The Outsider (22 page)
That’s what a small town family did for its members.
Were they beginning to accept him as one?
Cautious yet optimistic about the state of his business and his marriage, he worked his way over to the teller’s cage where Starla was counting out the day’s deposits. A tidy stack.
“A good day’s work,” she commented, the pride in her tone soothing him like a caress.
“Must be they like seeing your pretty face there better than mine.”
She smiled at him and his heart was gone.
“We’d better put that in the vault. Wouldn’t do for mice to eat up our profits.”
While Starla banded the currency, she noted the way he was rubbing at the small of his back as lines of tension creased his brow.
“I’ll put it away for you,” she offered.
He heard nothing beyond her kindness. He saw nothing beyond her want to help. And he gave her the combination without a second thought.
As she dialed the lock on the great steel vault and slipped the deposits inside, her gaze did a quick inventory and her mind carefully filed away the sequence of numbers in the combination.
Should she ever need it.
An invitation to dinner at the Sinclair Manor was a welcome break. Eager to dress up and go calling, Starla raced about like a summer storm, all hurricane force and drama. Dodge watched in amused tolerance as she discarded a fourth gown with a petulant kick.
“It’s just Reeve and Patrice, her stuffy brother, and her mother,” he reminded her.
She had no patience with his practicality. “I want to look nice. Where’s the harm in that?”
“You always look spectacular, Star. Wear the bright pink. It makes you dazzle.”
She held up the magenta silk with its overlays of sheer pink lace before her image in the mirror. The neckline was a trifle daring for a less than formal dinner, but he was right about the color. Its vivid hue rouged her skin and made her eyes spark like emerald chips. And the snug-fitting bodice with its plunging waistline would make the most of her trim figure, while she still had it.
She disappeared for a moment beneath a brilliant pink waterfall, emerging flushed and mussed as she turned her back to Dodge.
A bit flustered by the domestic intimacy of her request, Dodge leaned on his crutches, freeing his hands to work up the small fastenings at the back of her dress. The hooks and buttons were devilishly tiny, but harder than making them behave was keeping his thoughts in line as the warmth of her skin heated his knuckles.
“All done.” He hoped she didn’t notice how oddly breathless he sounded.
Starla tugged at the bodice, fluffed the off-the-shoulder lace, then glanced into the mirror only to be startled by the sight of them together.
Dodge stood behind her, his clean-shaven face pleasantly handsome, his broad-shouldered build framing her own petite form with support. He smiled when their gazes met in the glass and wondered why she’d thought him only average looking. There was an attractive aura of power about her husband—of confidence steeped in his dark eyes, of compassion softening the curve of his lips. She saw a depth to him that went beyond the surface prettiness of many of the men she’d known and admired. And that strength of will and determined purpose stirred a sudden and quite unexpected flurry of response within her, making her press her palm to her middle to still the quivering.
Noting the movement, Dodge wrapped his arms about her, one big hand covering hers, the other resting warm and easy against the curve of her waist. His expression arrested her with its tender anticipation.
“Is it the baby?”
“No, it’s too early for that. Just nerves, I think.”
She didn’t move or push away his hand; she was feeling a surrounding sense of contentment edged with a shiver of longing.
I love you, Starla
.
If only that were true. If only she could believe those sentiments would never change. She’d hungered for the taste of love all her life yet feared if she sampled what her husband offered, the result would be too bittersweet.
He bent his head until she felt his breath blow soft and hot against the bare slope of her shoulder. A tremor raced along her limbs. She kept her focus on their reflection, watching the top of his head as she experienced the first galvanizing brush of his lips. Her trembling grew wild, quaking through her, seeming to tighten low in her belly into a strange knotting ache that had nothing to do with distress. She lifted her free hand, placing it lightly atop his head, letting her fingers thread through the dark gloss of his hair until they clenched tight when his mouth rested on the sensitive juncture of her throat.
Alarm and awareness radiated from that tender spot down to the tips of her barely covered breasts as they shivered with her hurried breathing. A blind, mad urge to turn her head, to catch his mouth with her own in hopes of relieving the tension between them, was nearly impossible to overcome. Her willingness frightened her more than the thought of his kisses. Confused by that panicked desire, and feeling herself at a point of impending danger, she still hadn’t the strength to pull away.
Instead, in a shaky voice she murmured, “We’re going to be late.”
He straightened slowly, letting his freshly scraped cheek linger against the soft curve of hers as his gaze probed their reflection, searching for an honest reaction in her wild and clouded stare. After a moment he said, “You’re a vision.”
She touched her fingertips to the cool image of his lips on the glass and replied, “You’re a dream.”
He grinned, releasing the friction like steam from a kettle. “That’s better than when you considered me a nightmare.”
“I never did,” she said, pouting prettily.
“How soon she forgets.”
As her expression grew somber, he wished fervently that it could be in his power to make her forget everything that had come before their marriage. That it would be possible to erase the lines of apprehension, the pinch of painful memory that too often marred her perfect features.
He lifted the back of her hand to his lips. Perhaps someday he could work that miracle.
“We’d better go,” she said, this time stepping away from him with a twitch of restless energy.
And he’d never wanted anything so much in his entire life as the love of this woman he’d made his wife.
The manor was a tribute to Old South elegance where Starla had run wild and free, more like Patrice’s sister than her best friend. Looking forward to an evening when she and Dodge could relax and
let down the barriers they held firm within the home they shared, Starla knew a stab of disappointment when Patrice greeted them at the door with a “tell me everything” look. The fond embrace she had for Starla was given with equal enthusiasm to her husband.
“Oh, it’s good to see the two of you. Dodge, be warned, Deacon means to drag you off for business, but then that will give Starla and me time to chat.”
Time for Patrice to try and drag out every detail of her married life, Starla thought. So much for a relaxed evening. With her hopes of claiming a sympathetic ear fading, Starla realized she’d find no neutrality from the friend who plainly adored Dodge. There’d be no dropping her pretended role with the woman who wanted so much to hear only how well things were going. Adopting her false smile and taking her husband’s elbow, Starla entered the manor as if stepping among strangers instead of friends.
The meal was strained, with most of the conversation carried by Patrice and her mother, Hannah Sinclair. Reeve and Deacon seemed to be waiting to pounce on an oddly withdrawn Dodge, Reeve out of curiosity, Deacon in impatience. Starla made light small talk and puzzled over her husband’s mood. He was drinking way too much, for one thing, and was too quiet, for another. Hoping she’d have a chance to ask him what was wrong once they were dismissed from the table, she was disappointed when Deacon hustled him away behind the closed doors of the study. Catching his wife’s
signal, Reeve escorted Hannah into the parlor, leaving the two childhood friends alone.
“When did you get back?” Patrice demanded.
“Day before yesterday.”
“I hope you got your wanderlust out of your system and will be content to settle down.”
“Like a good wife, you mean.”
Patrice arched an eyebrow. “Exactly.”
“I’m doing my best, Patrice.” But the shortness of her words betrayed her.
“I can’t believe Dodge is making it difficult for you.”
No, not her perfect paragon, Hamilton Dodge. Starla gritted her teeth and murmured, “No, of course not. As you said, he’s a good man.”
Knowing her too well, Patrice was immediately suspicious. “He wasn’t harsh with you because you left, was he?”
“Dodge?” Her surprise was genuine, much to Patrice’s relief. “Gracious, no. He’s … very tolerant.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Starla, tell me.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Why should anything be wrong?”
“Because you leave town at a moment’s notice. Because you’re married to a wonderful man and you’re about to start crying.”
“Oh, Patrice,” Starla sniffed miserably. “Things should be wonderful.”
Patrice hauled her over to a low chaise, then hurried to close the doors to give them privacy. “So
what’s wrong?” she demanded, as she dropped down and seized Starla’s cold hands.
“He—he told me he loves me. What does that mean?”
Patrice laughed in delight, then grew somber in the face of her friend’s obvious distress. “It means you’re very lucky.”
“But what does it
mean
? That he wants to sleep with me? That he wants my child to have his name?”
“It means he cares about you, Starla, for yourself.”
Ebony curls swung wildly as she shook her head. Patrice gripped her hands harder.
“Why is that so difficult for you to believe? You’re smart, as sassy as blackstrap molasses, and so beautiful there were times I wanted to just slap you for blinding every boy to my appeal. You could have had any man in Pride County.”
She made a wry face. “They only wanted to get into my petticoats and show me off on their arms. They didn’t want
me.”
“And is that all you think Dodge wants?”
“I don’t know. I thought I did, but all the rules have changed.”
“You do know. That’s why you’re so afraid. If he only wanted a petticoat and a pretty face, you wouldn’t be scared to death of him. You’d lead him around by the nose the way you have every other man you’ve ever met.”
“He wants more than I can give him, Patrice. He deserves more. He wants a big, happy family like the one he has up north. He wants a wife to
meet him at the door with kisses. He wants someone who’ll never lie to him, and I’ve told him nothing else since the day we met.”
“And you’re crazy about him, aren’t you?”
“No!” She took a sobbing breath, then admitted, “I don’t know. I’m all mixed up, half the time wanting to hate him, half the time wanting him to hold me.”
“You’re in love with him,” was Patrice’s sage decree.
“But I don’t want to be! It hurts too much to care. When you love someone and they let you down, it’s worse than dying.”
“There are things worse than love, Starla, things like loneliness. He’s not going to leave you. He’s not that kind of man.”
“But if he knew some of the things I’ve done—”
“Tell him.”
“I can’t.”
“Then how important is it for him to know? Live from today onward. It’s the only way you can be happy.”
Patrice waited for Starla to respond. When she didn’t, all her friend could do was sigh and hope she’d made some impression on the wall around her heart.
Because although Starla couldn’t drive Dodge away with the truth, Patrice knew she could well lose him through neglect.
“Have you made any progress in breaking that son of a bitch’s hold on my property?”
Dodge eased back on the sofa and watched an agitated Deacon Sinclair attack the length of the room in long angry strides. “The papers you signed are legally binding.”
“Are you saying that little weasel can throw my mother and me out of our home and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it?”
“Sure,” he wanted to say to the arrogant aristocrat, “there was something you could have done about it by not being so blinded by greed and pride that you’d sign away your family’s future to the likes of Tyler Fairfax. There was something you could have done about it if you’d bent that damned Southern snobbery to come see me when I still could have made a difference.”
But Dodge didn’t say those things and was rather surprised at himself for thinking them so strongly that they must have shown on his face, for Deacon stopped and gave him a narrow look.
“Out with it. ‘I told you so,’ right?”
“No one can tell you anything, Deacon. Far be it from me to be the first to try.”
Patrice’s brother glared for a moment, then had the good sense to look chagrined. In a more contrite tone, he asked, “What can we do?”
Dodge took another long swallow from his whiskey, sucking air into the burn as it went down. He’d hoped the liquor would dull the ache that had been massing in his back all day, but all it did was slow his mind.
“I can advance you the money to buy your mortgage back.”
“The bastard won’t sell it to me. Not even for
more than what I originally borrowed.”
“Have you tried appealing to his better nature?”
Deacon scowled. “Does he have one?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen. So what does he really want?”
“To make me squirm.” And how that grated on a man like Deacon Sinclair.
“There must be something he cares about, some leverage we can use.”
“He doesn’t care about money or honor or anything a gentleman holds dear. Reeve was once his friend and he was ready to let him hang.”
“He cares about Patrice,” Dodge remembered.
Deacon bristled like a wolf protecting its cubs. “I don’t want my sister involved with him. This doesn’t concern her. She’s made her own life. She doesn’t need me complicating it with my problems.”
Dodge could sympathize there. Tyler Fairfax was no one to mess with. He finished off his drink and nodded for Deacon to pour him another. It was hell to remain seated with the constant pins and needles stabbing him from the small of his back to the soles of his feet. He shifted but could find no relief. Then Deacon distracted him from his discomfort.