The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (18 page)

And in that practiced silence rose a tension to equal their explosive contact in the office. What
touch didn’t allow, imagination could provide, and it made for a restless afternoon.

Finally satisfied with her arrangement of the jeweled hatpins and fancy earbobs, Garnet announced, “I think we’ll be ready for our grand opening tomorrow.”

There was a fierce curse from the back that brought William’s head up in wide-eyed alarm.

“You okay, Mr. Sinclair?”

A flurry of other soft oaths filtered out from behind a keg of nails, then Deacon stood, sucking at his thumb. The boy went bounding over.

“What happened? Did you get a splinter?”

“It’s nothing,” Deacon growled, then immediately amended his surly mood when the child’s lip quivered with hurt. With a sigh, he held his injured thumb down for the boy’s inspection.

“Mama, come quick! Mr. Sinclair’s squished his finger.”

As Garnet came hurrying toward them, Deacon withdrew his hand. “It’s nothing. Really.”

But Garnet was already reaching for him. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine. I just dropped the keg on it, is all.”

“Let me see.”

She was trying to make the gesture appear as one of natural concern, but the harder she tried, the more Deacon protested, and the more aggressive her concern became. Finally, she made a lunge forward to snag his rolled shirt sleeve, dragging him toward her.

“I said let me see!”

“You better do it. She really means it when she says it like that.”

Almost sheepishly, Deacon surrendered his hand. She made a sympathetic noise at the sight of his mashed nail. “William, fetch me some water and some clean cloths.”

“It’s fine,” Deacon persisted in a softer tone, because she was holding his hand between hers and he was wondering how she’d managed to get them so silky smooth when he remembered a coarser touch.

“It’s no trouble,” she answered automatically, her voice strained because she was absorbing the warmth and strength of his grip, wondering what had happened in the last five years to build such callused roughness on his palms.

And she was wondering how that burred friction would feel against her skin.

Deacon jerked back abruptly, denying the contact, denying the hurrying of his heartbeats even as he wished for the freedom to indulge them both. He lifted the lid of one of the nearby barrels and stuck his thumb inside, withdrawing it all slathered in axle grease.

“There,” he announced stiffly. “That will take care of it.”

“As if grease was the answer to all man’s ills,” she muttered, embarrassed and flustered and afraid he would notice both things. “It’s still going to hurt like a b—like the devil tomorrow.
Thank you, William, but Mr. Sinclair has taken care of it himself.”

As William trotted over to add the extra water to Ulysses’ bowl, Garnet grew uncomfortably aware of the man before her. Here was no sleek aristocrat. His shirt was soiled, his bared forearms streaked with dirt and grime. His hair stood in an untidy disarray and he’d worked up a healthy sweat. And she was suddenly shivering.

Then she discovered what Deacon had seen that caused his fast retreat. The door jangled.

“Garnet, are you and the lad ready to go?”

She turned toward Monty with a quavering smile. “I didn’t know you’d come to town.” Aware of Deacon’s slated stare, she went quickly to the spotlessly attired older man, stretching up to place a fond kiss on his cheek. His gaze settled on Deacon.

“Sinclair. Looks like you’ve been busy.”

“We’re going to open tomorrow, Monty. Isn’t that exciting?” Garnet knew she was too animated not to wake his suspicions, but her nerves were shuddering and she couldn’t get them under control.

“If you say so, my dear. I’ll give you and the boy an escort home.”

“Let me get my cloak.” Without a look toward the object of her agitation, she rushed to the office to snatch up her wrap, eager to escape Monty’s curiosity and Deacon’s influence. “Come, William. Don’t keep your father waiting.”

But William dawdled. “Mama, what if Ulysses gets lonely?”

“He won’t, darling. He’ll have all those lovely little mice to play with.”

“But I don’t want to leave him here all alone. What if he misses me?”

“William …” Her head was aching with tension and she didn’t need the extra stress of dealing with his stubbornness. Monty, as usual, hadn’t a clue as to how to handle the boy’s petulant moods. He was looking with longing toward the door.

“I’ll stay awhile,” Deacon offered, winning the boy’s teary gratitude. “I’ll make sure he’s all settled in before I leave.”

“Would you?”

“I’ll let him know that this is his home now and that you’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Really?” Then the boy’s eyes narrowed. “How will you do that? Cats can’t understand people talk.”

“They understand me.” A lot better than people, he could have added. “Go on with your mother, now. She’s worked hard and is tired. You don’t want to make her cross with you.”

“I’m not cross,” Garnet argued, but her tone contradicted her message. She sighed and held out her hand. William slipped his inside it.

Deacon went tight all over watching her fingers curl about the boy’s so possessively.

“Lock up, Mr. Sinclair.”

He smiled wryly at the unnecessary reminder. “Yes, ma’am.”

He didn’t move as Prior squired his family outside and helped them up into the buggy. Then the trio left together, and that togetherness churned into a bitter aftertaste.

For God’s sake, she was a married woman!

He’d forgotten that. He’d forgotten everything but the memory of her gentle care. And to feel those tender ministrations again, he would have disavowed another man’s claim before both man and God. If William hadn’t been there, he would have taken Garnet up against him to ravish her ripe mouth, to wake her to the pleasures they’d shared between them despite all else that had happened.

His wanting her was an ache to the soul.

And that soul would be even more damned if he gave before those wrongful desires.

Garnet was no longer his to covet. She belonged to another man and all the longing, all the returning sparks of need he’d seen in those short seconds, couldn’t erase that fact. She was married. And he would not break yet another commandment.

So how was he going to work beside her, smelling her fragrant hair, hearing the swish of her petticoats without acting on what both of them were vulnerable to? She could deny it all she wanted, but he’d seen the answering passion in her frightened gaze.

“I’d like to hire Herschel Rosen to work in the store with me.”

Garnet regarded him across the supper table with surprise. “We don’t know that we can afford a second employee.”

“I’d be willing to take a reduction in salary until you absorb the expense with our profits.”

Now she was suspicious. “Why would you do that?”

“If you want to open tomorrow, you’re going to need someone more knowledgeable than me to greet your customers. I know how to purchase a stamp but haven’t the slightest idea of how to post one. I can’t make heads or tails of Rosen’s credit files. So if you want things to run smoothly, I suggest you hire the man on, at least until I know what I’m doing.”

“And Mr. Rosen is agreeable to this?” Her wariness was far from eased.

“I spoke to him this evening. He’s an old man with no family. That store was his whole life. He’d be willing to do just about anything to remain a part of it.” How well he’d understood that bit of perverse humiliation. He wouldn’t share how the man had gripped his hands and wept in gratitude. “Besides,” he added reasonably, “the townsfolk are used to seeing him there and it would build their confidence in trading with us.”

“Sounds logical, Garnet dear,” Monty murmured. He was watching Deacon’s expression for signs of what he suspected. He knew the man was still attracted to his niece and that the interest was mutual. The idea of a mediator at
the store where he couldn’t be present was a good thing. Now all he had to figure out was Sinclair’s motive for suggesting it. He didn’t believe the man was prompted by good business sense or humanitarian leanings. Despite all Garnet’s talk to the contrary, she was still soft on Sinclair, so it was up to him to see to her safety where the slick Southerner was concerned. “I think you should hire the man on.”

Garnet thought a moment, then nodded. “All right. If Mr. Rosen is willing, he can speak to me tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sure he’ll thank you for your generosity.”

She waited a moment to see if the sentiment was attached to some sarcasm, but Deacon returned to his meal in silence, never answering her curiosity.

They weren’t partners in business or in anything else, and it would be best for her to remember that. If only she could.

Chapter 13

A
ll day Prior’s Mercantile was packed with the citizens of Pride. Drawn more by curiosity than necessity, they lined up to buy ribbons and fruit-jar rings, a handful of nails or a slate pencil just to get a look at the proud Deacon Sinclair working behind a counter.

By noontime, the circular space in the center of the store was crowded with old-timers perched on kegs of horseshoes and knife-scarred benches pulled up within easy spitting distance of the glowing stove. There, they sat, whittling, chewing, gossiping and mainly speculating on how long Deacon could maintain his rigidly correct demeanor, as if he were somehow above cutting chewing tobacco or matching threads from the walnut J. and P. Coats cabinet. The measure of a successful storekeeper was his ability to relate to those he served with understanding and a sense of humor. No one in Pride could accuse Deacon Sinclair of having either, so they approached him as something of a novelty, half
intimidated, half bemused; many were smug over his reduced stature.

But the old gossips gave him credit: the man held tight to his dignity, even though he was aware of all the whispering and smirks aimed in his direction. And none would dare mock him to his face, once he’d fixed them with that bared-blade stare. Even those with questions approached with caution.

“There’s something wrong with this sugar,” a matron too old to fear a stony gaze claimed in a loud tone. Conversation hushed in the vicinity of the counter as Deacon glanced at the sack he’d measured out only that morning.

“Ma’am, it arrived fresh yesterday.”

Refusing to back down from his quelling look, she pulled the bag open. “Then you taste it.”

To humor her, he wet his finger and took a sample. His brow puckered. “It tastes like kerosene.” Frowning, he strode to the back of the store where the barreled goods were stored; sugar, rice, salt … and kerosene. His mood darkened dangerously.

“What seems to be the trouble, young Sinclair?”

Deacon kept his voice low as he explained to Herschel Rosen. “Someone has contaminated our supply of sugar with kerosene. If I find out who did such a thing—” He broke off as the older man chuckled.

“Why, my boy, it is nature that played the prank on you. The oil, it just sneaks along the
floor to spoil everything it touches. You must keep the other barrels up off the boards or they will be forever soaking up the flavor.”

“So all this stock—”

Rosen shrugged. “A lesson you won’t need to be taught again.”

Calculating the loss grimly, he returned to the counter. “I apologize for your inconvenience, Mrs. Crawford. Let me refill your order from one of our counter bins … at no charge.”

At the magic words “no charge,” the widow ceased her grumbling and became all smiles. “What a gentleman you are, Mr. Sinclair.”

He made no comment, but those at the stove had plenty to pass among themselves. Imagine, such generosity from a member of the gentry!

“
Mister
Sinclair!”

He headed to the bulk grocery section to see a humorless Margie Johnston pointing into the barrel of dried peas.

“Would you care to explain that, sir?”

There, afloat on the sea of tiny green pellets was an obvious contaminant. Deacon stared, determined not to show his dismay. He glanced about for the culprit and the reason, then relayed both calmly.

“What’s to explain, Mrs. Johnston? A little boy’s kitten, a closed cathole, and an open barrel. Nature, ma’am.” A brief smile quirked his lips. “I’d be happy to dipper your peas from the bin up front.”

“At no charge?” she prompted.

His smile never faltered. “At no charge.”

He and the pleased woman returned to the counter on a tide of murmurings. The satisfied female left with her measure of unsoiled peas.

“Mr. Sinclair, my Manny came in with a note from me stating he was to get a good pair of trousers for fifty cents. When we checked our account from the previous owner, we found we were charged one dollar and fifty cents.”

Deacon retained his sigh of aggravation. “Do you have the garment, Mrs. Wellington?”

“My Manny couldn’t go without trousers to church, Mr. Sinclair.”

Chuckles sounded from the stove area and were silenced by a look from Deacon.

“So the trousers are no longer new.”

Not in the least bit chagrined, the farm wife stated, “Is it your policy to honor the mistakes made by your predecessor, sir, or would you cheat a poor family out of a hard-earned dollar?”

“It is my policy to satisfy my customers, Mrs. Wellington. I’ll credit your account for the dollar and tell your Manny to wear the trousers in good health.”

Her stiffness faded into a grateful smile. “Why, that’s right neighborly of you, Mr. Sinclair. Who would have thought?”

Who, indeed? But by the end of the first working day, not a soul who passed near Prior’s or walked the street of Pride hadn’t heard about Deacon Sinclair’s uncommon charity.

Deacon was loading supplies into the final wagon in front of the store when Garnet and
William arrived. Herschel was just hanging the “Closed” sign on the door and took a moment to doff his hat before starting down the walk toward his solitary dinner at Sadie’s.

“How did our first day go, Mr. Sinclair?” Garnet called, as William ran to find Ulysses.

“Not quite enough in the till to retire on, but we’re not broke yet.” He held the door open for her in a moment of surprising chivalry.