"Invite me to dinner," he said abruptly.

"You want to come to dinner?"

"Ask me to dinner, so I can get to know the kids, so they'll get used to me being around."

"Now who's pigheaded?" But she sighed. It was a reasonable compromise. "All right, seven-thirty, and you're out by ten."

"Can we neck on the couch after the kids go to bed?"

"Maybe. Now go away."

' 'Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?"

She huffed out a breath, then kissed him primly on the cheek. "Business hours," she said, then laughed when he grabbed her. "Rafe, we're right in front of the window. I—"

The rest was lost as he crushed his mouth to hers. "Might as well give them something to talk about." And give her something to think about, he told himself. She was damn well going to do a lot of thinking about Rafe MacKade.

He nipped her lip, let her go, then sauntered out the door.

A block away, Cassie sat in Devin's office, twisting her hands together. She knew it should be easier because it was Devin, someone she'd known all her life. But it only made the shame worse.

"I'm sorry, we got busy, and I couldn't take my break until now."

"That's all right, Cassie." It had become habit to keep his voice quiet when he spoke to her, as a man might speak to a wounded bird. "I've got the paperwork filled out for you. You just have to sign it."

"He's not going to go to jail."

A fist squeezed his heart at the emptiness in her tone. "No."

"Is it because I let him hit me?"

"No." He wished he could reach out to soothe those nervous hands. But the desk was between them, an official barrier. "He admitted that he hurt you, but the court took other things into consideration. His drinking problem, his loss of a longtime job. He'll have to go into counseling, report to his probation officer. Stay out of trouble."

"It could be good for him." She looked up, then, just as quickly, down again. "The counseling. If he stops drinking, maybe everything would be all right."

"Yeah." And he could run a Popsicle stand in hell, Devin thought. "In the meantime, you need to protect yourself. That's what the restraining order's for."

She lifted her gaze again, and this time her eyes held his. "That paper is going to keep him from coming back?"

Devin grabbed a cigarette out of his pack, then tossed it down. When he spoke, his voice was cool and official. "This bars him from coming near you. He can't come into the diner when you're working there. He can't approach you on the street, or come to Regan's house as long as you're staying there. If he breaks any one of the regulations set down here, he'll void his parole and serve the eighteen months."

"He knows about this?"

"He's been notified."

She moistened her lips. He couldn't come near her. The idea whirled around in her head. If he couldn't come near her, he couldn't hit her.

"I only have to sign it."

"Yes, you only have to sign it." Devin rose then, came around the desk to offer her a pen. When she made no move to take it, he bit back an oath. "Cas-sie, what do you want? Can you just tell me what you want?"

She shook her head, took the pen. She signed her name quickly, as though it hurt. "I know I've put you through a lot of trouble, Devin."

"It's my job," he said shortly.

"You're a good sheriff." When he glanced back, obviously surprised, she tried to smile. "You are, quiet and competent and good with people. Everyone knows they can count on you. My mother always said you and your brothers would end up behind bars." She flushed and stared down at the floor. "I'm sorry. That was stupid."

"No, it wasn't. I used to think the same myself." He smiled then, because just for a moment she'd sounded like the girl he remembered. "You know, Cass, that's about the longest little speech I've heard out of you in close to ten years."

"I'm always putting my foot in my mouth."

"Don't do that." He'd taken her chin to lift her head before he realized he meant to—before she flinched like a startled doe. Moving with care, he dropped his hand, eased a hip on the corner of the desk. "How are the kids?"

"They're all right. Better."

"Getting along all right at Regan's?"

"She's wonderful. I forget I'm imposing, because she makes everything so normal. She and Rafe—" She broke off, her color rising again. "You've got better things to do than listen to me gossip."

"No, I don't." He'd have done anything to keep her talking. To keep her there. "What do you think about them? Regan and Rafe?"

"I— She looked happy when she came home this morning."

"He looked miserable when I dropped by the house this morning."

Her smile was slow and shy. "That's a good sign. Rafe always needed a woman who could make him unhappy. It was always too easy for him. For all of you."

"Was it?" Thoughtful, he picked up his cigarette again, ran it through his fingers. "I remember you turned me down."

"Oh." Fumbling, she rose. "That was a hundred years ago."

"Not quite twelve. You were sweet sixteen."

"I was going with Joe." As she tugged on her coat, she wondered if she'd really ever been sixteen. "I can't even remember who we were then, or what we were looking for. Thanks, Devin, for taking care of this." "That's what I'm here for, to take care of things." At the door, she paused, but didn't look back. It was easier to speak if she didn't have to look into those cool, pitying eyes. "You asked me what I wanted, Devin. I just want to feel safe." She said it so quietly, he barely heard. "That's really all."

In a coat that was too thin to fight off the biting wind, she walked back to the cafe.

Rafe arrived ten minutes early for dinner and squirmed on Regan's doorstep like a nervous suitor. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a bakery box of cookies designed to win the kids over in the other.

He wished he'd remembered before his brainstorm that he knew nothing 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.