The Outcast

by Rosalyn West

  “Reeve—”

  She fought, climbed, scratched her way practically over the top of Tyler to gain her feet then, was dependent upon him to keep her there as her system suffered another jolting shock.

  Reeve on his knees, face in the dirt, as his wrists were lashed behind him. Dodge sprawled a short distance away, his head averted, a pool of crimson seeping out from under him.

  “Oh, Dodge.” She tried to gulp back a knot of emotion too big to force down. Faintness lapped up over her senses in soothing waves, as welcome as Tyler’s unwavering support. The desire to succumb to both engulfed her as she buried her face in handfuls of Tyler’s shirt. His hand covered her hair, holding her fast against him.

  Reeve grunted as his arms were jerked up high behind his back. He let himself be manhandled, not resisting the burn of the ropes, the thud of boots against his ribs. Nothing could have beaten him down more than the thought of Dodge dying for him, except the sight of Patrice clinging to Tyler in tears.

  When he’d seen Zeus drag her out of the blazing stables just seconds before its collapse, it was reward enough for any sacrifice to come. A large section of her skirt had been consumed by fire. The stench of fabric, hers and flesh, Tyler’s, hung sickly sweet in the air upon choking threads of smoke and charred wood. A gash along her cheekbone oozed only slightly now. She was grimy and weary but alive. Thanks to Tyler, his friend and foe. She would be safe. Nothing else mattered. He had no curiosity over his own fate.

  “String him up.”

  Ray Dermont’s vicious growl woke Patrice from her misery. She pushed against the pressure of Tyler’s hand to see what was happening. They were going to hang Reeve from the proud entrance to Glendower Glade.

  Seeing the glaze of understanding on her face, Reeve looked to Tyler. “Get her out of here.” His harsh demand won a small nod as Reeve was hauled up to his feet and shoved toward the porch, where the youngest Dermont tested the noose to make sure it would hold his weight. It wasn’t a long drop off the cement edge, not enough to ensure a clean snap instead of a slow strangle. Reeve walked, clinging to the memory of Jonah’s courage.

  “Reeve!”

  He winced at her raspy cry. Why didn’t Tyler get her away?

  Tyler tried, but her fright was quickly replaced by fury.

  “Let me go!” She struck at him, slapping his face, pounding on his chest, battering him with her curses and desperate tears. He wouldn’t relent.

  “Don’t, darlin’. You can’t stop it now. Neither can I.”

  “Liar! Coward! Let go! I’ll hate you forever for this!”

  He believed her. She could see the pain of it in his eyes. But it was nothing compared to the agony in her heart.

  On the ground, away from the wash of torchlight, fingers twitched in the dirt, hand rolling, pushing toward a discarded revolver. Brushing the smooth grip. Stretching with every last bit of energy.

  “Forget it, Yank.”

  A heavy boot trod down on Dodge’s palm, ending his effort.

  Watching them angle Reeve under the swaying rope, Patrice clutched at the arm Tyler braced across her chest, her fingers biting deep, her body trembling. Hysteria threatened. Desperate, wailing pleas for mercy clamped behind her quivering jaw. She sought Reeve’s gaze, locking on to it for strength, for the will to survive even if he wouldn’t.

  The panic fell away. The need for sobs and begging faded. How Reeve would hate that for a last tribute. What could she give him to carry to eternity?

  Her voice rang out strong and clear and unashamed.

  “I love you, Reeve Garrett. I would have been proud to be your wife.”

  Just before Ray Dermont pulled his hood down over Reeve’s head, Patrice caught a glimpse of his small smile. Then he was masked to shield the murderers from his condemning glare. The rope dropped into place and was fitted tight about his neck.

  “Don’t look,” Tyler mumbled, trying to force her gaze away.

  She glared at him. “You look. You take a good look at what you’ve done.”

  She let him press her face into his shoulder as she tensed, listening for the snap of the rope going taut. Tyler ducked his head next to hers, soft words whispering under his breath.

  “I’m sorry, Reeve. Forgive me.”

  Never! Never, she promised, clinging to him with eyes tightly closed to all but the image of Reeve’s brief smile.

  “Cut him loose,” came a cold command, “or you’ll be dead before he is.”

  Patrice’s head flew up. Her cry quavered with weak relief.

  “Deacon!”

  Her brother sat his horse with the deadly end of his rifle fixed on Ray Dermont. Next to him was Jericho Smith, mounted on the wheezing pony, just as well armed and dangerous. Not overwhelming odds, but enough to take cowards aback. Killing Reeve Garrett and his Yankee friend was one matter. Taking shots at Deacon Sinclair was another. And none of them doubted his willingness to shoot them dead with the slightest provocation.

  Seeing everything going to hell, Tyler stepped back from Patrice, keeping his crisped hands empty. Instead of going to Deacon, Patrice ran toward the porch.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sinclair?” Dermont growled as Patrice shoved by him to reach Reeve.

  “Putting an end to this insanity. The blood on my hands will never come clean. No more. Do you understand? No more.”

  Patrice slipped the knot loose and tossed the noose away. She yanked off the hood and had her mouth fixed upon Reeve’s for a long fierce second before turning her attention to the binding on his wrists. The instant he was free, he was off the porch, racing toward Dodge.

  “But you’re letting a murderer go loose,” Dermont railed, gesturing at Reeve. “He killed Jonah Glendower, his own brother! And he murdered his father! We jus’ gonna let him get away with those things?” He reached for his pistol, but Deacon’s icy stare froze him in place.

  “Byron Glendower told my mother that he had a bad heart. The doctor had been treating him for it since before the war. And as for Jonah—” Deacon broke off, his gaze flickering to Patrice, then back. “Garrett didn’t kill him. I’m responsible.”

  Patrice drew up, posture rigid, grimy features pale as she stared at her brother in tragic disbelief. Deacon didn’t pause.

  “Jonah was shot by firing squad because he wouldn’t give me up to them. He knew I was the one spying on Federal troops. When they got too close to finding out, he confessed to it so I wouldn’t be arrested. I let him die for me because the information I was carrying had to get through to Richmond. His blood is on my hands, not Reeve’s. Mine.”

  Stock-still, Patrice met his gaze for a moment longer, then she turned away to follow Reeve.

  Deacon gestured to the vigilantes with his rifle barrel. “Now get the hell out of here. Go haunt some other house.”

  “You’re gonna regret this, Sinclair,” Dermont promised as he bent to snatch up his mask and retrieve the rope that had failed to accomplish its purpose.

  “I already do.”

  While the night riders gathered their wounded and dead, making fierce promises of retribution toward both men on horseback, Reeve knelt beside his fallen friend. He took up the hand marked with a dirty bootprint, curling it in his own.

  “Dammit, Dodge, you said you wouldn’t take a bullet for me.”

  “Not for you.”

  The faint whisper surprised both him and Patrice as she knelt behind him. Dodge’s eyes fluttered open, touching vaguely on Reeve then holding on Patrice.

  “For her,” he murmured, following the claim with a wink. A sob caught in Patrice’s throat. His breathing suddenly quickened into shallow gasps. Fingers clenched about Reeve’s as his head tossed side to side restlessly until Reeve placed his other hand on Dodge’s sweat-dappled brow to still the movement.

  “Dodge? Dodge! Don’t you dare die on me. Don’t you dare. Get a doctor!” Reeve looked up, expression stark, desperate.

  “I heard tell that Doc Anderson was up and arou
nd again,” Jericho offered. “I’ll go fetch him, Mista Reeve.”

  Reeve nodded. “Take Zeus.”

  Jericho blinked, startled by the command, by the degree of trust. “Yessir.”

  Dodge crushed Reeve’s hand, drawing him down closer. “No. No doctor.”

  “You’re going to make it, Dodge. I swear to God.”

  “No.” His gaze held his friend’s in a moment of intense lucidity. “Reeve, I can’t feel my legs.”

  Reeve took in his meaning on a sharp inhalation, then after a slight pause, yelled up at Jericho, “Go on!”

  While his attention was diverted, Dodge slipped his hand free and came up on one shoulder, lunging for the pistol he’d dropped earlier. He had it halfway to his head before Patrice’s cry alerted Reeve. He snatched the piece away. Dodge fell back with an anguished moan, his forearm braced over his eyes.

  “Don’t do this, Reeve. You owe me a life. Mine’s not worth living. Not like this.”

  Reeve was too stricken to respond, so Patrice bent down to take the lieutenant’s damp face between her palms. She spoke gently, firmly, allowing none of her own fear to escape.

  “Dodge, listen to me. You listen to me. We’re going to need you to stay with us. Pride needs you. Reeve’s going to need you at our wedding. My friend Starla will be there. You’ll want to meet her, Dodge. She’s gorgeous and single and always on the look out for a handsome fellow like yourself.”

  He edged his arm up so he could see her. His face was taut, fever-flushed with pain. “She mind the smell of a good cigar?”

  “Knowing Starla, she’ll probably smoke one with you.”

  He swallowed hard then muttered, “You gonna leave me out here lying on the ground all night?” He blinked, the movement slowing, growing more and more gradual until his eyes finally stayed shut.

  Reeve rocked back on his heels, staring at the men who’d tried to kill his friend and the woman he loved as well as hang him. Two of the group draped facedown over their saddles. He knew them, though not well. Others nursed wounds and animosity barely restrained by Deacon’s gun. Finally, he looked at Tyler. The other man didn’t evade his stare but met it with an emotionless blank. No apology, no trace of what went on inside his head or heart. Reeve’s gaze lowered to the injured hands, studying them for a long moment before saying, “When the doctor’s finished here, I’ll send him to check on those burns.” His stare was steady, unblinking.

  Tyler understood. What once existed between them was no more. His gaze flickered to Patrice, who had her arms about Reeve’s broad shoulders in a fiercely protective circle. He gingerly caught up the reins to his rented horse, swinging up to follow the rest of the sullen riders back into the night.

  When they were gone, Deacon sheathed his rifle.

  “Help me carry him inside, Deke.”

  Deacon eyed Reeve for a long second, then dismounted. Between the two men, they managed to move Dodge to the unyielding sofa in Byron Glendower’s study. There, Deacon touched his sister’s shoulder, not missing the way she flinched from him.

  “Patrice, let me take you home. You need to let Mama put something on those burns.”

  She didn’t acknowledge him but instead spoke quietly to Reeve. “Will you be all right here?”

  He nodded, busy making Dodge comfortable.

  ‘I’ll be back … soon.”

  Reeve made no sign of having heard her.

  Patrice underestimated the extent of her own injuries. Once the shock wore off, her body surrendered to its weaknesses. Her head pounded from the bullet crease on her cheek and temple. She’d have a scar. The knock to her ribs left them bruised but not broken. The backs of her legs were painfully scorched by the flames. Under the numbing balm of laudanum, she drifted.

  Her ragged thoughts were consumed by Reeve, by Dodge, by fleeting images of Tyler Fairfax as the charming young man he’d once been waltzing her about the blue grass. By her brother. I’m responsible. Her mind ached. Her heart felt both full and painfully empty.

  Deacon hovered close by. She didn’t see him but heard his low tones in the hall outside her door. Her feelings for him fluctuated, sometimes fierce with outrage that he’d let her believe the worst of Reeve when his own actions held the blame, sometimes softening with sentiment when she considered his confession which must, even now, be circulating through the gossips of Pride. He’d tarnished her view with his own candid words, knowing he might well lose her love. He was a despicable deceiver, a selfless hero to the Southern Cause. Too many things for her weary spirit to sort through as her body healed.

  The doctor returned the third day to redress her burns, check her lungs, and pronounce her progress satisfactory. She half listened. What about Dodge? The doctor grew grim.

  “He has a bullet lodged next to the spine. Because of its position, an operation to remove it would have a 99 percent chance of killing him. I don’t have the facilities or the knowledge to guess the extent of damage. If he recovers, he’ll probably have no feeling from the waist down.”

  The news buffeted her, leaving a bereft heaviness in its wake. “You’re just going to leave the bullet?”

  “Shouldn’t hurt, ‘less infection sets in. Or it shifts.”

  “Then?”

  His failure to answer told the worst. Dodge would die. As the doctor packed up his bags, his observation was as cruel as it was compassionate. “Maybe that would be best.”

  But Patrice was appalled.

  Deacon lingered in the doorway as the doctor exited. His hands stuffed deep into his pockets as he levered his weight from one foot to the other as if unable to strike a comfortable balance within himself. He glanced at Patrice, his gaze flickering quickly away.

  “You look better.” A flat summation that didn’t request her reply. She didn’t give one. He fidgeted a bit longer, his awkwardness touching upon tender sympathies and, at the same time, wringing a savage sense that it was well deserved. Humility didn’t look good on him. Finally, Deacon straightened, freeing his hands so they hung fisted at his sides as his features gelled into familiar impassivity.

  “It was my duty, Patrice.” No apology.

  “You don’t need to explain war to me, Deacon.”

  “The things I did were dangerous. My life was always right there on the edge. I couldn’t afford to let sentiment get in the way of judgment and still do the job.”

  “That’s not war, Deacon. That’s you.”

  If her observation struck a nerve, he didn’t show it. “I don’t expect you to understand, Patrice.”

  “I may not like it, but I’ve always understood you.”

  His eyes closing briefly, he drew a deep inhalation and let it out slowly. “I don’t. I don’t understand. I liked it, Patrice. I liked what I was doing, and that scares the hell out of me.” Then he looked at her, the mask back in place. “I thought I’d drive you over to the Glade if you’re up to it.”

  A peace offering. A way to make amends. By accepting it, she’d absolve him. She let the invitation dangle, letting him squirm a moment longer in his own guilt. In the end, she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable, and that surprised her.

  “I’m capable of driving myself.”

  Her cool response hurt him. Pain winced through his eyes along with the dread that nothing would ever be the same between them again. It wouldn’t. She would never again be so naively trusting or look to him and expect perfection. She would see her brother, with all his faults, fears, and hidden feelings.

  “But I would like the company,” she concluded quietly.

  Reeve shifted in the leather wing chair he’d been living out of for the past few days. He uncrossed his long legs so he could bend to press the back of his hand to Dodge’s brow. Still no trace of the feared fever. That was good, he told himself. The contact woke Dodge to a now-familiar listlessness.

  “ ‘Morning.”

  No response. Reeve suppressed his frustration to continue the conversation. It was important that his friend feel among the
living even though he wasn’t interested in participating.

  “Got a wire from your folks. They want to come see you.”

  That sparked a reaction. His gaze flashed to Reeve’s. “No! I don’t want them to come.” He blinked several times, then went on staring at the ceiling, his voice going flat again. “They can’t afford the ticket or the time. I don’t want to burden them.” His eyes closed after saying that last but not before Reeve saw the awful crowding of fear and anger.

  “Doc said you could start sitting up, a little at a time.”

  “That’s something to look forward to.”

  If there’d been bitterness, sarcasm, or even a hint of hope in that statement, Reeve wouldn’t have been so alarmed. The toneless disinterest made him wonder if Dodge still considered suicide. And if he had the right to stop him a second time. He’d came to Pride because Reeve asked him—for no other reason than that. He’d ridden out to the Glade to take up a fight not his own, forfeiting his future. That was the kind of friend he was. What kind of friend allowed another to make those sacrifices? Agitated, anguished, Reeve pushed out of his chair and paced to the window, aware that Dodge followed the movement.

  “I’ve been thinking, Reeve,” he began quietly. “I’m thinking I want to go home.”

  Reeve pinched his eyes shut against the sting of helplessness. “All right. If that’s what you want.”

  Silence fell, growing more awkward and uncomfortable by the minute. Until a breezy voice intruded.

  “I declare it smells of musty men and old liquor in here. Reeve, throw open the window so I can breathe.”

  Patrice swept in, a breath of fresh air, herself. Dodge smiled. He couldn’t help it. She looked great, she smelled delicious when nudging in to perch on the edge of the cushions. She smiled at him, her expression warm with fondness. No pity. No guilt. No sorrow. He soaked it up thirstily.

  “I’d kiss you, but you’re a regular porcupine.” Her knuckles buffed the stubble on his chin.

  “Hold that thought. You can shave me.”

  Reeve snorted. “I offered, and you wouldn’t let me.”

  “Well, she’s a helluva lot better-looking than you are.