The Mackades Collection (Books 1-4). Nora Roberts

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      “Oh, Connor.” Laughing, she pressed a hand to her speeding heart. “You scared me.”

      “I’m sorry.” The boy was thin, pale, with big eyes the color of shadows. His mother’s eyes, Regan thought as she smiled at him.

      “It’s okay. I didn’t know anyone was up. It’s early, even for a school day. Want some breakfast?”

      “No, thank you.”

      She bit back a sigh. No eight-year-old boy should be so apologetically polite. She lifted a brow and took out a box of the cereal she’d learned was his favorite. With a wink, she gave it a shake.

      “How about joining me for a bowl?”

      He smiled then, so sweetly shy it broke her heart. “I guess if you’re having some.”

      “Why don’t you get the milk out, put it on the table?” Because it hurt to see how carefully, how deliberately, he performed the simple chore, she made her voice bright. “I heard on the radio we’re in for some more snow. Maybe a big one.”

      She carried out bowls and spoons, set them down. When she lifted a hand to brush it over his tousled hair, he went very still. Cursing Joe Dolin, she kept the smile on her face. “I bet they close school tomorrow.”

      “I like school,” he said then bit his lip.

      “I always did, too.” Brisk and determinedly cheerful, she breezed into the kitchen again for her coffee. “I never minded a day off now and again, but I really liked school. What’s your favorite subject?”

      “English class. I like to write things.”

      “Really? What kind of things?”

      “Stories.” He hunched his shoulders, looking down. “Just stupid stuff.”

      “I bet it’s not.” She could only hope she wasn’t making a mistake, moving into territory best left to the experts. But her heart simply moved her hand. She cupped it under Connor’s chin and lifted it gently as she sat beside him. “You should be proud. I know your mother’s proud of you. She told me you won a prize in your English class for a story you wrote.”

      “She did?” He was torn between wanting to smile and wanting to let his head drop again. But Regan had her hand on his face. It felt good there, warm. The tears were in his eyes before he could stop them. “She cries at night.”

      “I know, baby.”

      “He was always hitting her. I knew it. I could hear them. But I never did anything to stop it. I never did anything to help her.”

      “You’re not to blame.” Letting instinct rule, she lifted him onto her lap, cuddling him close. “You’re not to blame, Connor. And there was nothing you could have done. But now you and your mother and your little sister are safe. You’re all going to look after each other.”

      “I hate him.”

      “Shh…” Jolted by how such fierceness could spurt from someone so small, so young, Regan pressed her lips to his hair and rocked.

      In the hallway, Cassie stepped back. Torn in a dozen different directions, she swayed there a moment, a hand over her mouth. Then she went back into the little spare bedroom to wake her daughter for school.

      Regan arrived at the Barlow place just ahead of the van and movers she’d hired. The cheerful noise of construction blasted her the minute she opened the door. Nothing could have lifted her mood higher.

      The hallway was draped with tarps and drop cloths. But the spiderwebs and the mustiness were gone. The dust that lay now was fresh, and somehow clean.

      She supposed it was a kind of exorcism. Amused by the thought, she studied the stairway. As a kind of test, she walked toward it, started up.

      The cold slapped her like a fist, sending her back two steps. She stood, one hand gripping the rail, the other pressed to her stomach as she struggled to get back the breath the icy air had stolen.

      “You’ve got guts,” Rafe murmured from behind her.

      Though her eyes were still wide in shock, she looked down and met his levelly. “I wondered if it had just been my imagination. How do the laborers go up and down these steps without—?”

      “Not everyone feels it. I’d say the ones who do grit their teeth and think about their paycheck.” He walked up the steps to take her hand. “How about you?”

      “I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t experienced it.” Without protest, she let him lead her down to the main level. “It should make for some interesting breakfast conversation among the guests, once you’re open.”

      “Darling, I’m counting on it. Give me your coat. We’ve got the heat for this part of the house up and running.” He slipped her coat off himself. “It’s on low, but it takes the edge off.”

      “You’re telling me.” Pleased that it seemed warm enough to make shivering unnecessary, she flipped back her hair. “What’s going on upstairs?”

      “A little bit of everything. I’m putting in an extra bath. I want you to dig up one of those claw-foot tubs, a pedestal sink. Reproductions’ll do, if you don’t have any luck finding originals.”

      “Give me a few days. Well.” She rubbed her hands together, not from cold, but nerves. “Are you going to show me, or do I have to beg?”

      “I’m going to show you.” He’d been itching to, looking out the window every five minutes to watch for her. But now that she was here, he was nervous. He’d slaved for more than a week, twelve-and fourteen-hour days, to make that one room, that one spot, that one step, perfect.

      “I think the paint turned out.” Rather than reach for her hand, he tucked his in his pockets and walked into the parlor ahead of her. “It’s a nice contrast with the trim and the floor, I think. Had a little trouble with the windows, but I just had to diddle with the framing.”

      She didn’t speak. For a moment, she merely stood in the doorway. Then, quietly, her boots clicking on the floor, she stepped inside.

      It gleamed. The tall, elegant windows, with their graceful arches sent sun streaming over the newly polished floor of lovely old pine. The walls were a deep, warm blue against creamy carved trim in the most delicate of ivories.

      He’d turned the window seat into a charming alcove, scrubbed the marble on the fireplace until it shone like glass. The molding along the ceiling bloomed with delicately carved florets that had been smothered and choked by the grime of decades.

      “It needs furniture, drapes, and that mirror you picked out for over the mantel.” He wished she would say something, anything. “I have to replace the pocket doors, yet.” Scowling, he jammed his hands deeper into his pocket. “Well, what’s the problem? Did I miss some vital, authentic detail?”

      “It’s absolutely wonderful.” Enchanted, she ran a finger down the glossy trim of a window. “Absolutely perfect. I didn’t realize you were СКАЧАТЬ