?”

“I like it.” This time he looked at her. “Ever been on a farm?”

“No, not really. I’m an urbanite.”

“Then you’re in for a surprise with Antietam,” he murmured. “Urban it’s not.”

“So Regan tells me. And, of course, I know the area through my studies. It must have been interesting growing up on one of the major battlefields of the Civil War.”

“Rafe was always more into that than me. The land doesn’t care if it’s historical, as long as it’s tended.”

“So you’re not interested in the history?”

“Not particularly.” The truck rumbled over the bridge that spanned the piece of the Potomac River between Virginia and Maryland. “I know it,” he added. “You can’t live there all your life and not know it. But I don’t give it a lot of attention.”

“And the ghosts?”

“I don’t give them a lot of attention, either.”

A smile shadowed her mouth. “But you know of them.”

Again he moved his shoulders. “Part of the package. You want to talk to the rest of the family about that. They’re more into it.”

“Yet you live and work on a farm that’s supposedly haunted.”

“Supposedly.” He didn’t care to talk about it, or think about it. “Look, Regan mentioned something about you coming out to do whatever it is you do—”

“To study and record any paranormal activity.” Her smile spread. “It’s just a hobby.”

“Yeah, well, you’d be better off at the old Barlow place, the house Rafe and Regan put back together. It’s a bed-and-breakfast now—one of my other sisters-in-law runs it. It’s lousy with ghosts, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Mmm… It’s on my list. In fact, I’m hoping they can squeeze me in for a while. I’d like to stay there. And from what Regan told me, you have a large house. I’d like to stay there, too.”

He wouldn’t mind the company, but the purpose didn’t sit well with him. “Regan didn’t mention how long you were planning on being around.”

“That depends.” She looked out the window as he took a route through a cut in the mountains. “It depends on how long it takes me to find what I want to find, and how long it takes to document it.”

“Don’t you have, like, a job?”

“I’m taking a sabbatical.” The word had such marvelous possibilities, she closed her eyes to savor them. “I have all the time in the world, and I intend to enjoy it.” Opening her eyes again, she saw the glint from the little gold earring in the ashtray. “Don’t worry, farm boy. I won’t cramp your style. When the time comes, you can tuck me into some little room in the attic. I’ll do my thing, you can do yours.”

He started to comment, but she made some soft, strangled sound and sat bolt upright in the seat. “What?”

She could only shake her head, absorbed in the jarring sense of déjà vu. The hills rose up, grass green against outcroppings of silver rocks. In the distance, the higher mountains were purple shadows against hazy skies. Fields, high with green stalks of corn, thick with summer grains, rolled back from the road. On a sloping embankment, black-and-white cows stood as still as if they were on a postcard.

Woods, dark and thick, ranged along a field, while a winding creek bubbled along the verge.

“It looks just as it should,” she murmured softly. “Exactly. Perfect.”

“Thanks. It’s MacKade land.” He slowed the truck a little, out of pride. “You can’t see the house this time of year. Trees are too thick. It’s back down that lane.”

She saw the rough gravel road, the way it swung left and followed the line of trees. With her heart thudding dully in her breast, she nodded.

Come hell or high water, she thought, she was going back there. And she would stay until she found all the answers to all the questions that plagued her.

She took a deep breath, turned to him. “How far to town?”

“Just a few miles now.” His eyes narrowed with concern. She’d gone dead pale. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” But she did open the window to take a deep gulp of late summer. “I’m just fine.”

Chapter 2

Through the display window of her shop, Regan saw the truck pull up to the curb. With a child in each arm, she dashed outside.

“Dr. Knight.”

“Mrs. MacKade.” Rebecca slid out of the cab of the truck and let out a cry of pure pleasure, then launched herself at her friend as her vision blurred.

Gone was the cool and the clinical, Shane noted, and he found himself grinning at the way the two women babbled and embraced. He’d had some reservations about Rebecca Knight—and maybe he’d keep a few of them. But there was no doubt as to the depth of affection here.

“Oh, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you,” Rebecca said over and over as tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Regan, you’re so gorgeous, and look at these. Your babies.”

She let the tears come. She’d never had to hold back or feel foolish with Regan. Sniffling, she touched Nate’s cheek, then stroked a finger along the baby’s soft head.

“I don’t see you for a few years, and look what you do. Married and the mother of two. I’ve got to hold one.”

Always willing, Nate held out his arms.

“You must look like your daddy,” Rebecca commented, delighted when Nate puckered up for a kiss.

“Daddy,” Nate agreed. “Play ball. Shane!” He bounced up and down like a spring. “Shane, gimme ride.”

“Shows what you know, choosing your uncle over a lady.” But Shane hauled Nate onto his shoulders, where the toddler could squeal and grip his hair.

“You found each other.” Regan beamed at both of them. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get away to pick you up myself.”

“I’d say you had your hands full.” Rebecca turned to give Shane a mild smile. “And your brother-in-law managed just fine. All in all.”

“You must be tired. Come into the shop. I’m just closing up. Shane, come in for some tea.”

“I have to get back, thanks anyway. Down you go, Nate.” He swung the boy around, inciting a series of rolling belly laughs.

Wise to her son, Regan clutched Nate’s hand firmly in hers the minute his little feet hit the ground. “Thanks.” She kissed Shane lightly on the lips. “I owe you one. I want to give Rebecca a welcome dinner tomorrow, when she’s had time to catch her breath. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“A free meal.” He winked. “Count on it. See you.”

“Thanks for the lift. Farm boy.”

Shane paused at the driver’s-side door. “Anytime. Becky.”

Regan lifted a brow as he drove away. “Becky?”

“Just a little joke.” Objectively she looked up and down the street, noted the light traffic, the old stone buildings, the people loitering in front of doorways. “I’m trying to picture Regan Bishop as resident and shop owner of Small Town, U.S.A.”

“It was home the minute I saw it. Come inside,” she said again. “Tell me what you think of the shop.”

Now she could picture it, Rebecca realized the moment she stepped into Past Times. The style, the elegance of gleaming antiques, lovely old lamps and glass and statuary. There was a smell of spice and baby powder that made her smile.

“Mama,” she said after turning around in a circle. “How does it feel?”

“Incredible. I can’t wait for you to meet Rafe.” She moved into a back room, setting the baby in a bassinet, then lifting Nate into a high chair, where he occupied himself with a cookie. It gave her time to take a breath. “Of course, you’ve seen Shane, so you’ve got a fairly good idea of the MacKade looks.”

“Are they all like that?”

“Tall, dark and ridiculously handsome? Every one of them. With bad-boy reputations to match.” She leaned back, took a long survey. “Rebecca, it’s always what people say when they haven’t seen each other for a while, but I have to say it anyway. You look wonderful.”

Rebecca smiled as she tugged on a short tress of chestnut-brown hair. “I got the nerve to have this hacked off when I was in Europe a few months ago. You were always trying to coax me into doing something with my hair.”

“I’d have never been that brave, or inventive. Boy, it suits you, Rebecca. And—”

“The clothes?” Her smile widened. “That was Europe, too. I had a crisis of style, so to speak. I was walking along the Left Bank and happened to catch a glimpse of this woman reflected in one of the shop windows. She looked like an unkempt scarecrow. Her hair was tangled and hanging down in her face, and she had on the most dreadful brown suit. I thought, Poor thing, to look like that in a city like this. And then I realized it was me.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“I was a mess,” Rebecca said firmly. “A cliché, the dowdy prodigy with a sharp brain and bad shoes. I walked into the nearest beauty salon, gave myself no time to think, to rationalize, to intellectualize, and threw myself on their mercy. Who’d have thought a decent haircut could make such a difference to the way I felt? It seemed so shallow. I told myself that even when I walked out with several hundred dollars’ worth of skin creams.”

She laughed at herself as she realized that, after all this time, she was still savoring that moment. “Then I realized that if appearances weren’t important, it couldn’t be a problem to present a good one.”

“Then I’ll say it again. You look wonderful.” Regan reached out for Rebecca’s hands. “In fact, since you’re happy with the change, I’ll be perfectly honest and tell you I wouldn’t have recognized you. You’re absolutely striking, and I’m so glad to see you looking so fabulous.”

“I have to say this.” She gave Regan’s hands a hard squeeze. “Regan, you were my first real friend.”

“Rebecca.”

“My very first, the only person I was close to who didn’t treat me like an oddity. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time what that meant to me. What you meant to me. But even with you, I had a hard time getting that kind of thing out.”

“You’re making me cry again,” Regan managed.

“There’s more. I was so nervous coming here, worrying that the friendship, the connection, might not be the same. But it is. Hell.” Rebecca gave a lavish sniff. “Got any tissue?”

Regan dived into a diaper bag and pulled out a travel pack. She handed a tissue to Rebecca, used one herself. “I’m so happy,” she said, weeping.

“Me too.”

Rebecca decided the rambling old stone house just outside of town suited Regan and Rafe MacKade perfectly. It had the rough, masculine charm of Rafe MacKade, and the style and feminine grace of Regan, all rolled into one.

She would have spotted Rafe as Shane’s brother from a mile away with one eye closed, so powerful was the resemblance. So she wasn’t surprised when he pulled her into his arms for a hard hug the moment he saw her.

She’d already gleaned that the MacKades liked women.

“Regan’s been fretting and fussing for two weeks,” he told Rebecca over a glass of wine in the big, airy living room.

“I have not been fussing or fretting.”

Rafe smiled and, from his seat on the sofa, reached up to stroke his wife’s hand as she sat on the arm near him. “She polished everything twice, vacuumed up every dog hair.” He gave the golden retriever slumbering on the rug an affectionate nudge with his foot.

“Most of the dog hair,” Regan corrected.

“I’m flattered.” Rebecca jolted a little when Nate knocked over his building blocks and sent them scattering.

“Attaboy,” Rafe said mildly. “If it’s not built right, just tear it down and start again.”

“Daddy. Come play.”

“It’s all in the foundation,” Rafe said as he got up and ranged himself on the floor with his son. They began to move blocks, Rafe’s big hands moving with Nate’s small, pudgy ones. “Regan says you want a close-up look at the inn.”

“I do. I want to stay there, at least for a while, if you have a vacancy.”

“Oh, but…we want you here, Rebecca.”

Rebecca smiled over at Regan. “I appreciate that, and I do want to spent time here, as well. But it would really help if I could stay a few nights there, anyway.”

“Ghostbusting,” Rafe said, with a wink at his son.

“If you like,” Rebecca returned coolly.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. They’re there. The first time I got a good hold of Regan was when I caught her as she was fainting in the hallway of the inn. They’d spooked her.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Regan said. “I thought Rafe was playing a prank, and when I realized he wasn’t, I got…overwrought.”

“Tell me about it.” Fascinated, Rebecca leaned forward. “What did you see?”

“I didn’t see anything.” Regan blew out a breath. Her son was too involved with his blocks to notice the subject of the conversation. And, in any case, he was a MacKade. “It was more a feeling…of not being alone. The house had been deserted and empty for years then. Rafe hadn’t even begun the renovations. But there were noises. Footsteps, a door closing. There’s a spot on the stairs, a cold spot.”

“You felt it?” Rebecca’s voice was flat now, that of a scientist assessing data.

“Right to the bone. It was so shocking. Rafe told me later that a young Confederate soldier had been killed there, on the day of the Battle of Antietam.”

“The two corporals.” Rebecca nodded at Regan’s surprised look. “I’ve been researching the area, the legends. Two soldiers, from opposite sides, met in the woods on September 17, 1862. It’s thought they were lost, or perhaps deserting. They were both very young. They fought there, wounded each other badly. One made his way to the home of Charles Barlow, now the MacKade Inn. The mistress of the house, Abigail, was a Southern woman, wed to a Yankee businessman. She had the wounded boy brought inside, and was having him carried upstairs to be tended. Instead, her husband came down and shot and killed him, there on the stairs.”

“That’s right,” Regan agreed. “You’ll often smell roses in the house. Abigail’s roses.”

“Really.” Rebecca mulled the information over. “Well, well… Isn’t that fascinating.” Her eyes went dreamy for a moment, then sharpened again. “I managed to contact a descendant of one of the Barlow servants who was there at the time. It seems Abigail did her best to take care of the boy, even after his death. She had the servants search his pockets and they found some letters. She wrote to his parents and arranged for his body to be taken back home for burial.”

“I never knew that,” Regan murmured.

“Abigail kept it as quiet as possible, likely to avoid her husband’s wrath. The boy’s name was Gray, Franklin Gray, corporal, CSA, and he never saw his nineteenth birthday.”

“Some people hear the shot, and weeping. Cassie—that’s Devin’s wife—runs the inn for us. She can tell you more.”

“I’d like to see the place tomorrow, if I can. And the woods. I need to see the farm, too. The other corporal, name unknown, was buried by the MacKades. I hope to find out more. My equipment should be here by late tomorrow, or the next day.”

“Equipment?” Rafe asked.

“Sensors, cameras, temperature gauges. Parapsychology is best approached as a science. Tell me, have there been any reports of telekinetic activities—the movement of inanimate objects? Poltergeists?”

“No.” Regan gave a quick shudder. “And I’m sure we’d have heard.”

“Well, I can always hope.”

Baffled, Regan stared at her. “You used to be so…”

“Serious-minded? I still am. Believe me, I’m very serious about this.”

“Okay.” With a quick shake of her head, Regan rose. “And I better get serious about dinner.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

Regan arched a brow as Rebecca stood. “Don’t tell me you learned to cook in Europe, too.”

“No, I can’t boil an egg.”

“You used to say it was genetic.”

“I remember. Now I think it’s just a phobia. Cooking’s a dangerous business. Sharp edges, heat, flame. But I remember how to set a table.”

“Good enough.”

Late that night, when Rebecca settled into her room, she snuggled up on the big padded window seat with a book and a cup of Regan’s tea. From down the hall she dimly heard the sound of a baby’s fretful crying, then footsteps padding down the hall. Within moments the quiet returned as, Rebecca imagined, Regan nursed the baby. She’d never imagined the Regan Bishop she’d known as a mother. In college, Regan had always been bright, energetic, interested in everyone and everything. Of course, she’d attracted male companionship, Rebecca remembered with a small smile. A woman who looked like Regan would always draw men. But it was not merely Regan’s beauty, but her way with people, that had made her so popular with both men and women.

And Rebecca, dowdy, serious-minded, out-of-place Rebecca, had been so shocked, and so dazzled, when Regan offered her friendship. She’d been so miserably shy, Rebecca thought now, staring dreamily out the window while the cup warmed her hands. Still was, she admitted, beneath the veneer she’d developed in recent months. She’d had no social skills whatsoever then, and no defense against the fast-moving college scene.

Except for Regan, who had found it natural to take a young, awkward, unattractive girl under her wing.

It was something Rebecca would never forget. And sitting there, in the lovely guest room, with its big four-poster and lovely globe lamps, she was deeply, warmly happy that Regan had found such a wonderful life.

A man who adored her, obviously, Rebecca thought. Anyone could see Rafe’s love for his wife every time he looked in her direction.

A strong, handsome, fascinating man, two delightful children, a successful business, a beautiful home. Yes, she was thrilled to find Regan so content.

As for herself, contentment had been eluding her of late. Academia, which had encompassed her all her life, had lately become more of a prison than a home. And, in truth, it was the only home she had ever known. Yet she’d fled from it. For a few months, at least, she felt compelled to explore facets of herself other than her intellect.

She wanted feelings, emotions, passions. She wanted to take risks, make mistakes, do foolish and exciting things.

Perhaps it was the dreams, those odd, recurring dreams, that had influenced her. Whatever it was, the fact that her closest friend had settled in Antietam, a place of history and legend, had been too tempting to resist.

It not only gave her the opportunity to visit, and re-cement an important relationship, it offered her the chance to delve more deeply into a hobby that was quickly becoming a compulsion.

She couldn’t really put her finger on when and how the study of the paranormal had begun to appeal to her. It seemed to have been a gradual thing, an article here, a question there.

Then, of course, the dreams. They had started several years before—odd little snippets of imagery that had seemed like memories. Over time, the dreams had lengthened and increased in clarity.

And she’d begun to document them. After all, as a psychiatrist, she understood the value of dreams. As a scientist, she respected the strength of the unconscious. She’d approached the entire matter as she would any project—in an organized, precise and objective manner. But her objectivity had been systematically overcome by pure curiosity.

So, she was here. Was it coincidence, imagination or fate that made her believe she’d come to a place she was meant to come to? Had been drawn to?

She would see.

Meanwhile, she would enjoy it. The time with Regan, the beauty of the countryside, the professional and personal delight of standing on historic land. She would indulge herself in her hobby, work on her confidence and explore the possibilities.

She thought she’d done well with Shane MacKade. There had been a time, not so terribly long ago, when she would have stammered and flushed, or mumbled and hunched her shoulders in the presence of a man that…male. Her tongue would have thickened and tied itself into knots at the terrifying prospect of making conversation that wasn’t academic in nature.

But she’d not only talked with him, she’d held her own. And, for the most part, she’d felt comfortable doing so. She’d even joked with him, and she thought she might try her hand at flirting next.

What could it hurt, after all?

Amused at the idea, she got up and climbed under the wedding-ring quilt. She didn’t feel like reading, and refused to feel guilty that she wasn’t going to end the day with some intellectual stimulus. Instead, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of the smooth sheets against her skin, the soft, cushiony give of down-filled pillows under her cheek, the spicy scent of the bouquet in the vase on the dresser across the room.

She was teaching herself to take time to enjoy textures, scents, sounds. Just now she could hear the wind sigh against the windows, the creak and groan of boards settling, the gentle swish of her leg moving over the sheet.

Small things, she thought with a smile ghosting around her mouth. The small things she had never taken time to appreciate. The new Rebecca Knight took the time and appreciated very much.

Before snuggling deeper, she reached out to switch the lamp off. In the dark, she let her mind wander to what pleasures she might explore the next day. A trip to the inn, certainly. She was looking forward to seeing the haunted house, meeting Cassie MacKade. And Devin, she mused. He was the brother married to the inn’s manager. He was also the sheriff, she mused. Probably a good man to know.

With luck, they would have a room for her, and she could set up her equipment as soon as it arrived. But even if not, she was sure she could arrange for a tour of the inn, and add some stories to her file.

She wanted a walk in the woods, again reputedly haunted. She hoped someone could point out the area where the two corporals had supposedly met and fought.

The way Regan had explained the layout, Rebecca thought she might slip through the woods and get a firsthand look at the MacKade farm. She wanted badly to see if she had a reaction to it, the way she had when Shane drove by the land that bordered the road.

So familiar, she thought sleepily. The trees and rocks, the gurgle of the creek. All so oddly familiar.

It could be explained, she supposed. She had visited the battlefield years before. She remembered walking the fields, studying the monuments, reenacting every step of the engagement in her head. She didn’t remember passing that particular stretch of road, but she might have, while she was tucked into the back seat of the family car being quizzed by her parents.

No, the woods wouldn’t have beckoned to her then. She would have been too busy absorbing data, analyzing it and reporting it to take note of the shape and color of the leaves, the sound of the creek hurrying over rocks.

She would make up for that tomorrow. She would make up for a great many things.

So she drifted into sleep, dreaming of possibilities….

It was terrible, terrible, to hear the sounds of war. It was heart-wrenching to know that so many young men were fighting, dying. Dying as her Johnnie had—her tall, beautiful son, who would never smile at her again, never sneak into the kitchen for an extra biscuit.

As the sounds of battle echoed in the distance, Sarah forced back fear, forced herself to go on with the routine of stirring the stew she had simmering over the fire. And to remind herself that she had had Johnnie for eighteen wonderful years. No one could take her memories of him away. God had also given her two beautiful daughters, and that was a comfort.

She worried about her husband. She knew he ached for their dead son every day, every night. The battle that had come so frighteningly close to home was only one more cruel reminder of what war cost.

He was such a good man, she thought, wiping her hands on her apron. Her John was strong and kind, and her love for him was as full and rich as it had been twenty years before, when she took his ring and his name. And she never doubted his love for her.

After all these years, her heart still leaped when he walked into the room, and her needs still jumped whenever he turned to her in the night. She knew all women weren’t as fortunate.

But she worried about him. He didn’t laugh as freely since the terrible day they’d gotten word that Johnnie had been lost at Bull Run. There were lines around his eyes, and a bitterness in them that hadn’t been there before.

Johnnie had gone for the South—rashly, idealistically—and his father had been so proud of him.

It was true enough that in this border state of Maryland, there were Southern sympathizers, and families ripped in two as they chose sides. But there had been no sides in the MacKade family. Johnnie had made his choice with his father’s support. And the choice had killed him.

It was that she feared most. That John blamed himself, as well as the Yankees. That he would never be able to forgive either one, and would never be truly at peace again.

She knew that if it hadn’t been for her and the girls, he would have left the farm to fight. It frightened her that there was the need inside him to take up arms, to kill. It was the one thing in their lives they never discussed.

She arched her back, placing the flat of her hand at the base of her spine to ease a dull ache. It reassured her to hear her daughters talking as they peeled potatoes and carrots for the stew. She understood that their incessant chatter was to help block the nerves that jumped at hearing mortar fire echo in the air.

They’d lost half a cornfield this morning—the fighting had come that close. She thanked God it had veered off again and she wasn’t huddled in the root cellar with her children. That John was safe. She couldn’t bear to lose another she loved.

When John came in, she poured him coffee. There was such weariness in his face, she set the cup aside and went over to wrap her arms around him instead. He smelled of hay and animals and sweat, and his arms were strong as they returned the embrace.

“It’s moving off, Sarah.” His lips brushed her cheek. “I don’t want you fretting.”

“I’m not fretting.” Then she smiled as he arched one silver-flecked black brow. “Only a little.”

He brushed his thumb under her eye, over the shadows that haunted there. “More than a little. Damn war. Damn Yankees. What gives them the right to come on my land and do their killing? Bastards.” He turned away and picked up his coffee.

Sarah sent her daughters a look that had them getting up quietly and leaving the room.

“They’re going now,” she murmured. “The firing is getting farther and farther away. It can’t last much longer.”

He knew she wasn’t talking about this one battle, and shook his head. The bitterness was back in his eyes. “It’ll last as long as they want it to last. As long as men have sons to die. I need to go check things.” He set down the coffee without having tasted it. “I don’t want you or the girls setting foot out of the house.”

“John.” She reached for his hand, holding the hard, callused palm against hers. What could she say? That there was no one to blame? Of course there was, but the men who manufactured war and death were nameless and faceless to her. Instead, she brought his hand to her cheek. “I love you.”

“Sarah.” For a moment, for her, his eyes softened. “Pretty Sarah.” His lips brushed hers before he left her.

In sleep, Rebecca stirred, shifted and murmured.

John left the house knowing there was little he could do. In the distance, drying cornstalks were blackened and hacked. He knew there would be blood seeping into his ground. And didn’t want to know whether the men who had died there had been taken away yet or not.

It was his land, his, damn them. When he plowed in the spring, he knew, he would be haunted by the blood and death he turned into the earth.

He reached into his pocket, closing his hand over the miniature of his son that he always carried. He didn’t weep; his eyes were dry and hard as they scanned the land. Without the land, he was nothing. Without Sarah, he would be lost. Without his daughters, he would willingly die.

But now he had no choice but to live without his boy.

Grim-faced, he stood there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on his land. When he heard the whimpering, his brows drew together. He’d already checked the stock, secured them. Had he missed a calf? Or had one of his dogs broken out of the stall he’d locked them in to keep them from being hit by a stray bullet?

He followed the sound to the smokehouse, afraid he would have a wounded animal to tend or put down. Though he’d been a farmer all his life, he still was struck with guilt and grief whenever it was necessary to put an animal out of its misery.

But it wasn’t an animal, it was a man. A damn blue-belly, bleeding his guts out on MacKade land. For an instant, he felt a hot rush of pleasure. Die here, he thought. Die here, the way my son died on another man’s land. You might have been the one to kill him.

Without sympathy, he used his boot to shove the man over onto his back. The Union uniform was filthy, soaked with blood. He was glad to see it, coldly thrilled.

Then he saw the face, and it wasn’t a man. It was a boy. His soft cheeks were gray with pain, his eyes glazed with it. Then they fixed on John’s.

“Daddy? Daddy, I came home.”

“I ain’t your daddy, boy.”

The eyes closed. “Help me. Please help me. I’m dying….”

In sleep, Shane’s fist curled in the sheets, and his restless body tangled them.

Chapter 3

It was one of the most exciting moments of Rebecca’s life—just to stand in the balmy air, a vivid blue sky overhead and the old stone house spreading out in front of her. She could smell early mums, the spice of them mixing with the fragrance of the late-summer roses.

She’d studied architecture for a time, and she’d seen firsthand the majestic cathedrals in France, the romantic villas of Italy, the ancient and glorious ruins of Greece.

But this three-story building of native stone and wood, with its neat chimneys and sparkling glass, touched her as deeply as her first sight of the spires of Notre Dame.

It was, after all, haunted.

She wished she could feel it, wished some part of her was open to the shadows and whispers of the restless dead. She believed. Her dedication to science had taught her that there was much that was unexplained in the world. And as a scientist, whenever she heard of some unexplained phenomenon, she needed to know what, how, when. Who had seen it, felt it, heard it. And whether she could see, feel, hear.

It was like that with the old Barlow house, now the MacKade Inn. If she hadn’t heard the stories, didn’t trust Regan implicitly, Rebecca would have merely seen a beautiful house, an inviting one, with its long double porches and delightful gardens. She would have wondered how it was furnished inside, what view she might have from the windows. She might have pondered a bit over who had lived there, what they had been, where they had gone.

But she knew all that already. She had spent a great deal of time researching the original owners and their descendants.

Now she was here, walking toward that inviting porch with Regan beside her. And her heart drummed in her breast.

“It’s really beautiful, Regan.”

“You should have seen it before.” Regan scanned the house, the land, with pride. “Poor old place, falling apart, broken windows, sagging porches. And inside…” She shook her head. “I have to say, even though he is my husband, Rafe has a real talent for seeing what could be, then making it happen.”

“He didn’t do it alone.”

“No.” Her lips curved as she reached for the door. “I did one hell of a job.” She opened the door. “See for yourself.”

One hell of a job, Rebecca thought. Beautiful wide planked floors gleamed gold with polish and sunlight. Silk-covered walls, elegantly trimmed. Antiques, both delicate and majestic, were placed in a perfect harmony that looked too natural to have been planned.

She turned into the doorway of the front parlor, with its curvy double-backed settee and Adam fireplace. Atop its carved pine mantel were gorgeous twin vases holding tall spires of larkspur and freesia and flanking silver-framed tintypes.

“You expect to hear the swish of hooped skirts,” Rebecca murmured.

“That was the idea. All of the furnishings, all of the color schemes, are from the Civil War era. Even the bathrooms and kitchen reflect the feeling—even if they are modernized for comfort and convenience.”

“You must have worked like fiends.”

“I guess we did,” Regan said reflectively. “Mostly it didn’t seem like work at all. That’s the way it is, I suppose, when you’re dazzled by that first explosion of love.”

“Explosion?” Rebecca smiled as she turned back. “Sounds scary—and violent.”

“It was. There’s very little calm before or after the storm when you’re dealing with a MacKade.”

“And apparently that’s just the way you like it.”

“Apparently it is. Who’d have thought?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I always imagined you’d end up with some sophisticated, streamlined sort of man who played squash to keep in shape. Glad I was wrong.”

“So am I,” Regan said heartily, then shook her head. “Squash?”

“Or polo. Maybe a rousing game of tennis.” Rebecca’s laugh gurgled out. “Well, Regan, you were always so…tidy and chic.” She lifted a brow and gestured to indicate the knife pleat in Regan’s navy trousers, the polished buttons on the double-breasted blazer. “Still are.”

“I’m sure you mean that in the most flattering way,” Regan said dryly.

“Absolutely. I used to think, if I could just wear the kind of clothes you did—do—get my hair to swing just that way, I wouldn’t feel like such a nerd.”

“You were not a nerd.”

“I could have given lessons in the art. But—” she ran a hand down the side of her unconstructed jacket “—I’m learning to disguise it.”

“I thought I heard voices.”

Rebecca looked toward the stairs and saw a small, slim blonde with a baby snuggled into a sack strapped over her breasts. Rebecca’s first impression was of quiet competence. Perhaps it was the hands, she mused, one lying neatly on the polished rail, the other gently cupping the baby’s bottom.

“I wondered if you were upstairs.” Regan walked over to get a peek at the sleeping baby. “Cassie, you’ve been changing linens with the baby again.”

“I like to get it done early. And Ally was fussy. This must be your friend.”

“Rebecca Knight, girl genius,” Regan said, with an affection that made Rebecca grin, rather than wince. “Cassandra MacKade, irreplaceable manager of the MacKade Inn.”

“I’m so glad to meet you.” Cassie took her hand off the rail to offer it.

“I’ve been looking forward to coming here for weeks. This must be quite a job, managing all this.”

“It hardly ever feels like one. You’ll want to look around.”

“I’m dying to.”

“I’ll just finish upstairs. Give me a call if you need anything. There’s coffee fresh in the kitchen, and muffins.”

“Of course there is.” Regan laughed and brushed a hand over Ally’s dark hair. “Take a break, Cassie, and join the tour. Rebecca wants stories.”

“Well…” Cassie glanced upstairs, obviously worrying over unmade beds.

“I’d really appreciate it,” Rebecca put in. “Regan tells me you’ve had some experiences I’d be interested in hearing about. You actually saw a ghost.”

“I…” Cassie flushed. It wasn’t something she told many people about—not because it was odd, but because it was intimate.

“I’m hoping to document and record episodes while I’m here,” Rebecca said, prompting her.

“Yes, Regan told me.” So Cassie took a deep breath. “I saw the man Abigail Barlow was in love with. He spoke to me.”

Fascinating, was all Rebecca could think as they wandered through the inn, with Cassie telling her story in a calm, quiet voice. She learned of heartbreak and murder, love lost and lives ruined. She felt chills bubble along her skin at the descriptions of spirits wandering. But she felt no deep stirring of connectedness. An interest, yes, and a full-blooded curiosity, but no sense of intimacy. She’d hoped for it.

She could admit to herself later, as she wandered alone toward the woods, that she had hoped for a personal experience, a viewing or at least a sensing of some unexplainable phenomenon. Her interest in the paranormal had grown over the years, along with her frustration at having no intimate touch with it. Except in dreams—and Rebecca knew they were merely the work of the subconscious, sometimes fraught with symbolism, sometimes as simple as a thought—she’d never been touched by the otherworldly.

Though the house had unquestionably been lovely, though it had brought back echoes of a lost past, she had seen only the beauty of it. Whatever walked there had not spoken to her.

She still had hope. Her equipment would be in by the end of the day, and Cassie had assured her she was welcome to set up in a bedroom, at least for a few days. As the anniversary of the battle drew nearer, the inn would be full with reservations already booked.

But she had some time.

When she stepped into the woods, Rebecca felt a chill, but it was only from the thick shade. Here, she knew, two young boys had fought, essentially killing each other. Others had sensed their lingering presence, heard the clash of bayonets, the cries of pain and shock. But she didn’t.

She heard the call of birds, the rustle of squirrels scrambling for nuts to hoard, the faint buzz of insects. The day was too still for the air to stir the leaves, and the leaves themselves were a deep green, not even hinting of the autumn that would come within a month.

Following Cassie’s competent directions, she found the stand of rocks where the two corporals were reputed to have met. Sitting down on one, she took out her notebook and began to write what she would transpose onto a computer disk later.

There have been only mild, and perhaps self-induced, sensations of déjà vu. Nothing that equals that one swift and stunning emotion at seeing the edge of the MacKade farm from the road. It’s wonderful seeing Regan again, being able to view firsthand her happiness, her family. I think it must be true that there is indeed the perfect mate for some people. Regan has certainly found hers in Rafe MacKade. There’s a sense of strength, of self, an arrogance, an underlying potential for physical action, in him that’s oddly appealing, particularly, I would think, to a female. Offsetting it, perhaps enhancing it, is his obvious love and devotion to his wife and his children. They’ve made a good life, and the inn they have created is successful due to their vision. Its location and history, of course, add to its success. Undoubtedly their choice of chatelaine was also inspired.

I found Cassie MacKade to be competent, organized, and anything but aloof. There’s a…I want to say innocence about her. Yet she is a grown woman with three children, a demanding job and, from what Regan has related to me, a miserable past. Perhaps sweetness is more accurate. In any case, I liked her immediately and felt very much at ease with her. This ease isn’t something that I feel with a great many people.

I’m looking forward to meeting Devin MacKade, her husband, who is also the sheriff of Antietam. It will be interesting to see how much he resembles his brothers, not only physically, but in that less tangible but equally strong aspect of personality.

Shane MacKade has a personality that is impossible to forget. That arrogance again, though he is perhaps a bit more good-natured than his older brother, Rafe. I would theorize that Shane is a man who has great success with women. Not only due to his unquestionably stunning looks, but there’s also a high degree of charm—and a blatant sexuality. Is it an earthiness, I wonder? And if so, is it due to his choice of profession?

I found myself attracted in an immediate way I’d not experienced before. All in all, it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, but one I believe it would be wise to keep to myself. I don’t think a man like Shane needs any sort of encouragement.

Rebecca stopped, frowned, shook her head. Her notes, she thought with some amusement, were anything but scientific. Then again, she mused, this was more a personal journal of a personal odyssey.

In any case, I experienced nothing out of the ordinary during my tour of the MacKade Inn. Cassie and Regan showed me the bridal suite, which had once been Abigail Barlow’s room, a room where she had lived in virtual seclusion the last years of her life. A room where she had died, in Cassie’s opinion, by her own hand, out of despair. I walked through the master’s room, Charles Barlow’s room, into the nursery that is now a charming bedroom and sitting area. I explored the library, where both Regan and Cassie claim to have had strong experiences of a paranormal nature. I don’t doubt their word, I merely envy their openness to such things.

It seems that despite my efforts to the contrary, I remain too rooted in the rational. Here, in woods that have been haunted for more than a century, I feel only the cool shade, see only the trees and rocks. Perhaps technology will help me. I’ll see when my equipment arrives. In the meantime, I have an urge to see the MacKade farm. I’m not sure of my welcome. My impression was that Shane is as closed-minded about the paranormal as I am determined to experience it. But welcome or not, I’ll cut through the woods as Cassie instructed me. If nothing else, it will be interesting to see the ins and outs of a working farm firsthand.

And, on a personal note, it won’t be a hardship to get another close-up look at the farmer. He is quite beautiful.

Smiling to herself, Rebecca folded her notebook, slipped it back in her shoulder bag. She thought Shane would probably enjoy being called beautiful. She imagined he was used to it.

Her first glimpse of the farmhouse came across a fallow field that smelled strongly of manure. She didn’t mind the scent, in fact it intrigued her. But she was careful to watch where she walked.

It was a peaceful scene—blue sky, puffy, harmless clouds, an old spreading willow gracefully draped near a narrow creek. At least she assumed there was a creek to her right, as the sound of gurgling water came across clearly. She saw stands of corn, row after row spearing up to the sun. Fields of grain going gold. There was a big weathered barn with those odd windows that looked like eyes, and a pale blue tower she assumed was a silo.

More silos, sheds, paddocks and pens. Cows, she thought with the ridiculous grin of the urbanite at the sight of them grazing in a green field with rocks scattered gray throughout the pasture.

From a distance it was a postcard, a quiet and remote rural scene that looked as though it were always just so. And the house, she thought, at the core of it.

Her heart was beating fast and sharply before she realized it. She stopped where she was, breathing carefully as she studied the house.

It was stone, probably from the same quarry as the inn. In this building the stone looked less elegant, more sturdy and simple. The windows were boxy and plain in the two-story structure, and the wide rear porch was a faded gray wood. She wondered if there was a front porch, and assumed there was. There would be a rocker on it, perhaps two. There would be an overhang for shade and to keep the rain off during a storm so that you could sit out and watch the clouds roll in.

Through a buzzing in her head, she heard the barking of dogs, but it barely registered. She studied the chimneys, then the gray shutters that she was sure were functional, rather than merely decorative. She could almost picture herself reaching out, drawing them in to secure the house against the night’s chill—stoking the kitchen fire so that there would still be embers in the morning.

For a moment, the house was so clear, almost stark in its lines and colors against the sky, it might have been a photograph. Then she blinked and let out the breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding.

That was it, of course, she realized. A photograph. Regan had described the farm to her, given her such a detailed picture of it, Rebecca decided it was her own memory of that, and her ability to project and retain, that made it all so familiar. So eerily familiar.

She laughed at herself and continued to walk, hesitating only briefly when two large yellow dogs bounded toward her. Regan had told her Shane had dogs, the parents of Regan’s golden retriever. Rebecca didn’t mind animals. Actually, she rather liked them, in a distant sort of way. But, obviously, these dogs had no intention of keeping their distance. They raced around her, barking, tongues lolling, tails batting back and forth in a flurry of fur.

“Nice dogs.” At least she hoped they were and held out a testing hand. When her fingers were sniffed, then licked lavishly, rather than taken off at the knuckle, she relaxed. “Nice dogs,” she repeated more firmly, and drummed up the nerve to rub each yellow head. “Nice, big dogs. Fred and Ethel, right?”

In agreement, each dog gave a throaty bark and raced back toward the house. Taking that as an invitation, Rebecca followed.

Pigs, she thought, and stopped by the pen to study them clinically. They weren’t nearly as sloppy as she’d imagined. But they were certainly larger than she’d imagined a pig to be. When they grunted and snorted and crowded near the fence where she stood, she grinned. She was bending down to stick a hand through the slats of the fence to test the texture of pig hide when a voice stopped her.

“They’ll bite.”

Her hand snapped back out like a rocket. There was Shane, standing two yards away, carrying a very large wrench. Her mind went utterly blank. It wasn’t fear, though he did look dangerous. It was, she would realize later, absolute sexual shock.

There were smears of grease on his arms, arms that gleamed with sweat and rippled with muscle. Arms, she thought dazedly, that were stunningly naked. He wore a thin tank-style undershirt that had probably once been white. It was a dull, washed-out gray now, snug, ripped and tucked into low-slung jeans that were worn white at the knees. He had a blue bandanna wrapped around his forehead as a sweatband, with all that wonderful black hair curling over it in a glorious tangle.

And he was smiling. A smile, Rebecca was sure, that reflected an easy knowledge of his effect on the female system.

“Bite,” she repeated, fighting off the erotic cloud that covered her like fine rain.

“That’s right, sweetie.” He tucked the wrench into his back pocket as he walked to her. She looked so cute, he thought, standing there in her shapeless jacket, those gold eyes squinting against the sun. “They’re greedy. If you don’t have food in your hand when you stick it in, they’ll make do with your fingers.” Casually he took her hand in his, examined her fingers one by one. “Nice fingers, too. Long and slim.”

“Yours are dirty.” She was amazed the words didn’t come out in a croak.

“I’ve been working.”

“So I see.” She managed a friendly smile as she drew her hand free. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s all right.” He ruffled the dogs, who had come back to join the company. “The rake needed some adjustment, that’s all.”

Her brows shot up. “You get that dirty fixing a rake?”

His dimple flashed. “I’m not talking about a stick with tines on the end, city girl. Been over to the inn?”

“Yes. I met Cassie. She showed me through. She’s going to give me a lift back to Regan’s when I’m ready. Since I was in the neighborhood…” She trailed off and looked back into the pen. “I’ve never seen pigs close up. I wondered what they felt like.”

“Mostly they feel like eating.” Then he smiled again. “They’re bristly,” he told her. “Like a stiff brush. Not very pettable.”

“Oh.” She would have liked to see for herself, but wanted to keep her fingers just as they were. Instead, she turned around and took a long scan of the farm. “It’s quite a place. Why haven’t you planted anything over there?”

“Land needs to rest for a season now and again.” He glanced toward the fallow field near the woods. “You don’t really want a lecture on crop rotation, do you?”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “But not right now.”

“So…” He laid a hand on the fence beside her. A standard flirtation ploy, Rebecca thought, and told herself she was above such maneuvers. “What do you want?”

“A look around. If I wouldn’t be in your way.” Instinct urged her to hunch her shoulders, shift away, but she kept her chin up and her eyes on his.

“Pretty women aren’t ever in the way.” He took off the bandanna, used it to wipe his hands before sticking it in his pocket. “Come on.”

Before she could evade, or think to, he had her hand in his. The texture of his palm registered. Hard, rough with calluses, strong. As they skirted around a shed, she had a glimpse of a large, dangerous-looking piece of machinery with wicked teeth.

“That’s a rake,” he said mildly.

“What were you doing to it?”

“Fixing it.”

He headed toward the barn. Most city people, he knew, wanted to see a barn. But when they passed the chicken coop, she stopped.

“You raise chickens, too. For eggs?”

“For eggs, sure. And for eating.”

Her skin went faintly green. “You eat your own chickens?”

“Sweetie, at least I know what goes into my own. Why would I pick up a pack of chicken parts at the market?”

She made some sound and looked back over her shoulder, toward the pigpen. Reading her perfectly, Shane grinned. “Want to stay for dinner?”

“No, thank you,” she said faintly.

He just couldn’t help himself. “Ever been to a hog butchering? It’s quite an event. Real social. We usually hold one out here once a year, hook it up with a fund-raiser for the fire department. Hog butchering and all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast.”

She pressed a hand to her unsteady stomach. “You’re making that up.”

“Nope. You haven’t tasted sausage until—”

“I’m thinking about becoming a vegetarian,” she said quickly, but pulled herself together. “That was nicely done, farm boy.”

“It was a little too hard to resist.” Appreciating her quick recovery, he gave her hand a quick squeeze. “You had this look in your eyes like you were calculating every squeal and cluck, filing it away somewhere for a report on the average American farm.”

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