by Nora Roberts
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 pretty 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.
“I love the taste of you.” He pressed his lips to her jaw, her temples, back to her lips. “I’ve dreamed of it.”
“You have?”
“Most of my life. I’ve wanted to be with you like this for years. Forever.”
The words were seeping through that lovely haze of pleasure that covered her whenever he kissed her. “But—”
“You got married.” He trailed his lips down her cheek. “I didn’t move fast enough. I got drunk the day you married Joe Dolin. Bli
nd, falling-down drunk. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought about killing him, but I figured you must have wanted him. So that was that.”
“Devin, I don’t understand this.” If he’d stop kissing her, just for a minute, she might be able to understand.
But he couldn’t seem to stop, any of it. “I loved you so much I thought I’d die from it. Just keel right over and die.”
Panic and denial had her struggling away. “You couldn’t have.”
He’d said too much, but the regrets would have to come later. Now, he’d finish it. “I’ve loved you for over twelve years, Cassandra. I loved you when you were married to another man, when you had his children. I loved you when I couldn’t do anything to help you out of that hell you were living in. I love you now.”
She got up and, in an old defensive habit, wrapped her arms tight around her body. “That’s not possible.”
“Don’t tell me what I feel.” She jolted back a full step at the anger in his tone, making him clench his teeth as he rose. “And don’t you cringe away from me when I raise my voice. I can’t be what I’m not, not even for you. But I’m not Joe Dolin. I’ll never hit you.”
“I know that.” She let her arms drop. “I know that, Devin.” Even as she said it, she watched him struggle to push back the worst of his temper. “I don’t want you to be angry with me, Devin, but I don’t know what to say to you.”
“Seems like I’ve already said more than enough.” He began to pace, his hands jammed in his pockets. “I’m good at taking things slow, thinking them through. But not this time. I’ve said what I’ve said, Cass, and I can’t—won’t—take it back. You’re going to have to decide what you want to do about it.”
“Do about what?” Baffled, she lifted her hands, then let them fall. “You want me to believe that a man like you had feelings for me all these years and didn’t do anything about it?”
“What the hell was I supposed to do?” he tossed back. “You were married. You’d made your choice, and it wasn’t me.”
“I didn’t know there was a choice.”
“My mistake,” he said, bitterly. “Now I’ve made another one, because you’re not ready, or you don’t want to be ready. Or maybe you just don’t want me.”
“I don’t—” She lifted her hands to her cheeks. She honestly didn’t know which, if any, of those alternatives was true. “I can’t think. You’ve been my friend. You’ve been, well, the sheriff, and I’ve been so grateful—”
“Don’t you dare say that to me.” Devin shouted the words, and was too twisted with pain and fury to notice that she went white as death. “Damn it, I don’t want you to be grateful. I’m not playing public servant with you. I don’t deserve that.”
“I didn’t mean… Devin, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“The hell with being sorry,” he raged. “The hell with gratitude. You want to be grateful I locked the son of a bitch up who was pounding on you, then be grateful to the badge, not to me. Because I wanted to break him in half. You want to be grateful I’ve been coming around here being the nice guy, like some love-whipped mongrel dog, don’t. Because what I’ve wanted to do is—”
He bit that back, his eyes cutting through her like hot knives. “You don’t want to know. No, what you want is for me to keep my voice down, my feelings inside and my hands to myself.”
“No, that’s not—”
“You don’t mind if I kiss you, but then, you’re so damn grateful it’s the least you can do.”
Her stumbling protest fell apart. “That’s not fair.”
“I’m tired of being fair. I’m tired of waiting for you. I’m tired of being torn up in love with you. The hell with it.”
He strode by her, and was halfway down the stairs before her legs unfroze. She raced after him. “Devin. Devin, please don’t go this way. Let me—”
He jerked away from her light touch on his shoulder, whirled on her. “Leave me alone now, Cass. You want to leave me be now.”
She knew that look, though she had never expected to see it aimed from his eyes into hers. It was a man’s bitter fury. She had reason to fear it. Her stomach clenched painfully, but she made herself stand her ground. He would never know how much it cost her.
“You never told me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice slow and even. “You never let me see. Now you have, and you won’t give me time to think, to know what to do. You don’t want to hear that I’m sorry, that I’m grateful, that I’m afraid. But I’m all of those things, and I can’t help it. I can’t make myself into what anyone else expects me to be ever again. I’ll lose everything this time. If I could do it for anyone, I’d do it for you. But I can’t.”
“That’s clear enough.” He knew he was wrong—not completely wrong, but wrong enough. It just didn’t seem to matter, compared with this ragged, tearing hurt inside of him. “The thing you’ve got twisted around, Cass, is that I don’t want you to be anything but what you are. Once you figure that out, you know where to find me.”
She opened her mouth again, then closed it when he strode away. There was nothing else she could say to him now, nothing else she could do. She felt raw inside, and her throat hurt.
And it was hurt that had been in his eyes, she thought, closing her own. Hurt that she had caused, without ever meaning to.
Devin MacKade loved her. The idea left her weak with terror and confusion. But bigger even than that was the idea that he had loved her all this time. Devin MacKade, the kindest, most admirable man she knew, loved her, had loved her for years, and all she had to give in return was gratitude.
Now she had lost him, the friendship she’d come to cherish, the companionship she had grown to depend on. She’d lost it because he wanted a woman, and she was empty inside.
She didn’t weep. It was too late for tears. Instead, she rose, reminded herself to square her shoulders. She went back into the inn through the kitchen. There were chores to see to, and she could always think more clearly when she was working.
Her latest guests had gone off, eager to hunt antiques, so Cassie went back upstairs and turned on the vacuum she’d abandoned when the guests arrived.
She worked methodically, down the hallway, room by room. The bridal suite—Abigail’s room—was her favorite. But she paid little attention now to the lovely wallpaper with its rosebuds, the graceful canopy bed, the wash of sunlight through the lace curtains.
She reminded herself to bring up fresh flowers. Even when the room wasn’t occupied, there were always flowers on the table by the window. She’d forgotten them that morning.
Yet the room smelled of roses, powerfully. A sudden chill had her shivering. She felt him, and turned toward the door.
“Devin.” Relief, confusion, sorrow. She experienced them all as she took a step toward the doorway.
But it wasn’t Devin. The man was tall, dark-haired and handsome. But the face wasn’t Devin’s, and the clothes were formal, old-fashioned. Her hand went limp on the handle of the vacuum, and the sound of it buzzed in her ears.
Abigail, come with me. Take the children and come with me. Leave this place. You don’t love him.
No, Cassie thought, I’ve never loved him. Now I despise him.
Can’t you see what this is doing to you? How long will you stay, closed away from life this way?
It’s all I can do. It’s the best I can do.
I love you, Abby. I love you so much. I could make you happy if you’d only let me. We’ll go away from here, away from him. Start our lives over, together. I’ve already waited for you so long.
How can I? I’m bound to him. I have the children. And you, your life is here. You can’t walk away from the town, your responsibilities, the people who depend on you. You can’t settle for another man’s wife, another man’s children.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I’d kill for you. Die for you. For God’s sake, Abigail, give me the chance to love you. All these years I’ve stood by, knowing how unhappy you were, knowing you wer
e out of reach. That’s over now. He’s gone. We can leave and be miles from here before he comes back. Why should either of us settle for less than everything? I don’t want to sit in the parlor with you and pretend I don’t love you, don’t need you. I can’t keep being only your friend.
You know I value you, depend on you.
Tell me you love me.
I can’t. I can’t tell you that. There’s nothing inside me any longer. He killed it.
Come with me. And live again.
Whatever was there, whoever was there, faded, until there was only the doorway, the lovely wallpaper and the strong, sad scent of roses. Cassie found herself standing, almost swaying, with one hand reaching out to nothing at all.
The vacuum was still humming as she sank weakly to the floor.
What had happened here? she asked herself. Had she been dreaming? Hallucinating?
She laid a hand on her heart and found it was beating like a wild bird in a cage. Carefully she let her head drop down to her updrawn knees.
She had heard the ghosts before, felt them. Now, she realized, she had seen one. Not one of the Barlows, not the poor doomed soldier. But the man Abigail had loved. The man who had loved her.
Who had he been? She thought she might never know. But his face had been compelling, though filled with sorrow, his voice strong, even when it was pleading. Why hadn’t Abigail gone with him? Why hadn’t she taken that hand he reached out to her and run, run for her life?
Abigail had loved him. Cassie drew in a deep breath. Of that she was sure. The emotions that swirled through the room had been so powerful, she felt them still. There had been love here. Desperate, helpless love.
Is that why you weep? Cassie wondered. Because you didn’t go, and you lost him? You didn’t reach out, and then there was nothing to hold on to?
You were afraid to love him, so you broke his heart.
Just as she had broken Devin’s heart today.
With a shudder, Cassie lifted her head. Why? she asked herself. Out of fear and doubt. Out of habit. That was pathetic. All Devin had wanted was affection. But she hadn’t told him that she cared. Hadn’t showed him she cared.
Would she close herself away, as Abigail had, or would she take the chance?
Hadn’t she been a coward long enough?
Wiping her damp face, she got to her feet. She had to go to him. She would go to him. Somehow.
Of course, such things are never simple. She had children, and could hardly leave them to fend for themselves. She had guests at the inn, and a job to do. It took her hours to manage it, and with every minute that passed, the doubts weighed more heavily.
She combated them by reminding herself that it didn’t matter how clumsy she was. He wanted her. That would be enough.
“I’m so grateful, Ed. I know it’s a lot to ask.”
“Hey—” Already settled down in front of the television with a bowl of popcorn, Ed waved a hand “—so I closed a little early. I get a night off.”
“The kids are asleep.” But still Cassie fretted. “They hardly ever wake up after they’re down.”
“Don’t you worry about those angels. And don’t worry about the people downstairs,” she added, anticipating Cassie. “They want anything, they’ll call up here and let me know. I’m going to watch this love story I rented, then hit the sack.”
“You take the bed. You promised,” Cassie insisted. “I’ll just flop down on the couch when I get back.”
“Mm-hmm…” Ed was betting that wouldn’t be until dawn. “You say hi to Devin for me, now.”
Cassie twisted the collar of her blouse in her fingers. “I’m just going over to his office for a little while.”
“If you say so, honey.”
“He’s angry with me, Ed. He’s so angry with me, he might just boot me out.”
Ed stopped the videotape she was watching, turned around on the couch and gave Cassie one long, summing-up look. “Honey, you look at him like that, and he’s not going to boot you anywhere but into that cot he’s got in the back room.” When Cassie wrapped her arms around her body, Ed only laughed. “Oh, you stop that now. Devin’s not going to push you into anything. A man like that doesn’t have to push. He just has to be.”
“How did you know I was going over there to…to try to…”
“Cassie, honey, look who you’re talking to here. I’ve been around this block plenty. You call me, ask if I’d settle in here for the night because you need to see Devin, I’m going to figure it out. And it’s long past time, if you ask me.”
Cassie looked down at her plain cotton blouse and simple trousers. Her neat flat-heeled shoes. Hardly the garb of a femme fatale. “Ed, I’m no good at this