Knowing it was a shameless bribe, he shook the bakery box. "Want a cookie, honey?"
That earned him the faintest of smiles, but Regan took the box out of his hands. "Not before dinner."
"Spoilsport. But dinner smells good."
"Cassie's chicken and dumplings. I had to practically tie her down to keep her from taking the kids and eating at the diner. We compromised and had her cook dinner. Come on, Emma, we'll take the cookies in the kitchen."
With one hand clutching Regan's slacks, Emma darted looks over her shoulder.
She thought he was big, but his eyes weren't mean. She'd already learned how to read eyes. And he looked a lot like the sheriff, who sometimes picked her up and gave her lemon drops.
But Emma watched her mother carefully to gauge her reaction to the man.
Cassie looked up from the stove and smiled. "Hi, Rafe."
He moved to her, lightly kissed her bruised cheek. "How's it going?"
"Fine, everything's fine." She laid a hand on the shoulder of the boy beside her. "Connor, you remember Mr. MacKade."
"Nice to see you again, Connor." Rafe offered a hand. The little boy with the pale hair and the dusky blue eyes shook hands hesitantly. "You'd be, what, in third, fourth grade?"
"Third, yes, sir."
Rafe lifted a brow and passed the bottle of wine to Regan. That would make him about eight, Rafe figured, and the kid spoke as quietly as an old priest. "Miz Witt still teaching there?"
"Yes, sir."
"We used to call her Miz Dimwit.'' When the boy's eyes widened, Rafe plucked a carrot from beside the salad bowl. "Bet you still do."
"Yes, sir," Connor mumbled, slanting a look at his mother. "Sometimes." Screwing up the courage he'd worked on building ever since he'd been told Rafe MacKade was coming, Connor drew in his breath. "You bought the Barlow Place."
"That's right."
"It's haunted."
Rafe bit off some carrot and grinned. "You bet."
"I know all about the battle and everything," Connor said in one quick burst. "It was the bloodiest day of the Civil War, and nobody really won, because—" He broke off, embarrassed. This, he thought miserably, was why some of the kids called him nerdhead in school.
"Because nobody went for the final push," Rafe finished for him. "Maybe you'd like to come by the house sometime, take a look. I could use somebody who knows all about the battle."
"I've got a book. With pictures."
"Yeah?" Rafe took the wine Regan offered him. "Let's see."
It was simple enough to draw the boy out, as long as they were discussing McClellan's flawed strategy or the Battle of Burnside Bridge. Rafe saw a bright, needy boy, too bookish to fit neatly with his contemporaries, too shy to showcase his own brain.
The girl, a miniature of her mother, never strayed far from Cassie or Regan, ate her dinner in small, neat bites. And watched him like a baby hawk.
"Ed would be better off having you in the kitchen than waiting tables," Rafe commented after he'd polished off a second helping. "Her business would double in a month."
Off guard, Cassie blinked at him. No one had complimented her cooking in too many years to count. "I'm glad you liked it. I could put some of the leftovers in a dish for you. You'd just have to heat them up."
"I'll take them."
When Cassie rose and began to clear, Regan held up a hand. "No, you don't. You cooked, I clear."
"But—"