Prologue
Devin MacKade considered the age of twenty to be an awkward time in the life of a man. It was old enough for him to be considered responsible for actions and deeds, old enough for him to make a living or love a woman. Yet in the eyes of the law it was not quite old enough for him to be considered fully adult.
He was glad it would only take twelve months to get through it.
Being the third of four brothers, he’d already watched Jared and Rafe move beyond him into adulthood, and Shane was not far behind him. It wasn’t that he was in a hurry, really. He was enjoying his time and his life, but Devin had begun, in his methodical way, to make plans for what would be.
The little town of Antietam, Maryland, would have been surprised to know that he had decided to uphold the law, rather than break it. Or bend it.
His mother had pushed him into college, true, but once he arrived, Devin had decided to enjoy it. The courses in administration of justice, criminology, sociology, fascinated him. How rules were made, why, how they were upheld. It had seemed almost from the beginning that those books, those words, those ideals, had just been waiting for him to discover them.
So, in his thoughtful way, he had decided to become a cop.
It wasn’t something he wanted to share with his family just yet. His brothers would rag him, undoubtedly. Even Jared, who was already on his way to becoming a lawyer, would show no mercy. It wasn’t something he minded. Devin knew he could hold his own with all three of his brothers, be it with words or fists. But for now, it was a personal agenda, and he wasn’t talking.
He was aware that not everything you wanted, deep inside, worked out. There was proof of that right here in Ed’s Café, where he and his brothers were grabbing a quick meal before heading to Duff’s Tavern to shoot pool. Yes, the proof was right here, serving him the blue plate special, flushing shyly at Rafe’s easy teasing.
Five foot two, barely a hundred pounds, as delicate and fragile as a rosebud. Angel hair like a curling halo around a face that was all quiet gray eyes. A nose that tipped up just the tiniest bit at the end. The prettiest mouth in the county, with its deep dip in the top lip. Like a doll’s. Small hands that he knew could juggle plates and coffeepots and glasses with a studied competence.
Hands that carried a ring with a chip of a diamond barely big enough to glint on the third finger.
Her name was Cassandra Connor, and it seemed he’d loved her forever. Surely he’d known her forever, watched her grow up with a flicker of interest that had become a full-blown crush he’d considered too embarrassing to act on.
And that was the problem. By the time he decided to act, he’d been too late. Joe Dolin had already claimed her. They would be married in June, just two weeks after she graduated from high school.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
He made sure not to watch her walk away from their booth. His brothers had sharp eyes and he would never be able to tolerate being teased about something as intimate and humiliating as unrequited love.
So he looked out the window at Main Street. That, he thought, was something he could do something about. One day he would give something back to the town that had been such an intricate and important part of his life. One day he would serve and protect here. It was his destiny. He could feel it.
The way he sometimes felt, in dreams, that he had done so before—or tried, when the town was ravaged by war, split and frayed by divided loyalties. In dreams, he could see it the way it had been, the way it was in those old Civil War photos. Stone houses and churches, horses and carriages. Sometimes he could almost hear the men gathering on corners or in the barbershop, discussing the War between the States.
Of course, he thought with cool rationality, the town, or parts of it, were haunted. The old Barlow place on the hill just outside of town, the woods, his own home, the fields he helped plow and plant every spring. There were echoes there of lives and deaths, of hopes and fears.
A man had only to listen to hear.
“Almost as good as Mom’s.” Shane shoveled mashed potatoes into his mouth, and the MacKade dimple flashed as he grinned. “Almost. What do you figure women do on their night out?”
“Gossip.” His plate clean, Rafe leaned back and lit a cigarette. “What else?”
“Mom’s entitled,” Jared commented.
“Didn’t say she wasn’t. Old lady Metz is probably giving her an earful about us right now, though.” Rafe grinned wickedly at that thought, and at the knowledge that his mother could handle even the formidable Mrs. Metz with one arm tied behind her back.
Devin looked away from his view of Main Street, back at his brother. “We do anything lately?”
They all thought about it. It wasn’t that their memories were poor, it was just that they found trouble so easily, they often overlooked the results.
Anyone breezing by the big window of Ed’s Café would have seen the four MacKades, dark-haired, green-eyed devils, handsome enough to raise any female’s blood pressure, be she ten or eighty. Reckless enough to have most men bracing or backing away.
They argued awhile over who had done what most recently—fights picked and fought, laws broken, or at least dented. It was agreed, after the argument grew heated, that Rafe had the prize, with his race against Joe Dolin’s Chevy on route 34.
They hadn’t been caught, but word had gotten around. Especially as Rafe had won and Joe had slunk off muttering about revenge.
“The guy’s a jerk.” Rafe blew out smoke. No one disagreed, but Rafe’s gaze shifted to where Cassie was busy serving a booth behind them. “What does a sweet little thing like Cassie see in him?”
“If you ask me, she wants out of the house.” Jared pushed his plate aside. “Her mother would be enough to send anyone looking for the first escape hatch. The woman’s a fanatic.”