The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (6 page)

He’d accomplished what he’d meant to. There was no need to pursue his point so fervently that both of them let the moment get the better of their judgment.

She trembled against him as he traced his mouth from the willing part of hers down the tempting curve of her throat. He could feel her confusion, her frustration, in her rapid swallowing, and his own in his unwillingness to lean away. Instead, he pillowed his head upon her shoulder and let a heavy sigh express the depth of his exhaustion.

“I’m sorry. That was a little more than thank you.”

Now he would discover if he’d pushed too far, too fast. He waited for her reply, then shut his eyes in relief as her fingers combed lightly through his hair. He was forgiven. Again.

“Rest now,” she told him, with a calm she was far from feeling. She stood unsteadily and helped him lie back upon the mattress. Her own emotions winced at his involuntary gasp. Quickly, she brought his feet up on the bed, then waited anxiously for his fingers to unclench from the sheets.

She knew she should leave him then, should return to the other room, where she’d find no relief from the torment of memories.

As if understanding her reluctance to face her deed, Deacon caught her hand and drew her slowly, with a nonthreatening strength, down to the mattress beside him. As his arm formed a protective curl about her, he closed his eyes in search of needed sleep.

Garnet lay unmoving. Maidenly shock wasn’t quite strong enough to overcome the appeal his closeness had upon her strained senses. She
found comfort and compassion in his offer, not compromise. True, he’d kissed her with a shattering familiarity, but he’d stopped before taking any real advantage and he’d apologized for those brief liberties. She could have protested at any time … but hadn’t.

And her sensibilities didn’t protest now.

After levering out of her boots and pulling the covers up over them, Garnet placated her chafing morals by rolling away from him, as if the denying line of her back and backside presented an insurmountable barrier to any wrongdoings. But she continued to hug to the arm he’d wrapped about her, her fingers clutching to his for the sense of safety it gave her. And surprisingly, she slept, demons at bay on the night that she’d experienced two things that forever changed her life.

She’d killed one man and kissed another.

If Garnet had gone to sleep blissfully surrounded by the sense of security, she awoke to the shock of encompassing sin. Darkness blanketed the room, but she didn’t need light to get a clear picture of her situation.

She was tangled with Deacon Sinclair under her bed covers.

Sometime during the night, she’d pressed herself close to the nearly naked sergeant. Her head was cozily cradled in the lea of his shoulder, where his soft breaths stirred her hair. Though she was fully clothed, she met the long line of
him inch for inch, her breasts cushioned against his ribs, her knee casually riding his thigh, her toes brushing along the calf of his leg.

The contact reinforced her awareness of him as a man, hard where she was soft, lean where she was rounded, furred where she was smooth. Those differences excited in ways both foreign and frightening. Frightening because she had no desire to correct the impropriety by easing away from him.

Her arms lay in a circle about his shoulders. The back of his head rested in her palms. Instead of releasing him as modesty dictated, she tightened that loop possessively.

And she wondered what she would have to do to wake up entwined with this man for the rest of her days. And nights.

She wasn’t ignorant enough to think that a simple kiss would do it. Though no small matter for her, she was certain he’d kissed his share of women without ever thinking of marriage. What could she offer that would make him want to return after this conflict was over? She’d saved his life by his own admission. Would that provide bonds strong enough to hold him, or would her sacrifices be forgotten the minute he rode out of her yard?

All she knew at this moment they fit together, was how quickly he’d filled all the empty corners of her existence. What she didn’t know about his life in details, she’d learned by example. He’d shown her fearlessness when she’d
been desperate and tenderness when she’d been needy. And his kiss … his kiss had shown her the dormant power of her own desires. How could she ever quiet what he’d awakened in her? How could she be satisfied with solitude when she’d known the completing warmth of his body lying next to hers?

How was she ever going to let him ride away and out of her life?

“What’s wrong?”

The low caress of his voice startled her from her anxious thoughts but not from their purpose.

“Just thinking.”

“Bad dreams?” His hand fell upon the back of her neck to begin a light massage. At his touch, her bones went to butter.

“No, not bad dreams.”

“Then what?”

She took a small breath and forged ahead. “Just thinking how nice it is not to be alone.”

He was motionless for a long moment and she feared she said too much. Then his cheek rubbed the top of her head.

“It is nice. I’ve been alone for a long time, too.”

Was that an encouragement, or a simple statement of fact? She didn’t know. Cursing her naïveté, she proceeded with care. “This should feel all wrong, but it doesn’t.”

She felt his nod. “It feels comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” She rose up, frowning slightly. “Comfortable like with a sister?”

She could just make out the slightly crooked
smile that shaped his mouth in the dimness. “No. Not like with my sister.”

“Oh.” Mollified, she snuggled back against him, then ventured, “Like a friend?”

The kneading movement of his hand stilled. “I don’t usually kiss my friends.”

“Oh.”

Not sister, not friend. What did that leave, if not lovers? A chill of anticipation swept her, making her burrow in closer to his heat.

What would that mean, lovers? She was thinking soul mates, of complementing partners in life, of courtship upon the promise of his return. What was he thinking? She wished she dared question him.

Instead she asked, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“How old are you?”

Not exactly the reply she wanted. “How old are
you?
”

“Old beyond my years. Positively ancient. Too old for a young girl like you.”

“I’m not all
that
young.”

A chuckle vibrated beneath her cheek. The sound was husky and intimate, and she went weak inside.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I don’t think you’re pretty.”

As she swallowed down that disappointment, he added, “I think you’re beautiful. And brave. And too desirable for us to be having this conversation. Go back to sleep.”

Sleep? How could she sleep now? Beautiful,
brave … and desirable! She couldn’t stop, now that she’d gone this far. Concealing darkness gave her the courage to continue.

“Have you ever been in love?”

He was silent for a long moment, then said, “I thought so, once, but that was many years ago. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve never had anyone else to ask. Do you mind?” she added shyly.

“I guess not.”

Encouraged, Garnet smiled dreamily. “It must have been very wonderful.”

“As I recall, a tooth extraction would have been less painful.”

Hearing the hurt covered quickly by his quiet laughter, she pressed, “Did she break your heart?”

“No … yes … I don’t know. I was young. Younger than you are now. I should have known better than to start something I couldn’t finish. It was my fault if we both got hurt.”

How romantic it sounded, the way he drew a slow breath and let it out upon a sigh.

“What happened?”

“She was beneath my station. My family didn’t approve. I had to give her up.”

“Did they force you to?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

But it did. From the tone of his voice, it mattered very much.

“What was her name?”

“Jassy.”

“Was she a neighbor?”

“No. She worked for my family. As I said, it was a long time ago.”

And best forgotten, his tone intimated. She obeyed his wish for once, lying quietly within the curve of his arm while mulling over his words and what they didn’t say. Finally, he asked, “And you? Have you some handsome beau picked out?”

She almost swallowed her tongue. If he only knew …

After a moment to cool her agitation, she said, “No one yet. But then, as you pointed out, I’m still a child, and not so very old as you.”

He chuckled, then winced at the pain it caused him. She could feel his smile against her hair. She would have liked very much to see it, for she guessed he didn’t smile often. She wondered if the loss of his young love had cast his life in a somber shape. At that moment, she wished ardently that she was clever enough or woman enough to fill that void in him. But being neither, she stayed silent, feeling his melancholy and aching for those long-ago lovers.

But if that first love had not been fated to fail, he wouldn’t be here in her arms.

If only there was a way to keep him from leaving them.

Garnet woke to find the warmth she’d snuggled up to belonged to a large snoring dog.

The room showed no sign that Deacon Sinclair had ever been there. For one brief moment, she wondered if last night had been some cruel sort of dream.

Then the unmistakable scent of coffee reached her.

Poor exhausted Boone never so much as twitched when she slipped out of bed and quickly changed her clothes. As she hitched a belt up to secure the baggy trousers about her waist, a sense of wistfulness overcame her.

How long had it been since she’d owned a new dress? How long since she’d felt the feminine sway of lacy petticoats? How could she get Deacon to see her as a woman if she didn’t even look like one? She touched a hand to her home-cropped hair, feeling the thick curl of it at the nape of her neck. What would it be like to have the heavy weight of long tresses pinned up in a sophisticated knot instead of in this loose boyish tangle?

Then would Deacon see her as a woman and not a girl?

There was no help for her lack of wardrobe or length of hair, so she would have to make the best of it.

She pushed aside the curtain and was greeted by the inviting picture of Deacon Sinclair at her stove, scrambling something delicious-smelling in her skillet. She paused for a moment to simply absorb the sight. Unfortunately, he noticed
her almost immediately. He smiled in welcome, waving a fork toward the table preset for two.

“Good morning. I made myself useful. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You’ve been busy.” Her gaze touched on the snowy prints by the door.

“I thought you could use the sleep.”

“Not so much as you,” she protested, both liking and disturbed by the idea of him taking over her daily chores.

“I’m feeling much better, thanks to you, and I’m hungry. I figured you wouldn’t mind sharing the food so much if I prepared it.”

“I wouldn’t have minded at all.”

He grinned at her prickly answer and the gesture made him so heart-stoppingly handsome, she hurt inside just looking at him. This was a man she could lose herself to every morning of her life.

“Sit. This is almost ready. How do you like your coffee?”

“With sugar.” She took the seat, somewhat dazed by the service and the server. He presented her with a steamy cup of hearty brew and a plate of questionable ingredients.

Noting her arched brow, he told her, “It’s mostly eggs and anything else I could find that was edible. Don’t worry. It won’t poison you.”

“I wasn’t worried.” She met his gaze for a long beat, then said, “You clean up nicely.”

He touched the fresh-boiled shirt and looked
sheepish. “I hope you don’t mind. I borrowed this from your father.”

“And his razor, too, I see.”

He put fingertips to his smooth cheek. “I should have waited to ask.”

“The improvement outweighs the impropriety,” she told him with a smile. “Join me.”

For the simple pleasure of having another at the table, she would have forgiven him anything. The thought of him going through her father’s clothes cupboard and plying his straight edge were the least of her concerns. It was the fact of his apparent recovery that had her close to weeping. She could see in the way he moved that he would be gone much sooner than she’d hoped.

“You said your father was with the Union telegraphers. Was that his profession before the war?”

Glad for the casual conversation to distract her from the way her heart pounded so painfully, Garnet said, “No, he’s a farmer.”

“I wondered … seeing as how you’re so far from any town.” He took a sip of coffee, his features relaxed, his gaze upon hers in genuine interest.

Flattered to have him show curiosity about her life, she answered freely. “My father wanted to do something for the Union cause. Unfortunately, his poor eyesight and breathing troubles made him a poor candidate for the field. It broke
his heart to think they couldn’t use him in some capacity.”

“Providing food for the troops is a noteworthy contribution.”

Garnet smiled gratefully but shook her head. “That wasn’t enough for him. You see, he was born in this valley, in this house. He wanted to make his mark on the outside of these hills.” Her wistful tone said she envied him that opportunity.

“So, how does a farmer become a telegraph operator?”

Garnet blushed slightly and focused on her plate. “Well, actually, it was my doing. I could see how much he wanted to give, but no one wanted what he had to offer. So I found something that they would want.” She glanced up to catch his encouraging half smile.

“And what was that?”

“I’ve always been good with numbers. There were no schools nearby, so my mother taught me to read and write and cipher. She said it was a natural gift, the way I took to mathematics. I’d been reading about the use of coded messages in the field, so one evening, I came up with my own series of coded dots and dashes for him to take to the federal command.”

He stared at her for a long moment without blinking. “You invented a code.”