by Nora Roberts
Because he knew he had to gauge his timing, and his moves, Devin resisted the urge to drape his arm over those thin little shoulders. Instead, he led the way down a path and stopped at the cluster of rocks where two soldiers had once met and doomed each other.
He sat, and the boy stood rigid and waiting.
"I'm awfully proud of you, Connor."
The words—the last he'd expected to hear—had the boy's head whipping up. "Sir?"
Casually Devin took out a cigarette—the first of a very long day. "I have to tell you, it's a relief to me. I worry about your mother some. She's had a bad time of it. Knowing you're there to look after things, makes my mind a lot easier."
Connor's confusion was too huge for him to feel any pride. He stared at Devin, his eyes still wary. "I—-I sassed you."
"I don't think so."
"You're not going to hit me?"
Devin's hand stiffened, hesitated. Very slowly he tossed the barely smoked cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his heel. As he would have liked to crush Joe Dolin.
"I'm never going to raise my hand to you, not today, not any day." He spoke deliberately, his eyes level with Connor's, as a man would speak to another man. "I'm never going to raise it to your mama or to your sister." But he held out that hand, and waited. "I'm giving you my word, Connor," he said, when the boy simply stared at the hand being offered. "I'd be grateful if you'd take it."
Dumbfounded, Connor put his hand in Devin's. "Yes, sir."
Devin gave the hand a little squeeze, tugged the boy a little closer. And grinned. "You'd have torn right into me, wouldn't you?"
"I'd have tried." The emotions swirling inside Connor were frightening. Most of all, he was afraid he would cry now and show Devin he was just a stupid little boy after all. "I never helped her before. I never did anything."
"It wasn't your fault, Connor."
"I never did anything," Connor repeated. "He hit her all the time, Sheriff. All the time."
"I know."
"No, you don't. You only know about when one of the neighbors would call you, or when he'd get so drunk he'd hit her someplace where it would show. But there was more. It was worse."
Devin nodded. There was nothing else he could do. And drew the boy down on the rocks beside him. "He hit you, too."
"When she couldn't see." Bravery forgotten, Connor pressed his face into Devin's side. "When she didn't know."
Devin stared off into the trees, eaten away by a useless anger at what he hadn't been able to prevent. "Emma?"
"No, sir. He never paid much attention to Emma, because she was just a girl. Don't tell Mama. Please don't tell her he hit me. She'd just feel bad."
"I won't."
"I hate him. I'd kill him if I could."
"I know how you feel." When the boy shook his head, Devin drew him back, looked deep into his eyes. "I do know. I'm going to tell you something. I used to fight a lot."
"I know." Connor sniffled, but was profoundly grateful he'd controlled the tears. "People talk about it."
"Yeah, I know they do. I used to like it, and I used to think there were lots of people I wanted to rip into. Sometimes I had reason for it, sometimes I didn't. Anyway, I had to learn to take a step back. It's important, that step. Now, you figure you owe your father some grief— "
"Don't call him that," Connor snapped out, then flushed darkly. "Sir."
"All right. I figure you owe him some, too. But you've got to take that step back. Let the law handle it."
"I'm not ever going to let him or anybody hurt her again."
"I'm with you there." Studying Connor's determined face, he decided the boy deserved to know the situation. "I'm going to give it to you straight, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your grandma got your mama real upset today."
"She wants him to come back. It's never going to happen. I won't let it happen."
"Your mama feels the same way, and that's why she sent your grandma away. That was hard for her, real hard, Connor, but she did it."
"You were helping her. I'm sorry I—"
"Don't apologize," Devin said quickly. "I mean it. I know Cassie thinks you should, but we know how things stand. You did exactly right, Connor. I'd have done the same."
No compliment he'd ever received, no praise from a teacher, no high-five from a teammate, had ever meant more. He had done what Sheriff MacKade would do.
"I'm glad you want to help her. I'll do anything you want me to do."
That kind of trust, Devin thought, was worth more than gold. "I need to tell you that they've given Joe work release."
Connor's face tightened up. "I know about it. Kids at school say things."
"They giving you a rough time?"
He moved a shoulder. "Not as much as they used to."
Learning to handle yourself, Devin thought with an astonishing sense of pride. "What I want is for you not to worry too much, but more, I want you to keep your eyes open. You're smart, and you notice things. That's why you write good stories."
Connor wriggled with pleasure. "I like to write."
"I know. And you know how to look at things, how to watch. So I know you're going to watch out for your family. If you see something, hear something, even feel something that doesn't sit right, I want you to come to me. I want your word on that."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you have to call me sir all the time? It makes me feel creaky."
Connor flushed, and grinned. "I'm supposed to. It's like a rule."
"I know all about rules." Devin decided they could deal with that little matter later. "A man would be lucky to have you for a son, Connor."
"I don't ever want to have a father again."
The hand that had lifted toward Connor's shoulder stiffened. Biting back a sigh, Devin ordered it to relax. "Then I'll say a man would be lucky to have you for a friend. Are we square here?"
"Yes, sir."
There were those eyes again, Devin thought, filled with trust. "Your mama's probably worried you're beating me up." When Connor giggled at the idea, Devin ruffled his hair. "You go on back now and tell her we straightened it all out. I'll talk to her later."
"Yes, sir." He scrambled off the rocks, then had to bite his lip to spark that last bit of courage. "Can I come to your office sometime, and watch you work?"
"Sure."
"I wouldn't get in the way. I'd just—" Connor tumbled over his own words and skidded to a halt. "I can?"
"Sure you can. Anytime. It's mostly boring."
"It couldn't be," Connor said with giddy pleasure. "Thanks, Sheriff. Thanks for everything."
Devin watched the boy race off, then settled back. He wished briefly for a cigarette before reminding himself he was quitting. Then he reminded himself that sooner or later he intended to have those two children, and maybe another on the way.
Connor didn't want another father, and that would be a tough one. So, Devin mused, he'd just have to find the right path to take, and step carefully.
The first step, of course, was Cassie. One step, then the next. Direction always took you somewhere. If he was careful, she would be taking those steps with him.
Chapter 6
It was supposed to be Devin's day off, but he spent two hours in the morning dealing with a small crisis at the high school. The smoke bomb had failed in its mission. When it landed in the girl's locker room, it hadn't put out much of a cloud, and, more important, hadn't made the girls come rushing out screaming in their underwear.
The one he'd put together a short lifetime ago had had far more satisfying results. Not that he'd mentioned that particular incident to the two offenders he collared.
Once he had it under control, and the juvenile chemists shaking in their basketball shoes, he headed straight for the inn.
He had a surprise for Cassie, one he hoped would make her smile. And one he hoped would ease the way into that next step.
He supposed he had an unfair advantage. He knew her so well, had watch
ed and observed for years. He knew every expression of her face, every gesture of her hands. He knew her weaknesses and her strengths.
She knew him, he thought, but not in the same way, or in the same detail. She'd been too busy surviving to notice. If she had noticed, she would have been able to see that he was in love with her.
It was just as well she didn't see. Not until he'd finished laying the foundation. He could take his time about that, Devin mused as he turned up the lane toward the inn. But once he had that foundation in place and solid, he was going to move fast.
Twelve years was a damn long time to wait.
Because there was a car parked in one of the guest slots, he opted to go into the inn first. He was delighted to find her there, fully occupied with two snowy-haired women.
She'd forgotten to take her apron off. The new arrivals had come unexpectedly, and they had wanted a full tour, and the history of the inn. Cassie was grateful she'd finished the breakfast dishes, even though she'd been caught in the middle of vacuuming.
The two women were sisters, both widowed, and were eager to hear about the Barlow legend. Cassie led them back down the stairs after the tour of the second floor, and was well into her spiel when Devin walked in.
"... the bloodiest single day of the Civil War. The Antietam battlefield is one of the most pristine parks in the country. The visitors' center is only four miles from here, and very informative. You'll find— Oh, hello, Devin."
"Don't let me interrupt. Ladies."
"Mrs. Berman, Mrs. Cox, this is Sheriff MacKade."
"Sheriff." Mrs. Cox adjusted her glasses and beamed through the lenses. "How exciting."
"Antietam's a quiet town," he told her. "Certainly more quiet than it was in September of 1862." Because tourists inevitably enjoyed it, Devin grinned. "You're standing right about on the spot where a Confederate soldier was killed."
"Oh, my goodness!" Mrs. Cox clapped her hands together. "Did you hear that, Irma?"
"Nothing wrong with my ears, Marge." Mrs. Berman peered down at the stairs, as if inspecting for blood. "Mrs. Dolin was telling us something of the history. We decided to visit the inn because we read one of the brochures that claimed it was haunted."
"Yes, ma'am. It surely is."
"Sheriff MacKade's brother owns the inn," Cassie explained. "He can tell you quite a bit about it."
"You can't do better than to hear it from Mrs. Dolin," Devin corrected. "She lives with the ghosts every day. Tell them about the two corporals, Cassie."
Though she told the story several times each week, Cassie had to struggle not to feel self-conscious in front of Devin. She folded her hands over her apron.
"Two young soldiers," she began, "became separated from their regiments during the Battle of Antietam. Each wandered into the woods beyond the inn. Some say they were looking for their way back to the battle, others say they were just trying to go home. Still, legend holds that they met there, fought there, each of them young, frightened, lost. They would have heard the battle still raging in the fields, over the hills, but this was one on one, strangers and enemies because one wore blue, and the other gray."
"Poor boys," Mrs. Berman murmured.
"They wounded each other, badly, and crawled off in different directions. One, the Confederate, made his way here, to this house. It's said he thought he was coming home, because all he wanted, in the end, was his home and his family. One of the servants found him, and brought him into the house. The mistress here was a Southern woman. Her name was Abigail, Abigail O'Brian Barlow. She had married a wealthy Yankee. A man she didn't love, but was bound to by her vows."
Devin's brow lifted. It was a new twist, a new detail, to the legend he had known since childhood.
"She saw the boy, a reminder of her own home and her own youth. Her heart went out to him for that, and simply because he was hurt. She ordered him to be taken upstairs, where his wounds would be tended. She spoke to him, reassured him, held his hand in hers as the servant carried him up these stairs. She knew that she could never go home again, but she wanted to be sure the boy could. The war had shown her cruelty, useless struggle and the terrible pain of loss, as her marriage had. If she could do this one thing, she thought, help this one boy, she could bear it."
Mrs. Cox took out tissues, handed one to her sister and blew her own nose hard.
"But her husband came to the stairs," Cassie continued. "She didn't hate him then. She didn't love him, but she'd been taught to respect and obey the man she had married, and the father of her children. He had a gun, and she saw what he meant to do in his eyes. She shouted for him to stop, begged him. The boy's hand was in hers, and his eyes were on her face, and if she had had the courage, she would have thrown her body over his to protect him. To save not only him, but everything she'd already lost."
Now it was Cassie who looked down at the stairs, sighed over them. "But she didn't have the courage. Her husband fired the gun and killed him, even as she held the boy's hand. He died here, the young soldier. And so did she, in her heart. She never spoke to her husband again, but she learned how to hate. And she grieved from that day until she died, two years later. And often, very often, you can smell the roses she loved in the house, and hear her weeping."
"Oh, what a sad, sad story." Mrs. Cox wiped at her eyes. "Irma, have you ever heard such a sad story?"
Mrs. Berman sniffed. "She'd have done better to have taken the gun and shot the louse."
"Yes." Cassie smiled a little. "Maybe that's one of the reasons she still weeps." She shook off the mood of the story and led the ladies the rest of the way down the steps. "If you'd like to make yourselves at home in the parlor, I'll bring in the tea I promised you."
"That would be lovely," Mrs. Cox told her, still sniffling. "Such a beautiful house. Such lovely furniture."
"All of the furnishings come from Past Times, Mrs. MacKade's shop on Main Street in town. If you have time, you might want to go in and browse. She has beautiful things, and offers a ten-percent discount to any guest of the inn."
"Ten percent," Mrs. Berman murmured, and eyed a graceful hall rack.
"Devin, would you like to have some tea?"
It took an effort to move. He wondered if she knew that Connor got his flair for telling a story from his mother.
"I'll take a rain check on that. I have something in the car for upstairs. For your place."
"Oh."
"Ladies, nice to have met you. Enjoy your stay at the MacKade Inn, and in the town."
"What a handsome man," Mrs. Cox said, with a little pat of her hand to her heart. "My goodness. Irma, have you ever seen a more handsome young man?"
But Mrs. Berman was busy sizing up the drop-leaf table in the parlor.
By the time Cassie had settled the ladies in with their tea, her curiosity was killing her. She had chores to see to, and she scolded herself for letting them lag as she hurried around to the outside stairs.
Halfway up, she saw Devin hooking up a porch swing. "Oh." It made a lovely picture, she thought, a man standing in the sunlight, his shirtsleeves rolled up, tools at his feet, muscles working as he lifted one end of the heavy wooden seat to its chain.
"This seemed like the spot for it."
"Yes, it's perfect. Rafe didn't mention that he wanted one."
"I wanted one," Devin told her. "Don't worry, I ran it by him." He hooked the other end and gave it a testing swing. "Works." Bending, he gathered up the tools. "Going to try it out with me?"
"I really have to—"
"Try it out with me," Devin finished, setting the tools aside in their case. "I put it up because I figured it was a good way to get you to sit with me on a summer afternoon. A good way for me to kiss you again."
"Oh."
"You said you didn't mind."
"No, I didn't. I don't." There it was again, that flutter in her chest. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"
"It's my day off. Sort of." He held out a hand, then curled his fingers around hers. "You look p
retty today, Cassie."
Automatically she brushed at her apron. "I've been cleaning.''
"Real pretty," he murmured, drawing her to the swing, and down.
"I should get you something cold to drink."
"You know, one of these days you're going to figure out that I don't come around so you can serve me cold drinks."
"Connor said you worried about me. You don't have to. I was hoping you'd come by so I could tell you how much I appreciate what you did for him the other day. The way you made him feel."
"I didn't do anything. He earned what he felt. You've got a fine boy in Connor."
"I know." She took a deep breath and relaxed enough to lean back against the seat. The rhythm of the swing took her back, far back, to childhood and sweet days, endless summers. Her lips curved, and then she laughed.
"What's funny?"
"It's just this, sitting here on a porch swing, like a couple of teenagers."
"Well, if you were sixteen again, this would be my next move.'' He lifted up his arms, stretched, then let one drape casually over her shoulders. "Subtle, huh?"
She laughed again, tilted her face toward his. "When I was sixteen, you were too bad to be subtle. Everybody knew how you snuck off to the quarry with girls and—"
The best way to stop her mouth was with his. He did so gently, savoring the quick tremor of her lips, of her body.
"Not so subtle," he said quietly. "Wanna go to the quarry?" When she stuttered, he only laughed. "Some other time. For now I'd settle for you kissing me back. Kiss me back, Cassie, like you were sixteen and didn't have a worry in the world."
With someone else, anyone else, he might have been amused by the concentration on her face. But it struck his heart, the way her mouth lifted to his, that hesitant pressure, the unschooled way her hands lifted to rest on his shoulders.
"Relax," he said against her mouth. "Turn off your head for a minute. Can you do that?"
"I don't..." She didn't turn it off. It shut off when his tongue danced lightly over hers, when his hands skimmed down her sides and up again. Down and up, in firm, steady strokes that had the heels of his hands just brushing the sides of her breasts.
