by Nora Roberts
"No. I like having them around. I've had plenty of time to be alone."
Chapter 9
It was rare for Rafe to dream. He preferred his fantasies during waking hours, so that his consciousness could appreciate them.
But he dreamed that night, as the fire burned low and the moon rose over drifts of snow, if you could call it a dream...
He was running, terror and smoke at his heels. His eyes were burning from fatigue, and from the horror he'd already seen.
Men blown apart before they could scream from the shock and agony. The ground exploding, hacked by mortar fire, drenched with blood. The smell of death was in his nostrils, and he knew he'd never be free of it.
Oh, and he longed for the scent of magnolias and roses, for the lush green hills and rich brown fields of his home. If he had had tears left, he would have wept them for the quiet gurgling of the river that wound through his family's plantation, the bright laughter of his sisters, the crooning songs of the field hands.
He was afraid, mortally afraid, that everything he'd known and treasured was already gone. His most desperate wish was to get back, to see it again.
He wanted to see his father again, to tell him his son had tried to be a man.
The battle raged everywhere. In the fields, through the corn, in his heart. So many of his comrades lay dead on these godforsaken rocky hills of Maryland.
He'd lost his way. He hadn't been able to see through the choking smoke, or hear through the thunder of guns and the horrible shrieks of men. Suddenly he was running, running as a coward runs for any hole to crawl in.
Mixed with the horror now was a shame just as terrible. He'd forgotten his duty, and lost his honor. Now, somehow, he must find them both again.
The woods were thick, carpeted with the dying leaves that fell, brilliant in golds and russets, from the trees. He had never been so far north, seen such color, or smelled the poignant decay of autumn.
He was only seventeen.
A movement ahead had him fumbling his rifle onto his shoulder. The blue uniform was all he could see, and he fired too quickly, and poorly. The answering shot had fire singeing his arm. Driven by pain and terror, he gave a wild Rebel yell and charged.
He wished he hadn't seen the eyes, the eyes of the enemy, as wide and terror-glazed and young as his own. Their bayonets crashed, point to point. He smelled the blood, and the stinking scent of fear.
He felt the steel of his blade slice into flesh, and his stomach roiled. He felt the rip of his own, and cried out in agony. He fought, blindly, bitterly, recklessly, until there was nothing inside him but the battle. And when they both lay in their own blood, he wondered why.
He was crawling, delirious with pain. He needed to get home for supper, he thought. Had to get home. There was the house, he could see it now. He dragged himself over rocks and dying summer flowers, leaving his blood staining the grass.
Hands were lifting him. Soft voices. He saw her standing over him, an angel. Her hair like a halo, her eyes warm, her voice filled with the music of the South he yearned for.
Her face was so beautiful, so gentle, so sad.
She stroked his head, held his hand, walking beside him as others carried him up curving steps.
I'm going home, he told her. I have to go home.
You'll be all right, she promised. You'll go home as soon as you're well again.
She looked away from him, up, and her lovely face went pale as a ghost's.
No. He's hurt. He's just a boy. Charles, you can't.
He saw the man, saw the gun, heard the words.
I'll have no Confederate scum in my house. No wife of mine will put her hands on a Rebel.
Rafe jolted awake with the sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears. He sat where he was while it echoed away, until all that was left was his brother's quiet breathing.
Chilled, he rose, added logs to the fire. Then he sat, watching the flames and waiting for dawn.
Regan slept like a baby. With the kids off to school and Cassie taking the early shift at the diner, she indulged herself with a second cup of coffee. She still prized her privacy, but she'd discovered she liked having the company.
It was nice having the children pad around the house in the morning, having Emma offer one of her solemn kisses or Connor one of his rare smiles.
She liked beating Cassie to the kitchen so that she could fix breakfast and smooth down pale, sleep-tousled hair.
Motherhood had never been one of her ambitions, but she was beginning to wonder if she wouldn't be good at it.
She picked up a crayon Emma had left on the table. She smelled it, and smiled. It was funny, she thought, how quickly a house could smell like children. Crayons and white paste, hot chocolate and soggy cereal.
And it was funny how quickly she'd come to look forward to finding them there after work.
Absently she tucked the crayon in her pocket. Work was exactly where she had to go.
Out of habit, she rinsed her coffee cup in the sink, set it on the drain. After a last glance around, she opened the door in the kitchen and headed down the stairs to open the shop for the day.
She'd barely turned the Open sign around, unlocked the door and moved behind the counter to unlock the till when Joe Dolin walked in.
The quick spurt of alarm came first. Then she soothed it by reminding herself that he was here, and Cassie wasn't.
He'd put on weight even in the three years she'd known him. There was muscle there still, but it was cushioned by too many six-packs. She imagined he'd been an attractive man once, before his square face had bloated and his moody brown eyes had sunken behind bags.
He had a chipped front tooth she didn't know was courtesy of a younger Rafe's fist, and a nose that had been broken by Rafe, and several others.
With disgust, she remembered that he had tried, once or twice, to touch her. Had watched her, more than once or twice, with greedy eyes and a knowing smile.
Regan hadn't even told Cassie that. And never would.
She braced herself for the altercation, but he shut the door quietly, took off his billed cap and held it humbly in his hands, like a peasant before the queen.
"Regan. I'm sorry to bother you."
The penitent sound of his voice and bowed head almost softened her. But she remembered the bruises on Cassie's neck. "What do you want, Joe?"
"I heard Cassie's staying with you."
Just Cassie, she noted. Nothing about his children. "That's right."
"I guess you know about the trouble."
"Yes, I know. You beat her, and you were arrested."
"I was awful drunk."
"The court may find that an excuse. I don't."
His eyes narrowed and flashed, but he kept his head down. "I feel terrible about it. Done nothing but worry about her for days. Now they've fixed it so I can't even go near her to tell her so. I come to ask you a favor."
He lifted his head then, and his eyes were moist. "Cassie sets a lot of store by you."
"I set a lot of store by her," Regan said evenly. She would not let the sight of a man's tears blur her judgment.
,
"Yeah, well. I was hoping you'd talk to her for me. See that she gives me another chance. I can't ask her myself, long as there's that damn restraining order. But she'll listen to you."
"You're giving me credit for influence over Cassie I don't have, Joe."
"No, she'll listen to you," he insisted. "She's always running off at the mouth about how smart you are. You tell her to come on home, and she'll do it."
Very slowly, Regan placed her palms on the countertop. "If she'd listened to me, she would have left you years ago."
His unshaven jaw tightened. "Now, you look. A man's got a right—"
"To beat his wife?" she snapped. "Not in my book, he doesn't, and not in the law's. No, I won't tell her to come back to you, Joe. And if thaf s all you came in for, you'll have to leave."
His lips peeled back, showing clenched teeth, his eye
s hardened like marbles. "Still all high-and-mighty. You think you're better than me."
"No, I don't. I know I'm better than you. Get out of my shop or I'll have Sheriff MacKade throw you in jail for harassment."
"A woman belongs to her husband." He crashed his fist on the counter, hard enough to have a crack splitting through the glass. "You tell her to get her skinny butt home, if she knows what's good for her. And what's good for you."
Fear trembled in Regan's throat, and was swallowed, hard. As if it were a talisman, she closed a hand around the crayon in her pocket. "Is that a threat?" she asked coolly. "I don't believe your parole officer would approve. Shall I call him and ask?"
"Bitch. You're nothing but a frigid, dried-up bitch who can't get herself a real man." He wanted to hit her, to feel his fist pound into that ice-queen face. "You get between me and my wife and both of you'll find out what it's like. When I finish with her, I'll come after you. We'll see if you're so high and mighty when I'm finished."
He jammed his hat back on his head, spun to the door. "You tell her what I said. You tell her I'm waiting. She'd better have that bastard MacKade tear up those papers and be home by suppertime."
The instant the door slammed behind him, Regan slumped against the counter. Her hands were shaking, and she hated it, hated being afraid, hated being vulnerable. She grabbed the phone, had nearly followed through on her first instinct to call Rafe when she stopped herself.
That was wrong, she thought, carefully replacing the receiver. For so many reasons it was wrong. Wouldn't his first reaction be to hunt Joe down, to fight? He'd probably get hurt and certainly more fighting wasn't going to solve anything.
She straightened and drew a few calming breaths. Where was her pride, her sense of control? She had always handled herself and any situation that came her way. Her feelings for Rafe shouldn't—couldn't change that intrinsic part of her. She wouldn't allow it. So, she would do what was right, what was practical, and what was necessary. Regan picked up the phone and dialed the sheriff's office.
"He was almost pitiful at first." The tea sloshed in her cup. With a grimace, Regan set it down again. "I guess he spooked me more than I'd thought."
"Shake all you want," Devin told her, and frowned at the crack in her counter. It could have been worse, he thought grimly. A lot worse. "I have to say, I didn't think he was fool enough to pull a stunt like this."
"I don't think he'd been drinking." Regan cleared her throat. "At least he wasn't drunk. He got steadily more angry, steadily more abusive." She reached for her tea again. "I don't have any witnesses. It was just him and me."
"You file charges, I'll go after him."
Her lips trembled upward. "It sounds like you're looking forward to it."
"You don't know the half of it."
"I'll file charges. Cassie?"
"I had one of my deputies go to the diner as soon as you called. He'll hang out there and get paid for drinking coffee and flirting with Ed. I've got another one driving by the school."
"The kids." Her blood ran cold. "You don't think he'd go after the kids?"
"No, I don't think he gives two damns about them."
"You're right." She tried to feel relieved. "He never said a word about them. Only Cassie. It was as if his children didn't exist. Well, I'll lock up and go with you now, if that's all right."
"The sooner the better. Odds are he's at home, knocking back a bottle and waiting for her.''
Once the complaint was official, Began detoured to the market. She had a feeling both she and Cassie were going to need a lift that evening. Comfort food was in order. Spaghetti and meatballs, she decided, and double-fudge brownies.
While she waited for her purchases to be bagged, she tried not to chuckle at the darting looks and whispers. The gossip brigade, she thought, was in full march.
Mrs. Metz, all two hundred and twenty pounds of her, waddled over. "Why, Regan Bishop, I thought that was you."
"Hello, Mrs. Metz." Here, Regan thought, was the brigade's head scout. "Do you think we're going to get hit with snow again?"
. "Ice storm," she said with a shake of her head. "Heard on the radio. Into February now, and don't look like this winter's ever going to end. Surprised to see you in here this time of day."
"Business is slow." Regan counted out bills for the groceries. "Everybody's hibernating."
"Know what you mean. Still, you got yourself some business over to the old Barlow place, don't you?"
"Yes, indeed." Willing to play, Regan set the bag on her hip. "It's really coming along, too. It'll be a showplace when it's finished."
"Never thought to see the day anybody'd bother fixing her up. Never thought to see Rafe MacKade come riding back into town, neither." Her curious eyes brightened. "Guess he did pretty well for himself down South."
"Apparently."
"You can't tell about those MacKade boys. They fool you every time. You know that Rafe crashed his daddy's Ford pickup on Marble Quarry Road before he so much as had a license. That was right after Buck died, as I recall. He was wild as wild can be, that Rafe. Chasing girls, picking fights, flying around on the back roads on that noisy motorcycle of his. Time was, when you found trouble, there was always a MacKade boy in the middle of it."
"Times change, I suppose."
"Not that much, they don't." Her chins wagged as she chuckled. "I seen him around town. He's still got that look in his eye. Little bird told me he had that eye on you."
"Well, your little bird's right. And I've got mine right back on him."
Mrs. Metz laughed so hard she had to put down her box of Ho-Hos to hold her belly. "With a boy like that, you'd better keep it there. He'd be harder to keep down than spit on a hot griddle. He was a bad one, Regan. Bad boys turn into dangerous men."
"I know." Regan winked. "Thaf s why I like him. You come in and browse real soon, Mrs. Metz."
"I'll do that." Chuckling to herself, she emptied her cart. "Stop gawking, boy," she snapped at the skinny clerk, who was still watching Regan's retreat, "and ring me up here. You ain't never going to be dangerous enough to reel in that kind of woman."
Amused by the encounter, Regan strolled down the sidewalk. It was a good town, she thought, lifting a hand in response to a greeting from across the street. The sidewalks were uneven, heaved up by tree roots and frost, the library was only open three days a week, and the post office was closed for a full hour every afternoon.
But despite that, or perhaps because of it, it was a good town. She didn't think Rafe realized he'd been welcomed home.
No fatted calf, she mused, crossing at the corner and turning down Main. That wasn't their style. The prodigal son just slipped back into the town's rhythm with neither a hitch nor fanfare.
When he left again, his departure would be just as unheralded. A few comments over the counter at the post office, some speculation at the diner. Then the town would move along, as easy as ever.
She hoped she would.
Shifting her bag, she circled around the side of the shop. Enjoy the moment, she reminded herself. Don't project into the future. Those were the rules; she'd stated them herself. All she had to do was follow them.
And if she found an excuse to slip by his house later, steal an hour with him, so much the better.
Bolstered by the idea, she took her keys from her pocket. She jingled them as she climbed the stairs with her groceries.
If she'd been paying attention, if she hadn't been thinking about Rafe, perhaps she would have noticed sooner. But her hand was already reaching for the door when she saw that it wasn't on its hinges, but was propped there.
Her mind stayed blank for an instant too long.
Even as she spun around to run, Joe hauled the door aside. The crash dragged a shriek from her. It was choked off to a gurgle when his arm jerked around her neck.
"Wondered which one of you'd come first. This is good." His breath panted out, sour with whiskey and excitement. "Been wanting to get my hands on you for a long
time."
He pressed his mouth to her ear, excited by the way she tried to curl away from him. "I'm going to show you what a real man's all about. Going to get you out of those prim and proper clothes and show you real good."
He panted as his free hand came around to squeeze hard on her breast. Her skin crawled, and for one hideous moment the fear was so bright it blinded her eyes, and her reason.
"I'm going to get me some of what I hear that bastard Rafe MacKade's been getting. Then I'm going to fix your face so nobody thinks it's so pretty anymore."
As he started to drag her over the broken door and inside, the horror of what he would do flashed through her. She swung back. Groceries flew, smashing into the little alley below. Her heels skidded back over the door.
"Cassie gets here, I'm going to give her the same. But first I'm going to enjoy taking you down a few pegs.'' With his free hand, he yanked her hair, darkly pleased when she whimpered.
Then she remembered the keys that were still gripped in her frozen fist. With prayers screaming in her head, she flung her hand back, hacking with the point she'd pushed between her clenched fingers.
He howled like a wild dog, and the vicious grip released. Dragging in air, she flew down the steps, certain he would be on her again in an instant. At the bottom, she stumbled, went down hard on her hands and knees. Prepared to scream, she looked back.
And saw him crumpled on the landing, holding a hand to his face, while blood dripped through his fingers, Like a woman in a trance, she rose to her feet, put one foot slowly in front of the other until she reached the diner. The buzzing in her ears warned her to take deep, careful breaths.
She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, unaware that her coat was hanging by one sleeve and the knees of her slacks were torn and bloody.
Cassie dropped the tray she was holding, shattering dishes. "Regan! My God!"
"I think you should call Devin," Regan said, testing each word as she spoke it. "Joe's on the landing of my apartment. I think I hurt him." When the room revolved, she braced a hand on the back of a booth. "I have to sit down now."
"Go call Devin," Ed snapped, and rushed over to ease Regan into a booth. "Head down." In a quick movement, she had Regan's head between her knees. "Long, deep breaths, that's a girl." Eyes sharp, she scanned the room, where a half a dozen customers sat staring. "Well, what are you waiting for? One of you big strong men get on over there and hold that son of a bitch for the sheriff. You, Horace, get up off your lard butt and get this girl a glass of water."
