The Fall Of Shane MacKade. Nora Roberts

be explained, she supposed. She had visited the battlefield years before. She remembered walking the fields, studying the monuments, reenacting every step of the engagement in her head. She didn’t remember passing that particular stretch of road, but she might have, while she was tucked into the back seat of the family car being quizzed by her parents.

      No, the woods wouldn’t have beckoned to her then. She would have been too busy absorbing data, analyzing it and reporting it to take note of the shape and color of the leaves, the sound of the creek hurrying over rocks.

      She would make up for that tomorrow. She would make up for a great many things.

      So she drifted into sleep, dreaming of possibilities….

      It was terrible, terrible, to hear the sounds of war. It was heart-wrenching to know that so many young men were fighting, dying. Dying as her Johnnie had—her tall, beautiful son, who would never smile at her again, never sneak into the kitchen for an extra biscuit.

      As the sounds of battle echoed in the distance, Sarah forced back fear, forced herself to go on with the routine of stirring the stew she had simmering over the fire. And to remind herself that she had had Johnnie for eighteen wonderful years. No one could take her memories of him away. God had also given her two beautiful daughters, and that was a comfort.

      She worried about her husband. She knew he ached for their dead son every day, every night. The battle that had come so frighteningly close to home was only one more cruel reminder of what war cost.

      He was such a good man, she thought, wiping her hands on her apron. Her John was strong and kind, and her love for him was as full and rich as it had been twenty years before, when she took his ring and his name. And she never doubted his love for her.

      After all these years, her heart still leaped when he walked into the room, and her needs still jumped whenever he turned to her in the night. She knew all women weren’t as fortunate.

      But she worried about him. He didn’t laugh as freely since the terrible day they’d gotten word that Johnnie had been lost at Bull Run. There were lines around his eyes, and a bitterness in them that hadn’t been there before.

      Johnnie had gone for the South—rashly, idealistically—and his father had been so proud of him.

      It was true enough that in this border state of Maryland, there were Southern sympathizers, and families ripped in two as they chose sides. But there had been no sides in the MacKade family. Johnnie had made his choice with his father’s support. And the choice had killed him.

      It was that she feared most. That John blamed himself, as well as the Yankees. That he would never be able to forgive either one, and would never be truly at peace again.

      She knew that if it hadn’t been for her and the girls, he would have left the farm to fight. It frightened her that there was the need inside him to take up arms, to kill. It was the one thing in their lives they never discussed.

      She arched her back, placing the flat of her hand at the base of her spine to ease a dull ache. It reassured her to hear her daughters talking as they peeled potatoes and carrots for the stew. She understood that their incessant chatter was to help block the nerves that jumped at hearing mortar fire echo in the air.

      They’d lost half a cornfield this morning—the fighting had come that close. She thanked God it had veered off again and she wasn’t huddled in the root cellar with her children. That John was safe. She couldn’t bear to lose another she loved.

      When John came in, she poured him coffee. There was such weariness in his face, she set the cup aside and went over to wrap her arms around him instead. He smelled of hay and animals and sweat, and his arms were strong as they returned the embrace.

      “It’s moving off, Sarah.” His lips brushed her cheek. “I don’t want you fretting.”

      “I’m not fretting.” Then she smiled as he arched one silver-flecked black brow. “Only a little.”

      He brushed his thumb under her eye, over the shadows that haunted there. “More than a little. Damn war. Damn Yankees. What gives them the right to come on my land and do their killing? Bastards.” He turned away and picked up his coffee.

      Sarah sent her daughters a look that had them getting up quietly and leaving the room.

      “They’re going now,” she murmured. “The firing is getting farther and farther away. It can’t last much longer.”

      He knew she wasn’t talking about this one battle, and shook his head. The bitterness was back in his eyes. “It’ll last as long as they want it to last. As long as men have sons to die. I need to go check things.” He set down the coffee without having tasted it. “I don’t want you or the girls setting foot out of the house.”

      “John.” She reached for his hand, holding the hard, callused palm against hers. What could she say? That there was no one to blame? Of course there was, but the men who manufactured war and death were nameless and faceless to her. Instead, she brought his hand to her cheek. “I love you.”

      “Sarah.” For a moment, for her, his eyes softened. “Pretty Sarah.” His lips brushed hers before he left her.

      In sleep, Rebecca stirred, shifted and murmured.

      John left the house knowing there was little he could do. In the distance, drying cornstalks were blackened and hacked. He knew there would be blood seeping into his ground. And didn’t want to know whether the men who had died there had been taken away yet or not.

      It was his land, his, damn them. When he plowed in the spring, he knew, he would be haunted by the blood and death he turned into the earth.

      He reached into his pocket, closing his hand over the miniature of his son that he always carried. He didn’t weep; his eyes were dry and hard as they scanned the land. Without the land, he was nothing. Without Sarah, he would be lost. Without his daughters, he would willingly die.

      But now he had no choice but to live without his boy.

      Grim-faced, he stood there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on his land. When he heard the whimpering, his brows drew together. He’d already checked the stock, secured them. Had he missed a calf? Or had one of his dogs broken out of the stall he’d locked them in to keep them from being hit by a stray bullet?

      He followed the sound to the smokehouse, afraid he would have a wounded animal to tend or put down. Though he’d been a farmer all his life, he still was struck with guilt and grief whenever it was necessary to put an animal out of its misery.

      But it wasn’t an animal, it was a man. A damn blue-belly, bleeding his guts out on MacKade land. For an instant, he felt a hot rush of pleasure. Die here, he thought. Die here, the way my son died on another man’s land. You might have been the one to kill him.

      Without sympathy, he used his boot to shove the man over onto his back. The Union uniform was filthy, soaked with blood. He was glad to see it, coldly thrilled.

      Then he saw the face, and it wasn’t a man. It was a boy. His soft cheeks were gray with pain, his eyes glazed with it. Then they fixed on John’s.

      “Daddy? Daddy, I came home.”

      “I ain’t your daddy, boy.”

      The eyes closed. “Help me. Please help me. I’m dying….”

      In sleep, Shane’s fist curled in the sheets, and his restless body tangled them.