The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (29 page)

“She thinks he went to prison as a scapegoat for something you did. She believes he was a martyred hero who suffered and died for the Cause, not a weak man who sold out his side to save himself. She thinks you sent those false orders he was arrested for. But you didn’t, did you? He did. He sent them for us, and a whole battalion was cut to pieces in a crossfire. How do you think she’d like hearing that truth? That instead of a hero, her daddy was responsible for those men’s lives?”

Deacon moved so fast, Roscoe had no opportunity to defend against the hand that closed upon his windpipe, crushing, lifting him up onto his toes. Up close, his glare glittered with frightening intensity, the eyes of the man Roscoe had talked about—the man who could kill without conscience.

“But you’re not going to tell her, are you?”

“Not unless you force me to,” he wheezed. “Let me go. Now!” He went flat-footed, with jaw-snapping impact.

“What do you want, Skinner?”

Because he sounded more impatient and irritated than he did trepidatious, Roscoe took his time, massaging his throat before replying. “I want you to know that you’re not the best anymore.”

“All right, I’m not the best. I’ve admitted it. Now will you stop these dramatics and tell me what I’ve ever done to you?”

“Done to me? You don’t even know, do you? You destroy men’s futures so casually, you don’t even pay attention to who they are.”

Deacon looked closely and shook his head. “I don’t know you. We’ve never met.”

“Oh, but our paths have crossed many times over the past five years. I regret that I can’t spend a bit longer filling you in on everything but you’ll just have to go on in suspense. But go, you will.”

“You’ve yet to give a solid reason as to why I’d want to.”

“Her father’s fate isn’t the only secret I can tell Mrs. Prior. This came for you.” He passed Deacon the telegram. “I don’t know how you meant to use that information but I could make it very unpleasant for the lady.”

Deacon scanned the news, his expression never altering.

“Imagine,” Roscoe drawled, spelling out the
worst case scenario with relish. “The poor folks of this community who’ve survived the ravages of war finding out that they’re being bilked by a professional con man. They’ll be lucky to escape with the clothes on their back. If that gets you thinking you can step right back inside your fancy house, guess who’s next in line to hang onto that mortgage? Monty was real set against you getting it should anything happen to him. So he put it in my name as guardian. And that would leave him, you, and the little lady all out in the cold.”

“What. Do. You. Want?”

“I want you gone. I want you to disappear. I want you cut off from everything that’s ever meant anything to you, and I want you to spend the rest of your days knowing that I’m responsible and that I’m enjoying those things.”

“And if I go?”

“I’ll be a happy man and content not to rock the Priors’ tidy boat. As long as you stay gone. So, what’s it going to be, Sinclair? Do you pack up your things and slip out of Pride tonight, or do you ruin her life all over again? Because she’ll think it was you. After all, you were the one who sent the telegram. Who would have more to gain by soiling her good name … again?”

Deacon said nothing. His granite-hard jaw worked in silent frustration and fury.

And Roscoe Skinner smiled, finally gifted with the sweet sense of victory.

“I have business to attend to this evening. When I get back, you’ll be gone. No word to anyone, no fond farewell letters—just gone. Understood?”

“Oh, yes. I understand you quite well.”

“Then you know I’m very, very serious.”

Again Deacon let his silence be his answer. Pleased with his sufficient show of domination, Roscoe was satisfied enough to gloat, “Have a nice life, Sinclair. I’ll be enjoying yours.”

When Skinner was gone, Deacon let his breath escape in a slow hiss. “In your dreams, you son of a bitch,” he vowed to the darkened room.

Who Skinner was and why he claimed such a harsh vendetta no longer mattered. The important thing was to protect Garnet. He’d failed her before and he would not do so again. He cursed Prior for involving her in this new misery, then paused. Did Garnet know? Was she a part of his scheme to scam funds from the citizens of Pride? No. He didn’t believe that. She would never hurt innocent people. She’d been justified to go after him, but even in taking her revenge, she’d been careful to see his mother didn’t suffer for it. She didn’t know what Prior was up to, but that left her no less vulnerable to the town’s fury. He was the one who manipulated through lies, not her.

While standing in the empty store, he thought hard and fast on how to recover without losing all. Getting out of impossible situations was what he did best. Skinner was a
fool, blinded by his own intentions. If he knew anything about Deacon at all, it was that he never accepted failure. And he never surrendered.

He’d confront Prior and get him to publicly confess his past to eliminate the damage Skinner’s information could do. He’d shelter Garnet from any slur of awareness or participation. If Prior was in the midst of plotting, as Roscoe suggested, then it was the dapper Englishman who’d be absent from Pride this very evening. And he wouldn’t be leaving with Garnet.

That was the other situation he’d clarify.

Did she love him?

He’d wasted enough time wondering.

Patrice had asked him what he wanted and he’d hedged in his answer. Now he knew. He wanted Garnet and her little boy. He wanted to make his world around them, whether it be in his family’s grand home or in humble quarters in town, whether he was a plantation aristocrat or a simple store clerk. If she would have him. If she could forgive him.

If she loved him.

He couldn’t make the past five years of pain go away, but he could see they didn’t perpetuate into a lifetime of regret.

And it all began with one question, one he’d been terrified of asking, because once the answer was known, whether it be yes or no, his life would be forever changed.

But wasn’t any change better than the lonely
limbo he’d been drifting through for most of his years?

With or without the woman he loved, tonight he would begin over as just Deacon Sinclair, separate from past glories, free of inherited expectations, ready to accept what the future would bring on his own terms. And the emancipation felt wonderful.

He took his first deep breath as a free man. It caught in his throat, then expelled in a shaky rattle as he recognized the figure pushing through the front door on a gust of rain and urgency.

“Garnet, I need to know—”

She tossed back the hood to her cloak and the sight of her expression ended his declaration. Strain and fright etched her face into dramatic angles and hollows. He reached out to catch her by the arms, alarmed by her trembling, by her suddenly dependence upon him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find William!”

Her tight-throated claim hit Deacon like an unfair punch, making him realize for the first time that he cared almost as much for the little boy as he did William’s mother. Never mind who the child’s father was, he was part Garnet, and therefore dear to him.

Seeing more than just potential danger to the boy in Garnet’s hurried breathing, he took her pale face between his palms, cradling it, forcing her to focus on his calm expression.

“Slow down,” he commanded with a quiet
authority. “Relax your breathing or you’ll be no good to him at all. Breathe, slow and easy.”

He held her gaze until the wildness began to abate. Her hands came up to cover his, clutching with a controlled desperation.

“Talk to me,” he urged.

“I don’t know where William is. He and Christien got into a fight and he ran off.”

“He didn’t come here. He didn’t try to find you?”

She shook her head, tears brightening in her eyes.

“Where else might he have gone? Think, Garnet. Who else does he know in town?”

“No one.”

“Would he have started back to the Manor on his own?”

Alarm leapt in her gaze. “But that’s miles and miles.”

“Would he have started back on foot if he was upset?”

She took a few quick breaths, thinking as her child might. “He could have. He doesn’t have a very good sense of distance or of his own limitations.” Her expression sobered. “He might have tried to walk back alone.”

“When did he leave the Dodges’?”

“About an hour ago.” Her voice faded and broke at the thought of her child alone, out in the cold and dark. She surrendered gratefully into Deacon’s surrounding embrace, willing to
transfer some of her burden onto his capable shoulders.

“If he hasn’t stopped someplace, he could have made good headway by now. It’s dark, so I’m sure he’s stuck to the road. He won’t be hard to catch up to. What were the boys fighting about?”

She shook her head again. “Starla couldn’t get Christien to tell us. William is a sensitive child, but he’s also a sensible one. He gets that from his father.”

Deacon felt the faint pull of her smile beneath the curl of his fingertips along her cheek and jaw.

“It’s not like him to do something so impulsive. So dangerous. Deacon, I’m afraid—”

His arms tightened. “Don’t be. We’ll find him. Where’s your husband? And Skinner?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen either of them.”

“Then we’ll start searching ourselves. He won’t have left the road. You’re right, he may be upset, but he’s not stupid. We’ll find him.”

Her tension eased with belief, and Deacon hoped that wishing it could make it so. But William was just a child, and children didn’t always conform to logic. There was no use worrying Garnet until absolutely necessary. They would focus on the road between Pride and Sinclair Manor. Then, if worse came to worst, he would alert all their neighbors for a search of the woods. He wouldn’t think about how hard it would be to find one little boy in the darkness. Not until he had to.

But he would find William. There was no way he’d allow another source of sorrow into Garnet’s life. If it took all night. If he personally had to look under every bush, behind every tree. He owed her that much and more. Tonight, he would find her child, and for the rest of his life, he’d work on that “more.”

Garnet rode in the buggy in what had become a chilling sleet. Deacon flanked her on horseback, hunched against the weather and holding a lantern high. A thin beam of light wavered from it, just enough to illuminate the sad condition of the road. They took turns calling for William. Garnet’s voice grew increasingly hoarse. Deacon could hear the panic she tried to hide in its uneven tones, and he admired her for her bravery while fearing the worst. The night was brutal, the icy rain slashing through his heavy coat to burn right to the skin. What chance would one frail little boy have after suffering the elements for over an hour? Garnet had to be thinking the same thing.

He was staring out into the darkness, trying to see beyond the weak pool of lantern light, when Garnet gave a sudden cry. The buggy had stopped. He reined in beside it, chest tight with alarm.

“What is it?”

“I’m stuck. These damned roads.” She sounded more angry than frightened, which was good.

Deacon swung down off his horse, immediately sinking to his boot tops. Wading through the mire, he circled the vehicle to assess the problem. The problem was the county’s method of providing road drainage by heaping soft dirt up in the middle of the lane to encourage runoff. What it encouraged was a sticky hill and slushy ruts that snared the lightweight buggy like a gnat in honey.

“I’m going to push. When I holler, you whip up the horses.”

“All right.”

After finding firm purchase for his feet, Deacon leaned his shoulder into the rear of the buggy. Shouting “Go,” he levered his weight against the conveyance, hearing the slap of reins and Garnet’s demand of “Get up there!”

His feet slipped and he dug in deeper, pushing steadily until the buggy rocked forward, then broke the muddy suction to roll rapidly ahead. Off balance, Deacon plunged headlong into the muck. Cold ooze filled his mouth and nose, choking off his curse. By the time he skidded and scrambled to his feet, Garnet had the buggy free.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he spat out along with a mouthful of grit. He was wiping his face on his sleeve when he picked up on a faint sound, one sweet enough to offset his cold misery.

A child’s voice.

“Mama!”

Chapter 21

I
t was with tremendous pleasure that Deacon lifted one shivering boy up to his weeping mother. William was wet and cold, but otherwise seemed no worse for wear, but Garnet needed further assurances as she clutched him to her.

“Are you all right, darling?”

“I’m sorry, Mama. It got dark so fast and it started raining and it was too far to go back and I was too tired to go on, so I found that big old tree over there to sit under and figured I’d wait for you to come get me.”

Clever boy. She squeezed him until he squirmed. Smart boy, like his father.

“Let’s get him home and into some dry clothes.”

She nodded. Home, with Deacon and her son. She embraced the idea, too weary to deny herself the simple joy of it. With William tucked against her side, she drove the rest of the way without incident. She saw the lights of the Manor ahead, a beacon in her storm of worries
and doubts, a safe haven for her family. And for the first time, she felt its welcome.

“I’ll take him.”

She passed William into Deacon’s uplifted hands and the reins to one of the stableboys. With the sleepy boy enfolded in one arm, Deacon helped her down, then secured the other about her waist. She leaned into him, exhausted from the gamut of emotions, needing his strength just to get her to the door, where they were met by an alarmed Hannah.

“What happened?”

“Mama, see a hot bath is drawn for Mrs. Prior and get her settled in.”

Garnet was quick to protest his order. “No, I have to see to my son.”

“You see to yourself before you fall ill. I can take care of Will.” His tone brooked no further argument. It was the voice of the master of the house. She might have resisted his command if not for the tender way he held her child tucked under his chin. Her objections melting away, she gave an assenting nod. Obediently she followed Hannah up the stairs, too tired to examine the complexities of her mood, too vulnerable to Hannah’s motherly concern not to place herself completely in her care.