The Fall of Shane MacKade (3 page)

She wanted feelings, emotions, passions. She wanted to take risks, make mistakes, do foolish and exciting things.

Perhaps it was the dreams, those odd, recurring dreams, that had influenced her. Whatever it was, the fact that her closest friend had settled in Antietam, a place of history and legend, had been too tempting to resist.

It not only gave her the opportunity to visit, and re-cement an important relationship, it offered her the chance to delve more deeply into a hobby that was quickly becoming a compulsion.

She couldn't really put her finger on when and how the study of the paranormal had begun to appeal to her. It seemed to have been a gradual thing, an article here, a question there.

Then, of course, the dreams. They had started several
years before—odd little snippets of imagery that had seemed like memories. Over time, the dreams had lengthened and increased in clarity.

And she'd begun to document them. After all, as a psychiatrist, she understood the value of dreams. As a scientist, she respected the strength of the unconscious. She'd approached the entire matter as she would any project—in an organized, precise and objective manner. But her objectivity had been systematically overcome by pure curiosity.

So, she was here. Was it coincidence, imagination or fate that made her believe she'd come to a place she was meant to come to? Had been drawn to?

She would see.

Meanwhile, she would enjoy it. The time with Regan, the beauty of the countryside, the professional and personal delight of standing on historic land. She would indulge herself in her hobby, work on her confidence and explore the possibilities.

She thought she'd done well with Shane MacKade. There had been a time, not so terribly long ago, when she would have stammered and flushed, or mumbled and hunched her shoulders in the presence of a man that…male. Her tongue would have thickened and tied itself into knots at the terrifying prospect of making conversation that wasn't academic in nature.

But she'd not only talked with him, she'd held her own. And, for the most part, she'd felt comfortable doing so. She'd even joked with him, and she thought she might try her hand at flirting next.

What could it hurt, after all?

Amused at the idea, she got up and climbed under the wedding-ring quilt. She didn't feel like reading, and refused to feel guilty that she wasn't going to end the day with some intellectual stimulus. Instead, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of the smooth sheets against her
skin, the soft, cushiony give of down-filled pillows under her cheek, the spicy scent of the bouquet in the vase on the dresser across the room.

She was teaching herself to take time to enjoy textures, scents, sounds. Just now she could hear the wind sigh against the windows, the creak and groan of boards settling, the gentle swish of her leg moving over the sheet.

Small things, she thought with a smile ghosting around her mouth. The small things she had never taken time to appreciate. The new Rebecca Knight took the time and appreciated very much.

Before snuggling deeper, she reached out to switch the lamp off. In the dark, she let her mind wander to what pleasures she might explore the next day. A trip to the inn, certainly. She was looking forward to seeing the haunted house, meeting Cassie MacKade. And Devin, she mused. He was the brother married to the inn's manager. He was also the sheriff, she mused. Probably a good man to know.

With luck, they would have a room for her, and she could set up her equipment as soon as it arrived. But even if not, she was sure she could arrange for a tour of the inn, and add some stories to her file.

She wanted a walk in the woods, again reputedly haunted. She hoped someone could point out the area where the two corporals had supposedly met and fought.

The way Regan had explained the layout, Rebecca thought she might slip through the woods and get a firsthand look at the MacKade farm. She wanted badly to see if she had a reaction to it, the way she had when Shane drove by the land that bordered the road.

So familiar, she thought sleepily. The trees and rocks, the gurgle of the creek. All so oddly familiar.

It could be explained, she supposed. She had visited the battlefield years before. She remembered walking the fields, studying the monuments, reenacting every step of
the engagement in her head. She didn't remember passing that particular stretch of road, but she might have, while she was tucked into the back seat of the family car being quizzed by her parents.

No, the woods wouldn't have beckoned to her then. She would have been too busy absorbing data, analyzing it and reporting it to take note of the shape and color of the leaves, the sound of the creek hurrying over rocks.

She would make up for that tomorrow. She would make up for a great many things.

So she drifted into sleep, dreaming of possibilities….

 

It was terrible, terrible, to hear the sounds of war. It was heart-wrenching to know that so many young men were fighting, dying. Dying as her Johnnie had—her tall, beautiful son, who would never smile at her again, never sneak into the kitchen for an extra biscuit.

As the sounds of battle echoed in the distance, Sarah forced back fear, forced herself to go on with the routine of stirring the stew she had simmering over the fire. And to remind herself that she had had Johnnie for eighteen wonderful years. No one could take her memories of him away. God had also given her two beautiful daughters, and that was a comfort.

She worried about her husband. She knew he ached for their dead son every day, every night. The battle that had come so frighteningly close to home was only one more cruel reminder of what war cost.

He was such a good man, she thought, wiping her hands on her apron. Her John was strong and kind, and her love for him was as full and rich as it had been twenty years before, when she took his ring and his name. And she never doubted his love for her.

After all these years, her heart still leaped when he walked into the room, and her needs still jumped
whenever he turned to her in the night. She knew all women weren't as fortunate.

But she worried about him. He didn't laugh as freely since the terrible day they'd gotten word that Johnnie had been lost at Bull Run. There were lines around his eyes, and a bitterness in them that hadn't been there before.

Johnnie had gone for the South—rashly, idealistically—and his father had been so proud of him.

It was true enough that in this border state of Maryland, there were Southern sympathizers, and families ripped in two as they chose sides. But there had been no sides in the MacKade family. Johnnie had made his choice with his father's support. And the choice had killed him.

It was that she feared most. That John blamed himself, as well as the Yankees. That he would never be able to forgive either one, and would never be truly at peace again.

She knew that if it hadn't been for her and the girls, he would have left the farm to fight. It frightened her that there was the need inside him to take up arms, to kill. It was the one thing in their lives they never discussed.

She arched her back, placing the flat of her hand at the base of her spine to ease a dull ache. It reassured her to hear her daughters talking as they peeled potatoes and carrots for the stew. She understood that their incessant chatter was to help block the nerves that jumped at hearing mortar fire echo in the air.

They'd lost half a cornfield this morning—the fighting had come that close. She thanked God it had veered off again and she wasn't huddled in the root cellar with her children. That John was safe. She couldn't bear to lose another she loved.

When John came in, she poured him coffee. There was such weariness in his face, she set the cup aside and went over to wrap her arms around him instead. He smelled of
hay and animals and sweat, and his arms were strong as they returned the embrace.

“It's moving off, Sarah.” His lips brushed her cheek. “I don't want you fretting.”

“I'm not fretting.” Then she smiled as he arched one silver-flecked black brow. “Only a little.”

He brushed his thumb under her eye, over the shadows that haunted there. “More than a little. Damn war. Damn Yankees. What gives them the right to come on my land and do their killing? Bastards.” He turned away and picked up his coffee.

Sarah sent her daughters a look that had them getting up quietly and leaving the room.

“They're going now,” she murmured. “The firing is getting farther and farther away. It can't last much longer.”

He knew she wasn't talking about this one battle, and shook his head. The bitterness was back in his eyes. “It'll last as long as they want it to last. As long as men have sons to die. I need to go check things.” He set down the coffee without having tasted it. “I don't want you or the girls setting foot out of the house.”

“John.” She reached for his hand, holding the hard, callused palm against hers. What could she say? That there was no one to blame? Of course there was, but the men who manufactured war and death were nameless and faceless to her. Instead, she brought his hand to her cheek. “I love you.”

“Sarah.” For a moment, for her, his eyes softened. “Pretty Sarah.” His lips brushed hers before he left her.

John left the house knowing there was little he could do. In the distance, drying cornstalks were blackened and hacked. He knew there would be blood seeping into his
ground. And didn't want to know whether the men who had died there had been taken away yet or not.

It was his land, his, damn them. When he plowed in the spring, he knew, he would be haunted by the blood and death he turned into the earth.

He reached into his pocket, closing his hand over the miniature of his son that he always carried. He didn't weep; his eyes were dry and hard as they scanned the land. Without the land, he was nothing. Without Sarah, he would be lost. Without his daughters, he would willingly die.

But now he had no choice but to live without his boy.

Grim-faced, he stood there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on his land. When he heard the whimpering, his brows drew together. He'd already checked the stock, secured them. Had he missed a calf? Or had one of his dogs broken out of the stall he'd locked them in to keep them from being hit by a stray bullet?

He followed the sound to the smokehouse, afraid he would have a wounded animal to tend or put down. Though he'd been a farmer all his life, he still was struck with guilt and grief whenever it was necessary to put an animal out of its misery.

But it wasn't an animal, it was a man. A damn blue-belly, bleeding his guts out on MacKade land. For an instant, he felt a hot rush of pleasure. Die here, he thought. Die here, the way my son died on another man's land. You might have been the one to kill him.

Without sympathy, he used his boot to shove the man over onto his back. The Union uniform was filthy, soaked with blood. He was glad to see it, coldly thrilled.

Then he saw the face, and it wasn't a man. It was a boy. His soft cheeks were gray with pain, his eyes glazed with it. Then they fixed on John's.

“Daddy? Daddy, I came home.”

“I ain't your daddy, boy.”

The eyes closed. “Help me. Please help me. I'm dying….”

 

In sleep, Shane's fist curled in the sheets, and his restless body tangled them.

I
t was one of the most exciting moments of Rebecca's life—just to stand in the balmy air, a vivid blue sky overhead and the old stone house spreading out in front of her. She could smell early mums, the spice of them mixing with the fragrance of the late-summer roses.

She'd studied architecture for a time, and she'd seen firsthand the majestic cathedrals in France, the romantic villas of Italy, the ancient and glorious ruins of Greece.

But this three-story building of native stone and wood, with its neat chimneys and sparkling glass, touched her as deeply as her first sight of the spires of Notre Dame.

It was, after all, haunted.

She wished she could feel it, wished some part of her was open to the shadows and whispers of the restless dead. She believed. Her dedication to science had taught her that there was much that was unexplained in the world. And as a scientist, whenever she heard of some unexplained phenomenon, she needed to know what, how, when. Who had seen it, felt it, heard it. And whether she could see, feel, hear.

It was like that with the old Barlow house, now the MacKade Inn. If she hadn't heard the stories, didn't trust Regan implicitly, Rebecca would have merely seen a beautiful house, an inviting one, with its long double porches and delightful gardens. She would have wondered how it was furnished inside, what view she might have from the windows. She might have pondered a bit over who had lived there, what they had been, where they had gone.

But she knew all that already. She had spent a great deal of time researching the original owners and their descendants.

Now she was here, walking toward that inviting porch with Regan beside her. And her heart drummed in her breast.

“It's really beautiful, Regan.”

“You should have seen it before.” Regan scanned the house, the land, with pride. “Poor old place, falling apart, broken windows, sagging porches. And inside…” She shook her head. “I have to say, even though he is my husband, Rafe has a real talent for seeing what could be, then making it happen.”

“He didn't do it alone.”

“No.” Her lips curved as she reached for the door. “I did one hell of a job.” She opened the door. “See for yourself.”

One hell of a job, Rebecca thought. Beautiful wide planked floors gleamed gold with polish and sunlight. Silk-covered walls, elegantly trimmed. Antiques, both delicate and majestic, were placed in a perfect harmony that looked too natural to have been planned.

She turned into the doorway of the front parlor, with its curvy double-backed settee and Adam fireplace. Atop its carved pine mantel were gorgeous twin vases holding tall spires of larkspur and freesia and flanking silver-framed tintypes.

“You expect to hear the swish of hooped skirts,” Rebecca murmured.

“That was the idea. All of the furnishings, all of the color schemes, are from the Civil War era. Even the bathrooms and kitchen reflect the feeling—even if they are modernized for comfort and convenience.”

“You must have worked like fiends.”

“I guess we did,” Regan said reflectively. “Mostly it didn't seem like work at all. That's the way it is, I suppose, when you're dazzled by that first explosion of love.”

“Explosion?” Rebecca smiled as she turned back. “Sounds scary—and violent.”

“It was. There's very little calm before or after the storm when you're dealing with a MacKade.”

“And apparently that's just the way you like it.”

“Apparently it is. Who'd have thought?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I always imagined you'd end up with some sophisticated, streamlined sort of man who played squash to keep in shape. Glad I was wrong.”

“So am I,” Regan said heartily, then shook her head. “Squash?”

“Or polo. Maybe a rousing game of tennis.” Rebecca's laugh gurgled out. “Well, Regan, you were always so…tidy and chic.” She lifted a brow and gestured to indicate the knife pleat in Regan's navy trousers, the polished buttons on the double-breasted blazer. “Still are.”

“I'm sure you mean that in the most flattering way,” Regan said dryly.

“Absolutely. I used to think, if I could just wear the kind of clothes you did—do—get my hair to swing just that way, I wouldn't feel like such a nerd.”

“You were not a nerd.”

“I could have given lessons in the art. But—” she ran a hand down the side of her unconstructed jacket “—I'm learning to disguise it.”

“I thought I heard voices.”

Rebecca looked toward the stairs and saw a small, slim blonde with a baby snuggled into a sack strapped over her breasts. Rebecca's first impression was of quiet competence. Perhaps it was the hands, she mused, one lying neatly on the polished rail, the other gently cupping the baby's bottom.

“I wondered if you were upstairs.” Regan walked over to get a peek at the sleeping baby. “Cassie, you've been changing linens with the baby again.”

“I like to get it done early. And Ally was fussy. This must be your friend.”

“Rebecca Knight, girl genius,” Regan said, with an affection that made Rebecca grin, rather than wince. “Cassandra MacKade, irreplaceable manager of the MacKade Inn.”

“I'm so glad to meet you.” Cassie took her hand off the rail to offer it.

“I've been looking forward to coming here for weeks. This must be quite a job, managing all this.”

“It hardly ever feels like one. You'll want to look around.”

“I'm dying to.”

“I'll just finish upstairs. Give me a call if you need anything. There's coffee fresh in the kitchen, and muffins.”

“Of course there is.” Regan laughed and brushed a hand over Ally's dark hair. “Take a break, Cassie, and join the tour. Rebecca wants stories.”

“Well…” Cassie glanced upstairs, obviously worrying over unmade beds.

“I'd really appreciate it,” Rebecca put in. “Regan tells me you've had some experiences I'd be interested in hearing about. You actually saw a ghost.”

“I…” Cassie flushed. It wasn't something she told
many people about—not because it was odd, but because it was intimate.

“I'm hoping to document and record episodes while I'm here,” Rebecca said, prompting her.

“Yes, Regan told me.” So Cassie took a deep breath. “I saw the man Abigail Barlow was in love with. He spoke to me.”

Fascinating,
was all Rebecca could think as they wandered through the inn, with Cassie telling her story in a calm, quiet voice. She learned of heartbreak and murder, love lost and lives ruined. She felt chills bubble along her skin at the descriptions of spirits wandering. But she felt no deep stirring of connectedness. An interest, yes, and a full-blooded curiosity, but no sense of intimacy. She'd hoped for it.

She could admit to herself later, as she wandered alone toward the woods, that she had hoped for a personal experience, a viewing or at least a sensing of some unexplainable phenomenon. Her interest in the paranormal had grown over the years, along with her frustration at having no intimate touch with it. Except in dreams—and Rebecca knew they were merely the work of the subconscious, sometimes fraught with symbolism, sometimes as simple as a thought—she'd never been touched by the otherworldly.

Though the house had unquestionably been lovely, though it had brought back echoes of a lost past, she had seen only the beauty of it. Whatever walked there had not spoken to her.

She still had hope. Her equipment would be in by the end of the day, and Cassie had assured her she was welcome to set up in a bedroom, at least for a few days. As the anniversary of the battle drew nearer, the inn would be full with reservations already booked.

But she had some time.

When she stepped into the woods, Rebecca felt a chill, but it was only from the thick shade. Here, she knew, two young boys had fought, essentially killing each other. Others had sensed their lingering presence, heard the clash of bayonets, the cries of pain and shock. But she didn't.

She heard the call of birds, the rustle of squirrels scrambling for nuts to hoard, the faint buzz of insects. The day was too still for the air to stir the leaves, and the leaves themselves were a deep green, not even hinting of the autumn that would come within a month.

Following Cassie's competent directions, she found the stand of rocks where the two corporals were reputed to have met. Sitting down on one, she took out her notebook and began to write what she would transpose onto a computer disk later.

Rebecca stopped, frowned, shook her head. Her notes, she thought with some amusement, were anything but scientific. Then again, she mused, this was more a personal journal of a personal odyssey.

Smiling to herself, Rebecca folded her notebook, slipped it back in her shoulder bag. She thought Shane would probably enjoy being called beautiful. She imagined he was used to it.

Her first glimpse of the farmhouse came across a fallow field that smelled strongly of manure. She didn't
mind the scent, in fact it intrigued her. But she was careful to watch where she walked.

It was a peaceful scene—blue sky, puffy, harmless clouds, an old spreading willow gracefully draped near a narrow creek. At least she assumed there was a creek to her right, as the sound of gurgling water came across clearly. She saw stands of corn, row after row spearing up to the sun. Fields of grain going gold. There was a big weathered barn with those odd windows that looked like eyes, and a pale blue tower she assumed was a silo.

More silos, sheds, paddocks and pens. Cows, she thought with the ridiculous grin of the urbanite at the sight of them grazing in a green field with rocks scattered gray throughout the pasture.

From a distance it was a postcard, a quiet and remote rural scene that looked as though it were always just so. And the house, she thought, at the core of it.

Her heart was beating fast and sharply before she realized it. She stopped where she was, breathing carefully as she studied the house.

It was stone, probably from the same quarry as the inn. In this building the stone looked less elegant, more sturdy and simple. The windows were boxy and plain in the two-story structure, and the wide rear porch was a faded gray wood. She wondered if there was a front porch, and assumed there was. There would be a rocker on it, perhaps two. There would be an overhang for shade and to keep the rain off during a storm so that you could sit out and watch the clouds roll in.