First Impressions

touched them once briefly before she picked up her clipboard. There was too much of her childhood there to allow herself the luxury of thinking of any of it. If her grandmother had been alive, she would have told Shane to be certain what she did was right, then do it. Shane was certain she was right.
    Systematically, she listed items in two columns: one for items that would need repairs; one for stock she could sell as it was. Everything would have to be priced, which would be a huge job in itself. Already she was spending her evenings poring through catalogs and making notations. There wasn’t an antique shop within a radius of thirty miles she hadn’t visited. Shane had taken careful account of pricing and procedure. She would incorporate what appealed to her and disregard what didn’t. Whatever else her shop would be, she was determined it would be her own.
    On one wall of the living room was a catchall shelf that had been built before she’d been born. Moving to it, Shane began a fresh sheet of items she designated for the museum.
    An ancestor’s Civil War cap and belt buckle, a glass jar filled with spent shells, a dented bugle, a cavalry officer’s sabre, a canteen with the initials JDA scratched into the metal—these were only a few pieces of the memorabilia that had been passed down to her. Shane knew there was a trunk in the attic filled with uniforms and old dresses. There was a scrawled journal that had been kept by one of her great-great-uncles during the three years he fought for the South, and letters written to an ancestral aunt by her father, who had served the North. Every item would be listed, dated, then put behind glass.
    Shane might have inherited her grandmother’s fascination for the relics of history, but not her casualness. It was time the old photos and objects came down from the shelf. But as always when she examined or handled the pieces, Shane became caught up in them.
    What had the man been like who had first blown that bugle? It would have been shiny then, and undented. A boy, she thought, with peach fuzz on his face. Had he been frightened? Exhilarated? Fresh off the farm, she imagined, and sure his cause was the right one. Whichever side he had fought for, he had blown the bugle into battle.
    With a sigh, she took it down and set it in a packing box. Carefully, Shane wrapped and packed until the shelves were clear, but for the highest one. Standing back, she calculated how she would reach the pieces that sat several feet above her head. Not bothering to move the heavy ladder from across the room, she dragged over a nearby chair. As she stood on the seat, a knock sounded at the back door.
    “Yes, come in,” she called, stretching one arm up while balancing herself with a hand on one of the lower shelves. She swore and muttered as her reach still fell short. Just as she stood on tiptoe, teetering, someone grabbed her arm. Gasping as she overbalanced, Shane found herself gripped firmly by Vance Banning. “You scared me to death!” she accused.
    “Don’t you know better than to use a chair like that?” He kept his hands firmly at her waist as he lifted her down. Then, though he’d had every intention of doing so, he didn’t release her. There was a smudge of dust on her cheek, and her hair was tousled. Her small, narrow hands rested on his arms while she smiled up at him. Without thinking, Vance lowered his mouth to hers.
    Shane didn’t struggle, but felt a jolt of surprise. Then she relaxed. Though she hadn’t expected the kiss then, she had known the time would come. She let the first stream of pure pleasure run its course.
    His mouth was hard on hers, with no gentleness, no trace of what kissing meant to her—a gesture of affection, love or comfort. Yet instinct told her he was capable of tenderness. Lifting a hand to his cheek, Shane sought to soothe the turbulence she sensed. Immediately, he released her. The touch of her hand had been too intimate.
    Something told Shane to treat it lightly no matter how her body ached to be held again. Tilting her head, she gave him a mischievous smile. “Good morning.”
    “Good morning,” he said carefully.
    “I’m taking inventory,” she told him with a sweeping gesture of the room. “I want to list everything before I haul it upstairs for storage. I plan to use this room for the museum and the rest of the first floor for the shop. Could you get those things off the top shelf for me?” she asked, looking around for her