The Fall of Shane MacKade (12 page)

Because he'd never found it otherwise, he believed lovemaking was meant to be a pleasure. But with Rebecca, it had gone beyond pleasure, into delirium. He was looking forward to taking the trip again.

There she was at the table, working away, her glasses perched, long fingers flying. He started to grin, and a spear pierced his heart, painfully, when she looked up and smiled at him, her face lighting up.

“You really are beautiful,” he murmured, and discovered he was clutching the doorknob for balance. Had a woman, any woman, ever knocked him off his feet before?

She could only stare at him. No one had ever called her beautiful. And at the moment, he looked as though he meant it. Then he grinned, and the dazed look left his eyes.

“Now, if you could only cook.”

“I managed some iced tea.”

“That's a start.” And it might do something to cool his suddenly dry throat. He took out the pitcher, poured a generous glass and gulped. Choked. “Ah, how many bags did you use, Doc?”

“About a dozen.”

He shook his head and hoped his eyes would stay in their sockets. The stuff in his glass was as thick and strong as a trucker's fist. “Well, it ought to get the blood moving.”

She snickered. “Sorry. I'm useless in the kitchen. It probably shouldn't have steeped for three hours, either.”

“Probably not.” Cautiously he set the glass aside. He wouldn't have been overly surprised if it simply marched away under its own power. “We can dilute it. I've got a fifty-gallon drum outside.”

“I could make a sandwich.” When she rose, he held up a hand.

“Thanks anyway. I'll do it. No, don't come near me. I smell like the wrong side of a cow.”

Enjoying the little bubbles of anticipation bursting in her blood, she traced her tongue over her lips. “You're awfully dirty,” she said. She liked it. “And sweaty. Take off your shirt.”

A lightning bolt of desire flashed into his gut. “You're very demanding. I like that in a woman.” Still, he backed up again. “I don't want to touch you. You're all neat and tidy, and my hands are covered with things you wouldn't want on that pretty sweater.”

She looked down at them, then let out a little hum of concern. “You're bleeding.”

“Just scraped a knuckle. Let me wash up.”

“I'll do it.” She took his hand before he could turn on the tap.

She bathed his hand herself, knitting her brows over the scrape. He had the pleasure of standing there while she soaped his hands, rubbed them gently between hers.

He began to fantasize about taking a shower with her. Wet bodies, slicked skin, rising steam.

“I guess you'll live. But you should be more careful.” She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. “What
have
you been doing out there?”

He grinned. “Spreading manure.”

Her eyes popped wide. “With your hands?”

The intriguing little fantasy burst. He laughed so hard he thought his ribs would crack. “No, darling, we've got technology now, even out here in the boonies.”

“Glad to hear it.” She turned away, intent on helping him with his lunch, and bumped solidly into the refrigerator. “Damn it. I haven't done that in ages.” Feeling ridiculous, she snatched her glasses off. “I used to forget I was wearing them and walk into things all the time.”

He sent her a curious look. “I didn't think you forgot anything.”

“Only about myself. Ask me about anything else, and I'll give you chapter and verse.”

“Wool.”

She turned and straightened, a platter of ham in her hand from the refrigerator. “Excuse me?”

“Maybe I'm thinking about buying some sheep. Tell me about wool.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

He shrugged, reached for the bread. “I guess I found something you don't know about.”

He didn't have to look to know her eyes had narrowed. He could hear it in her voice.

“An animal fiber forming the protective covering or fleece of sheep or other hairy mammals such as goats or camels. Wool is mainly obtained by shearing fleece from living animals. Cleaning removes the fatty substance, which is purified to make lanolin. Shall I go on?”

Amused, impressed, he studied her. “That's very cool. Where were you when I was in high school?”

“In a snooty boarding school in Switzerland, if my calculations are accurate.”

“I imagine they always are,” he murmured. The tone, the cool defense in it, told him this was something to be explored later. She spoke of boarding school the way he had once spoken of liver—as something highly detested.

“It's not just remembering facts,” he said casually. “You obviously apply them. So how did you decide what to study?”

It was making her uncomfortable; she couldn't help it. However shallow and politically incorrect it might be, she preferred his interest in her body over his interest in her brain. “Initially, I was told what to study. My parents had a very specific blueprint for my education. Later, I concentrated on what held interest for me.”

Her voice was cool and clipped, but he wasn't quite ready to let the subject go. He turned to get out the mustard. “You must have wowed your teachers.”

She remained where she was, still holding the platter. “They were selected for their credentials in working with gifted children.”

“My parents were relieved if I didn't get hauled down to the principal's office for a full week. Yours must have been thrilled with you.”

“They're both very successful in their own right,” she said flatly. “My father is one of the top vascular surgeons in the country, and my mother is a respected industrial chemist. They expected me to excel. Any other questions?”

Swampy ground again, he mused, sorry that he'd put that note of formality in her voice. He turned, looked at her, and was equally sorry he'd put that distant look in her eye. Just now, he wanted to see her smile again.

“Just one,” he said. “What have you got on under that shirt?”

Relief loosened the muscles that had knotted her shoulders. “The usual.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She did smile as she set the platter on the table. “Maybe you'd like to see for yourself.”

“That's just what I had in mind.”

She nipped around the far side of the table as he came forward. “After lunch.”

His lips curved; his eyes danced. He looked wonderfully dangerous. “I don't want lunch.”

He circled; so did she. “You have to keep your strength up, to spread that manure.”

“I had a big breakfast. A big, late breakfast.” He feinted, nearly snatched her, but she slipped away, laughing. “You're quick.”

“I know.”

He faked again and, as she pivoted, snaked out an arm to wrap around her waist. When he lifted her off her feet, she squealed with laughter. “I'm quicker.”

It was dizzying to realize he could hold her suspended with one arm. Dizzying and exciting. “I let you catch me.”

“Bull.” He kissed her, hard, then tucked his other arm around her to swing her in three quick circles.

“You're making me drunk again.” Laughing, she clutched at his shoulders and enjoyed the ride.

“Good.” He swung her again, again, caught up in the joy of it, the joy of her. The sound of her laugh was thrilling, familiar. The feel of her body against his, suddenly as vital as home…

 

“Put me down, you fool. John.” Her head rolled back; the room spun. “Supper's burning.”

She could smell it. The bottom of the pot would be
scorched for certain. She could smell him—sweat and smoke and animal. Beneath her apron, the baby she carried quickened….

 

Panic and something else clogged Shane's throat. He set her on her feet, still supporting her as he shook her. “Rebecca. What is it?”

“It's happening again. Like last night.” Her face was sheet-white, and her voice became faint and dreamy…. “There's stew in the pot, burning in the pot. Did you bring in more wood for the fire?” With her eyes unfocused, she pressed a hand to her stomach. “This one's a girl. Johnnie's going to have a sister….”

Then, as if a light had been switched on, her eyes cleared, sharpened. “My equipment.” She broke away and raced to the living room. “Look at this! Just look. It's registering higher than last night. There's so much energy. I can feel it on my skin—like electric shocks.”

While he watched, saying nothing, she began to mutter to herself, checking dials, gauges, monitors. All business now, her movements brisk and precise, she turned to her recorder.

“Event commenced at thirteen-twenty and five seconds. Sharp sensory stimuli. Visual, olfactory.” As if distracted, she ran a hand over her hair, then competently recounted everything that had happened.

“An overall sense of well-being,” she finished, “of happiness. Love. It's possible sexual anticipation was caused by previous stimulation rather than the event, or was enhanced by previous stimulation.” She tapped her finger on her lips, thinking. “End of event thirteen-twenty-four and fifty-eight seconds, which at four minutes and fifty-three seconds makes it the longest to date.”

On a long breath, she set the recorder down. “And the strongest,” she murmured.

“Previous stimulation?”

She pulled herself out of her thoughts and turned to Shane. “I'm sorry, what?”

“Is that what you're calling it? Previous stimulation?”

“Technically.” She dragged her hands through her hair again until it stood up in spikes. “That was incredible, absolutely incredible. Last night I was sitting in the kitchen, and I could see it change. It was smaller, and there was a fire in a little stone hearth, pies on the windowsill. There was a baby crying, Shane.” Excitement sparkled in her eyes and seemed to shimmer in the air around her. “I got the baby crying on tape. I recorded it.”

Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she laughed. “I could hardly believe it myself, even after I played it back half a dozen times. That's why I got out the wine. A little toast that turned into several big ones. I meant to tell you this morning, but we got distracted.”

“Distracted.”

Finally, the edgy tone of his voice, the flat look in his eyes, pierced through her exhilaration. The glow faded from her cheeks. He was pale, his face set, his eyes hard.

“Why are you angry?”

“Because this is nonsense,” he tossed back, preferring anger to the heady sensation of fear. “And because I don't like being called a distraction, or a previous stimulation.”

“That's not it at all.”

“Don't you start on me. Keep your degrees in your pocket, and don't poke in my brain.”

“You're not angry,” she said quietly. “You're scared.”

For an instant, his eyes were lethal. “I've got things to do.”

She darted after him, grabbing his arm when they got to the kitchen. “You said you'd help me, Shane. You gave me your word on it.”

“Leave it alone.” Toughly he shook her off. “Leave me alone.”

She simply stepped into his path and blocked it. Another man, she knew, might have mowed her down. And Shane had the temper for it, as well as the strength. But he also had what made him Shane. “You had the same experience I did, felt the same things I did. I can see it in your face.”

He reached out, picked her up and set her aside. “I said leave it alone.”

“Who were John and Sarah?” She let out a breath when he stopped on his way to the door. “Her name was Sarah. Who were they, Shane? Who were we a few minutes ago?”

“I'm exactly the same person now as I was a few minutes ago. And so are you. If you're going to keep playing this game, leave me out of it.”

“John and Sarah,” she said again. “Was it John and Sarah MacKade? Would I find their names in your family Bible?”

He whirled back, stalked to the refrigerator. With one rigid hand, he jerked open the door, took out a beer. After twisting the top off violently, he tossed it aside and drank half the bottle down.

“My great-grandparents.”

She let out a long, long sigh. “I see. And they lived here, in this house. They were the ones who tried to save the young Union soldier the day of the battle.”

“So the story goes.”

“What happened here just now—you've experienced similar things before.”

He caught her quick look toward her computer and set his teeth. “No. No way in hell you're going to use me like some damn lab rat.”

“All right, I'm sorry. This upsets you.” She walked to him to run her hands up his arms. “But I think you need
to know that for several years now I've had dreams. And now I know they were about this house, and those people.”

He lowered his beer, but said nothing. Rebecca waited a moment, wondering if this kind of intimacy was more than either of them was prepared for.

“The dreams were one of the major reasons I began research into this field. They were—are—real, Shane. I've seen this room, this house, as it was more than a hundred years ago. And I've seen John and Sarah. I don't know if you have any old photographs of them to corroborate that. I can certainly describe them to you, at different periods of their lives here together. I can even tell you things she thought, felt, wanted. I think you can do the same with him.”

“No.” He said it flatly, finally. A lie for an honest man, a defense for a brave one. “I don't believe in any of that.”

In frustration, she lifted her hands. “Do you think I'm making it up, that I'm making all of what just happened up?”

“I think you've got too many things crowded in that major-league brain of yours.” To ease his hot throat, he took another swig of beer. “And I prefer reality.”

She could have told him he was in denial, but that would only have made him angry—and possibly more resistant. Patience, she decided, patience and understanding, would be more productive all around.