'Yes, sir.' He scrambled off the rocks, then had to bite his lip to spark that last bit of courage. 'Can I come to your office sometime, and watch you work?'
'Sure.'
'I wouldn't get in the way. I'd just—' Connor tumbled over his own words and skidded to a halt. 'I can?'
'Sure you can. Anytime. It's mostly boring.'
'It couldn't be,' Connor said with giddy pleasure. 'Thanks, Sheriff. Thanks for everything.'
Devin watched the boy race off, then settled back. He wished briefly for a cigarette before reminding himself he was quitting. Then he reminded himself that sooner or later he intended to have those two children, and maybe another on the way.
Connor didn't want another father, and that would be a tough one. So, Devin mused, he'd just have to find the right path to take, and step carefully.
The first step, of course, was Cassie. One step, then the next. Direction always took you somewhere. If he was careful, she would be taking those steps with him.
Chapter 6
It was supposed to be Devin's day off, but he spent two hours in the morning dealing with a small crisis at the high school. The smoke bomb had failed in its mission. When it landed in the girl's locker room, it hadn't put out much of a cloud, and, more important, hadn't made the girls come rushing out screaming in their underwear.
The one he'd put together a short lifetime ago had had far more satisfying results. Not that he'd mentioned that particular incident to the two offenders he collared.
Once he had it under control, and the juvenile chemists shaking in their basketball shoes, he headed straight for the inn.
He had a surprise for Cassie, one he hoped would make her smile. And one he hoped would ease the way into that next step.
He supposed he had an unfair advantage. He knew her so well, had watched and observed for years. He knew every expression of her face, every gesture of her hands. He knew her weaknesses and her strengths.
She knew him, he thought, but not in the same way, or in the same detail. She'd been too busy surviving to notice. If she had noticed, she would have been able to see that he was in love with her.
It was just as well she didn't see. Not until he'd finished laying the foundation. He could take his time about that, Devin mused as he turned up the lane toward the inn. But once he had that foundation in place and solid, he was going to move fast.
Twelve years was a damn long time to wait.
Because there was a car parked in one of the guest slots, he opted to go into the inn first. He was delighted to find her there, fully occupied with two snowy-haired women.
She'd forgotten to take her apron off. The new arrivals had come unexpectedly, and they had wanted a full tour, and the history of the inn. Cassie was grateful she'd finished the breakfast dishes, even though she'd been caught in the middle of vacuuming.
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
