The Fall of Shane MacKade

by Nora Roberts

  That was why she veered away from the house, rather than toward it.

  She liked the smells here, found them oddly familiar. Some deeply buried memory, she supposed. Perhaps a former life. She was really going to start exploring the theory of reincarnation sometime soon. Fascinating subject.

  Because she knew the story of the two corporals well, she wandered toward the outbuildings. She didn’t know precisely what a smokehouse might look like, but Regan had told her it was stone, and that it still stood.

  There were wildflowers in the grass, little blue stars, yellow cups, tall, lacy spears of white. Charmed, she forgot her mission and began to gather a few. Beyond where she stood was a meadow, lushly green, starred with color from more wild blooms and the flutter of butterflies.

  Had she ever taken time to walk in a meadow? she wondered. No, never. Her botany studies had been brief, and crowded with Latin names rather than with enjoyment.

  So, she would enjoy it now. Light of heart, she walked toward the wide field of high grass, noting the way the sun slanted, the way the flowers swayed—danced, really—in the light breeze.

  Then her throat began to ache, and her heartbeat thickened. For a moment there was such a terrible sadness, such a depth of loneliness, she nearly staggered. Her fingers clutched tightly at the flowers she’d picked.

  She moved through the high grass, among the thistles shooting up purple puffs on thick stalks, and the sorrow clutched in her stomach like a fist. She stopped, watched butterflies flicker, listened to birds chirping. The strong sun warmed her skin, but inside she was so very cold.

  What else could we have done? she asked herself, shivering with a grief that wasn’t her own, yet was stunningly real. What else was there to do?

  Opening her hand, she let the flowers fall in the meadow grass at her feet. The tears stinging her eyes left her shaken, baffled. As carefully as a soldier in a minefield, she backed away from where her flowers lay in the grass.

  Done about what? she wondered, a little frantic now. Where had the question come from, and what could it possibly mean? Then she turned, taking slow, deliberate breaths, and left the meadow behind.

  All those strong, confusing emotions faded so that she began to doubt she’d ever felt them. Perhaps it was just that she was a little lonely, or that it was lowering to realize she wasn’t a woman to gather wildflowers or walk in meadows.

  She was a creature of books and classrooms, of facts and theory. She’d been born that way. Certainly she’d been raised that way, uncompromisingly. The brilliant child of brilliant parents who had outlined and dictated her world so well, and for so long, that she was fully adult before she thought to question and rebel. Even in such a small way.

  And the life she wanted to create for herself was still so foreign. Even now, she was thinking of going back, of keeping to her timetable, of sitting down with her equipment. No matter that it was something out of the ordinary that she intended to study, it was still studying.

  Damn it.

  Jamming her hands in her pockets, she deliberately turned away from the direction that would take her back to the inn. She would have her walk first, she ordered herself. She’d pick more wildflowers if she wanted to. Next time, she’d take off her shoes and walk in the meadow.

  She was muttering to herself when she saw the cows, bumping together under a three-sided shed that was attached to the milk barn. Didn’t cows belong in the fields? she wondered. There were so many of them crowded together there, munching on what she supposed was hay or alfalfa.

  Curious, she walked closer, keeping some distance only because she wasn’t entirely sure cows were as friendly as they looked. But when they didn’t seem the least concerned with her, she moved closer.

  And heard him singing.

  “One for the morning glory, two for the early dew, three for the man who stands his ground and four for the love of you…”

  Delighted with the sound, Rebecca moved to the doorway and had her first glimpse of a milking parlor.

  Whatever she’d imagined, it wasn’t this organized, oddly technical environment. There were big, shiny pipes and large chutes, the mechanical hum of a compressor or some other type of machine. A dozen cows stood in stanchions, eating contentedly from individual troughs. Some of them munched on grain as devices that looked like clever octopuses relieved them of their milk.

  And Shane, stripped down to one of those undeniably sexy undershirts, a battered cap stuffed onto all that wonderful, wild hair, moved among them, still singing, or dropping into a whistle, as he checked feed or the progress of the milking machines.

  “Okay, sweetie, all done.”

  Caught up in the process, Rebecca stepped closer. “How does that work?”

  He swore ripely, bumping the cow hard enough to have her moo in annoyance. The look he aimed at Rebecca was not one of friendly welcome.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. It’s noisy.” She tried a smile, and forced herself not to take a step in retreat. “I was out walking, and I saw the cows out there, and I wondered what was going on.”

  “The same thing that goes on around here twice a day, every day.” It was an effort for him to readjust himself. He’d planned to avoid her for a few days, but here she was, pretty as a picture with those big, curious eyes, right in his milking parlor.

  “But how do you manage it all by yourself? There are so many of them.”

  “I don’t always do it alone. Anyway, it’s automated, for the most part.” Deftly he removed inflations from udders.

  “Where does the milk go? Through the pipes, I imagine.”

  “That’s right.” He bit back a sigh. He didn’t much feel like giving her a class in Milking 101. He felt like kissing the breath out of her. “From cow to pipes and into tanks in the milk house.” He gestured vaguely. “It keeps it at the proper temperature until the milk truck pumps it out. I have to take these girls back to the loafing shed.”

  “Loafing shed?”

  He did smile now, just a little. “That’s where they loaf, before and after.”

  Rebecca made way, perhaps a bit more than necessary, as he herded the milked cows out. She wondered how he kept them straight, the ones still to be milked, the ones who had been. And when he herded more in, she realized the answer was obvious.

  Their bags were huge. She muffled a giggle as he moved them into place. With approval for the efficiency and organization of the system she watched him pull a lever that poured grain from chutes to troughs.

  “So they feed and milk at the same time.”

  “Food’s the incentive.” He paid little attention to her as he went about his business. “They eat, you milk half of them. You milk the other half while you set up the next group.”

  Quickly, and with little fuss, he hooked his new stock into their stanchions. “These are inflations. They go over the teats, do the work that used to be done by hand. You can milk a hell of a lot more cows a hell of a lot faster this way than with your fingers and a bucket.”

  “It must be more sanitary. And you use that solution—some sort of antiseptic, I suppose—on their…”

  “Bags, honey. You call them bags.” He nodded. “You want grade A milk, you have to meet the standards.”

  “How is the milk graded?” she began, then stopped herself. “Sorry. Too many questions. I’m in your way.”

  “Yeah, you are.” But, as the machines did their work, he stepped toward her. “What are you doing here, Rebecca?”

  “I told you, I was out walking.”

  He lifted a brow, hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “And you decided to visit with the cows?”

  “I didn’t have a plan.”

  “I think it’s safe to say you usually do.”

  “All right.” He was, of course, on target, no matter what she’d told herself when she started through the woods. “I suppose I felt we’d left something unresolved. I don’t want things to be difficult with you, since I’m dealing with so much of
your family while I’m here.”

  “Um-hmm…” He wasn’t precisely sure which side of her he was dealing with at the moment. “I was pushy. Do you want an apology?”

  “Unnecessary.”

  That made him smile again. He had a growing affection for that cocky tilt to her chin. “Want to try it again? I’ve got an urge to kiss you right now.”

  “I’m sure you have an urge to kiss any woman, just about anytime.”

  “Yeah. But you’re here.”

  “I’ll let you know if and when I want you to kiss me.” As a means of defense, she turned, wandered, frowned intently at a container labeled Udder Balm. “The problem I have is that as long as we have this…”

  “Attraction?” he put in. “Lust?”

  “Tension,” she snapped back. “It makes it difficult for me to follow through on my plan to work here. I do want to work here,” she said, turning to him again. “But I can’t if I’m going to have to deflect unsolicited advances.”

  “Unsolicited advances.” Instead of being annoyed, he nearly doubled over with laughter. “Damn, Rebecca, I love the way you talk when you’re being snotty. Say something else.”

  “I’m sure you’re more used to women keeling over at your feet,” she said coldly. “Or bringing you peach pies. I just want to be certain that you clearly understand the word no.”

  He didn’t find anything amusing about that. She had the fascinating experience of watching his grin turn into a snarl. “You said no last night, didn’t you?”

  “My point is—”

  “I could have had you, right there on my brother’s kitchen floor.”

  The color that temper had brought to her cheeks faded away, but her voice remained steady and cool. “You overestimate your appeal, farm boy.”

  “Watch your step, Becky,” he said quietly. “I’ve got a mean streak. You want to dissolve some tension so you can get on with your project. I’ve always found honesty goes a long way to cutting the tension. You wanted me every bit as much as I wanted you. Maybe you were surprised. Maybe I was, too, but that’s the fact.”

  She opened her mouth, but found no suitable lies tripping onto her tongue. “All right. I won’t deny I was interested for a moment.”

  “Honey, what you were was a long way up from interested.”

  “Don’t tell me what I felt, or what I feel. I will tell you that if you think I’m going to be another notch on your bedpost, think again.”

  “Fine.” In casual dismissal, he walked over to check on his cows. “No isn’t a word I have any problem understanding. As long as you actually say it, I’ll understand it.”

  Most of her nerves smoothed out. “All right, then, we—”

  “But you’d better keep your guard up, Rebecca.” He shot her a look that had all the nerves doubling back and sizzling. “Because I don’t have any problem understanding a challenge, either. You want to play ghost hunter in my house, you take your chances. Willing to risk it?”

  “You don’t worry me.”

  His smile spread, slowly this time. “Yeah, I do. You’re standing there right now wondering what in hell to do about me.”

  “Actually, I was wondering how you manage to walk around upright, when you’re weighed down with that ego.”

  “Practice.” Now he grinned. “Same way you manage it with all those heavy thoughts inside that head of yours. I’m just about finished up here. Why don’t you go on in, make us some coffee? We can talk about this some more.”

  “I think we’ve covered it.” She moved just quickly enough to get out ahead of him. “And I don’t make coffee.”

  For a skinny woman, he mused, she looked mighty nice walking away. “Don’t you want me to kiss you goodbye, sweetie?”

  She tossed a look over her shoulder. “Kiss a cow, farm boy.”

  He couldn’t resist. He was on her in a heartbeat, swinging her up into his arms and around in a dizzying circle while his laughter roared out. “You’re the cutest damn thing.”

  Her breath had been lost somewhere during the first revolution. For an instant, all she could think was that his arms were as hard as rock, and felt absolutely wonderful. “I thought you understood no.”

  “I’m not kissing you, am I?” All innocence, Shane’s eyes laughed into hers. “Unless you want me to. Just wanted to get a hold of you for a minute. I swear you weigh less than a sack of grain.”

  “Thank you so much for that poetic compliment. Put me down.”

  “You’ve really got to eat more. Why don’t you hang around? I’ll fix you some dinner.”

  “No,” she said. “No, no, no.”

  “You only have to say it once.” He cocked his head, enjoying the way the pulse in her throat beat like a bird’s, just above the open collar of her silky white shirt. “Why are you trembling?”

  “I’m angry.”

  “No, you’re not.” Intrigued now, he studied her face, and his voice gentled. “Did somebody hurt you?”

  “No, of course not. I asked you to put me down.”

  “I’m going to. If I did what I wanted and carried you inside right now, I’d neglect my cows and break my word. I wouldn’t want to do either.” So he set her on her feet, but kept his hands on her shoulders. “It seems to me we’ve got something going here.”

  “I’d prefer to take my own time deciding that.”

  “That’s fair.” Because he was becoming fond of it, he skimmed a finger over her hair, tugged on one of the short, soft tresses. “It occurs to me that I’ve already decided. I really want you. Not being a psychiatrist or a heavy thinker, I don’t have to analyze that or look for hidden meanings. I just feel it.”

  His eyes, green and dreamy, lowered to hers again, and held. “I want to take you to bed, and I want to make love with you. And I want it more every time I get near you. You can put that into your equation.”

  “I will.” It was a struggle to concentrate when his hands were moving in gentle circles on her shoulders. “But it’s not the only factor. Things would be…a lot less convoluted if we could back off from this while I’m getting my project under way.”

  “Less convoluted,” he agreed, amused by the word. “And less fun.”

  Fun, she thought, feeling herself yearn toward him. It was a novel and interesting concept, when attached to intimacy.

  He watched her lips curve just a little, felt her body soften, saw her eyes deepen. A knot of need twisted in him as he drew her closer. “Pretty Rebecca,” he murmured, “let me show you—”

  He could have committed murder when a sharp blast of a horn shattered the moment.

  She stiffened, stepped back, as both of them looked over at the dusty compact that pulled up in front of the house. Rebecca had a clear view of the sulky-mouthed brunette who poked her gorgeous head out of the window.

  “Shane, honey, I told you I’d try to drop by.”

  He lifted a hand in a casual wave, even as he felt the temperature surrounding him drop to the subzero range. “Ah, that’s Darla. She’s a friend of mine.”

  “I bet.” The chip was back on Rebecca’s shoulder, and it was the size of a redwood. She cocked a brow and curved her lips mockingly. He didn’t have to know the mockery was for herself. “Don’t let me keep you from your…friend, Shane, honey. I’m sure you’re a very busy boy.”

  “Look, damn it—”

  Darla called out again, her husky voice a little impatient. Shane saw, with unaccustomed panic, that she was getting out of the car. With anyone else, the meeting would have been easy, even amusing. With Rebecca, he had a feeling it would be deadly. She’d eat Darla for breakfast.

  “Listen, I—”

  “I don’t have time to look, or to listen,” Rebecca said, interrupting him, desperately afraid she’d make a fool of herself in front of the stunning woman picking her way over the lawn in thin high heels. “I have work to do. You and Darla have a nice visit.”

  She strode off, leaving Shane caught between the willing and the wanted.

>   Chapter 6

  During her stay at the inn, Rebecca had established a pattern. She rose early enough to join the other guests for breakfast. It wasn’t the food, as marvelous as Cassie’s cooking was, that nudged her out of bed and downstairs. She wanted the opportunity to interview her companions under the guise of a breezy morning chat.

  It was work for her to keep it casual, not to fall into the habits of analyst or scientist. She’d been rewarded over coffee and waffles that morning by a young couple who both claimed to have felt a presence in the bridal suite during the night.

  Now, alone in her room late at night, the inn quiet around her, Rebecca read over the notes she’d hurriedly made that morning.

  Subjects corroborate each other’s experience. Sudden cold, a strong scent of roses, the sound of a female weeping. Three senses involved. Subjects excited by experience rather than frightened. Very clear and firm when reporting each phenomenon. Neither claimed a sighting, but female subject described a sense of deep sadness which occurred just after temperature fluctuation and lasted until the scent of roses had faded.

  Interesting, Rebecca mused as she worked the notes into a more formal style, including names and dates. As for herself, she’d slept like a baby, if only for a few short hours. She rarely slept more than five hours in any case, and the night before she had made do with three, in hopes of recording an event of her own.

  But her room had remained comfortable and quiet throughout the night.

  After her notes were refined, and her journal entry for the day was complete, she switched over to the book she was toying with writing. The Haunting of Antietam.

  She rather liked the title, though she could picture some of her more illustrious colleagues muttering over it at faculty teas and university functions. Let them mutter, she thought. She’d toed the line all her life. It was time she did a little boat rocking.

  It would be a new challenge to write something that was descriptive, even emotional, rather than dry and factual. To bring to life her vision, her impressions of the small town, with its quiet hills, the shadow of the mountains in the distance, those wide, fertile fields.

  She needed to spend some time on the battlefield, absorb its ambience. But for now she had plenty to say about the inn, and its original inhabitants.

  She worked for an hour, then two, losing herself in the story of the Barlows—the tragic Abigail, the unbending Charles, the children who had lost their mother at a tender age. Thanks to Cassie, Rebecca had another character to add. A man Abigail had loved and sent away. Rebecca suspected the man might have been of some authority in Antietam during that time. The sheriff, perhaps. It was too lovely a coincidence to overlook, and she intended to research it thoroughly.

  She was so deep in her work that it took her several minutes to notice the hum of her equipment. Startled by it, she jerked back, stared at the monitor of her sensor.

  Was that a draft? she wondered, and sprang up, shuddering. The temperature gauge was acutely sensitive. Rebecca watched with amazement as the numbers dropped rapidly from a comfortable seventy-two. She was hugging her arms by the time it reached thirty, and she could see her own breath puff out quickly as her heart thudded.

  Yet she felt nothing but the cold. Nothing. She heard nothing, smelled nothing.

  The lady doesn’t come in here.

  That was what Emma had told her. But did the master? It had to be Charles. She’d read so much about him, the thought filled her with a jumble of anger, fear and anticipation.

  Moving quickly, Rebecca checked her recorder, the cameras. The quiet blip on a machine registered her presence and for an instant, an instant almost too quick to notice—something other.

  Then it was gone, over, and warmth poured back into the room.

  Nearly wild with excitement, she snatched up her recorder. “Event commenced at two-oh-eight and fifteen seconds, a.m., with dramatic temperature drop of forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. Barely measurable energy fluctuation lasting only a fraction of a second, followed by immediate rise in temperature. Event ended at two-oh-nine and twenty seconds, a.m. Duration of sixty-five seconds.”

  She stood for a moment, the recorder in her hand, trying to will it all to start again. She knew it had been Charles, she felt it, and her pulse was still scrambling. Dispassionately she wondered what her blood pressure would register.

  “Come on, come on, you bully, you coward! You son of a bitch! Come back!”