The Fall of Shane MacKade (4 page)

Through a buzzing in her head, she heard the barking of dogs, but it barely registered. She studied the chimneys, then the gray shutters that she was sure were functional, rather than merely decorative. She could almost picture herself reaching out, drawing them in to secure the house
against the night's chill—stoking the kitchen fire so that there would still be embers in the morning.

For a moment, the house was so clear, almost stark in its lines and colors against the sky, it might have been a photograph. Then she blinked and let out the breath she hadn't been aware she was holding.

That was it, of course, she realized. A photograph. Regan had described the farm to her, given her such a detailed picture of it, Rebecca decided it was her own memory of that, and her ability to project and retain, that made it all so familiar. So eerily familiar.

She laughed at herself and continued to walk, hesitating only briefly when two large yellow dogs bounded toward her. Regan had told her Shane had dogs, the parents of Regan's golden retriever. Rebecca didn't mind animals. Actually, she rather liked them, in a distant sort of way. But, obviously, these dogs had no intention of keeping their distance. They raced around her, barking, tongues lolling, tails batting back and forth in a flurry of fur.

“Nice dogs.” At least she hoped they were and held out a testing hand. When her fingers were sniffed, then licked lavishly, rather than taken off at the knuckle, she relaxed. “Nice dogs,” she repeated more firmly, and drummed up the nerve to rub each yellow head. “Nice, big dogs. Fred and Ethel, right?”

In agreement, each dog gave a throaty bark and raced back toward the house. Taking that as an invitation, Rebecca followed.

Pigs, she thought, and stopped by the pen to study them clinically. They weren't nearly as sloppy as she'd imagined. But they were certainly larger than she'd imagined a pig to be. When they grunted and snorted and crowded near the fence where she stood, she grinned. She was bending
down to stick a hand through the slats of the fence to test the texture of pig hide when a voice stopped her.

“They'll bite.”

Her hand snapped back out like a rocket. There was Shane, standing two yards away, carrying a very large wrench. Her mind went utterly blank. It wasn't fear, though he did look dangerous. It was, she would realize later, absolute sexual shock.

There were smears of grease on his arms, arms that gleamed with sweat and rippled with muscle. Arms, she thought dazedly, that were stunningly naked. He wore a thin tank-style undershirt that had probably once been white. It was a dull, washed-out gray now, snug, ripped and tucked into low-slung jeans that were worn white at the knees. He had a blue bandanna wrapped around his forehead as a sweatband, with all that wonderful black hair curling over it in a glorious tangle.

And he was smiling. A smile, Rebecca was sure, that reflected an easy knowledge of his effect on the female system.

“Bite,” she repeated, fighting off the erotic cloud that covered her like fine rain.

“That's right, sweetie.” He tucked the wrench into his back pocket as he walked to her. She looked so cute, he thought, standing there in her shapeless jacket, those gold eyes squinting against the sun. “They're greedy. If you don't have food in your hand when you stick it in, they'll make do with your fingers.” Casually he took her hand in his, examined her fingers one by one. “Nice fingers, too. Long and slim.”

“Yours are dirty.” She was amazed the words didn't come out in a croak.

“I've been working.”

“So I see.” She managed a friendly smile as she drew her hand free. “I don't mean to interrupt.”

“It's all right.” He ruffled the dogs, who had come back
to join the company. “The rake needed some adjustment, that's all.”

Her brows shot up. “You get that dirty fixing a rake?”

His dimple flashed. “I'm not talking about a stick with tines on the end, city girl. Been over to the inn?”

“Yes. I met Cassie. She showed me through. She's going to give me a lift back to Regan's when I'm ready. Since I was in the neighborhood…” She trailed off and looked back into the pen. “I've never seen pigs close up. I wondered what they felt like.”

“Mostly they feel like eating.” Then he smiled again. “They're bristly,” he told her. “Like a stiff brush. Not very pettable.”

“Oh.” She would have liked to see for herself, but wanted to keep her fingers just as they were. Instead, she turned around and took a long scan of the farm. “It's quite a place. Why haven't you planted anything over there?”

“Land needs to rest for a season now and again.” He glanced toward the fallow field near the woods. “You don't really want a lecture on crop rotation, do you?”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “But not right now.”

“So…” He laid a hand on the fence beside her. A standard flirtation ploy, Rebecca thought, and told herself she was above such maneuvers. “What
do
you want?”

“A look around. If I wouldn't be in your way.” Instinct urged her to hunch her shoulders, shift away, but she kept her chin up and her eyes on his.

“Pretty women aren't ever in the way.” He took off the bandanna, used it to wipe his hands before sticking it in his pocket. “Come on.”

Before she could evade, or think to, he had her hand in his. The texture of his palm registered. Hard, rough with calluses, strong. As they skirted around a shed, she had a glimpse of a large, dangerous-looking piece of machinery with wicked teeth.

“That's a rake,” he said mildly.

“What were you doing to it?”

“Fixing it.”

He headed toward the barn. Most city people, he knew, wanted to see a barn. But when they passed the chicken coop, she stopped.

“You raise chickens, too. For eggs?”

“For eggs, sure. And for eating.”

Her skin went faintly green. “You eat your own chickens?”

“Sweetie, at least I know what goes into my own. Why would I pick up a pack of chicken parts at the market?”

She made some sound and looked back over her shoulder, toward the pigpen. Reading her perfectly, Shane grinned. “Want to stay for dinner?”

“No, thank you,” she said faintly.

He just couldn't help himself. “Ever been to a hog butchering? It's quite an event. Real social. We usually hold one out here once a year, hook it up with a fund-raiser for the fire department. Hog butchering and all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast.”

She pressed a hand to her unsteady stomach. “You're making that up.”

“Nope. You haven't tasted sausage until—”

“I'm thinking about becoming a vegetarian,” she said quickly, but pulled herself together. “That was nicely done, farm boy.”

“It was a little too hard to resist.” Appreciating her quick recovery, he gave her hand a quick squeeze. “You had this look in your eyes like you were calculating every squeal and cluck, filing it away somewhere for a report on the average American farm.”

“Maybe I was.” She shielded her eyes with the flat of her hand so that she could study his face. He really was a most remarkable-looking male. “Details interest me. So
do reports. Enough details, and you have a report. A good report equals a clear picture.”

“Seems to me somebody who's into details, reports and clear pictures wouldn't be out chasing ghosts.”

“If scientists hadn't been interested in explaining the unknown, you'd still be working your land with a stone ax and offering sacrifices to the sun god.”

With that she stepped into the barn. Stalls and concrete floors that sloped. Hay, motes of dust that tickled the nose. The light was dimmer here, and the scent of animal stronger.

Rebecca strolled toward the stalls, then let out a shriek as an enormous bovine head poked over a door and mooed at her.

“She's got an infection,” Shane said, and wisely disguised a chuckle with a cough. “Had to separate her from the rest of the stock.”

Rebecca's heart was slowly making its way from her throat back down to its proper place. “Oh. She's huge.”

“Actually, she's on the small side. You can touch her. Here, top of the head.” Taking Rebecca's reluctant hand, he held it between his and the cow. Rebecca was hard-pressed to decide which texture was tougher.

“Will she be all right?”

“Yeah, she's coming along.”

“You treat the stock yourself? Don't you use a vet?”

“Not for every little thing.” He liked the feel of her hand under his, the way it tensed, then slowly relaxed. The way her fingers were spread now and stroking curiously over the uninterested cow. “You don't run to the doctor every time you sneeze, do you?”

“No.” She smiled, turned her head. “But I don't imagine you can find cow antibiotics at the local pharmacy.”

“Feed and grain store carries most of what you need.” But what he was interested in at the moment was the way
she looked at him. So cool, so objective. She presented a challenge he couldn't resist. Deliberately he skimmed his gaze down to her mouth. “What do you do with all those degrees Regan says you have?”

“Collect them.” With an effort, she kept her voice light. “And use them like building blocks, to get to the next.”

“Why?”

“Because knowledge is power.” Remembering that, and using the knowledge that he was teasing her with his easy sexuality, gave her the power to step aside. “You know, I am interested in the farm itself, and when we've got more time I hope you'll show me more of it. But what I'd really like to see now is the house and the kitchen where the young soldier died.”

“We mopped up the blood a long time ago.”

“That's good to hear.” She cocked her head. “Is there a problem?”

Yeah, there was a problem. There were a couple of them. The first was that she was flicking him off as if he were a fly. “Regan asked me to cooperate, so I will. For her. But I don't much care for the idea of you poking around my house looking for ghosts.”

“Certainly you're not afraid of what I might find.”

“I'm not afraid of anything.” She'd touched a nerve. A raw one. “I said I just don't like it.”

“Why don't we go in, you can offer me a cold drink, and we'll see if we can come to some sort of compromise?”

It was hard to argue with reason. He took her hand again, more out of habit than in flirtation. By the time they reached the back door, he'd decided to give flirtation another shot. She smelled damn good, for a scientist.

He'd never kissed a scientist, he mused. Unless you counted Bess Trulane, the dental hygienist. He had a feeling that cool, sarcastic mouth of Rebecca's would be quite tasty.

“Got some iced tea,” he offered.

“Great.” It was all she said as she stood just inside the door, looking around with dark, seeking eyes.

Something. She was sure there was something here, some sensation just out of reach, blocked, she thought, by that almost overpowering male aura Shane exuded. It clouded things, she thought, annoyed. It certainly clouded the brain.

But there was something here, amid the scrubbed tiles, the spotless counters, the old but sparkling appliances.

It was a good-size kitchen, homey, with its glass-fronted cupboards showing the everyday dishes. What she imagined one would call a family kitchen—plenty of elbow room, big wooden table, sturdy chairs with cane seats. The morning paper was still on the table, where he had left it, she supposed, after reading it with his morning coffee.

There were little pots of green plants on the windowsill. She recognized them by scent, as well as sight. Rosemary, basil, thyme. The man grew herbs in his kitchen. It would have made her smile, if she hadn't been trying to get beyond him into what the room held for her.

Shane held two glasses filled with golden tea as he frowned at her. Those eyes of hers were sharp, as alert as a doe's. And her shoulders, under that oversize jacket, were stiff as boards. It made him nervous, and just a little angry, that she was studying his things and seeing something that he didn't.

“Never seen a kitchen before?”

Pasting a cool smile on her face, she turned to him. She needed to be alone here, she decided. A few minutes alone, and maybe she would get beyond that block. “It's amazingly sexist of me, but I didn't expect to find it so tidy and organized. You know, the cheerful bachelor, living alone, entertaining willing women and poker buddies.”

This time he lifted a brow. “I don't usually entertain them at the same time.” He handed her the glass. “My mother was pretty fierce about keeping the kitchen clean. You eat here, you cook here. It's like making sure the milk house is sanitized.”

“The milk house.” It had a charming sound to it. “I'd like to see that next time.”

“Come by about 6:00 a.m., you can see it in operation. Don't you want to take off that jacket? It's warm.” And he wanted to see what was under it.

“I'm fine.” She moved to the back window. “Lovely view. All the windows I've looked out of since I've been here have lovely views. Do you get immune to them?”

“No. You get proprietary.” To please himself, he skimmed a finger over the back of her neck. She went as still as a stone. “You've got pretty hair, Rebecca. At least, what there is of it. Of course, chopped off like this, it shows the line of your neck, and it's a nice neck. Long and white and smooth.”

She recited a chunk of the periodic table in her head, so that she was calm when she turned to him. Thinking it a defense rather than a challenge, she cocked a brow, and her lips curved into an amused smile.

“Are you hitting on me, farm boy?”

Damned if he didn't want a piece of her, he realized with more than a little irritation. He particularly wanted that piece that made her voice so cool and smug.

“I've got a curiosity.” He set his glass on the counter behind her, then took hers and placed it beside his. In a smooth, well-practiced move, he caged her in. “Don't you?”