by Nora Roberts
"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 kissipg 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. 'Wo 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 at-. tached 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 Six
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 2:08 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 2:09 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!"
The sound of her own voice, the raw intensity in it, had her forcing herself to take several deep breaths. Losing objectivity, she warned herself. Any project was doomed without objectivity.
So she made herself sit, monitored the equipment for another thirty minutes. Precisely she added the event to her records before shutting the computer down.
Too restless to sleep, she left her room. In the hall, she stood quietly, waiting, hoping, but there was only the dark and the stillness. She moved downstairs, lingering as she tried to envision the murdered Confederate soldier, the shocked Abigail, the terrified servants, the murdering Barlow.
They were all less substantial than thoughts to her.
She tried every room—the parlor where some said you could smell wood smoke from a fire that wasn't burning, the library, which both Regan and Cassie avoided as much as possible, because they felt uncomfortable there. In the solarium there was nothing but leafy plants, cozy chairs, and the light of the moon through the glass.
She struggled against discouragement as she wandered into the kitchen. There had been a moment, she reminded herself. She'd experienced it. Patience was as important as an open and curious mind.
She was drawn to the window, and that open and curious mind drifted past the gardens and the lawn, through the trees, to the fields beyond. And the house where Shane was sleeping.
The urge was so strong it shocked her. The urge to go out, walk over that grass, over those fields. She wanted to go into th
at house, to go to him. Foolishness, she told herself. It was doubtful he was alone. She imagined he was snuggled up with that beautiful brunette, or some other equally appealing woman, for the night.
But still the urge was there, so powerful, so elementally physical it brought an ache to her belly. Was it the place that pulled at her? she wondered. Or the man?
It was something to think about. Something she would have to gather the courage to explore. No more mousy, fade-into-the-corner Rebecca, she thought. No more spending her life huddled behind a desk or a handy book. Experience was what she'd come here for. And if Shane MacKade offered experience, she'd sample it.
In her own time, of course. At her own pace.
He saw her as a woman who could hold her own with him, and she was going to find a way to do exactly that.
He wanted to take her to bed.
How does that make you feel, Dr. Knight?
Frightened, exhilarated, curious.
Frightened, you say. Of the sexual experience?
Sex is a basic biological function, a human experience. Why would I be frightened of it? Because it remains unknown, she answered herself. So it frightens, exhilarates and stirs the curiosity. He stirs the curiosity. Once I have control of the situation—
Ah, Dr. Knight, so it's a matter of control? How do you feel about the possible loss of control?
Uncomfortable, which is why I don't intend to lose it.
She blew out a breath, shut off the questioning part of her brain. But she couldn't quite shut off that nagging urge, so she walked quickly out of the kitchen and went upstairs to bed.
But she dreamed, and the dreams were full of laughter….
A man's arms around her, the two of them rolling over a soft, giving mattress like wrestling children. Giggles muffled against warm lips, teasing fingers combing through her long, tangled hair.
Hush, John, you''ll wake the baby.
You 're making all the noise.
Quick hands sneaking under her cotton nightgown, finding wonderful spots to linger.
You 've got too many clothes on, Sarah. I want you naked.
Mock slaps and tussles, more giggles.