The Fall of Shane MacKade (14 page)

“All right—but Devin was up half the night. Ally's teething.”

“No handicapping,” Savannah declared. “Straight odds. You want to take Shane, Rebecca? Seems fair.”

Totally baffled, she stared at the women. “Why, you're as bad as they are.” She straightened her shoulders. “I'm going to put a stop to this, right now.”

As Rebecca marched out, Savannah slanted a look at Regan. “To borrow Bryan's phrase, she's really stuck on him, isn't she?”

“I'm afraid so. It worries me.”

“I think she's good for him.” Cassie joined them at the door. “I think he's good for her, too. Both of them need someone, even if they haven't figured it out yet.”

The only thing Rebecca figured as she marched toward the hay barn was that these four grown men—brothers, no less—were absolute fools.

By the time she neared the battlefield, she was soaked, her hair plastered to her head like a cap. She shook her head at the sight that met her eyes. The dogs had joined the party, racing around, occasionally leaping onto rolling bodies, then dancing away with delighted barks.

“Stop it.” It halted the dogs, but not the men. Fred and Ethel sat politely, tongues hanging out, while the men continued to pummel each other. “I said stop this, right now.”

Jared made the mistake of glancing over at the order and caught an elbow sharply on the chin. He retaliated by ramming a fist into the nearest belly.

Filled with righteous indignation, Rebecca slapped her hands on her hips. She didn't just hear grunts and curses now. They were laughing. Four baboons, she decided, laughing while they beat on each other.

She had a good carrying voice when she needed one. It had filled many a lecture hall. She used it now. “Stop this nonsense immediately. There are children in the house.”

Devin paused, his filthy hand over Rafe's filthy face. “What?”

“Get up from there, all of you. You should be ashamed.” Eyes hot, she scalded every one of them in turn. “I said get up. You.” Choosing at random, she pointed a righteous finger at Devin. “You're a sheriff, for God's sake. You're supposed to uphold order, and here you are rolling in the mud like a hooligan.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Gamely he swallowed a chuckle and disengaged himself from the tangle of limbs. “Don't know what got into me.”

“And you.” That valiant finger aimed at Jared. “A lawyer. What are you thinking of?”

“Nothing.” He rubbed a hand over his sore jaw before he rose. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Rafe MacKade.” She had the pleasure of seeing him wince. “A businessman, a pillar of the community. Husband and father. What kind of example are you setting for your children?”

“A poor one.” He cleared his throat and got to his feet. He had the feeling that if he let the laugh loose she'd put him on his butt again.

“And you,” she said, with such contempt in her voice that Shane decided to stay put in the mud. “I thought better of you.”

“She sounds just like Mom,” Shane murmured, and had his brothers nodding in respectful agreement. “Hey, I didn't start it.”

“Typical response. Just typical. Is this how you solve your problems, your disagreements?”

He rubbed some of the dirt from his aching face. “Yeah.”

“That's pathetic. You're all pathetic.” Her authoritative look had three men shifting their feet and Shane grinning. “Violence is never the answer. There's no problem that can't be solved with reason and communication.”

“We were communicating,” Shane said, and earned a withering stare.

“I expect you to settle this like rational human beings. If you can't control yourselves, you'll just have to keep your distance from each other.”

“Isn't she something?” Shane said, in a tone that had all three of his brothers studying him. “Have you ever seen anybody like her? Come on and kiss me, sweetie.”

“If you think you can—” She let out a shriek as he swiped out a hand and had her sprawling on top of him. “You idiot. You brainless—”

Then she was flat on her back, covered by wet, hard
male. His mouth, trembling with laughter, swooped onto hers. “She's the prettiest little thing.”

He kissed her again, while mud oozed through her shirt.

“Get off me, you ape!” She bucked, wiggled and gave him a whack.

“Violence.” He was shaking with laughter now, his battered, dirt-streaked face grinning down at her. “You see that?” he called out to his brothers. “She hit me. She isn't solving the problem with reason and communication.”

“I'll communicate, all right.” Her fist grazed his ear before his mouth fused to hers again.

And then he was kissing her senseless. The rain beat down, mud slicked her hands, and there was an audience of fascinated onlookers.

She just didn't care.

As he watched, Rafe found himself grinning. “I'll be damned,” he murmured. “She's hooked him.”

“I think you're right.” Devin rubbed his bloody cheek on his muddy shoulder. “I've never seen him look at any woman that way. Think he knows it?”

“I don't think either of them have a clue.” Delighted, Jared swiped wet hair out of his eyes.

“It's going to be a pleasure.” Rafe hooked his thumbs in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “A real pleasure, to watch Shane MacKade take the fall.”

“Should we go inside and leave them alone?” Devin angled his head as he considered. “Or should we haul him off her and pound on him some more?”

Rafe touched his fingers to his eye. Shane's first punch had been a doozy. He was going to need some of the ice he was sure his wife was readying.

“I wouldn't mind pounding him some more, but she'd just get going again.”

“I don't think we should leave them out here,” Jared decided. “They could catch pneumonia.”

“Not with all that heat.” With a nod, Devin moved forward, and his brothers flanked him. Between them, they took arms and legs and hauled Shane into the air.

“Let go. You've got your own women. This one's mine.” But they had him pinned, so he could only grin foolishly at Rebecca. “Baby, you're a mess. Let's go take a shower.”

Eyes narrowed, Rebecca pulled herself to her feet. She knew she had mud in places best left unmentioned. With as much dignity as possible, she swiped her hands down her ruined slacks and through her filthy hair.

“Have you got him?” she asked calmly.

“Yes, ma'am.” Recognizing the look in her eyes, Devin grinned. “I believe we do.”

Shane knew the look, too, and tried to yank free. “Come on now, honey. Reason, remember? Violence isn't an answer. God, you're so pretty. I could gobble you right up. Why don't we—”

His breath whooshed out when she clenched a fist and rammed it into his stomach.

“Good one,” he said weakly, then coughed and managed to draw another breath. “You show real potential.”

“Idiot.” With a toss of her head, she dripped her way to the house.

“Isn't she something?” Dazed with admiration and pain, Shane stared after her. “Isn't she just something?”

 

In the end, he tried flowers. After the chores were done, supper was eaten and his family had gone their separate ways, Shane calculated he needed a bit of an edge. He went out in the rain, in the dark, and picked wildflowers by flashlight.

When he came back, she was working at her computer. She did glance up; it was one of those cool, killing glances she'd aimed his way all evening.

He put the wet flowers on the table beside her and crouched down. “How mad are you?”

“I'm not angry.” She was embarrassed, and that was worse.

“Want to hit me again?”

“Certainly not.”

“It was just mud.” He took her hand, brought it to his lips. “It looked good on you.”

She would have tugged her hand away, but he was nibbling on it. “I'm trying to work.”

“Wasn't the term you used
avoidance?
” When she turned her head to glare, he picked up the flowers and held them out. “I'm crazy about you.”

She let out a sigh. What was so important about dignity, anyway? “You must be crazy to go out on a rainy night to pick flowers.”

“It always worked with my mother. You reminded me of her today, when you were letting us have it. Of course, she'd have pulled us up by the scruff of the neck, and then lectured. I guess we were smaller then.”

Unable to resist, Rebecca sniffed at the dripping blooms. “She must have been quite a woman.”

“She was the best,” Shane said simply. “They don't come any better. She and my father, well, they were terrific. You always knew somebody was there, ready to give you a kick in the butt or a helping hand, whichever you needed most.” Reaching up, he stroked a finger over her cheek. “I guess that's why I don't really understand loneliness.”

“Big families aren't always a buffer against it. It's the people in them.” She scraped back her chair. “I'd better put these in water.”

She wasn't going to tell him, he realized. She wasn't going to speak of her background, her family, unless he pushed. “Rebecca—”

“What were you fighting with your brothers about?” She asked it quickly, as if she sensed what he'd been going to ask.

“Stuff.” Then he shrugged. If he wanted her to be honest, he had to be, as well. “You.”

Stunned, she turned back. “Me? You're joking.”

“It wasn't a big deal. Rafe said something to tick me off. That's usually all it takes.” He crossed over, bent down to take a slim old bottle out of the bottom cupboard. “They think I'm taking advantage of you.”

“I see.” But she didn't. She took the bottle, filled it, then began to carefully arrange the flowers. “You told them we were intimate.”

“I didn't have to.” He had an idea of what she was imagining. Locker-room talk, snickers, bragging and nudging elbows. “Rebecca, I didn't talk about what's between us.”

And he might have, probably would have, he realized, if it had been another woman. Frowning, he walked over to pour coffee he didn't want.

He didn't go around bragging about his relationships with women. But with his brothers, he would certainly have made some comment about a new interest. He'd kept his feelings about Rebecca to himself.

And it wouldn't have bothered him in the least to have Rafe or any of the others tease or prod about his exploits with a woman. Yet it had with Rebecca. It had hurt and infuriated and—

“What the hell is this?” he muttered.

“I thought it was coffee.”

“What?” He stared into his mug. “No, my mind was wandering. Look, it wasn't a big deal. It's just the way we are. We fight.” He smiled a little. “We used to beat on each other a lot more. I guess we're mellowing.”

“Well.” Thoughtful, she carried the flowers to the table,
set them in the center. “I've never had anyone fight over me before—especially four big, strong men. I suppose I should be flattered.”

“I have feelings for you.” It came right out of his mouth, out of nowhere. Shaken, Shane lifted his mug and gulped down coffee. “I guess I didn't like the idea of somebody thinking I'd pushed you into bed.”

Warmth bloomed inside her. A dangerous warmth, she knew. A loving one. She made certain her voice was light. “We both know you didn't.”

“You haven't exactly been around the block. I wanted you. I went after you.”

“And I put up a hell of a battle, didn't I?”

“Not especially.” But he couldn't smile back at her. “I've been around the block, a lot of times.”

“Are you bragging?”

“No, I—” He caught himself. There was amusement in her eyes, and understanding, and something else he didn't know quite what to do with. “I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'd try to go along with it if you wanted to rethink the situation, or take some time.”

She swallowed a nasty ball of fear. Fear made the voice tremble, and she wanted hers to be steady. “Is that what you want?”

With his eyes on her, he shook his head slowly. “No. Lately I can't seem to want anything but you. Just looking at you makes my mouth water.”

The warmth came back, pulsed, spread. She crossed the room, lifted her arms to twine them around his neck. “Then why don't you do more than look?”

T
here were many places to talk to ghosts. An open mind didn't require a dark night, howling winds or swirling mists. This day was bright and beautiful. Trees touched by early fall were shimmering in golds and russets against a sky so blue it might have been painted on canvas.

There was the sound of birdsong, the smell of grass newly mowed. There were fields crackling with drying cornstalks, and, like a miracle, there was a lone doe standing at the edge of the trees, sniffing the air for human scent.

Rebecca had come to the battlefield alone. Early. She lingered here, near the long depression in the ground known as Bloody Lane. She knew the battle, each charge and retreat, and she knew the horrid stage of it when men had fallen and lain in tangled heaps in that innocent-looking dip in the land.

There was a tower at the end of it, built long after the war. She'd climbed it before, knew the view from the top was glorious. From there, she would be able to see the inn, the woods, some of Shane's fields.

But it didn't call to her as this spot did. Here, on the ground, there was no lofty distance between the living and the dead.

She sat down on the grass, knowing she would feel only a sadness, an intellectual connection with the past. As compelling, as hallowed, as the ground was, she could only be a historian.

Ghosts didn't speak to her, not here. It was the farm that held the key for her. The farm that haunted not only her dreams now, but her waking hours, as well. She accepted that. But what was the connection there? What was the emotional link? A link so strong it had pulled at her for years, over thousands of miles.

That she didn't know.

She knew only that she was in love.

She lifted her face to the breeze, let it run its fingers through her hair as Shane often did. How could she be so content, and yet so unsettled? There were so many questions unanswered, so many feelings unresolved. She wondered if that was the way of love.

Was she still so passive, so undemanding of others, that she could settle so easily for what Shane offered? Or was she still so needy, so starved for love, that she fretted for more when she had enough?

Either way, it proved that a part of her, rooted deep, hadn't changed. Perhaps never would.

He cared for her, he desired her. She was pathetically grateful for that. He'd be shocked to know it, she was certain. She would keep that to herself, just as she kept this outrageous and overwhelming love for him to herself.

She had plenty of practice at restricting and restraining her emotions.

Common sense told her she was being greedy. She wanted all the love, the passion, the endurance, that lived
in that house for herself. She wanted the stability of it, the constancy, and the acceptance.

She was the transient, as she had always been.

But she wouldn't leave empty-handed this time, and that thought soothed. There wouldn't simply be knowledge received and given, there would be emotion—more emotion than she had ever received, more than she'd ever given. That was something to celebrate, and to treasure.

That should be enough for anyone.

Sitting alone, she gazed over the fields, the slope of the hill, the narrow trench. It was so utterly peaceful, so pristine, and its beauty was terrible. She'd studied history enough to know the strategies of war, the social, political and personal motivations behind it. Knew enough, too, to understand the romance that followed it.

The music, the beat of the drum, the wave of flags and the flash of weapons.

She could picture the charge, men running wildly through the smoke of cannon fire, eyes reddened, teeth bared. Their hearts would have pounded, roaring with blood. They had been men, after all. Fear, glory, hope, and a little madness.

That first clash of bayonets. The sun would have flashed on steel. Had the crows waited, nasty and patient, drawn by the thunder of swords and boom of mortar?

North or South, they would have raced toward death. And the generals on their horses, playing chess with lives, how had they felt, what had they thought, as they watched the carnage here? The bodies piling up, blue and gray united by the stain of blood. The miserable cries of the wounded, the screams of the dying.

She sighed again. War was loss, she thought, no matter what was gained.

Always there would be a John and Sarah, the essence of the grieving parents for dead sons. War stole families,
she reflected. Cut pieces out of hearts that could never truly heal.

So we build monuments to the wars, and the dead sons. We tell ourselves not to forget. John and Sarah never forgot. And love endured.

It made her smile as she rose. The grass was green here, and the air quiet. She decided that the world needed places of loss to help them remember what they had.

She went home to write.

 

It was nearly time for evening milking, Rebecca realized, and she laughed at herself. How odd that she would begin to gauge the day by farm chores. With a shake of her head, she hammered out the next sentence.

Why had she spent all her life writing technical papers? she wondered. This flow of emotion and thought and imagination was so liberating. Damned if she didn't think she might try her hand at a novel eventually.

Chuckling at the thought, she tucked it into the back of her mind. There were plenty of people who would consider her present topic, the supernatural, straight fiction.

When the phone rang, she let the next thought roll around in her head as she rose to answer. Absently she reached for the coffeepot and the receiver at the same time.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Rebecca Knight, please.”

She stiffened, then ordered herself to relax. Why should it surprise, even annoy her, that her voice hadn't been recognized? “This is Rebecca. Hello, Mother.”

“Rebecca, I had to go through your service to track you down. I assumed you were in New York.”

“No, I'm not.” She heard the door open and worked up a casual, if stiff, smile for Shane. “I'm spending some time in Maryland.”

“A lecture tour? I hadn't heard.”

“No, I'm not on a lecture tour.” She could easily visualize her mother flipping through her Filofax to note it down. “I'm…doing research.”

“In Maryland. On what subject?”

“The Battle of Antietam.”

“Ah. That's been covered very adequately, don't you think?”

“I'm coming from a different angle.” She made way so that Shane could get to the coffee, but didn't look at him. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Actually, there's something I can do for you. Where in the world are you staying, Rebecca? It's very inconvenient that you didn't leave word. I need a fax number.”

“I'm staying with a friend.” She turned her back, avoiding Shane's eyes. “I don't have a fax here.”

“Surely you have access to one. You're not in the Dark Ages.”

Now she did glance at Shane. He smelled of the earth, and carried a good bit of it on his person. “Not exactly,” Rebecca said dryly. “I'll have to check on that and get back to you. Are you in Connecticut?”

“Your father is. I'm at a seminar in Atlanta. You can reach me through the Ritz-Carlton.”

“All right. Can I ask what this is about?”

“It's quite an opportunity. The head of the history department at my alma mater is retiring at the end of this semester. With your credentials and my connections, I don't see that you'd have any difficulty getting the position. There's talk of endowing a chair. It would be quite a coup, given your age. At twenty-four, I believe you'd be the youngest department head ever placed there.”

“I was twenty-five last March, Mother.”

“Nonetheless, it would still be a coup.”

“Yes, I'm sure it would, but I'm not interested.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Rebecca.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. That tone, that quick, dismissive tone, had whipped her along the path chosen for her all her life. It took a hard, wrenching effort for her to stand her ground.

“I'm afraid I'll have to be.” And where had that cold, sarcastic voice come from? Rebecca wondered. “I don't want to teach, Mother.”

“Teaching is the least of it, Rebecca, as you're quite aware. The position itself—”

“I don't want to be the dean of history, or the history chair, anywhere.” She had to interrupt quickly, recognizing the old, familiar roiling in her stomach. “But thank you for thinking of me.”

“I'm not happy with your attitude, Rebecca. You are obligated to use your gifts, and the opportunities your father and I have provided for you. An advancement of this stature will make your career.”

“Whose career?”

There was a sigh. Long-suffering. “Obviously you're in a difficult mood, and I can see that gratitude won't be forthcoming. I'll depend on your good sense, however. Get me your fax number as soon as possible. I'm a bit rushed at the moment, but I'll expect to hear from you by the morning. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Mother.”

She hung up and smiled at Shane brightly, over-brightly, while the muscles in her stomach clenched and knotted. “Well, cows all bedded down?”

“Sit down, Rebecca.”

“I'm starving.” Terrified he would touch her and she would fall apart, she moved away. “I think there's still some of that chocolate cake one of your harem dropped off.”

“Rebecca.” His voice was quiet, and his eyes were troubled. She kept pressing a hand to her stomach, he noted, as if something inside hurt. “I think you should sit down.”

“I can make more coffee. I've figured this thing out.” She started to reach for the canister, but he stepped forward, took her shoulders gently. “What?” The word snapped out, her body jerking.

Careful, he thought, disturbed by the brittle look in her eyes. “So, you're from Connecticut.”

She hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders under his hands. “My parents live there.”

“That's where you grew up.”

“Not exactly. I lived there when I wasn't in school. You don't want to drink that,” she added, glancing at the pot. “It's been sitting for hours. I'd said I'd make fresh.”

“What did she say to upset you, baby?”

“Nothing. It's nothing.” But he kept holding her, kept looking at her with boundless patience and concern. “She wants me to campaign for a position at her college. It's a very prestigious position. I'm not interested. It's a divergence of opinion, and she's not used to me having an opinion.”

It was simple enough, he thought, or it should have been. But there was nothing simple about her reaction. “You told her no.”

“It doesn't particularly matter. It never did, on the rare occasions I actually got up the courage to say it. I expect my father will be calling shortly, to remind me of my obligations and responsibilities.”

“Who are you obligated to?”

“To them, to education, to posterity. I have a responsibility to use my talents, and to reap the rewards. It's just a variation on ‘Publish or perish,' the battle cry of academia. Let's forget it.”

He let her move away, because she seemed to need it. Her hands were steady as she measured out coffee, and her face was blank while she filled the pot.

Then, with a shudder, she set everything down. “I can't believe I'm doing this. This is how I got ulcers.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ulcers, migraines, insomnia, and a near miss with a breakdown. Isn't this why I studied psychiatry?”

She wasn't talking to him, Shane realized, so he said nothing. But he was beginning to burn inside.

“Repression isn't the answer. I know that. It's one of the things that punish the body for what's closed up in the mind. It's always so much easier to analyze someone else, always much harder to see things when it's yourself.”

Her rigid hands raked through her hair. “I'm not going to be directed this time. I'm not going to be hammered at until I give. The hell with them. The hell with them. They never did anything but make me into a miserable, neurotic freak.”

She whirled back to him. Her face wasn't blank now, it was livid. “Do you know what it's like to be four years old and expected to read Dante in Italian, and discuss it? To sit at the dinner table, when you weren't shuffled off somewhere else, and be quizzed on physics or converse about the Renaissance—in French, naturally?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Why don't you tell me what it's like?”

“It's horrible. Horrible. To have your own parents regard you as a
thing,
a rousing success of genetics. I hated it, but what choice do you have when you're a child? You do what's expected of you. Then you get in the habit and you keep right on doing it even when you're not a child. One day you look in the mirror, and you see something so pathetic it hurts to look. And you wonder, why not just end it?”

The anger inside him turned to dry-mouthed shock. “Rebecca.”

Impatient, she shook her head. “Maybe you fantasize about it, even obsess. And you're clever, you're so damned clever that you can find the most effective, the most painless way, to accomplish it. And, of course, the most tidy.”

He didn't speak now. She'd shaken him down to the bone, and he was chilled to the marrow. This woman, this beautiful, precious woman, had considered ending her life.

She rubbed absently at the headache that throbbed dead-center in her forehead. “But you're too intelligent, too well programmed, to tolerate that kind of waste. It frightens you a little to realize you could actually do it, so you decide—being a practical person—to study human behavior, psychiatry, instead. A much more productive outlet, all in all.”

“How old were you?” he managed, but had to take a steadying breath before he could go on. “How old were you when you…”