It was only sensible to go in, out of the wind, begin to site the job. Yet she pulled her hand back with a jerk. Her breath was coming in gasps, shockingly loud on the silent air. Inside her neat leather gloves, her hands were icy and trembling.
Out of breath from the climb, she told herself. Shivering from the wind. That was all. But the fear was on her like a cat, hissing through her blood.
Embarrassed, she looked uneasily around. There was no one to see her ridiculous reaction. Only snow and trees.
She took a deep breath, laughed at herself, and opened the door.
It creaked, of course. That was to be expected. The wide main hall gave her such a rush of pleasure, she forgot everything else. Closing the door, she leaned back against it and sighed.
There was dust and mold, damp patches on the walls, baseboards ruined by gnawing mice, spiderwebs draped like filthy gauze. She saw rich, deep green paint, creamy ivory trim, the buff and shine of waxed pine floors under her feet, a runner blooming with cabbage roses.
And there, she thought a hunt table, with a Dresden bowl spilling more roses, flanked by silver candlesticks. A little walnut hall chair with a pierced back, a hammered brass umbrella stand, a gilded mirror.
How it had been, and could be, spun through her mind, and she didn't feel the cold that sent her breath ahead of her in clouds as she wandered.
In the parlor, she marveled over the Adam fireplace. The marble was filthy, but undamaged. She had twin vases in the shop that would be perfect for the mantel. And a needlepoint footstool that was meant for weary feet in front of this very hearth.
Delighted, she pulled out her notebook and got to work.
Cobwebs dragged through her hair, dirt smudged her cheek, dust covered her boots, as she measured and plotted. She was in heaven. Her mood was so high that when she heard the footsteps, she turned with a smile instead of a complaint.
"It's wonderful. I can hardly—" She was talking to thin air.
Frowning, she walked out of the parlor and into the hall. She started to call out, then noted that there were no footprints in the dust but her own.
Imagining things, she told herself, and shuddered. Big, empty houses made all sorts of noises. Settling wood, wind against the windows...rodents, she thought with a grimace. She wasn't afraid of mice or spiders or creaking boards.
But when the floor groaned over her head, she couldn't muffle the shriek. Her heart flew straight to her throat and beat like a bird's. Before she'd managed to compose herself again, she heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing.
She was across the hall in a dash, fumbling for the knob when it hit her.
Rafe MacKade.
Oh, he thought he was clever, she thought furiously. Sneaking into the house ahead of her, creeping through the back, she imagined. He was up there right now, doubled over at the idea of her bolting from the house like some idiotic Gothic heroine with a heaving bosom.
Not on your life, she thought determinedly, and straightened her shoulders. She thrust her chin up and marched to the curving stairs.
"You're not funny, MacKade," she called out. "Now, if you've finished your pathetic little joke, I'd like to get some work done."
When the cold spot hit her, she was too shocked to move. The hand she'd gripped on the rail went numb with it, her face froze with it. There, halfway up the graceful sweep of stairs, she swayed. It was her own whimper that broke her free. She was up to the first landing in four effortless strides.
A draft, she told herself, cursing her own sobbing breaths. Just a nasty draft.
"Rafe." Her voice broke, infuriating her. Biting her lip, she stared down the long hallway, at the closed and secretive doors that lined it. "Rafe," she said again, and struggled to put irritation in her voice, rather than nerves. "I have a schedule to keep, if you don't, so can we get on with this?"
The sound of wood scraping wood, the violent slam of a door, and a woman's heartbroken weeping. Pride forgotten, Regan flew down the stairs. She'd nearly reached the bottom when she heard the shot.
Then the door she'd rushed to meet groaned slowly open.
The room whirled once, twice, then vanished.
"Come on, darling, snap out of it."
Regan turned her head, moaned, shivered.
"All the way out, pal. Open those big blue eyes for me."
The voice was so coaxing, she did. And found herself looking into Rafe's.
"It wasn't funny."
A bit dizzy with relief, he smiled and stroked her cheek. "What wasn't?"
"Hiding upstairs to scare me." She blinked to bring the world back into sharp focus and discovered she was cradled on his lap on the window seat in the parlor. "Let me up."
"I don't think so. You're still a little shaky on your pins. Just relax a minute." He shifted her expertly so that her head rested in the crook of his arm.
"I'm fine."
"You're white as a sheet. If I had a flask, I'd pour some brandy into you. Never saw a woman faint as gracefully, though. You sort of drifted down, gave me a chance to catch you before your head knocked against the floor."
"If you expect me to thank you, forget it." She shoved, found him unmovable. "It's your fault."
"Thanks. It's flattering to think the sight of me has a woman dropping at my feet. There." He traced a finger down her cheek again. "That brought some color back."
"If this is the way you do business, you can take your job and—" She ground her teeth. "Let me up."
"Let's try this." Lifting her, he plopped her down on the seat beside him. "Hands off," he added, lifting his. "Now why don't you tell me why you're ticked off at me?"
Pouting, she brushed at her smudged trousers. "You know very well."
"All I know is, I walked in the door and saw you doing a swan dive."
"I've never fainted in my life." And she was thoroughly mortified that she had done so now—in front of him. "If you want me to work on this house, scaring me into unconsciousness isn't the way to do it."
He studied her, reached into his pocket for the cigarettes he'd given up exactly eight days before. "How did I scare you?"
"By walking around upstairs, opening and closing doors, making those ridiculous noises."
"Maybe I should start off by telling you I got held up at the farm. I didn't leave until fifteen minutes ago."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't blame you." If he wasn't going to smoke, he had to move. Rising, he strolled over to the hearth. He thought he caught a whiff of smoke, as from a fire that had recently died. "Shane was there—and so was Cy Martin. He's mayor now."
"I know who Cy Martin is," she said testily.
"You should have known him in high school," Rafe mused. "He was a complete ass. Anyway, Cy dropped by to see if Shane could plow his lane. He was still there when I left. Fifteen minutes ago. I borrowed Shane's four-wheel to make the hill. Parked it and came to the door in time to see your eyes roll back in your head."
He walked back to her, stripped off his coat and tucked it over her legs. "By the way, how'd you get in?"
"I—" She stared at him, swallowed. "I opened the door."
"It was locked."
"No, it wasn't."
Lifting a brow, he jingled the keys in his pocket. "That's interesting."
"You're not lying," she said after a moment.
"Not this time. Why don't you tell me what you heard?"
"Footsteps. But there was no one there." To warm them, she tucked her hands under his coat. "Boards creaking upstairs. I started up. It was cold, bitterly cold, and it frightened me, so I went to the landing."
"You were scared, so you went up instead of out?"
"I thought you were up there. I was going to yell at you." Her smile was weak, but it was there. "I was furious that you'd managed to make me jump. Then I looked down the hallway. I guess I knew you weren't there. I heard wood scrape, and a door slam hard and someone crying. Then I bolted."
He sat beside her again, put his arm around her shoulders in a friendly squeeze. "Who wouldn't?"