The Return of Rafe MacKade, Page 2

  He shook snow from thick hair the color of coal dust and shrugged off a black leather bomber jacket that wasn’t meant for East Coast winters. Regan thought he had a warrior’s face—the little scar, the unshaven chin, the slightly crooked nose that kept that mouth-watering face from being too pretty.

  His body looked hard as granite, and his eyes, sharp green, were no softer.

  In worn flannel, torn jeans and scarred boots, he didn’t look rich and successful. But he sure looked dangerous.

  It amused and pleased Rafe to see Ed’s place was so much the same. Those could be the same stools at the counter that he’d warmed his seat on as a child, anticipating a sundae or a fountain drink. Surely those were the same smells—grease, frying onions, the haze from Ed’s constant cigarettes, an undertone of pine cleaner.

  He was sure Ed would be back in the kitchen, flipping burgers or stirring pots. And sure as hell that was old man Tidas snoring in the back booth while his coffee went cold. Just as he’d always done.

  His eyes, cool, assessing, skimmed over the painfully white counter, with its clear-plastic-topped plates of pies and cakes, over the walls, with their black-and-white photos of Civil War battles, to a booth where two women sat over coffee.

  He saw a stranger. An impressive one. Honey brown hair cut in a smooth chin-length swing that framed a face of soft curves and creamy skin. Long lashes over dark and coolly curious blue eyes. And a sassy little mole right at the corner of a full and unsmiling mouth.

  Picture-perfect, he thought. Just like something cut out of a glossy magazine.

  They studied each other, assessed each other as a man or woman might assess a particularly attractive trinket in a shop window. Then his gaze shifted to land on the fragile little blonde with the haunted eyes and the hesitant smile.

  “Son of a bitch.” His grin flashed and upped the temperature by twenty degrees. “Little Cassie Connor.”

  “Rafe. I heard you were back.” The sound of her giggle as Rafe plucked her from the booth had Regan’s brow lifting. It was rare to hear Cassie laugh so freely.

  “Pretty as ever,” he said, and kissed her full on the lips. “Tell me you kicked that idiot out and left the path clear for me.”

  She eased back, always fearful of wagging tongues. “I’ve got two kids now.”

  “A boy and a girl. I heard.” He tugged the strap of her bib apron, and thought with some concern that she’d lost too much weight. “You’re still working here?”

  “Yeah. Ed’s in the back.”

  “I’ll go see her in a minute.” Resting a hand casually on Cassie’s shoulder, he looked back at Regan. “Who’s your pal?”

  “Oh, sorry. This is Regan Bishop. She owns Past Times, an antique and decorating store a couple doors down. Regan, this is Rafe MacKade.”

  “Of the MacKade brothers.” She offered a hand. “Word’s already traveled.”

  “I’m sure it has.” He took her hand, held it, as his eyes held hers. “Antiques? That’s a coincidence. I’m in the market.”

  “Are you?” She’d risk her dignity if she tugged her hand from his. From the gleam in his eye, she was sure he knew it. “Any particular era?”

  “Mid-to-late-1800s—everything from soup to nuts. I’ve got a three-story house, about twelve hundred square feet to furnish. Think you can handle it?”

  It took a lot of willpower for her to keep her jaw from dropping. She did well enough with tourists and townspeople, but a commission like this would easily triple her usual income.

  “I’m sure I can.”

  “You bought a house?” Cassie said interrupting them. “I thought you’d be staying out at the farm.”

  “For now. The house isn’t for living in, not for me. After some remodeling, restoring, I’ll be opening it up as a bed-and-breakfast. I bought the old Barlow place.”

  Stunned, Cassie bobbled the coffeepot she’d fetched. “The Barlow place? But it’s—”

  “Haunted?” A reckless light glinted in his eyes. “Damn right it is. How about a piece of that pie to go with the coffee, Cassie? I’ve worked up an appetite.”

  Regan had left but Rafe had loitered for an hour, entertained when Cassie’s kids burst in out of the snow. He watched her fuss over them, scold the boy for forgetting to put on his gloves, listened to the big-eyed little girl solemnly relate the adventures of the day.

  There was something sad, and somehow soothing, about watching the girl he remembered settling her two children at a booth with crayons and books.

  A lot had stayed the same over a decade. But a lot had changed. He was well aware that news of his arrival was even now singing over telephone wires. It pleased him. He wanted the town to know he was back—and not with his tail between his legs, as many had predicted.

  He had money in his pocket now, and plans for the future.

  The Barlow place was the heart of his plans. He didn’t subscribe to ghosts, under most circumstances, but the house had certainly haunted him. Now it belonged to him, every old stone and bramble—and whatever else it held. He was going to rebuild it, as he had rebuilt himself.

  One day he would stand at the top window and look down on the town. He would prove to everyone—even to Rafe MacKade—that he was somebody.

  He tucked a generous tip under his cup, careful to keep the amount just shy of one that would embarrass Cassie. She was too thin, he thought, and her eyes were too guarded. That weary fragility had been thrown into sharp relief when she sat with Regan.

  Now there was a woman, he mused, who knew how to handle herself. Steady eyes, stubborn chin, soft hands. She hadn’t so much as blinked when he offered her a shot at furnishing an entire inn. Oh, he imagined her insides had jolted, but she hadn’t blinked.

  As a man who’d earned his keep on the wheel and deal, he had to admire her for it. Time would tell if she’d hold up to the challenge.

  And there was no time like the present.

  “That antique place, two doors down?”

  “That’s right.” Cassie kept one eye on her children as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee. “On the left. I don’t think she’s open, though.”

  Rafe shrugged into his jacket and grinned. “Oh, I bet she is.”

  He strolled out, hatless, jacket open, his footsteps muffled by the cushioning snow. As he’d expected, the lights were on inside Past Times. Instead of seeking shelter inside, he studied her window display and found it clever and effective.

  A sweep of blue brocade like a pool of shimmering water flowed over varying levels. A bright-eyed porcelain doll sat on a child-size ladder-back rocker, an artful tumble of antique toys at her feet. A snarling jade dragon curled on a pedestal. A glossy mahogany jewelry box stood open, glittery baubles spilling out of its drawers as though a woman’s hands had slid through them in search of just the right piece.

  Perfume bottles were arranged in pretty sunbursts of color on an enameled shelf.

  Put the sparkles up front, he thought with a nod, and rope the customers in.

  Sleigh bells hung on the door tinkled musically when he opened it. The air inside was spiced with cinnamon and cloves and apples. And, he realized after a deep breath of it, of Regan Bishop. The subtle and sultry perfume he’d noted in the café just teased the air.

  He took his time wandering. Furniture was meticulously arranged for traffic patterns. A settee here, an occasional table there. Lamps, bowls, vases, all doing double duty as display and decoration. A dining room table was gracefully set with china and glassware, candles and flowers, as if guests were expected any moment. An old Victrola stood open beside a cabinet filled with 78s.

  There were three rooms, each as polished and organized as the last. Nowhere in her inventory did he notice a single speck of dust. He paused by a kitchen hutch filled with white stoneware dishes and blue-tinted mason jars.

  “It’s a nice piece,” Regan said from behind him.

  “We have one like this in the kitchen at the farm.” He didn’t turn. He’d known she was the
re. “My mother kept the everyday dishes in it. White ones, like these. And glasses. Thick ones that didn’t break easy. She threw one at me once when I sassed her.”

  “Did she hit you?”

  “No. Would have if she’d meant to.” Now he turned and flashed that killer grin. “She had a hell of an arm. What are you doing in the middle of nowhere, Regan Bishop?”

  “Selling my wares, Rafe MacKade.”

  “Your wares aren’t half-bad. How much for the dragon in the window?”

  “You have excellent taste. It’s five-fifty.”

  “That’s steep, Regan.” Reaching out, he slipped open the single gold button of her navy blazer.

  She found the little gesture oddly intimate, but refused to comment on it. “You get what you pay for.”

  “If you’re smart, you can get more.” He tucked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and began to wander again. “How long have you been in town?”

  “Three years last summer.”

  “From?” When she didn’t answer, he glanced back, lifted one of those sexy black brows. “Just making conversation, darling. I like to get a handle on the people I’m doing business with.”

  “We haven’t done any business, yet.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. “Darling.”

  His laugh erupted, quick and charming. Little ripples of response skidded up her spine. He was, she was sure, the man every mother had ever warned her daughter about. As tempting as it was, business was business. And it always came first.

  “I think I’m going to like you, Regan.” He tilted his head. “You sure are a looker.”

  “Making conversation again?”

  “An observation.” With a smile hovering around his mouth, he glanced down at her hands. She wore rings, pretty, glittery stones and twists of gold. “Any of those mean anything that’s going to get in my way?”

  Her stomach fluttered. Her spine stiffened. “I’d say that depends on which way you’re heading.”

  “Nope,” he declared. “You’re not married. You’d have tossed that in my face. So.” Satisfied, he sat on a red velvet love seat, tossed his arm over the curved back. “Want to sit down?”

  “No, thanks. Did you come in to do business, or to talk me into bed?”

  “I never talk women into bed.” He smiled at her.

  No, she thought, he’d just have to flash that smile and crook his finger.

  “Business, Regan.” Relaxed, he crossed his booted feet. “For now, just business.”

  “All right. Then I’ll offer you some hot cider.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  She moved through a doorway, into the back. Alone, Rafe brooded for a moment. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious, hadn’t realized he was quite so attracted. There had been something about the way she stood there, in her tailored blazer and tasteful jewelry, her eyes so cool and amused, her scent just short of hot.

  If he’d ever seen a woman who announced a thorny road, it was Regan Bishop. Though he rarely chose the smooth path, he had too much on his plate to take the challenge.

  Then she came back in on those long, glamorous legs, that pretty swing of hair half curtaining her face.

  What the hell, he thought, he could always make room on his plate.

  “Thanks.” He took the steaming enameled mug she offered. “I figured on hiring a firm out of D.C. or Baltimore, maybe taking some time to hunt through some shops myself.”

  “I can acquire anything a firm in D.C. or Baltimore can, and offer a better price.” She hoped.

  “Maybe. The thing is, I like the idea of keeping the business close to home. We’ll see what you can do.” He sipped the cider, found it hot and pungent. “What do you know about the Barlow place?”

  “It’s falling apart. I think it’s a crime that nothing’s been done to preserve it. This part of the country is usually careful with its historic areas and buildings. But the town ignores that place. If I had the means, I’d have bought it myself.”

  “And you’d have gotten more than you bargained for. The house is solid as rock. If it wasn’t so well built, it’d be rubble by now. But, it needs work…” he mused, and began to picture it all in his head. “Floors to be leveled and sanded and sealed, walls to be plastered or taken down, windows replaced. The roof’s a mess.”

  He brought himself back, shrugged. “That’s just time and money. When it’s ready, I want to put it back the way it looked in 1862, when the Barlows lived there and watched the Battle of Antietam from their parlor window.”

  “Did they?” Regan asked with a smile. “I’d have thought they’d have been cowering in the root cellar.”

  “Not the way I imagine it. The rich and privileged watching the show, maybe annoyed when cannon fire cracked a window or the screams of the dead and dying woke the baby from its nap.”

  “You’re a cynical one. Being rich wouldn’t mean you wouldn’t feel horror if you had to watch men dying on your front lawn.”

  “The heart of the battle didn’t get quite that close. Anyway, that’s what I want—the right colors, trim, wallpaper, furnishings, doodads. The works.” He had an urge for a cigarette and banked it. “How do you feel about redoing a haunted house?”

  “Interested.” She eyed him over the rim of her mug. “Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “You will before it’s done. I spent the night there once, as a kid, with my brothers.”

  “Creaking doors, rattling chains?”

  “No.” He didn’t smile now. “Except the ones Jared arranged to scare the guts out of the rest of us. There’s a spot on the stairway that’ll turn your skin to ice. You can smell smoke near the living room hearth. And you can feel something looking over your shoulder when you walk down the hallways. If it’s quiet enough, and you’re listening, you can hear sabers clash.”

  Despite herself, she couldn’t quite suppress a shudder. “If you’re trying to scare me off the commission, you won’t.”

  “Just laying out the blueprint. I’ll want you to take a look at the place, go through the rooms with me. We’ll see what kind of ideas you have. Tomorrow afternoon suit you? About two?”

  “That’ll be fine. I’ll need to take measurements.”

  “Good.” He set his mug aside, rose. “Nice doing business with you.”

  Again she accepted his hand. “Welcome home.”

  “You’re the first one who’s said it.” Enjoying the irony, he lifted her hand to his lips, watching her. “Then again, you don’t know any better. See you tomorrow. And, Regan,” he added on his way to the door, “take the dragon out of the window. I want it.”

  On the way out of town, he pulled his car to the side of the road and stopped. Ignoring the snow and the icy fingers of the wind, he studied the house on the rise of the hill.

  Its broken windows and sagging porches revealed nothing, just as Rafe’s shadowed eyes revealed nothing. Ghosts, he mused, while snow drifted silently around him. Maybe. But he was beginning to realize that the only ghosts he was trying to put to rest were inside him.

  Chapter 2

  The beauty of owning your own shop, as far as Regan was concerned, was that you could buy and sell what you chose, your hours were your own to make, and the atmosphere was your own to create.

  Still, being the sole proprietor and sole employee of Past Times didn’t mean Regan Bishop tolerated any slack. As her own boss, she was tough, often intolerant, and expected the best from her staff. As that staff, she worked hard and rarely complained.

  She had exactly what she’d always wanted—a home and business in a small rural town, away from the pressures and headaches of the city where she’d lived the first twenty-five years of her life.

  Moving to Antietam and starting her own business had been part of her five-year plan after she graduated from American University. She had degrees in history and business management tucked under her belt, and by the time she donned cap and gown she’d already earned five years experience in antiques.
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  Working for someone else.

  Now she was the boss. Every inch of the shop and the cozy apartment atop it was hers—and the bank’s. The MacKade commission was going to go a long way toward making her share a great deal larger.

  The minute Rafe left the afternoon before, Regan had locked up and dashed to the library. She’d checked out an armload of books to supplement her own research volumes.

  By midnight, when her eyes had threatened to cross, she had read and taken notes on every detail of life as it applied to the Civil War era in Maryland.

  She knew every aspect of the Battle of Antietam, from Lee’s march to his retreat across the river, from McClellan’s waffling to President Lincoln’s visit to a farm outside Sharpsburg. She knew the number of dead and wounded, the bloody progress over hill and through cornfield.

  It was sad and standard information, and she’d studied it before. Indeed, her fascination with the battle and the quiet area into which it had exploded had influenced her choice of a home.

  But this time she’d been able to find bits and pieces on the Barlows—both fact and speculation. The family had lived in the house on the hill for almost a hundred years before that horrible day in September of 1862. Prosperous landowners and businessmen, they had lived like lords. Their balls and dinners had enticed guests from as far as Washington and Virginia.

  She knew how they had dressed—the frock coats and lace and the hooped skirts. Silk hats and satin slippers. She knew how they had lived, with servants pouring wine into crystal goblets, their home decorated with hothouse flowers, their furniture glowing with bee’s wax polish.

  Now, negotiating snowy, windy roads under sparkling sunlight, she could see exactly the colors and fabrics, the furnishings and knickknacks that would have surrounded them.

  Chiffoniers of rosewood, she mused. Wedgwood china and horsehair settees. The fine Chippendale chest-on-chest for the master, the graceful cherrywood-and-beveled-glass secretaire for his lady. Brocade portieres and rich Colonial blue for the walls in the parlor.

  Rafe MacKade was going to get his money’s worth. And, oh, she hoped his pockets were deep.

  The narrow, broken lane leading up to the house was deep in snow. No tire tracks or handy plow had marred its pretty, pristine—and very inconvenient—white blanket.

  Annoyed that Rafe hadn’t taken care of that detail, Regan eased her car onto the shoulder.

  Armed with her briefcase, she began the long trudge up.

  At least she’d thought to wear boots, she told herself as the snow crept past her ankles. She’d very nearly worn a suit and heels—before she remembered that impressing Rafe MacKade wasn’t on her agenda. The gray trousers, tailored blazer and black turtleneck were acceptable business wear for an assignment such as this. And, as she doubted the place was heated, the red wool coat would come in handy, inside, as well as out.

  It was a fabulous and intriguing place, she decided as she crested the hill. All those flecks of mica in the stone, glinting like glass in the sunlight, made up for the boarded windows. The porches sagged, but the building itself rose up tall and proud against the bitter blue sky.

  She liked the way the east wing jutted off at a stern angle. The way the trio of chimneys speared from the roof as if waiting to belch smoke. She even liked the way the broken shutters hung drunkenly.

  It needed tending, she thought, with an affection that surprised her. Someone to love it, and accept its character for what it was. Someone who would appreciate its strengths and understand its weaknesses.

  She shook her head and laughed at herself. It sounded as though she were thinking of a man—one, perhaps, like Rafe MacKade—rather than a house.

  She walked closer, through the deep, powdery drifts. Rocks and overgrown brush made uneven lumps in the snow, like children under blankets waiting to do mischief. Brambles were sneaky enough to grab at her trousers with sharp, wiry fingers. But once the lawn had been lush and green and vivid with flowers.

  If Rafe had any vision, it would be again.

  Reminding herself that the landscaping was his problem, she puffed her way to the broken front porch.