The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (7 page)

“I adapted it from what had already been in use. The Union officers were impressed enough
to bring my father into the telegraph corps. We’d made a deal, you see, I’d give him the code and he’d let me stay here to keep the farm going.”

“Very clever of you.”

She wasn’t sure the soft spoken statement was a compliment. The warm admiration was gone from his slate-colored stare. In its place was the steely intensity, as unreadable as it was unbending. Was he censuring her for bargaining with her father to get what she wanted? Color climbed into her cheeks when she considered how calculating it must have sounded.

“This is my family’s farm, Sergeant. It’s all we have to pass from generation to generation. Just this land and what sits upon it. If I’d followed my father’s edicts and had gone docilely to some big city where I would be safe and cared for as befitting my female gender, how long do you think this place would stand? What do you think the chances would be that there would be anything for us to come home to?”

“I wasn’t being critical of the choices you made, Garnet. I admire you for them.”

It was the way he said her name as much as the content of his phrase that fired her blood like heat lightning. “Oh.”

“I was marveling that a girl—a
woman
—like you could best the best of Confederate intelligence with a code they’ve found to be unbreakable.”

Her awkward blush returned along with a
fluttering heartbeat. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

He made the sign of an X over his heart.

“Oh, I’m sure someone will figure out the combinations sooner or later, but until they do, my father is the unit’s darling and I’ve given him his chance to live a dream.”

“Show me.”

“What?”

Deacon reached out to slip his hand over the top of hers. His thumb stroked along its sensitive valley in devastating circles. As he held her gaze transfixed within the smoky mystery of his own, he gave a small, coaxing smile that set her budding passions ablaze.

“Show me how you did it,” he urged silkily. “Teach me your code.”

Chapter 5

S
he studied him for so long and so hard, Deacon panicked. She suspected. She might not have known for sure, but she intuited that something was wrong about his interest.

He shouldn’t have searched through her father’s belongings under the guise of finding clean clothes. Perhaps that alerted her. But the opportunity presented itself, too choice to ignore. And now all his plans teetered near ruin.

“Is something wrong?” His voice betrayed nothing of his inner alarm.

Garnet hesitated, then gave a funny little laugh. “It’s just that I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about it.”

He nearly sagged in relief. Embarrassment. That was what had her acting so strangely. She was embarrassed about not being able to tell him. Smiling easily, he pressed her hand.

“I understand. It’s a government secret, after all. You can’t give that information to just anyone.” He emphasized “anyone” ever so slightly,
then began to withdraw his hand. Hers seized up around it. Slowly she turned his palm up and used her forefinger to tap out a series of stops and starts. His pulse beats were equally irregular.

“What did you say?”

Her smile was pure feminine mystery. “I can teach you. It’s a simple mathematical progression.”

“I don’t want you to get in any trouble.”

She shrugged. “Even if you knew the code, the secret’s safe. Only my father can use it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Those he contacts recognize his ‘fist,’ his manner of keying. It’s as individual as a signature. It’s a way to protect his value to the Union cipher corps.”

He smiled and again vowed, “Very clever.”

Her features brightened. “So I guess it couldn’t hurt to teach you.”

His smile widened. “I guess not.”

So he listened, and he learned, and soon he had all the information he’d been sent to discover, told to him with a sweet naïveté by a girl who trusted strangers. All he had to do was take what he knew back to the Confederate line.

But leaving was no simple matter.

He told himself it was a slight recurrence of his fever that forced him to seek a few hours’ rest. His head did ache. Not a fit of conscience. No, it was far too late in his life for him to experience a pause of reluctance. He’d done far
worse things than tarnish the illusions of one lonely girl—far worse. So why couldn’t he think of any instances that made him writhe quite so uncomfortably as this one?

As he lay in the darkened room, on sheets redolent with her herbal scent, listening to the soul-plucking sounds of her harp, he asked himself one question.

When had he become such a loathsome creature?

He could argue that the job demanded it. That the times commanded it of him. But he knew the truth. The truth was, there remained no scrap of decency in his soul, no sense of remorse. That’s what made him the perfect spy. No action was too abhorrent, no consequence too dire. The problems of others were not his, and he didn’t trouble himself over them. One had to look above and beyond the miserable coil of life if one was to be successful. Hadn’t he learned that at an early age? And he was always successful. Always.

So why did he feel so empty? Why could no action, no accomplishment, fill him up?

Why did the sum of all his victories fall so painfully shy of the satisfaction he found in one country girl’s admiring smile?

He was tired. That was all.

After he turned in his report, he would go home for a while to refresh his spirit and renew his dedication. Viewing the vast fields at Sinclair Manor never failed to instill him with pride and
purpose. Then he would forget this one brave girl whose life he would inexorably change under the guise of duty.

But not today.

Today he wallowed in the murky swamp of ethics that made him question the right and wrongs of what should not be questioned.

And the sooner he left, the better off he’d be.

There was no mistaking the anguish in her gaze when he emerged from the bedroom in full uniform. She knew good-bye was coming, and the pain of it shone with guileless brilliance in her beautiful dark eyes. There was nothing he could do about that. He owed her nothing but his thanks—for the hospitality, for the selfless care, for the secrets she’d sworn not to tell another soul.

“I’ll pack you some food for your journey home.”

That was all she said. Her simple acceptance of the situation upset his balance more than any feminine plea could have. She didn’t have to say it. She was sorry to see him go.

And the hell of it was, he was sorry to be leaving.

“You don’t—”

Her smile disarmed him. “It’s no trouble.”

So he stood there in the cozy room, watching her in her ridiculous men’s clothing, preparing him a repast when soon she would be cursing his very existence. From under the table, Boone
regarded him with wary hostility. The dog knew better than the master that he was not what he seemed. Perhaps it could smell a rotten core.

Garnet brought him a carefully wrapped parcel, offered with a frozen smile. She wasn’t as successful at keeping the emotions from her uplifted gaze. Unshed tears shimmered there, and he was the cause.

“This should see you for a couple of days.” Her words fractured slightly. She hid the failing of her voice with a pretended cough.

Deacon took the generous gift. “You’ve been more than kind, considering the inconvenience I’ve caused you.”

“The excitement, you mean.” Her small smile sent another spear to prick his conscience. “You certainly managed to shake up my daily routine, Sergeant.”

He wanted to correct her, to have her call him by his given name, but it was better that she didn’t. Better that she remind him of the pretense and his reason for being here in her cheery home. It wasn’t to get personal with her.

“Before I go, I’ll help you bury those two men. It’s the least I can I do,” he concluded quietly.

Her reluctance was clear, but she nodded. “Yes, that’s probably a good idea. I’ll get the shovels.”

So they dug into the hard soil a distance from the house while Boone sniffed happily about the trees. When one large hole was ready to receive the morbid evidence of what they’d done, they
hauled the stiffened bodies out of the storage cellar, leaving twin trails through the snow. They were dumped unceremoniously one next to the other.

“Should we say something over them?”

“I say good riddance.”

He regretted the wry sentiment the instant he saw her expression. His callousness horrified her. She didn’t deserve the additional distress.

“Whatever you feel would be appropriate,” he amended.

With her eyes actually tearing over the fate of the two vermin, Garnet murmured, “Lord, accept these unfortunate souls into Your forgiving embrace. We cannot commend them for any of their good qualities, having known them only as thieves, but I’m sure You are aware of them, whatever they might be. Forgive us for sending them into Your care. Amen.”

“Amen,” he echoed half-heartedly.

Would she speak as charitably at his own graveside, he wondered, casting the first spadeful of dirt atop the deceased. He winced as pain jumped in his side but continued to backfill the hole with steady repetitions. Once the villains were covered, he hoped Garnet could forget they’d ever shadowed her idyllic valley. As if sins of the past could be so easily buried.

Despite the chill, he was soon running with sweat and favoring his injured ribs. He didn’t look over at Garnet for fear that she’d read the discomfort in his eyes and force him to quit
before the unpleasant job was done. He refused to quit on her in this one thing.

But it was something altogether different that made him pause in his laboring. An odd sound. A wheezy rattle.

Garnet had bent over double, clutching at her knees. Her lovely face was flushed and running wet as she struggled to catch her breath. She did not struggle as if tuckered out by effort, but actually fought to fill her lungs with any degree of relief.

“Garnet?”

She glanced up.

One look at her fear-rounded gaze and he let the shovel drop. His hands slipped beneath her elbows for support. Up close, the sounds were worse. Panic knifed through him. Was she suffocating? Choking?

She clutched at his forearms, fighting to say the words. “Must get inside. The cold. Can’t breathe.”

He didn’t wait to hear more. He scooped her up and jogged toward the house, alarming Boone into following on his heels, barking frantically. He found it easy to ignore the agony in his side because the sudden shock to his heart was ten times worse.

The attack was a bad one. If she hadn’t been so distracted by the pain of Deacon leaving, she would have felt the symptoms coming on.

She hadn’t had one of her spells for several
years, but there was no mistaking the way it gripped her chest with crushing savagery. The more she battled for breath, the tighter the constriction grew. Helpless and immobilized, she never would have made it back to the house if not for Deacon’s quick action. He whisked her back into the cabin’s warmth, where he heeded her objection to the bedroom over an upright position in a rocker. After tearing off her damp overcoat, he knelt before her.

He looks terrified
.

The observation bemused her. He hadn’t displayed a flicker of dismay when fighting against Cale for his life, nor when he’d pressed a burning brand into his own flesh. But her distress scared him. She put a calming hand to his cheek, letting her fingertips trail down his neck to rest upon his shoulder.

“It’s not as bad as it seems,” she wheezed, speaking the lie to reassure him. Fear almost at once muted to concern.

“What is it? Do you know? Has this happened before?”

At her jerky nod, he became a man of purpose.

“Tell me what I can do to help you.”

She fought to bring out the words. “Steam helps.”

He was up and gone. She heard pots banging and the splash of water. Then he was back, crouching down to open the first few buttons of her shirt, then blotting her face and neck dry. His touch was gentle, his manner comforting in
its control. When he said, “You’ll be all right,” she believed without question.

Even Boone seemed convinced of his sincerity, for the pup lay beside the chair soundlessly.

When the kettle he’d put on to boil reached a roiling intensity, Deacon carried her carefully to a high stool angled in front of the stove. While he held her in the curl of one arm, she leaned forward into the hot, wet steam, getting as close as she could stand. He draped a towel over her head to capture and contain the moist air so it could work its magic against the swelling in her throat and lungs. And for the next hour, Deacon held her in an easy circle, massaging her back and shoulders, soothing her panic with his wordless encouragement.

Gradually, relief came.

She knew the crisis had passed when the first cough spasmed through her. With each violent seizure, more saving air was allowed to pass. Deacon carried her back to the rocking chair. She looked like a drowned kitten; the steam plastered her hair to her head in wet strings. Her shoulders convulsed with the force of each harsh, yet productive cough.

She glanced up wearily when he held a cup to her lips.

“Drink,” he ordered. “It will ease your throat.”

She drank, tasting honey and a sear of her father’s celebration whiskey, which was only taken out for a sip or two on holidays or occasions. She guessed this qualified. Then she made
no protest as he slipped off her heavy woolen shirt, now dampened and clinging unpleasantly to her skin, and restored her to his lap. As the coughing spells dwindled down to raspy sputters, he rocked her slowly, letting her sag upon his chest until the attack was at an end. She barely noticed when he moved into the bedroom to lay her down upon the sheet they’d shared that past evening. All she knew was that when he straightened away from her, she wanted to share that same comfortable closeness again.

“Don’t go.”

Her voice rasped like sand on a wood floor, the plea so soft, her look so vulnerable, Deacon could deny her nothing. First, he removed her wet boots, then his own, followed by his ruined Yankee uniform jacket and pistol belt. Then he eased down gingerly and stretched out beside her, opening his arm wide to invite her up against him. The fit of her along his form seemed so familiar, so right, he would have been disturbed by it if he’d not been so drained by worry and fatigue. His own wound ached as if ravenous teeth chomped down on his ribs. The only thing making it bearable was Garnet, who even now was dead to the world in slumber.