had her rubbing her hands together for a little warmth. But curiosity far overweighed a little discomfort.
She’d been through the first-floor rooms only twice before. First on her initial viewing to take notes and measurements. The second time to recheck them. But there were no workmen now, no sounds of voices or hammering.
She slipped into the room beyond the parlor, dreaming a bit.
This would be the library—glossy shelves filled with books, deep-cushioned chairs inviting a guest to curl up to read. A library table would stand there, she mused, a Sheraton if she could find one, with a decanter of brandy, a vase of seasonal flowers, an old pewter inkwell.
Library steps, of course, she continued visualizing, seeing it all perfectly, almost to the grain of wood. And the wide-backed chairs near the crackling fire would need cozy footstools.
She wanted a reading stand in the far corner, one with a cabriole base. She’d set a big, old Bible with gilt-edged pages open on it.
Abigail O’Brian, married to Charles Richard Barlow, April 10, 1856
Catherine Anne Barlow, born June 5, 1857
Charles Richard Barlow, Junior, born November 22, 1859
Robert Michael Barlow, born February 9, 1861
Abigail Barlow, died September 18, 1864
Regan shivered, swayed. She came back to herself slowly, her arms wrapped tight to ward off the sudden, bitter cold, her heart pounding as the vision faded from in front of her eyes.
How had she known that? she wondered, running a shaky hand over her face. Where had those names and dates come from?
She’d read them somewhere, she assured herself, but shuddered again. All the research she’d done, of course she’d read them. Very slowly, she backed out of the room and stood in the hall to catch her breath.
Of course she’d known the Barlows of that time had had three children. She’d looked it up. The dates must have been there, as well—she’d retained them for some reason, that was all.
Not for anything would she have admitted that she had thought, just for a moment, that she’d actually seen the thick white page of a Bible opened, and the names and dates written there in a carefully formal hand.
She walked to the stairs and climbed them.
He’d left the door open this time. When she reached the landing, she heard the scrape of his trowel against the wall. Letting out a relieved breath, she crossed the hall.
And was warm again, just looking at him.
“Need a hand?”
He glanced back, saw her standing there in her classic sweater and pleated trousers. “Not in that outfit. I just wanted to get this coat finished, and I thought you needed some sleep.”
She contented herself with leaning against the doorway to watch him. “Why is it that manual labor is so attractive on some men?”
“Some women like to see guys sweat.”
“Apparently I do.” Thoughtfully she studied his technique, the slide of the trowel, the flick of the wrist. “You know, you’re better at this than the guy who did my place over the shop. Very tidy.”
“I hate drywall work.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I like when it’s finished. And I’m faster than the team I hired.”
“How did you learn?”
“We were always having to fix something out at the farm.” He twisted his neck, cracking out kinks. “When I left, I did a lot of handyman stuff.”
“Then started your own company.”
“I don’t like working for somebody else.”
“Neither do I.” She hesitated, waiting while he scraped off his tools. “Where did you go? When you left?”
“South.” He stooped to bang the top back on the bucket of compound. “Picked up some jobs here and there. Figured out I was better at swinging a hammer than running a plow.” Out of habit, he reached into his shirt pocket, found it empty. Swore. “Quit smoking,” he muttered.
“Good for you.”
“It’s driving me nuts.” To keep himself busy, he walked over to check a seam he’d finished the night before.
“You went to Florida,” she said prompting him.
“Yeah, that’s where I ended up. Lots of construction work in Florida. I started buying houses—dumps—fixing them up, turning them over. Did pretty well. So I came back.” He turned to her. “That’s about it.”
“I wasn’t prying,” she began.
“I didn’t say you were. There just isn’t much to it, Regan. I had a rep when I left here. Spent my last night in town in a bar fight. With Joe Dolin.”
“I wondered if there was history there,” she murmured.
“Not much of one.” He slipped off the bandanna he’d twisted at his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes, stuffed it in his pocket. “We just hated each other’s guts.”
“I’d say your taste in enemies is excellent.”
Restless again, he moved his shoulders. “If it hadn’t been him, it would have been somebody else. I was in the mood that night.” His grin flashed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Hell, I was usually in the mood to cause trouble. Nobody ever figured I’d amount to anything, not even me.”
If he was trying to tell her something, she wasn’t sure she quite understood it. “It looks as though they were wrong. Even you.”
“People are going to talk, about us.” He’d thought about it, as he watched her sleep, finding himself restless and edgy and needing to move. “You’re going to walk into Ed’s or Kingston’s Market, and conversation’s going to take a hitch. And when you walk out again, people are going to start talking about what that nice Bishop woman is doing with that troublemaker Rafe MacKade.”
“I’ve been here three years, Rafe. I know how it works.”
He needed something to do with his hands, so he picked up sandpaper and attacked the first dry seam. “I don’t imagine you’ve given them much to gossip about up to now.”
He worked as if the devil were looking over his shoulder, she thought. It seemed he did everything with that controlled urgency just under the surface.
“I was pretty hot news when I opened the shop. What’s this flatlander doing taking over old Leroy’s place, selling antiques instead of screws and pipe fittings?” She smiled a little. “That got me a lot of browsers, and a good many browsers became customers.” She angled her head, watching him. “Something like this should pick business up dramatically for a few weeks.”
“I
