The Fall Of Shane Mackade

“Technically.'' She dragged her hands through her hair again until it stood up in spikes. ' 'That was incredible, absolutely incredible. Last night I was sitting in the kitchen, and I could see it change. It was smaller, and there was a fire in a little stone hearth, pies on the windowsill. There was a baby crying, Shane.' Excitement sparkled in her eyes and seemed to shimmer in the air around her. 'I got the baby crying on tape. I recorded it.'

Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she laughed. 'I could hardly believe it myself, even after I played it back half a dozen times. That's why I got out the wine. A little toast that turned into several big ones. I meant to tell you this morning, but we got distracted.'

'Distracted.'

Finally, the edgy tone of his voice, the flat look in his eyes, pierced through her exhilaration. The glow faded from her cheeks. He was pale, his face set, his eyes hard.

'Why are you angry?'

'Because this is nonsense,' he tossed back, preferring anger to the heady sensation of fear. 'And because I don't like being called a distraction, or a previous stimulation.'

'That's not it at all.'

'Don't you start on me. Keep your degrees in your pocket, and don't poke in my brain.'

'You're not angry,' she said quietly. 'You're scared.'

For an instant, his eyes were lethal. 'I've got things to do.'

She darted after him, grabbing his arm when they got to the kitchen. 'You said you'd help me, Shane. You gave me your word on it.''

'Leave it alone.' Toughly he shook her off. 'Leave me alone.'

She simply stepped into his path and blocked it. Another man, she knew, might have mowed her down. And Shane had the temper for it, as well as the strength. But he also had what made him Shane. 'You had the same experience I did, felt the same things I did. I can see it in your face.'

He reached out, picked her up and set her aside. 'I said leave it alone.'

'Who were John and Sarah?' She let out a breath when he stopped on his way to the door. 'Her name was Sarah. Who were they, Shane? Who were we a few minutes ago?'

'I'm exactly the same person I am now as I was a few minutes ago. And so are you. If you're going to keep playing this game, leave me out of it.'

'John and Sarah,' she said again. 'Was it John and Sarah MacKade? Would I find their names in your family Bible?'

He whirled back, stalked to the refrigerator. With one rigid hand, he jerked open the door, took out a beer. After twisting the top off violently, he tossed it aside and drank half the bottle down.

'My great-grandparents.'

She let out a long, long sigh. 'I see. And they lived here, in this house. They were the ones who tried to save the young Union soldier the day of the battle.'

'So the story goes.'

'What happened here just now—you've experienced similar things before.'

He caught her quick look toward her computer and set his teeth. 'No. No way in hell you're going to use me like some damn lab rat.'

'All right, I'm sorry. This upsets you.' She walked to him to run her hands up his arms. 'But I think you need to know that for several years now I've had dreams. And now I know they were about this house, and those people.'

He lowered his beer, but said nothing. Rebecca waited a moment, wondering if this kind of intimacy was more than either of them was prepared for.

'The dreams were one of the major reasons I began research into this field. They were—are—real, Shane. I've seen this room, this house, as it was more than a hundred years ago. And I've seen John and Sarah. I don't know if you have any old photographs of them to corroborate that. I can certainly describe them to you, at different periods of their lives here together. I can even tell you things she thought, felt, wanted. I think you can do the same with him.'

'No.' He said it flatly, finally. A lie for an honest man, a defense for a brave one. 'I don't believe in any of that.'

In frustration, she lifted her hands. 'Do you think I'm making it up, that I'm making all of what just happened up?'

'I think you've got too many things crowded in that major-league brain of yours.' To ease his hot throat, he took another swig of beer. 'And I prefer reality.'

She could have told him he was in denial, but that would only have made him angry—and possibly more resistant. Patience, she decided, patience and understanding, would be more productive all around.

'All right. We'll let it go, as long as you understand you can talk to me about it anytime.'

'You're not my therapist.'

'No, I'm not.'

Her voice was entirely too reasonable. He slammed down the bottle. 'I want you in bed, understand. That's what I want, that's what I need. Just you, just me.' Grabbing her hand, he dragged her from the room. 'Dreams are just dreams, and ghosts belong in bad movies. So you can just turn off that brain of yours. Distraction, my butt.'

He was all but heaving her up the stairs, and she felt twin sensations of alarm and arousal. 'It wasn't meant as an insult.'

'Too many damn people inside you to suit me. I like it simple.' He let her go to sit down on the edge of the bed and pull off his boots.

'I'm not simple,' she said quietly. 'Not the way you mean.'

'This is simple.' Boots dispatched, he rose to pull off his shirt, unhook his belt. 'I want you. I break out in a sweat just thinking about you. That's basic, Rebecca. That's simple.'

It was love, every bit as much as need, that had her moving to him, wrapping her arms around him. 'I'm here.' She lifted her head and drew his mouth down to hers.

She gentled him, as he would a skittish animal. Soothing hands, welcoming lips. He told himself that if this was familiar, this sinking into her, this allowing her to smooth away his worries, it was because he had lain with her here only that morning.

But as he fell into the sweet, seductive rhythm of loving her, it was as if there had been no one before, would be no one after. Only the texture of her skin would stay in his memory, the taste of her mouth, the sound of her sigh.

And as she rose to meet him in that fluid movement of comfortable sex, part of his mind fretted that he would never want, could never want, anyone else.

Even as he tumbled over that last edge of pleasure, he held himself back from a bigger, more dangerous fall.

Chapter Nine

I've now had three events at the farm. The last was during the night. I felt such grief, such tearing grief. There was a candle by the bed, burning. For a moment, I thought there was a figure standing by the window. Just standing, looking out at the night. While the grief was in me, it was also there, shimmering around that figure. A shared, yet separate, pain. I thought it was Shane, and started to get out of bed to go to him. But he was asleep beside me. And there was no one standing there at all.

I knew, clearly, that it was John and Sarah, and that their son was dead. I knew this even before Shane stirred restlessly beside me. He dreams, as I do, and he feels, as I do, but he doesn't want to speak of it. They're part of him, the people who lived here, who remain here in some fashion. Not only through blood, but through spirit. I wonder why they seem to be part of me, as well.