Kitabı oku: «The Return Of Rafe Mackade», sayfa 2

“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.

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.

He was, she thought with a scowl, late.

Regan looked around, stomped her feet for warmth and glanced at her watch. The man could hardly expect her to stand out in the cold and the wind and wait. Ten minutes, tops, she told herself. Then she would leave him a note, a very firm note on the value of keeping appointments, and leave.

But it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek in the window.

Maneuvering carefully, she inched her way up the steps, avoided broken planks. There should be wisteria or morning glories climbing up the side arbor, she mused, and for a moment she almost believed she could catch the faint, sweet scent of spring.

She caught herself moving to the door, closing her hand over the knob before she realized that had been her intention all along. Surely it was locked, she thought. Even small towns weren’t immune to vandals. But even as she thought it, the knob turned freely in her hand.

It was only sensible to go in, out of the wind, begin to site the job. Yet she pulled her hand back with a jerk. Her breath was coming in gasps, shockingly loud on the silent air. Inside her neat leather gloves, her hands were icy and trembling.

Out of breath from the climb, she told herself. Shivering from the wind. That was all. But the fear was on her like a cat, hissing through her blood.

Embarrassed, she looked uneasily around. There was no one to see her ridiculous reaction. Only snow and trees.

She took a deep breath, laughed at herself, and opened the door.

It creaked, of course. That was to be expected. The wide main hall gave her such a rush of pleasure, she forgot everything else. Closing the door, she leaned back against it and sighed.

There was dust and mold, damp patches on the walls, baseboards ruined by gnawing mice, spiderwebs draped like filthy gauze. She saw rich, deep green paint, creamy ivory trim, the buff and shine of waxed pine floors under her feet, a runner blooming with cabbage roses.

And there, she thought a hunt table, with a Dresden bowl spilling more roses, flanked by silver candlesticks. A little walnut hall chair with a pierced back, a hammered brass umbrella stand, a gilded mirror.

How it had been, and could be, spun through her mind, and she didn’t feel the cold that sent her breath ahead of her in clouds as she wandered.

In the parlor, she marveled over the Adam fireplace. The marble was filthy, but undamaged. She had twin vases in the shop that would be perfect for the mantel. And a needlepoint footstool that was meant for weary feet in front of this very hearth.

Delighted, she pulled out her notebook and got to work.

Cobwebs dragged through her hair, dirt smudged her cheek, dust covered her boots, as she measured and plotted. She was in heaven. Her mood was so high that when she heard the footsteps, she turned with a smile instead of a complaint.

“It’s wonderful. I can hardly—” She was talking to thin air.

Frowning, she walked out of the parlor and into the hall. She started to call out, then noted that there were no footprints in the dust but her own.

Imagining things, she told herself, and shuddered. Big, empty houses made all sorts of noises. Settling wood, wind against the windows…rodents, she thought with a grimace. She wasn’t afraid of mice or spiders or creaking boards.

But when the floor groaned over her head, she couldn’t muffle the shriek. Her heart flew straight to her throat and beat like a bird’s. Before she’d managed to compose herself again, she heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing.

She was across the hall in a dash, fumbling for the knob when it hit her.

Rafe MacKade.

Oh, he thought he was clever, she thought furiously. Sneaking into the house ahead of her, creeping through the back, she imagined. He was up there right now, doubled over at the idea of her bolting from the house like some idiotic Gothic heroine with a heaving bosom.

Not on your life, she thought determinedly, and straightened her shoulders. She thrust her chin up and marched to the curving stairs.

“You’re not funny, MacKade,” she called out. “Now, if you’ve finished your pathetic little joke, I’d like to get some work done.”

When the cold spot hit her, she was too shocked to move. The hand she’d gripped on the rail went numb with it, her face froze with it. There, halfway up the graceful sweep of stairs, she swayed. It was her own whimper that broke her free. She was up to the first landing in four effortless strides.

A draft, she told herself, cursing her own sobbing breaths. Just a nasty draft.

“Rafe.” Her voice broke, infuriating her. Biting her lip, she stared down the long hallway, at the closed and secretive doors that lined it. “Rafe,” she said again, and struggled to put irritation in her voice, rather than nerves. “I have a schedule to keep, even if you don’t, so can we get on with this?”

The sound of wood scraping wood, the violent slam of a door, and a woman’s heartbroken weeping. Pride forgotten, Regan flew down the stairs. She’d nearly reached the bottom when she heard the shot.

Then the door she’d rushed to meet groaned slowly open.

The room whirled once, twice, then vanished.

“Come on, darling, snap out of it.”

Regan turned her head, moaned, shivered.

“All the way out, pal. Open those big blue eyes for me.”

The voice was so coaxing, she did. And found herself looking into Rafe’s.

“It wasn’t funny.”

A bit dizzy with relief, he smiled and stroked her cheek. “What wasn’t?”

“Hiding upstairs to scare me.” She blinked to bring the world back into sharp focus and discovered she was cradled on his lap on the window seat in the parlor. “Let me up.”

“I don’t think so. You’re still a little shaky on your pins. Just relax a minute.” He shifted her expertly so that her head rested in the crook of his arm.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re white as a sheet. If I had a flask, I’d pour some brandy into you. Never saw a woman faint as gracefully, though. You sort of drifted down, gave me a chance to catch you before your head knocked against the floor.”

“If you expect me to thank you, forget it.” She shoved, found him unmovable. “It’s your fault.”

“Thanks. It’s flattering to think the sight of me has a woman dropping at my feet. There.” He traced a finger down her cheek again. “That brought some color back.”

“If this is the way you do business, you can take your job and—” She ground her teeth. “Let me up.”

“Let’s try this.” Lifting her, he plopped her down on the seat beside him. “Hands off,” he added, lifting his. “Now why don’t you tell me why you’re ticked off at me?”

Pouting, she brushed at her smudged trousers. “You know very well.”

“All I know is, I walked in the door and saw you doing a swan dive.”

“I’ve never fainted in my life.” And she was thoroughly mortified that she had done so now—in front of him. “If you want me to work on this house, scaring me into unconsciousness isn’t the way to do it.”

He studied her, reached into his pocket for the cigarettes he’d given up exactly eight days before. “How did I scare you?”

“By walking around upstairs, opening and closing doors, making those ridiculous noises.”

“Maybe I should start off by telling you I got held up at the farm. I didn’t leave until fifteen minutes ago.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t blame you.” If he wasn’t going to smoke, he had to move. Rising, he strolled over to the hearth. He thought he caught a whiff of smoke, as from a fire that had recently died. “Shane was there—and so was Cy Martin. He’s mayor now.”

“I know who Cy Martin is,” she said testily.

“You should have known him in high school,” Rafe mused. “He was a complete ass. Anyway, Cy dropped by to see if Shane could plow his lane. He was still there when I left. Fifteen minutes ago. I borrowed Shane’s four-wheel to make the hill. Parked it and came to the door in time to see your eyes roll back in your head.”

He walked back to her, stripped off his coat and tucked it over her legs. “By the way, how’d you get in?”

“I—” She stared at him, swallowed. “I opened the door.”

“It was locked.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Lifting a brow, he jingled the keys in his pocket. “That’s interesting.”

“You’re not lying,” she said after a moment.

“Not this time. Why don’t you tell me what you heard?”

“Footsteps. But there was no one there.” To warm them, she tucked her hands under his coat. “Boards creaking upstairs. I started up. It was cold, bitterly cold, and it frightened me, so I went to the landing.”

“You were scared, so you went up instead of out?”

“I thought you were up there. I was going to yell at you.” Her smile was weak, but it was there. “I was furious that you’d managed to make me jump. Then I looked down the hallway. I guess I knew you weren’t there. I heard wood scrape, and a door slam hard and someone crying. Then I bolted.”

He sat beside her again, put his arm around her shoulders in a friendly squeeze. “Who wouldn’t?”

“A shot,” she remembered. “I was almost down the stairs when I heard a gunshot. It made my ears ring. Then the door opened, and lights-out.”

“I shouldn’t have been late.” Unexpectedly, he leaned over and gave her a quick, casual kiss. “Sorry.”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“The thing is, some people feel things in this place, some don’t. You struck me as the cool, practical type.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Oh, really?”

“Single-minded,” he added with a grin. “It seems you have more imagination than I expected. Feeling better now?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you don’t want to sit on my lap again?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

With his eyes on hers, he brushed a cobweb from her hair. “Want to get out of here?”

“Absolutely.”

He picked up his coat. “I’d like to take you somewhere.”

“That isn’t necessary. I said I was…” She stood and, as he held his ground, bumped into his chest. “Fine,” she managed.

“Business, darling.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, flicked a finger over the square-cut aquamarine at the lobe. “For the moment. I think we can find someplace a little warmer and more hospitable to hash out the details.”

That was reasonable, she decided. Perfectly sensible. “All right.”

She picked up her briefcase and walked ahead of him to the door.

“Regan?”

“Yes?”

“Your face is dirty.” He laughed at the smoldering look she shot at him, then scooped her up in his arms. Even as she stuttered a protest, he carried her over the broken porch. “Got to watch your step,” he told her, setting her on her feet next to a Jeep.

“I make a habit of it.”

“I bet you do,” he murmured as he rounded the hood.

He maneuvered his way down the lane, circled around her car and kept going.

“I thought I’d follow you,” she began.

“Since I don’t think you mean to the ends of the earth, let’s just take one car. I’ll bring you back.”

“From?”

“Home, sweet home, darling.”

In the snow, with the sun glazing the white fields, the MacKade farm was Currier and Ives pretty. A stone house with covered porch, an arched roof on the red barn, weathered outbuildings and a pair of golden dogs, barking and yipping and kicking up snow completed the scene—one that appealed to Regan.

She’d driven past the MacKade place countless times—when the fields were brown and furrowed from the plow, when they were high with hay and corn. She’d even stopped once or twice when Shane was riding his tractor, and thought how completely suited he seemed to be to the land.

She couldn’t picture Rafe MacKade in the same scene.

“You didn’t come back to farm, I imagine.”

“Hell, no. Shane loves it, Devin tolerates it. Jared looks on it as an ongoing enterprise.”

She tilted her head as he parked the Jeep beside his car. “And you?”

“Hate it.”

“No ties to the land?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I hated farming.” Rafe hopped out of the Jeep, clucking at the leaping golden retrievers. Before Regan could step down into the foot-deep snow, he’d plucked her up.

“I wish you’d stop that. I’m perfectly capable of walking through a little snow.”

“City boots. Pretty enough, though,” he commented as he carried her onto the porch. “You’ve got little feet. Stay out,” he ordered the dogs. Smoothly he opened the door, elbowed it aside and carried her in.

“Hey, Rafe, what you got there?”

Grinning, Rafe shifted Regan in his arms and winked at Shane. “Got me a female.”

“Good-looking one, too.” Shane tossed the log he held onto the fire, straightened. His eyes, the color of fog over seawater, warmed in appreciation. “Hi there, Regan.”

“Shane.”

“Any coffee hot?” Rafe asked.

“Sure.” Shane kicked the log into place with his boot. “Kitchen’s never closed.”

“Fine. Now get lost.”

“Well, that was certainly rude.” Regan blew her hair out of her eyes as Rafe carted her down the hall and into the kitchen.

“You’re an only child, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Figured.” He dropped her into one of the cane chairs at the kitchen table. “What do you take in your coffee?”

“Nothing—black.”

“What a woman.” He stripped off his coat, tossed it over a peg by the back door, where his brother’s heavy work jacket already hung. From a glass-fronted cupboard, he chose two glossy white mugs. “Want anything to go with it? Some hopeful woman’s always baking Shane cookies. It’s that pretty, innocent face of his.”

“Pretty, maybe. You’re all pretty.” She shrugged out of her coat with a murmur of appreciation for the warmth of the room. “And I’ll pass on the cookies.”

He set a steaming mug in front of her. Out of habit, he turned a chair around and straddled it. “So, are you going to pass on the house, too?”

Biding her time, she studied her coffee, sampled it, and found it superb. “I have a number of pieces in stock that I think you’ll find more than suitable when you’re ready to furnish. I also did some research on the traditional color schemes and fabrics from that era.”

“Is that a yes or a no, Regan?”

“No, I’m not going to pass.” She lifted her gaze to his. “And it’s going to cost you.”

“You’re not worried?”

“I didn’t say that, exactly. But now I know what to expect. I can guarantee I won’t be fainting at your feet a second time.”

“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’Brians. Abigail had just given orders for the boy to be taken upstairs, where she could treat 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.”

“That’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 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.”