The Men of Pride County: The Pretender

by West, Rosalyn

  She was just a girl really …

  A girl full of modest blushes and curiosity. A girl whose heart had beaten with untested passion as he’d purposefully held her near. The way to win her over was no mystery. He was halfway there already.

  He lay in her bed. There was no mistaking the herbal scent that clung to the pillows. The same fresh fragrance was in her hair. Soft hair, soft lips, soft shape easily molded to his own.

  From the other room the music she played started up again, sweet remembered tones played too poignantly. A peaceful sleep stole over him, his first for a very long time.

  And in the gentle dreams that followed, a beautiful angel beckoned to him with a heart of gold. Calling to a soul he no longer believed he possessed …

  THE MEN OF PRIDE COUNTY

  THE

  PRETENDER

  ROSALYN

  WEST

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  Other AVON ROMANCES

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Pride County, Kentucky

  1866

  Better it burn than belong to another.

  Deacon Sinclair stared into the flames, that thought consuming him the way greedy tongues of fire devoured the well-aged wood. Smoke enveloped him, its acrid scent parching eyes already raw from lack of sleep, but he didn’t draw away. He continued to watch the blaze, seeing his hopes, his dreams fall away in ashes.

  Everything he loved, everything he’d sacrificed for, would soon be gone.

  Today the fertile acres and the majestic house standing proudly upon them would pass from his grasp into a stranger’s hands. Tonight a stranger would make the decisions he’d been bred to. Tonight a stranger would sleep in the bed where he’d been conceived. And he would sleep under someone else’s roof, accepting charity where he could find it.

  Except he’d never learned how to do that. Humility, like apology, were things he’d never been schooled in under his father’s harsh tutelage. He knew how to command his future and that of those around him. He knew how to survive by any means at hand. But he didn’t know how to bend to a bitter fate and graciously admit to failure.

  Failure was a luxury he’d never been allowed.

  But what else could he do that hadn’t already been done? Tyler Fairfax had sold off the mortgage and the new owner was on his way to claim what Avery Sinclair had died to preserve. A way of life, an inheritance of pride, all gone. And for the first time, Deacon was glad his father had died in battle so as not to witness the shame of his trust betrayed.

  Avery Sinclair would never have bent. Nor would he have allowed his home to pass out of his hands. He would have destroyed it first.

  He would want Deacon to do the same.

  But Deacon couldn’t force himself to take a piece of kindling from the fire burning in the grate before him to turn his family home into a pyre of defiance. It was the last monument to all he held dear, to all he’d aspired to. In destroying it, he would lose himself as well.

  There had to be another way.

  Anger flickered then flared white hot in defiance of his despair. After all he’d done, after all he’d let escape him—happiness, love, even the basics of his humanity—he was not going to quietly sit by and lose it all anyway. The unfairness of it fanned his fury. This house, these lands, were his inheritance, not just given but earned: every board foot, every acre through brutal work and endless self-deprivation. Lost in a moment of weakness. Gone upon a schemer’s whim. And though he wished he could cast the blame elsewhere, it settled hot and chokingly within him, a victim of his pride. He’d failed to protect one of the two things he’d vowed never to compromise—his family lands and his family name. What good was one without the other?

  He would find a way, perhaps not today or tomorrow, perhaps not for weeks, months, or years, but he would have back what was his. In making that promise, he leaned back from the blaze.

  There is no such thing as honorable surrender. There is no substitute for success.

  The war hadn’t taught him that. His father had.

  “I’m ready.”

  The sound of his mother’s soft tones squeezed about Deacon’s heart. It was a moment before he could stand and turn to face her with an impassive front. That, too, was expected of him. Her brave, accepting smile was bereft of accusation. And that small forgiving gesture nearly broke him. He had to look away or lose the last of his control. Words failed briefly. What could he say to her that would reduce the pain of leaving her memories and security behind? He took a breath, then another to ease the constriction in his throat.

  “Patrice and Reeve should be here soon to see you to the Glade.”

  “You aren’t coming with us?”

  “No. I need—I need to take care of things here. I’ll come by later to make sure you’re settled in.”

  “We’ll wait with you.”

  Her concern shot a spear of anguish to his core but his reply was carefully void of emotion. “No. I’d rather see to it alone.” Alone, the way he’d handled everything in his life. Alone was preferable. No witnesses to his fall from grace.

  “What ever you want, dear.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. What he wanted? He wanted to give her back her home. He wanted to return dignity to his family name. He wanted the vision of the future his father instilled with relentless and unswerving zeal. He wanted to stand tall just once in his life, knowing he’d met every expectation. But this wasn’t about what he wanted. It was about what had to be.

  “Mama?”

  Because he rarely addressed her so informally or with such raspy feeling, Hannah Sinclair drew close, all at once consoling, yet not sure how to comfort. “What is it, Deacon?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She placed her hand on his coat sleeve, inviting him to turn into her embrace, well knowing that he wouldn’t. Her husband had quite effectively and quite ruthlessly weaned him from the need for compassion—hers or anyone else’s. That was the only cause she’d ever had to curse the man she’d adored. Because she knew he would accept honesty more readily than sympathy, she made her reply one of quiet earnest.

  “Don’t be. You did everything you could do.”

  His head bowed.

  Sensing his uncommon vulnerability, Hannah was about to say more when the sound of an approaching company interrupted. Immediately, Deacon stiffened, self-contained and unapproachable once again.

  “That’ll be them. Are you sure you have everything you need, Mother?”

  “All I need is my family”

  He looked at her then, his features expressionless, emotions swallowed up and sealed away by years of training. If his heart was breaking, he gave no evidence of it. “I’ll bring down the rest of your bags.”

  But her hand remained upon his arm, staying him as if there were more she meant to say. Because he couldn’t bear to hear those sentiments, Deacon gently carried her graceful fingers to his lips, pressing a respectful kiss upon them. Asking
for and receiving her silent obedience with a remote gentility that was so like his father’s, it brought tears to her eyes. Hannah blinked them away, not wanting him to mistake their cause. She withdrew her hand and softly said, “I’ll let them in.”

  Deacon watched her move toward the foyer, all fragile grace and Southern charm, while he choked on the fact that this was the last time she’d play hostess in her own home. One more sin to weigh upon his soul. He was about to start for the stairs when a familiar voice grated against the last of his reserve.

  Tyler Fairfax, come to gloat in smug victory.

  Damn him!

  Bringing with him the new masters of Sinclair Manor.

  Deacon didn’t know much about them. He didn’t need to know more than the fact that these people were laying claim to generations of sweat and sacrifice by virtue of having the one thing he lacked … money. Not having much character to begin with, Fairfax displayed a greed which overcame all promises he’d made to allow Deacon the time to buy back his inheritance. The town banker told him that the new owners had paid an unprecedented sum to snatch up the Manor’s mortgage in a time when much more could be had much more cheaply. In the aftermath of war, plantation property was easier to come by than credit. But it was more than money where Fairfax was concerned; it always had been. Something had prompted the little weasel to sell, something more than the amount. The Fairfaxes had more money than God. No, this was about pride, about wanting to rub Deacon’s face in his misfortune just for the malicious enjoyment of it. There was something about this offer, about these buyers, that had Fairfax smirking with pleasure. Gritting his teeth and gathering his dignity, Deacon went to discover what it was.

  The truth nearly killed him.

  Fairfax might have hoped it, but never could he have dreamed the full effect the owner’s identity would have.

  Deacon stood in the doorway, rigid with shock, while Tyler, smiling a Cheshire grin, introduced the well-dressed couple standing in the hall.

  “Might I present Mister Montgomery Prior and his lovely wife?”

  “A pleasure, Mister Sinclair.”

  The man who spoke with a clipped British accent extended his hand in an affable manner, but Deacon never saw the gesture or truly noticed the man. His disbelieving stare was fixed upon the stunning woman whose new name and glamorous look couldn’t distract from the way Deacon’s heart seemed suddenly to still in his chest as she smiled and purred, “I believe the pleasure is all ours, Monty. Hello, Deacon. I’ll bet I’m the last person you ever expected to see again.”

  The understatement left him speechless.

  Because here was one unresolved slice of his past that he’d never dreamed would come calling—even as he dreamed about her every night without fail.

  His onetime hope for happiness had become his living hell.

  Chapter 1

  Cumberland Gap, Kentucky, five years earlier

  1861

  From his place on the ridge, Deacon had the perfect view of the modest farm below. It was like many others nestled into the steep embrace of the Cumberland. A house, a barn, a well, and an old wagon. A neat garden plot covered by a dusting of snow. A scattering of hens. A horse for the wagon and a cow for milk. An existence without luxury but with a peaceful sort of comfort. He watched, although he knew the routine by heart. He’d been observing the farm for almost a week and the pattern was as familiar as it was predictable.

  Just after dawn, the door to the house opened and a single figure, bundled in a heavy overcoat with hat tipped against the chill, hurried toward the barn to tend the needs of its meager inhabitants. A puppy that was all mammoth head, whip tail, and plate-sized feet bounded after. Deacon waited until the door closed, until the undisturbed serenity settled back over the intimate scene. Then he drew his pistol to calmly check its chambers.

  He drew a slow breath and steeled himself for the unpleasant business ahead.

  Echoes of the shot rolled down into the quiet valley creating an avalanche of sound. Though gunfire wasn’t uncommon, its proximity startled the dog into frantic barking. The lone figure emerged from the barn to scan the surrounding hills fretfully, but reverberations off the wooded slopes confused the origins of the shot. Just as he’d planned.

  What he hadn’t planned for was the intensity of the pain.

  The image of the valley below faded as blood begin to seep between the press of his fingers. He’d nicked nothing vital, but that knowledge didn’t stop his swells of nausea. He tried to holster his still smoking gun, missing the first time, managing the second in an uncoordinated effort. That was when the first shock of fear hit him. His meticulous plan would fall to ruin if he fell off his horse and bled to death, unnoticed, right here in full sight of his goal.

  Fighting back the swamping dizziness, Deacon gathered his reins in a bloodied hand and nudged the animal forward. Movement sent fresh waves of hurt pounding up from his side to beat in blackening pulses behind his eyes. What seemed so simple and logical in the planning stage was now close to insurmountable as he swayed in the saddle. Breathing in short, quick snatches to keep the darkness at bay, he lay along the horse’s neck, his eyes closing against the blur of passing shapes. Not much farther. Not much farther.

  Hang on. Hang on. How are you going to accomplish the rest if you can’t manage this simple thing?

  Awareness ebbing, he lost all direction, all focus. And then he was falling. For such a long time—or at least that was how it seemed. Pine needles and powdery snow cushioned his impact with the ground, but the blow was jarring. If he fainted, he would fail. He clung to that like a lifeline, struggling to hold to it even as he felt himself slipping away.

  And just as consciousness left him, he had one last impression, that of an angel bending near. Only angels weren’t supposed to be shaped to tempt sinful thought, were they?

  Perhaps this was hell, and damned inviting it was.

  He blinked once, twice, trying to retain the alluring vision as it came closer. He desperately wanted to hear the words those ripe cherry-sweet lips were forming, but concentration faltered and he sank into oblivion.

  Garnet Davis believed in answer to prayer, but never had she expected such a quick response … and one so singularly attractive.

  Only moments before, as she knelt beside their cantankerous cow trying to coax a steady stream of milk, she’d been brooding over a frequent wish, a wish that she wasn’t so alone she felt like screaming. A wish that when she spoke, a human voice would reply.

  She meant no offense to Boone. The affectionate hound was a most attentive listener, but not so good when it came to giving advice. He’d cock his huge head as she poured out her woes, giving quick comfort with a long swipe of his tongue, but as far as an opinion, his was always a tail thumping, “Whatever you like is fine with me.” On some topics, that just wasn’t good enough. She wanted another’s point of view or even an argument—something to challenge the sameness of her days and the loneliness of her nights.

  Of course, she’d been hoping for her father’s early return, or perhaps a simple visit from one of their neighbors, but she knew the distance and the danger prevented both things. She wasn’t afraid to be by herself, even though it gave her father no end of worries. She’d been hunting turkeys and small game since she’d been big enough to hoist her papa’s scattergun. It would take more than the threat of enemy armies to scare her from her daily duties. An empty homestead was an invitation to the riffraff combing the countryside. The sight of her steady double barrels was usually all it took to discourage the shiftless wanderers. Knowing the solitary drifters weren’t the main cause for her father’s concern, she’d promised him she’d escape to the woods should true danger arise. She knew every hollow, every cave, and could live off the charity of the land until the freebooters moved on, or could make her way to the closest Union camp if necessary.

  But that would be a last resort. It would take John Hunt Morgan and a battalion of gray coats breathing fire to chase her off her
property. But she’d promised, to give her father’s mind ease. No man liked the notion of a daughter all alone in times this troubled, especially when he had no guarantee of when he could return.

  Garnet didn’t ask for guarantees. She was a patriot, proud to know her father was doing his best to hold their country together. She wrote of that pride, of her willingness to sacrifice his company for the sake of the nation, in nightly entries in a big tattered book filled nearly front to back with her innermost thoughts and dreams. But writing about them in private narrative and speaking them to another were two very different things as the lonesome winds wailed through their valley, echoing the melancholy in her soul.

  But it was an echo of a very different nature that drew her out of the barn, one hand twisted in Boone’s rope collar and the other toting the heavy rifle. As Boone strained and barked, Garnet stood fast, listening. A single shot. Maybe a hunter. Maybe a signal. Then it was more than the morning chill chasing shivers through her.

  She saw the lone horseman heading down out of the treeline. She waited to greet him with the purposeful end of the long barrels. Recognizing the Federal blue of his uniform, she relaxed somewhat, but not completely. She’d learned from her father’s warnings that danger didn’t ride with one side over another. Bad men came in both blue and gray.

  So she waited, at the ready, as the single rider approached, not opposed to giving him a hot breakfast and some feed for his horse, but determined to share no more than that. The weary pair entered her yard.

  “That’s close enough, mister.” She pitched her voice purposefully low and gruff, keeping her hat tipped low to conceal her features as well as her gender. “State your business. Be quiet, Boone.” She gave his collar a jerk, but the dog continued its frenzied barking. “I said that’s close enough!” She raised the barrels to punctuate that claim.

  Instead of reining in, the rider decided to dismount in a sloppy spill, hitting the ground in a soundless heap. Garnet hesitated, wary as well as concerned.