Deacon looked surprised, then cautious. “You’re aware that it can be dangerous if taken in excess, aren’t you?”
She laughed and gave a negligent wave. “Good heavens, there’s no danger of that. As I said, I just use it when I can’t sleep.” She waited patiently for him to bring a vial up from beneath the counter. Her hand closed quickly about it. “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. You are a true life saver.”
He watched her tuck the vial in her bag and wondered if he were doing her any favor at all.
“Mr. Skinner! Mr. Skinner!”
Roscoe turned to see the spindly telegraph operator waving him over. He recrossed the busy midday street and ambled up on the porch. “Mr. Hargrove, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”
“I’m waiting on an important message and can’t leave the office. I got a reply here for Mr. Sinclair that he said was urgent.”
Roscoe eyed the folded missive as it fanned back and forth, charmed like a snake. What could Sinclair be expecting? “Would you like me to deliver it to him? I’m going that way.” He smiled wide to disarm the other man.
“I’d sure appreciate it.”
“No problem. Happy to do it.” He extended his hand, still smiling. It lay in his palm, weighing with importance—importance to Deacon, which could mean importance to him. With a tip of his hat, he tucked the message into his coat and started back toward the mercantile. By the time he’d woven in and out of horse traffic, Gates Hargrove had disappeared. Roscoe stepped up onto the boardwalk, purposefully strolling past the store on his way to Sadie’s. He sat down to a strong cup of coffee and biscuits swimming with gravy, then leisurely drew out the letter, savoring the suspense.
His idle curiosity stropped razor sharp when he saw the heading, recognizing the name and the governmental office.
Son of a bitch! How had the man figured him out so fast?
Rushed by trepidation, he scanned the brief contents, then frowned. Though there was no name affixed to the information, it definitely didn’t concern him.
Or did it?
He reread the terse documentation. Defrauding the government, served two years. Stock speculation, insufficient evidence to convict. Suspected of land fraud, selling false claims, misrepresenting banking institutions, insufficient evidence to bring charges. Wanted for questioning in Philadelphia and Wilmington in separate bond scams.
Then the last tell-all line: British expatriate.
Montgomery Prior, you sly dog.
Handing the information to Deacon was, of course, out of the question—at least, until he could think of some way to use it to his best advantage. And he’d have to think fast before that fool from the telegraph office asked if the message had been received.
Tapping the explosive news against the table top, he sipped his coffee and schemed. And finally, he smiled as the perfect plot evolved: the means to garner him what he wanted—the land, the woman, the revenge. All it would take was a little blackmail … and perhaps a murder.
“Slide it in a little farther, more, more, yes, yes, that’s right. Yes.”
Spoken with Constance Collier’s husky encouragement, even the directions for moving her furniture took on sexual overtones. Deacon eased his shoulder back from the big display case he’d been angling to catch the light from the top of the stairs. When he’d offered to help their new tenant set up shop, he’d had no idea she came equipped with back-breaking pieces of oak and enough purring innuendo to make a man go through the rest of his life at eager attention.
He glanced around, only to get an eyeful of her rounded backside as she bent to arrange some boxes. With that lightly bustled derrière waving in a tempting dance, he found himself mesmerized for a long moment. He took a rather tight breath.
“How’s this, Mrs. Collier?”
She turned and that was worse. With hands on her knees, her torso twisted, her neckline dipping away from a surprisingly generous bosom, she had a sensual allure he was all too aware of.
“That’s fine. And please, it’s Constance. We’re going to be friends, aren’t we? And I’m all for relaxed formalities.”
Her small smile filled in between those lines.
And why not?
She was attractive and obviously found him the same. She saw him as Deacon Sinclair, store clerk, not the Deacon Sinclair of Sinclair Manor sadly fallen upon hard times. She didn’t know his history, his failings, his humiliation. Her interest was summed up in the slow sweep of her gaze from feet to face, with several meaningful pauses in between.
He’d been bemoaning his solitary status, and here was an appealing answer. A widow looking for the comforts of a man in her life again. No dramatic emotional issues, just simple, satisfying sex.
And for a long moment, he considered the possibility.
He watched her rearrange her bags of feathers and frills. Her movements weren’t graceful, but rather crisply efficient, and that he found appealing as well.
Why not? Did he want to spend the rest of his life alone, tortured by the evidence of what his future could no longer be?
Since seeing baby Jonah cradled in his sister’s arms, he’d been more acutely aware than ever of what he was missing.
So what if he didn’t have a big fancy house and thousands of fertile acres? Did that make him less of a person, less of a man? Did that strip away all his value? Apparently, Constance Collier didn’t think so. Perhaps it was time he stopped viewing himself by what he possessed rather than by who he was.
Amazing. All it took was one lusty widow to alter his entire perspective on life.
Taking his smile as an invitation, Constance closed the distance between them. When her arms slipped over his shoulders, he had no objections to her kiss or to the feminine feel of her pressed up against him. His response to both was healthy and encouraging.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered, as he pulled away. “Am I moving too fast for you? My social graces are sadly out of practice.”
Deacon stepped back. He was still smiling, still pleasantly flushed by the intimate contact. And a sudden clarity flooded his mind.
Constance released him, frowning slightly, confused by his reaction. “I’m sorry. Do you find me unattractive? You aren’t married, are you?”
“No. No to both things. In fact, I owe you my thanks.”
She was a quick and clever woman. “Why does that sound more like a good-bye than a hello?”
“My life is … complicated. You’ve just opened my eyes to some things I’ve been blind to, and for that I thank you.”
Her smile was rueful. “But you’re not interested.”
“Tempted, but—”
“Not interested.” She sighed, not at all offended by his unexplained rebuff. “Please tell me there are other eligible men in this town.”
“Eligible—and, I’m sure, more than willing to go beyond temptation.”
“Then I’ll remain optimistic.”
“Deacon?”
He was unaware of how the simple sound of Garnet’s voice impacted both body and mind until Constance’s face lit up with understanding.
“Ah, I see,” she murmured. “Yes, complicated.”
Garnet appeared on the open stairs, pausing as she took in the two of them together. Though her features betrayed nothing, it was a moment before she could speak naturally.
“Have you seen William? I thought perhaps he’d be with you.”
She took his breath away. After all the years, all the changes, all the agonizing choices that pushed them apart, she was the only woman to work so sweetly upon his soul. He’d known it when he’d ridden away the first time and the certainty was stronger now. They were meant for each other. And now, instead of avoiding it with bitterness and anger, it was time to deal with those complications that kept them from finding happiness.
“Is he here?”
Her worried prompt shook him from his concentration. “No. He’s probably still at the Dodges’, playing with Christien. Do you want me to go check?”
> She backed down a step, her shadowed gaze still drawing a connecting line between him and their new tenant. “I’ll go. You stay and make Mrs. Collier feel welcomed.”
He was so stupid.
Of course, she still loved him. It was evident in the pained smile she gave the two of them. And in the way she hesitated, just for an instant, before descending the stairs.
She loved him, and as his sister told him, all was not yet lost.
Filled with renewed purpose, he made his excuses to a too-intuitive Constance Collier and went below, hoping to catch up to Garnet. The time for brooding was done. Action was long overdue.
He saw a figure moving toward the front of the dimly lit store, but it was Herschel Rosen finishing up the sweeping. Garnet had already gone.
“A fine day’s business,” Herschel commented, leaning on the broom.
“Yes, it was. A good day.” He looked about the well-stocked room, feeling a surprising sense of accomplishment. He shook his head, truly mystified. Who would have thought Deacon Sinclair would take pride in clerking behind a counter?
“I haven’t told you how grateful I am for what you’ve done.”
He glanced at the other man. “What have I done?”
“You got me this job. You gave me purpose again. And for dat, I thank you.”
“I didn’t—”
“Please, no modesty. It’s a time for truth. I had my doubts at first. I did not think you could embrace this work, but you’ve proven me wrong. The customers trust you. They listen to your advice. Dat’s not something a man can learn—how to gain the respect of others. I am happy to come here each day to work beside you, Deacon Sinclair. You are a good man. There, I’ve said it. Words I needed to say dat you probably hear much too often.”
A good man …
“No. It’s something I haven’t heard at all.” What surprised him more than the sentiment was the way it brought a lump of emotion up to wedge in his throat, making his words sound thin and strained.
Herschel patted his arm and carried the broom back into the store room. He returned with his hat and coat. “I will see you in the morning, then. We have that shipment of horse collars coming in. And I want to show you how to read the merchandise marks so you can learn the bookkeeping.”
That was an unexpected honor, being invited into Herschel’s secret circle of mark-ups and profit margins. Garnet knew it, of course, but it was her store and she had that phenomenal head for figures.
And that phenomenal figure.
Restless energy growled through him. He held the door open, anxious to be on his way.
“Good night, Herschel. I’ll see you in the morning.”
And just then Constance bustled down the steps, heavy cloak concealing her charms just as her smile for Deacon disguised her disappointment.
“I must be going, too. Myrna will be waiting supper. Good night, gentlemen.”
They both murmured polite responses, then Deacon received Herschel’s wink with a slight scowl. Yes, he needed a woman. No, that woman was not going to be Constance.
He was latching the heavy window shutters when the front bell rang again. Thinking his partner had forgotten something, he was slow to turn around. Then, when he did, he was momentarily taken aback.
It was Roscoe Skinner.
“If you’re looking for Mrs. Prior, I believe she’s over at the banker’s home.” Hostility rippled through his words.
“No, actually, I’m here to see you.” Skinner smiled, a feral baring of his teeth. “I came to say good-bye.”
A swift spike of satisfying good riddance was tempered by Deacon’s mild reply. “You’re leaving?”
“No. I’m not. You are.”
Chapter 20
William enjoyed playing at the Dodges’. Mrs. Dodge, who was as beautiful as the fairy queens in the books his mother read him, was as nice as she was pretty. She didn’t follow them around, warning them to be careful, to stay warm, not to run so hard or go so far, as his own mother did. He knew his mother worried that he might get too tired and have one of his attacks. She fussed so much because she loved him. But still … sometimes it was nice not to be reminded or to see the fear pop up in her eyes every time he got a little winded.
He knew she was thinking about Grandpa William, who had died in prison, and that scared him. He didn’t want to think about dying, not when he finally had the chance to play like a normal boy his age who had his first friend.
Christien said he was a friend, but sometimes he didn’t act like it. He was mad about what had happened in the store, but he’d smiled and pretended he wasn’t. After they’d had battles and won wars with his fancy soldiers, had built corrals for his kitten out of blocks and picture books and grabbed for the most jacks, Christien had given him that funny smile and emptied out his coat pockets. They were full of all sorts of odd things from buttons and a hatpin to a small can of pomade and fruit jar rings.
“Where’d you get all this stuff?” he’d asked with wide-eyed innocence.
Then Christien’s grin had widened as he’d revealed with an unholy pleasure, “From the store.” And he’d waited, just daring William to do something about it.
William studied the handful of ill-gotten items in horror. “You have to take it back.”
“Who’s gonna make me?”
“Your mama will.”
“If she knew. But who’s gonna tell her?” His jewel-bright eyes narrowed in challenge, trapping William in an unwanted dilemma. When he said nothing, Christien sat back smugly. “I didn’t think so.”
At the sound of Mrs. Dodge’s tapping footfalls, Christien gathered up his treasures and greeted her with an endearing smile.
“You boys ready for some hot chocolate?”
Christien bounded up. “You bet, Mama.”
William remained seated on the rug, his brow furrowed, his gaze somber.
“Don’t you want any, William?” Then, with a mother’s intuition, she prompted, “Is something wrong, honey?”
“If somebody takes something that don’t belong to them, like something from my mama’s store, is that stealing?”
Christien froze up, his stare glittering with warning, and for the first time, with a vulnerable alarm.
Starla frowned. “Why, yes, honey, it is. Why are you asking?”
“Christien said it wasn’t and I said it was. Just wanted to know for sure.”
“Well, Christien knows better. Stealing is stealing, whether it’s candy from the store or money from Mr. Dodge’s bank. It’s wrong and it’s against the law.”
“Would we get put in jail?”
She smiled indulgently. “No, honey, but your daddies would switch you until you wished they had. Now, come on down for that chocolate.”
William trotted behind her with a sullen Christien bringing up the rear. After the mugs were emptied and the chocolate smiles wiped away, Starla shooed them outside so she could start dinner. It didn’t take Christien long to get over his silence once they were alone.
“Think you’re pretty smart, huh?”
“I told you it was wrong.”
Galled by the other boy’s self-righteous attitude and by the fact that he’d been made to be afraid, Christien shoved William hard into the porch rails. William grabbed on in surprise to keep from falling down. By then, Christien was up close, in his face.
“Think you’re smart, huh?” he growled. “Think you’re better’n me, do you?” His expression grew sharp and crafty as he smiled. “I got news for you. You’re just a little bastard boy.”
William blinked away massing tears. Bastard. He didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded ugly the way his friend said it. “I am not!”
“Are too! Heard my mama and Miz Garrett talking about you.”
Frightened by Christien’s mocking sneer, he demanded, “What did they say?”
“They said that man you’re living with ain’t your daddy.” He grinned as his words had the desired shock effect.
“
He is so!”
“My daddy don’t live with me, but at least I know who he is. Guess that makes me better’n you, don’t it?”
Chest tightening up with a denying pain, William gave Christien a push, knocking him down on his behind with teeth-clacking force. He hadn’t done it to be mean or get even but just to get away. He slipped off the porch at a run, heading not toward the safety of the store but out into the gloomy drizzle of twilight.
To try and run from the pain of truth.
“I’m not going anywhere except home for dinner.” Deacon slipped on his overcoat, dismissing Roscoe with his indifference.
But that wasn’t Roscoe’s plan.
“You don’t have a home to go to, Sinclair. You’re living under a borrowed roof with borrowed dreams and on borrowed time. That time’s run out and I’m stepping into that dream. What was yours is going to be mine. All of it, Deacon. All of it.”
Deacon stared at him for a long moment. Then, instead of the anticipated alarm and desired dread, he gave a short laugh and snapped, “Are you insane?”
Roscoe stiffened. This wasn’t the response he wanted. “You don’t think I’m serious.”
“I try not to think of you at all and when I must, it’s as an annoyance. Now, please excuse me.”
Roscoe grabbed his arm as he started to pass, surprised by the hard muscle he found beneath the aristocratic trappings. And angered by the hard edge of superiority in Sinclair’s expression when he looked from the offending hand on his sleeve to Roscoe’s face, intimidating him into letting go.
“Still think you’re a cut above everyone else, don’t you, Sinclair? Even measuring out tobacco plugs and ladies’ calicoes. You think these folks would still respect you if they had any idea who you really were and what you’ve done?”
Deacon wasn’t mocking him now. His features were still, his eyes bared blade-cold. Encouraged, Roscoe went on.
“You think they’d want you handling their children’s readers and their household monies if they knew how many men you’d killed or allowed to be killed just to save yourself? That you let Jonah Glendower step in front of a firing squad to give you enough time to get away? You could have given him the information to carry and accepted your own fate. A brave and honorable man would have, but not you. You wanted the glory of delivering the message yourself. Your vanity cost that innocent man his life. That innocent man was your own sister’s fiancé and you hid behind him, letting him spill blood that should have been yours.”
The Men of Pride County: The Pretender Page 22
