The Men of Pride County: The Pretender

by West, Rosalyn

  At the magic words “no charge,” the widow ceased her grumbling and became all smiles. “What a gentleman you are, Mr. Sinclair.”

  He made no comment, but those at the stove had plenty to pass among themselves. Imagine, such generosity from a member of the gentry!

  “Mister Sinclair!”

  He headed to the bulk grocery section to see a humorless Margie Johnston pointing into the barrel of dried peas.

  “Would you care to explain that, sir?”

  There, afloat on the sea of tiny green pellets was an obvious contaminant. Deacon stared, determined not to show his dismay. He glanced about for the culprit and the reason, then relayed both calmly.

  “What’s to explain, Mrs. Johnston? A little boy’s kitten, a closed cathole, and an open barrel. Nature, ma’am.” A brief smile quirked his lips. “I’d be happy to dipper your peas from the bin up front.”

  “At no charge?” she prompted.

  His smile never faltered. “At no charge.”

  He and the pleased woman returned to the counter on a tide of murmurings. The satisfied female left with her measure of unsoiled peas.

  “Mr. Sinclair, my Manny came in with a note from me stating he was to get a good pair of trousers for fifty cents. When we checked our account from the previous owner, we found we were charged one dollar and fifty cents.”

  Deacon retained his sigh of aggravation. “Do you have the garment, Mrs. Wellington?”

  “My Manny couldn’t go without trousers to church, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Chuckles sounded from the stove area and were silenced by a look from Deacon.

  “So the trousers are no longer new.”

  Not in the least bit chagrined, the farm wife stated, “Is it your policy to honor the mistakes made by your predecessor, sir, or would you cheat a poor family out of a hard-earned dollar?”

  “It is my policy to satisfy my customers, Mrs. Wellington. I’ll credit your account for the dollar and tell your Manny to wear the trousers in good health.”

  Her stiffness faded into a grateful smile. “Why, that’s right neighborly of you, Mr. Sinclair. Who would have thought?”

  Who, indeed? But by the end of the first working day, not a soul who passed near Prior’s or walked the street of Pride hadn’t heard about Deacon Sinclair’s uncommon charity.

  Deacon was loading supplies into the final wagon in front of the store when Garnet and William arrived. Herschel was just hanging the “Closed” sign on the door and took a moment to doff his hat before starting down the walk toward his solitary dinner at Sadie’s.

  “How did our first day go, Mr. Sinclair?” Garnet called, as William ran to find Ulysses.

  “Not quite enough in the till to retire on, but we’re not broke yet.” He held the door open for her in a moment of surprising chivalry.

  Garnet stepped inside, then paused to close her eyes and breath deep, inhaling her entire inventory in one odoriferous accounting: the glaze on the calicoes, the starch in the checks, peppermint and wintergreen candies, leather polish on the shoes, neat’s-foot oil and wax on saddles, tar on steel cotton ties, and naphtha soap. A wonderful scent of commerce. And the dusky smell of industry and warm man as Deacon moved past her.

  “William, I need to discuss something with you and General Ulysses.”

  Alerted by the seriousness of his tone, William hugged the kitten to him. “Was he bad?”

  Crooking his finger, Deacon led the way to the pea bin. Looking inside, William understood immediately.

  “What is it?”

  Keeping a sober face, Deacon told the boy’s mother, “The kitten decided to relieve himself in the dried peas.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “William, did you cover the cathole?”

  “I didn’t want Ulysses to get cold.” William’s features puckered in distress. “We’re not going to get rid of Ulysses, are we? He didn’t mean to be bad.”

  Deacon bent down to the boy’s level. “No, he didn’t. But if he’s going to stay here, you’re going to have to teach him manners. First, make sure all the bins are covered. Second, leave the cathole open so he can get outside to take care of his business.”

  William nodded. Then he looked back at the barrel of ruined goods. “Can you sell the peas now?”

  “No.”

  “Who’s going to pay for them?”

  “Who do you think should pay for them?”

  His eyes lowered. “Me?”

  “Whose fault was it that they got ruined?”

  “Mine.”

  Before Garnet could step in to voice the forgiveness written plainly on her face, Deacon said, “If your mother is in agreement, I think it would be permissible for you to work off the cost of the peas.”

  William thought a minute, then looked to his mother. “I’d like to work for Mr. Sinclair to pay off the peas, Mama.”

  Her eyes tearing up with pride, Garnet nodded.

  Deacon glanced around. “I think sweeping out the store and polishing the counter fronts would just about cover it.”

  William squared up his shoulders and marched for the broom with Ulysses tangling about his feet. Only then did Deacon address Garnet.

  “I know it’s not my place to instruct your son, and all this inventory technically belongs to him—”

  “It’s a good lesson for him to learn,” Garnet interrupted. “I want him to understand the value of things and the consequence of his actions.”

  Deacon actually smiled. “He’s a fine boy. He’ll make good choices. Prior has done a commendable job with him.”

  Garnet had to turn away, afraid somehow the truth would escape in her expression. She went to the receipt book and checked the figures there. It was far safer than studying the figure before her. As her mind rapidly calculated the totals, a frown formed.

  “Why do we have more negatives than profits showing?”

  “A couple of harsh lessons learned and some community goodwill,” was Deacon’s bland explanation.

  “Would you mind elaborating?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Provoked by his flat refusal, she demanded, “I think you will. This is my store, after all.”

  “And you told me to run it. If I have to spend half my time explaining every decision I make, or running to you for approval each time some controversy arises—”

  She waved him off with one hand while massaging her brow with the other. “Handle it as you see fit. William, it’s time to go home.”

  “But Mama, I gots work to do for Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I’ll bring him with me.”

  When she hesitated, Deacon drawled, “He’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Surprised that he would think her worried, she replied, “Just see that he stays warm.”

  “ ‘Bye, Mama.”

  The sight of her son coming up to tuck his hand into Deacon’s made all her reasonings falter. Was she doing the right thing in keeping the truth from them? She could see Deacon would make an excellent father figure for the boy, but what she didn’t know was where she would fit into the equation. She’d spun a complicated web of deceit, and if she wasn’t careful, she wouldn’t be able to disentangle herself from it.

  No matter how much father and son seemed to belong together, she couldn’t forget that she and her father had belonged together, too. And Deacon Sinclair was directly responsible for tearing them apart. That pain supported her when her resolve weakened. And that truth gave her the starch to hold her head up and walk away without revealing anything.

  There was something wrong in the amount of attention Montgomery Prior paid to Deacon’s mother.

  Deacon watched as they strolled the dilapidated gardens after dinner with an almost cozy togetherness, heads bent, laughing like a courting couple. True, they were close in age, and his mother had been alone for nearly five years. But that didn’t change the fact that Prior was married. Or that he chose to conduct himself so disgracefully right in front of his wife and child.

 
; If Garnet had been his bride, he wouldn’t be out walking with another woman.

  And that was as far as he dared carry that train of thought.

  A knock at the front door distracted him from his spying on the older couple. Garnet was upstairs, putting William to bed, and the house servants were busy with the remains of supper. And the housekeeper was out flirting with the master of the house.

  Immediately ashamed of that thought, Deacon went to the door. His mother had never given him reason to doubt her integrity, and it was only his own frustration that allowed him to cast them unfairly now. Disgusted at himself, he yanked open the door to effect a hostile greeting for the stranger on the porch.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for the man of the house.”

  “I’m—” Deacon bit back the automatic reply, then smiled with a wry bitterness. “He’s occupied at the moment. What’s your business here?”

  “My business is with Mr. Prior. Fetch him for me, if you’d be so kind.”

  Deacon gave the young man on the porch a slow going over. He was a few years his junior, with longish red-gold hair and a thick mustache vainly tamed into curled ends. His smile exuded slick charm and easy confidence. And Deacon bristled, distrusting him on sight. He’d stayed alive a long time paying attention to instinct, and instinct was telling him this man with his cheery grin and unwavering black eyes was not bringing good fortune with him.

  “Deacon, do we have company?”

  He glanced over his shoulder to see his mother in Prior’s escort coming up the hall behind him. Prior’s greatcoat was draped about Hannah’s shoulders. He blanked his features to the sense of disapproval rushing over him. “Someone to see Mr. Prior. I’ve yet to get the gentleman’s name.”

  “Roscoe Skinner, at your service, ma’am. Might you be the lovely Mrs. Prior?”

  Hannah blushed. “I am Mrs. Sinclair. You’ve been speaking to my son, Deacon.”

  “I do beg your pardon.” His gaze touched briefly on Deacon, then fixed ingratiatingly upon Monty. “Then I must be here to see you, sir. Tyler Fairfax sent me.”

  If he needed another reason to dislike the man, that was it. Deacon stepped aside so the two men could shake hands. Monty’s expression was mildly befuddled, as if he were trying to piece together the circumstances. Skinner was quick to fill in the whole.

  “He sent me about the position you discussed. Someone to oversee the managing of your properties.”

  As Deacon stiffened in objection and alarm, another voice intruded.

  “There must be some mistake.”

  Garnet swept down the hall to take charge of the discussion.

  “This must be Mrs. Prior.” Deacon wished he could knock the smarmy smile off the man’s face. “A true pleasure to meet you.”

  But Garnet ignored him. Her attention was on her husband. “Why wasn’t I told about this?”

  Monty shifted uncomfortably like a repentant child being scolded. “You’ve been so busy, my dear, I didn’t have time to discuss it with you.”

  “We shall discuss it now.”

  Monty took ahold of Roscoe’s elbow to lead him toward the parlor. “Mr. Skinner has been kind enough to come out all this way, we can at least do him the courtesy of listening to his qualifications. Mrs. Sinclair, might you bring us some refreshment?”

  Hannah bowed to his request and quickly headed for the kitchen. But Garnet wouldn’t be so easily dismissed.

  “Monty, I should like to talk to you in private first.”

  To Monty’s relief, a crash from upstairs and a cry from William sent her hurrying to assess the damage. The moment she was out of sight, Monty gestured to the parlor.

  “Mr. Skinner, after you.” Then he placed himself purposefully in front of Deacon to block the way. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Sinclair.” The door closed behind him, shutting Deacon out in the hall and out of the conversation concerning the running of the Manor.

  The instant Garnet returned after tending to Boone’s latest disaster, Deacon demanded, “Why have you brought this stranger in to manage the Manor? No one knows these properties like I do. While I’m wasting my time pushing produce, you’re letting some outsider take over what I was raised to control.”

  She put up a hand to shush him, looking no more pleased than he was by this new development as she reached for the door handle. It turned at almost the same instant and Monty met her with a jovial smile.

  “Ah, my dear. Do come in and bid Mr. Skinner welcome. I’ve just hired him as our new manager.”

  And as the door closed once more, Deacon had one parting glimpse of a very smug Roscoe Skinner standing on the threshold of all that should have been his.

  “How could you do this, Monty?” Garnet railed, as she paced the floor of their shared suite. “How could you bring in that man on Tyler Fairfax’s say-so without consulting me first?”

  “I did it for you, my dear.”

  “For me? Why?”

  “It’s unseemly for you to control the running of this estate. As my wife—”

  “I’m not your wife!” She lowered her voice to repeat, “I am not your wife. You’ve no right to interfere in my plans.”

  “I have every right. The right of concerned family who does not want to see you get hurt.”

  “Hurt? You don’t think it hurts me to have you going behind my back on something as important as this?”

  He refused to be shamed. “My only thought is to protect you, my dear. I am not such a fool as not to see that you are in love with that bastard who betrayed and abandoned you. Don’t try to deny it. I’m only distancing him from taking control of your future again. If you must toy with him, keep him involved in something that cannot harm you. Keep him behind his counter and leave the establishment of your place in Pride County to ones who aren’t motivated by mistaken desire.”

  “You make me sound inconsistent and silly, Uncle Monty, as if I am incapable of controlling my emotions around the man who so cruelly manipulated them.”

  He arched a brow, not needing to say anything.

  Garnet huffed in indignation. “You forget what I’ve endured at his duplicity. I won’t be so easily fooled again.”

  “Of course not, my dear,” came his placating words. “And in the meantime, Mr. Skinner will relieve you of the burden of worrying over these acres so you can take the time to socialize and build up a new life for yourself. The life you deserve, Garnet, not the one he left you to.”

  She said nothing for a time, considering his argument, loving him for his sentiments. Finally, she relented. “All right, Uncle. He can stay. But no more surprises.”

  He smiled disarmingly. “I’m only thinking of you, my lovely.”

  And what he was thinking had much to do with his talk with Skinner. After hearing of the man’s sterling and unfortunate past, and seeing his handsome face, Monty formed another plan to coincide with his niece’s. Let her have her revenge on Sinclair for treating her so shamefully, but let her also find happiness apart from the threat to her heart that he still represented. She needed a distraction in that area, someone new to stir her passions and get her thinking of something other than the Confederate spy who had stolen more than just her trust.

  And he knew such a man had arrived when he saw Roscoe Skinner.

  Now to convince Garnet. Their game wouldn’t last forever, and he had laid his own plans without her knowledge. Skinner could fit in nicely to pick up the pieces after he’d gone.

  His niece needed a real husband to find true happiness. But he couldn’t bow out of that position until he had a replacement in hand. Yes, Roscoe Skinner could work out very nicely, indeed, and what man would be objecting to taking a beautiful young wife with a hefty bankroll?

  As long as that man wasn’t Sinclair.

  Chapter 14

  Like her son, Hannah Sinclair moved about the parlor with a graceful ease that defied a station of servitude. In watching her, Garnet’s awareness of what a fraud she herself was
intensified to a hurtful degree.

  She’d had a rushed course on social practices from Monty. She knew the outward dos and don’ts—all from a man’s point of view. He’d helped refine her speech. He’d sent her to the best clothiers to drape her in finery. But beneath the trappings of success resided the same uncertain country girl.

  What on earth had made her think she could fit in here among these people who were bred to elegance and plenty?

  “Good morning, Mrs. Prior.”

  Caught before she could make a discreet exit, she returned the older woman’s smile somewhat wanly. “Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  “Was there something you needed?”

  “No. You’ve taken care of everything before it even comes to mind.” Because that sounded a trifle petulant, she added, “And if I haven’t thanked you, let me do so now.”

  “There’s no need, ma’am. It’s my pleasure … and my job.”

  That was the mark of true breeding: slipping in a barb of censure so gently, one never felt the stab of it. Deserving the prick of conscience, Garnet gave before a battering of guilt, something she’d never anticipated when laying out her plans. She hadn’t expected to suffer such empathy for the losses of her enemies. But they didn’t feel like enemies, now that she knew them. She only felt more isolated and ashamed.

  “I would like to thank you … and apologize.”

  Putting down her feather duster, Hannah gave her full attention to the new mistress of the house. “Apologize? For what, dear?”

  Garnet blinked back the sudden burn of regret. “For taking your home. You’ve been so gracious in your treatment of me and my family, and we’ve done you the most grievous harm.”

  Hannah came to place a supporting hand upon Garnet’s shoulder. Her tone was gentle, without a hint of reproof. “Dear girl, you weren’t responsible for our circumstance. If you hadn’t bought our mortgage, someone else would have. Someone who might not have been so kind as to let us remain among the things we love. So there is no need for you to apologize. We are far better off than many of our friends. There are worse things to lose than pride and property.”