The Heart Of Devin MacKade. Nora Roberts

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