“Give me … a minute.”
Don’t let him swoon!
She didn’t know how she’d manage to keep him on his feet if he fainted, let alone wrangle him into the bedroom. She angled under his arm, letting him drape over her shoulder with a soul-shocking familiarity. His breath pulsed hard and fast against the side of her face, quickening her own heartbeats in response.
“Are you all right, Sergeant?”
She felt him nod. Then slowly, to prove it, he began to straighten, relieving her of most of the burden of support.
“Where to?”
She directed him to the curtained doorway, pushing it aside with her free hand and guiding him within the cozy dimness. Heavy drapes at the windows sealed out both the chill and the thin daylight. Once he’d targeted the bed, he let momentum carry him to it. The springs groaned under his abrupt descent and Garnet found herself pulled across his lap. Startled by the contact, she tried to lever back, but his arms remained about her, anchoring her there upon his knees. She sat stiff and still, engulfed by his size, by his heat, by his intimate proximity. For a long moment, neither of them moved. He was merely gathering his strength, she told herself. There was no reason to be alarmed—or to be charged with anticipation.
Finally he leaned back, allowing her to slip from the circle of his arms. Thankfully, his eyes were closed, so he didn’t witness the way her knees knocked together when she stood away from him. Taking a deep breath, she returned to the matter of making him comfortable.
To turn down the bed, she had to reach behind him. Awareness of him overwhelmed her once more. She’d been around so few men, and this one, by virtue of his courage alone, was enough to make her giddy.
She jumped slightly as his uniform jacket hit the bed. Nervously she edged back to see him unbuttoning his long underwear. Her gaze riveted to the expanse of lightly furred chest revealed with the release of each fastening.
“Could you help me with this?”
“Oh … yes, of course.”
She was slowly able to draw off the bloodstained garment, leaving him bare from the trouser band up except for the white swatch of her crude bandaging. Her gaze fixed itself upon his knees.
“What else?” Was that tight-throated little voice really her own?
When he didn’t reply, she was forced to glance upward. A small smile etched upon his weary features.
“Just my boots, if you don’t mind.”
A nervous smile released some of her tension. Just his boots. She bent to wrestle them off one at a time.
When she stood, his figure slumped. His head bowed, his eyes closed, his exhaustion was plain in the droop of his shoulders. Garnet’s tender heart melted.
“You rest, now. Get your strength back.”
He needed only that gentle encouragement. When he started to lie back, the movement caused a grimace to twist his features. Garnet slipped her arm behind his back to support and guide him to the sheets. His eyes never opened, but as she pulled the covers up around him, he murmured a soft, “Thank you.”
Feeling as though she should withdraw but unable to make herself take the first step away, Garnet watched him sink into a healing slumber. Only then did an important thought occur to her.
“Your name? What’s your name?”
She needed something to call him other than the impersonal moniker of “Sergeant.” Especially within the privacy of her own dreams.
When he remained unmoving, she figured him to be asleep. Disappointed, she turned toward the curtained doorway.
“Deacon. Deacon Sinclair.”
Deacon.
She smiled to herself, liking the way it settled familiarly within her mind.
“Rest, Sergeant Sinclair.”
She stepped outside the room and closed the drape. A sigh escaped her.
Deacon.
But he didn’t rest. Sleep couldn’t overtake the rapid turnings of Deacon’s mind. He glanced at the Union jacket she’d hung so respectfully on the bedpost. He was in and she didn’t suspect a thing.
Once he’d gotten over his surprise that the occupant of the farm was a woman, he busied himself thinking how to use the fact to his best advantage. 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. This was her bed. There was no mistaking the herbal scent that clung to the pillows. The same fresh fragrance was in her ridiculously short hair.
Soft hair, soft lips, soft shape easily molded to his own.
He jerked his transgressing thoughts back to task.
But, providing his intelligence was correct and that he was in the right place, could she tell him what he needed to know?
That was the important thing, the only thing. All that mattered was the information. Information he was to get from any available source, by any means necessary.
From the other room, the music started up again, sweet remembered tones played so poignantly. As he closed his eyes and listened, wondering from what instrument she coaxed those winsome melodies, 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 harp of gold. Calling to a soul he no longer believed he possessed.
Later, from the doorway, Garnet watched him sleep. She knew it was wrong to spy upon him. Telling herself she was checking his condition didn’t excuse the amount of time she’d lingered there to follow the gentle rise and fall of her covers.
There was a man in her bed.
The notion alone had her jumpy as a cat inside. Of course, this man was injured and a stranger.
But my, he was handsome.
Though lacking in comparisons, Garnet knew what appealed to her: he did. Everything about him did. The long, lean look of him. The slated stare so stormy with intelligence and intensity. The generous shape of his lower lip and the angles of his unshaven cheeks. She bet he was something to behold when all cleaned up. Though he was wearing Federal blue, his accent held neither clipped Northern syllables nor an exaggerated Southern drawl. She heard a middle states softening to his words. His manner was genteel and his hands bore no burr of the working class.
What was an obviously well-learned and clever man doing in a lowly sergeant’s uniform?
Her thoughts were disrupted as he shifted beneath her sheets, growing restless in his slumber. The covers lowered, gifting her with a superb view of his upper body. Lamplight from the main room gleamed with bronze highlight and shadow along broad shoulders and wellmade arms and muted upon the hair-dusted chest. Goodness, but he was nicely put together.
Brave, smart, and an appealing eyeful.
The answer to prayer.
Until he began to mutter in his sleep. Of the words she could comprehend, one of them was another woman’s name. That woke her like a slap.
Chiding herself for getting so carried away, Garnet left the doorway, turning from her every dream. He wasn’t here to fill the void in her empty hours. This was simply an unexpected stop for a stranger on his way from one place to another. He had a past that didn’t include her and a future she would never know. All she had were the hours or days he would remain in her care; then her name and face would fade from his memory.
Knowing she would make no lasting impression only emphasized her isolation.
A sudden scratching at the front door startled her from her brooding. Boone! She’d forgotten all about him. Made hasty by guilt, she opened the door, welcoming a snowy fury. After making a quick circle near the fireplace, the dog picked up the scent and dashed, snarling fiercely, through the curtained opening to her room.
“Boone, no!”
By the time she reached the bedroom, the gangly pup, now all protective dynamo, stood with forepaws planted on her guest’s chest. Deacon had the dog by either side of the ruff, holding his snapping jaws only inches away from his face.
&nb
sp; “Boone!”
She dragged the bristled animal from the bed and admonished him from the room with a boot to the hindquarters. The pup huddled on the other side of the draped door, peering under the curtain woefully.
Deacon was struggling to sit up.
“Oh, Sergeant, I’m so sorry.”
Before she thought of what she was doing, Garnet sat on the edge of the mattress. With palms pressed to either bared shoulder, she urged him to lie back before the exertion reopened his wound. Even after he’d complied, her hands remained where they were for another long minute, lost to the feel of warm skin stretched over hard muscle. The sense of breathlessness returned.
“I can see why your father feels safe leaving you here alone with that hell hound to guard you.”
The sound of his voice woke her from her reverie. She sat back, rubbing her palms on the rough nap of her trousers. Though flustered, she had the presence of mind to remember her earlier fabrication.
“I’m not alone.”
Sinking back into the pillows, he chided her with a look.
“Well, not for long. I expect him back at any moment.”
He closed his eyes. She couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. She took advantage of the silence to place a tentative hand upon his brow.
“Your fever’s no better,” she stated unhappily. “Perhaps if you took some nourishment. Do you think you could eat something? I can make some broth.”
He shook his head in vague disinterest. “Maybe later.”
Thinking it was probably rest he needed more than anything, Garnet was about to withdraw when he said, “Miss Davis, I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.” His gaze was fixed upon her, somber and sincere. His unblinking focus brought back her bout of nerves. Her smile trembled.
“It’s no trouble. You needn’t worry that you’ll not return home to your wife in one piece.”
His brow puckered. Garnet bit her lower lip as if she could take back those impulsive words.
“Wife? I have no wife.”
She flushed. “You were calling a name in your sleep. I assumed—”
His frown deepened. “What did I say?”
“You said the name Patrice, and I thought—”
He relaxed with a faint smile. “Patrice is my sister. She and my mother are the only ones worrying about my fate.”
“Oh.” She clenched her teeth so as not to grin at that welcome bit of news. No wife. No sweetheart waiting. “They must be frantic with concern,” she murmured, walking to the window and looking out into the snowy darkness so he couldn’t see her disconcertedness.
His gaze lowered, as did the pitch of his voice. “I haven’t seen them for six months, not since my father and I went to join up. I was on my way home on hardship leave when—when you offered your hospitality Now I’m bringing them the news of my father’s death.”
She turned to him, the last of her caution and wariness melting away at the sound of his sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”
He accepted her words with a slight nod. “I only wish I could stay with them for more than a couple of weeks. I hate the thought of leaving them there alone.”
She understood his dilemma very personally and sought to reassure him. “They’ll be fine, Sergeant. We women are a lot stronger than you men give us credit for.”
His mouth took a slight bend. “You certainly are. Now, tell me the truth. How long have you been here alone?”
She couldn’t pretend with him, not now. “Months. And I’ve managed quite well.”
“And your family?”
“There’s just me and my father.”
“Is he a soldier?”
“A telegraph operator.”
Deacon took the news like a swallow of raw whiskey. He breathed into it for a moment before he could catch his wind. Then he smiled at the unsuspecting girl, no longer feeling the twinge of conscience at spinning such pitiful lies.
“An important job.”
“One that keeps him on the move more than either of us would like.”
He made a sympathetic sound.
Garnet approached, but only to draw the covers up around his shoulders. The movement was quick and efficient, as if she found it distasteful. Or distracting.
“You’d better rest. I’ll make sure Boone doesn’t disturb your sleep again. I think he’s just put out because he usually sleeps in bed with me.” Realizing what she’d just confessed, she turned a bright crimson. Deacon took advantage of her embarrassment, releasing a slow, ungentlemanly smile.
“I can understand his annoyance.”
“He’ll survive it,” she said gruffly, trying to survive her own sense of humiliation. And the insinuation. Would he really envy another her company in bed? She backed hurriedly from the room, afraid to linger over that tempting thought. “Good night, Sergeant.”
“Good night, Miss Davis.”
And Deacon smiled to himself, satisfied with his progress. He was in the right place, and time was on his side.
Chapter 3
At first, Garnet thought her restlessness was from the discomfort of sleeping on a pallet before the fire. Clad in her warm woolen nightgown and curled upon the bearskin, which at first seemed cozy but now seemed no insulation at all between her and the hard floor, she’d been dozing fitfully when all at once she came fully awake.
Boone straightened at her side to issue a low, threatening growl. Something had woken him as well.
“Oh, hush, Boone,” she muttered irritably, thinking that their visitor might be moving about. Then she again heard what had awakened her.
A soft, intrusive sound … from outside.
Placing a silencing hand on Boone’s muzzle, she reached for her scattergun. Whoever was creeping about in the night was more likely foe than friend. Her first thought was of some vagrant bent on stealing her stock. Pulling on her heavy coat, she muttered about the unlikeliness of her letting that happen. Then, at the door, she paused and considered her guest.
What if the intruder … or intruders … were looking for him?
She took a stabilizing breath. She wasn’t about to surrender up Deacon Sinclair any more than she’d let anyone make off with the horses.
Peeping out from behind the front curtain, she could see only a peaceful scene of fresh-powdered snow washed by moonlight. Then the setting took on a sinister twist with the discovery of hoofprints—two sets. She faded back against the wall, fighting to control the sudden quivering of her knees. Trouble. Her first real trouble. Time to make good on all the blustery promises she’d made to her father about holding their homestead against all comers.
First, she’d have to find out where they were. Then she’d find out what they wanted.
Hands shaking almost too much for her to do the job, she tugged on heavy boots and clapped on a hat. She thought of waking Deacon and returning his gun, but hesitated. What help would he be, weak and wounded? What did she know about him? Her mind took a practical step away. He still hadn’t told her why he’d been shot or who might be after him.
And as stealthy footsteps sounded on the porch boards, the opportunity to ask slipped away.
Time to act.
Jerking open the front door, she came face to face with a single bearded man. A startled gaze fixed upon the greeting end of her gun, then lifted slowly to meet her own.
“What is it you want, mister?” she growled in her best threatening manner.
When he smiled, not intimidated at all, the word “trouble” came home with heart-thumping consequence.
“You all by yourself, a pretty little thing like you?” He glanced over her shoulder, scanning what he could see of her main room with a quick, cold assessment. “Or you got somebody in there with you, willing to hide behind your skirts?”
So they were looking for Deacon. She bristled up as protectively as Boone in his defense.
“That’s my business. I believe I asked you to state yours.”
She’d clearly seen two sets of tracks. Where w
as the other one? It was too much to hope that this one had been leading a pack animal.
She glanced away for an instant to check the shadows of the porch briefly, but it was long enough. She gave a dismayed gasp as his hand shot out, closing about the barrel of her shotgun. With a fierce yank, he had it.
Shoving the flat of his hand against her coat, he pushed her into the house and followed. Then the other one appeared behind him. His features had been badly scarred by fire, making his smile into a hideous sneer. He came in and closed the door.
They were inside and she was unarmed.
She couldn’t let panic get the better of her. She searched her mind for options.
“Nice place you got here. All cozy and warm. Bet you could make it real hospitable, if you was of a mind to,” Bearded Face said.
With the muzzle of her own gun, he nudged back the drape of her coat, exposing the unmistakable curve of her breast beneath modest flannel. The sudden heat flaring in his gaze filled her with a primal fear, but she stood fast against it.
Stall. Think.
“Who are you men?” She studied their clothing; she saw no sign that their allegiance was either with the North or South. “Deserters?”
The scarred one laughed. “You’d have to belong to one side or the other to desert from it. We makes our living on what they leaves behind.”
Scavengers. Her stomach tightened. The worst kind of threat. She’d find no honor or mercy in them … and unless she thought of something fast, no escape from whatever they intended.
That intention grew more apparent when Bearded Face ordered silkily, “Take that there coat off, missy. Get yourself comfortable.”
As she eased out of the bulky folds under his watchful and appreciative eye, Garnet’s mind flew ahead. Where was Boone? The dog’s absence and silence meant what?
“Cale, set the girl to making up some grub,” Scarred Cheek grumbled. “I ain’t eaten nothin’ home cooked for months.”
The bearded Cale grinned. “What she’s gonna be cookin’ up ain’t gonna be your supper, Bronson. If you’re hungry, you can rustle up your own vittles whilst me and the little lady gets to know each other better.”
The Men of Pride County: The Pretender Page 3
