The Pride of Jared MacKade by Nora Roberts

They did what they could for him, but it was too late. He died the next day and, afraid of reprisals, they buried him in one of the fields, in an unmarked grave.”
    “So he’s lost,” Savannah murmured. “And haunts the woods because he can’t find his way home.”
    “That would be close enough.”
    “And the other corporal?”
    “Made it to the Barlow house. A servant took him inside, and the mistress was preparing to tend to him when her husband shot him.”
    She didn’t shudder. She was well used to cruelties, small and large. “Because he didn’t see a boy, but the wrong color uniform?”
    “That’s right. So the mistress of the house, Abigail Barlow, turned from her husband and went into seclusion. She died a couple of years later.”
    “A sad story. Useless deaths make for uneasy ghosts. Still, it always feels—” she closed her eyes, let the air dance over her face “—inviting here. They just don’t want to be forgotten. Do you want to know where they fought?”
    Something in her tone had him looking down at her. “Why?”
    She opened her eyes again. They were darker than the shadows, more mysterious than the night. “To the west, fifty yards, by a clump of rocks and a burled tree.”
    He felt cool fingers brush the nape of his neck. But her hands were in his. “Yes. I’ve sat on the rocks there and heard the bayonets clash.”
    “So have I. But I wondered who. And why.”
    “Is that usual for you?” His voice had roughened. Perhaps it was what they spoke of in the night wood. Or perhaps it was her eyes, so dark, so depthless, that he knew any man would blissfully drown in them.
    “Your great-grandfather was a farmer who saw a young boy dying and tried to save him. Mine was a shaman who saw visions in the fire and tried to understand them. You still try to save people, don’t you, Jared? And I still try to understand the visions.”
    “Are you—?”
    “Psychic?” She laughed quickly, richly. “No. I feel things. We all do. The strongest part of my heritage accepts those feelings, respects them, honors them. I followed my feelings when I left Oklahoma. I knew that I’d find where I belonged. And I took one look at that cabin, at those rocks, these woods, and I knew I was home. I watched you walk across the grass that first time, and I knew I’d end up wanting you.”
    She leaned forward, touched her lips to his. “And now, I know I have to get back and put my son to bed before he raids the refrigerator.”
    “Savannah.” He caught her hands again before she could turn away. His gaze was intense on her face, almost fierce. “What do you feel about where we’re going?”
    She felt the heat, then the cold, then the heat once more, slide up her spine. But she kept her voice easy. “I find that when you look too far ahead, you end up tripping over the present. Let’s just worry about the now, Jared.”
    When he lifted her hand to his lips, Savannah realized that now was going to be trouble enough.
     
    She waited until the end of the week before she acted on Jared’s suggestion and detoured by the Barlow place. The MacKade place, she corrected, amused at herself for having picked up the town’s name for the old stone house on the hill.
    The Barlows hadn’t lived in it for over fifty years.The last family, a couple from the north of the county, had bought it, lived in it briefly, then abandoned it twenty years ago. It had been up for sale off and on during those decades, but no one had taken the plunge.
    Until Rafe MacKade.
    Savannah considered that as she turned off the road and up the steep lane. Someone had begun to clear the overgrowth of brush and brambles, but it was going to be heavy going. Someone, she decided, was going to need a lot of vision.
    The house itself was three stories of beautiful stone. Tall windows, arched windows, mullioned windows, gleaming. Most had been boarded up only months before—or so Savannah had been told when she was cornered by Mrs. Metz in the