She slipped into the room beyond the parlor, dreaming a bit.

This would be the library—glossy shelves filled with books, deep-cushioned chairs inviting a guest to curl up to read. A library table would stand there, she mused, a Sheraton if she could find one, with a decanter of brandy, a vase of seasonal flowers, an old pewter inkwell.

library steps, of course, she continued visualizing, seeing it all perfectly, almost to the grain of wood. And the wide-backed chairs near the crackling fire would need cozy footstools.

She wanted a reading stand in the far corner, one with a cabriole base. She'd set a big, old Bible with gilt-edged pages open on it.

Abigail O'Brian, married to Charles Richard

Barlow, April 10, 1856

Catherine Anne Barlow, born June 5,1857

Charles Richard Barlow, Junior, born November

22,1859

Robert Michael Barlow, born February 9,1861

Abigail Barlow, died September 18,1864


Regan shivered, swayed. She came back to herself slowly, her arms wrapped tight to ward off the sudden, bitter cold, her heart pounding as the vision faded from in front of her eyes.

How had she known that? she wondered, running a shaky hand over her face. Where had those names and dates come from?

She'd read them somewhere, she assured herself, but shuddered again. All the research she'd done, of course she'd read them. Very slowly, she backed out of the room and stood in the hall to catch her breath.

Of course she'd known the Barlows of that time had had three children. She'd looked it up. The dates must have been there, as well—she'd retained them for some reason, that was all.

Not for anything would she have admitted that she had thought, just for a moment, that she'd actually seen the thick white page of a Bible opened, and the names and dates written there in a carefully formal hand.

She walked to the stairs and climbed them.

He'd left the door open this time. When she reached the landing, she heard the scrape of his trowel against the wall. Letting out a relieved breath, she crossed the hall.

And was warm again, just looking at him.

"Need a hand?"

He glanced back, saw her standing there in her classic sweater and pleated trousers. "Not in that outfit. I just wanted to get this coat finished, and I thought you needed some sleep."

She contented herself with leaning against the doorway to watch him. "Why is it that manual labor is so attractive on some men?"

"Some women like to see guys sweat."

"Apparently I do." Thoughtfully she studied his technique, the slide of the trowel, the flick of the wrist. "You know, you're better at this than the guy who did my place over the shop. Very tidy."

"I hate drywall work."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"I like when it's finished. And I'm faster than the team I hired."

"How did you learn?"

"We were always having to fix something out at the farm." He twisted his neck, cracking out kinks. "When I left, I did a lot of handyman stuff."

"Then started your own company."

"I don't like working for somebody else."

"Neither do I." She hesitated, waiting while he scraped off his tools. "Where did you go? When you left?"

"South." He stooped to bang the top back on the bucket of compound. "Picked up some jobs here and there. Figured out I was better at swinging a hammer than running a plow." Out of habit, he reached into his shirt pocket, found it empty. Swore. "Quit smoking," he muttered.

"Good for you."

"It's driving me nuts." To keep himself busy, he walked over to check a seam he'd finished the night before.

"You went to Florida," she said prompting him.

"Yeah, that's where I ended up. Lots of construction work in Florida. I started buying houses-dumps—fixing them up, turning them over. Did pretty well. So I came back." He turned to her. "That's about it."

"I wasn't prying," she began.

"I didn't say you were. There just isn't much to it, Regan. I had a rep when I left here. Spent my last night in town in a bar fight. With Joe Dolin."

"I wondered if there was history there," she murmured.

"Not much of one." He slipped off the bandanna he'd twisted at his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes, stuffed it in his pocket. "We just hated each other's guts."

"I'd say your taste in enemies is excellent."

Restless again, he moved his shoulders. "If it hadn't been him, it would have been somebody else. I was in the mood that night." His grin flashed, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Hell, I was usually in the mood to cause trouble. Nobody ever figured I'd amount to anything, not even me."

If he was trying to tell her something, she wasn't sure she quite understood it. "It looks as though they were wrong. Even you."

"People are going to talk, about us." He'd thought about it, as he watched her sleep, finding himself restless and edgy and needing to move. "You're going to walk into Ed's or Kingston's Market, and conversation's going to take a hitch. And when you walk out again, people are going to start talking about what that nice Bishop woman is doing with that troublemaker Rafe MacKade."

"I've been here three years, Rafe. I know how it works."

He needed something to do with his hands, so he picked up sandpaper and attacked the first dry seam. "I don't imagine you've given them much to gossip about up to now."

He worked as if the devil were looking over his shoulder, she thought. It seemed he did everything with that controlled urgency just under the surface.

"I was pretty hot news when I opened the shop. What's this flatlander doing taking over old Leroy's place, selling antiques instead of screws and pipe fittings?" She smiled a little. "That got me a lot of browsers, and a good many browsers became customers." She angled her head, watching him. "Something like this should pick business up dramatically for a few weeks."

"I want you to understand what you're getting into."

"It's a little late for that." Because she sensed he needed some prodding, she obliged. "Maybe you're worried about your reputation."

"Right." Dust flew as he sanded. "I was thinking of running for mayor."

"No, your bad-boy rep. 'MacKade must be getting soft, hanging around that nice Bishop woman. Next thing you know, he'll be buying flowers instead of a six-pack. Bet she'll whip him into shape.'"

Curious, he tossed the sandpaper aside, tucked his thumbs in his front pockets and turned to look at her. "Is that what you're going to try to do, Regan? Whip me into shape?"

"Is that what you're worried about, MacKade? That I could?"

It wasn't a comfortable thought. "Legions have tried." He walked over, skimmed a dusty finger down her cheek. "It'd be easier for me to corrupt you, darling. I could have you playing nine-ball at Duff's Tavern in no time."

"I could have you quoting Shelley."

"Shelley who?"

With a chuckle, she rose on her toes to give him a friendly kiss. "Percy Bysshe Shelley. Better watch yourself."

The idea of that was so ridiculous, his tensed shoulders relaxed. "Darling, the day I start spouting poetry's the day Shane's prize hog sprouts wings and flies down Main Street."

She smiled again, kissed him again. "You don't want to make it a bet. Come on, I'd like to take a look at the work in progress."

He snatched her hand. "What kind of bet?"

She laughed, tugged him into the hall. "Rafe, I'm joking. Give me a tour."

"Just hold on. MacKades never back down from a dare."

"I'm daring you to quote Shelley?" She sighed, shook her head. "Okay, I dare you."

"No, that's not how it works." Considering, he lifted her hand, nibbled on her fingers. The flicker of arousal in her eyes inspired him. "I say I can have you so crazy about me within a month that you'll wiggle into a leather miniskirt. A red one. Walk into the tavern for beer and nine-ball."

Arousal turned quickly into amusement. "What odd fantasies you have, MacKade. Can you actually see me in some tarty little skirt, playing pool?"

The smile turned wicked. "Oh, yeah. I can see that just fine. Make sure you wear those really high heels, too. The skinny ones."

"I never wear leather without stilettos. Anything less would be tacky."

"And no bra."

Her laughed puffed out. "Really into this, aren't you?"

"I'm getting there. You'll do it, too." He cupped a hand on her hip to nudge her closer. "Because you'll be crazy about me."

"It's obvious one of us has already lost our mind. Okay." Not one to refuse a challenge, she put a hand on his chest, pushed him back. "I say within that same period of time, I'll have you on your knees, clutching a bouquet of... ah... lilacs—"

"Lilacs?"

"Yes, I'm very fond of lilacs. You'll quote Shelley like a champ."

"What's the winner get?"

"Satisfaction."

He had to smile. "That ought to be enough. Deal."

They shook hands on it. "Am I going to get that tour now?"

"Sure." He draped an arm around her shoulder and entertained himself with the vision of those very fine legs beneath a tight red skirt. "We went with your idea of a kind of bridal suite." He led the way down the hall, opened a six-paneled door. "Just about ready for trim work in here."

"Rafe." Delighted, she stepped inside.

The delicate floral wallpaper was nearly all hung. The coffered ceiling gleamed with fresh paint. French doors were in place, and would one day open onto the wide porch, overlook gardens in riotous bloom. The floor was covered with drop cloths, but she could imagine it glossy and accented with a lovely faded tapestry rug.

She stepped around buckets and ladders, already arranging furniture in her head. "It's going to be beautiful," she murmured.