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Shane MacKade is the only one who has no stories to tell—or rather none he’s willing to tell. I’m not used to relying on my instincts rather than pure data, but if I were to trust them I’d say he holds back what he knows or feels. Which is contradictory, as he isn’t a man who seems to hold back anything on a personal level.
I’d have to say he’s one of the most demonstrative people I’ve even encountered. He’s a habitual toucher, and by reputation one who enjoys the company of women. I suppose one would call him earthy, without the cruder connotations of the word. He is basically a man of the earth, and perhaps that explains why he scoffs at anything that hints of the paranormal.
To be honest, I like him very much. His humor, his obvious attachment to family, his unabashed love of the land. On the surface, he appears to be a simple man, yet—using those rusty instincts of mine—I sense complications underneath.
He would certainly make an interesting study.
However
“The lady doesn’t come in here.”
Fingers still poised on the keyboard, Rebecca glanced up and saw Emma in the doorway. “Hello. Is school out?”
“Uh-huh. Mama said to come tell you she has coffee and cookies if you want.” Very much at home, Emma wandered in, gazing wide-eyed at the machines. “You have a lot of stuff.”
“I know. I guess you could say they’re my toys. Who’s the lady?”
“She’s the one who used to live here. She cries, like Mama used to. Didn’t you hear her?”
“No. When?”
With calm and friendly eyes, Emma smiled. “Just now. She was crying while you were typing. But she never comes in here.”
A quick, cold shiver spurted down Rebecca’s spine. “You heard her, just now?”
“She cries a lot.” Emma walked over to the computer and solemnly read the words on the monitor. “Sometimes I go to her room, and she stops crying. Mama says she likes company.”
“I see.” Rebecca was careful to keep her tone light. “And when you hear her crying, how does it make you feel?”
“It used to make me sad. But now I know sometimes crying can make you feel better when you’re finished.”
In spite of herself, Rebecca smiled. “That’s very true.”
“Are you going to take pictures of the lady?”
“I hope so. Have you ever seen her?”
“No, but I think she’s pretty, because she smells pretty.” Emma offered another quick, elfin smile. “You smell pretty, too.”
“Thanks. Do you like living in the house, Emma, with the lady and everything?”
“It’s nice. But we’re going to build our own house, near the farm, because we’re a big family now. Mama will still work here, so I can come whenever I want. Are you writing a story? Connor writes stories.”
“No, not exactly. It’s like a diary, really. Just things I want to remember, or read over sometime. But I’m going to write a story about Antietam.”
“Can I be in it?”
“Oh, I think you have to be.” She ran a hand over Emma’s springy golden curls. It was lovely to discover that, yes, she did seem to appeal to children. And they appealed, very much, to her. “I hope you’ll tell me all about the lady.”
“My name’s Emma MacKade now. The judge said it could be. So I’ll be Emma MacKade in the story.”
“You certainly will be.” Rebecca shut down her machine. “Let’s go get some cookies.”
She hadn’t intended to walk over to the farm. She’d set out to take a stroll in the woods—or so she’d told herself. To take some air, clear her mind, stretch her legs.
But she was out of the trees and crossing the fields before she knew it.
