The Return Of Rafe Mackade tmb-1 Read online

  "I'd just as soon you didn't. You scared the life out of me." He reached over to play with the fingers of the hand she'd laid on the table. He liked the delicacy of them, and the glint of stones and gold. "In your research, did you dig up anything on the two corporals?"

  "The two corporals?"

  "You should have asked old lady Metz. She loves telling the story. What kind of watch is this?" Curious, Rafe flicked a finger under the twin black elastic bands.

  "Circa 1920. Elastic and marcasite. What about the corporals?"

  "It seems these two soldiers got separated from their regiments during the battle. The cornfield east of here was thick with smoke, black powder exploding. Some of the troops were engaged in the trees, others just lost or dying there."

  "Some of the battle took place here, on your fields?" she asked.

  "Some of it. The park service has markers up. Anyway, these two, one Union, one Confederate, got separated. They were just boys, probably terrified. Bad luck brought them together in the woods that form the boundary between MacKade land and Barlow."

  "Oh." Thoughtful, she dragged her hair back. "I'd forgotten the properties border each other."

  "It's less than a half mile from this house to the Barlow place through the trees. Anyway, they came face-to-face. If either of them had had any sense, they'd have run for cover and counted their blessings. But they didn't." He lifted his mug again. "They managed to put holes in each other. Nobody can say who crawled off first. The Reb made it as far as the Barlow house. Odds are he was half-dead already, but he managed to crawl onto the porch. One of the servants saw him and, being a Southern sympathizer, pulled him inside. Or maybe she just saw a kid bleeding to death and did what she thought was right."

  "And he died in the house," Regan murmured, wishing she couldn't see it so clearly.

  "Yeah. The servant ran off to get her mistress. That was Abigail O'Brian Barlow, of the Carolina O'Bri-ans. Abigail had just given orders for the boy to be taken upstairs, where she could teat his wounds. Her husband came out. He shot the kid, right there on the stairway."

  Sadness jolted straight into horror. "Oh, my God! Why?"

  "No wife of his was going to lay her hands on a Reb. She herself died two years later, in her room. Story is that she never spoke a word to her husband again—not that they had much to say to each other before. It was supposed to be one of those arranged marriages. Rumor was he liked to knock her around."

  "In other words," Regan said tightly, "he was a prince among men."

  "Thaf s the story. She was delicate, and she was miserable."

  "And trapped," Regan murmured, thinking of Cassie.

  "I don't suppose people talked much about abuse back then. Divorce..." He shrugged. "Probably not an option in her circumstances. Anyway, shooting that boy right in front of her must have been the straw, you know. The last cruelty she could take. But that's only half of it. The half the town knows."

  "There's more." She let out a sigh and rose. "I think I need more coffee."

  "The Yank stumbled off in the opposite direction," Rafe continued, murmuring a thank you when she poured him a second cup. "My greatgrandfather found him passed out by the smokehouse. My greatgrandfather lost his oldest son at Bull Run—he'd died wearing Confederate gray."

  Regan shut her eyes. "He killed the boy."

  "No. Maybe he thought about it, maybe he thought about just leaving him there to bleed to death. But he picked him up and brought him into the kitchen. He and his wife, their daughters, doctored him on the table. Not this one," Rafe added with a small smile.

  "That's reassuring."

  "He came around a few times, tried to tell them something. But he was too weak. He lasted the rest of that day and most of the night, but he was dead by morning."

  "They'd done everything they could."

  "Yeah, but now they had a dead Union soldier in their kitchen, his blood on their floor. Everyone who knew them knew that they were staunch Southern sympathizers who'd already lost one son to the cause and had two more still fighting for it. They were afraid, so they hid the body. When it was dark, they buried him, with his uniform, his weapon, and a letter from his mother in his pocket."

  He looked at her then, his eyes cool and steady. "That's why this house is haunted, too. I thought you'd be interested."

  She didn't speak for a moment, set her coffee aside. "Your house is haunted?"

  "The house, the woods, the fields. You get used to it, the little noises, the little feelings. We never talked about it much; it was just there. Maybe you'd get a sense of something in the woods at night, or in the fields, when the morning was misty and too quiet." He smiled a little at the curiosity in her eyes. "Even cynics feel something when they're standing on a battlefield. After my mother died, even the house seemed... restless. Or maybe it was just me."

  "Is that why you left?"

  "I had lots of reasons for leaving."

  "And for coming back?"

  "One or two. I told you the first part of the story because I figured you should understand the Barlow place, since you're going to be involved with it. And I told you the rest..." He reached over and loosened the duo of black buttons on her blazer. "Because I'm going to be staying at the farm for a while. Now you can decide if you want me to bring you here, or if you'd rather I come to your place."

  "My inventory's at the shop, so—"

  "I'm not talking about your inventory." He cupped her chin in his hand, kept his eyes open and on hers when he kissed her.

  Softly at first, testing. Then with a murmur of satisfaction, deeper, so that her lips parted and warmed. He watched her lashes flutter, felt her breath sigh out and into his mouth, felt the pulse just under her jaw, just under his fingers, throb. The smoky scent of her skin was a seductive contrast to her cool-water taste.

  Regan kept her hands gripped tight in her lap. It was shocking how much she wanted to use them on him. To drag them through his hair, to test the muscles under that faded flannel shirt. But she didn't. Her mind might have blurred for just an instant with astonished pleasure, even more astonishing greed, but she managed to hold on to her focus.

  When he leaned back, she kept her hands where they were and gave herself time to level her voice. "We're business associates, not playmates."

  "We have business," he agreed.

  "Would you have pulled that maneuver if I'd been a man?"

  He stared at her. The chuckle started low, bloomed into a full laugh while she squirmed at the ridiculous way she'd phrased the question.

  "I can give you a definite no on that one. I figure in that case you probably wouldn't have kissed me back, either."

  "Look, let's clear this up. I've heard all about the MacKade brothers and how they're irresistible to women."

  "It's been a curse all our lives."

  She would not smile—even if she had to clamp her teeth together. "The point is, I'm not interested in a quick roll, an affair, or a relationship—which should cover any and all possibilities."

  Damned if she wasn't even more alluring when she went prim. "I'm going to enjoy changing your mind. Why don't we start with the quick roll and work our way up from there?"

  She rose sharply and pulled her coat on. "In your dreams."

  "You're right about that. Why don't I take you out to dinner?"

  "Why don't you take me back to my car?"

  "All right." Unoffended, he got up to pluck his coat from the peg. After he'd shrugged it on, he reached out and flipped her hair out from the collar of hers. "Nights are long and cold this time of year."

  "Get a book," she suggested on her way down the hall. "Sit by the fire."

  "Is that what you do?" He shook his head. "I'm going to have to add a little excitement to your life."

  "I like my life just fine, thanks. Don't pick me—" The order ended with an oath as he scooped her up. "MacKade," she said with a sigh as he carried her to the Jeep, "I'm beginning to think you're as bad as everyone says."

 
"Count on it."

  Chapter 3

  It was a good sound. The thud of hammers, the buzz of saws, the whir of drills. Through it came the jingle of a radio set to country music, so that Wynonna wailed over the clomp of boots and male voices.

  It was a noise, the music of labor, that Rafe had known all of his life. This was different from the clatter of the milking barn, the hum of a tractor in the field. He preferred it. He'd chosen it the day he left Antietam.

  Construction work had probably saved him. He had no problem admitting he'd been looking to rumble when he roared out of Washington County a decade before on his secondhand Harley. But he'd needed to eat, so he'd needed to work.

  He'd strapped on a tool belt and sweated out the worst of the frustration.

  He still remembered when he'd stepped back and looked at the first house he'd had a part in building. It had come to him in a flash that he could make something that mattered. And that he could make something of himself.

  So he'd saved, and he'd sweated, and he'd learned.

  The first place he'd bought, in central Florida, was little more than a shack. He'd choked on drywall dust, hammered until his muscles wept with the strain. But he'd made a profit, and used that to buy again. To sell again.

  In four years, the tiny shoestring company called MacKade had earned a reputation for reliable, quality work.

  Still, he'd never stopped looking back. Now, standing in the parlor of the Barlow place, he understood he'd come full circle.

  He was going to make something in the town he'd been so hell-bent to escape from. Whether he stayed or not after he was done was undecided. But he would, at least, have left his mark.

  Hunkered down in front of the fireplace, Rafe studied the stone hearth. He'd already gone to work on the chimney, and was covered with soot and grime. She'd draw, he thought with satisfaction. The first thing he was going to do, when the new lining was installed to bring it up to code, was build a fire. He wanted to watch the flames and warm his hands on them.

  He wanted just the right andirons, the right screen. He could depend on Regan for that.

  With a little smile, be picked up bis trowel to mix a bucket of mortar. He had a feeling Regan could be depended on for most anything.

  With care, precision and enjoyment, he began to repoint the stone.

  "I figured the boss would be sitting at a desk, running figures."

  Rafe glanced back and lifted a brow. Jared stood in the center of the room, his gleaming black shoes resting on a spattered drop cloth. For some reason, his black Wayfarer shades didn't look out of place with his gray pin-striped three-piece suit.

  "That stuff's for lawyers and bookkeepers."

  Jared took off the sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his suit coat. "And think what the world would be without them."

  "Simpler." Rafe stuck his trowel in the mortar and gave his brother a once-over. "On your way to a funeral?"

  "I had business in town, thought I'd drop by and see how things are going." He glanced around the room, then back toward the hall when something crashed, someone cursed. "So, how's it going?"

  "Steady." Rafe sighed when Jared took out a slim cigar. "Blow some of that over here, will you? I quit ten really long days ago."

  "Reforming yourself?" Obligingly, Jared walked over, crouched. He smoked lazily as he and Rafe frowned meaningfully at the stone. "Not too shabby."

  Rafe knocked a fist against the rose-grained marble. "An Adam, pal."

  Jared grunted, clamped the cigar between his teeth. "Need a hand around here?"

  Blandly Rafe looked down. "You're wearing your lawyer shoes."

  "I meant over the weekend."

  "I can always use another back." Pleased with the offer, Rafe picked up the trowel again. "How's yours?"

  "As good as yours."

  "Still working out?" He gave Jared's biceps a testing punch. "I still say gyms are for sissies."

  Jaied blew out a stream of smoke. "Want to go a round, bro?"

  "Sure, when you're not dressed so pretty." To torture himself, Rafe sucked in secondhand smoke. "I appreciate you handling the settlement on this place for me."

  "You haven't got my bill, yet." Grinning, Jared straightened. "I thought you were crazy when you called and told me to go after it. Then I did a walkthrough." He turned, still grinning. "And I knew you were crazy. You practically stole the place, but I figure it's got to cost you two times the purchase price to make it livable."

  "Three times," Rafe said mildly, "to make it the way I want it."

  "How do you want it?"

  "The way it was." Rafe scraped the edge of his trowel over stone, leveling his mortar.

  "That's always a tough one," Jared murmured. "You don't seem to be having a problem with labor. I wondered if you would, considering the place's rep."

  "Money talks. Lost a plumber's assistant this morning, though." Wicked amusement sparkled in his eyes. "They were checking pipes in one of the second-floor johns. This guy claims someone clamped a hand on his shoulder. He was still running when he made it to the road. Don't guess he'll be back."

  "Any other problems?"

  "Nothing I need a lawyer for. Did you hear the one about the lawyer and the rattlesnake?"

  "I've heard them all," Jared said dryly. "I keep a file."

  With a chuckle, Rafe wiped his hands on Ms jeans. "You did good, Jare. Mom would've liked seeing you duded up like that." For a moment, he said nothing. There was only the scrape of trowel on stone. "It's weird, staying at the farm. Mostly just me and Shane. Devin spends half his nights on a cot in the sheriff's office. You're in that fancy little town house in the city. When I hear Shane get up in the morning, it's still dark. The idiot's whistling, like going out to milk in January's just a boatload of laughs."

  "He's always loved it. He's kept that place alive."

  "I know."

  He recognized the tone, shook his head at it. "You did your part, Rafe. The money you sent back made a difference." Eyes shadowed, Jared stared out the grimy window. "I'm thinking of selling the place in Hagerstown." When Rafe said nothing, Jared moved his shoulders. "It seemed practical to keep it after the divorce. The market was soft, and we'd only built up a couple years' equity. Barbara didn't want it."

  "Still sore?"

  "No. The divorce is three years past, and God knows it was civilized. We just didn't like each other anymore."

  "I never liked her."

  Jared's lips quirked. "I know. Anyway, I'm thinking of selling, hanging out at the farm for a while, until I find the right place."

  "Shane would like that. So would I. I missed you." Rafe swiped a grimy hand over his grimy chin. "I didn't realize how much until I got back." Satisfied with the repointing, he scraped his trowel on the edge of the bucket. "So, you want to put in some honest labor on Saturday?"

  "You buy the beer."

  Rafe nodded, rose. "Let's see your hands, city boy."

  Jared's response was crude, simple, and uttered just as Regan stepped into the room.

  "Nice mouth, Counselor," Rafe said with an easy smile. "Hello, darling."

  "I'm interrupting."

  "No. The guy from the gutter here's my brother Jared."

  "I know. He's my lawyer. Hello, Jared."

  "Regan." Jared found an empty can of soda and doused the stub of his cigar. "How's business?"

  "Picking up, thanks to your little brother. I have some estimates, figures, suggestions, paint and fabric samples," she said to Rafe. "I thought you'd like to look them over."

  "You've been busy." He crouched again, flipped over the top of a small cooler. "Want a drink?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Jare?"

  "One for the road. I've got another appointment." Jared caught the canned soft drink on the fly, then took his sunglasses out of his pocket. "I'll let you two get down to business. Nice to see you again, Regan."

  "Saturday," Rafe called out as Jared left the room. "Seven-thirty. That's a.m., pal. And lose
the suit."

  "I didn't mean to chase him off," Regan began.

  "You didn't. Want to sit down?"

  "Where?"

  He patted an overturned bucket.

  "That's very gracious of you, but I can't stay. I'm on my lunch hour."

  "The boss isn't going to dock you."

  "She certainly will." Opening her briefcase, Regan took out two thick folders. "Everything's in here. Once you have a chance to look through it, let me know." For lack of anywhere better, she set the files across two sawhorses. She looked back over her shoulder, toward the hall. "You've certainly jumped right in."

  "When you know what you want, there's no point in wasting time. So how about dinner?"

  She looked back, narrowed her eyes. "Dinner?"

  "Tonight. We can go over your files." He tapped a finger against them, left a smudge of soot. "Save time."

  "Oh." Still frowning, she combed her fingers through her hair. "I suppose."

  "How's seven? We'll go to the Lamplighter."

  "The where?"

  "The Lamplighter. The little place off of Main, at Church Street."

  She tilted her head as she visualized the town. "There's a video store at Main and Church."

  He jammed his hands in his pockets with an oath. "Used to be a restaurant. Your place used to be a hardware store."

  "I guess even small towns have their changes."

  "Yeah." He couldn't have said why it annoyed him. "Like Italian?"

  "Yes. But the closest Italian place is across the river, into West Virginia. We can just meet at Ed's."

  "No. Italian. I'll come by about six-thirty." Needing to gauge his time, he pulled a watch from his pocket. "Yeah, I can do six-thirty."

  "That's a nice one." Without thinking, she crossed over, took his wrist gingerly in two fingers to get a better look at the pocket watch. "Hmm.. .American Watch Company, mid-1800s." Already appraising, she turned the watch over to study the case. "Sterling, good condition. I'll give you seventy-five for it."

  "I paid ninety."

  She laughed and shook back her hair. "Then you got a hell of a bargain. It's worth a hundred and fifty." Her gaze danced up to his. "You don't look like the pocket-watch type."