That she didn't know.

She knew only that she was in love.

She lifted her face to the breeze, let it run its fingers through her hair as Shane often did. How could she be so content, and yet so unsettled? There were so many questions unanswered, so many feelings unresolved. She wondered if that was the way of love.

Was she still so passive, so undemanding of others, that she could settle so easily for what Shane offered? Or was she still so needy, so starved for love, that she fretted for more when she had enough?

Either way, it proved that a part of her, rooted deep, hadn't changed. Perhaps never would.

He cared for her, he desired her. She was pathetically grateful for that. He'd be shocked to know it, she was certain. She would keep that to herself, just as she kept this outrageous and overwhelming love for him to herself.

She had plenty of practice at restricting and restraining her emotions.

Common sense told her she was being greedy. She wanted all the love, the passion, the endurance, that lived in that house for herself. She wanted the stability of it, the constancy, and the acceptance.

She was the transient, as she had always been.

But she wouldn't leave empty-handed this time, and that thought soothed. There wouldn't simply be knowledge received and given, there would be emotion—more emotion than she had ever received, more than she'd ever given. That was something to celebrate, and to treasure.

That should be enough for anyone.

Sitting alone, she gazed over the fields, the slope of the hill, the narrow trench. It was so utterly peaceful, so pristine, and its beauty was terrible. She'd studied history enough to know the strategies of war, the social, political and personal motivations behind it. Knew enough, too, to understand the romance that followed it.

The music, the beat of the drum, the wave of flags and the flash of weapons.

She could picture the charge, men running wildly through the smoke of cannon fire, eyes reddened, teeth bared. Their hearts would have pounded, roaring with blood. They had been men, after all. Fear, glory, hope, and a little madness.

That first clash of bayonets. The sun would have flashed on steel. Had the crows waited, nasty and patient, drawn by the thunder of swords and boom of mortar?

North or South, they would have raced toward death. And the generals on their horses, playing chess with lives, how had they felt, what had they thought, as they watched the carnage here? The bodies piling up, blue and gray united by the stain of blood. The miserable cries of the wounded, the screams of the dying.

She sighed again. War was loss, she thought, no matter what was gained.

Always there would be a John and Sarah, the essence of the grieving parents for dead sons. War stole families, she reflected. Cut pieces out of hearts that could never truly heal.

So we build monuments to the wars, and the dead sons. We tell ourselves not to forget. John and Sarah never forgot. And love endured.

It made her smile as she rose. The grass was green here, and the air quiet. She decided that the world needed places of loss to help them remember what they had.

She went home to write.

It was nearly time for evening milking, Rebecca realized, and she laughed at herself. How odd that she would begin to gauge the day by farm chores. With a shake of her head, she hammered out the next sentence.

Why had she spent all her life writing technical papers? she wondered. This flow of emotion and thought and imagination was so liberating. Damned if she didn't think she might try her hand at a novel eventually.

Chuckling at the thought, she tucked it into the back of her mind. There were plenty of people who would consider her present topic, the supernatural, straight fiction.

When the phone rang, she let the next thought roll around in her head as she rose to answer. Absently she reached for the coffeepot and the receiver at the same time.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Rebecca Knight, please."

She stiffened, then ordered herself to relax. Why should it surprise, even annoy her, that her voice hadn't been recognized? "This is Rebecca. Hello, Mother."

' 'Rebecca, I had to go through your service to track you down. I assumed you were in New York."

"No, I'm not." She heard the door open and worked up a casual, if stiff, smile for Shane. "I'm spending some time in Maryland."

"A lecture tour? I hadn't heard."

"No, I'm not on a lecture tour." She could easily visualize her mother flipping through her Filofax to note it down. "I'm... doing research."

"In Maryland. On what subject?"

“The Battle of Antietam."

"Ah. That's been covered very adequately, don't you think?"

"I'm coming from a different angle." She made way so that Shane could get to the coffee, but didn't look at him. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Actually, there's something I can do for you. Where in the world are you staying, Rebecca? It's very inconvenient that you didn't leave word. I need a fax number."

"I'm staying with a friend." She turned her back, avoiding Shane's eyes. "I don't have a fax here."

"Surely you have access to one. You're not in the Dark Ages."

Now she did glance at Shane. He smelled of the earth, and carried a good bit of it on his person. "Not exactly," Rebecca said dryly. "I'll have to check on that and get back to you. Are you in Connecticut?"

"Your father is. I'm at a seminar in Atlanta. You can reach me through the Ritz-Carlton."

"All right. Can I ask what this is about?"

"It's quite an opportunity. The head of the history department at my alma mater is retiring at the end of this semester. With your credentials and my connections, I don't see that you'd have any difficulty getting the position. There's talk of endowing a chair. It would be quite a coup, given your age. At twenty-four, I believe you'd be the youngest department head ever placed there."

"I was twenty-five last March, Mother."

"Nonetheless, it would still be a coup."

"Yes, I'm sure it would, but I'm not interested."

"Don't be ridiculous, Rebecca."

She closed her eyes for a moment. That tone, that quick, dismissive tone, had whipped her along the path chosen for her all her life. It took a hard, wrenching effort for her to stand her ground.

"I'm afraid I'll have to be." And where had that cold, sarcastic voice come from? Rebecca wondered. "I don't want to teach, Mother."

"Teaching is the least of it, Rebecca, as you're quite aware. The position itself—"

"I don't want to be the dean of history, or the history chair, anywhere." She had to interrupt quickly, recognizing the old, familiar roiling in her stomach. "But thank you for thinking of me."

"I'm not happy with your attitude, Rebecca. You are obligated to use your gifts, and the opportunities your father and I have provided for you. An advancement of this stature will make your career."

"Whose career?"

There was a sigh. Long-suffering. "Obviously you're in a difficult mood, and I can see that gratitude won't be forthcoming. I'll depend on your good sense, however. Get me your fax number as soon as possible. I'm a bit rushed at the moment, but I'll expect to hear from you by the morning. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mother."

She hung up and smiled at Shane brightly, over-brightly, while the muscles in her stomach clenched and knotted. "Well, cows all bedded down?"

"Sit down, Rebecca."

"I'm starving." Terrified he would touch her and she would fall apart, she moved away. "I think there's still some of that chocolate cake one of your harem dropped off."

"Rebecca." His voice was quiet, and his eyes were troubled. She kept pressing a hand to her stomach, he noted, as if something inside hurt. "I think you should sit down."

"I can make more coffee. I've figured this thing out." She started to reach for the canister, but he stepped forward, took her shoulders gently. "What?" The word snapped out, her body jerking.

Careful, he thought, disturbed by the brittle look in her eyes. "So, you're from Connecticut."

She hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders under his hands. "My parents live there."

"That's where you grew up."

"Not exactly. I lived there when I wasn't in school. You don't want to drink that," she added, glancing at the pot. "It's been sitting for hours. I'd said I'd make fresh."

"What did she say to upset you, baby?"

"Nothing. It's nothing." But he kept holding her kept looking at her with boundless patience and concern. "She wants me to campaign for a position at her college. It's a very prestigious position. I'm not interested. It's a divergence of opinion, and she's not used to me having an opinion."

It was simple enough, he thought, or it should have been. But there was nothing simple about her reaction. "You told her no."

"It doesn't particularly matter. It never did, on the rare occasions I actually got up the courage to say it. I expect my father will be calling shortly, to remind me of my obligations and responsibilities."

"Who are you obligated to?"

"To them, to education, to posterity. I have a responsibility to use my talents, and to reap the rewards. It's just a variation on 'Publish or Perish,' the battle cry of academia. Let's forget it."

He let her move away, because she seemed to need it. Her hands were steady as she measured out coffee, and her face was blank while she filled the pot.

Then, with a shudder, she set everything down. "I can't believe I'm doing this. This is how I got ulcers."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Ulcers, migraines, insomnia, and a near miss with a breakdown. Isn't this why I studied psychiatry?"

She wasn't talking to him, Shane realized, so he said nothing. But he was beginning to burn inside.

"Repression isn't the answer. I know that. It's one of the things that punish the body for what's closed up in the mind. It's always so much easier to analyze someone else, always much harder to see things when it's yourself."

Her rigid hands raked through her hair. "I'm not going to be directed this time. I'm not going to be hammered at until I give. The hell with them. The hell with them. They never did anything but make me into a miserable, neurotic freak."

She whirled back to him. Her face wasn't blank now, it was livid. "Do you know what it's like to be four years old and expected to read Dante in Italian, and discuss it? To sit at the dinner table, when you weren't shuffled off somewhere else, and be quizzed on physics or converse about the Renaissance—in French, naturally?"

"No," he said quietly. "Why don't you tell me what it's like?"

"It's horrible. Horrible. To have your own parents regard you as a thing, a rousing success of genetics. I hated it, but what choice do you have when you're a child? You do what's expected of you. Then you get in the habit and you keep right on doing it even when you're not a child. One day you look in the mirror, and you see something so pathetic it hurts to look. And you wonder, why not just end it?"

The anger inside him turned to dry-mouthed shock. "Rebecca."

Impatient, she shook her head. "Maybe you fantasize about it, even obsess. And you're clever, you're so damned clever that you can find the most effective, the most painless way, to accomplish it. And, of course, the most tidy."

He didn't speak now. She'd shaken him down to the bone, and he was chilled to the marrow. This woman, this beautiful, precious woman, had considered ending her life.

She rubbed absently at the headache that throbbed dead-center in her forehead. "But you're too intelligent, too well programmed, to tolerate that kind of waste. It frightens you a little to realize you could actually do it, so you decide—being a practical person—to study human behavior, psychiatry, instead. A much more productive outlet, all in all."

"How old were you?" he managed, but had to take a steadying breath before he could go on. "How old were you when you..."

"Researched suicide?" she said calmly. "Twelve. A dangerous age, all those hormones to deal with. A shock to the regimented system. You have to remind yourself that life, however miserable, is all you've got, and go on with it. It's easier to go on with it if you just close up, close off, lock yourself behind books and theories, credentials and degrees. Until you realize that's just a different kind of suicide."

She took a long, shuddering breath. "I'm tired," she murmured, rubbing her hands over her face. "They make me so tired."

Ulcers, a breakdown. Dear God, suicide. What the hell had they done to her? He wanted to tear them apart. All of them. Any of them who had ignored her heart to get to her mind. He wanted, desperately, to go back in time and find that young girl, to give her everything she'd needed and deserved.