LITMIR.BIZ

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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 great-grandfather found him passed out by the smokehouse. My great-grandfather 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

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