The Fall Of Shane MacKade: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“Sensors, cameras, temperature gauges. Parapsychology is best approached as a science. Tell me, have there been any reports of telekinetic activities—the movement of inanimate objects? Poltergeists?”

“No.” Regan gave a quick shudder. “And I’m sure we’d have heard.”

“Well, I can always hope.”

Baffled, Regan stared at her. “You used to be so…”

“Serious-minded? I still am. Believe me, I’m very serious about this.”

“Okay.” With a quick shake of her head, Regan rose. “And I better get serious about dinner.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

Regan arched a brow as Rebecca stood. “Don’t tell me you learned to cook in Europe, too.”

“No, I can’t boil an egg.”

“You used to say it was genetic.”

“I remember. Now I think it’s just a phobia. Cooking’s a dangerous business. Sharp edges, heat, flame. But I remember how to set a table.”

“Good enough.”

Late that night, when Rebecca settled into her room, she snuggled up on the big padded window seat with a book and a cup of Regan’s tea. From down the hall she dimly heard the sound of a baby’s fretful crying, then footsteps padding down the hall. Within moments the quiet returned as, Rebecca imagined, Regan nursed the baby. She’d never imagined the Regan Bishop she’d known as a mother. In college, Regan had always been bright, energetic, interested in everyone and everything. Of course, she’d attracted male companionship, Rebecca remembered with a small smile. A woman who looked like Regan would always draw men. But it was not merely Regan’s beauty, but her way with people, that had made her so popular with both men and women.

And Rebecca, dowdy, serious-minded, out-of-place Rebecca, had been so shocked, and so dazzled, when Regan offered her friendship. She’d been so miserably shy, Rebecca thought now, staring dreamily out the window while the cup warmed her hands. Still was, she admitted, beneath the veneer she’d developed in recent months. She’d had no social skills whatsoever then, and no defense against the fast-moving college scene.

Except for Regan, who had found it natural to take a young, awkward, unattractive girl under her wing.

It was something Rebecca would never forget. And sitting there, in the lovely guest room, with its big four-poster and lovely globe lamps, she was deeply, warmly happy that Regan had found such a wonderful life.

A man who adored her, obviously, Rebecca thought. Anyone could see Rafe’s love for his wife every time he looked in her direction.

A strong, handsome, fascinating man, two delightful children, a successful business, a beautiful home. Yes, she was thrilled to find Regan so content.

As for herself, contentment had been eluding her of late. Academia, which had encompassed her all her life, had lately become more of a prison than a home. And, in truth, it was the only home she had ever known. Yet she’d fled from it. For a few months, at least, she felt compelled to explore facets of herself other than her intellect.

She wanted feelings, emotions, passions. She wanted to take risks, make mistakes, do foolish and exciting things.

Perhaps it was the dreams, those odd, recurring dreams, that had influenced her. Whatever it was, the fact that her closest friend had settled in Antietam, a place of history and legend, had been too tempting to resist.

It not only gave her the opportunity to visit, and re-cement an important relationship, it offered her the chance to delve more deeply into a hobby that was quickly becoming a compulsion.

She couldn’t really put her finger on when and how the study of the paranormal had begun to appeal to her. It seemed to have been a gradual thing, an article here, a question there.

Then, of course, the dreams. They had started several years before—odd little snippets of imagery that had seemed like memories. Over time, the dreams had lengthened and increased in clarity.

And she’d begun to document them. After all, as a psychiatrist, she understood the value of dreams. As a scientist, she respected the strength of the unconscious. She’d approached the entire matter as she would any project—in an organized, precise and objective manner. But her objectivity had been systematically overcome by pure curiosity.

So, she was here. Was it coincidence, imagination or fate that made her believe she’d come to a place she was meant to come to? Had been drawn to?

She would see.

Meanwhile, she would enjoy it. The time with Regan, the beauty of the countryside, the professional and personal delight of standing on historic land. She would indulge herself in her hobby, work on her confidence and explore the possibilities.

She thought she’d done well with Shane MacKade. There had been a time, not so terribly long ago, when she would have stammered and flushed, or mumbled and hunched her shoulders in the presence of a man that…male. Her tongue would have thickened and tied itself into knots at the terrifying prospect of making conversation that wasn’t academic in nature.

But she’d not only talked with him, she’d held her own. And, for the most part, she’d felt comfortable doing so. She’d even joked with him, and she thought she might try her hand at flirting next.

What could it hurt, after all?

Amused at the idea, she got up and climbed under the wedding-ring quilt. She didn’t feel like reading, and refused to feel guilty that she wasn’t going to end the day with some intellectual stimulus. Instead, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of the smooth sheets against her skin, the soft, cushiony give of down-filled pillows under her cheek, the spicy scent of the bouquet in the vase on the dresser across the room.

She was teaching herself to take time to enjoy textures, scents, sounds. Just now she could hear the wind sigh against the windows, the creak and groan of boards settling, the gentle swish of her leg moving over the sheet.

Small things, she thought with a smile ghosting around her mouth. The small things she had never taken time to appreciate. The new Rebecca Knight took the time and appreciated very much.

Before snuggling deeper, she reached out to switch the lamp off. In the dark, she let her mind wander to what pleasures she might explore the next day. A trip to the inn, certainly. She was looking forward to seeing the haunted house, meeting Cassie MacKade. And Devin, she mused. He was the brother married to the inn’s manager. He was also the sheriff, she mused. Probably a good man to know.

With luck, they would have a room for her, and she could set up her equipment as soon as it arrived. But even if not, she was sure she could arrange for a tour of the inn, and add some stories to her file.

She wanted a walk in the woods, again reputedly haunted. She hoped someone could point out the area where the two corporals had supposedly met and fought.

The way Regan had explained the layout, Rebecca thought she might slip through the woods and get a firsthand look at the MacKade farm. She wanted badly to see if she had a reaction to it, the way she had when Shane drove by the land that bordered the road.

So familiar, she thought sleepily. The trees and rocks, the gurgle of the creek. All so oddly familiar.

It could be explained, she supposed. She had visited the battlefield years before. She remembered walking the fields, studying the monuments, reenacting every step of the engagement in her head. She didn’t remember passing that particular stretch of road, but she might have, while she was tucked into the back seat of the family car being quizzed by her parents.

No, the woods wouldn’t have beckoned to her then. She would have been too busy absorbing data, analyzing it and reporting it to take note of the shape and color of the leaves, the sound of the creek hurrying over rocks.

She would make up for that tomorrow. She would make up for a great many things.

So she drifted into sleep, dreaming of possibilities….

It was terrible, terrible, to hear the sounds of war. It was heart-wrenching to know that so many young men were fighting, dying. Dying as her Johnnie had—her tall, beautiful son, who would never smile at her again, never sneak into the kitchen for an extra biscuit.

As the sounds of battle echoed in the distance, Sarah forced back fear, forced herself to go on with the routine of stirring the stew she had simmering over the fire. And to remind herself that she had had Johnnie for eighteen wonderful years. No one could take her memories of him away. God had also given her two beautiful daughters, and that was a comfort.

She worried about her husband. She knew he ached for their dead son every day, every night. The battle that had come so frighteningly close to home was only one more cruel reminder of what war cost.

He was such a good man, she thought, wiping her hands on her apron. Her John was strong and kind, and her love for him was as full and rich as it had been twenty years before, when she took his ring and his name. And she never doubted his love for her.

After all these years, her heart still leaped when he walked into the room, and her needs still jumped whenever he turned to her in the night. She knew all women weren’t as fortunate.

But she worried about him. He didn’t laugh as freely since the terrible day they’d gotten word that Johnnie had been lost at Bull Run. There were lines around his eyes, and a bitterness in them that hadn’t been there before.

Johnnie had gone for the South—rashly, idealistically—and his father had been so proud of him.