by Nora Roberts
Now she could picture it, Rebecca realized the moment she stepped into Past Times. The style, the elegance of gleaming antiques, lovely old lamps and glass and statuary. There was a smell of spice and baby powder that made her smile.
"Mama," she said after turning around in a circle. "How does it feel?"
"Incredible. I can't wait for you to meet Rafe." She moved into a back room, setting the baby in a bassinet, then lifting Nate into a high chair, where he occupied himself with a cookie. It gave her time to take a breath. "Of course, you've seen Shane, so you've got a fairly good idea of the MacKade looks."
"Are they all like that?"
"Tall, dark and ridiculously handsome? Every one of them. With bad-boy reputations to match." She leaned back, took a long survey. "Rebecca, it's always what people say when they haven't seen in other for a while, but I have to say it anyway. You look wonderful."
Rebecca smiled as she tugged on a short tress of chestnut-brown hair. "I got the nerve to have this hacked off when I was in Europe a few months ago. You were always trying to coax me into doing something with my hair."
"I'd have never been that brave, or inventive. Boy, it suits you, Rebecca. And—"
"The clothes?" Her smile widened. "That was Europe, too. I had a crisis of style, so to speak. I was walking along the Left Bank and happened to catch a glimpse of this woman reflected in one of the shop windows. She looked like an unkempt scarecrow. Her hair was tangled and hanging down in her face, and she had on the most dreadful brown suit. I thought, Poor thing, to look like that in a city like this. And then I realized it was me."
"You're too hard on yourself."
"I was a mess," Rebecca said firmly. "A cliche, the dowdy prodigy with a sharp brain and bad shoes. I walked into the nearest beauty salon, gave myself no time to think, to rationalize, to intellectualize, and threw myself on their mercy. Who'd have thought a decent haircut could make such a difference to the way I felt? It seemed so shallow. I told myself that even when I walked out with several hundred dollars' worth of skin creams."
She laughed at herself as she realized that, after all this time, she was still savoring that moment. "Then I realized that if appearances weren't important, it couldn't be a problem to present a good one."
"Then I'll say it again. You look wonderful." Regan reached out for Rebecca's hands. "In fact, since you're happy with the change, I'll be perfectly honest and tell you I wouldn't have recognized you. You're absolutely striking, and I'm so glad to see you looking so fabulous."
"I have to say this." She gave Regan's hands a hard squeeze. "Regan, you were my first real friend."
"Rebecca."
"My very first, the only person I was close to who didn't treat me like an oddity. I've wanted to tell you for a long time what that meant to me. What you meant to me. But even with you, I had a hard time getting that kind of thing out."
"You're making me cry again," Regan managed.
"There's more. I was so nervous coming here, worrying that the friendship, the connection, might not be the same. But it is. Hell." Rebecca gave a lavish sniff. "Got any tissue?"
Regan dived into a diaper bag and pulled out a travel pack. She handed a tissue to Rebecca, used one herself. "I'm so happy," she said, weeping.
"Me too."
Rebecca decided the rambling old stone house just outside of town suited Regan and Rafe MacKade perfectly. It had the rough, masculine charm of Rafe MacKade, and the style and feminine grace of Regan, all rolled into one.
She would have spotted Rafe as Shane's brother from a mile away with one eye closed, so powerful was the resemblance. So she wasn't surprised when he pulled her into his arms for a hard hug the moment he saw her.
She'd already gleaned that the MacKades liked women.
"Regan's been fretting and fussing for two weeks," he told Rebecca over a glass of wine in the big, airy living room.
"I have not been fussing or fretting."
Rafe smiled and, from his seat on the sofa, reached up to stroke his wife's hand as she sat on the arm near him. "She polished everything twice, vacuumed up every dog hair." He gave the golden retriever slumbering on the rug an affection nudge with his foot.
"Most of the dog hair," Regan corrected.
"I'm flattered." Rebecca jolted a little when Nate knocked over his building blocks and sent them scattering.
"Attaboy," Rafe said mildly. "If it's not built right, just tear it down and start again."
"Daddy. Come play."
"It's all in the foundation," Rafe said as he got up and ranged himself on the floor with his son. They began to move blocks, Rafe's big hands moving with Nate's small, pudgy ones. "Regan says you want a close-up look at the inn."
"I do. I want to stay there, at least for a while, if you have a vacancy."
"Oh, but... we want you here, Rebecca."
Rebecca smiled over at Regan. "I appreciate that, and I do want to spent time here, as well. But it would really help if I could stay a few nights there, anyway."
"Ghostbusting," Rafe said, with a wink at his son.
"If you like," Rebecca returned coolly.
"Hey, don't get me wrong. They're there. The first time I got a good hold of Regan was when I caught her as she was fainting in the hallway of the inn. They'd spooked her."
"That's not entirely true," Regan said. "I thought Rafe was playing a prank, and when I realized he wasn't, I got... overwrought."
"Tell me about it." Fascinated, Rebecca leaned forward. "What did you see?"
"I didn't see anything." Regan blew out a breath. Her son was too involved with his blocks to notice the subject of the conversation. And, in any case, he was a MacKade. "It was more a feeling... of not being alone. The house had been deserted and empty for years then. Rafe hadn't even begun the renovations. But there were noises. Footsteps, a door closing. There's a spot on the stairs, a cold spot."
"You felt it?" Rebecca's voice was flat now, that of a scientist assessing data.
"Right to the bone. It was so shocking. Rafe told me later that a young Confederate soldier had been killed there, on the day of the Battle of Antietam."
"The two corporals." Rebecca nodded at Regan's surprised look. "I've been researching the area, the legends. Two soldiers, from opposite sides, met in the woods on September 17, 1862. It's thought they were lost, or perhaps deserting. They were both very young. They fought there, wounded each other badly. One made his way to the home of Charles Barlow, now the MacKade Inn. The mistress of the house, Abigail, was a Southern woman, wed to a Yankee businessman. She had the wounded boy brought inside, and was having him carried upstairs to be tended. Instead, her husband came down and shot and killed him, there on the stairs."
"That's right," Regan agreed. "You'll often smell roses in the house. Abigail's roses."
"Really." Rebecca mulled the information over. "Well, well... Isn't that fascinating." Her eyes went dreamy for a moment, then sharpened again. "I managed to contact a descendant of one of the Barlow servants who was there at the time. It seems Abigail did her best to take care of the boy, even after his death. She had the servants search his pockets and they found some letters. She wrote to his parents and arranged for his body to be taken back home for burial."
"I never knew that," Regan murmured.
"Abigail kept it as quiet as possible, likely to avoid her husband's wrath. The boy's name was Gray, Franklin Gray, Corporal, CSA, and he never saw his nineteenth birthday."
"Some people hear the shot, and weeping. Cas-sie—that's Devin's wife—runs the inn for us. She can tell you more."
"I'd like to see the place tomorrow, if I can. And the woods. I need to see the farm, too. The other corporal, name unknown, was buried by the Mac-Kades. I hope to find out more. My equipment should be here by late tomorrow, or the next day."
"Equipment?" Rafe asked.
"Sensors, cameras, temperature gauges. Parapsychology is best approached as a science. Tell me, have there been any reports of telekinetic activiti
es—the movement of inanimate objects? Poltergeists?"
"No." Regan gave a quick shudder. "And I'm sure we'd have heard."
"Well, I can always hope."
Baffled, Regan stared at her. "You used to be so..."
"Serious-minded? I still am. Believe me, I'm very serious about this."
"Okay." With a quick shake of her head, Regan rose. "And I better get serious about dinner."
"I'll give you a hand."
Regan arched a brow as Rebecca stood. "Don't tell me you learned to cook in Europe, too."
"No, I can't boil an egg."
"You used to say it was genetic."
"I remember. Now I think it's just a phobia. Cooking's a dangerous business. Sharp edges, heat, flame. But I remember how to set a table."
"Good enough."
Late that night, when Rebecca settled into her room, she snuggled up on the big padded window seat with a book and a cup of Regan's tea. From down the hall she dimly heard the sound of a baby's fretful crying, then footsteps padding down the hall. Within moments the quiet returned as, Rebecca imagined, Regan nursed the baby. She'd never imagined the Regan Bishop she'd known as a mother. In college, Regan had always been bright, energetic, interested in everyone and everything. Of course, she'd attracted male companionship, Rebecca remembered with a small smile. A woman who looked like Regan would always draw men. But it was not merely Regan's beauty, but her way with people, that had made her so popular with both men and women.
And Rebecca, dowdy, serious-minded, out-of-place Rebecca, had been so shocked, and so dazzled, when Regan offered her friendship. She'd been so miserably shy, Rebecca thought now, staring dreamily out the window while the cup warmed her hands. Still was, she admitted, beneath the veneer she'd developed in recent months. She'd had no social skills whatsoever then, and no defense against the fast-moving college scene.
Except for Regan, who had found it natural to take a young, awkward, unattractive girl under her wing.
It was something Rebecca would never forget. And sitting there, in the lovely guest room, with its big four-poster and lovely globe lamps, she was deeply, warmly happy that Regan had found such a wonderful life.
A man who adored her, obviously, Rebecca thought. Anyone could see Rafe's love for his wife every time he looked in her direction.
A strong, handsome, fascinating man, two delightful children, a successful business, a beautiful home. Yes, she was thrilled to find Regan so content.
As for herself, contentment had been eluding her of late. Academia, which had encompassed her all her life, had lately become more of a prison than a home. And, in truth, it was the only home she had ever known. Yet she'd fled from it. For a few months, at least, she felt compelled to explore facets of herself other than her intellect.
She wanted feelings, emotions, passions. She wanted to take risks, make mistakes, do foolish and exciting things.
Perhaps it was the dreams, those odd, recurring dreams, that had influenced her. Whatever it was, the fact that her closest friend had settled in Antietam, a place of history and legend, had been too tempting to resist.
It not only gave her the opportunity to visit, and recement an important relationship, it offered her the chance to delve more deeply into a hobby that was quickly becoming a compulsion.
She couldn't really put her finger on when and how the study of the paranormal had begun to appeal to her. It seemed to have been a gradual thing, an article here, a question there.
Then, of course, the dreams. They had started several years before—odd little snippets of imagery that had seemed like memories. Over time, the dreams had lengthened and increased in clarity.
And she'd begun to document them. After all, as a psychiatrist, she understood the value of dreams. As a scientist, she respected the strength of the unconscious. She'd approached the entire matter as she would any project—in an organized, precise and objective manner. But her objectivity had been systematically overcome by pure curiosity.
So, she was here. Was it coincidence, imagination or fate that made her believe she'd come to a place she was meant to come to? Had been drawn to?
She would see.
Meanwhile, she would enjoy it. The time with Regan, the beauty of the countryside, the professional and personal delight of standing on historic land. She would indulge herself in her hobby, work on her confidence and explore the possibilities.
She thought she'd done well with Shane Mac-Kade. There had been a time, not so terribly long ago, when she would have stammered and flushed, or mumbled and hunched her shoulders in the presence of a man that... male. Her tongue would have thickened and tied itself into knots at the terrifying prospect of making conversation that wasn't academic in nature.
But she'd not only talked with him, she'd held her own. And, for the most part, she'd felt comfortable doing so. She'd even joked with him, and she thought she might try her hand at flirting next.
What could it hurt, after all?
Amused at the idea, she got up and climbed under the wedding-ring quilt. She didn't feel like reading, and refused to feel guilty that she wasn't going to end the day with some intellectual stimulus. Instead, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of the smooth sheets against her skin, the soft, cushiony give of down-filled pillows under her cheek, the spicy scent of the bouquet in the vase on the dresser across the room.
She was teaching herself to take time to enjoy textures, scents, sounds. Just now she could hear the wind sigh against the windows, the creak and groan of boards settling, the gentle swish of her leg moving over the sheet.
Small things, she thought with a smile ghosting around her mouth. The small things she had never taken time to appreciate. The new Rebecca Knight took the time and appreciated very much.
Before snuggling deeper, she reached out to switch the lamp off. In the dark, she let her mind wander to what pleasures she might explore the next day. A trip to the inn, certainly. She was looking forward to seeing the haunted house, meeting Cassie MacKade. And Devin, she mused. He was the brother married to the inn's manager. He was also the sheriff, she mused. Probably a good man to know.
With luck, they would have a room for her, and she could set up her equipment as soon as it arrived. But even if not, she was sure she could arrange for a tour of the inn, and add some stories to her file.
She wanted a walk in the woods, again reputedly haunted. She hoped someone could point out the area where the two corporals had supposedly met and fought.
The way Regan had explained the layout, Rebecca thought she might slip through the woods and get a firsthand look at the MacKade farm. She wanted badly to see if she had a reaction to it, the way she had when Shane drove by the land that bordered the road.
So familiar, she thought sleepily. The trees and rocks, the gurgle of the creek. All so oddly familiar.
It could be explained, she supposed. She had visited the battlefield years before. She remembered walking the fields, studying the monuments, reen-acting every step of the engagement in her head. She didn't remember passing that particular stretch of road, but she might have, while she was tucked into the back seat of the family car being quizzed by her parents.
No, the woods wouldn't have beckoned to her then. She would have been too busy absorbing data, analyzing it and reporting it to take note of the shape and color of the leaves, the sound of the creek hurrying over rocks.
She would make up for that tomorrow. She would make up for a great many things.
So she drifted into sleep, dreaming of possibilities. . . .
It was terrible, terrible, to hear the sounds of war. It was heart-wrenching to know that so many young men were fighting, dying. Dying as her Johnnie had— her tall, beautiful son, who would never smile at her again, never sneak into the kitchen for an extra biscuit.
As the sounds of battle echoed in the distance, Sarah forced back fear, forced herself to go on with the routine of stirring the stew she had simmering over the fire. And to remind herself that
she had had Johnnie for eighteen wonderful years. No one could take her memories of him away. God had also given her two beautiful daughters, and that was a comfort.
She worried about her husband. She knew he ached for their dead son every day, every night. The battle that had come so frighteningly close to home was only one more cruel reminder of what war cost.
He was such a good man, she thought, wiping her hands on her apron. Her John was strong and kind, and her love for him was as full and rich as it had been twenty years before, when she took his ring and his name. And she never doubted his love for her.
After all these years, her heart still leaped when he walked into the room, and her needs still jumped whenever he turned to her in the night. She knew all women weren't as fortunate.
But she worried about him. He didn't laugh as freely since the terrible day they'd gotten word that Johnnie had been lost at Bull Run. There were lines around his eyes, and a bitterness in them that hadn't been there before.
Johnnie had gone for the South—rashly, idealistically—and his father had been so proud of him.
It was true enough that in this border state of Maryland, there were Southern sympathizers, and families ripped in two as they chose sides. But there had been no sides in the MacKade family. Johnnie had made his choice with his father's support. And the choice had killed him.
It was that she feared most. That John blamed himself, as well as the Yankees. That he would never be able to forgive either one, and would never be truly at peace again.
She knew that if it hadn't been for her and the girls, he would have left the farm to fight. It frightened her that there was the need inside him to take up arms, to kill. It was the one thing in their lives they never discussed.
She arched her back, placing the flat of her hand at the base of her spine to ease a dull ache. It reassured her to hear her daughters talking as they peeled potatoes and carrots for the stew. She understood that their incessant chatter was to help block the nerves that jumped at hearing mortar fire echo in the air.
They'd lost half a cornfield this morning—the fighting had come that close. She thanked God it had veered off again and she wasn't huddled in the root cellar with her children. That John was safe. She couldn't bear to lose another she loved.