The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (27 page)

“What exactly does this potion do?”

The drummer beamed at him and launched into his pitch. “It cures headaches, fullness in the head after eating, dizziness, dots before the eyes, shooting bodily pains, and dyspepsia, and gives a cheerful warming glow to the whole body.”

“Probably due to the fact that it’s almost all alcohol,” Deacon mumbled dryly. “Does it work?”

Now the drummer looked blank. “Excuse me?”

“Does it actually do anything other than produce a stupor that numbs the unfortunate sufferer into forgetting his ills?”

The sharpness of his tone brought Garnet to lean on the counter with a diplomatic, “Is there a problem here?”

“No problem, Mrs. Prior. Mr. Morganstern was just enlightening me on the restorative powers of his tonic. Perhaps you’d like to tell Mrs. Prior about your product. This is her store, so the buying decisions are hers. I’m just the counter help. Please excuse me.”

Before Garnet could voice the displeasure sparking in her dark eyes, he slipped away from them for the preferable company of the town banker, Hamilton Dodge, accompanied by his stepson. Christien immediately bounded off to greet William.

“Business is booming.”

Deacon accepted Dodge’s observation with a cynical smile. “Skinner has them convinced they’re all wealthy while he sucks off his high percent of interest.”

Dodge grinned. “Most of them would say you just described me.”

“At least you give them enough to live on. His rates are going to starve these people.”

“And Mrs. Prior has nothing to say about that?”

“She says it’s the price of doing business and that they are responsible for understanding their own finances.”

Dodge made a noncommittal noise. “Considering most of them can’t do more than make their mark, those are high expectations.”

“Mrs. Prior may have a fine head for figures, but her standards are impossible to live up to.”

Dodge gave him a look, but refrained from comment.

“Are you here to place an order for cigars, or to listen to my complaints?”

“I’m all set on cigars, and I’m not opposed to hearing your complaints, but I’m actually here to follow up on some rumors I’ve overheard. I figured, what better place to ferret out gossip than the source of most of it?” He nodded toward the glowing stove and the gaggle of gabbers holding court around it.

Deacon gestured to the office for a modicum of privacy, not wanting to fuel rumors while trying to uncover the truth of them. There was nothing unusual about the store manager and the town banker doing a little business over the record books behind closed doors.

“What’s on your mind?”

“What do you know about these new improvement bonds?”

Deacon smiled. “Afraid of the competition?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t be here talking to the prince of liens. I’m all for community improvements, depending on who’s backing them. I hear it’s Judge Banning looking to get himself appointed to county supervisor.”

“And that worries you?”

“Like inviting a convicted bank robber to count my money at night.”

“Good morning, Mr. Dodge. Is there something I can do for you?”

Dodge was all smiles as Garnet entered the office.” ‘Morning, Mrs. Prior. Aside from bringing Christien over to visit your boy, I wanted to stop by and let you know that I’ve examined Mrs. Collier’s financial statement as you requested. I think she’ll be an excellent business risk for your rental space.”

“I’m so relieved.” That relief didn’t translate well to her expression, which remained pinched and preoccupied. “I suppose there’s no reason she shouldn’t begin moving her things upstairs.” Why did she look as though she wished she could find one?

“I’ll let her know.”

Her gaze darted to Deacon, then away. “I’ve told Mr. Morganstern he could set up a temporary display of his product and we’d keep track of how it sells for future ordering.”

“Just what we need, more snake oil.”

Her stare focused and sharpened. “It’s our business to supply people with what they need.”

“Or what we tell them they need.” He picked up an order form and handed it to her. “Have him fill out that top part. There should be some room on the counter next to the Gray’s and other miracle cures.”

When she took the form and left without some quip or challenge, Deacon looked after her in concern, wondering what troubled her.

“Thanks for not saying anything in front of Mrs. Prior.”

Deacon glanced at Dodge. “Why not?”

“Because her husband is behind this bond business. What do you know about him?”

“Not enough. I’ve got some feelers out through some rather unconventional channels. I’ll let you know.”

“Do that. Something’s not as it seems about him and that hired man.”

“Skinner?” Now Deacon’s intuition quivered as well.

“I’ve seen him someplace. I just can’t put my finger on it. But I will. Until then, don’t turn your back on him.”

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as Roscoe Skinner assisted Garnet with her wrap. His hands lingered upon her shoulders just a moment too long for Deacon’s liking. Then, as if feeling his displeasure, Skinner met his glare.

And smiled. Like a crocodile.

“What are you doing?” William whispered in alarm, as a paper of fish hooks disappeared into Christien’s pocket.

“Shush.” Green eyes flashed about to see if anyone had observed the deft sleight of hand or his young friend’s reaction. But as usual, no one paid any attention to them. He made no attempt to put the item back, and instead moved along the
counter to the selection of Rodgers and Wolstenholm knives safely encased under glass. “Boy, would my uncle like one of them frog stickers.”

“What’d you take those fish hooks for? They’re not yours. You have to buy them or it’s stealing.”

“Oh, it is not.”

“Is too.”

“Well, don’t go making a big fuss about it. Here.” He pressed the packet into William’s hand. “There. You take ’em.”

“I can’t. It’d be stealing.”

“Naw. It ain’t stealing. Everything in this store belongs to your mama, so it belongs to you, too. If you wanted to give ’em to me, it’d be a gift, not stealing.”

It sounded logical but still not quite acceptable. “I’ll go ask my mama.”

“You big baby,” Christien hissed angrily. “Jus’ forget about it. I was planning to let you go with me.”

“Fishing?” His eyes rounded.

“As soon as it gets warmer. But you can forget about it if you go blabbing to your ma.”

William looked from the forbidden hooks in his hand to Christien’s empty palm. In a quandary over what best to do, he chose his mother’s teaching over his new friend’s bribes.

“I’m putting ’em back.”

With a disgusted frown, Christien waited for him to return. “I suppose you’re gonna tell on me.”

That had never occurred to William. He shook his head and Christien was all smiles again.

“Wanna come play at my house? I gots tin soldiers made in France.”

“Really?”

“Paris, France.”

“I’ll have to ask.”

“You go do that, baby boy. I’ll wait for you at the door.” He walked that way, his hand trailing along the counter top with a nonchalance that disguised his palming of whatever lay in its path while William hurried to his mother.

“Mama, Christien wants me to come to his house.”

She glanced outside at the overcast sky. “I don’t know, darling. It looks like it could rain.” Then her gaze fixed on the figure of Constance Collier, with her swinging stride and glorious hat.

“If it rains, we’ll play inside. Say I can go. Pleeeese!”

Distractedly, she waved her hand. “Stay inside.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

And he raced off before she thought to ask him how he meant to get home, automatically assuming the Dodges would bring him either back to the store or out to the Manor.

“Good day, Mrs. Prior. Was that your little boy?”

“My son, William.”

“A handsome child. Have you made a decision on the room?”

“You may move in anytime you’re ready.”

Her gaze shifted to the two men emerging from the office, lingering over the taller of them. “Perhaps Mr. Sinclair could spare a moment to help me with some of the heavier items.”

She said it loudly enough for him to hear. Gallantry wouldn’t allow him to decline.

“I’d be happy to, Mrs. Collier. Mr. Rosen comes in in just a few minutes and I’ll be able to slip away.”

Garnet smiled fiercely. “I’ll leave you in Mr. Sinclair’s hands, then.”

“Yes,” the widow purred, as if she could think of no place she’d rather be. She sauntered over to the counter behind which Deacon had turned. The tonic sharper was busy stacking his medicinal wares. “Mr. Sinclair, would you happen to have a supply of laudanum? I’ve had trouble sleeping off and on since my husband died and find it soothes my nerves.”

Deacon looked surprised, then cautious. “You’re aware that it can be dangerous if taken in excess, aren’t you?”

She laughed and gave a negligent wave. “Good heavens, there’s no danger of that. As I said, I just use it when I can’t sleep.” She waited patiently for him to bring a vial up from beneath the counter. Her hand closed quickly about it. “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. You are a true life saver.”

He watched her tuck the vial in her bag and wondered if he were doing her any favor at all.

“Mr. Skinner! Mr. Skinner!”

Roscoe turned to see the spindly telegraph operator waving him over. He recrossed the busy midday street and ambled up on the porch. “Mr. Hargrove, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”

“I’m waiting on an important message and can’t leave the office. I got a reply here for Mr. Sinclair that he said was urgent.”

Roscoe eyed the folded missive as it fanned back and forth, charmed like a snake. What could Sinclair be expecting? “Would you like me to deliver it to him? I’m going that way.” He smiled wide to disarm the other man.

“I’d sure appreciate it.”

“No problem. Happy to do it.” He extended his hand, still smiling. It lay in his palm, weighing with importance—importance to Deacon, which could mean importance to him. With a tip of his hat, he tucked the message into his coat and started back toward the mercantile. By the time he’d woven in and out of horse traffic, Gates Hargrove had disappeared. Roscoe stepped up onto the boardwalk, purposefully strolling past the store on his way to Sadie’s. He sat down to a strong cup of coffee and biscuits swimming with gravy, then leisurely drew out the letter, savoring the suspense.

His idle curiosity stropped razor sharp when he saw the heading, recognizing the name and the governmental office.

Son of a bitch
! How had the man figured him out so fast?

Rushed by trepidation, he scanned the brief contents, then frowned. Though there was no name affixed to the information, it definitely didn’t concern him.

Or did it?

He reread the terse documentation.
Defrauding the government, served two years. Stock speculation, insufficient evidence to convict. Suspected of land fraud, selling false claims, misrepresenting banking institutions, insufficient evidence to bring charges. Wanted for questioning in Philadelphia and Wilmington in separate bond scams
.

Then the last tell-all line:
British expatriate
.

Montgomery Prior, you sly dog
.

Handing the information to Deacon was, of course, out of the question—at least, until he could think of some way to use it to his best advantage. And he’d have to think fast before that fool from the telegraph office asked if the message had been received.

Tapping the explosive news against the table top, he sipped his coffee and schemed. And finally, he smiled as the perfect plot evolved: the means to garner him what he wanted—the land, the woman, the revenge. All it would take was a little blackmail … and perhaps a murder.

“Slide it in a little farther, more, more, yes, yes, that’s right. Yes.”

Spoken with Constance Collier’s husky encouragement, even the directions for moving her furniture took on sexual overtones. Deacon
eased his shoulder back from the big display case he’d been angling to catch the light from the top of the stairs. When he’d offered to help their new tenant set up shop, he’d had no idea she came equipped with back-breaking pieces of oak and enough purring innuendo to make a man go through the rest of his life at eager attention.

He glanced around, only to get an eyeful of her rounded backside as she bent to arrange some boxes. With that lightly bustled derrière waving in a tempting dance, he found himself mesmerized for a long moment. He took a rather tight breath.

“How’s this, Mrs. Collier?”

She turned and that was worse. With hands on her knees, her torso twisted, her neckline dipping away from a surprisingly generous bosom, she had a sensual allure he was all too aware of.

“That’s fine. And please, it’s Constance. We’re going to be friends, aren’t we? And I’m all for relaxed formalities.”

Her small smile filled in between those lines.

And why not?

She was attractive and obviously found him the same. She saw him as Deacon Sinclair, store clerk, not the Deacon Sinclair of Sinclair Manor sadly fallen upon hard times. She didn’t know his history, his failings, his humiliation. Her interest was summed up in the slow sweep of her gaze from feet to face, with several meaningful pauses in between.

He’d been bemoaning his solitary status, and
here was an appealing answer. A widow looking for the comforts of a man in her life again. No dramatic emotional issues, just simple, satisfying sex.

And for a long moment, he considered the possibility.

He watched her rearrange her bags of feathers and frills. Her movements weren’t graceful, but rather crisply efficient, and that he found appealing as well.

Why not? Did he want to spend the rest of his life alone, tortured by the evidence of what his future could no longer be?

Since seeing baby Jonah cradled in his sister’s arms, he’d been more acutely aware than ever of what he was missing.

So what if he didn’t have a big fancy house and thousands of fertile acres? Did that make him less of a person, less of a man? Did that strip away all his value? Apparently, Constance Collier didn’t think so. Perhaps it was time he stopped viewing himself by what he possessed rather than by who he was.