The two women were sisters, both widowed, and were eager to hear about the Barlow legend. Cassie led them back down the stairs after the tour of the second floor, and was well into her spiel when Devin walked in.

"... the bloodiest single day of the Civil War. The Antietam battlefield is one of the most pristine parks in the country. The visitors' center is only four miles from here, and very informative. You'll find— Oh, hello, Devin."

"Don't let me interrupt. Ladies."

"Mrs. Berman, Mrs. Cox, this is Sheriff MacKade."

"Sheriff." Mrs. Cox adjusted her glasses and beamed through the lenses. "How exciting."

"Antietam's a quiet town," he told her. "Certainly more quiet than it was in September of 1862." Because tourists inevitably enjoyed it, Devin grinned. "You're standing right about on the spot where a Confederate soldier was killed."

"Oh, my goodness!" Mrs. Cox clapped her hands together. "Did you hear that, Irma?"

"Nothing wrong with my ears, Marge." Mrs. Berman peered down at the stairs, as if inspecting for blood. "Mrs. Dolin was telling us something of the history. We decided to visit the inn because we read one of the brochures that claimed it was haunted."

"Yes, ma'am. It surely is."

"Sheriff MacKade's brother owns the inn," Cassie explained. "He can tell you quite a bit about it."

"You can't do better than to hear it from Mrs. Dolin," Devin corrected. "She lives with the ghosts every day. Tell them about the two corporals, Cassie."

Though she told the story several times each week, Cassie had to struggle not to feel self-conscious in front of Devin. She folded her hands over her apron.

"Two young soldiers," she began, "became separated from their regiments during the Battle of Antietam. Each wandered into the woods beyond the inn. Some say they were looking for their way back to the battle, others say they were just trying to go home. Still, legend holds that they met there, fought there, each of them young, frightened, lost. They would have heard the battle still raging in the fields, over the hills, but this was one on one, strangers and enemies because one wore blue, and the other gray."

"Poor boys," Mrs. Berman murmured.

"They wounded each other, badly, and crawled off in different directions. One, the Confederate, made his way here, to this house. It's said he thought he was coming home, because all he wanted, in the end, was his home and his family. One of the servants found him, and brought him into the house. The mistress here was a Southern woman. Her name was Abigail, Abigail O'Brian Barlow. She had married a wealthy Yankee. A man she didn't love, but was bound to by her vows."

Devin's brow lifted. It was a new twist, a new detail, to the legend he had known since childhood.

"She saw the boy, a reminder of her own home and her own youth. Her heart went out to him for that, and simply because he was hurt. She ordered him to be taken upstairs, where his wounds would be tended. She spoke to him, reassured him, held his hand in hers as the servant carried him up these stairs. She knew that she could never go home again, but she wanted to be sure the boy could. The war had shown her cruelty, useless struggle and the terrible pain of loss, as her marriage had. If she could do this one thing, she thought, help this one boy, she could bear it."

Mrs. Cox took out tissues, handed one to her sister and blew her own nose hard.

"But her husband came to the stairs," Cassie continued. "She didn't hate him then. She didn't love him, but she'd been taught to respect and obey the man she had married, and the father of her children. He had a gun, and she saw what he meant to do in his eyes. She shouted for him to stop, begged him. The boy's hand was in hers, and his eyes were on her face, and if she had had the courage, she would have thrown her body over his to protect him. To save not only him, but everything she'd already lost."

Now it was Cassie who looked down at the stairs, sighed over them. "But she didn't have the courage. Her husband fired the gun and killed him, even as she held the boy's hand. He died here, the young soldier. And so did she, in her heart. She never spoke to her husband again, but she learned how to hate. And she grieved from that day until she died, two years later. And often, very often, you can smell the roses she loved in the house, and hear her weeping."

"Oh, what a sad, sad story." Mrs. Cox wiped at her eyes. "Irma, have you ever heard such a sad story?"

Mrs. Berman sniffed. "She'd have done better to have taken the gun and shot the louse."

"Yes." Cassie smiled a little. "Maybe that's one of the reasons she still weeps." She shook off the mood of the story and led the ladies the rest of the way down the steps. "If you'd like to make yourselves at home in the parlor, I'll bring in the tea I promised you."

"That would be lovely," Mrs. Cox told her, still sniffling. "Such a beautiful house. Such lovely furniture."

"All of the furnishings come from Past Times, Mrs. MacKade's shop on Main Street in town. If you have time, you might want to go in and browse. She has beautiful things, and offers a ten-percent discount to any guest of the inn."

"Ten percent," Mrs. Berman murmured, and eyed a graceful hall rack.

"Devin, would you like to have some tea?"

It took an effort to move. He wondered if she knew that Connor got his flair for telling a story from his mother.

"I'll take a rain check on that. I have something in the car for upstairs. For your place."

"Oh."

"Ladies, nice to have met you. Enjoy your stay at the MacKade Inn, and in the town."

"What a handsome man," Mrs. Cox said, with a little pat of her hand to her heart. "My goodness. Irma, have you ever seen a more handsome young man?"

But Mrs. Berman was busy sizing up the drop-leaf table in the parlor.

By the time Cassie had settled the ladies in with their tea, her curiosity was killing her. She had chores to see to, and she scolded herself for letting them lag as she hurried around to the outside stairs.

Halfway up, she saw Devin hooking up a porch swing. "Oh." It made a lovely picture, she thought, a man standing in the sunlight, his shirtsleeves rolled up, tools at his feet, muscles working as he lifted one end of the heavy wooden seat to its chain.

"This seemed like the spot for it."

"Yes, it's perfect. Rafe didn't mention that he wanted one."

"I wanted one," Devin told her. "Don't worry, I ran it by him." He hooked the other end and gave it a testing swing. "Works." Bending, he gathered up the tools. "Going to try it out with me?"

"I really have to—"

"Try it out with me," Devin finished, setting the tools aside in their case. "I put it up because I figured it was a good way to get you to sit with me on a summer afternoon. A good way for me to kiss you again."

"Oh."

"You said you didn't mind."

"No, I didn't. I don't." There it was again, that flutter in her chest. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"It's my day off. Sort of." He held out a hand, then curled his fingers around hers. "You look pretty today, Cassie."

Automatically she brushed at her apron. "I've been cleaning.''

"Real pretty," he murmured, drawing her to the swing, and down.

"I should get you something cold to drink."

"You know, one of these days you're going to figure out that I don't come around so you can serve me cold drinks."

"Connor said you worried about me. You don't have to. I was hoping you'd come by so I could tell you how much I appreciate what you did for him the other day. The way you made him feel."

"I didn't do anything. He earned what he felt. You've got a fine boy in Connor."

"I know." She took a deep breath and relaxed enough to lean back against the seat. The rhythm of the swing took her back, far back, to childhood and sweet days, endless summers. Her lips curved, and then she laughed.

"What's funny?"

"It's just this, sitting here on a porch swing, like a couple of teenagers."

"Well, if you were sixteen again, this would be my next move.'' He lifted up his arms, stretched, then let one drape casually over her shoulders. "Subtle, huh?"

She laughed again, tilted her face toward his. "When I was sixteen, you were too bad to be subtle. Everybody knew how you snuck off to the quarry with girls and—"

The best way to stop her mouth was with his. He did so gently, savoring the quick tremor of her lips, of her body.

"Not so subtle," he said quietly. "Wanna go to the quarry?" When she stuttered, he only laughed. "Some other time. For now I'd settle for you kissing me back. Kiss me back, Cassie, like you were sixteen and didn't have a worry in the world."

With someone else, anyone else, he might have been amused by the concentration on her face. But it struck his heart, the way her mouth lifted to his, that hesitant pressure, the unschooled way her hands lifted to rest on his shoulders.

"Relax," he said against her mouth. "Turn off your head for a minute. Can you do that?"

"I don't..." She didn't turn it off. It shut off when his tongue danced lightly over hers, when his hands skimmed down her sides and up again. Down and up, in firm, steady strokes that had the heels of his hands just brushing the sides of her breasts.

"I love the taste of you." He pressed his lips to her jaw, her temples, back to her lips. "I've dreamed of it."

"You have?"

"Most of my life. I've wanted to be with you like this for years. Forever.''

The words were seeping through that lovely haze of pleasure that covered her whenever he kissed her. "But—"

"You got married." He trailed his lips down her cheek. "I didn't move fast enough. I got drunk the day you married Joe Dolin. Blind, falling-down drunk. I didn't know what else to do. I thought about killing him, but I figured you must have wanted him. So that was that."