complications underneath.
He would certainly make an interesting study.
However
'The lady doesn't come in here.'
Fingers still poised on the keyboard, Rebecca glanced up and saw Emma in the doorway. 'Hello. Is school out?'
'Uh-huh. Mama said to come tell you she has coffee and cookies if you want.' Very much at home, Emma wandered in, gazing wide-eyed at the machines. 'You have a lot of stuff.'
'I know. I guess you could say they're my toys. Who's the lady?'
'She's the one who used to live here. She cries, like Mama used to. Didn't you hear her?'
'No. When?'
With calm and friendly eyes, Emma smiled. 'Just now. She was crying while you were typing. But she never comes in here.'
A quick, cold shiver spurted down Rebecca's spine. 'You heard her, just now?'
'She cries a lot.' Emma walked over to the computer and solemnly read the words on the monitor. 'Sometimes I go to her room, and she stops crying. Mama says she likes company.'
'I see.' Rebecca was careful to keep her tone light. 'And when you hear her crying, how does it make you feel?'
'It used to make me sad. But now I know sometimes crying can make you feel better when you're finished.'
In spite of herself, Rebecca smiled. 'That's very true.'
'Are you going to take pictures of the lady?'
'I hope so. Have you ever seen her?'
'No, but I think she's pretty, because she smells pretty.' Emma offered another quick, elfin smile. 'You smell pretty, too.'
'Thanks. Do you like living in the house, Emma, with the lady and everything?'
'It's nice. But we're going to build our own house, near the farm, because we're a big family now. Mama will still work here, so I can come whenever I want. Are you writing a story? Connor writes stories.'
'No, not exactly. It's like a diary, really. Just things I want to remember, or read over sometime. But I'm going to write a story about Antietam.'
'Can I be in it?'
'Oh, I think you have to be.' She ran a hand over Emma's springy golden curls. It was lovely to discover that, yes, she did seem to appeal to children. And they appealed, very much, to her. 'I hope you'll tell me all about the lady.'
'My name's Emma MacKade now. The judge said it could be. So I'll be Emma MacKade in the story.'
'You certainly will be.' Rebecca shut down her machine. 'Let's go get some cookies.'
She hadn't intended to walk over to the farm. She'd set out to take a stroll in the woods—or so she'd told herself. To take some air, clear her mind, stretch her legs.
But she was out of the trees and crossing the fields before she knew it.
She couldn't say why it made her smile to see the house. She hoped it was late enough in the day that Shane was settled in somewhere, or off with one of his lady friends. She knew that farm work started early in the day, so it seemed safe to assume it would be done by now.
She could see that part of a hayfield had been mowed, but there was no tractor, or whatever was used to cut it, in sight now. She was sorry she'd missed the action. Undoubtedly Shane MacKade riding through the fields on a large, powerful machine would make quite an interesting picture.
But it was really solitude she wanted, before she went back to her rooms and hunkered down with her equipment and notes for the rest of the night.
That was why she veered away from the house, rather than toward it.
She liked the smells here, found them oddly familiar. Some deeply buried memory, she supposed. Perhaps a former life. She was really going to start exploring the theory of reincarnation sometime soon. Fascinating subject.
Because she knew the story of the two corporals well, she wandered toward the outbuildings. She didn't know precisely what a smokehouse might look like, but Regan had told her it was stone, and that it still stood.
There were wildflowers in the grass, little blue stars, yellow cups, tall, lacy spears of white. Charmed, she forgot her mission and began to gather a few. Beyond where she stood was a meadow, lushly green, starred with color from more wild blooms and the flutter of butterflies.
Had she ever taken time to walk in a meadow? she wondered. No, never. Her botany studies had been brief, and crowded with Latin names rather than with enjoyment.
So, she would enjoy it now. Light of heart, she walked toward the wide field of high grass, noting the way the sun slanted, the way the flowers swayed— danced, really—in the light breeze.
Then her throat began to ache, and her heartbeat thickened. For a moment there was such a terrible sadness, such a depth of loneliness, she nearly staggered. Her fingers clutched tightly at the flowers she'd picked.
She moved through the high grass, among the thistles shooting up purple puffs on thick stalks, and the sorrow clutched in her stomach like a fist. She stopped, watched butterflies flicker, listened to birds chirping. The strong sun warmed her skin, but inside she was so very cold.
What else could we have done? she asked herself, shivering with a grief that wasn't her own, yet was stunningly real.
Opening her hand, she let the flowers fall in the meadow grass at her feet. The tears stinging her eyes left her shaken, baffled. As carefully as a soldier in a minefield, she backed away from where her flowers lay in the grass.
Done about what? she wondered, a little frantic now. Where had the question come from, and what could it possibly mean? Then she turned, taking slow, deliberate breaths, and left the meadow behind.
All those strong, confusing emotions faded so that she began to doubt she'd ever felt them. Perhaps it was just that she was a little lonely, or that it was lowering to realize she wasn't a woman to gather wildflowers or walk in meadows.
She was a creature of books and classrooms, of facts and theory. She'd been born that way. Certainly she'd been raised that way, uncompromisingly. The brilliant child of brilliant parents who had outlined and dictated her world so well, and for so long, that she was fully adult before she thought to question and rebel. Even in such a small way.
And the life she wanted to create for herself was still so foreign. Even now, she was thinking of going back, of keeping to her timetable, of sitting down with her equipment. No matter that it was something out of the ordinary that she intended to study, it was still studying.
Damn it.
Jamming her hands in her pockets, she deliberately turned away from the direction that would take her back to the inn. She would have her walk first, she ordered herself. She'd pick more wildflowers if she wanted to. Next time, she'd take off her shoes and walk in the meadow.
She was muttering to herself when she saw the cows, bumping together under a three-sided shed that was attached to the milk barn. Didn't cows belong in the fields? she wondered. There were so many of them crowded together there, munching on what she supposed was hay or alfalfa.
Curious, she walked closer, keeping some distance only because she wasn't entirely sure cows were as friendly as they looked. But when they didn't seem the least concerned with her, she moved closer.
And heard him singing.
'One for the morning glory, two for the early dew, three for the man who stands his ground and four for the love of you...'
Delighted with the sound, Rebecca moved to the doorway and had her first glimpse of a milking parlor.
Whatever she'd imagined, it wasn't this organized, oddly technical environment. There were big, shiny pipes and large chutes, the mechanical hum of a compressor or some other type of machine. A dozen cows stood in stanchions, eating contentedly from individual troughs. Some of them munched on grain as devices that looked like
