The Heart Of Devin MacKade: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс

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      “You pitched a good game last Saturday.”

      Now he flushed. “Thanks. But Bryan went four for five.” His loyalty and love for his best friend knew no bounds. “Did you see?”

      “I was there for a few innings. Watched you smoke a few batters.”

      “Connor got an A on his history test,” Emma said. “And that mean old Bobby Lewis shoved him and called him a bad name when we were in line for the bus.”

      “Emma…” Mortified, Connor scowled at his sister.

      “I guess Bobby Lewis didn’t get an A,” Devin commented.

      “Bryan fixed him good,” Emma went on.

      I bet he did, Devin thought, and handed Emma a cookie so that she’d be distracted enough to stop embarrassing her brother.

      “I’m proud of you.” Trying not to worry, Cassie gave Connor a quick squeeze. “Both of you. A gold star and an A all in one day. We’ll have to celebrate later with ice-cream sundaes from Ed’s.”

      “It’s no big deal,” Connor began.

      “It is to me.” Cassie bent down and kissed him firmly. “A very big deal.”

      “I used to struggle with math,” Devin said casually. “Never could get more than a C no matter what I did.”

      Connor stared at the floor, weighed down by the stigma of being bright. He could still hear his father berating him. Egghead. Pansy. Useless.

      Cassie started to speak, to defend, but Devin sent her one swift look.

      “But then, I used to ace history and English.”

      Stunned, Connor jerked his head up and stared. “You did?”

      It was a struggle, but Devin kept his eyes sober. The kid didn’t mean to be funny, or insulting, he knew. “Yeah. I guess it was because I liked to read a lot. Still do.”

      “You read books?” It was an epiphany for Connor. Here was a man who held a real man’s job and who liked to read.

      “Sure.” Devin jiggled Emma on his knee and smiled. “The thing was, Rafe was pitiful in English, but he was a whiz in math. So we traded off. I’d do his—” He glanced at Cassie, realized his mistake. “I’d help him with his English homework and he’d help me with the math. It got us both through.”

      “Do you like to read stories?” Connor wanted to know. “Made-up stories?”

      “They’re the best kind.”

      “Connor writes stories,” Cassie said, even as Connor wriggled in embarrassment.

      “So I’ve heard. Maybe you’ll let me read one.” Before the boy could answer, Devin’s beeper went off. “Hell,” he muttered.

      “Hell,” Emma said adoringly.

      “You want to get me in trouble?” he asked, then hitched her onto his hip as he rose to call in. A few minutes later, he’d given up on his idea of wheedling his way into a dinner invitation. “Gotta go. Somebody broke into the storeroom at Duff’s and helped themselves to a few cases of beer.”

      “Will you shoot them?” Emma asked him.

      “I don’t think so. How about a kiss?”

      She puckered up obligingly before he set her down. “Thanks for the coffee, Cass.”

      “I’ll walk you out. You two go on upstairs and get your after-school snack,” she told her children. “I’ll be right along.” She waited until they were nearly at the front door before she spoke again. “Thank you for talking to Connor like that. He’s still so sensitive about liking school.”

      “He’s a bright kid. It won’t take much longer for him to start appreciating himself.”

      “You helped. He admires you.”

      “It didn’t take any effort to tell him I like to read.” Devin paused at the door. “He means a lot to me. All of you do.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he took a chance and brushed a finger over her cheek. “All of you do,” he repeated, and walked out, leaving her staring after him.

      Chapter 2

      Some nights, late at night, when her children were sleeping and the guests were settled down, Cassie would roam the house. She was careful not to go on the second floor, where guests were bedded down in the lovely rooms and suites Rafe and Regan had built.

      They paid for privacy, and Cassie was careful to give it.

      But she was free to walk through her own apartment on the third floor, to admire the rooms, the view from the windows, even the feel of the polished hardwood under her bare feet.

      It was a freedom, and a security, that she knew she would never take for granted. Any more than she would take for granted the curtains framing the windows, made of fabric that she had chosen and paid for herself. Or the kitchen table, the sofa, each lamp.

      Not all new, she mused, but new to her. Everything that had been in the house she shared with Joe had been sold. It had been her way of sweeping away the past. Nothing here was from her before. It had been vital to her to start this life with nothing she hadn’t brought into it on her own.

      If she was restless, she could go down on the main level, move from parlor to sitting room, into the beautiful solarium, with its lovely plants and glistening glass. She could stand in the hallways, sit on the steps. Simply enjoy the quiet and solitude.

      The only room she avoided was the library. It was the only room that never welcomed her, despite its deep leather chairs and walls of books.

      She knew instinctively that it had been Charles Barlow’s realm. Abigail’s husband. The master of the house. A man who had shot, in cold blood, a wounded Confederate soldier hardly old enough to shave.

      Sometimes she felt the horror and sadness of that when she walked up and down the staircase where it had happened. Now and again she even heard the shot, the explosion of it, and the screams of the servants who had witnessed the senseless and brutal murder.

      But she understood senseless brutality, knew it existed.

      Just as she knew Abigail still existed, in this house. It wasn’t just the sound of weeping, the scent of roses that would come suddenly and from nowhere. It was just the feel of the air, that connection that she’d been too embarrassed to mention to Devin.

      That was how she knew Abigail had loved a man who wasn’t her husband. That she had longed for him, wept for him, as well as for the murdered boy. That she had dreamed of him, and despaired of ever knowing the joy of real love.

      Cassie understood, and sympathized. That was why she felt so welcomed in this house that held so much of the past. Why she was never afraid.

      No, she was grateful for every hour she spent here as caretaker to beautiful things. It had been nearly СКАЧАТЬ