The Men of Pride County: The Pretender

by West, Rosalyn

  Over my dead body. Garnet carefully folded her coat and laid it upon the seat of her father’s favorite chair. Her hand slipped beneath the cushion, brushing against metal, coming up with the sergeant’s pistol from where she’d hidden it. Concealing it in the loose fabric of her gown, she steeled herself for whatever action it would take to save herself and her home.

  And her guest.

  “Bronson, check out them other rooms so we don’t get no surprises.”

  Bronson lifted his disfigured face away from the pot where Garnet had broth simmering. “If she’d had company, we’d have seen ’em by now.”

  “Do it,” Cale snapped, having no patience for the other’s moaning. He gestured to the ladder and asked Garnet, “What’s up there?”

  “My father’s room.” Anxiously her covert gaze followed the shuffling Bronson as he went to her bedroom. There was nothing she could do to prevent Deacon’s discovery.

  She swallowed hard as time tickled away.

  “Where is your daddy?”

  Her eyes narrowed, allowing her contempt for the men to show. “Off doing his duty to his country.”

  “Quite the patriot, leaving a tasty little thing like you behind. Bronson, what’d you find in there?” After a long beat of silence, he glanced toward the curtained doorway. “Brons?” The gun barrel jerked up, jabbing into Garnet’s throat. “What’s in there?”

  “My room.”

  “How come he ain’t answering?”

  Wondering the same thing, she drawled, “Maybe he’s trying on my clothes.”

  The force of his hard-knuckled blow sent her reeling back against the chair. She clung to it for balance as the world tottered.

  “An’ maybe you got a surprise waiting for us back there, huh?”

  His hand fisted in the front of her nightdress. He dragged her across the room toward the ominously still curtain. Her face ached. Pin dots of blackness obscured her vision as she stumbled after him. She tightened her grip on the pistol, afraid it would slip from her damp fingers. She wanted to call out a warning to Deacon, but her jaw felt broken.

  Cale parted the curtain cautiously with the barrel of her gun, giving them a view of the bed and a pair of motionless boots of the man lying upon it.

  Then a hand clamped down on the rifle barrel.

  “Surprise.”

  Before Cale could react, Deacon angled the weapon upward and drove the butt of it into his bearded face, pulping his nose.

  The scavenger fell back with a gurgling sound, dragging Garnet with him. He didn’t release the gun. Stunned by the pain of her knees hitting the floorboards, Garnet lost the grip on her revolver and watched it spin just out of reach.

  As Cale and Deacon wrestled for possession of the scattergun, she fought the tangle of flannel holding her prisoner, until a telling rip gave her the freedom needed to lunge those few extra feet. Her hand closed upon the smooth grip.

  Finding himself in possession of a loose length of fabric, Cale let go, needing both hands to combat his unexpectedly strong opponent. Garnet rolled up into a crouch, vaguely aware that half her nightgown hung down to her waist as she brought the revolver up into play. But the two men tussled on the floor, struggling for the shotgun, giving her no clear target—until Cale smashed his knee into Deacon’s injured side, causing him to double up over the site in fresh agony.

  Cale staggered to his feet, his heavy beard streaked with crimson, his breath laboring. He worked his ravaged features and grimaced. Then, with a cold purpose, he fit the muzzle of the gun against the back of Deacon’s head.

  “You’re going to die for ruining my pretty face, mister.”

  “No.”

  He turned at the sound of Garnet’s soft cry. His eyes widened at the sight of her in her near-nakedness, appreciation rather than apprehension bringing a smile even as she brandished the revolver.

  “Wait your turn, missy. I’ll get to you in a minute.”

  He didn’t believe she was a threat.

  He was wrong.

  She heard the click of the hammer as he thumbed it back. Forced to act without hesitation, she pulled the trigger.

  Cale dropped without a sound. Deacon caught the shotgun before it hit the floor, and once he’d crawled over to make sure the man was dead, he turned to where Garnet stood frozen in shock.

  “Nice shot.”

  The pistol wavered wildly in her hand. “I—I couldn’t just let him shoot you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Her unblinking gaze remained upon the man whose life she’d taken. She was unable to look away, unable to erase the memory of the brief flicker in Cale’s eyes just before she’d killed him, a look of horror as he saw his own death approach on a .45-grain slug. A look she’d instilled there just before she’d put out the light of life forever.

  Then the awful sight was blocked by Deacon, who’d managed to regain his feet. Before she could lift her wounded gaze to his, he drew her up against him, his hand closing over the pistol and gently removing it from her grasp. He pressed her cheek into the soft furring of his chest.

  For a long moment, she remained there immobile, until a quiet shuddering began in her soul and spread relentlessly outward until her whole form quaked with the consequence of what she’d done. She squeezed her eyes closed, knowing the image could never be shut off that easily.

  “I’ve never—”

  “Shhh. It’s all right. It’s over.”

  As sobs claimed her, he held her in silent support, knowing there was nothing he could say to lessen the grief and guilt she suffered. Her hands came up slowly to clutch at the hard swells of his upper arms, clinging to him as her knees weakened and her courage fled. She felt the warm brush of his lips upon her brow and the movement of his hand up her arm as he restored the torn half of her gown to her shoulder. Then she felt nothing beyond comfort in the surrounding safety of his embrace, a sensation so unique, so necessary to that moment of shattering circumstance, that she could do nothing but linger, limp and listless, against him. Until a soft whimpering intruded.

  “Boone.”

  She pushed off his chest shakily and glanced about.

  “What happened to Boone?”

  “I couldn’t have him giving me away.”

  She frowned up at him. “What did you do?”

  Before he could answer, she tottered into the bedroom, to be momentarily taken aback by the sight of the scar-faced Bronson stretched out on her covers growing cold. There was no sign of violence to the body. Deacon answered her unasked question with the brutally frank facts.

  “I broke his neck. I didn’t want him giving the other one any warning, either.”

  Broke his neck …

  The power and skill necessary to accomplish such a gruesome task without sound …

  Garnet shuddered and quickly averted her eyes. Her attention caught upon a mysteriously rocking clothes chest. Deacon crossed to it and lifted the heavy lid. Boone was huddled inside. His dark eyes fixed upon Garnet in a forlorn plea above the muzzling wrap of one of her stockings. She released his jowls and was rewarded by his slobbering affection as she hoisted his gangly form from the trunk. When she set him down, he backed up against her legs to whine uneasily, scenting death in the air.

  “Maybe you should put him outside while we take care of our unwanted company.”

  We. Our. He said the words casually as if he wasn’t a stranger under her roof. For the moment, he wasn’t. The circumstance bound them together with something as strong as intimacy.

  “I guess we could put them in the cold cellar for now.”

  “Perhaps you should, umm, get dressed first.”

  A downward glance revealed her immodest state. Her flannel gown was rent to the waist. The gap of fabric framed the inner curve of her bosom and a sleek length of bare midriff. Garnet clutched the halves together with a horrified gasp.

  Picking up his uniform jacket, he said in a slightly growly rumble, “I’ll wait in the other room.”

&
nbsp; She acknowledged his offer of gallantry with a mortified nod. The moment the curtains closed behind him, she cast off the shredded gown before Bronson’s unseeing stare and pulled on drawers, trousers, and a heavy shirt over a thin chemise. Even with the coarse wool against her skin, she feared she’d never feel warm again.

  With Boone whimpering at her heels, she bundled the dead man up in the sheets she knew she could never use again for her own purpose. His body made a dreadful thump when it hit the floor. She paused to swallow down her sickness before dragging him into the front room.

  Deacon had already rolled Cale into a patchwork coverlet. To her dismay, Garnet recognized it as one of the few things left her made by her mother’s hands. But it was too late to reclaim the piece of handiwork. Blood already seeped through the carefully joined squares.

  Deacon leaned against the back of a chair, his elbow tucked up into his side like a bird nursing a broken wing. Pale skin slick with sweat betrayed his pain. Garnet forgot her own agonies in the face of his.

  “Are you all right? Are you sure you’re up to this? Maybe I’d better check your wound.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s get this done.”

  She was all for ridding her home of the evidence, if not the consequence, of her deed.

  Once the bodies were locked in the storage cellar just behind the house, Garnet busied herself in scouring the stained floorboards. Deacon watched from the impersonal distance of the dining table as she worked frantically to scrub away the source of her guilt. He could have told her that men such as those weren’t worth a single tear, but that wouldn’t have lessened her remorse.

  Perhaps there was some way he could both ease her conscience and serve himself.

  “I wasn’t sure at first, but now I am.”

  She paused in her cleaning but didn’t look up. “Sure about what?”

  “Those two were the ones who ambushed me. The scarred one grabbed my reins and the other shot me when I wouldn’t give them my horse. So this is my fault. I brought them here to terrorize you. After all your kindnesses, I’ve been nothing but trouble to you.”

  She rocked back on her heels, considering his words but not commenting on them.

  With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up out of the chair. “I’m going to turn in and get some sleep so I can be out of here at first light.”

  She was at his side before he had a chance to grimace, supporting him with her quickly offered shoulder and her quiet statement. “It’s too soon. You shouldn’t be riding until your wound begins to knit together.”

  “But—”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  He let her guide his arm across the unyielding line of her shoulders. He marveled at their steadiness after all that had happened, and at their strength. Instead of releasing him, she continued to hold onto his hand, curling her fingers into his palm in a gesture so filled with trust it brought an unevenness to his breathing. Such a mix of courage and vulnerability. He wasn’t sure how to respond to her or the effect she was having on him.

  He knew he shouldn’t respond at all. It wasn’t his business to admire her for her spirit and resilience. But he did. And that was dangerous. Emotions were always dangerous, but he couldn’t seem to get his in check. He was tired, that was the reason. Tired and hurting, and strangely receptive to the tender care of this backwoods girl who seemed ready to forgive him anything.

  Now, how was he going to forgive himself for what he had to do?

  Chapter 4

  Deacon leaned against the doorway while Garnet covered the bed with fresh sheets. Her movements were quick and efficient, and she avoided any eye contact. He recognized that she was operating on raw energy to keep reality at bay, knowing the instant she stopped her busy work, all the ugliness would be right there waiting.

  Smoothing out the blankets, she paused to suck a deep breath, then turned back the covers. Only then did she meet his stare. Her features were drawn with exhaustion. Panic flickered at the edges of her gaze.

  “Let’s hope we have no more excitement this evening.” She attempted a smile, the result a failure.

  He crossed to the bed, his movements halting as the full brunt of overexertion hit hard. Shrugging out of the jacket, he eased down upon the mattress, working to catch his wind. Shards of pain stabbed out from his wound with each breath, no matter how shallow and controlled.

  Seeing his distress, Garnet knelt between his knees and without a word, gently peeled back his bandages. Satisfied that all was holding together, she rewrapped his side only to glance up in question as his hand settled on her shoulder. He let his expression soften in gratitude. And something else—something deeper, more disguised—slipped through as well.

  “That’s twice that you’ve saved my life today. I only hope I’m worthy of your efforts.”

  “I—”

  He hushed her with the touch of his forefinger to her lips. While she remained still, her gaze lost within the intensity of his, that fingertip sketched the full curve of her upper lip and stroked down to her chin, nocking beneath it.

  As he slowly bent toward her, the sound of her inhalation seemed inordinately loud. Almost as loud as the sudden thunder of her heartbeats.

  She knew what he meant to do, and knew as well that she shouldn’t allow it, not from a stranger. But they didn’t seem like strangers, not now, not after all they’d shared.

  Her eyes drifted shut as she awaited the first touch of experience.

  He made it sinfully sweet, her first taste of passion, pressed upon her awe-slackened lips with lingering attention to each dip and tender swell. Warm as a summer’s eve and soft as a whispered secret, it played upon her quivering senses. Finally realizing her hands hung wooden at her sides, she lifted one to fit the beard-roughened line of his cheek and let the other move with an awkward intimacy along his shoulder, shy encouragements that should have tamed his doubts, but instead, let loose a wild rush of urgency.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw not the impersonal target of his carefully laid plans, but the courageous figure binding his wound, the fierce warrior bracing a threat to them both with his pistol in hand while her torn nightdress revealed charms meant to stop a man just as effectively. A killing combination—innocent strength and unintentional allure. For the moment, he had no power to resist.

  Fueled by her tentative response, he curled his hand in her bobbed hair, angling her head so their kiss could mature. He’d meant to tease her with just a sample, then found he himself was too hungry to leave that feast unsatisfied. She was made for kissing, her mouth ripe and sensually shaped, her reactions both refreshingly modest and unashamedly eager. And because the need to take advantage of both those things overwhelmed all but the last fragment of his reason, he hung onto that saving shard and forced his passions to abate.

  He’d accomplished what he’d meant to. There was no need to pursue his point so fervently that both of them let the moment get the better of their judgment.

  She trembled against him as he traced his mouth from the willing part of hers down the tempting curve of her throat. He could feel her confusion, her frustration, in her rapid swallowing, and his own in his unwillingness to lean away. Instead, he pillowed his head upon her shoulder and let a heavy sigh express the depth of his exhaustion.

  “I’m sorry. That was a little more than thank you.”

  Now he would discover if he’d pushed too far, too fast. He waited for her reply, then shut his eyes in relief as her fingers combed lightly through his hair. He was forgiven. Again.

  “Rest now,” she told him, with a calm she was far from feeling. She stood unsteadily and helped him lie back upon the mattress. Her own emotions winced at his involuntary gasp. Quickly, she brought his feet up on the bed, then waited anxiously for his fingers to unclench from the sheets.

  She knew she should leave him then, should return to the other room, where she’d find no relief from the torment of memories.

  As if understanding her reluctance to face her dee
d, Deacon caught her hand and drew her slowly, with a nonthreatening strength, down to the mattress beside him. As his arm formed a protective curl about her, he closed his eyes in search of needed sleep.

  Garnet lay unmoving. Maidenly shock wasn’t quite strong enough to overcome the appeal his closeness had upon her strained senses. She found comfort and compassion in his offer, not compromise. True, he’d kissed her with a shattering familiarity, but he’d stopped before taking any real advantage and he’d apologized for those brief liberties. She could have protested at any time … but hadn’t.

  And her sensibilities didn’t protest now.

  After levering out of her boots and pulling the covers up over them, Garnet placated her chafing morals by rolling away from him, as if the denying line of her back and backside presented an insurmountable barrier to any wrongdoings. But she continued to hug to the arm he’d wrapped about her, her fingers clutching to his for the sense of safety it gave her. And surprisingly, she slept, demons at bay on the night that she’d experienced two things that forever changed her life.

  She’d killed one man and kissed another.

  If Garnet had gone to sleep blissfully surrounded by the sense of security, she awoke to the shock of encompassing sin. Darkness blanketed the room, but she didn’t need light to get a clear picture of her situation.

  She was tangled with Deacon Sinclair under her bed covers.

  Sometime during the night, she’d pressed herself close to the nearly naked sergeant. Her head was cozily cradled in the lea of his shoulder, where his soft breaths stirred her hair. Though she was fully clothed, she met the long line of him inch for inch, her breasts cushioned against his ribs, her knee casually riding his thigh, her toes brushing along the calf of his leg.

  The contact reinforced her awareness of him as a man, hard where she was soft, lean where she was rounded, furred where she was smooth. Those differences excited in ways both foreign and frightening. Frightening because she had no desire to correct the impropriety by easing away from him.