The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (12 page)

And because of the innocent life that hung in the balance between them.

Her heart had nearly stopped beating when she’d first seen Deacon again. Her every memory
sharpened, her every sense cried out. And for a brief instant, when he’d met her gaze, she thought she’d seen a hungry longing clouding his gray-eyed stare. She’d almost given it all away right then and there … except for a little boy playing out in the yard. She had to put him before all else. He was the reason she’d come to find this man who’d deceived and betrayed her.

Was
this
the real Deacon, so cold, so distant and contained? Was this the same man who’d rocked her in his arms and made love to her so sweetly? The one who’d made her want to believe so desperately that all had not been a lie? She saw no evidence of that man here before her. True, he was shocked and angered by the way she’d come back into his life, but it was more than that.

If the man who’d come to her door five years ago was tough, this one was cut from stone. All emotions that would have softened the edges of his facade—qualities of understanding, forgiveness, regret, or even guilt—were absent. If she’d been drawn to the glimpses of tenderness he’d shown her, she’d no proof that those feelings existed any more. If they ever had at all.

Had it all been pretense? Could any man be so good at spinning lies? Or had she just been too young, too gullible, to know the difference?

That’s what she’d come to discover. And what she’d seen so far was more intimidating than encouraging.

How was she going to get to know the true
man behind the granite bearing and impenetrable stare? Her future depended upon it—hers and William’s.

She could afford this man no mercy. She knew she was being heartless, and she hated herself for it. But she needed him to see that she wasn’t some simple country girl who could be manipulated by a kiss … at least, not anymore. What could he accuse her of that could be worse than what he’d laid upon her?

If he expected her to show any sympathy for what he suffered now, he was mistaken. The past few years had wrung the naïveté from her. The memory of her father wrung all charity from her. Her father, who had never intentionally harmed a soul. Her father who had died an agonizing death in a prison run by those to whom he’d remained unwaveringly loyal.

And Deacon Sinclair had put him there to suffer for what he hadn’t done, and to die for it.

But, oh, Deacon was nice to look at. And oh, how easy it would be to let go of the desires yet simmering beneath the surface. But one thing she’d been taught since he’d left her, other than what a terrible price trust could exact, was control—control of her actions, control of her thinking, control of her life. Seeing him, however, proved there was no controlling her heart.

If she couldn’t control it, she would have to contain it. Just as he contained whatever else moved behind the lean, hard lines of his expressionless face. He’d taught her a degree of toughness
she’d never attained on her own. Heartbreak and disillusionment shored up her resolve. So she would be careful. She would betray nothing of her true intent. And she would learn what she’d come to Pride County to discover.

The kind of man Deacon Sinclair really was.

“Mama, whose child is that on the porch?”

They all turned as Patrice Sinclair Garrett lumbered into the room. Despite the chill outside, she was flushed becomingly and slightly breathless. And huge with child. Seeing the company, she drew up short in surprise, then embarrassment.

“Please, excuse me. I didn’t know you were entertaining.” Her hands went to her burgeoning middle as if she could hide her pregnancy behind the spread of her palms. She knew how sensitive her mother was to her displaying her “delicate” condition in public. An annoyance to Patrice who felt as healthy as one of her husband’s brood mares and just about as delicate.

“They’re not company, Patrice. They’re the new owners of the Manor.”

Her animation faded. She glanced to her brother, seeking some reason for the odd tension in his tone that went far beyond the sentiments he’d expressed thus far. But Deacon was closed down tight, his posture rigidly correct, his features shuttered. At his sides, his hands fisted, his knuckles shifting restlessly. Perplexed, she focused on the interlopers who were there to steal their home.

“Forgive me if I don’t say ‘Welcome’ under the circumstances.”

“Patrice,” Hannah scolded, mortified by her children’s sudden lapse of manners.

“So, you’re Patrice.” The dark-haired woman advanced with hand extended. Patrice took it gingerly as she studied the other through a critical eye.

What she saw was a voluptuously shaped creature with boldly sensual lips, snapping black eyes, and enviably flawless skin. And money. That was obvious from her Paris clothes. But money and lineage were two different things. One could possess money these days without any claim to pedigree. She guessed this was the case with the woman before her, not because of anything she didn’t do—she was elegant and genteel—but a little too eager to convey the bored sophistication of a true Southern aristocrat. Who was she, then? Northern carpetbagger trash? If that was so, why couldn’t her brother take his eyes off her? Deacon Sinclair wasn’t one to stare at a woman just because she displayed more curves than the hourglass-shaped vase in their foyer.

“Should I know you?” Patrice asked, puzzled by the woman’s familiarity with her.

“No, of course not.” She pressed Patrice’s hand firmly, then smiled. “You’ve no reason ever to have heard of me. I’m Garnet Prior. My husband and I will be your new neighbors. The child outside is ours. His name is William. And when is yours due?”

Patrice raised a russet-colored brow at the directness of the question. She could imagine her mother’s gasp of horror. So she smiled. “In about a month.”

“And you’re up and about?” Her dark gaze said clearly, “Good for you,” and reluctantly, Patrice liked her for her unconventional stand. “Perhaps you should sit down and rest a moment.”

“I feel fine, just big. I’m not here for a visit. That will have to wait for another time.” Her mood cooled. “My husband and I have come to collect my mother and her belongings.”

“Then you might as well visit, because she’s staying here.”

While Patrice stood in confusion, Deacon explained the situation stoically.

“Mother and I will be remaining on in the generous employ of the Priors.”

Reeve Garrett strode in, coming to place supporting palms beneath his wife’s elbows. Having heard that last, he remarked, “A decent day’s work won’t harm you, Deacon … you arrogant bastard.” That last was added for his wife’s hearing alone. Her elbow jabbed back, making him suck air before continuing. “So all the trunks in the hall get toted back upstairs, then.”

“I can show you where they go,” Hannah offered, anxious to escape the room to gain some perspective on what she now suspected.

“Lead the way, Miz Hannah.” He touched a kiss to Patrice’s temple. “Are you all right, ‘Trice?”

“Quit asking. I’m fine. I’m not about to have this baby in the middle of my brother’s parlor.” Then her attention shifted to the invading couple. “Or should I say, the Priors’ parlor.”

Garnet betrayed nothing, an equal for Deacon in keeping an impassive front. “As long as you’re going up, perhaps you can show us where our rooms will be. I’d like to freshen up a bit.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Prior.” Hannah gestured toward the stairs. “Follow me.”

Once alone in the parlor with her brother, Patrice dropped all vestiges of what was proper to demand. “She’s the one, isn’t she?”

He never so much as blinked. “The one, what?”

Damn him for his secrets and his bland lies. He wasn’t going to slip the truth so easily this time. “The woman you were in love with.”

He recoiled as if she’d slapped him. No denial he could speak would outweigh the brief flickerings of pain and loss crossing his expression. At the first sign of his distress, Patrice forgot her annoyance and went to him, hugging him tight, even though she knew he’d hate the show of overt affection. Surprisingly, he didn’t shrink from contact. In fact, he laid his head atop hers for the duration of an unsteady breath. Then he moved away.

“Don’t, Patrice. Don’t interfere.”

It wasn’t a warning as much as it was a request. That in itself startled her enough to warrant worry. “Deacon, who is she?”

“Penance for past sins. Please, Patrice, leave it alone.”

She touched his taut cheek with her fingertips. “Can you? Can you leave it alone?”

He turned away from her gentle gesture and from her look of empathy. “There’s not much I can do. I made my choices five years ago. Now, I have to find a way to sleep with them at night.”

While the only woman he’d ever wanted was living under his roof … sleeping with another man, as his wife.

The room was heavily masculine: dark draperies, dark wood, dark paper on the walls. And Garnet could feel Deacon’s presence like a physical force. Its austerity suited the somber man she’d met downstairs: repressed, closed up tight, and steeped in isolating dignity. In a defiant move, she jerked open the curtains so sunlight could flood inside, spilling across the bare floor and over the textured counterpane.

Deacon’s bed. Her hand caressed the smooth wood, then followed along the length of the mattress to where he would have lain his head at night. To where he would have laid a bride to conceive his lawful children. A covetous ache built within her breast. Oh, to have been that woman.

“Garnet?”

She pulled her hand back and just as quickly, reined in her imaginings to give Montgomery Prior a strained smile. “Well, we’re here.”

“Yes, lovey, we are. Is it all that you’d hoped for?”

Her smile took a bittersweet bend. “I’m not sure yet.”

“He’s a hard piece of work, your Deacon Sinclair. He doesn’t strike me as a man who surrenders easily.”

“I think he’s just beginning to realize that.”

“The look on his face must have given your dear father some sense of satisfaction.”

That glaze of recognition when he’d realized just who it was who’d snatched away his destiny … her conscience quavered, but she ignored it to say, “I’m sure it did.”

But it hadn’t given her the satisfaction she’d desired. She’d wanted to feel a fierce vindication, a sense of justice done—for herself and for her father. She’d wanted to take pleasure in Deacon Sinclair’s dismay and anticipate the downfall of his pride. She’d expected face-to-face proof of his misery to lessen her own.

But none of that had happened. The confrontation lacked the drama she’d imagined. Deacon had betrayed nothing. How could she revel in the evidence of his distress when he’d shown none? And how could she find any gratification in causing a gracious woman pain? She’d lost her own home. She couldn’t take enjoyment in stripping Hannah Sinclair of hers when her only crime was bearing a son of indifferent morals.

No, the moment hadn’t brought her the release she’d desired. In fact, seeing Deacon
again only confirmed her worst fear—she was still in love with him.

And that made her furious.

“If Deacon Sinclair thinks I’m through with him, that’s another mistake on his part. I want him to squirm. I want him to feel all the indignity and wretchedness my father must have felt while unfairly imprisoned.” Her expression hardened, causing the mild Montgomery to frown in alarm. “I want to rip the pride from him and see him choke on regret.” Then she looked to the older man in question. “Is that too much to hope for, after all he’s done to me?”

Montgomery embraced her with a fond indulgence. “No, child, not at all. I’ll help you see he gets everything he deserves. And then some.”

Chapter 9

H
er father had died in a Union prison
.

Deacon took in the facts like hard-packed soil slowly soaking up rainwater. Only these truths didn’t quench his thirst for absolution. They brought a further parching to his soul.

He’d never tried to find out what had happened to William Davis. Why not? He wondered that now as he stood working his way through a bottle of bourbon even as unwelcome strangers settled into the room that had been his, and his parents’ before him. If his feelings for Garnet had been genuine, wouldn’t he have wanted to discover the fate of her only living relative? Wouldn’t he have done what he could to see the man freed once he’d served his purpose? A good man would have seen it as his responsibility. A decent man would have made it a priority. But what had he done? He’d looked down upon those dead ashes where he’d found such fleeting happiness and he’d deliberately extinguished all further thought of Garnet Davis.

Or he’d tried.

He’d ridden back to camp without ever going to see his family. He’d thrown himself back into the field, taking the first available assignment.

A decent man wouldn’t have slept nights.

He slept fine. It was the waking hours that tormented him.

He looked forward to the nights because they brought him dreams of Garnet. But when he was awake, reality soured the serenity of those dreams. In the daylight, his conscience was stalked by the deeds he’d done.

William Davis was just another ghost.

She’d lost her father. His own actions had taken the man from her.

How would she ever forgive him for such a thing—if forgiveness was something he could ever hope to attain?

He was tipping up the bottom of his third glass, trying not to think of the couple settling into his bedroom, when his gaze happened upon the little boy and the gigantic dog racing about the side yard. He tracked the boy without being aware of it, watching the long, spindly legs pumping determinedly to keep up with the galloping hound. He wasn’t aware of the smile shaping his lips.

Garnet’s son.

Garnet and Montgomery Prior’s son, he corrected. But that truth couldn’t quite erase the poignant emotions curling about his heart.

Had he made different choices, he could have
fathered that boy. He could be settling down in that room upstairs with Garnet as his bride.

What were the chances that he’d ever watch his own child play? An heir … an heir to what? Running a sharecroppers’ store for a pittance wouldn’t make him the catch of Pride County. Where he’d been slow in picking a bride before, now there wasn’t a prayer that one would have him. Not that he cared for the lack of companionship … just the lack of tender feeling swelling inside as he watched another man’s son.