The Fall Of Shane MacCade - MacKade Brothers 4 Part 18

He didn't go around bragging about his relationships with women. But with his brothers, he would certainly have made some comment about a new interest. He'd kept his feelings about Rebecca to himself.

And it wouldn't have bothered him in the least to have Rafe or any of the others tease or prod about his exploits with a woman.

Yet it had with Rebecca. It had hurt and infuriated and- "What the h.e.l.l is this?" he muttered.

"I thought it was coffee."

"What?" He stared into his mug. "No, my mind was wandering.

Look, it wasn't a big deal. It's just the way we are. We fight." He smiled a little. "We used to beat on each other a lot more. I guess we're mellowing."

"Well." Thoughtful, she carried the flowers to the table, set them in the center. "I've never had anyone fight over me before-especially four big, strong men. I suppose I should be flattered."

"I have feelings for you." It came right out of his mouth, out of nowhere. Shaken, Shane lifted his mug and gulped down coffee.

"I guess I didn't like the idea of somebody thinking I'd pushedyou into bed."

Warmth bloomed inside her. A dangerous warmth, she knew. A loving one. She made certain her voice was light. "We both know you didn't."

"You haven't exactly been around the block. I wanted you. I went after you."

"And I put up a h.e.l.l of a battle, didn't I?"

"Not especially." But he couldn't smile back at her. "I've been around the block, a lot of times."

"Are you bragging?''

"No, I-" He caught himself. There was amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes, and understanding, and something else he didn't know quite what to do with. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'd try to go along with it if you wanted to rethink the situation, or take some time."

She swallowed a nasty ball of fear. Fear made the voice tremble, and she wanted hers to be steady. "Is that what you want?"

With his eyes on her, he shook his head slowly. "No. Lately I can't seem to want anything but you. Just looking at you makes my mouth water."

The warmth came back, pulsed, spread. She crossed the room, lifted her arms to twine them around his neck. "Then why don't you do more than look?"

Chapter Ten

There were many places to talk to ghosts. An open mind didn't require a dark night, howling winds or swirlingmists. This day was bright and beautiful. Trees touched by early fall were shimmering in golds and russets against a sky so blue itmight have been painted on canvas.

There was the sound of birdsong, the smell of gra.s.s newly mowed. There were fields crackling with drying cornstalks, and, like a miracle, there was a lone doe standing at the edge of the trees, sniffing the air for human scent.

Rebecca had come to the battlefield alone. Early. She lingered here, near the long depression in the ground known as b.l.o.o.d.y Lane. She knew the battle, each charge and retreat, and she knew the horrid stage of it when men had fallen and lain in tangled heaps in that innocent-looking dip in the land.

There was a tower at the end of it, built long after the war. She'd climbed it before, knew the view from the top was glorious. From there, she would be able to see the inn, the woods, some of Shane's fields.

But it didn't call to her as this spot did. Here, on the ground, there was no lofty distance between the living and the dead.

She sat down on the gra.s.s, knowing she would feel only a sadness, an intellectual connection with the past. As compelling,as hallowed, as the ground was, she could only be a historian.

Ghosts didn't speak to her, not here. It was the farm that held the key for her. The farm that haunted not only her dreams now, but her waking hours, as well. She accepted that. But what was the connection there? What was the emotional link? A link so strong it had pulled at her for years, over thousands of miles.

That she didn't know.

She knew only that she was in love.

She lifted her face to the breeze, let it run its fingers through her hair as Shane often did. How could she be so content, and yet so unsettled? There were so many questions unanswered, so many feelings unresolved. She wondered if that was the way of love.

Was she still so pa.s.sive, so undemanding of others, that she could settle so easily for what Shane offered? Or was she still so needy, so starved for love, that she fretted for more when she had enough?

Either way, it proved that a part of her, rooted deep, hadn't changed. Perhaps never would.

He cared for her, he desired her. She was pathetically grateful for that. He'd be shocked to know it, she was certain. She would keep that to herself, just as she kept this outrageous and overwhelming love for him to herself.

She had plenty of practice at restricting and restraining her emotions.

Common sense told her she was being greedy. She wanted all the love, the pa.s.sion, the endurance, that lived in that house forherself. She wanted the stability of it, the constancy, and the acceptance.

She was the transient, as she had always been.

But she wouldn't leave empty-handed this time, and that thought soothed. There wouldn't simply be knowledge received and given, there would be emotion-more emotion than she had ever received, more than she'd ever given. That was something to celebrate, and to treasure.

That should be enough for anyone.

Sitting alone, she gazed over the fields, the slope of the hill, the narrow trench. It was so utterly peaceful, so pristine, and its beauty was terrible. She'd studied history enough to know the strategies of war, the social, political and personal motivations behind it. Knew enough, too, to understand the romance that followed it.

The music, the beat of the drum, the wave of flags and the flash of weapons.

She could picture the charge, men running wildly through the smoke of cannon fire, eyes reddened, teeth bared. Their hearts would have pounded, roaring with blood. They had been men, after all. Fear, glory, hope, and a little madness.

That first clash of bayonets. The sun would have flashed on steel. Had the crows waited, nasty and patient, drawn by the thunder of swords and boom of mortar?

North or South, they would have raced toward death. And the generals on their horses, playing chess with lives, how had they felt, what had they thought, as they watched the carnage here?The bodies piling up, blue and gray united by the stain of blood.

The miserable cries of the wounded, the screams of the dying.

She sighed again. War was loss, she thought, no matter what was gained.

Always there would be a John and Sarah, the essence of the grieving parents for dead sons. War stole families, she reflected.

Cut pieces out of hearts that could never truly heal.

So we build monuments to the wars, and the dead sons. We tell ourselves not to forget. John and Sarah never forgot. And love endured.

It made her smile as she rose. The gra.s.s was green here, and the air quiet. She decided that the world needed places of loss to help them remember what they had.

She went home to write.

It was nearly time for evening milking, Rebecca realized, and she laughed at herself. How odd that she would begin to gauge the day by farm ch.o.r.es. With a shake of her head, she hammered out the next sentence.

Why had she spent all her life writing technical papers? she wondered. This flow of emotion and thought and imagination was so liberating. d.a.m.ned if she didn't think she might try her hand at a novel eventually.

Chuckling at the thought, she tucked it into the back of her mind.

There were plenty of people who would consider her present topic, the supernatural, straight fiction.

When the phone rang, she let the next thought roll around in herhead as she rose to answer. Absently she reached for the coffeepot and the receiver at the same time.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Dr. Rebecca Knight, please."

She stiffened, then ordered herself to relax. Why should it surprise, even annoy her, that her voice hadn't been recognized?

"This is Rebecca. h.e.l.lo, Mother."

' 'Rebecca, I had to go through your service to track you down. I a.s.sumed you were in New York."

"No, I'm not." She heard the door open and worked up a casual, if stiff, smile for Shane. "I'm spending some time in Maryland."

"A lecture tour? I hadn't heard."

"No, I'm not on a lecture tour." She could easily visualize her mother flipping through her Filofax to note it down. "I'm... doing research."

"In Maryland. On what subject?"

"The Battle of Antietam."

"Ah. That's been covered very adequately, don't you think?"

"I'm coming from a different angle." She made way so that Shane could get to the coffee, but didn't look at him. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Actually, there's something I can do for you. Where in the world are you staying, Rebecca? It's very inconvenient that youdidn't leave word. I need a fax number."

"I'm staying with a friend." She turned her back, avoiding Shane's eyes. "I don't have a fax here."

"Surely you have access to one. You're not in the Dark Ages."

Now she did glance at Shane. He smelled of the earth, and carried a good bit of it on his person. "Not exactly," Rebecca said dryly. "I'll have to check on that and get back to you. Are you in Connecticut?"

"Your father is. I'm at a seminar in Atlanta. You can reach me through the Ritz-Carlton."

"All right. Can I ask what this is about?"

"It's quite an opportunity. The head of the history department at my alma mater is retiring at the end of this semester. With your credentials and my connections, I don't see that you'd have any difficulty getting the position. There's talk of endowing a chair. It would be quite a coup, given your age. At twenty-four, I believe you'd be the youngest department head ever placed there."

"I was twenty-five last March, Mother."

"Nonetheless, it would still be a coup."

"Yes, I'm sure it would, but I'm not interested."

"Don't be ridiculous, Rebecca."

She closed her eyes for a moment. That tone, that quick, dismissive tone, had whipped her along the path chosen for her all her life. It took a hard, wrenching effort for her to stand herground.

"I'm afraid I'll have to be." And where had that cold, sarcastic voice come from? Rebecca wondered. "I don't want to teach, Mother."

"Teaching is the least of it, Rebecca, as you're quite aware. The position itself-"

"I don't want to be the dean of history, or the history chair, anywhere." She had to interrupt quickly, recognizing the old, familiar roiling in her stomach. "But thank you for thinking of me."

"I'm not happy with your att.i.tude, Rebecca. You are obligated to use your gifts, and the opportunities your father and I have provided for you. An advancement of this stature will make your career."

"Whose career?"

There was a sigh. Long-suffering. "Obviously you're in a difficult mood, and I can see that grat.i.tude won't be forthcoming. I'll depend on your good sense, however. Get me your fax number as soon as possible. I'm a bit rushed at the moment, but I'll expect to hear from you by the morning. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mother."

She hung up and smiled at Shane brightly, over-brightly, while the muscles in her stomach clenched and knotted. "Well, cows all bedded down?"

"Sit down, Rebecca." "I'm starving." Terrified he would touch her and she would fall apart, she moved away. "I think there's still some of that chocolate cake one of your harem dropped off."

"Rebecca." His voice was quiet, and his eyes were troubled. She kept pressing a hand to her stomach, he noted, as if something inside hurt. "I think you should sit down."

"I can make more coffee. I've figured this thing out." She started to reach for the canister, but he stepped forward, took her shoulders gently. "What?" The word snapped out, her body jerking.

Careful, he thought, disturbed by the brittle look in her eyes.

"So, you're from Connecticut."

She hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders under his hands. "My parents live there."

"That's where you grew up."

"Not exactly. I lived there when I wasn't in school. You don't want to drink that," she added, glancing at the pot. "It's been sitting for hours. I'd said I'd make fresh."

"What did she say to upset you, baby?"