“Hold your horses now, I’ve got ’em for you right here.” Sarah Jane handed over the canvas bag Mrs. Metz had brought, now pregnant with books. Moments later, when Mrs. Metz puffed her way out, Sarah Jane smiled. “You’re a smart boy, Devin. Always were.”
“If Regan finds out I headed her over there, she’ll skin me.” He grinned. “But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Nice seeing you, Miss Sarah Jane.”
“You find that copy of The Red Badge of Courage, Devin MacKade. Books aren’t meant to be wasted.”
He winced as he opened the door. “Yes, ma’am.”
For all her bulk, Mrs. Metz moved quickly. She was already pulling out of the red zone and into the sparse traffic. Congratulating himself on a job well done, Devin told himself he could take a quick ride down to the MacKade Inn.
Just needed to check and make sure there wasn’t anything that needed his attention, he told himself as he walked up the street to his cruiser. It was his brother Rafe’s place, after all. It was his duty to check on it now and again.
The fact that Cassie Dolin managed the bed-and-breakfast and lived on the third floor with her two children had nothing to do with it.
He was just doing his job.
Which was, he thought as he slipped behind the wheel of his car, a huge and ridiculous lie.
He was, however, doing what he had to do. Which was to see her. At least once a day, he simply had to see her. He just had to, no matter how much it hurt, or how careful he had to be. More careful, he reminded himself, now that she was divorced from that bastard who had beaten and abused her for years.
Joe Dolin was in prison, Devin thought with grim satisfaction as he headed out of town. And he would be there for quite some time to come.
As the sheriff, as a friend, as the man who had loved her most of his life, Devin had a duty to see that Cassie and the kids were safe and happy.
And maybe today he could make her smile, all the way to her big gray eyes.
What had been the old Barlow place—and likely would remain that forever in the mind of the town—sat on a hill just on the edge of Antietam. Once it had been the property of a rich man who enjoyed its height, its expensive furnishings, its enviable view. It had stood there while the bloodiest day of the Civil War raged around it. It had stood while a wounded young soldier was murdered on its polished grand staircase. There it had remained while the mistress of the house grieved herself to death. Or so the legend went.
It had stood, falling into decay, disuse, disregard. Its stones had not moved when its porches rotted, when its windows were shattered by rocks heaved by rambunctious children. It had stood, empty but for its ghosts, for decades.
Until Rafe MacKade had returned and claimed it.
It was the house, Devin thought as he turned up its steep lane, that had brought Rafe and Regan together. Together, they had turned that brooding old building into something fine, something lovely.
Where there had once been weeds and thorny brambles, there was now a lush, terraced lawn, vivid with flowers and shrubs. He had helped plant them himself. The MacKades always united when it came to developing dreams—or destroying enemies.
The windows gleamed now, framed by rich blue trim, their overflowing flower boxes filled with sunny-faced pansies. The sturdy double porches were painted that same blue, and offered guests a place to sit and look toward town.
Or, he knew, if they chose to sit around at the back, they’d have a long view of the haunted woods that bordered the inn’s property, his own farm, and the land where his brother Jared, his wife, Savannah, and their children lived.
He didn’t knock, but simply stepped inside. There were no cars in the drive, but for Cassie’s, so he knew the overnight guests had already left, and any others had yet to arrive.
He stood for a moment in the grand hall, with its polished floor, pretty rugs and haunted staircase. There were always flowers. Cassie saw to that. Pretty vases of fragrant blooms, little bowls and dishes with potpourri that he knew she made herself.
So, to him, the house always smelled like Cassie.
He wasn’t sure where he would find her—in the kitchen, in the yard, in her apartment on the third floor. He moved through the house from front to rear, knowing that if he didn’t find her in the first two, he would climb the outside stairs and knock on the door of her private quarters.
It was hard to believe that less than two years before, the house had been full of dust and cobwebs, all cracked plaster and chipped molding. Now floors and walls gleamed, windows shone, wood was polished to a high sheen. Antique tables were topped with what Devin always thought of as dust collectors, but they were charming.
Rafe and Regan had done something here, built something here. Just as they were doing in the old house they’d bought for themselves outside of town.
He envied his brother that, not just the love, but the partnership of a woman, the home and family they had created together.
Shane had the farm. Technically, it belonged to all four of them, but it was Shane’s, heart and soul. Rafe had Regan and their baby, the inn, and the lovely old stone-and-cedar house they were making their own. Jared had Savannah, the children, and the cabin.
And as for himself? Devin mused. Well, he had the town, he supposed. And a cot in the back room of the sheriff’s office.
The kitchen was empty. Though it was as neat as a model on display, it held all the warmth kitchens were meant to. Slate-blue tiles and creamy white appliances were a backdrop for little things—fresh fruit in an old stoneware bowl, a sassy cookie jar in the shape of a smiling cat that he knew would be full of fresh, home-baked cookies, long, tapered jars that held the herbed vinegars Cassie made, a row of African violets in bloom on the wide windowsill over the sink.
And then, through the window, he saw her, taking billowing sheets from the line where they’d dried in the warm breeze.
His heart turned over in his chest. He could handle that, had handled it for too many years to count. She looked happy, was all he could think. Her lips were curved a little, her gray eyes dreamy. The breeze that fluttered the sheets teased her hair, sending the honeycomb curls dancing around her face, along her neck and throat.
Like the kitchen, she was neat, tidy, efficient without being cold. She wore a white cotton blouse tucked into navy slacks. Just lately, she’d started to add little pieces of jewelry. No rings. Her divorce had been final for a full year now, and he knew the exact day she’d taken off her wedding ring.
But she wore small gold hoops in her ears and a touch of color on her mouth. She’d stopped wearing makeup and jewelry shortly after her marriage. Devin remembered that, too.
Just as he remembered the first time he’d been called out to the house she rented with Joe, answering a complaint from the neighbors. He remembered the fear in her eyes when she’d come to the door, the marks on her face, the way her voice had hitched and trembled when she told him there wasn’t any trouble, there was no trouble at all. She’d slipped and fallen, that was all.
Yes, he remembered that. And his frustration, the hideous sense of impotence that first time, and all the other times he’d had to confront her, to ask her, to quietly offer her alternatives that were just as quietly refused.
There’d been nothing he could do as sheriff to stop what happened inside that house, until the day she finally came into his office—bruised, beaten, terrified—to fill out a complaint.
There was little he could do now as sheriff but offer her friendship.
So he walked out the rear door, a casual smile on his face. “Hey, Cass.”
Alarm came into her eyes first, darkening that lovely gray. He was used to it, though it pained