by Nora Roberts
"They're all right. Better."
"Getting along all right at Regan's?"
"She's wonderful. I forget I'm imposing, because she makes everything so normal. She and Rafe—" She broke off, her color rising again. "You've got better things to do than listen to me gossip."
"No, I don't." He'd have done anything to keep her talking. To keep her there. "What do you think about them? Regan and Rafe?"
"I— She looked happy when she came home this morning."
"He looked miserable when I dropped by the house this morning."
Her smile was slow and shy. "That's a good sign. Rafe always needed a woman who could make him unhappy. It was always too easy for him. For all of you."
"Was it?" Thoughtful, he picked up his cigarette again, ran it through his fingers. "I remember you turned me down."
"Oh." Fumbling, she rose. "That was a hundred years ago."
"Not quite twelve. You were sweet sixteen."
"I was going with Joe." As she tugged on her coat, she wondered if she'd really ever been sixteen. "I can't even remember who we were then, or what we were looking for. Thanks, Devin, for taking care of this." "That's what I'm here for, to take care of things." At the door, she paused, but didn't look back. It was easier to speak if she didn't have to look into those cool, pitying eyes. "You asked me what I wanted, Devin. I just want to feel safe." She said it so quietly, he barely heard. "That's really all."
In a coat that was too thin to fight off the biting wind, she walked back to the cafe.
Rafe arrived ten minutes early for dinner and squirmed on Regan's doorstep like a nervous suitor. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a bakery box of cookies designed to win the kids over in the other.
He wished he'd remembered before his brainstorm that he knew nothing about people under the age of sixteen.
As a test, he turned the knob. It was somewhat satisfying to find it locked tight. He knocked sharply, stepped back. It was Regan who opened it, as far as the thick security chain allowed.
"Okay, so far you're passing. But you should have asked who it was first."
"I looked out the window." She shut the door in his face, then, after a rattle of chain, opened it. "I had the feeling there'd be a quiz." Smiling, she studied the offerings. "No lilacs?"
"No chance." He would have kissed her if he hadn't noticed the solemn gray eyes watching him from the cushions of the sofa. "Looks like you've got a mouse in the house."
Regan jerked, then smiled when she saw Emma. "She's quiet as one, but prettier. Emma, this is Mr. MacKade. You met him at Ed's, remember?" Regan held out a hand. Eyeing him warily, Emma slipped from the couch.
She was five, Rafe knew, and tiny as a fairy princess, with her mother's pale hair and smoky eyes.
"I knew your mama when she was your age," he told her.
Emma darted behind Regan's legs and peered up at him.
Knowing it was a shameless bribe, he shook the bakery box. "Want a cookie, honey?"
That earned him the faintest of smiles, but Regan took the box out of his hands. "Not before dinner."
"Spoilsport. But dinner smells good."
"Cassie's chicken and dumplings. I had to practically tie her down to keep her from taking the kids and eating at the diner. We compromised and had her cook dinner. Come on, Emma, we'll take the cookies in the kitchen."
With one hand clutching Regan's slacks, Emma darted looks over her shoulder.
She thought he was big, but his eyes weren't mean. She'd already learned how to read eyes. And he looked a lot like the sheriff, who sometimes picked her up and gave her lemon drops.
But Emma watched her mother carefully to gauge her reaction to the man.
Cassie looked up from the stove and smiled. "Hi, Rafe."
He moved to her, lightly kissed her bruised cheek. "How's it going?"
"Fine, everything's fine." She laid a hand on the shoulder of the boy beside her. "Connor, you remember Mr. MacKade."
"Nice to see you again, Connor." Rafe offered a hand. The little boy with the pale hair and the dusky blue eyes shook hands hesitantly. "You'd be, what, in third, fourth grade?"
"Third, yes, sir."
Rafe lifted a brow and passed the bottle of wine to Regan. That would make him about eight, Rafe figured, and the kid spoke as quietly as an old priest. "Miz Witt still teaching there?"
"Yes, sir."
"We used to call her Miz Dimwit.'' When the boy's eyes widened, Rafe plucked a carrot from beside the salad bowl. "Bet you still do."
"Yes, sir," Connor mumbled, slanting a look at his mother. "Sometimes." Screwing up the courage he'd worked on building ever since he'd been told Rafe MacKade was coming, Connor drew in his breath. "You bought the Barlow Place."
"That's right."
"It's haunted."
Rafe bit off some carrot and grinned. "You bet."
"I know all about the battle and everything," Connor said in one quick burst. "It was the bloodiest day of the Civil War, and nobody really won, because—" He broke off, embarrassed. This, he thought miserably, was why some of the kids called him nerdhead in school.
"Because nobody went for the final push," Rafe finished for him. "Maybe you'd like to come by the house sometime, take a look. I could use somebody who knows all about the battle."
"I've got a book. With pictures."
"Yeah?" Rafe took the wine Regan offered him. "Let's see."
It was simple enough to draw the boy out, as long as they were discussing McClellan's flawed strategy or the Battle of Burnside Bridge. Rafe saw a bright, needy boy, too bookish to fit neatly with his contemporaries, too shy to showcase his own brain.
The girl, a miniature of her mother, never strayed far from Cassie or Regan, ate her dinner in small, neat bites. And watched him like a baby hawk.
"Ed would be better off having you in the kitchen than waiting tables," Rafe commented after he'd polished off a second helping. "Her business would double in a month."
Off guard, Cassie blinked at him. No one had complimented her cooking in too many years to count. "I'm glad you liked it. I could put some of the leftovers in a dish for you. You'd just have to heat them up."
"I'll take them."
When Cassie rose and began to clear, Regan held up a hand. "No, you don't. You cooked, I clear."
"But—"
"That was the deal. And since Rafe ate enough for two growing boys, he can help."
The Dolins looked on, awed, as Rafe cheerfully stacked plates. The men they knew would have belched, loosened their belts and plopped down in front of the TV with a six-pack.
"Daddy says girls and sissies do dishes," Emma announced, in a surprisingly clear voice.
"Emma!" Paling, Cassie stared at Rafe and waited for the retribution.
He considered making a comment about her father's brains but decided against it. "My mama always said a meal has to be earned." He said it lightly and winked at her. "And if I do the dishes with Regan, I'll probably be able to kiss her."
"Why?"
"Because she tastes almost as good as your mama's chicken and dumplings."
Satisfied with that, Emma nibbled solemnly on her cookie.
"I'll just give Emma her bath, then." Flustered, Cassie shooed her children along. "I have to turn in early. I have the breakfast shift in the morning."
"Thanks for dinner, Cassie."
"You handled that very well," Regan murmured. "That's probably the first time in years they've sat at the dinner table with a man and had a civilized conversation."
"Dolin's not only a swine, he's a fool." Rafe set stacked plates on the kitchen counter. "Sweet woman like that, beautiful kids. Any man would be lucky to have them."
A home of your own, Rafe mused. A woman who loved you. Kids racing out to meet you at the end of the day. Family meals around a table. Noise in the kitchen.
Funny, he'd never thought that was something he'd wanted, or needed.
"You made an impression," Regan went on as she filled
the sink with hot, soapy water. "A good one. I can't think of anything better for all of them than seeing a strong, intelligent man behaving in a strong, intelligent way."
She glanced back, and her smile faltered at the look in his eye. She was used to the way he stated at her, or she nearly was. But this was different, deeper.
"What is it?"
"Hmm?" He caught himself, realized he felt like a man who had nearly skidded hard and landed on very thin ice. "Nothing. It's nothing." Good God, he'd actually been thinking about marriage and kids and picket fences. "The boy, Connor. He's awfully bright, isn't he?"
"Straight As," Regan said, as proudly as if he were her own. "He's bright, sensitive and sweet—which made him a perfect target for Joe. The man bullied the poor kid mercilessly."
"He hit him?" The question was mild, but the fire was already burning.
"No, I don't think so. Cassie's fiercely protective of her children. But emotional abuse doesn't leave bruises." She shrugged. "Well, they're out of it now." She handed him a plate to dry. "Did your father do dishes?"
"Only on Thanksgiving." Rafe polished off the plate, set it aside. "Buck MacKade was a man's man."
"Buck?" Impressed, Regan pursed her lips. "Sounds formidable."
"He was tough. Had eyes that could drill holes in you if you messed up. Devin got his eyes. I got his hands." Bemused, Rafe stared down at his palms, flexed his fingers. "It was a hell of a surprise to me when I looked down one day and saw my father's hands on the end of my arms."
She couldn't have said why it touched her so to see him smiling down at his hands, a dishcloth tossed over his shoulder. "You were close to him?"
"Not close enough. Not for long enough."
"When did you lose him?"
"I was fifteen. Tractor rolled on him. It took him a week to die."
She plunged her hands into the water again, struggled with tears. "Is that why you hate the farm?"
"Yeah, I guess it is." Odd, he'd never realized it was that simple, that direct. The farm had taken his father, so he had to hate the farm. "He loved it, every rocky acre. The way Shane does."
"What did Jared get from him?"
"The mouth—Jare can horse-trade just like the old man, and make you think you got the best end of the deal."
"Then I'm relieved he's my lawyer." She offered another plate. "My father never did a dish in his life. I'm sure my mother would be horrified if he tried. The kitchen is a woman's domain," she said dryly. "They agree on that completely. She brings him his first cup of coffee every morning before he goes to the hospital. He's a surgeon."
"Hard feelings?"
"I used to have them," she admitted. "She made herself into exactly the woman he wanted her to be. If she was ever anything else, wanted to be anything else, anything more, it doesn't show. She's Dr. Bishop's wife, and that's all."
He began to see just why she was so set on marking her own boundaries, taking her own stands. "Maybe that's all she wants to be."
"Apparently. It just infuriated me to see the way she catered to him, the way he patted her on the head. He actually gives her an allowance and calls her 'the little woman.'"
It still made her grit her teeth. "She loved living in D.C., but a few years ago when he decided that he wanted to relocate to Arizona, she packed up without a murmur." Regan sighed. "But they're blissfully happy. I baffle them as much as they baffle me."
"Because you don't have a rich husband, a big house and a membership at the country club."
"Exactly." Surprised and amused, she glanced at him. "Have you met them?"
"I think I just did." And, in doing so, caught a fresh new glimpse of her. "So, darling, why don't you have a rich husband, a big house and a membership at the country club?"
"Because I like independence, my own space and my golf game is dreadful." She shook back her hair. "Actually, my mother had high hopes for me when she met Jared."
The bowl he was drying clattered when he set it down. "Run through that again."
"They came to visit right after settlement. He took us out to dinner."
"Jared," Rafe said carefully, "took you out to dinner."
"Mmm-hmm... A couple of times. My mother really liked the idea that I was seeing a lawyer. Next-best thing to a doctor, in her mind."
"Seeing. As in dating. You dated Jared?"
"We went out a few times. It was right after his divorce." She held out another bowl, lifting a brow when he made no move to take it. "Is there a problem?"
"You dated my brother?"
"I believe we just established that." She decided it was a better idea to bite the inside of her lip than to let it curve. "Didn't he mention it?"
"No. I think I'd like your definition of date."
"You mean, did I sleep with him?" Struggling to keep her face composed, she tilted her head. "Are you going to go beat him up, big guy? Can I come watch?"
Obviously she didn't know how close she was to having her pretty face dumped in dishwater. "It's a simple question."
"You've got a muscle twitching in your jaw, Rafe. It looks good on you. No," she said, and then she did laugh. "Of course I didn't sleep with him." Enjoying herself, she shoved the bowl into his hands. "I did kiss him good-night. A couple of times. I'm now in the position to state, unequivocally, that at least fifty percent of the MacKade brothers are champion kissers."
"Think twice before you try for a hundred percent—or even seventy-five." He set the bowl aside, picked up his wine. "Why didn't you sleep with him?"
"Really, Rafe." She rolled her eyes. "In the first place, he didn't ask me. And in the second, I didn't ask him. We were more comfortable being friends. Satisfied?"
"Maybe I'll beat him up anyway. On principle."
After setting his wine aside, he took her by the shoulders, turned her to face him. Even as she grinned at him, he pressed her back into the sink.
Hard, possessive, his mouth covered hers. The little purr that sounded in her throat enticed him to draw the kiss out, soften it, until all points of pleasure narrowed and centered just there.
When her head fell back in surrender, her hands slid limply down his arms, he eased back.
"That's so you remember which MacKade you're with now."
She had to remind herself to breathe. "What was your name again?"
He grinned, then closed his teeth over her sensitized bottom lip. "Tell you what. Why don't we skip necking on the couch and go try out the back seat of my car?"
"That's quite an offer." It was fascinating to feel her own head spin. "I think I'll take you up on it."
Rafe let himself into the Barlow house at midnight. He'd recognized the car at the top of the lane, and he wasn't surprised to find Jared in the parlor, brooding over a beer.
"Foreclosing already, Lawyer MacKade?"
Instead of rising to the bait, Jared stared down at his beer. "I put my house on the market today. Didn't feel like staying there."
Rafe grunted, sat down on his sleeping bag to pull off his boots. He knew the dark moods, often had them himself. Either he'd manage to shake Jared out of it, or they'd both ride through it.
"Never liked that house, no personality. Just like your ex-wife."
It was so cold, and so true, Jared had to laugh. "Decent investment, though. I'll make a profit."
Rafe shook his head at the beer Jared held out. "They don't taste the same without a smoke. Besides, I gotta be up in six and a half hours. I was going to come look for you," he added.
"Oh? Why?"
"To beat the hell out of you." With a yawn, Rafe lay back. "It'll have to wait till tomorrow. I'm too relaxed."
"Okay. Any particular reason?"
"You kissed my woman." Rafe figured he had just about enough energy to strip off his pants. . "I did?" Jaied tossed his legs up over the settee. A slow smile curved his lips. "Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah..." he said again, with more feeling. "It's all coming back to me. When'd she get to be your woman?"
Rafe heaved his jeans aside, s
tarted on his shirt. "That's what comes from living in the city. You're out of the loop, bro. She's mine now."
"Does she know that?"
"I know." With his eyes dosed, he dragged the sleeping bag over him. "I'm thinking about keeping her."
Jared choked on his beer. "You mean like a wife?"
"I mean like keeping her," Rafe repeated. No way was he going to try to get his tongue around a word like wife. "Keeping things the way they are now."
This was interesting, Jared mused. And even more fun than brooding. "And how are things now?"
"Things are good." Rafe could smell her on the quilted material of the sleeping bag. "I'm still going to have to break your face. It's the principle."
"Understood." Jared stretched out, settled back. "Then again, I never did pay you back for talking Sharilyn Bester, now Fenniman, into riding out to the quarry with you to skinny-dip."
"I was just easing her broken heart after you'd dumped her."
"Yeah. But it's the principle."
Considering, Rafe scratched his face. "You got a point. But Sharilyn, pretty as she is, is no Regan Bishop."
"I never got to see Regan naked."
"That's why you're still breathing." Rafe shifted, folded his arms under his head. "Maybe we'll call it even."
"I can sleep easy now."
Rafe's lips twitched at the dry tone. "I'm sorry about your house, Jared, if you are."
"I'm not sorry about it, really. It just brought a lot of things back. I screwed up as much as Barbara did, Rafe. It would have been easier if we'd yelled at each other, threw things." He took a last swig and set the empty bottle on the floor. "There's nothing more demoralizing than a civilized divorce between two people who couldn't care less about each other."
"It's got to be better than getting your heart broken."
"I don't know. I kind of wish I'd had the chance."
They were both silent as the sound of weeping drifted down the stairs.
"Ask her," Rafe suggested. "I'd bet she'd tell you you're better off."
"Maybe you should start thinking exorcism," Jake said, smiling at the idea as his eyes drooped and he settled himself for sleep.
