The Men of Pride County: The Pretender

by West, Rosalyn

  “He’s lost, then.” All her anguish resonated in that brief summation. But Hannah shook her head.

  “No, not lost—misguided. Avery put him on a path of discipline and denial, but he’s my son and Patrice’s brother, too. He could be coaxed from that road by the promise of a reward greater than his father’s approval.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Hannah smiled. “I think you know, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  The water arrived then, a parade of steaming buckets emptied into the huge tub in the sitting room, where a fire burned invitingly and the scent of chamomile beckoned. As Hannah went to check on William, Garnet sank beneath the suds, letting the heat soothe her body’s tensions as Hannah’s words had her mind’s. Soon the chill of the night and the frightening episode seemed far removed. Then there was only relief and reflection. And images of Deacon Sinclair. The way he’d looked with William in his arms. The passion in his voice when he’d said, “I came back for you.” Dared she believe what her heart told her? And if he loved her, could that love withstand the truths she had to tell? Or with truth, would she lose him forever?

  She wouldn’t know unless she took the risk.

  “You had your mother worried, Will.”

  William wiggled into his nightshirt, then met Deacon’s gaze reluctantly. “I know.”

  “If you knew it would upset her, why did you do it?”

  “ ‘Cause I got mad at her, I guess,” he mumbled, sinking under the covers and wishing he could pull them over his head.

  “Why were you mad at your mother? Did she scold you about something?”

  He looked glumly at the man sitting on the edge of his bed, needing to tell someone the secret that writhed inside him like a pocketful of snakes. “No. She lied to me.”

  Deacon’s brows soared. “Your mother? About what?”

  He wouldn’t believe him, William knew. Adults tended to stick together when one of their own was challenged. Christien had told him that. Christien had also told him a fact that had rocked his world. What if he was wrong? What if he was lying just to get even? Of all the adults he knew, he respected Deacon Sinclair the most. He would know who had told the lie.

  “Will, what did you and Christien fight about?”

  He liked it when Deacon called him “Will.” It made him feel more grown-up, less like the sickly little boy his mama fussed over. What if Deacon thought less of him after finding out the truth? That horrible thought held him silent.

  “I thought we were friends,” Deacon said, with enough cajoling to break through William’s resistence.

  “Maybe you won’t like me anymore if I tell you.”

  “Will, no one’s without faults or mistakes. Friends forgive those things. I don’t have enough friends to be willing to lose any of them.”

  “He called me a bastard.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s not a very nice name. Sometimes grownups use bad words when they shouldn’t—”

  “He didn’t call me a name. He said I didn’t have a father.” His chest jerked beneath the covers as he struggled to uphold Deacon’s statement that men didn’t cry.

  Deacon frowned, angry lines appearing on his forehead. “That was a mean and untruthful thing for him to say. Why would he say that to you?”

  “ ‘Cause he heard your sister, Mrs. Garrett, saying so to his mama.”

  Patrice?

  Why would Patrice suggest that Montgomery Prior wasn’t William’s father? Unless she knew it to be true. And if Will wasn’t Monty’s child …

  The breath left him in a sudden rush.

  My God!

  William was his child. His and Garnet’s.

  His.

  “I told you you’d be mad,” William mumbled, watching the changes in his expression and drawing unhappy conclusions.

  Deacon forced himself to breathe and to smile—or at least make a reasonable facsimile of one. “I’m not mad at you, Will. I could never be mad at you.”

  He bent to gather the boy into an affirming embrace. He drew in the scent of rain and fresh soap and warm child along with an intoxicating truth: this was his son. Why hadn’t he seen it? His sister had; his mother had. Now he knew the reason behind her poignant expressions. This was her grandson. The future of the Sinclair name.

  Why hadn’t Garnet told him?

  The sudden chill of that question set him back from the boy like a swift dose of the sleet outside.

  Why had Garnet given him another man’s name?

  “There’s my adventurous little dear.”

  Hannah stepped into the room and Deacon’s heart took a tender turn when he watched William’s features light up at her approach. There was a bond between them already. And he knew, seeing it, that he would never be satisfied playing the friend when he could have the reward of acting as father.

  Hannah slipped her hand over Deacon’s shoulder for a gentle press. The gesture was an automatic claim of her affection, one he’d rarely had time to acknowledge in the past. On this night of secrets and surprises, it was a stabilizing anchor he clung to in gratitude. She glanced at him with a mother’s intuitiveness, seeing his distress and confusion, knowing its cause without having to hear of it. Her quiet smile comforted him just as her soft words encouraged.

  “I’ll finish tucking William in. You should go speak to Mrs. Prior. I think there are issues you need to discuss.”

  An incredible understatement.

  “Where’s Monty?”

  “He went into town to meet with Mr. Skinner. I believe they were planning to play cards until the early morning hours.”

  She was telling him he had a clear window of opportunity to be alone with Garnet.

  “Well, dear,” she cooed to William. “Shall we finish that story I was reading you?”

  Her slight push to Deacon’s shoulder urged him to go make his own happy ending. As she assumed his spot on the edge of the bed, he bent to touch a kiss to her brow, followed by the impulsive claim, “I love you, Mama.”

  The words came with surprising ease and the reward of having her gaze lift to his in teary surprise and pleasure far surpassed the risk of saying them.

  Now that he’d had some practice, it was time to speak them to the one woman who mattered most.

  Deacon paused outside of the room that had been his and should have been theirs. He struggled to focus his thoughts amid the uncommon swirl of his emotions. There was so much that needed to be addressed, so much to be said. He needed to prioritize them but for once his methodical logic failed him. Control fled when he depended upon razor-sharp faculties to defend against Skinner’s threats. Objectivity faded when he considered how best to handle the situation concerning his son. A mass of conflicting feelings as frightening as they were foreign, he was at a loss with himself how to proceed.

  With a small step, he decided.

  She answered his tap on the door with a panicked abruptness.

  “William?”

  “Is fine,” he assured just as quickly. “My mother is reading him a bedtime story.”

  The fortifying edge left her on a heartfelt sigh. What remained was a weary vulnerability that played havoc upon Deacon’s already frayed sensibilities. Instinct told him to take a step back, to free his mind from the sensory assault of her nearness. She’d just gotten out of the bath. He could smell the oils upon warm skin that lay bare beneath the wrap of her robe. Her long black hair had been piled on top of her head during her soak and now tendrils of it escaped, clinging damply along her neck and the sides of her face.

  He couldn’t resist one strand curving along her cheek, reaching out to tuck it back behind her ear. And once his fingertips grazed her soft skin, he couldn’t pull them away. They lingered at the juncture of stubborn jaw and sleek throat, riding her jerky swallow, testing the sudden hurry of her pulse. She put her hand over his, meaning to draw it away, then similarly stilled by the heat of contact. Her fingers stroked over the backs of his, exciting sensations both restless and dangerous.


  “Thank you, Deacon,” she said at last, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been at the store.”

  A small smile escaped him. “You probably would have done just fine. You’re a strong, resilient woman, Garnet. It’s one of your most captivating qualities.”

  And the unexpected praise captivated her. Her uplifted gaze searched his for the reason behind his words. “I didn’t feel particularly strong or capable. I needed you to be there.”

  “I’m glad I was. And I deeply regret the times when I haven’t been.”

  He watched the confusion of doubt and desire cross her features. Then, surprisingly, she smiled in some amusement and lifted her other hand. He stilled his initial recoil to accept her touch, tensing as it brushed over his cheekbone and down to his chin.

  “Mud,” she explained, humor warming her tone in a way that relaxed him wonderfully.

  “It’s all over me, I’m afraid.” He’d taken off his soiled outerwear down to his slightly damp shirt sleeves, but the front of his trousers were caked with remnants of the road.

  “I’ve never minded a little honest dirt.”

  She leaned into him, her hand sliding behind his head, her cheek resting over his heart. And after the briefest pause, his hands skimmed over the nap of her robe, spreading wide at the small of her back and spanning the hollow between her shoulder blades to pull her closer still. A perfect fit, two into one. It seemed only natural for her to tip her head back, for his mouth to find hers with an unerring fervor. Sweetness remembered, paradise recalled.

  Deacon waited for some objection to surface, for his moral conscience to interrupt what was flaring so quick and hot between them. But it wasn’t a whisper he heard; it was a roar.

  Our son. The mother of my child.

  And he realized the truth of what he’d told his sister in envious ignorance: that bond between parent and child was one of emotional steel, strong, unbreakable, inseparable. He could never let them go, not ever. Skinner’s threats, Monty’s existence, conscious thought itself fell away as he parted her lips to plunge to her soul in one claiming thrust.

  He’d gone half crazy surviving off the brief memories they’d made between them all those years ago. The stolen kiss, the secret yearnings, that one mad moment on the balcony had stoked them to a wildfire intensity that burned out of his control. He’d longed for this intimate reunion, had imagined it down to the most minute detail, but impatience rattled those good intentions and urgency ruled.

  He tore from her kiss, breathing in harsh snatches that fueled rather than tamed the passion. His mind was a hot blur, his body a fierce pulse of need. With one swift motion, he swung her up in his arms. With a few purposeful strides, he deposited her atop his bed. The sight of her there upon his coverlet, her lush mouth kiss-bruised, the disarray of her robe exposing soft shoulders and one sleek thigh, snapped the only thread of restraint holding him together. Even a second of delay meant torture.

  Then she tugged at the belt to her robe. Parting the fabric, she opened for him like one of his mother’s precious roses, passions unfurling from delicate petal to tender center. When her arms lifted in invitation, he was quick to cover her with his weight, with his kisses, with the reacquainting scrub of his palms over exquisite surfaces. Her hands dipped to his trouser band with no trace of hesitation, opening it, slipping inside along the taut furring of his abdomen, lower to capture the hard beat of him in her hands. Encasing him, stroking him, squeezing until a sound or a word groaned from him and he snatched her clever hands away, holding them tight in his own shaking grip.

  It was no little girl’s gaze that met his, filled with wonder and reverence. It was a woman’s stare, all smoky and hot with knowing expectation. His emotions shuddered.

  “I’ve wanted you here in this bed since the first time I saw you,” he told her in rough urgency.

  “I don’t want to be alone in it again,” was her equally gruff reply.

  Their hands met at his hips to shove down his pants. Hers rubbed along his thighs, moving up to cup the hard curve of his buttocks. Kneading taut muscle, tugging him against her in a rhythmic beat, encouraging him with that explicit motion to finish what he’d started on that upper porch. To fulfill what simmered deep inside her by bringing it to a boil. She lifted her knees, parting them. She was all bubbly heat already, which he discovered as his hand slipped down between them, sifting through inky curls, slipping through damp folds to test the temperature of her desires. Finding them volcanic.

  She moved restlessly beneath him, hips lifting as her hands pulled down, creating an exquisite friction where his hardness channeled along her feminine grove. His body grew rigid with strain. Her spine arched, a soft, needy moan wavering from her as her naked breasts flattened against his damp shirtfront. The sound intensified as his hand swallowed up one plentiful globe, molding it, shaping its nipple into a turgid peak, then feeding it between the pinch of his thumb and forefinger into his mouth. Sensation shook her at the first fierce, startling suction, then became a stabbing pleasure as the pulsing echoed the bump and grind of their hips and the slow, steady dip of his fingers inside her ready heat.

  “Deacon,” she pleaded, as her breaths quickened into ragged little gasps. She was shaking apart inside, muscles tensing, nerves dancing, skin quivering as if provoked by a thousand tiny shocks. Showing no mercy, he continued the erotic attack at each sensitized point until tremors massed low in her belly and raced along her thighs. The balls of her feet punched down into the mattress as she said his name again.

  His tongue mashed her nipple against the cut of his teeth and she came in glorious abandon.

  Even before she began to spiral down from that high plane of pleasure, he buried himself within her, catching those tight, milking spasms at their pinnacle and pushing them further, faster, to reach the heart of her with every thrust. With no chance to recover, she found herself lifted to another soul-shattering climax. It quaked through her limbs, rattling down her spine, exploding at the core as he burst inside her in scalding pulsations.

  For a long minute he didn’t move, couldn’t move. Reaction twitched through him in nerveless shudders. He waited.

  He’d expected the guilt to come afterward. He knew it would be there, just knew it. Another sin heaped upon the many others to punish him. But all he felt was sinfully good; relaxed, relieved, and reborn.

  Garnet was his. William was his. No one else had a claim to either.

  Now was the time to tell her, the time to come clean with all he’d discovered. But the moment he lifted his ridiculously heavy head off her shoulder, he was met by the sight of her satisfied smile. Everything inside him went to mush. God, she was beautiful. And brave. Think of all she’d endured when she’d thought he’d abandoned her.

  He did abandon her. There was no escaping that ugly truth.

  Beautiful, brave, and resourceful. Alone and afraid, she’d found the means to take care of herself and the child to come. He would never fault her for that, not ever. Montgomery Prior would have his eternal gratitude for taking her in and raising their child. But that’s all he would have. Woman and child were now out of his reach.

  And he had to make sure they were safe.

  Seeing the frown lines gather above the distancing chill of his gaze, Garnet experienced a shiver of dread. She brushed her fingertips along his jaw, sampling the tension there.

  “Deacon, don’t.”

  Surprise softened his expression. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t pull away from me.”

  The remote glaze melted from his eyes, leaving all the warmth and devotion she’d dreamed of. And a glint of wry humor. He nudged his hips into hers. She felt him stir inside her, a slow awakening that soon pulsed with renewed life.

  “I hadn’t planned to, angel. At least, not for a while.”

  It wasn’t what she’d meant, but it would more than do. She moved her legs lazily so that the soles of her feet stroked his calve
s and thighs. Her fingers made idle circles about the muscle groupings on his arms. Just touching him with such casual intimacy excited powerful emotions. Possession was foremost among them. In her heart and mind, he would never belong to another. He would be hers. If only reality could be so obliging.

  Noting the sudden glimmer in her eyes, it killed him to think it might be regret. Deacon bent to take her lips in a long, reassuring kiss, not letting up until he’d coaxed her tongue into play with his. He’d be damned if he’d let her feel guilty about something that was meant to be. Him and her and their son. Meant to be.

  First, to convince her. Then to take action.

  He lifted up onto his elbows, his expression growing serious even as his body grew more impatient with the idea of delay.

  “We need to talk,” he began. It didn’t help that she’d begun to raise and lower her hips in tiny, devastating pulses.

  “We need each other,” she contradicted, a reasonable request, considering how he’d doubled in size inside her. Her thumbs grazed the jut of his cheekbones, her fingers spreading wide to capture his head, directing him back down to greet her sweet, wet kisses.

  The gentle rock of motion escalated into a sea-swept tempest. Tidal passions roared, surging madly, wildly, to break finally upon a peaceful shore … where they lay entwined for a timeless moment, lulled by each other’s breathing.

  Until the sound of Boone galloping down the hall roused them. And the slam of the front door brought them up and apart.

  Garnet shoved against his chest as footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Quick.” She gestured to the sitting room. “Dress in there.”

  He snatched up his clothing as Garnet arranged her robe. Just before he ducked into the other room, he paused to catch her anxious gaze. A brief flare of sentiment calmed her. Her faint smile sent him on his way.