by Rosalyn West
“Glad you decided I wasn’t the enemy. Took long enough.”
Patrice didn’t smile. “I decided you weren’t trying to kill my brother. That doesn’t make you any less the enemy.”
While Patrice sat with Deacon, keeping close watch on his soaring fever and replacing the poultices as they cooled, Reeve went back to work on the house. The physical release helped loosen the knots in his gut.
She’d almost shot him. For an infinitesimal instant he’d seen it in her eyes; enough hate, enough fury, enough courage to pull the trigger.
Not a real encouraging way to start a courtship.
He hammered fiercely, stopping only to suck at his thumb after it interfered with a downward swing. The pulse of pain helped him focus beyond the coil of his emotions.
What was he thinking? How could he hope to win the favor of these people when he couldn’t earn their trust?
It was Deacon mucking up his hopes of romance. Deacon with his shadowy government past and murderous intentions. Such a prideful man despised losing. And he, with his Union blues and less than humble manner, was salt in those arrogant wounds.
Patrice loved her ice-cold brother, despite the lack of returned warmth. She saw him as her salvation.
So what was the point?
He was slaving over the home of a man who wanted him dead, to earn the love of a woman who resented all that he stood for.
What a fool he was.
Best he get the damned house habitable and move them on in and out of his life. Then he could get on with it.
But there was no appeal to getting on with life without Patrice.
She was the reason he’d come home.
Having her glare down the barrel of that gun scared the bejesus out of him. But it also quickened a pride and passion inside him that wouldn’t be ignored. Here, he thought, in those moments he feared might be his last, is a woman worth loving, a woman worth risking everything to have. Her tremendous fire, her compassion, her common sense, her unwavering loyalty. To possess those things, to possess her …
But Deacon wasn’t the only obstacle in his way.
There was Jonah, too. And that was something the two of them had to confront if time was ever going to bleed the poisons from her heart. Or the guilt from his.
Patrice laid another hot compress on her brother’s arm, then sank down upon the floorboards next to his inert form. She touched his damp cheek and hoped she didn’t just imagine a lessening in his temperature.
He was going to get better. She refused to consider the alternatives. Death. Amputation. Reeve didn’t mention it, but she’d seen enough empty sleeves in Pride County to know the threat was real.
Tears wobbled upon the edge of her lashes, but she blinked them determinedly away. She wouldn’t cry for what might be when what already was had taken such a toll of sorrow. Her brother was here with her, he was strong, a fighter.
“Oh, Deacon don’t give up. I’ll stand by you. We’ll get through this.” She didn’t say how. She didn’t know how.
Resting her head upon the rolled edge of the chaise, Patrice closed weary eyes to allow a moment of reflection. For so long, she had only had time to act. Now was the time to think, to plan. So much hinged upon Deacon, and she was afraid for him. He and all those who’d fought a losing war had to do battle again, this time against wildly inflated prices, smothering taxation, the destruction of their livelihoods, and—most damaging—the loss of their pride. To a Southern man, pride was all. Such men had no experience in humility and loss. She’d never known her brother to admit a mistake or apologize for a wrongdoing.
How, then, were they to survive?
“Is he better?”
The sound of Reeve’s voice brought back the magnitude of what she’d been ready to do at Deacon’s command. For a moment, she didn’t respond, unsure of how she could and still save face. She’d been ready to kill him. In her panicked need to protect Deacon and her instinctive obedience to her brother’s will, she’d been prepared to take a life. She glanced up slowly, knowing the right thing to do was apologize, to beg his forgiveness for her misrepresentation of the circumstance.
But the instant she beheld him, the words dammed up tight in her throat, caught behind a wedge of Sinclair pride. And at that moment, she understood completely how conflicted her brother must be between heart and mind.
She said nothing about what had almost happened.
“He seems to be.”
Reeve waited, expectation bringing a lift to one brow. Obviously, this was where she was to throw herself at his feet in humility, pleading excuses for her brother’s behavior.
Her shoulders squared, supporting the haughty hoist of her chin. She wouldn’t beg for what was well deserved. How dare Reeve Garrett demand sympathy after his part in their misery? Union soldiers had ravaged their home. Union arrogance had turned her brother into the dark, nearly soulless man who’d come home to her. Reeve’s allegiance to the Union cause had cost her the man she was to marry. He was their enemy and not worthy of their trust.
But he had saved her brother’s life.
“Thank you for what you did for Deacon.”
The terse concession coaxed a faint curl of amusement. “For what? Tending to him, or seeing that he don’t hang for murder?”
A bolt of outrage shot up Patrice’s spine as Reeve bowed slightly and left the room. She glared after him, her chest heaving with indignation. The nerve! The gall!
The truth! She took a quick breath.
If either she or Deacon managed to pull the trigger, killing a former Federal soldier, martial law would place a noose around their necks without asking if they had reason for what was done.
In saving his own life, Reeve had spared theirs.
The starch went out of her proud righteousness. She was no better than any of the stiff-necked Rebs sulking over their defeat. She’d let pride dictate her reactions.
What hope did any of them have when dying with conceit was preferable to surviving in humility?
Chapter 9
They came from all across Pride County, arriving in wagons, on foot, some even in the carriages that used to bring them there before the war. They came wearing taffetas shaken out for the first time in years, frock coats shiny with wear, and Kentucky or Tennessee regiment gray, ill fitting, patched, but proudly borne. They came out of the need of a social people to group together, pretending nothing had changed, to grumble and exchange stories.
And they came to get a look at the Yankee murderer living under the Glendower roof.
Acting hostess at her mother’s side, Patrice silently thanked her mother for talking her out of wearing a widow’s black in Jonah’s memory. Hannah insisted the occasion be one for rebirth, not a funeral dirge, and produced lengths of treasured dove gray silk with silver lace for trim. In its off-the-shoulder elegance, Patrice attended her first party as a woman matured instead of a giddy young girl full of dreams. As she greeted old friends with a smile and extended hand, directing the ladies to the receiving room and the gentleman to Byron’s study, where cigar smoke and laughter rolled out in an ever-growing cloud, she caught herself sweeping the front steps and the shadows for a figure conspicuously absent. And gauging from the tension in each guest, they were all wondering the same thing; where was Reeve Garrett and would he dare put in an appearance?
Squire Glendower spared no expense in recreating the former glory of their county. He hired a string ensemble down from Louisville, and lilting strains of “Shenandoah” danced upon air redolent with the sweetness of spring blossoms. Though no liveried house servants circulated through the crowd, well-placed tables offered a dry Madeira and lemonade punch, discreetly laced with Fairfax Bourbon. The finger food wasn’t elaborate but plentiful, providing the best meal some of their neighbors had had for years. Conversation sparkled with an atmosphere of family reunion, a mood Patrice feared would spoil soon enough if Reeve showed up in Federal blue.
“Might I say you ladies look lovely.”
<
br /> Both Sinclair women turned, smiling, toward Deacon. He cut a suave figure in his officer’s uniform, which Hannah had painstakingly cleaned and formally creased. He surrounded himself with an air of old-world elegance and precise manner. Patrice noted with some surprise how handsome her brother was, with his long lines, lean muscle, and self-enclosed stance. Pleasantly average looks honed to a striking intensity of rapier intelligence and brooding purpose held the romantically inclined females of Pride County at bay. He intimidated without trying, lorded his superiority without conscious effort. And she wondered if any woman could garner the gumption to shake him out of his emotional exile. That was a woman she’d like to meet.
He offered mother and sister each an elbow to escort them inside the Glendower ballroom. Patrice took his left carefully, mindful of the sling he yet wore. He’d recovered quickly, casting off the infection faster than the distasteful obligation he had to the man who’d saved his life. He had nothing to say to Reeve, and Reeve made it easier by staying away.
Couples paired up for the first Virginia reel. Hannah blushed like a schoolgirl at Byron Glendower’s invitation to join him in the promenade. She hung back, thinking perhaps it wasn’t proper so soon after her husband’s death.
“Go on, Mama,” Patrice urged. “Remember what you told me. We’re here to celebrate the future, not look back upon the past.”
At that encouragement, Hannah shyly took their host’s arm and was led away. Patrice sighed happily, not at all aggrieved to have only her brother’s company.
“She looks better, don’t you think?” At Deacon’s noncommittal mutter, she said, “This is good for her, getting out with people, getting on with things.”
Deacon’s gaze followed the whirling couples. His expression remained remote. “They make it look easy.”
She rubbed the rigidly upright column of his back. “It could be. If you’d let it. Don’t we all deserve a little reprieve from the sorrow and suffering?”
When he didn’t reply, she decided a little teasing was in order to route his melancholy.
“You don’t need to stand guard over me, Deacon. I declare, one look at your scowling face would scare away any chance I have of finding a suitor.”
He blinked down at her, startled, missing the jest until her devilish grin betrayed her. She gave him a slight push.
“Go away. Go find some sweet lonely thing and charm her into taking a walk in the gardens with you.”
“My, my, that sounds like right fine advice to me, darlin’.”
Warm hands caressed the caps of her bare shoulders as intimately as the sultry agreement. Patrice turned to find herself within the coil of Tyler Fairfax’s arms. Though his green eyes glittered from more than a prudent share of his daddy’s whiskey, his smile was all honey-sweet irreverence. A powder keg of trouble, with his mama’s swarthy Creole heritage, he could always charm his away around her irritation, just like his sister. She looked behind him, hopefully.
“Where’s Starla? Is she with you?”
“Mais non, chère. Baby sister is still over in Chattanooga with some of Daddy’s family. But she did tell me to see you was thoroughly entertained this evening.”
Deacon closed his hand over one of Tyler’s, drawing it off Patrice’s shoulder. Ice tinged his casually spoken words. “I doubt she’d find a walk in the garden with you all that entertaining.”
Tyler grinned wide. “Why, Reverend Sinclair, how would you know unless you tried it yourself? I pity a man who takes himself so seriously.”
“Better than being a man whom everyone takes as a joke.”
Tyler’s jovial expression didn’t alter, but a hard brilliance turned his eyes to emerald jewels. “Perhaps you’d like to share that joke with me, Deacon.”
Patrice angled between them and snatched up Tyler’s hands. “What we’re going to share is this next dance.” She pulled a practiced pout. “Unless you don’t want to dance with me.”
Tyler responded gallantly, twining her arm around his. “Why, darlin’, I’d have to be a dead man not to want you. For a dance, that is.”
She laughed, then shot her glowering brother a “behave yourself” glare as Tyler led her out onto the floor.
As they waltzed, Tyler managed both to annoy with his too tight embrace and delight with his sassy humor. She knew what he was—a sly, unreliable drunkard with dangerous colleagues and a badly scarred past, a man with no allegiance except to himself and his sister, and no compunctions about smiling as he fed a friend poison. But she couldn’t help liking him. She’d seen a deep-seated sweetness he allowed to escape on rare occasions, such as playing sensitive confidant to both her and Starla as they struggled with youthful fancies. However, the dark streak of his temper struck without warning, making his mood unpredictable and those who knew him wary.
But now, as he moved her about the floor pressing as close as he dared, he was all charm and dimples, and Patrice let herself enjoy his company.
“Tyler Fairfax, please step back, sir. There is not room inside this dress for the both of us.”
“Ummm. There could be.”
She shimmied to discourage his fingers from playing about the back fastenings to her gown.
“Is there a woman over the age of twelve and under ninety who hasn’t slapped your face?”
“There are a few, darlin’. A few,” came his cocky boast.
“I am not plannin’ to be one of them. And if you don’t let some air pass between us, my brother is going to give you more than a polite little love tap on the cheek.”
“I ain’t afraid of your brother.” Still, he backed up an inch or two. “Besides, lookin’ the way you do tonight, it just might be worth it.”
“If I for one minute took you seriously, you’d run like a rabbit in the other direction.”
His smile flashed white and wide. “Try me.”
He spun them through a breathless sequence of turns, leaving her clinging to him dizzily when the music abruptly stopped.
All eyes focused on Byron Glendower as he stepped up onto the raised musicians’ platform with a glass in hand.
“Friends, this is a special night for us,” he called out loudly to quiet the murmur of conversation. “A night we can get together and thank God and the Union Army of the Tennessee’s poor marksmanship for letting our fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers come home safe and sound. Tomorrow, we’ve got a special memorial service for those we won’t see again, but tonight, tonight is for those who are still with us. Raise your glasses with me in a toast to our brave Kentucky sons, the best of Pride County, those here with us and those we hope will be joining us again soon. A toast to Deacon Sinclair, to Ray, Poteet, and Virg Dermont, Fowler Jennings.” He went on and on, hoisting his glass to each man whose name he called, inviting the others to do likewise. “To Tyler Fairfax who stayed home to protect the county.”
Tyler beamed at the praise while his hand slid lower and lower down the back of Patrice’s gown. He leaned close, his breath whiskey-warm, to whisper, “I told you I was a hero.”
“And to my son, to whom we all owe so much.”
Patrice waited, her glass aloft, wondering why he’d mention Jonah in this toast to the returned.
Byron swiveled slightly, tipping his goblet. “Reeve Garrett.”
Silence. Not a glass moved. For the longest moment, not a breath exhaled as Reeve, clad in dark formal attire, came up to stand beside his father, bold as brass.
And from the back of the room, glass shattered at the feet of Deacon Sinclair before he turned and left the room.
Beside Patrice, Tyler made a soft sound trapped between a chuckle and a snarl. His smile took a wry twist as he upended his goblet, pouring its contents onto the floor.
The remaining guests were more polite. Glasses were returned untouched to the tables and backs presented to the father and son on the riser. The music started up again, and the party continued in a unified snub.
Reeve laughed softly. “Told you how they’d wel
come your subtle overture.” He moved off the stage and back into the shadows, where he wasn’t the cutting target of every covert glare.
Byron refused discouragement. “It served its purpose. They’ve seen you, and they know I’m not ashamed to call you son.”
Reeve bit back his response to that. He watched Tyler Fairfax lead Patrice out through the French doors to the darkened gardens beyond. “Am I excused from this little horse show now?”
The squire had seen the object of his attention but withheld his smile. “Absolutely not. You’re here to take advantage of this gathering. Mingle. Hold your head up. Act like you don’t care what they think.”
“I don’t,” Reeve snapped. “It’s just that these are good people, for the most part, and I dislike pushing myself into their sorrow.”
Byron sighed angrily. “Fine. Do what you will, Reeve. But remember, these are our neighbors, and it’s better to have them as friends than enemies. One at a time, boy. One at a time.”
Reeve tried to do things his father’s way. He walked through the gathering, finding himself confronted with a wall of shunning backs as those he approached turned pointedly away. No one said anything. The slash of their stares said it all. The pulse of their hate was a palpable force. He could ignore it without problem but it wasn’t going to further his cause of finding acceptance among them. One at a time.
“Judge Banning, you remember me, don’t you, sir?”
Noble Banning’s father was a judge in name only, an honorary title and as close as the scalawag ever got to the letter of the law. He immersed himself in politics now, and from what Reeve knew of that unscrupulous group of liars, Judge Banning was well suited as their peer.
Banning squinted at him. “Yes, I remember you. You were once my son’s friend.”
“I’m still his friend. I was wondering if you’d heard any more about where he is. If he’s in a Federal prison, perhaps I could pull some strings and—”
The judge cut him off cold. “We don’t need your help, sir. Noble is out fighting on the Western frontier. He was able to secure his own release … no thanks to you or your kind. And were I you, I would not be so free in bandying about the word ‘friend.’ Noble might think different about it now.”
