The Mackades Collection (Books 1-4). Nora Roberts
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about people under the age of sixteen.
As a test, he turned the knob. It was somewhat satisfying to find it locked tight. He knocked sharply, stepped back. It was Regan who opened it, as far as the thick security chain allowed.
“Okay, so far you’re passing. But you should have asked who it was first.”
“I looked out the window.” She shut the door in his face, then, after a rattle of chain, opened it. “I had the feeling there’d be a quiz.” Smiling, she studied the offerings. “No lilacs?”
“No chance.” He would have kissed her if he hadn’t noticed the solemn gray eyes watching him from the cushions of the sofa. “Looks like you’ve got a mouse in the house.”
Regan jerked, then smiled when she saw Emma. “She’s quiet as one, but prettier. Emma, this is Mr. MacKade. You met him at Ed’s, remember?” Regan held out a hand. Eyeing him warily, Emma slipped from the couch.
She was five, Rafe knew, and tiny as a fairy princess, with her mother’s pale hair and smoky eyes.
“I knew your mama when she was your age,” he told her.
Emma darted behind Regan’s legs and peered up at him.
Knowing it was a shameless bribe, he shook the bakery box. “Want a cookie, honey?”
That earned him the faintest of smiles, but Regan took the box out of his hands. “Not before dinner.”
“Spoilsport. But dinner smells good.”
“Cassie’s chicken and dumplings. I had to practically tie her down to keep her from taking the kids and eating at the diner. We compromised and had her cook dinner. Come on, Emma, we’ll take the cookies in the kitchen.”
With one hand clutching Regan’s slacks, Emma darted looks over her shoulder.
She thought he was big, but his eyes weren’t mean. She’d already learned how to read eyes. And he looked a lot like the sheriff, who sometimes picked her up and gave her lemon drops.
But Emma watched her mother carefully to gauge her reaction to the man.
Cassie looked up from the stove and smiled. “Hi, Rafe.”
He moved to her, lightly kissed her bruised cheek. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, everything’s fine.” She laid a hand on the shoulder of the boy beside her. “Connor, you remember Mr. MacKade.”
“Nice to see you again, Connor.” Rafe offered a hand. The little boy with the pale hair and the dusky blue eyes shook hands hesitantly. “You’d be, what, in third, fourth grade?”
“Third, yes, sir.”
Rafe lifted a brow and passed the bottle of wine to Regan. That would make him about eight, Rafe figured, and the kid spoke as quietly as an old priest. “Miz Witt still teaching there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We used to call her Miz Dimwit.” When the boy’s eyes widened, Rafe plucked a carrot from beside the salad bowl. “Bet you still do.”
“Yes, sir,” Connor mumbled, slanting a look at his mother. “Sometimes.” Screwing up the courage he’d worked on building ever since he’d been told Rafe MacKade was coming, Connor drew in his breath. “You bought the Barlow Place.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s haunted.”
Rafe bit off some carrot and grinned. “You bet.”
“I know all about the battle and everything,” Connor said in one quick burst. “It was the bloodiest day of the Civil War, and nobody really won, because—” He broke off, embarrassed. This, he thought miserably, was why some of the kids called him nerdhead in school.
“Because nobody went for the final push,” Rafe finished for him. “Maybe you’d like to come by the house sometime, take a look. I could use somebody who knows all about the battle.”
“I’ve got a book. With pictures.”
“Yeah?” Rafe took the wine Regan offered him. “Let’s see.”
It was simple enough to draw the boy out, as long as they were discussing McClellan’s flawed strategy or the Battle of Burnside Bridge. Rafe saw a bright, needy boy, too bookish to fit neatly with his contemporaries, too shy to showcase his own brain.
The girl, a miniature of her mother, never strayed far from Cassie or Regan, ate her dinner in small, neat bites. And watched him like a baby hawk.
“Ed would be better off having you in the kitchen than waiting tables,” Rafe commented after he’d polished off a second helping. “Her business would double in a month.”
Off guard, Cassie blinked at him. No one had complimented her cooking in too many years to count. “I’m glad you liked it. I could put some of the leftovers in a dish for you. You’d just have to heat them up.”
“I’ll take them.”
When Cassie rose and began to clear, Regan held up a hand. “No, you don’t. You cooked, I clear.”
“But—”
“That was the deal. And since Rafe ate enough for two growing boys, he can help.”
The Dolins looked on, awed, as Rafe cheerfully stacked plates. The men they knew would have belched, loosened their belts and plopped down in front of the TV with a six-pack.
“Daddy says girls and sissies do dishes,” Emma announced, in a surprisingly clear voice.
“Emma!” Paling, Cassie stared at Rafe and waited for the retribution.
He considered making a comment about her father’s brains but decided against it. “My mama always said a meal has to be earned.” He said it lightly and winked at her. “And if I do the dishes with Regan, I’ll probably be able to kiss her.”
“Why?”
“Because she tastes almost as good as your mama’s chicken and dumplings.”
Satisfied with that, Emma nibbled solemnly on her cookie.
“I’ll just give Emma her bath, then.” Flustered, Cassie shooed her children along. “I have to turn in early. I have the breakfast shift in the morning.”
“Thanks for dinner, Cassie.”
“You handled that very well,” Regan murmured. “That’s probably the first time in years they’ve sat at the dinner table with a man and had a civilized conversation.”
“Dolin’s not only a swine, he’s a fool.” Rafe set stacked plates on the kitchen counter. “Sweet woman like that, beautiful kids. Any man would be lucky to have them.”
A home of your own, Rafe mused. A woman who loved you. Kids racing out to meet you at the end of the day. Family meals around a table. Noise in the kitchen.
Funny, he’d never thought that was something he’d wanted, or needed.
“You made an impression,” Regan went on as she filled the sink with hot, soapy water. “A good one. I can’t think of anything better for all of them than seeing a strong, intelligent man behaving in a strong, intelligent way.”
She glanced back, and her smile faltered at the look in his eye. She was used to the way he stared at her, or she nearly was. But this was different, deeper.
“What is it?”
“Hmm?” He caught himself, realized he felt like a man who had nearly skidded hard and landed on very thin ice. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” Good God, he’d actually been thinking about marriage and kids and picket fences. “The boy, Connor. He’s awfully bright, isn’t he?”
“Straight As,” Regan said, as proudly as if he were