The Mackades Collection (Books 1-4). Nora Roberts

she get to be your woman?”

      Rafe heaved his jeans aside, started on his shirt. “That’s what comes from living in the city. You’re out of the loop, bro. She’s mine now.”

      “Does she know that?”

      “I know.” With his eyes closed, he dragged the sleeping bag over him. “I’m thinking about keeping her.”

      Jared choked on his beer. “You mean like a wife?”

      “I mean like keeping her,” Rafe repeated. No way was he going to try to get his tongue around a word like wife. “Keeping things the way they are now.”

      This was interesting, Jared mused. And even more fun than brooding. “And how are things now?”

      “Things are good.” Rafe could smell her on the quilted material of the sleeping bag. “I’m still going to have to break your face. It’s the principle.”

      “Understood.” Jared stretched out, settled back. “Then again, I never did pay you back for talking Sharilyn Bester, now Fenniman, into riding out to the quarry with you to skinny-dip.”

      “I was just easing her broken heart after you’d dumped her.”

      “Yeah. But it’s the principle.”

      Considering, Rafe scratched his face. “You got a point. But Sharilyn, pretty as she is, is no Regan Bishop.”

      “I never got to see Regan naked.”

      “That’s why you’re still breathing.” Rafe shifted, folded his arms under his head. “Maybe we’ll call it even.”

      “I can sleep easy now.”

      Rafe’s lips twitched at the dry tone. “I’m sorry about your house, Jared, if you are.”

      “I’m not sorry about it, really. It just brought a lot of things back. I screwed up as much as Barbara did, Rafe. It would have been easier if we’d yelled at each other, threw things.” He took a last swig and set the empty bottle on the floor. “There’s nothing more demoralizing than a civilized divorce between two people who couldn’t care less about each other.”

      “It’s got to be better than getting your heart broken.”

      “I don’t know. I kind of wish I’d had the chance.”

      They were both silent as the sound of weeping drifted down the stairs.

      “Ask her,” Rafe suggested. “I’d bet she’d tell you you’re better off.”

      “Maybe you should start thinking exorcism,” Jake said, smiling at the idea as his eyes drooped and he settled himself for sleep.

      “No. I like having them around. I’ve had plenty of time to be alone.”

      Chapter 9

      It was rare for Rafe to dream. He preferred his fantasies during waking hours, so that his consciousness could appreciate them.

      But he dreamed that night, as the fire burned low and the moon rose over drifts of snow, if you could call it a dream…

      He was running, terror and smoke at his heels. His eyes were burning from fatigue, and from the horror he’d already seen.

      Men blown apart before they could scream from the shock and agony. The ground exploding, hacked by mortar fire, drenched with blood. The smell of death was in his nostrils, and he knew he’d never be free of it.

      Oh, and he longed for the scent of magnolias and roses, for the lush green hills and rich brown fields of his home. If he had had tears left, he would have wept them for the quiet gurgling of the river that wound through his family’s plantation, the bright laughter of his sisters, the crooning songs of the field hands.

      He was afraid, mortally afraid, that everything he’d known and treasured was already gone. His most desperate wish was to get back, to see it again.

      He wanted to see his father again, to tell him his son had tried to be a man.

      The battle raged everywhere. In the fields, through the corn, in his heart. So many of his comrades lay dead on these godforsaken rocky hills of Maryland.

      He’d lost his way. He hadn’t been able to see through the choking smoke, or hear through the thunder of guns and the horrible shrieks of men. Suddenly he was running, running as a coward runs for any hole to crawl in.

      Mixed with the horror now was a shame just as terrible. He’d forgotten his duty, and lost his honor. Now, somehow, he must find them both again.

      The woods were thick, carpeted with the dying leaves that fell, brilliant in golds and russets, from the trees. He had never been so far north, seen such color, or smelled the poignant decay of autumn.

      He was only seventeen.

      A movement ahead had him fumbling his rifle onto his shoulder. The blue uniform was all he could see, and he fired too quickly, and poorly. The answering shot had fire singeing his arm. Driven by pain and terror, he gave a wild Rebel yell and charged.

      He wished he hadn’t seen the eyes, the eyes of the enemy, as wide and terror-glazed and young as his own. Their bayonets crashed, point to point. He smelled the blood, and the stinking scent of fear.

      He felt the steel of his blade slice into flesh, and his stomach roiled. He felt the rip of his own, and cried out in agony. He fought, blindly, bitterly, recklessly, until there was nothing inside him but the battle. And when they both lay in their own blood, he wondered why.

      He was crawling, delirious with pain. He needed to get home for supper, he thought. Had to get home. There was the house, he could see it now. He dragged himself over rocks and dying summer flowers, leaving his blood staining the grass.

      Hands were lifting him. Soft voices. He saw her standing over him, an angel. Her hair like a halo, her eyes warm, her voice filled with the music of the South he yearned for.

      Her face was so beautiful, so gentle, so sad.

      She stroked his head, held his hand, walking beside him as others carried him up curving steps.

      I’m going home, he told her. I have to go home.

      You’ll be all right, she promised. You’ll go home as soon as you’re well again.

      She looked away from him, up, and her lovely face went pale as a ghost’s.

      No. He’s hurt. He’s just a boy. Charles, you can’t.

      He saw the man, saw the gun, heard the words.

      I’ll have no Confederate scum in my house. No wife of mine will put her hands on a Rebel.

      Rafe jolted awake with the sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears. He sat where he was while it echoed away, until all that was left was his brother’s quiet breathing.

      Chilled, he rose, added logs to the fire. Then he sat, watching the flames and waiting for dawn.

      Regan slept like a baby. With the kids off to school and Cassie taking the early shift at the diner, she indulged herself with a second cup of coffee. She still prized her privacy, but she’d discovered she liked having the company.

      It was nice having the children pad around the house in the morning, having Emma offer one of her solemn kisses or Connor one of his rare smiles.

      She liked beating Cassie to the kitchen so that she could fix breakfast and smooth down pale, sleep-tousled hair.

      Motherhood had never been one of her ambitions, but she was beginning to wonder if she wouldn’t be good at it.

      She picked up a crayon Emma had left on the table. She smelled it, and smiled. It was funny, she thought, how quickly a house could smell like children. Crayons and white paste, hot chocolate and soggy cereal.

      And it was funny how quickly she’d come to look forward to