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“The babies are fine, too.” He softened at the thought of them. “Growing.”
“Oh, they do grow, don’t they, Sarah Jane? Grow like weeds, before you can stop them. Now you’ve got yourself a nephew and a niece.”
“Two nephews and a niece,” Devin reminded her, adding Jared’s wife Savannah’s son, Bryan.
“Yes, indeed. Give you any ideas about starting your own brood?”
Her eyes were glittering at the thought of getting the inside story on future events. Devin stood his ground. “Being an uncle suits me.” Without a qualm, he tossed his sister-in-law to the wolves. “Regan has little Nate with her at the shop today. I saw him a couple hours ago.”
“Does she?”
“She mentioned Savannah might be coming by, with Layla.”
“Oh, my! Well…” Being able to corner both MacKade women, and their babies, was such a coup, Mrs. Metz nearly trembled at the idea. “Hurry on up there, Sarah Jane. I’ve got errands to run.”
“Hold your horses now, I’ve got ’em for you right here.” Sarah Jane handed over the canvas bag Mrs. Metz had brought, now pregnant with books. Moments later, when Mrs. Metz puffed her way out, Sarah Jane smiled. “You’re a smart boy, Devin. Always were.”
“If Regan finds out I headed her over there, she’ll skin me.” He grinned. “But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Nice seeing you, Miss Sarah Jane.”
“You find that copy of The Red Badge of Courage, Devin MacKade. Books aren’t meant to be wasted.”
He winced as he opened the door. “Yes, ma’am.”
For all her bulk, Mrs. Metz moved quickly. She was already pulling out of the red zone and into the sparse traffic. Congratulating himself on a job well done, Devin told himself he could take a quick ride down to the MacKade Inn.
Just needed to check and make sure there wasn’t anything that needed his attention, he told himself as he walked up the street to his cruiser. It was his brother Rafe’s place, after all. It was his duty to check on it now and again.
The fact that Cassie Dolin managed the bed-and-breakfast and lived on the third floor with her two children had nothing to do with it.
He was just doing his job.
Which was, he thought as he slipped behind the wheel of his car, a huge and ridiculous lie.
He was, however, doing what he had to do. Which was to see her. At least once a day, he simply had to see her. He just had to, no matter how much it hurt, or how careful he had to be. More careful, he reminded himself, now that she was divorced from that bastard who had beaten and abused her for years.
Joe Dolin was in prison, Devin thought with grim satisfaction as he headed out of town. And he would be there for quite some time to come.
As the sheriff, as a friend, as the man who had loved her most of his life, Devin had a duty to see that Cassie and the kids were safe and happy.
And maybe today he could make her smile, all the way to her big gray eyes.
What had been the old Barlow place—and likely would remain that forever in the mind of the town—sat on a hill just on the edge of Antietam. Once it had been the property of a rich man who enjoyed its height, its expensive furnishings, its enviable view. It had stood there while the bloodiest day of the Civil War raged around it. It had stood while a wounded young soldier was murdered on its polished grand staircase. There it had remained while the mistress of the house grieved herself to death. Or so the legend went.
It had stood, falling into decay, disuse, disregard. Its stones had not moved when its porches rotted, when its windows were shattered by rocks heaved by rambunctious children. It had stood, empty but for its ghosts, for decades.
Until Rafe MacKade had returned and claimed it.
It was the house, Devin thought as he turned up its steep lane, that had brought Rafe and Regan together. Together, they had turned that brooding old building into something fine, something lovely.
Where there had once been weeds and thorny brambles, there was now a lush, terraced lawn, vivid with flowers and shrubs. He had helped plant them himself. The MacKades always united when it came to developing dreams—or destroying enemies.
The windows gleamed now, framed by rich blue trim, their overflowing flower boxes filled with sunny-faced pansies. The sturdy double porches were painted that same blue, and offered guests a place to sit and look toward town.
Or, he knew, if they chose to sit around at the back, they’d have a long view of the haunted woods that bordered the inn’s property, his own farm, and the land where his brother Jared, his wife, Savannah, and their children lived.
He didn’t knock, but simply stepped inside. There were no cars in the drive, but for Cassie’s, so he knew the overnight guests had already left, and any others had yet to arrive.
He stood for a moment in the grand hall, with its polished floor, pretty rugs and haunted staircase. There were always flowers. Cassie saw to that. Pretty vases of fragrant blooms, little bowls and dishes with potpourri that he knew she made herself.
So, to him, the house always smelled like Cassie.
He wasn’t sure where he would find her—in the kitchen, in the yard, in her apartment on the third floor. He moved through the house from front to rear, knowing that if he didn’t find her in the first two, he would climb the outside stairs and knock on the door of her private quarters.
It was hard to believe that less than two years before, the house had been full of dust and cobwebs, all cracked plaster and chipped molding. Now floors and walls gleamed, windows shone, wood was polished to a high sheen. Antique tables were topped with what Devin always thought of as dust collectors, but they were charming.
Rafe and Regan had done something here, built something here. Just as they were doing in the old house they’d bought for themselves outside of town.
He envied his brother that, not just the love, but the partnership of a woman, the home and family they had created together.
Shane had the farm. Technically, it belonged to all four of them, but it was Shane’s, heart and soul. Rafe had Regan and their baby, the inn, and the lovely old stone-and-cedar house they were making their own. Jared had Savannah, the children, and the cabin.
And as for himself? Devin mused. Well, he had the town, he supposed. And a cot in the back room of the sheriff’s office.
The kitchen was empty. Though it was as neat as a model on display, it held all the warmth kitchens were meant to. Slate-blue tiles and creamy white appliances were a backdrop for little things—fresh fruit in an old stoneware bowl, a sassy cookie jar in the shape of a smiling cat that he knew would be full of fresh, home-baked cookies, long, tapered jars that held the herbed vinegars Cassie made, a row of African violets in bloom on the wide windowsill over the sink.
And then, through the window, he saw her, taking billowing sheets from the line where they’d dried in the warm breeze.
His heart turned over in his chest. He could handle that, had handled it for too many years to count. She looked happy, was all he could think. Her lips were curved a little, her gray eyes dreamy. The breeze that fluttered the sheets teased her hair, sending the honeycomb curls dancing around her face, along her neck and throat.
Like the kitchen, she was neat, tidy, efficient without being cold. She wore a white cotton blouse tucked into navy slacks. Just lately, she’d started to add little pieces of jewelry. No rings. Her divorce had been final for a full year now, and he knew the exact day she’d taken off her wedding ring.
But she wore small gold hoops in her ears and a touch of color on her mouth. She’d stopped wearing makeup and jewelry shortly after her marriage. Devin remembered that, too.
Just as he remembered the first time he’d been called out to the house she rented with Joe, answering a complaint from the neighbors. He remembered the fear in her eyes when she’d come to the door, the marks on her face, the way her voice had hitched and trembled when she told him there wasn’t any trouble, there was no trouble at all. She’d slipped and fallen, that was all.
Yes, he remembered that. And his frustration, the hideous sense of impotence that first time, and all the other times he’d had to confront her, to ask her, to quietly offer her alternatives that were just as quietly refused.
There’d been nothing he could do as sheriff to stop what happened inside that house, until the day she finally came into his office—bruised, beaten, terrified—to fill out a complaint.
There was little he could do now as sheriff but offer her friendship.
So he walked out the rear door, a casual smile on his face. “Hey, Cass.”
Alarm came into her eyes first, darkening that lovely gray. He was used to it, though it pained him immeasurably to know that she thought of him as the sheriff first—as authority, as the bearer of trouble—before she thought of him as an old friend. But the smile came back more quickly than it once had, chasing the tension away from those delicate features.
“Hello, Devin.” Calmly, because she was teaching herself to be calm, she hooked a clothespin back on the line and began folding the sheet.
“Need some help?”
Before she could refuse, he was plucking clothespins. She simply couldn’t get used to a man doing such things. Especially such a man. He was so…big. Broad shoulders, big hands, long legs. And gorgeous, of course. All the MacKades were.
There was something so male about Devin, she couldn’t really explain it. Even as he competently took linen from the line, folded it into the basket, he was all man. Unlike his deputies, he didn’t wear the khaki uniform of his office, just jeans and a faded blue shirt rolled up to the elbows. There were muscles there, she’d seen them. And she had reason to be wary of a man’s strength. But despite his big hands, his big shoulders, he’d never been anything but gentle. She tried to remember that as he brushed against her, reaching for another clothespin.
Still, she stepped away, kept distance between them. He smiled at her, and she tried to think of something to say. It would be easier if everything about him wasn’t so…definite, she supposed. So vivid. His hair was as black as midnight, and curled over the frayed collar of his shirt. His eyes were as green as moss. Even the bones in his face were defined and impossible to ignore, the way they formed hollows and planes. His mouth was firm, and that dimple beside it constantly drew the eye.
He even smelled like a man. Plain soap, plain sweat. He’d never been anything but kind to her, and he’d been a part of her life forever, it seemed. But whenever it was just the two of them, she found herself as nervous as a cat faced with a bulldog.
“Too nice a day to toss these in the dryer.”
“What?” She blinked, then cursed herself. “Oh, yes. I like hanging the linens out, when there’s time. We had two guests overnight, and we’re expecting another couple later today. We’re booked solid for the Memorial Day weekend.”
“You’ll be busy.”
“Yes. It’s hardly like work, though, really.”
He watched her smooth sheets into the basket. “Not like waiting tables at Ed’s.”
“No.” She smiled a little, then struggled with guilt. “Ed was wonderful to me. She was great to work for.”
“She’s still ticked at Rafe for stealing you.” Noting the distress that leaped into her eyes, Devin shook his head. “I’m only kidding, Cassie. You know she was happy you took this job. How are the kids?”
“They’re fine. Wonderful.” Before she could pick up the basket of linens herself, Devin had it tucked to his hip, leaving her nothing to do with her hands. “They’ll be home soon, from school.”
“No Little League practice today?”
“No.” She headed toward the kitchen, but he opened the door before she could, and waited for her to go in ahead of him. “Connor’s thrilled he made the team.”
“He’s the best pitcher they’ve got.”
“Everyone says so.” Automatically, she went to the stove to make coffee. “It’s so strange. He was never interested in sports before…well, before,” she finished lamely. “Bryan’s been wonderful for him.”
“My nephew’s a hell of a kid.”
There was such simple and honest pride in the statement that Cassie turned around to study him. “You think of him that way, really? I mean, even though there’s no blood between you?”
“When Jared married Savannah, it made Bryan his son. That makes him my nephew. Family isn’t just blood.”
“No, and sometimes blood kin is more trouble than not.”
“Your mother’s hassling you again.”
She only moved her shoulder and turned back to finish the coffee. “She’s just set in her ways.” Shifting, she reached into one of the glass-fronted cabinets for a cup and a small plate. When Devin’s hand curled over her shoulder, she jerked and nearly dropped the stoneware to the tiles.
He started to step back, then changed his mind. Instead, he turned her around so that they were face-to-face, and kept both of his hands on her shoulders. “She’s still giving you a hard time about Joe?”
She had to swallow, but couldn’t quite get her throat muscles to work. His hands were firm, but they weren’t hurting. There was annoyance in his eyes, but no meanness. She ordered herself to be calm, not to lower her gaze.
“She doesn’t believe in divorce.”
“Does she believe in wife-beating?”
Now she did wince, did lower her gaze. Devin cursed himself and lowered his hands to his sides. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s all right. I don’t expect you to understand. I can’t understand myself anymore.” Relieved that he’d stepped back, she turned to the cookie jar and filled the plate with chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies she’d baked that morning. “It doesn’t seem to matter that I’m happy, that the kids are happy. It doesn’t matter that the law says what Joe did to me was wrong. That he attacked Regan. It only matters that I broke my vows and divorced him.”
“Are you happy, Cassie?”
“I’d stopped believing I could be, or even that I should be.” She set the plate on the table, went to pour him coffee. “Yes, I am happy.”
“Are you going to make me drink this coffee by myself?”
She stared at him a minute. It was still such a novel concept, the idea that she could sit down in the middle of the day with a friend. Taking matters into his own hands, he got out a second cup.
“So tell me…” After pouring her coffee, he held out a chair for her. “How do the tourists feel about spending the night in a haunted house?”
“Some of them are disappointed when they don’t see or hear anything.” Cassie lifted her cup and tried not to feel guilty that she wasn’t doing some chore. “Rafe was clever to publicize the inn as haunted.”
“He’s always been clever.”
“Yes, he has. A few people are nervous when they come down for breakfast, but most of them are…well, excited, I guess. They’ll have heard doors slamming or voices, or have heard her crying.”
“Abigail Barlow. The tragic mistress of the house, the compassionate Southern belle married to the Yankee murderer.”
“Yes. They’ll hear her, or smell her roses, or just feel something. We’ve only had one couple leave in the middle of the night.” For once, her smile was quick, and just a little wicked. “They were both terrified.”
“But you’re not. It doesn’t bother you to have ghosts wandering?”
“No.”
He cocked his head. “Have you heard her? Abigail?”
“Oh, yes, often. Not just at night. Sometimes when I’m alone here, making beds or tidying up, I’ll hear her. Or feel her.”
“And it doesn’t spook you?”
“No, I feel…” She started to say “connected,” but thought it would sound foolish. “Sorry for her. She was trapped and unhappy, married to a man who despised her, in love with someone else—”
“In love with someone else?” Devin asked, interrupting her. “I’ve never heard that.”
Baffled, Cassie set her cup down with a little clink. “I haven’t, either. I just—” Know it, she realized. “I suppose I added it in. It’s more romantic. Emma calls her the lady. She likes to go into the bridal suite.”
“And Connor?”
“It’s a big adventure for him. All of it. They love it here. Once when Bryan was spending the night, I caught the three of them sneaking down to the guest floor. They wanted to go ghost-hunting.”
“My brothers and I spent the night here when we were kids.”
“Did you? Of course you did,” she said before he could comment. “The MacKades and an empty, derelict, haunted house. They belong together. Did you go ghost-hunting?”
