The Return of Rafe MacKade

  “What is it?”

  “Hmm?” He caught himself, realized he felt like a man who had nearly skidded hard and landed on very thin ice. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” Good God, he’d actually been thinking about marriage and kids and picket fences. “The boy, Connor. He’s awfully bright, isn’t he?”

  “Straight As,” Regan said, as proudly as if he were her own. “He’s bright, sensitive and sweet—which made him a perfect target for Joe. The man bullied the poor kid mercilessly.”

  “He hit him?” The question was mild, but the fire was already burning.

  “No, I don’t think so. Cassie’s fiercely protective of her children. But emotional abuse doesn’t leave bruises.” She shrugged. “Well, they’re out of it now.” She handed him a plate to dry. “Did your father do dishes?”

  “Only on Thanksgiving.” Rafe polished off the plate, set it aside. “Buck MacKade was a man’s man.”

  “Buck?” Impressed, Regan pursed her lips. “Sounds formidable.”

  “He was tough. Had eyes that could drill holes in you if you messed up. Devin got his eyes. I got his hands.” Bemused, Rafe stared down at his palms, flexed his fingers. “It was a hell of a surprise to me when I looked down one day and saw my father’s hands on the end of my arms.”

  She couldn’t have said why it touched her so to see him smiling down at his hands, a dishcloth tossed over his shoulder. “You were close to him?”

  “Not close enough. Not for long enough.”

  “When did you lose him?”

  “I was fifteen. Tractor rolled on him. It took him a week to die.”

  She plunged her hands into the water again, struggled with tears. “Is that why you hate the farm?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.” Odd, he’d never realized it was that simple, that direct. The farm had taken his father, so he had to hate the farm. “He loved it, every rocky acre. The way Shane does.”

  “What did Jared get from him?”

  “The mouth—Jared can horse-trade just like the old man, and make you think you got the best end of the deal.”

  “Then I’m relieved he’s my lawyer.” She offered another plate. “My father never did a dish in his life. I’m sure my mother would be horrified if he tried. The kitchen is a woman’s domain,” she said dryly. “They agree on that completely. She brings him his first cup of coffee every morning before he goes to the hospital. He’s a surgeon.”

  “Hard feelings?”

  “I used to have them,” she admitted. “She made herself into exactly the woman he wanted her to be. If she was ever anything else, wanted to be anything else, anything more, it doesn’t show. She’s Dr. Bishop’s wife, and that’s all.”

  He began to see just why she was so set on marking her own boundaries, taking her own stands. “Maybe that’s all she wants to be.”

  “Apparently. It just infuriated me to see the way she catered to him, the way he patted her on the head. He actually gives her an allowance and calls her ‘the little woman.’”

  It still made her grit her teeth. “She loved living in D.C., but a few years ago when he decided that he wanted to relocate to Arizona, she packed up without a murmur.” Regan sighed. “But they’re blissfully happy. I baffle them as much as they baffle me.”

  “Because you don’t have a rich husband, a big house and a membership at the country club.”

  “Exactly.” Surprised and amused, she glanced at him. “Have you met them?”

  “I think I just did.” And, in doing so, caught a fresh new glimpse of her. “So, darling, why don’t you have a rich husband, a big house and a membership at the country club?”

  “Because I like independence, my own space and my golf game is dreadful.” She shook back her hair. “Actually, my mother had high hopes for me when she met Jared.”

  The bowl he was drying clattered when he set it down. “Run through that again.”

  “They came to visit right after the settlement. He took us out to dinner.”

  “Jared,” Rafe said carefully, “took you out to dinner.”

  “Mmm-hmm… A couple of times. My mother really liked the idea that I was seeing a lawyer. Next-best thing to a doctor, in her mind.”

  “Seeing. As in dating. You dated Jared?”

  “We went out a few times. It was right after his divorce.” She held out another bowl, lifting a brow when he made no move to take it. “Is there a problem?”

  “You dated my brother?”

  “I believe we just established that.” She decided it was a better idea to bite the inside of her lip than to let it curve. “Didn’t he mention it?”

  “No. I think I’d like your definition of date.”

  “You mean, did I sleep with him?” Struggling to keep her face composed, she tilted her head. “Are you going to go beat him up, big guy? Can I come watch?”

  Obviously she didn’t know how close she was to having her pretty face dumped in dishwater. “It’s a simple question.”

  “You’ve got a muscle twitching in your jaw, Rafe. It looks good on you. No,” she said, and then she did laugh. “Of course I didn’t sleep with him.” Enjoying herself, she shoved the bowl into his hands. “I did kiss him good-night. A couple of times. I’m now in the position to state, unequivocally, that at least fifty percent of the MacKade brothers are champion kissers.”

  “Think twice before you try for a hundred percent—or even seventy-five.” He set the bowl aside, picked up his wine. “Why didn’t you sleep with him?”

  “Really, Rafe.” She rolled her eyes. “In the first place, he didn’t ask me. And in the second, I didn’t ask him. We were more comfortable being friends. Satisfied?”

  “Maybe I’ll beat him up anyway. On principle.”

  After setting his wine aside, he took her by the shoulders, turned her to face him. Even as she grinned at him, he pressed her back into the sink.

  Hard, possessive, his mouth covered hers. The little purr that sounded in her throat enticed him to draw the kiss out, soften it, until all points of pleasure narrowed and centered just there.

  When her head fell back in surrender, her hands slid limply down his arms, he eased back.

  “That’s so you remember which MacKade you’re with now.”

  She had to remind herself to breathe. “What was your name again?”

  He grinned, then closed his teeth over her sensitized bottom lip. “Tell you what. Why don’t we skip necking on the couch and go try out the back seat of my car?”

  “That’s quite an offer.” It was fascinating to feel her own head spin. “I think I’ll take you up on it.”

  Rafe let himself into the Barlow house at midnight. He’d recognized the car at the top of the lane, and he wasn’t surprised to find Jared in the parlor, brooding over a beer.

  “Foreclosing already, Lawyer MacKade?”

  Instead of rising to the bait, Jared stared down at his beer. “I put my house on the market today. Didn’t feel like staying there.”

  Rafe grunted, sat down on his sleeping bag to pull off his boots. He knew the dark moods, often had them himself. Either he’d manage to shake Jared out of it, or they’d both ride through it.

  “Never liked that house, no personality. Just like your ex-wife.”

  It was so cold, and so true, Jared had to laugh. “Decent investment, though. I’ll make a profit.”

  Rafe shook his head at the beer Jared held out. “They don’t taste the same without a smoke. Besides, I gotta be up in six and a half hours. I was going to come look for you,” he added.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “To beat the hell out of you.” With a yawn, Rafe lay back. “It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I’m too relaxed.”

  “Okay. Any particular reason?”

  “You kissed my woman.” Rafe figured he had just about enough energy to strip off his pants.

  “I did?” Jared tossed his legs up over the settee. A slow smile curved his lips. “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah…” he said again, with more feeling. “It
’s all coming back to me. When’d she get to be your woman?”

  Rafe heaved his jeans aside, started on his shirt. “That’s what comes from living in the city. You’re out of the loop, bro. She’s mine now.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “I know.” With his eyes closed, he dragged the sleeping bag over him. “I’m thinking about keeping her.”

  Jared choked on his beer. “You mean like a wife?”

  “I mean like keeping her,” Rafe repeated. No way was he going to try to get his tongue around a word like wife. “Keeping things the way they are now.”

  This was interesting, Jared mused. And even more fun than brooding. “And how are things now?”

  “Things are good.” Rafe could smell her on the quilted material of the sleeping bag. “I’m still going to have to break your face. It’s the principle.”

  “Understood.” Jared stretched out, settled back. “Then again, I never did pay you back for talking Sharilyn Bester, now Fenniman, into riding out to the quarry with you to skinny-dip.”

  “I was just easing her broken heart after you’d dumped her.”

  “Yeah. But it’s the principle.”

  Considering, Rafe scratched his face. “You got a point. But Sharilyn, pretty as she is, is no Regan Bishop.”

  “I never got to see Regan naked.”

  “That’s why you’re still breathing.” Rafe shifted, folded his arms under his head. “Maybe we’ll call it even.”

  “I can sleep easy now.”

  Rafe’s lips twitched at the dry tone. “I’m sorry about your house, Jared, if you are.”

  “I’m not sorry about it, really. It just brought a lot of things back. I screwed up as much as Barbara did, Rafe. It would have been easier if we’d yelled at each other, threw things.” He took a last swig and set the empty bottle on the floor. “There’s nothing more demoralizing than a civilized divorce between two people who couldn’t care less about each other.”

  “It’s got to be better than getting your heart broken.”

  “I don’t know. I kind of wish I’d had the chance.”

  They were both silent as the sound of weeping drifted down the stairs.

  “Ask her,” Rafe suggested. “I’d bet she’d tell you you’re better off.”

  “Maybe you should start thinking exorcism,” Jake said, smiling at the idea as his eyes drooped and he settled himself for sleep.

  “No. I like having them around. I’ve had plenty of time to be alone.”

  Chapter 9

  It was rare for Rafe to dream. He preferred his fantasies during waking hours, so that his consciousness could appreciate them.

  But he dreamed that night, as the fire burned low and the moon rose over drifts of snow, if you could call it a dream…

  He was running, terror and smoke at his heels. His eyes were burning from fatigue, and from the horror he’d already seen.

  Men blown apart before they could scream from the shock and agony. The ground exploding, hacked by mortar fire, drenched with blood. The smell of death was in his nostrils, and he knew he’d never be free of it.

  Oh, and he longed for the scent of magnolias and roses, for the lush green hills and rich brown fields of his home. If he had had tears left, he would have wept them for the quiet gurgling of the river that wound through his family’s plantation, the bright laughter of his sisters, the crooning songs of the field hands.

  He was afraid, mortally afraid, that everything he’d known and treasured was already gone. His most desperate wish was to get back, to see it again.

  He wanted to see his father again, to tell him his son had tried to be a man.

  The battle raged everywhere. In the fields, through the corn, in his heart. So many of his comrades lay dead on these godforsaken rocky hills of Maryland.

  He’d lost his way. He hadn’t been able to see through the choking smoke, or hear through the thunder of guns and the horrible shrieks of men. Suddenly he was running, running as a coward runs for any hole to crawl in.

  Mixed with the horror now was a shame just as terrible. He’d forgotten his duty, and lost his honor. Now, somehow, he must find them both again.

  The woods were thick, carpeted with the dying leaves that fell, brilliant in golds and russets, from the trees. He had never been so far north, seen such color, or smelled the poignant decay of autumn.

  He was only seventeen.

  A movement ahead had him fumbling his rifle onto his shoulder. The blue uniform was all he could see, and he fired too quickly, and poorly. The answering shot had fire singeing his arm. Driven by pain and terror, he gave a wild Rebel yell and charged.

  He wished he hadn’t seen the eyes, the eyes of the enemy, as wide and terror-glazed and young as his own. Their bayonets crashed, point to point. He smelled the blood, and the stinking scent of fear.

  He felt the steel of his blade slice into flesh, and his stomach roiled. He felt the rip of his own, and cried out in agony. He fought, blindly, bitterly, recklessly, until there was nothing inside him but the battle. And when they both lay in their own blood, he wondered why.

  He was crawling, delirious with pain. He needed to get home for supper, he thought. Had to get home. There was the house, he could see it now. He dragged himself over rocks and dying summer flowers, leaving his blood staining the grass.

  Hands were lifting him. Soft voices. He saw her standing over him, an angel. Her hair like a halo, her eyes warm, her voice filled with the music of the South he yearned for.

  Her face was so beautiful, so gentle, so sad.

  She stroked his head, held his hand, walking beside him as others carried him up curving steps.

  I’m going home, he told her. I have to go home.

  You’ll be all right, she promised. You’ll go home as soon as you’re well again.

  She looked away from him, up, and her lovely face went pale as a ghost’s.

  No. He’s hurt. He’s just a boy. Charles, you can’t.

  He saw the man, saw the gun, heard the words.

  I’ll have no Confederate scum in my house. No wife of mine will put her hands on a Rebel.

  Rafe jolted awake with the sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears. He sat where he was while it echoed away, until all that was left was his brother’s quiet breathing.

  Chilled, he rose, added logs to the fire. Then he sat, watching the flames and waiting for dawn.

  Regan slept like a baby. With the kids off to school and Cassie taking the early shift at the diner, she indulged herself with a second cup of coffee. She still prized her privacy, but she’d discovered she liked having the company.

  It was nice having the children pad around the house in the morning, having Emma offer one of her solemn kisses or Connor one of his rare smiles.

  She liked beating Cassie to the kitchen so that she could fix breakfast and smooth down pale, sleep-tousled hair.

  Motherhood had never been one of her ambitions, but she was beginning to wonder if she wouldn’t be good at it.

  She picked up a crayon Emma had left on the table. She smelled it, and smiled. It was funny, she thought, how quickly a house could smell like children. Crayons and white paste, hot chocolate and soggy cereal.

  And it was funny how quickly she’d come to look forward to finding them there after work.

  Absently she tucked the crayon in her pocket. Work was exactly where she had to go.

  Out of habit, she rinsed her coffee cup in the sink, set it on the drain. After a last glance around, she opened the door in the kitchen and headed down the stairs to open the shop for the day.

  She’d barely turned the Open sign around, unlocked the door and moved behind the counter to unlock the till when Joe Dolin walked in.

  The quick spurt of alarm came first. Then she soothed it by reminding herself that he was here, and Cassie wasn’t.

  He’d put on weight even in the three years she’d known him. There was muscle there still, but it was cushioned by too many six-packs. She imagin
ed he’d been an attractive man once, before his square face had bloated and his moody brown eyes had sunken behind bags.

  He had a chipped front tooth she didn’t know was courtesy of a younger Rafe’s fist, and a nose that had been broken by Rafe, and several others.

  With disgust, she remembered that he had tried, once or twice, to touch her. Had watched her, more than once or twice, with greedy eyes and a knowing smile.

  Regan hadn’t even told Cassie that. And never would.

  She braced herself for the altercation, but he shut the door quietly, took off his billed cap and held it humbly in his hands, like a peasant before the queen.

  “Regan. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  The penitent sound of his voice and bowed head almost softened her. But she remembered the bruises on Cassie’s neck. “What do you want, Joe?”

  “I heard Cassie’s staying with you.”

  Just Cassie, she noted. Nothing about his children. “That’s right.”

  “I guess you know about the trouble.”

  “Yes, I know. You beat her, and you were arrested.”

  “I was awful drunk.”

  “The court may find that an excuse. I don’t.”

  His eyes narrowed and flashed, but he kept his head down. “I feel terrible about it. Done nothing but worry about her for days. Now they’ve fixed it so I can’t even go near her to tell her so. I come to ask you a favor.”

  He lifted his head then, and his eyes were moist. “Cassie sets a lot of store by you.”

  “I set a lot of store by her,” Regan said evenly. She would not let the sight of a man’s tears blur her judgment.

  “Yeah, well. I was hoping you’d talk to her for me. See that she gives me another chance. I can’t ask her myself, long as there’s that damn restraining order. But she’ll listen to you.”

  “You’re giving me credit for influence over Cassie I don’t have, Joe.”

  “No, she’ll listen to you,” he insisted. “She’s always running off at the mouth about how smart you are. You tell her to come on home, and she’ll do it.”

  Very slowly, Regan placed her palms on the counter-top. “If she’d listened to me, she would have left you years ago.”

  His unshaven jaw tightened. “Now, you look. A man’s got a right—”

  “To beat his wife?” she snapped. “Not in my book, he doesn’t, and not in the law’s. No, I won’t tell her to come back to you, Joe. And if that’s all you came in for, you’ll have to leave.”

  His lips peeled back, showing clenched teeth, his eyes hardened like marbles. “Still all high-and-mighty. You think you’re better than me.”

  “No, I don’t. I know I’m better than you. Get out of my shop or I’ll have Sheriff MacKade throw you in jail for harassment.”

  “A woman belongs to her husband.” He crashed his fist on the counter, hard enough to have a crack splitting through the glass. “You tell her to get her skinny butt home, if she knows what’s good for her. And what’s good for you.”

  Fear trembled in Regan’s throat, and was swallowed, hard. As if it were a talisman, she closed a hand around the crayon in her pocket. “Is that a threat?”