by Rosalyn West
She wore pants. He was so startled by the surprising sensuality of those britches on her curves that his tone came out sounding angry.
“Does your mama know you left the house lookin’ like that?”
“I am not a little girl under her mama’s thumb anymore, if you hadn’t noticed.”
If he hadn’t noticed before, he was noticing now. No, there was nothing childish about Patrice Sinclair. Just as hardship had weathered her soft skin, years had matured her softly feminine figure. Gentle swells were toned by physical efforts. No sign of the coquette showed in her confident stance. And there was no question of the effect those trousers had on his celibate state. It was turn away or disgrace himself.
“You’d best head back to the Glade. We got no tea parties to give here today.”
She surprised him by gripping his arm and jerking him back around to face her. Her expression was fierce.
“This is my home, Reeve Garrett. No one tells me to leave.” She tugged on heavy work gloves, the kind field hands used while cutting crops. “I have things to do. If you want tea, you’ll just have to make your own.”
She made it all the way around the back of the house before the chills started in. Knowing she was out of sight, Patrice allowed her knees to give way, going down on them in the overgrown grasses. Leaning forward onto the brace of her palms, her head hanging low while blood pounded between her temples, she let the shivers of sickness have their way. All the horror she’d pushed aside quivered up through her. Her stomach roiled. Her vision filled with a swelling sea of red.
Then, gentle hands cupped her elbows, lifting her into a swallowing embrace. She leaned gratefully into it, recognizing the hard planes on a purely sensory level even as her mind whirled in weak spirals.
“Close your eyes,” came a quiet crooning. “It’ll pass in a minute.”
She surrendered herself to that suggestion. And eventually, the seesaw of sickness slowed and steadied, so she could take a calming breath. Her palms raised, resting upon the smooth bunch of his muscular arms. Holding on while her world righted itself. And she heard herself speak a raspy confession.
“I didn’t go to war. I’ve never seen such sights. Reeve, what happened to my brother to make him so … so …” She couldn’t find the word to describe the frightening lack of humanity in Deacon Sinclair.
“Don’t know about Deacon, Patrice. But war changes men. It changed all of us.”
Patrice couldn’t take comfort in Reeve’s explanation because the war hadn’t changed her brother, it only accentuated the disturbing qualities of aloofness he’d already possessed. She pushed away, and Reeve let her go.
“I don’t want him to see me like this,” she murmured, wiping at her reddened eyes with a sleeve.
“Why?” Reeve’s hand grazed the curve of her cheek. She went still as his rough thumb rubbed away the remaining wetness. “You look beautiful.”
Patrice’s gaze widened in sudden panic … and pleasure. She wanted nothing more desperately than to press into that big open palm, to allow them both this intimate moment. Her hand covered his. And drew it firmly down. Bowing her head slightly to break from his intense stare, she said, “Thank you for helping my brother. It was very kind of you.”
A pause. She wondered if he was annoyed by her change of topic to one of an impersonal tone. Then he answered expressionlessly.
“He would have done the same for me.”
Patrice didn’t reply. Because she wasn’t sure Deacon would have lifted a finger. She started to stand, and Reeve was quick to provide a strong bolster beneath her elbows. His touch didn’t remain once she was on her feet, but she could feel the warmth, the power of his hands lingering against vulnerable flesh and vulnerable heart. Knowing both must harden to get her through the rest of the day, Patrice turned from him without further words, going back to the business that brought her to the Manor. Part of that business was pretending her foolish pulse wasn’t racing with feverish excitement as she rubbed her palms over the places his hands rested. Pretending she didn’t ache to feel them elsewhere, everywhere.
Scowling at her own misguided passions, she applied the pry bar to rotted wood with a destructive relish.
Reeve watched them work, stubborn and determined brother and sister. He admired their vigor even as he recognized the futility. A few replaced boards and a slathering of tar weren’t going to return Sinclair Manor to its glory days. The whole world had changed, at least in the South. He didn’t think they understood that yet.
“I’m gonna have to be leavin’ soon, Mista Reeve.”
He glanced up at Jericho, surprise evident. “Guess that’d be your choice now, Jericho, but you know how much these folks need you.”
“I knows that. Miz Patrice and I, we had ourselves an arrangement. I stays on and helps her hold the place for Mista Deacon. Well, he be back, and I be thinkin’ it’s time for me to get on to my own work.”
“You got a job waiting somewhere?”
Jericho’s dark features firmed, and a fierce light gleamed in his eyes. “I surely do. One I been waiting to tend to for a lot of years.”
A man didn’t ask another man his business, so Reeve said nothing more except, “We’ll all miss you, Jericho.”
“This been like a home to me, Mista Reeve. It ain’t easy to walk away. I reckon you understands that.”
Reeve nodded grimly. Though they weren’t the same color, they’d suffered along the same line of prejudice keeping them on the outside looking in.
“But home be family, Mista Reeve, and I gots family out there awaiting for me to find ’em.”
“Your sister?”
“I ain’t seen her for nigh on ten years.”
“You know where to look?”
“I heard tell them folks that—bought her moved down Texas way. Guess that’s where I’ll be going. There ain’t nothing for me here.”
Reeve nodded. “I’ll be hoping good things for you, Jericho.” He knew the cost the other man was about to pay, that severing of soul it took to walk away. “Before you go, stop on by the Glade, and I’ll see you get supplies. You got a horse?”
“I got two feet, and they’s free to come and go. I thank you for the offer. I be hanging on here, just for a little bit, just to see Miz Patrice gets settled.” He cast a knowing glance at Reeve. “You gonna be seeing to that?”
Reeve allowed a small smile. “That’s my plan.”
The dark head nodded toward the roof, where Deacon was spreading on hot sealant to the weak spots. “He ain’t gonna like it no more than his daddy liked the idea of him and Jassy.”
“He’s not the one who has me worried.”
Chapter 8
For the second day, Patrice pried loose rotted boards until her shoulders ached and blisters formed atop blisters on her once satin-soft hands. Surprisingly, she enjoyed the work, the sense of participation in the rebuilding of their home. At the same time, she had to wonder what kind of life they’d have once they were back in the Manor.
As much as she wanted to believe that Deacon could save their family from debt and decline, she knew the hard facts. The pampered daughter of Avery Sinclair wouldn’t have lost a second of sleep to worry. She was no longer that sheltered girl. She’d spent the past years grubbing for just the basics of survival, not the extravagances they used to take for granted. Wearing a gown to more than one occasion she’d once considered a tragedy. Now tragedy was what she glimpsed in her brother’s eyes when she caught him unawares. Tragedy was choosing between buying food for the next meal or fixing shoes which had long since worn through on the bottom. But she had nothing to replace them with. And now Deacon talked about restoring luxuries. What were luxuries compared to shoes without holes?
She straightened and stretched in hopes of relieving the soreness plaguing her every move. So much left to do. She gave a soft laugh. Patrice Sinclair, belle of Pride County, battling wood rot with her bare hands.
“What’s so funny?”
S
he smiled at her brother and shook her head, gesturing at her mannish clothes and tanned skin. “All this. It’s either laugh or cry, and I’ve shed too many tears already.”
His sweat-dappled brow furrowed in frustration and concern. “Why don’t you go back to the Glade and help Mother plan her party.” Obviously that’s where he felt she belonged, embroiled in the frivolous while he shouldered the world alone. His sentiments touched her but were quickly dismissed.
“Mama doesn’t need me to help her pick a color scheme, but this wall isn’t going to repair itself.”
“I can do it.”
“Deacon, you can’t do it all by yourself. No one can. I’m fit and I’m strong and I’m willing to work. Don’t treat me like some fragile flower. This is my home, too. I love every board, every shingle just as much as you do. I’ve stood off marauders; I’ve dug potatoes with my bare hands, I’ve watched our people leave us, families I helped Mama bring into the world and cared for like they were our own. That was hard. This isn’t hard.”
His lean features flexed. Angry words were directed at himself for his own failure to provide. “You shouldn’t have to do any of those things. It’s my place to see you don’t have to.”
“Not anymore, Deacon. We need each other now, don’t you see that? Those days are gone and are never coming back.”
He spun away from her. She could see the denying tension in his shoulders, his inner struggle in the clenching of his hands. “Yes, they will. I promised our father I’d carry on just as he would have. He wouldn’t allow you to dig potatoes or pull down rotten boards.”
“Then who’s going to, Deacon? Look around. Do you see anyone else waiting to take my place so I can go have my hair rinsed with rainwater and set in paper curls while I’m bleaching my skin with buttermilk? Do you see a dozen men hanging on your every order, your every whim? Not anymore. There’s just me, Deacon, and you and all this work to be done however best we can handle it.”
He took a gulping breath. “I don’t like it. I don’t like watching you work like a field hand. I don’t like seeing my home falling apart while I don’t have so much as a penny to put it back together. I don’t like knowing that I went off to war and came home to nothing.”
“I don’t like it either, Deacon. But I’m not going to let it stop me from doing what needs to be done.”
He circled around and dropped down heavily upon the top step of the rear porch. Patrice sat between the spraddle of his knees, pulling his arms about her until he was leaning against her back. After a moment, he laid his cheek upon her shoulder and she felt a monumental sigh leave him.
“Oh, Deacon, we can’t go back to what was, but we can go on to something new.”
“I don’t know anything else, Patrice. I was raised to control a plantation, not lay bricks. I’m so tired. I just wanted to come home to things they way they used to be.”
“I know.” She reached back to stroke his hair, to caress his cheek, pausing when she felt his fevered skin. “Deacon, are you all right?”
Not catching her concern, he rambled on in a disjointed tone. “I’ve done things, Patrice, things you could never forgive or come close to understanding. I thought they were the right things but now … Maybe this is my punishment, the punishment for my pride.”
Not listening, Patrice swiveled on the step to place her palm to his damp brow. “How long have you had this fever?”
He blinked at her incomprehensibly.
“Deacon, you’re burning up. How long have you been sick?”
“I’m all right.” To prove it, he started to push away, gathering his feet beneath him, only to topple back in an uncoordinated sprawl. When he made no attempt to lift up again, Patrice did the only thing she could think of.
“Reeve!”
Deacon’s eyes opened, their focus gone, their color flaming brightly. “I don’t need him. I’m fine. Patrice, I’m—” His gaze did a slow loop and rolled up white.
Then Reeve was kneeling beside her. One look at the sweat-slicked face had him pushing up Deacon’s shirtsleeve.
“What is it? Reeve?”
By then he’d bared the wound with its hot, reddened edges. The slightest pressure brought a noxious oozing from the stitched seam and an anxious moan from Deacon. Reeve had seen the signs a thousand times, and they weren’t good.
“The wound’s gone bad. It’s poisoned his blood.”
“But he’ll be all right. Reeve? He’ll be all right.”
He glanced up, expression somber. A ragged wail tore from Patrice.
“No! I won’t lose him. You tell me he’ll be all right. Reeve, tell me!”
He couldn’t lie to her. “I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s not good enough! You tell me he won’t die!”
“I can’t.”
She looked down upon her brother’s flushed face. He was close to insensible now, as chills started working up through him. Wild with despair, she begged, “Then do what you can. Please, Reeve. Do what you can.”
He called for Jericho, and the two of them carried Deacon inside, stretching him out on a chaise that had been brought into the front parlor. There was no time to take him back to the comforts of the Glade when his life balanced upon each passing minute.
“Jericho, your mama had a poultice she used to use for drawing out poisons. Do you remember how it was made?”
“Sure do.”
“Show Miz Patrice how to make it.” When Patrice balked, he pushed her toward Jericho. “Show her now.”
“C’mon, Missy Patrice. I’ll show you where to find the right herbs.”
Reluctantly, she went with him, leaving her brother in Reeve’s care. Grateful for her absence, considering what he had to do next, Reeve lit a candle then drew his knife, holding the blade in the flame until the metal glowed white-hot. When he turned back to the chaise, Deacon’s stare was on him with a fixed intensity.
“Gotta reopen the wound so it can drain proper,” he said with a calming firmness, then carefully moved Deacon’s arm into position. He never expected Deacon’s cool reply.
“No, you aren’t.”
Reeve never saw it coming. He was bending over, concentrating on the exposed injury. The blow struck like lightning, knocking him to hands and knees, his head ringing. He grunted as Deacon’s boot smashed into his ribs but retained enough control to grab onto his foot. When Deacon tried to lunge over him, he yanked hard, and Deacon met the ground with a crashing thud. Then, despite his fever, or because of it, Deacon began scrambling toward the door, toward the rifle Jericho left leaning there.
“Son of a—”
Reeve shook off the effects of the first punch and dived to intercept. He landed across Deacon’s legs, hanging on when he began to writhe and kick. Then Deacon rolled, and, looking into the bared saber steel of his glare, Reeve realized what a coldly efficient killing machine they’d made him. Without a sound, Deacon drove his palm up beneath Reeve’s chin, clacking his teeth together with jarring force and momentarily putting out the lights. He followed with a vicious backhanded blow, but Reeve wouldn’t be shaken. If Deacon got his hands on the rifle, he wouldn’t hesitate a heartbeat before blowing him to hell. He had to be stopped, and there was no easy way to do it.
As Deacon’s thumbs gouged for his eyes, Reeve slammed his head once, twice, upon the floorboards but the other wouldn’t relent. He was unbelievably strong and fast, the mannered Southern gentleman swallowed up in dark, lethal purpose and momentarily fueled by fever madness. Reeve had his wrists, pinning them down, but Deacon butted him in the face, skewing his vision. As he tried to lever back on his elbows to reach the door, Reeve hit him, once to get his attention, twice to stop him. But he kept fighting with a tigerish tenacity.
“Deacon, stop! It’s over! It’s over!”
“No!” The word snarled from Deacon as he twisted onto his belly, then abruptly went still. “ ‘Trice, get the gun!”
Startled by the violence she’d come upon, Patrice dropped the bas
ket of herbs she carried to snatch up the ancient rifle in response to the urgency in her brother’s voice.
“Shoot him, ‘Trice! He’s trying to kill me. Like he did Jonah. Shoot him!”
Unaware of doing so, Patrice threw the rifle butt up to her shoulder, her finger taut on the trigger. She sighted down the barrel … right into Reeve’s uplifted face. And hesitated.
“Shoot him!” Deacon screamed at her, his face a mass of bruising and blood. Deacon, her brother. She took aim again.
“Put it down, Patrice,” came Reeve’s steady command. “He’s out of his head. Help me with him.”
The rifle wavered.
“Patrice, for God’s sake, don’t let him fool you! You know what he is. He’s the enemy. He’s our enemy. Don’t let him stop me. I have to get through.”
Through? What was he talking about? She lowered the gun. Seeing her surrender, Deacon gave up his fight, closing his eyes with a wretched moan. Reeve said a brief prayer of thanksgiving and motioned to Jericho, who’d just come up behind Patrice.
“Help me get him back to the couch.”
They got no protest as they settled him once more. His eyes opened fleetingly, gaze touching upon his sister as he whispered hoarsely, “How could you betray me? I’ll never forgive you. I have to get through. I have to get through.”
Seeing he was clearly delirious, Patrice set the rifle aside, the rush of fright still tingling through her. Then she knew a moment of doubt as Reeve drew his knife once more. He met her anxious gaze, his chiding her.
“Jericho, hold his arm. We’ve got to let the poisons out before the sickness gets any worse.”
It was done quickly, with only a rattly groan from Deacon as his awareness slipped beyond the capacity for pain. She jumped to comply with Reeve’s order to prepare the poultices. After she wrapped the steaming cloth about her brother’s arm, she felt the probe of Reeve’s gaze and glanced up in answer.
