"The heart of the battle didn't get quite that close. Anyway, that's what I want—the right colors, trim, wallpaper, furnishings, doodads. The works." He had an urge for a cigarette and banked it. "How do you feel about redoing a haunted house?"
"Interested." She eyed him over the rim of her mug. "Besides, I don't believe in ghosts."
"You will before it's done. I spent the night there once, as a kid, with my brothers."
"Creaking doors, rattling chains?"
"No." He didn't smile now. "Except the ones Jared arranged to scare the guts out of the rest of us. There's a spot on the stairway that'll turn your skin to ice. You can smell smoke near the living room hearth. And you can feel something looking over your shoulder when you walk down the hallways. If it's quiet enough, and you're listening, you can hear sabers clash."
Despite herself, she couldn't quite suppress a shudder. "If you're trying to scare me off the commission, you won't."
"Just laying out the blueprint. I'll want you to take a look at the place, go through the rooms with me. We'll see what kind of ideas you have. Tomorrow afternoon suit you? About two?" "That'll be fine. I'll need to take measurements." "Good." He set his mug aside, rose. "Nice doing business with you."
Again she accepted his hand. "Welcome home." "You're the first one who's said it." Enjoying the irony, he lifted her hand to his lips, watching her. "Then again, you don't know any better. See you tomorrow. And, Regan," he added on his way to the door, "take the dragon out of the window. I want it."
On the way out of town, he pulled his car to the side of the road and stopped. Ignoring the snow and the icy fingers of the wind, he studied the house on the rise of the hill.
Its broken windows and sagging porches revealed nothing, just as Rafe's shadowed eyes revealed nothing. Ghosts, he mused, while snow drifted silently around him. Maybe. But he was beginning to realize that the only ghosts he was trying to put to rest were inside him.
Chapter 2
The beauty of owning your own shop, as far as Regan was concerned, was that you could buy and sell what you chose, your hours were your own to make, and the atmosphere was your own to create.
Still, being the sole proprietor and sole employee of Past Times didn't mean Regan Bishop tolerated any slack. As her own boss, she was tough, often intolerant, and expected the best from her staff. As that staff, she worked hard and rarely complained.
She had exactly what she'd always wanted—a home and business in a small rural town, away from the pressures and headaches of the city where she'd lived the first twenty-five years of her life.
Moving to Antietam and starting her own business had been part of her five-year plan after she graduated from American University. She had degrees in history and business management tucked under her belt, and by the time she donned cap and gown she'd already earned five years experience in antiques.
Working for someone else.
Now she was the boss. Every inch of the shop and the cozy apartment atop it was hers—and the bank's. The MacKade commission was going to go a long way toward making her share a great deal larger.
The minute Rafe left the afternoon before, Regan had locked up and dashed to the library. She'd checked out an armload of books to supplement her own research volumes.
By midnight, when her eyes had threatened to cross, she had read and taken notes on every detail of life as it applied to the Civil War era in Maryland.
She knew every aspect of the Battle of Antietam, from Lee's march to his retreat across the river, from McClellan's waffling to President Lincoln's visit to a farm outside Sharpsburg. She knew the number of dead and wounded, the bloody progress over hill and through cornfield.
It was sad and standard information, and she'd studied it before. Indeed, her fascination with the battle and the quiet area into which it had exploded had influenced her choice of a home.
But this time she'd been able to find bits and pieces on the Barlows—both fact and speculation. The family had lived in the house on the hill for almost a hundred years before that horrible day in September of 1862. Prosperous landowners and businessmen, they had lived like lords. Their balls and dinners had enticed guests from as far as Washington and Virginia.
She knew how they had dressed—the frock coats and lace and the hooped skirts. Silk hats and satin slippers. She knew how they had lived, with servants pouring wine into crystal goblets, their home decorated with hothouse flowers, their furniture glowing with bee's wax polish.
Now, negotiating snowy, windy roads under sparkling sunlight, she could see exactly the colors and fabrics, the furnishings and knickknacks that would have surrounded them.
Chiffoniers of rosewood, she mused. Wedgwood china and horsehair settees. The fine Chippendale chest-on-chest for the master, the graceful cherry-wood-and-beveled-glass secretaire for bis lady. Brocade portieres and rich Colonial blue for the walls in the parlor.
Rafe MacKade was going to get his money's worth. And, oh, she hoped his pockets were deep.
The narrow, broken lane leading up to the house was deep in snow. No tire tracks or handy plow had marred its pretty, pristine—and very inconvenient-white blanket.
Annoyed that Rafe hadn't taken care of that detail, Regan eased her car onto the shoulder.
Armed with her briefcase, she began the long trudge up.
At least she'd thought to wear boots, she told herself as the snow crept past her ankles. She'd very nearly worn a suit and heels—before she remembered that impressing Rafe MacKade wasn't on her agenda. The gray trousers, tailored blazer and black turtleneck were acceptable business wear for an assignment such as this. And, as she doubted the place was heated, the red wool coat would come in handy, inside, as well as out.
It was a fabulous and intriguing place, she decided as she crested the hill. All those flecks of mica in the stone, glinting like glass in the sunlight, made up for the boarded windows. The porches sagged, but the building itself rose up tall and proud against the bitter blue sky.
She liked the way the east wing jutted off at a stern angle. The way the trio of chimneys speared from the roof as if waiting to belch smoke. She even liked the way the broken shutters hung drunkenly.
It needed tending, she thought, with an affection that surprised her. Someone to love it, and accept its character for what it was. Someone who would appreciate its strengths and understand its weaknesses.
She shook her head and laughed at herself. It sounded as though she were thinking of a man—one, perhaps, like Rafe MacKade—rather than a house.
She walked closer, through the deep, powdery drifts. Rocks and overgrown brush made uneven lumps in the snow, like children under blankets waiting to do mischief. Brambles were sneaky enough to grab at her trousers with sharp, wiry fingers. But once the lawn had been lush and green and vivid with flowers.
If Rafe had any vision, it would be again.
Reminding herself that the landscaping was his problem, she puffed her way to the broken front porch.
He was, she thought with a scowl, late.
Began looked around, stomped her feet for warmth and glanced at her watch. The man could hardly expect her to stand out in the cold and the wind and wait. Ten minutes, tops, she told herself. Then she would leave him a note, a very firm note on the value of keeping appointments, and leave.
But it wouldn't hurt to take a peek in the window.
Maneuvering carefully, she inched her way up the steps, avoided broken planks. There should be wisteria or morning glories climbing up the side arbor, she mused, and for a moment she almost believed she could catch the faint, sweet scent of spring.
She caught herself moving to the door, closing her hand over the knob before she realized that had been her intention all along. Surely it was locked, she thought. Even small towns weren't immune to vandals. But even as she thought it, the knob turned freely in her hand.