The Return Of Rafe Mackade tmb-1

by Nora Roberts

  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 cherry-wood-and-beveled-glass secretaire for bis 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.

  Began 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, 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 the feet next to a Jeep.

  "I make a habit of it."

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

  He maneuvered Ms 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."