The Men of Pride County: The Pretender

by West, Rosalyn

  “Ah, but you see, you provided unequaled entertainment and handled your embarrassment with proper dignity. That’s what your guests are applauding. They admire nothing more than courage under fire, and you, my dear Garnet, sustained a direct hit without flinching.”

  After turning down an offer of refreshments, Patrice got to the point of her visit with another unerring volley. “How do you know my brother? I understand from him that you met during the war.”

  Instantly on guard, Garnet found that her curiosity was nonetheless sparked. “He spoke of me?” She phrased the question with infinite care, aware that Patrice would pick up any nuance in her voice. It was one thing to fool a man and quite another to deceive another woman.

  “Not by name, but you obviously made a considerable impression on him.” Revealing that tantalizing tidbit, Patrice fussed with the folds of her skirt, pretending not to be shrewdly watching for a reaction to her words. Garnet understood the purpose of the exchange. In order to learn a little, she would have to give a little. She sensed that Deacon’s sister was a cunning barterer. So she would tempt with a sliver of information, too.

  “He arrived at my door early in the war. I treated him for a bullet wound from some deserters looking to steal his horse.” She said that smoothly, as if she didn’t know now that nothing about his arrival was coincidental. “He was on his way here to tell you your father had died.” Patrice looked so perplexed, Garnet paused. Had he lied about that, too?

  “Deacon never came home with that news.”

  “Your father didn’t die in battle?”

  “He did, only Deacon didn’t bring us the news in person. It was more than two years before we saw him, just briefly, and then not again until after the war was over. I wasn’t aware that he’d been wounded. My family owes you its thanks, then.”

  “Just doing my Christian duty.” As Deacon had been doing his Confederate duty. He hadn’t taken the news of his father’s death home because he’d been busy betraying her. Some of her anger must have shown in her expression, for Patrice pounced like an expectant cat.

  “And what duty prompted you to come here to pull his future out from under him? What did he do to make you hate him so very much?”

  Garnet looked her squarely in the eye. “He used information that he got from me to put my father wrongfully in prison. Where he died.”

  No shock, no denial appeared on Patrice’s face, just sadness. “I’m sorry for your loss, Garnet. I can’t pretend that I know exactly what my brother did for the Confederacy. My guess is that they were unpleasant things, things that had him risking his life and telling lies to protect it.”

  Garnet came up out of her chair to pace in short, fierce strides. “I didn’t have your brother at gunpoint, Mrs. Garrett. He came to me with deliberate lies and used them to destroy my family and my trust.”

  “It was war.”

  She cast off Patrice’s excuse with a flick of her hand. “It was unfair. And it was unconscionable. He didn’t have to do his job so … well.” She clamped her lips together to seal in the rest of her disgrace and disillusionment. But she could see from the softening of the other woman’s expression that she’d guessed more than Garnet had intended.

  “Then I apologize for my brother, because he won’t, no matter how much he might regret what he did. He wasn’t raised to say that he was wrong or that he was sorry. A prideful failing in my family, I’m afraid.”

  “My father is dead. My home was lost, burned to the ground. I don’t want an apology or excuses.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  Garnet hesitated at that gently asked question. Then she knew, with a crystal clarity. She wanted to hear that it hadn’t all been a lie. She wanted to know that her trust and her love hadn’t been wrongly given. She needed to learn that the father of her child was not a cold, emotionless monster. But that was not what she told Patrice.

  “Who was Jassy?”

  She could see by Patrice’s sudden blankness that she’d fired a well-placed shot.

  “Jassy? She was my childhood playmate, my best friend. Deacon told you about her?”

  “He said she was a servant here.” And that he’d been in love with her. “Where is she now?”

  “She was sold.”

  “Sold?”

  “She was a slave. She was sold South when she and I were thirteen and Deacon sixteen.”

  Reeling with that information, Garnet resumed her seat in a daze. He’d been in love with a slave girl. And his family had sold her to save themselves from the disgrace. Dear God … poor Deacon.

  “Mama, can Boone come back inside now? Mr. Sinclair took Ulysses back to the store with him, so there won’t be no more chasing.”

  William skidded to a halt when he saw his mother wasn’t alone.

  “Darling, I have company. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “But Mama, Boone’s been out all night—”

  “William, you know Mrs. Garrett, Mr. Sinclair’s sister.”

  William bobbed a quick acknowledgment, then returned to his petition. “It weren’t Boone’s fault, Mama. It was mine. Maybe I should be tied up in the yard instead a him.”

  Garnet’s stern look dissolved into a tolerant smile. “You may let him inside, but make sure his feet are clean.”

  “I will,” he vowed cheerily, darting for the door. He pulled up short, remembering his manners. Turning toward Patrice, he assumed a stiff posture and bowed.” ‘Scuse me, Mrs. Garrett.”

  Patrice began to smile, then the gesture froze before full completion.

  “Patrice, are you all right?”

  She blinked when the boy disappeared down the hall, seeming to come out of her sudden trance. “I’m sorry, it’s just that he looked so much like—”

  Deacon.

  She didn’t have to finish. Garnet knew with a sick certainty that Patrice had recognized her brother in the boy.

  Patrice fixed her with a penetrating stare. “You have to tell him. He has a right to know.”

  “No,” Garnet argued with a fearful ferocity. “He has no rights where I’m concerned.”

  Patrice struggled to lift off the sofa. “If you won’t tell him, I will.”

  “No! You can’t.” Garnet had started toward her when Patrice suddenly fell back, one hand at the small of her back, the other pressed to her huge middle. A look of surprise was rapidly replaced by one of distress.

  “Patrice—?”

  “I thought it was just a backache,” she panted.

  “How long have you been having pains?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  She gasped as the floor about her feet grew wet with birthing water … and blood. Staring at it, her features tightened with a new source of dismay.

  “The baby …”

  Alarmed, Garnet fought for calm as she called for one of the house servants, then spoke reassuringly to the pregnant woman. “Don’t worry. I’m sure everything’s fine.”

  But abrupt wrenching pangs added to Patrice’s anxiety. She gripped Garnet’s hands frantically to plead, “Where’s my mama?”

  One of the maids peeked in at that moment and went wide-eyed with fear.

  “Where’s Mrs. Sinclair?”

  She shook her head at Garnet’s terse demand. “She went into town with Mr. Deacon this morning.”

  “Reeve,” Patrice groaned. “I want Reeve.”

  “Bitsy, wake Mr. Prior and tell him what’s happened. Get Mrs. Harkness from the kitchen and have her take Mrs. Garrett to my room upstairs. Have a horse saddled. I’m riding for the doctor.”

  “And Reeve.”

  “And for Mr. Garrett.” Garnet patted Patrice’s clutching hands. “You just relax as best you can, Patrice. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Time wasn’t a luxury she could afford. Garnet raced upstairs, tearing off her fancy morning gown, replacing it with britches and one of Monty’s white shirts. She hurried down the steps, coming face to pallid face with Patrice as she was being he
lped from the parlor by two of the servants. A blotchy trail of crimson followed behind her, adding to Garnet’s haste. She didn’t pause. Patrice was in good hands. Their cook had birthed eight healthy children on her own and would see to the frightened young woman’s care. The only thing she could do for Patrice was ride hard and fast into Pride to bring her the help and comfort she needed.

  Cold morning air cut through the thin shirt fabric as Garnet sent her mount galloping across the Manor’s fallow acres. Taking the roadways would only slow her down, and minutes counted. She couldn’t block out the sight of that blood pooling on her floorboards. The only birth she’d ever witnessed was her own son’s, which was long but blessedly uneventful, but she knew that at any birth the mother and child could be in serious peril. Dismissing her own risks, she goaded her horse to greater speed across the dangerously rutted ground.

  She couldn’t let Deacon’s sister die.

  Mindless of the odd looks she drew from those on the streets of Pride, she urged her lathered animal up to the front of the store. Swinging down onto wobbly legs, she scrambled inside, past properly garbed matrons who gasped in shock and shielded their daughter’s tender vision, past loitering gentlemen who unashamedly gawked.

  Alerted by the sudden murmuring of his customers, Deacon turned to follow the commotion as he measured the final scoop of rice into Carolyn Breedlaw’s bag. Grains scattered across the counter and rained down to the floor as he registered the tense purpose in the mannishly clad Garnet’s face. She wasted no words.

  “Deacon, where’s Reeve Garrett?”

  His voice nearly failed him. “Patrice—”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  He turned to a boy who stood gazing dreamily at the jars of striped candy sticks. “Herman, run down to the livery and fetch Mr. Garrett.”

  “And the doctor,” Garnet added breathlessly. Chilled to the point of numbness, she struggled to draw in air. She could only nod gratefully when Deacon draped a heavy coat about her shoulders. She pulled it tight with trembling fingers. Deacon’s hands clamped onto her shoulders.

  “Garnet, my sister … is she all right?”

  “The baby’s coming,” she managed between chattering teeth.

  He leaned in closer, his voice low, commanding, cutting through her exhaustion. “It’s more than that.”

  She didn’t want to meet his stare, knowing he’d read her anxiousness and see the truth. Instead, she nodded. The bite of his fingertips drew her gaze upward. His eyes were closed, his features absolutely still.

  “Patrice, where is she?” Reeve shouted, as he ducked into the store.

  “At the Manor” was all Garnet had time to say before he was gone.

  “Mama,” Deacon murmured faintly. “Mama’s at Mrs. Bishop’s dress shop. We came into town together in the carriage.”

  “If you want to take my horse, I’ll see your mother home.”

  Torn between his worry over his sister and his obligation to his mother and the shivering woman before him, Deacon considered for a moment, then said, “I’ll drive both of you back. From the looks of you, your horse is all in anyway. Herschel, mind the store for me.”

  Garnet huddled in the backseat next to a weeping Hannah Sinclair as the carriage sped toward the Manor. She knew Deacon was sparing the whip on their account, but they still made good time, arriving just after the town doctor. Impatiently, Deacon handed the two of them down before rushing up the front steps. Reeve stood in the hallway, expression stark. His grimness brought Deacon up short.

  “She’s not dead,” he stated, as if claim could make fact.

  “No,” Reeve told him, then gripped his arm as he started for the stairs. “The doc’s with her. She’s lost a lot of blood. Mama, he said you could go up.”

  Hannah raced passed him in a swirl of rustling taffeta.

  And they began to wait.

  With her room occupied by doctor and patient, Garnet remained in her clinging garments while her house rapidly filled up with friends of Patrice Garrett. She was surprised to see a distraught and sober Tyler Fairfax on the doorstep. After she conveyed what little she knew, Tyler strode into the parlor to where Reeve wore a restless path in front of the hearth. Saying nothing, he crossed to him, yanking him up in a fierce embrace, hanging on tight when Reeve’s strength briefly buckled.

  And then the breathtaking Starla Dodge arrived with her Yankee banker husband. She, too, had hugs for Reeve, then fell into weeping against her brother’s shoulder. The horror of her own miscarriage was still too recent for her to find optimistic words. Dodge braced his friend with a tall tumbler of whiskey and a solid arm of support. Drawn up in the close camaraderie of their shared past, they didn’t notice Garnet as they gave and took comfort from one another. Nor did they include Deacon in their inner circle.

  Deacon stood apart from them, as silent and still as a piece of statuary. And was treated with the same compassion. No one approached him with meaningful hugs or words of reassurance. As if he didn’t need them. As if he were somehow immune to the gamut of emotions from which the others suffered.

  It wasn’t true.

  And it wasn’t fair.

  Garnet started toward him, her heart swelling with sympathy. Then Monty stepped into the room, cutting her off with his cheery announcement.

  “Mr. Garrett, may I be the first to congratulate you on your son.”

  Reeve accepted the kisses and back slappings, then asked in a quiet dread, “And my wife?”

  “She is resting comfortably. The doctor said you could go up now.”

  In the next few minutes of chaotic relief, Deacon Sinclair slipped out of the room without notice.

  By anyone but Garnet.

  Drained by the rip and ebb of emotions, Garnet sought out her own son, miracle that he was, to make sure he hadn’t been frightened by the upheaval in their home. She found him outside, romping with Boone, sweetly oblivious to the adult happenings around him. Bitsy gave her a wave, her fondness for the child making her a loyal watchdog in his mother’s absence.

  Not wishing to encounter any of their unplanned guests, Garnet took the back stairs, pausing at the top landing when she saw movement through the door opening out onto one of the back balconies. Her breath caught when she recognized the straight-backed posture and oh-so-solitary figure of Deacon Sinclair.

  She should have kept walking. She was too vulnerable to his circumstance to remain objective, and that wouldn’t serve her cause. If she weakened to him, her indifferent leverage was lost, and there was precious little else she had to cling to where he was concerned.

  But she couldn’t forget how alone he’d been in the parlor below while surrounded by his family’s friends.

  He knew at once that she was near. The moment she joined him in the crisp morning air, his shoulders set with an even greater stiffness. He didn’t turn and she suffered an instant of misgiving. This wasn’t a man who needed or wanted comforting, especially from a woman still seen as an enemy. Surely his friends below knew him better than she, and knew enough to give him the space he desired. She was wrong to think him vulnerable. Until she saw how desperately his fisted hands worked at his sides.

  He was far from fine.

  “She’s going to be all right.” She restated the fact, just in case he hadn’t fully absorbed it yet. After a long second, he nodded. “Deacon, both your sister and the baby are all right.”

  Again, the nod, this time accompanied by a jerkily drawn breath.

  Garnet approached slowly. She had to touch him, to make the contact that would let him know he was not alone. When her palms fit to his lower back, he gave a violent start, of objection or surprise, she didn’t know, but she didn’t withdraw. She moved her hands in a spreading circle, trying to soothe the tension from his stance. It was like trying to soften the brick of the building behind her. Disheartened, she said, “Perhaps you should go below and be with your friends.”

  “They’re not my friends. If I were lying in there close
to dying, there’d be no one standing in that parlor. They’re here for Patrice. Everyone loves Patrice.”

  It wasn’t envy or bitterness coloring his voice. It was something different, something deeper. She encouraged him to go on, with her silence and her continued touch.

  “I don’t know what to say to them. I don’t know how to let them know that I treat them with such coldness not because I dislike them or think myself better, but because I was raised to believe openness and weakness were the same thing. I don’t know how to change that.”

  He took a fractured breath and Garnet’s arms slipped about his middle. She leaned against his back, listening to the unexpectedly fast pace of his heartbeats, not letting him discourage her with his unyielding posture.

  “I’ve treated my sister badly, letting her believe I thought her silly and frivolous, pretending I held her in contempt for her passionate nature. I’ve done things I’m ashamed to admit to, things that should have made her curse me, but still she gave me forgiveness and love. I never told her how much that meant to me, how much she meant to me. And if I’d lost her before I had the chance …”

  His hands fit over Garnet’s, clutching fiercely.

  “I don’t know how to say the words.”

  “It’s not difficult,” she told him tenderly. “Just three words. I love you.”

  She hadn’t meant to put so much of her own feelings into those words. He went completely still, breath suspended, the restless kneading of his hands stopping. She waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, she prompted, “You’ve never told anyone that you loved them?”

  He answered with silence.

  Fighting down a prickle of envy, she asked, “Not even your Jassy? You must have said those words to scare your family into selling her.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Refusing to be intimidated by the sudden frostiness of his tone, she replied, “Patrice did.”

  He let go of her hands, his body language denying her as much as his words. “Patrice doesn’t know anything about that. She had no right to tell you any such thing.”

  “Then you tell me, Deacon.”

  He was motionless for so long, she didn’t think he would answer. But when he did, it was with an unusual degree of candor brought on by his susceptible mood.