by Nora Roberts
He didn't knock, but simply stepped inside. There were no cars in the drive, but for Cassie's, so he knew the overnight guests had already left, and any others had yet to arrive.
He stood for a moment in the grand hall, with its polished floor, pretty rugs and haunted staircase. There were always flowers. Cassie saw to that. Pretty vases of fragrant blooms, little bowls and dishes with potpourri that he knew she made herself.
So, to him, the house always smelled like Cassie.
He wasn't sure where he would find her—in the kitchen, in the yard, in her apartment on the third floor. He moved through the house from front to rear, knowing that if he didn't find her in the first two, he would climb the outside stairs and knock on the door of her private quarters.
It was hard to believe that less than two years before, the house had been full of dust and cobwebs, all cracked plaster and chipped molding. Now floors and walls gleamed, windows shone, wood was polished to a high sheen. Antique tables were topped with what Devin always thought of as dust collectors, but they were charming.
Rafe and Regan had done something here, built something here. Just as they were doing in the old house they'd bought for themselves outside of town.
He envied his brother that, not just the love, but the partnership of a woman, the home and family they had created together.
Shane had the farm. Technically, it belonged to all four of them, but it was Shane's, heart and soul. Rafe had Regan and their baby, the inn, and the lovely old stone-and-cedar house they were making their own. Jared had Savannah, the children, and the cabin.
And as for himself? Devin mused. Well, he had the town, he supposed. And a cot in the back room of the sheriff's office.
The kitchen was empty. Though it was as neat as a model on display, it held all the warmth kitchens were meant to. Slate blue tiles and creamy white appliances were a backdrop for little things—fresh fruit in an old stoneware bowl, a sassy cookie jar in the shape of a smiling cat that he knew would be full of fresh, home-baked cookies, long, tapered jars that held the herbed vinegars Cassie made, a row of African violets in bloom on the wide windowsill over the sink.
And then, through the window, he saw her, taking billowing sheets from the line where they'd dried in the warm breeze.
His heart turned over in his chest. He could handle that, had handled it for too many years to count. She looked happy, was all he could think. Her lips were curved a little, her gray eyes dreamy. The breeze that fluttered the sheets teased her hair, sending the honeycomb curls dancing around her face, along her neck and throat.
Like the kitchen, she was neat, tidy, efficient without being cold. She wore a white cotton blouse tucked into navy slacks. Just lately, she'd started to add little pieces of jewelry. No rings. Her divorce had been final for a full year now, and he knew the exact day she'd taken off her wedding ring.
But she wore small gold hoops in her ears and a touch of color on her mouth. She'd stopped wearing makeup and jewelry shortly after her marriage. Dev-in remembered that, too.
Just as he remembered the first time he'd been called out to the house she rented with Joe, answering a complaint from the neighbors. He remembered the fear in her eyes when she'd come to the door, the marks on her face, the way her voice had hitched and trembled when she told him there wasn't any trouble, there was no trouble at all. She'd slipped and fallen, that was all.
Yes, he remembered that. And his frustration, the hideous sense of impotence that first time, and all the other times he'd had to confront her, to ask her, to quietly offer her alternatives that were just as quietly refused.
There'd been nothing he could do as sheriff to stop what happened inside that house, until the day she finally came into his office—bruised, beaten, terrified—to fill out a complaint.
There was little he could do now as sheriff but offer her friendship.
So he walked out the rear door, a casual smile on his face. "Hey, Cass."
Alarm came into her eyes first, darkening that lovely gray. He was used to it, though it pained him immeasurably to know that she thought of him as the sheriff first—as authority, as the bearer of trouble-before she thought of him as an old friend. But the smile came back more quickly than it once had, chasing the tension away from those delicate features.
"Hello, Devin." Calmly, because she was teaching herself to be calm, she hooked a clothespin back on the line and began folding the sheet.
"Need some help?"
Before she could refuse, he was plucking clothespins. She simply couldn't get used to a man doing such things. Especially such a man. He was so...big. Broad shoulders, big hands, long legs. And gorgeous, of course. All the MacKades were.
There was something so male about Devin, she couldn't really explain it. Even as he competently took linen from the line, folded it into the basket, he was all man. Unlike his deputies, he didn't wear the khaki uniform of his office, just jeans and a faded blue shirt rolled up to the elbows. There were muscles there, she'd seen them. And she had reason to be wary of a man's strength. But despite his big hands, his big shoulders, he'd never been anything but gentle. She tried to remember that as he brushed against her, reaching for another clothespin.
Still, she stepped away, kept distance between them. He smiled at her, and she tried to think of something to say. It would be easier if everything about him wasn't so...definite, she supposed. So vivid. His hair was as black as midnight, and curled over the frayed collar of his shirt. His eyes were as green as. moss. Even the bones in his face were defined and impossible to ignore, the way they formed hollows and planes. His mouth was firm, and that dimple beside it constantly drew the eye.
He even smelled like a man. Plain soap, plain sweat. He'd never been anything but kind to her, and he'd been a part of her life forever, it seemed. But whenever it was just the two of them, she found herself as nervous as a cat faced with a bulldog.
"Too nice a day to toss these in the dryer."
"What?" She blinked, then cursed herself. "Oh, yes. I like hanging the linens out, when there's time. We had two guests overnight, and we're expecting another couple later today. We're booked solid for the Memorial Day weekend."
"You'll be busy."
"Yes. It's hardly like work, though, really."
He watched her smooth sheets into the basket. "Not like waiting tables at Ed's."
"No." She smiled a little, then struggled with guilt. "Ed was wonderful to me. She was great to work for."
"She's still ticked at Rafe for stealing you." Noting the distress that leaped into her eyes, Devin shook his head. "I'm only kidding, Cassie. You know she was happy you took this job. How are the kids?"
"They're fine. Wonderful." Before she could pick up the basket of linens herself, Devin had it tucked to his hip, leaving her nothing to do with her hands. "They'll be home soon, from school."
"No Little League practice today?"
"No." She headed toward the kitchen, but he opened the door before she could, and waited for her to go in ahead of him. "Connor's thrilled he made the team."
"He's the best pitcher they've got."
"Everyone says so." Automatically, she went to the stove to make coffee. "It's so strange. He was never interested in sports before...well, before," she finished lamely. "Bryan's been wonderful for him."
"My nephew's a hell of a kid."
There was such simple and honest pride in the statement that Cassie turned around to study him. "You think of him that way, really? I mean, even though there's no blood between you?"
"When Jared married Savannah, it made Bryan his son. That makes him my nephew. Family isn't just blood."
"No, and sometimes blood kin is more trouble than not."
"Your mother's hassling you again."
She only moved her shoulder and turned back to finish the coffee. "She's just set in her ways." Shifting, she reached into one of the glass-fronted cabinets for a cup and a small plate. When Devin's hand curled over her shoulder, she jerked and nearl
y dropped the stoneware to the tiles.
He started to step back, then changed his mind. Instead, he turned her around so that they were face-to-face, and kept both of his hands on her shoulders. "She's still giving you a hard time about Joe?"
She had to swallow, but couldn't quite get her throat muscles to work. His hands were firm, but they weren't hurting. There was annoyance in his eyes, but no meanness. She ordered herself to be calm, not to lower her gaze.
"She doesn't believe in divorce."
"Does she believe in wife-beating?"
Now she did wince, did lower her gaze. Devin cursed himself and lowered his hands to his sides. "I'm sorry."
"No, it's all right. I don't expect you to understand. I can't understand myself anymore." Relieved that he'd stepped back, she turned to the cookie jar and filled the plate with chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies she'd baked that morning. "It doesn't seem to matter that I'm happy, that the kids are happy. It doesn't matter that the law says what Joe did to me was wrong. That he attacked Regan. It only matters that I broke my vows and divorced him."
"Are you happy, Cassie?"
"I'd stopped believing I could be, or even that I should be." She set the plate on the table, went to pour him coffee. "Yes, I am happy."
"Are you going to make me drink this coffee by myself?"
She stared at him a minute. It was still such a novel concept, the idea that she could sit down in the middle of the day with a friend. Taking matters into his own hands, he got out a second cup.
"So tell me..." After pouring her coffee, he held out a chair for her. "How do the tourists feel about spending the night in a haunted house?"
"Some of them are disappointed when they don't see or hear anything." Cassie lifted her cup and tried not to feel guilty that she wasn't doing some chore. "Rafe was clever to publicize the inn as haunted."
"He's always been clever."
"Yes, he has. A few people are nervous when they come down for breakfast, but most of them are...well, excited, I guess. They'll have heard doors slamming or voices, or have heard her crying."
"Abigail Barlow. The tragic mistress of the house, the compassionate Southern belle married to the Yankee murderer."
"Yes. They'll hear her, or smell her roses, or just feel something. We've only had one couple leave in the middle of the night." For once, her smile was quick, and just a little wicked. "They were both terrified."
"But you're not. It doesn't bother you to have ghosts wandering?"
"No."
He cocked his head. "Have you heard her? Abigail?"
"Oh, yes, often. Not just at night. Sometimes when I'm alone here, making beds or tidying up, I'll hear her. Or feel her."
"And it doesn't spook you?"
"No, I feel..." She started to say "connected," but thought it would sound foolish. "Sorry for her. She was trapped and unhappy, married to a man who despised her, in love with someone else—"
"In love with someone else?" Devin asked, interrupting her. "I've never heard that."
Baffled, Cassie set her cup down with a little clink. "I haven't, either. I just—" Know it, she realized. "I suppose I added it in. It's more romantic. Emma calls her the lady. She likes to go into the bridal suite."
"And Connor?"
"It's a big adventure for him. All of it. They love it here. Once when Bryan was spending the night, I caught the three of them sneaking down to the guest floor. They wanted to go ghost-hunting."
"My brothers and I spent the night here when we were kids."
"Did you? Of course you did," she said before he could comment. "The MacKades and an empty, derelict, haunted house. They belong together. Did you go ghost-hunting?"
"I didn't have to. I saw her. I saw Abigail."
Cassie's smile faded. ''You did?"
"I never told the guys. They'd have ragged on me for the rest of my life. But I saw her, sitting in the parlor, by the fire. There was a fire, I could smell it, feel the heat from the flames, smell the roses that were in a vase on the table beside her. She was beautiful," Devin said quietly. "Blond hair and porcelain skin, eyes the color of the smoke going up the flue. She wore a blue dress. I could hear the silk rustle as she moved. She was embroidering something, and her hands were small and delicate. She looked right at me, and she smiled. She smiled, but there were tears in her eyes. She spoke to me."
"She spoke to you," Cassie repeated, as chills raced up and down her back like icy fingers. "What did she say?"
"'If only.'" Devin brought himself back, shook himself. "That was it. 'If only.' Then she was gone, and I told myself I'd been dreaming. But I knew I hadn't. I always hoped I'd see her again."
"But you haven't?"
"No, but I've heard her weeping. It breaks my heart."
"I know."
"I'd, ah, appreciate it if you wouldn't mention that to Rafe. He'd still rag on me."
"I won't." She smiled as he bit into a cookie. "Is that why you come here, hoping to see her again?"
"I come to see you." The minute he'd said it, he recognized his mistake. Her face went from relaxed to wary in the blink of an eye. "And the kids," he added quickly. "And for the cookies."
She relaxed again. "I'll put some in a bag for you to take with you." But even as she rose to do so, he covered her hand with his. She froze, not in fear so much as from the shock of the contact. Speechless, she stared down at the way his hand swallowed hers.
"Cassie..." He strained against the urge to gather her up, just to hold her, to stroke those flyaway curls, to taste, finally to taste, that small, serious mouth.
There was a hitch in her breathing that she was afraid to analyze. But she made herself shift her gaze, ordered herself not to be so much a coward that she couldn't look into his eyes. She wished she knew what she was looking at, or looking for. All she knew was that it was more than the patience and pity she'd expected to see there, that it was different.
"Devin—" She broke off, jerked back at the sound of giggles and stomping feet. "The kids are home," she finished quickly, breathlessly, and hurried to the door. "I'm down here!" she called out, knowing that they would do as they'd been told and go directly to the apartment unless she stopped them.
"Mama, I got a gold star on my homework." Emma came in, a blond pixie in a red playsuit. She set her lunch box on the counter and smiled shyly at Devin. "Hello."
"There's my best girl. Let's see that star."
Clutching the lined paper in her hand, she walked to him. "You have a star."
"Not as pretty as this one." Devin traced a finger over the gold foil stuck to the top of the paper. "Did you do this by yourself?"
"Almost all. Can I sit in your lap?"
"You bet." He plucked her up, cradled her there. He quite simply adored her. After brushing his cheek against her hair, he grinned over at Connor. "How's it going, champ?"
"Okay." A little thrill moved through Connor at the nickname. He was small for his age, like Emma, and blond, though at ten he had hair that was shades darker than his tow-headed sister's.
"You pitched a good game last Saturday."
Now he flushed. "Thanks. But Bryan went four for five." His loyalty and love for his best friend knew no bounds. "Did you see?"
"I was there for a few innings. Watched you smoke a few batters."
"Connor got an A on his history test," Emma said. "And that mean old Bobby Lewis shoved him and called him a bad name when we were in line for the bus."
"Emma..." Mortified, Connor scowled at his sister.
"I guess Bobby Lewis didn't get an A," Devin commented.
"Bryan fixed him good," Emma went on.
I bet he did, Devin thought, and handed Emma a cookie so that she'd be distracted enough to stop embarrassing her brother.
"I'm proud of you." Trying not to worry, Cassie gave Connor a quick squeeze. "Both of you. A gold star and an A all in one day. We'll have to celebrate later with ice-cream sundaes from Ed's."
"It's no big deal," Connor began.
>
"It is to me." Cassie bent down and kissed him firmly. "A very big deal."
"I used to struggle with math," Devin said casually. "Never could get more than a C no matter what I did."
Connor stared at the floor, weighed down by the stigma of being bright. He could still hear his father berating him. Egghead. Pansy. Useless.
Cassie started to speak, to defend, but Devin sent her one swift look.
"But then, I used to ace history and English."
Stunned, Connor jerked his head up and stared. "You did?"
It was a struggle, but Devin kept his eyes sober. The kid didn't mean to be funny, or insulting, he knew.
"Yeah. I guess it was because I liked to read a lot. Still do."
"You read books?" It was an epiphany for Connor. Here was a man who held a real man's job and who liked to read.
"Sure." Devin jiggled Emma on his knee and smiled. "The thing was, Rafe was pitiful in English, but he was a whiz in math. So we traded off. I'd do his—" He glanced at Cassie, realized his mistake. "I'd help him with his English homework and he'd help me with the math. It got us both through."
"Do you like to read stories?" Connor wanted to know. "Made-up stories?"
"They're the best kind."
"Connor writes stories," Cassie said, even as Connor wriggled in embarrassment.
"So I've heard. Maybe you'll let me read one." Before the boy could answer, Devin's beeper went off. "Hell," he muttered.
"Hell," Emma said adoringly.
"You want to get me in trouble?" he asked, then hitched her onto his hip as he rose to call in. A few minutes later, he'd given up on his idea of wheedling his way into a dinner invitation. "Gotta go. Somebody broke into the storeroom at Duff's and helped themselves to a few cases of beer.''
"Will you shoot them?" Emma asked him.
"I don't think so. How about a kiss?"
She puckered up obligingly before he set her down. "Thanks for the coffee, Cass."
"I'll walk you out. You two go on upstairs and get your after-school snack," she told her children. "I'll be right along." She waited until they were nearly at the front door before she spoke again. "Thank you for talking to Connor like that. He's still so sensitive about liking school."