The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (10 page)

“See what you can find out about this Davis person and his daughter. Visit that farm. If there’s a reason for me to distrust the Reverend,
I want to know it before I send him out again. And Hermes, be discreet. I don’t want him to think that I don’t trust him. He’s the best man I have.”

“Yessir.”

And the shadowy figure faded from sight, his scowl becoming a grin that flashed briefly as the tent flapped closed behind him.

Chapter 7

A
fter taking about a dozen steps from the tent, the numbness gave before a shock of reality.

His father was dead.

Suddenly too wobbly to continue, Deacon dropped into a crouch, bending low and lacing his hands behind his head. He bit down hard on the swells of disbelief and sorrow.

It had to be a mistake.

Men like Avery Sinclair rode through the thick of things and came out without a scratch, medals displayed on their chests. They went home to their families, to their wives, to their land, and went on as before. They didn’t just … die.

He took a tight breath and let it out in a noisy shiver.

How could he take the news home to his mama? Imagining her pain increased his own tenfold. He dug his elbows into his ribs in an effort to contain it. That fresh hurt only combined with the other, making it more impossible
to control as grief and a surprising anger spasmed through him.

Gone, just like that. A man of his father’s status and power, cut down like the lowliest infantryman. How could such a thing have happened?

How could Avery Sinclair just up and die, dumping the weight of his responsibilities and expectations upon his son’s shoulders?

Just when he’d decided to walk away from them.

The irony brought bitter tears to his eyes and a hoarse laugh that strangled in his throat.

While he was flirting with happiness in the arms of his enemy, his father was on some nameless field, dying to keep him from ever attaining it. He’d been so close to escaping. But that door had closed on him, shutting him in with the future that had already been prescribed for him to follow.

Leave it to his father to find such a damned dramatic way to remind him of who and what he was.

A Sinclair.

And a Sinclair never let unimportant things like happiness interfere with a duty to be done.

He took a breath, then another. The third came easier as a quiet sense of purpose settled over him, stilling the pain of all he’d lost.

For a moment, he’d allowed a gentle smile and a wooing taste of freedom to lure him from his path. He’d let himself believe that he could
be what Garnet had wanted to see. His father’s death denied that illusion.

He was the heir to Sinclair Manor and a soldier to the South. He’d let himself forget that, an unforgivable breech of the rules of war. A failure of character that shamed his father’s teachings and now, his memory.

It was time to get back to duty, time to put dreams back in their place and do what was expected of him.

Hobbs looked up through a wreath of smoke to see Deacon Sinclair in his doorway.

“Reverend? Something else on your mind?”

Deacon stepped in and brought down the tent flap. “I’d like to finish my report, sir. I wasn’t completely truthful with you before.”

“Oh? And why was that?”

“Davis’s daughter. She made me forget my priorities for a moment but that moment’s gone. She got me thinking about civilized things that have no place in war. The only civilized thing to do is get this whole mess over with as soon as possible. The only way I can do that is to do my job, unpleasant as it is at times.”

“This entire business is unpleasant, but we can save the lives of those men out there on the battlefield by doing some of the more unsavory aspects of warfare behind the scenes. That’s our job. It’s not glamorous. It may not seem patriotic
or palatable at times, but that’s how wars are won.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hobbs eyed him critically. This was the man he was used to seeing; all steely-eyed and unemotional. Whatever fit of conscience colored his earlier abbreviated statement was gone. And good riddance. There was no room for compassion or conscience in the game of espionage.

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve managed to learn the Federal code.”

Hobbs stared at him for an incredulous moment, then broke into a grin. “Good man. Get busy teaching it to our operators. We can flood the lines with false information on troops size and movement.”

Deacon hesitated, just for an instant, but it was long enough to alert his superior to caution. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

What wasn’t his operative telling him?

“What about your family?”

Deacon’s dispassionate stare said plainly,
What about them?

“I’ll write them.”

Damn, Sinclair was a cold piece of work, but Hobbs couldn’t ignore something that worked so well in his favor. “Set it up.”

Without a word, his man was gone. But the feeling of uneasiness lingered as the general pulled at his cigar. Better to cover all points carefully. A lapse in judgement on Sinclair’s part might be a symptom of some greater weakness.
Just to be on the safe side, he wouldn’t call back Hermes. If Deacon wasn’t forthcoming with all he knew, Hermes would fill in the blanks.

That’s how wars were won.

Once Confederate ciphers were busy at the Teletype key relaying false information to enemy troops, Deacon took his long overdue leave. He’d head for home, perhaps arriving before his tersely penned message to deliver the news in person.

But first he had a stop to make.

He meant to take Garnet with him.

The hows of convincing her to go weren’t important. He was quick when it came to hatching convenient lies.

But he had to get her away from the farm. It wouldn’t matter to the Union army that Davis hadn’t betrayed them. They’d only see treason and view Davis as the easiest scapegoat. And traitors and their families were treated harshly by both sides.

His anticipation grew with every mile. His desire to see Garnet, to hold her, to surround himself in her comforting care became a driving force. He’d wanted nothing else quite so much since learning of his father’s death. A strange yearning, as he wasn’t one to take his woes to another living being. Something about Garnet Davis encouraged him to bare his heart, to unburden his blackened soul. Maybe she would understand … and forgive him in time. She
knew about patriotism, about duty. She’d realize he was just doing what they called him to do.

God, he hoped so.

If she only knew what this compromise had cost him. He rode with the weight of his father’s displeasure pressing down on his shoulders, but it was a weight he would bear. For her.

His horse wheezing, his side seething with misery, Deacon crested the final hill leading down into the Davis’s valley. And there he reined in to simply stare in dismay at the smoldering ruin below.

The house, the barn, his peaceful haven … gone. A Confederate detail still sifted through the rubble, hoping to find something of value in the ashes. Deacon struggled with a wild desire to draw his rifle and to ride down upon them like a vengeful angel of death.
His angel …
Where was Garnet? The need to know enabled him to control his rage as he cantered down into the center of devastation.

One of the men spotted him and warily straightened, his rifle ready to defend against the intrusion.

“The woman who lived here, where is she?”

“Who wants to know?”

“A superior officer. Answer me!”

“There weren’t no sign of the Yankee bitch when we got here, so we went ahead with our orders.”

Relief washed over him, tempering his fury. “And what were your orders, Private?”

“We was to confiscate the property and anything of value upon it.”

Deacon looked over the smoking remains of the house and barn. Picturing the cozy fireplace, the rocking chair, the big bed where he’d found such paradise, he was sick inside at its senseless destruction.

“Who gave the order?”

“Sorry … sir. I ain’t at liberty to say.”

It didn’t really matter who gave it.
He
was behind it.
He’d
brought this plague down upon the head of the woman whose only crime was to help him, to trust him, and to love him. He’d betrayed her goodness with the ruin of all she held dear. He thought of her pride in holding this property for her father. Gone because she believed his deception.

At least she’d escaped.

That was the one good thing he held in his heart through the remaining years of war. Even as he numbed himself to the atrocities he’d condoned, to the sins he’d committed, he was one step above damnation because she was somewhere safe, and hopefully, would someday be happy. It was punishment enough to savor that sliver of contentment he’d found in her arms knowing he’d never have it back or see her again.

Until she showed up in his front hall five years later to brutally end his dreams, just as he’d once crushed hers.

William Davis was a happy man.

In his counting of blessings, he was careful to ask forgiveness for the daily ruse he played with his superiors. Using his clever daughter’s code, he’d made a niche for himself in the Union forces where he could be of service, and that ability made him a fortunate man.

A lucky man blessed with a plucky daughter whose unshakable belief in him allowed him to live out his dreams.

He was thinking of her as he made his way out to the latrines on the cold, starless night, hoping she was well, wishing he knew for sure.

“Captain Davis?”

He turned to see a figure silhouetted against the distant campfires.

“Yes. Who is it?”

“Let’s say someone who has your daughter’s best interests at heart.”

A terrible tightness seized his chest, making it difficult for him to draw his next breath. “Garnet? Have you some news of her?”

He heard a soft, sinister chuckle that had the hair prickling at his nape.

“Let’s just say from this point on, I’ll make the news you’ll hear regarding her health and safety.”

“Who are you?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is that you listen very, very carefully to what I’m going to tell you and that you believe each and every word.”

Davis was silent, his heart banging against his ribs, his breath shivering in the cold night air.

“I’d hate to have something happen to your little girl. It’s up to you to see nothing does.”

“What are you talking about? What is it you want?”

“A few days ago your daughter took in a wounded Union soldier and nursed him back to health. Only she didn’t know that he was actually a Confederate spy sent to learn your code.”

“If he hurt her—”

The threat dangled impotently as the stranger chuckled. “Oh, he didn’t hurt her. He romanced her. And she happily gave him everything he wanted. Everything, including the code.”

Davis was silent, his mind whirling with the consequence of what was being said. He could feel the other man’s smile.

“I see you understand. The only problem is, the code is useless to us without the man behind it. A little detail forgotten by my sneaky friend, but I know that sometimes
who
sends the message is just as important as what it says. I need you to send some messages for me.”

Davis gave a hoarse sound of objection. “No. I won’t.”

“I can make you, Captain. How would you like to see your precious daughter jailed for collaborating with the enemy?”

“H-how do I know this isn’t all a lie?” Even as he asked, Davis knew a sinking terror. Then he stared at the bound book the shadowed figure
extended to him. He recognized it at once, even in the poor light. It was his daughter’s diary.

“You might want to read the last few entries. Very instructive. Very incriminating. I took the liberty of removing several of the more … damning references. Imagine what I could do with them?”

Davis could imagine, and he knew at that moment there was nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice to keep his daughter safe. “What do you want?” His voice was gritty with helplessness.

“I want you to send this information. And from time to time, I’ll be back with other messages for you to code. And as long as you cooperate, your little girl will be just fine. And if you don’t, I’ll see she suffers hellfire for your indifference.”

“I’ll do it … just leave her alone.”

“I knew you’d be sensible. After all, what’s a war compared to family?”

“What kind of man are you that you could do such a thing?”

“I’m a man who’s never had the luxury of having what you have. I never had a daughter to protect, or parents who’d do anything to keep me from harm. So while I can understand your distress, I can’t sympathize with it. Don’t mistake me for a man of mercy. I have none. Now … you’ve some messages to send, don’t you? I won’t keep you from your duty any longer.”

And he was gone, just like a cloud skimming the pale moon. Leaving William Davis with the
weight of his daughter’s dreams in his hands and her fate on his conscience.

And in that unyielding darkness, the shadowy figure allowed a brief smile. By the time the fool discovered that his daughter had escaped capture, he would have already condemned himself by transmitting treasonous falsehoods to his own troops.

And the success would not go to Deacon Sinclair.

It would go to the man who was fast moving up to replace him as the best.

Chapter 8

Five years later
1866

F
or an instant, it was as if no time had passed at all.

She looked unbelievably good to him. For a moment, nothing else mattered, not the mortgage in her hand, not the husband at her side. Beneath the coiffed hair and frilly hat, behind the frosty smile, above the gaudy elegance of her gown, were the dark, soulful eyes that had once begged for his love.

But it was too late.

He knew it as he watched the light of longing extinguish in those eyes.

Tyler Fairfax laughed as he looked between the two of them. “I jus’ love happy reunions. I thought you’d appreciate knowing the place was passing into the hands of someone who wasn’t a stranger.”