by Rosalyn West
“He’s drinking and he’s angry, Starla. He’s not thinking about anything the right way anymore. I don’t know that your being here would have made any difference. To some men a little power is worse than your daddy’s hundred-proof.”
Finally, she had to ask. Her voice thinned with strain. “And my father? He just let Tyler go?”
“No one’s seen him, Star. Not for a long time. I guess his illness has gotten worse.”
By “illness” Patrice was politely referring to her father’s dissipation due to drink. Starla squared her shoulders, drawing on the resolve hidden by her frivolous manner. “Well, I’ll just have to keep Tyler in line myself, then. I won’t tolerate such boorish behavior.” When Patrice didn’t react to that claim with any degree of confidence, Starla knew a terrible fear that her brother might already be beyond redemption. She slightly changed the subject. “But ‘Trice, you haven’t told me why Tyler wasn’t at your wedding. He was always so sweet on you, you know. I can’t believe he’d not want to be there.” Her gaze begged silently not to learn the truth if it was something awful, so Patrice softened the blow as much as possible.
“He had a falling out with Reeve.”
“But Reeve was his best friend.”
“Reeve took up the Union cause. That made him a traitor in the eyes of most of the county, my brother and yours included. It was rumored that he might have been behind Jonah’s death—”
“No! Oh, Patrice, I don’t believe it!”
Under Patrice’s feminine form, a foundation of rigid steel supported her fierce words. “It was a lie. But it caused a lot of trouble.” She glanced away uncomfortably. “For a time, even I considered it might be true.”
“But you and Reeve married. You put that behind you and moved on.”
“But Tyler hasn’t, Starla. And I don’t know that he’ll ever be welcome here again.”
Starla smiled nervously. “Now, ‘Trice, you don’t mean that. You and me, Tyler and Reeve—we grew up together. We’ve been friends forever.”
But Patrice lost none of her hard edge. “Nothing’s forever, Star. I can only hope what’s between Tyler and my husband won’t come between us.”
Starla hesitated, torn by loyalty and love. She hadn’t heard her brother’s side of things yet, but she knew and trusted Patrice’s honesty. And she knew Tyler. The terrible things she’d just learned were fact. And she was to blame through her cowardice.
“I’ll make things right, Patrice.”
“I don’t know that you can.” The hint of sadness in her friend’s voice both frightened and encouraged her. If there was remorse, there was also regret. That meant all was not lost. Starla cast off her doubts with a bold shrug.
“I will. I’ll slap some sense into that brother of mine and have him here apologizing. He’s not going to get away with any more nonsense now that I’m home.”
Patrice smiled wanly, not unmoved by her neighbor’s vow, but not yet convinced she could make miracles happen. “These aren’t childish pranks he’s involved in, Starla, and the Dermonts are more than teasing bullies. They’re backed by some important men. Judge Banning, for one.”
“Oh, pooh! Tyler’s just a rambunctious puppy. He’ll run with a pack if you let him loose, but you keep him at home on a short leash and he’s a darlin’.”
Patrice said nothing. In her silence an awkward sense of separation settled between the two friends, warning of what might happen to their closeness if they allowed it. Neither was willing to allow it.
“Tell me about you,” Patrice said suddenly, turning to face Starla curiously. “Where on earth have you been and what have you been doing these past four years?”
Starla smiled, the gesture chilled with wariness. “Didn’t Tyler tell you?”
“Tyler was very vague.” A touch of accusation edged in with those words. “He said you were in Louisville. He also said you were in Chattanooga.”
“He was right. I did a lot of traveling.”
“During a war?”
“Patrice, honey, did you ever know somethin’ as trifling as a little ol’ war to get in the way of somethin’ I wanted to do?”
Patrice had to laugh. “No.”
“I traveled some. I visited family, but most of all I missed being here. I don’t want to talk of where I’ve been anymore, not when I’m so happy to be back home.” She turned up her radiant smile to throw Patrice off her line of questioning. Though Patrice knew her friend too well to be misdirected, she chose to let the matter slide.
“I’m glad you’re home, too.”
They embraced again like sisters, Starla heaving a deep sigh of relief. Before Patrice could come up with any more uncomfortable topics, Starla linked their arms together.
“Have you got anything to eat down in that big ol’ pantry, or were you planning to live on love? I’m starving.”
Patrice hugged her arm. “Let’s go see.”
Once Reeve was lured downstairs by the scent of fresh-brewed chicory coffee, the newly weds disappeared shortly thereafter, leaving Starla to her own devices once more. A reprieve. She knew it was no more than that. Sooner or later she wouldn’t be able to escape the questions. She knew she had to think of what to do. Returning to her family home of Fair Play was out of the question. If she had her way, she’d never set foot in there again. At least, not while her father was alive.
So many decisions, all so weighted by circumstance and heavy with consequence. Her head pounded, denying the clarity she needed to make the right choice.
So instead of spending the day in determined decision making, she used the time to heal her weary spirit, soothing her senses with what went no deeper than the surface. She shook the wrinkles out of her travel wardrobe, clucking over their sad, dated look. Before the war she’d always been dressed in the latest Paris had to offer. Now she was realistic enough to be glad for clothes on her back.
She’d had to look stylish for the role she’d played over the past four years. She’d had to act as if she hadn’t a care in the world while inside she was constantly on the brink of emotional collapse. Nothing new—playing dress-up like an animated doll and hiding the truth behind a painted-on smile. It was a role she was born to.
As exhausted as if she’d waged her own war, she was eager to accept the terms of truce by coming home again. As long as that compromise didn’t include a return under her family’s roof. There must be a solution; she knew it. But today she would retrieve her strengths and revel in the sense of safety.
Even if it was only temporary.
The last thing Starla expected was for the new couple to be entertaining company on their first day of married life. The last thing she desired was for that guest to be the obnoxious Northerner Hamilton Dodge. He grinned at her dismay without the least bit of shame. She’d never seen a man who found so much to smile about—not in foolish gregariousness, but with genuine amusement for the circumstance. She didn’t care to be the source of his entertainment and glared to let him know it. He grinned wider, a wolfish, faintly predatory gesture that brought a prickle of threat to play upon her expression.
“Good evening, Miss Fairfax. You’re looking even lovelier than last night, if that’s possible. Probably because no one can outshine a bride in full regalia. Not that you look any less stellar this evening, Patrice. Just more out of reach.”
He bent to accept Patrice’s kiss to his rough cheek, lingering comfortably within the circle of her arms. The sight unnerved Starla. How quickly this stranger insinuated himself into the lives of those she’d known since the days of swaddling clothes.
“Come in, Dodge. Let me rescue you before you trip over your tongue with all those compliments.”
“Are you suggesting they’re not sincere?”
Patrice laughed and looped her arm through his, mindful of the crutches supporting his weight. “Gracious, no. You haven’t enough tact for flattery so I’ll just have to believe you. Reeve’s already poured you a brandy.”
Starla sto
od at the doorway, watching the two of them head across the cavernous foyer toward Byron Glendower’s study, Patrice slowing her step to pace Dodge’s awkward use of the crutches. Not used to being ignored, she fumed for a moment, wondering how to upstage the ingratiating Yankee, then growing angrier because she’d have to. These were her friends. This was her homecoming and she was being pushed aside in favor of some hobbling outsider with a grating accent and a pushy manner.
Then Patrice glanced back. “Starla, aren’t you going to join us?”
That Northerner looked back, too, one brow arched in mocking question.
She affixed her most dazzling smile. “Just closing the door to keep out the pests, honey.” And she glared at Dodge to let him know that in her opinion, she hadn’t been entirely successful.
Again his toothy grin flashed in recognition of her testy mood. What an aggravating man. He didn’t care that he was being insulted. Nor did he bother to disguise the blatant interest in his stare. She prepared herself for a long defensive evening.
As to Dodge, every moment at the Glade was treasured by this man who’d spent too much time alone. Since coming to Pride, he’d poured his energies into reviving the bank set up by Reeve’s half brother, Jonah. The establishment had closed with Jonah’s death and Reeve had called him down from Michigan to see what he could do about helping it, and the people of Pride, back on their feet.
The hard part was getting the stubborn community to see him as something other than a forked-tongued devil come to steal their last cent. Like Starla, they winced at the sound of his voice, looking no deeper to discover what kind of man he was. If they bothered, they’d know he was as honorable as he was determined to succeed. He’d learned an important piece of advice from Reeve: the only way to win them over was one at a time. And tonight, the one he wanted to win was Starla Fairfax.
His first assessment of her as a fluffy southern belle had been blown to hell during their first conversation. Now he was possessed by the need to discover just what she was. Intriguing, definitely. Gorgeous, beyond belief. And more than just a bit of a brat.
She was determined to dislike him and now was intent upon pretending he didn’t exist as she steered their dinner conversation toward a past he didn’t share and people he didn’t know. She did it so skillfully, perhaps their hosts didn’t see her behavior for the snub it was.
She’d glance at him while speaking, giving the pretense of including him in the conversation but the cold sheen in her stare might well have been a wall denying him access. He didn’t mind. He usually did so much talking, it was a relief to sit back over Fairfax Bourbon and simply listen and learn.
And he was learning fast—learning that Starla Fairfax was a complicated piece of work, with as many convolutions as her brother. For all her flashy charm and animated gestures, if one paid attention, he’d see they were all for effect, for keeping others at a distance while she remained safely untouched by the world that moved around her.
Most beautiful women loved to gush on and on about themselves, but that was a subject Starla avoided, deflecting personal questions like the surface of a mirrored pool—making it an irresistible challenge for Dodge to test the waters underneath. Would they be hot and agitated, or cool and murky with mystery?
Only one topic seemed to stir a response in her, and Dodge noted with little enthusiasm that it involved another man.
He’d heard of Noble Banning. He knew Banning had been Reeve’s best friend before the war, that his father was a ruthless manipulator in the political arena who owed no allegiance save to himself. And he knew Starla Fairfax lit up like a rocket trail when speaking about him.
“Last I heard,” Reeve was saying, “he earned a release from Point Lookout Prison by joining up with the Frontier Brigade.”
“Prison.” Starla’s bright eyes glossed over with real dismay. “I hope it wasn’t terrible for him. One hears such rumors.”
Reeve gave her a smile of reassurance. “Noble’s a born negotiator. He probably had the prisoners organized and petitioning for starched linens with every meal on his first day there.”
Starla rewarded him with a wan smile. “Noble could sweet-talk an old maid out of her garters when he set his mind to it.”
Seeing the wistfulness softening her expression, Dodge wondered, with a prick of irritation, if the southern paragon had ever tried charming her out of hers. Or if he’d been successful. Time to wade in, if he had any hopes of ever seeing those garters for himself.
“Offering captured enemy officers a chance to serve in the Western Theater is a fairly common way to control the population since they stopped prisoner exchanges. If your friend was smart, he jumped at the chance right off.”
Starla fixed Dodge with a quelling look, incensed that he’d offer comment, outraged by his opinion.
“Noble Banning was a Confederate officer, sir. I doubt he’d jump at the chance to betray the South by joining an enemy army just to escape a little discomfort. Our boys are bred for better fortitude and honor than that.”
Dodge didn’t back down from her cutting claim. Instead he said, “Funny, how eating biscuits crawling with weevils tends to change a man’s thoughts on honor.”
Starla set down her tableware with a demonstrative force. “What an unappetizing observation, Lieutenant Dodge. Apparently you have no consideration for the delicate constitutions of those with whom you dine.”
Dodge blinked. “Beg your pardon, ma’am, but you don’t look all that delicate, and I was just stating a fact to make a point.”
“And your point was what, sir? That our men are spineless cowards who value their personal comforts over the duty they swore to uphold?”
“That’s not a conclusion I would ever draw after facing so many of them in battle, ma’am.”
“Or were you merely judging them on the basis of your own lack of fortitude? I am sure that, had you found yourself in such a situation, you’d have been quick to do the smart thing and betray the Cause you professed to follow.”
Patrice looked anxiously between her guests, then to Reeve, who simply leaned back in his chair as if watching a mortar volley. He rebuffed her pointed stare imploring that he do something, offering her a bland smile that forced her to say with false gaiety, “Would anyone care for pie?”
But Dodge and Starla were locked in a battle of wills across the tabletop. Neither looked ready to concede an inch in philosophy, because the tension tugging taut between them had as much to do with attraction as it did opposing politics—unwise attraction on Dodge’s part, unwilling on Starla’s.
“I didn’t fight for a cause, Miss Fairfax,” Dodge continued, as if Patrice hadn’t spoken. “I wore a uniform to hold together a country I love against those who would betray its sanctity. I didn’t see it as an engagement of ideals or an arena in which to express political differences at the cost of thousands of lives. Honor and ideals are the first things that fall when men go to war. When you’re looking down the breeches of a dozen artillery pieces aimed to blow your gizzard to kingdom come, your only duty is to keep yourself and the men you’re responsible for alive. That’s not cowardice, ma’am, it’s survival. And it’s nothing a fine lady like you, whose family never lost so much as a night’s sleep over the compunctions of duty or honor, could discuss with any degree of insight or opinion.”
Then Dodge reared back as the contents of Starla’s glass splashed his face, stinging his eyes. By the time he’d dried off, she’d already left the table.
Patrice was quick with both a towel and an apology.
“Dodge, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into her to behave so impulsively.”
“I’d say it’s the lady’s way of sharing a high degree of opinion.”
Chapter 3
Starla didn’t pause in brushing her hair when she heard light footsteps behind her.
“If you’ve come to scold me, go ahead. I deserve it for spoiling your dinner party.”
Patrice took the brush from her and began t
o sweep it through the heavy waves of black hair in steady repetitions, a task she’d often undertaken when they were younger to calm her high-strung friend.
“I didn’t come to scold you. I suppose putting you two at the same table involved a degree of risk. Something like a keg of powder and a lit match.”
“Then why invite the odious man?”
“That ‘odious man’ saved both our lives, and I happen to be very fond of him.”
Starla sniffed. “I don’t see why. Arrogant, opinionated, rude—” She broke off when she saw the smile in Patrice’s reflection.
“I knew you’d like him.”
“Like him?”
“There were enough sparks flying at that table to celebrate the Fourth of July.”
“Or burn down the house,” Starla grumbled. What was it about the man that put her in such a temper, even discussing him after the fact? She couldn’t deny he inspired something within her. But she refused to think of it as a spark, and said so. Vehemently. “Like him? You must be tetched.”
“Well, I’ve never seen you put that much energy into building a dislike. That must mean something.”
“It means I find him quite reprehensible.”
“And handsome.”
“Handsome? With that leering grin and bristly face?” And eyes that saw too much. Nice eyes, she remembered—dark, clear, intelligent. With an unapologetic stare that implied integrity. And an unwavering gaze meant to inspire trust. Eyes too intense in their probing, as if he knew she held secrets and was determined to discover them. She shuddered slightly, anxiously. “He’s about as handsome as an ol’ blue tick hound.”
“And just as loyal. You’ll never find a better friend.”
“Why would I want that ol’ Yankee for a friend?”
All teasing left her as Patrice said, “He’s a good man, Starla, maybe the best man you’ll ever know.”
Again the warmth of those dark eyes intruded upon Starla’s tightly held disdain, making her resolve falter. Wanting to believe the goodness in any man, let alone a Yankee, was the height of folly: a bitter lesson learned and never to be forgotten again. Yet something about Hamilton Dodge beckoned belief. The fact that she was swayed by it made her fight all the more to deny it.
