The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (13 page)

And as he watched, Boone gave a boisterous leap, colliding forcefully with the oncoming little boy. William fell back into the remains of Hannah Sinclair’s garden. And at the sound of his first wail, Deacon was out the door.

The child sat whimpering in the middle of a ruined English rosebush. Great teary eyes lifted as Deacon knelt down to the boy’s level.

“I got a pricker,” William sniveled, extending his thumb for Deacon to see. When Deacon took the small hand in his, William started blubbering in earnest, anticipating the hurt to come.

“Stop that.”

The boy blinked at the cut of Deacon’s tone. He’d never had anyone speak to him harshly before. Tears froze and shimmered on his flushed cheeks.

“A man doesn’t cry over such piddling things.”

The boy’s lip quivered, but he bit back further wails. His eyes grew large as he met the other
man’s serious stare. And he took the sober instruction to heart.

“A man doesn’t cry, no matter how much it hurts. Not ever.”

“Is that all men, or just heartless ones like you?”

With that said, Garnet pushed Deacon aside and bent down in a pooling of silk. Her voice grew tender. Deacon tensed, remembering the sound of her compassion.

“Let me see, darling.” She took up the soft hand between her own to inspect the tiny wound. The boy’s eyes welled up in response to her sympathy, but after a quick glance at Deacon, he blinked them manfully away.

“It’s just a thorn, Mama. Just a piddling thing.”

“It’ll have to come out.”

Deacon reached to take the boy’s hand from hers. He didn’t look at her, even when he heard her sharp inhalation.

“Let me. I’ve fallen into these bushes more times than I care to remember. And have taken thorns in worse places then a thumb.”

William smiled, shakily.

Squeezing the meaty pad of the little thumb between two fingers, Deacon gave the boy a stern look. “This is going to hurt. Don’t yell.”

“Yell if you want, baby,” Garnet contradicted, but the boy’s gaze was fixed in Deacon’s as he nodded bravely.

Moving quickly, Deacon brought the injury up to his mouth, biting down, then spitting the
barb out to one side. William swallowed hard but didn’t make a sound. He inspected the reddened thumb proudly, then showed the wound to his mother.

“It wasn’t that bad at all.”

Garnet smiled narrowly at his smug proclamation. “Then go play, dear. And stay away from the rosebushes.”

He bounded off happily, leaving the two adults kneeling together in the garden. Flushing angrily, Garnet gathered her skirts and began to stand. To her irritation, Deacon was quick to offer assistance—she was irritated because of the way her pulse leapt at the simplest touch.

“Don’t cry. Don’t yell. For heaven’s sake, he’s just four years old.”

“Old enough to be taught to take what comes without—”

“Without what?” She shook off his hands and brushed down her crumpled skirt. “Genuine emotion?”

“Without flinching. That’s what my father taught me.”

She glared at him. “Well, you’re not in a position to teach my son anything. I’ll decide what lessons I want him to learn.”

He’d gone cold and distant. “Yes, of course. Forgive me for intruding. I’m sure you’re doing an excellent job turning him into a dandified sissy like that man you married.”

“Don’t you speak like that about Monty,” she hissed. “He’s a fine man who’s done his best for
me and William. And he’s taught my son what you never could—honesty. Or isn’t that something you consider as important for a real man? Good day, Mr. Sinclair.”

As she spun away, intent on sweeping from him in indignant righteousness, he foiled her plans by catching her hand. The shock of contact blanked her mind like a sudden lightning surge. She looked up at him in flustered alarm.

“I’m sorry about your father, Garnet. I didn’t know.”

No other words could so efficiently cut through her daze of conflicting feelings. Her lips thinned.

“I don’t want your sympathy.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

She freed her hand with a jerk. “I want you on your knees.”

He let her go then. The moment she was freed, she hurried toward the house. He could almost imagine the girl with man’s trousers, bobbed hair, and coltish stride.

On his knees
.

So that was the way it was going to be.

A Sinclair never humbled himself before anyone. Especially to some backwoods girl who’d suddenly taken on aristocratic airs and a wealthy husband. Even though he was genuinely sorry, he wouldn’t go so far to make amends. War was war, not something personal for which he should be forever apologetic.

However, Garnet’s parting glare let him know to her it wasn’t about a war or duty … it was
about a very personal betrayal. And amnesty for the South and all its soldiers wouldn’t excuse him for what he’d done in that peaceful Cumberland valley.

The Priors wasted no time in their occupation of the Sinclair home. By late day, a wagon filled with trunks and boxes arrived under the escort of a half dozen house servants. Garnet directed them to Hannah, who took control with practiced ease—happily, Deacon noted in chagrin. She was always at her best when in the middle of domestic chaos—even if she was managing it for someone else.

With nothing to occupy his time, Deacon stood aside, as thrilled with the proceedings as he would be if it were a plague of locusts settling into his fields. Not his fields. Not anymore. Nothing here was his anymore.

“Be careful with that!”

Garnet hovered anxiously as two burly men struggled beneath the weight of an upright parlor piano, easing it from the back of the wagon, then pushing it up the planks laid down to make a ramp up the front stairs. And as she dealt with the laborers, her fancy husband lingered in the dormant flower garden, studying the bare branches of Hannah’s ornamental bushes with more interest than he showed his property. Such an attitude provoked contempt from a man who’d spent his entire life devoted to an estate rather than its frivolous decorations.

Garnet, however, quickened in him nothing as safe as contempt. What she stirred in Deacon defied categorizing. Longing wasn’t big enough, jealousy was too narrow, desire too one dimensional. Regret came closest to describing the want, the sense of loss and emptiness inside.

She was glorious. But then, he’d thought her spectacular even before she knew anything about female graces. With her lush figure hugged by expensive silk and her glossy hair twisted up in a sophisticated style, none would guess she had once tended livestock while dressed in oversized galoshes. Or that she’d killed a man in the front room of her cabin. Or made wild love to him in her virgin’s bed. Traces of that country girl were all but lost beneath the elegant trappings of affluence. Deacon would have believed them gone for good if not for the way she met his intent gaze with a glare like a double-barreled scattergun. The wildcat was still there, swaddled in exotic finery but no less the scraper.

That knowledge both pleased and distressed him: pleased him because he admired her for her uniqueness, disturbed him because she’d allowed the man she’d married to make her over into something not as valuable as what she’d been before. Part of what had charmed him was the fact that she was so different from the women he was used to; a breath of fresh air after the stuffy society parlors. One of the things that had made the loss of her more bearable was the fact that she wouldn’t have fit into his
world. He would have hated breaking her to fit the rigid mold of his peers, fearing that in doing so, he would destroy the naïveté that had attracted him in the first place. Seeing her now, all primped and powdered and pressed with that snap of vinegar still intact intrigued him all the more. Why had he ever doubted her ability to move in his same circles? She had him revolving in them with scarcely any effort at all. And he didn’t like the way it left him dizzy and offbalance.

But then again, he did.

It made him feel alive. And at the same time, in hell, knowing that what he gave up was now being enjoyed by another. In his room. In his bed. On this very night, while he awaited an impossible slumber only four doors down.

The poignancy of tucking her son into bed in Deacon’s childhood room became unbearable as Garnet listened to the boy recite his prayers. Always touched by the child’s somber intonations as he asked God to bestow his blessings, her heart constricted when William added, “And bless Mr. Sinclair for taking the thorn out of my thumb, ‘cause he’s not as scary as I thought he was at first. Amen.”

He looked up at her in expectation when she failed to murmur the echoing “Amen.” She could only mouth the word. The heaviness in her throat forbade sound. Satisfied, the boy slipped between the covers. He sighed happily
in this new setting, closing his eyes as his mother bent to kiss his brow.

“ ‘Night, Mama.”

“G’night, darling,” she whispered, turning down the light. The minute the room darkened, she heard the sound of Boone creeping up along the other side of the bed. The instant she was out the door, she knew the big dog would be up under the covers. Tonight she didn’t mind.

She turned and started slightly to find Hannah Sinclair framed in the doorway Were those tears shimmering in the older woman’s eyes, or just a trick of the fast fading light?

It was the moment Garnet had feared all day, a one-on-one meeting with the woman who could, with a single claim, destroy everything. She hadn’t expected complications so soon. She hadn’t been prepared for them, mentally or emotionally If Hannah didn’t know for sure, she certainly suspected. And time spent with William would only convince her more.

Self-preservation brought a solution to mind. Get rid of her. Send her away, from the house, from the child, from the truth. Though she’d said nothing to Deacon yet, there was no guarantee she would remain silent for long. Perhaps she was just waiting until she had proof positive. Allowing her to keep close company with William was dangerous to that end. But seeing the dampness on her cheeks made Garnet realize something else that swayed her from taking drastic action.

This was William’s grandmother. No matter
what had occurred between Garnet and Deacon, was it fair that this kind and gentle woman should suffer for it by being denied access to the child? Garnet thought of her own lonely upbringing. She’d heard only vague stories about her mother’s past—a past she left behind to wed a man beneath her standing. She’d never voiced regret, but the pain of loss was ever present in her occasional bouts of sadness. When she died, Garnet clung to her father all the more as her only link to that family she desired. Could she isolate William from those who would love and comfort him?

Though it would endanger her plans, Garnet could not drive the other woman away. All she could hope for was the other woman’s wisdom, and that Hannah would stay quiet for the sake of the boy.

“I didn’t mean to intrude, Mrs. Prior. I was just wondering if you needed anything else this evening. Otherwise, I’ll retire for the night.”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Sinclair. Thank you for being so helpful today. It could have been very difficult had you not been so generous with your acceptance.”

Hannah smiled faintly. “We’ve all gone through enough difficult times, don’t you think?” And then, when she could have said so much more, she cast a tender glance toward the now slumbering child and murmured, “Good night, Mrs. Prior.”

Garnet watched the other woman retreat,
relief weakening her knees, and gratitude softening her heart. This was the family she’d wanted: Hannah with her knowing empathy filling a mother’s void, Patrice, with her outspoken candor, a sister to share secrets and sorrows with.

But they were not her family. They were Deacon’s. And suddenly she felt very much the intruder within the elegant walls.

Sinclair Manor. It was more beautiful than she could have ever dreamed. The endless acres of rich land, the stately brick home steeped in tradition and pride. The sense of affluence, of society at the very pinnacle.

Though she could buy her way in, she couldn’t make herself belong. Not to the house and its history, nor to the man who should have held them both.

She didn’t care if the wealthy of Pride County didn’t take to her. She had enough money now to assure her acceptance if not their approval. She didn’t care if they liked her means of taking over the Manor or the progressive use of parceling out its fallow lands. Their opinions meant little to nothing to her. Only one man mattered—the one who shouldn’t have held sway over her emotions.

She wanted to impress Deacon Sinclair. To make him realize that in using and betraying her, he’d made the miscalculation of his life.

Montgomery sat upon the foot of Deacon’s big bed, sketch pad across his knees. He diligently worked to capture the twists and intricacies of the design of a side table centerpiece,
failing to notice that Garnet was in the room until he was satisfied with his shading. Then he glanced up and smiled, proudly showing his pencil rendition.

“Very nice. Needs more shadow there.”

He noted the area with a frown, then nodded. “You’re right. You’ve a discerning eye.”

“Considering I have no ability, you mean.”

“Now, I would never say something so cruel as that.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t.” She sighed and walked to the long windows. Looking out over the lawn, the sense of pretense returned. The fact that all was hers still escaped her.

“You appear worse for wear, lovey. Perhaps I should let you retire.”

“I would appreciate that … Monty.”

Without another word, he folded his drawing pad and slid from the bed, pausing only long enough to press a fond kiss to her temple. Then he adjourned into the attached sitting room where a day bed had been prepared, “for his bouts of insomnia,” he’d told the staff. In truth, Monty slept like a stone. But he didn’t sleep with his wife. The story had been created to quell gossip.

That she and Monty slept in separate beds was a story Garnet didn’t want to get back to Deacon on their first night under this new roof.

With a soft, “Good night, dear,” Monty shut the door between their rooms, leaving Garnet to her privacy and her troubled thoughts.