by Rosalyn West
His large hand opened at the back of her head, cupping it, compelling it to bow and seek shelter against his shoulder.
She should have turned away, denying what snapped between them in that unguarded moment to prove he had no power over her emotions.
Instead, she bent.
Her cheek nestled into the lea between shoulder and throat, finding a comfortable valley in which to rest. Immediately, she felt the bunch of his thighs as he nudged Zeus into a cautious lope as the steadying curl of his arms kept her close. But though safe in that coddled embrace, Patrice found no relaxation.
She’d always felt the basic attraction between them, something hot and animal and impossible to explain. It had nothing to do with the warmth and respect she felt for Jonah. It was somehow beyond the respectable and perhaps that was why, in her reckless youth, it was so alluring. No matter how earnestly she flirted with the rest of her Pride County beaux, Reeve Garrett claimed her undivided notice. Escorted into the dazzling affairs the Glade hosted before the war, she was oblivious to the music, the finery, and the witty conversation of her current partner. She homed in like a bird dog on the scent to the scruffily handsome outcast as he stood outside with the drivers and grooms, sharing liquor out of cornhusk-bound jugs instead of champagne from crystal at Byron Glendower’s side. By his choice. Always by his choice.
She’d catch him watching her as she swayed up the wide stone steps in her hoops and frills, bare shoulders gleaming in the candlelight, her gloved hands curled upon some gentleman’s forearm. And he’d nod, that infuriatingly bland smile a mockery of everything she’d hoped to inspire in him after hours of tedious preparation. She always dressed for him, determined just once to wake the blind devotion she stirred with little effort in every other eligible male in the county. Only Reeve seemed impervious. And how that galled her. How that made her want him all the more.
She felt his heartbeats, hard and strong, where the weight of his arm pressed her to him, and she wondered now, as she’d wondered then, what it would take to make that heart pound like a racehorse’s hooves in the final stretch. He was always so calm, so controlled it made her feel all the more foolish for her giddy lusting. For being unable to forget the thrill of being in his arms after she’d goaded him into teaching her about kissing. But that was before she made her official debut in society
There were times when she believed she’d imagined it all, that he’d never been the least bit interested in her. And then, she’d catch him staring at the oddest times with a look so hungry, so fierce, it scared as much as it excited. Again, by choice, he hadn’t acted upon what she’d seen in his eyes.
And now, she could not allow him to.
She compromised her every angry word and vow by lingering against him, absorbing the heat, the power, the joy of his nearness. But on a private, selfish level, she didn’t care. She’d wanted to be held like this forever. She’d underestimated his effect on her will. It melted like butter with that first inhalation of wet wool mixed with his own hot, musky scent. She’d berate herself later, but for now, she couldn’t shun the opportunity to bask in pleasures long imagined.
Byron Glendower watched them come up the drive.
He’d been standing at the parlor window for some time, sipping whiskey, indulging in sorrow and uncertain sentiment. He didn’t know what to do about Reeve. He never had.
His one great wish was to create a capable heir for the Glade. A selfish want, that desire of a man to immortalize his achievements by leaving a part of himself behind to attend them. Toward that end, he’d married young, to a delicate creature with whom he’d only a nodding acquaintance. She was of a fine pedigree, bringing the wealth and prestige he needed to carve out a monument to the name Glendower. But after three miscarriages, he began to fear he’d have no one to inherit his dream.
Then he met Abigail Garrett, an attractive widow whose needlework was renowned in Pride County. While arranging for her to outfit his wife for a new season, they began a passionate affair which culminated in the birth of a son. A fine, strapping son, the kind a man boasted of … or would if it were his legitimate issue. Foolishly, he tried to convince Abigail to relinquish the boy into his care, but the proud woman would have none of that. The best he could do was provide her a cabin upon the Glade’s many acres, a place where he could watch over the boy at a judicious distance.
And then his wife gave birth to a legal heir. A boy. A small, spindly child of continued ill health. A child much like he had been.
The irony of it. The boy every man dreamed of just out of reach. A weak child of uncertain future holding all his hopes.
His wife knew of Abigail and the boy, but women accepted such things without comment. And he kept to his vow not to resume his affair once a legitimate heir was produced.
He hadn’t meant to hurt either his wife or his son with his blatant favoritism, but Reeve, without trying to, far overshadowed his half brother. He was strong as an ox, courageous to a fault, honorable and dependable as the day was long. He understood the land, and the livestock loved him. The perfect son in all but name. And that, Reeve refused as stubbornly as his mother. Cautious, remote, and suspicious of his father’s motives, he refused to give homage or love, only labor.
He’d tried to love both sons equally, but it was difficult when all he could see were Reeve’s strengths and Jonah’s weaknesses. He watched with unconcealed delight as Reeve developed a natural gift for dealing with horses. His disappointment was apparent when, despite his best efforts, Jonah couldn’t overcome his fear of them. Then the accident happened. And Jonah was forever handicapped with a shortened leg and obvious limp.
He couldn’t fault Jonah for not trying his hardest to please him. What the boy lacked in physical prowess, he made up for in mental acuity. He worked miracles with the Glade’s books, then went on to establish the county’s first bank. His charity and kindness earned the love of all, and Byron tried to be one of them. But he couldn’t quite forgive the frail Jonah for not being Reeve. He tried to make up for that lack of affection by showering him with admiration. He hoped he succeeded.
Then, Byron saw a way around Jonah’s shortcomings. If he couldn’t be the sturdy heir Byron desired, than perhaps he could pass that wish down to the next generation. A fit, prime grandson. And he saw Patrice Sinclair as the perfect mate to bring about that accomplishment. Of blooded stock and sturdy lineage, she had more than enough vinegar and spirit to make up for what Jonah lacked. He couldn’t have been happier to announce the engagement to friends and family. And for the first time, he embraced Jonah with genuine fondness.
Then Reeve brought Jonah home for burial.
Terrible words were exchanged at that grave site. Byron wasn’t sure which spurred his fury, the fact that Reeve had taken an active part in the death of his heir, or that Reeve, his treasured son, his pride, had failed to stand by him and his beliefs, defying him openly to join the enemy cause. That choice stunned him and embarrassed him before his neighbors, leaving him in the awkward position of how to explain when he couldn’t. It broke his heart.
Now Reeve was back, and a mixture of resentment and relief twisted though him. Here, he had another chance at a future for the Glade. To take it meant swallowing the humiliation of having his son turn against him, the insult of Reeve’s refusal to apologize for his part in all their miseries.
But there was so much to gain in the balance.
At the moment, he had nothing but the roof over his head and a tax debt he couldn’t meet. His labor force was gone, fleeing down Freedom Road. The only blooded animal on the farm belonged to Reeve, and therein lay all his hopes. Though they’d argued about everything for years, he knew Reeve loved the Glade with a fierceness to rival his own. And he knew he could count on the boy to do the impossible to bring things around again.
But he didn’t know how to tie him both to family and farm until he saw him ride in with Patrice Sinclair across the saddle.
He hadn’t believed anything could
get them that close together. A fiery, willful girl, Patrice never shied away from speaking of her hatred for “that lousy, cowardly traitor.” He granted her those forthright opinions. Since the engagement, she felt like family to him, prompting his invitation for her and her mother to stay at the Glade.
It came to him. A stroke of inspiration.
Patrice Sinclair. He liked her. He knew she would have been good for Jonah.
Would she be equally good for Reeve?
A future could yet be bred at the Glade, a future generation, strong and fit and proud.
All he had to do was convince Reeve and Patrice to fulfill their part by getting past the tremendous obstacle of Jonah’s death. To give him the grandchildren he demanded.
Which would be about as easy as getting the county to accept Reeve back into their fold.
The fact that Reeve made no attempt at conversation made the ride easier for Patrice. She didn’t want to make pleasant small talk with him. Nothing about their verbal exchanges was pleasant. The silence allowed her to lose herself in escape, to feel, to experience the strength of a man’s arms, especially this man’s arms. But the moment was over.
“You can let me down now.”
The firm band about her waist didn’t ease.
“I’ll take you right up to the door.”
Being delivered to the front steps on the lap of Reeve Garrett held no great appeal. A stalemate ensued, her twisting in irritation, him refusing to relent because he was suddenly enthralled with the feel of her damp curves rolling against him.
“Put me down now.”
Her sharp tone held the authoritative snap one used to chastise a displeasing servant. For an instant, his arm tightened, mashing her to his hard chest, just to prove he was in control of her descent. Then abruptly he let her go. Without the support of his arm to position her, the moment he relaxed his knee, she slid forward into empty air like a clumsy flightless bird in sodden feathers. She landed on her feet with a jaw clacking impact, arms pinwheeling for purchase as damp skirt and petticoat mummified her legs together. She caught Reeve’s boot as her heels slid out from under her. Then came the indignity of him grabbing on to the back of her jacket to lift her up and brusquely deposit her on her feet.
“It would have been a mite easier for me to let you off at the door, but suit yourself.”
He gave a tug on the jacket collar, forcing her to lift her arms so he could strip it off her as if he were unmaking a rumpled bed.
Exposed to the cold rain once more, she stood shivering, glaring up at him. “Thank you kindly for the ride.”
His lips gave a slight twist. “My pleasure, Miz Sinclair.”
She was about to turn loose the tide of her temper when the sight of another soggy rider coming down the drive distracted her. Reeve followed her puzzled stare.
“Expectin’ someone?” His hand drifted down toward the pistol on his hip. Just in case.
“No. Who’d be crazy enough to go out in this weather.”
He was about to point out her own folly when she gasped, a strange little sound somewhere between a strangled sob and a glad cry. Then she was running, her heavy skirts hoisted up out of the muck, her feet flying.
Reeve squinted at the approaching figure, recognizing but not knowing quite who it was. A shabby soldier, like thousands he’d seen on the road, gaunt, whiskered, riding a broken-down excuse for a cart horse. Probably another beggar looking for a hot meal and a night out of the weather.
Something about the angle of his shoulders defied the term vagabond. Though his head ducked to let the rain roll forward off his hat brim, a prideful starch straightened his spine.
“Deacon!”
Even without her joyous shout, Reeve knew him, for the instant he saw her racing toward him, the rider lifted his head. A heavy beard couldn’t disguise the patrician features and ice-cold eyes of Deacon Sinclair, come home to claim his family.
Chapter 5
He stepped down off his winded mount just in time for Patrice to slam into him, all twining arms and salty tears. He rocked from the velocity, then, after a moment’s pause, he lifted his arms wearily to enfold her in a circle tight enough to seal out the rain and the world. His head bent slowly, turning so his cheek found rest atop her wet hair. And a long, satisfied sigh escaped him.
“Deacon—”
Patrice tried to look up at him, but his embrace banded more securely, his palm controlling the cant of her head as he whispered a hoarse, “Not yet.”
She relaxed against him, hands kneading the threadbare fabric of his coat, losing herself along his long-boned lines. Still not quite believing he was there. Alive. Finally, he angled to press a nearly nonexistent kiss upon her brow.
When he stepped back, Patrice felt instantly vulnerable once more. Her voice trembled.
“You look terrible.”
“I smell worse. This is my first bath in months.”
She touched his haggard face. It was wet. From the rain, he’d say. “I’m not sure I like the beard.”
“It’ll be the first to go, right after these clothes.”
Did he mean the uniform he’d ridden away in with such pride? She frowned slightly, palms stroking over the gray wool with its fortuitous lack of bullet holes.
He glanced toward the house. “They told me in town that you and Mother were here.” Then his gaze touched upon Reeve, who watched the two of them inscrutably from a distance, his Union coat draped over his shoulders. The muscles of Deacon’s jaw flexed beneath the stubble. “That he was here, too.”
Patrice rubbed his forearms to distract him. She wanted nothing to sully their reunion. And she wasn’t ready to have her ride with Reeve examined, either by her shrewd brother or within the uncertainty of her own heart. Better to let the issue slip away. “Come up to the house. Mama will be so thrilled to see you.”
They walked side by side, Patrice tucked in beneath the curl of his arm, her own snug about his middle. The used-up horse trailed behind them. Deacon spared Reeve another glance when they came nearer, the kind of look one gave an invisible servant.
“Take care of the horse.”
Delivered with an offhand indifference, the command fell flat.
“Didn’t you hear that Lincoln freed the slaves?”
Deacon stopped. A deceptive stillness came over his face. His eyes glinted, ice over slate. Reeve didn’t relent beneath that saber-sharp glare. He met it with a cool repartee of his own, and said, “Ask me. Don’t tell me.”
“Please.”
Another beat of challenge passed. Afraid she’d have to throw herself between them, Patrice tugged at her brother. She didn’t want his homecoming to dissolve into a fistfight in the mud. She cast an impatient look at Reeve. Only when her gaze took on an edge of entreaty, did he respond. Without a change of expression, he reached for the sorry creature’s reins, his comment low, and to Patrice, a puzzle.
“I’d never walk away to let another suffer for my arrogance.”
Deacon stood rigid as one of the plantation’s pillars. It obviously meant something to him. But before the confrontation could develop, Patrice hauled on his arm.
“Deacon, I’m soaked clear through. Could we go up to the house now?”
He backed down incrementally, movements still stiff, like a bristled dog being pulled away from a rival. Patrice jerked hard to break the steady fix of the two men’s stares. Then Deacon came obligingly to enter the dry confines of the Glade.
There, he surrendered to his mother’s embrace, resting his head upon her shoulder like the needy boy he hadn’t been for many years.
He ate to satisfy a long-starved need. Though clean-shaven and wearing a set of Jonah’s clothes that he couldn’t have squeezed into before the war began, though he was meticulous in manner, a difference in her brother bothered Patrice. She couldn’t name it. He’d always kept his emotions closed off from those around him, even those he cared for, but now she sensed a deeper remoteness, a void that scared her.
He never said what part he played in the defense of the South. Through the first years of the conflict, he’d stayed in Pride County, sporting no uniform, no rank, but a secretive silence that whispered of important business. Business one didn’t ask after. Just glad to have him home when so many Southern women were left to their own devices, Patrice never questioned him. But she worried.
It wasn’t until after Jonah’s death that he appeared one day in officer’s regalia to announce he had things to take care of in the Confederate capital. A subtle edge of danger hung upon that cool statement, warning them not to ask his reasons. Again, they didn’t … they were afraid to. Patrice wondered. Her brother had a gift, a certain blankness that shut off the exchange between heart and mind.
And she hoped he wasn’t an assassin.
She thought he’d be terrifyingly good at it.
They had letters, few and far between. His words echoed vague sentiments. He mentioned the weather in whatever state he’d been in and promised their mother he had plenty to eat. He wrote them about his father’s death, a letter so stark and stripped of feeling it might well have been a telegram from the government. Then, for the last year, nothing.
And it was clear that Deacon meant to go on as if the past four years never happened.
“As soon as the weather breaks, I’m heading to the Manor. I understand it’s still standing.”
“I’ve seen to it.” Patrice straightened beneath his cool perusal, pride surging when he allowed her a thin smile.
“You’re more than welcome to remain here.”
