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 bluebelly, 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.
Chapter Three
It 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.