The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (3 page)

As if in answer, he muttered softly. Those storm-colored eyes flickered open, wandering briefly before fixing upon her, focusing there with concentrated effort. She offered a neutral smile. He wet his lips to speak, his first words an accusation.

“You’re a woman.”

Garnet glanced down at her masculine garb, understanding his confusion. Wondering why she suddenly wished for the cinch of a crinoline, she answered a bit defensively. “My name is Garnet Davis. You’re on my father’s farm.”

“Where is he?”

“He’ll be back soon.”

He didn’t seem to notice the vagueness of her reply. Or at least, he didn’t question it.

“You’re here alone?”

Alarm bells jangled through her, prompting her to lie. “No. No, I’m not alone. Who are you, and who shot you?”

“Shot me …?” He blinked, clearly struggling to retain his focus.

“You’ve been shot. I brought you inside and bound your wound. I need to know who shot you. Are we in any danger I should know about?”

But his eyes had closed upon her questions.

Garnet sighed in disappointment as her visitor slipped off to sleep. Her answers would have to wait until he was stronger, but did the delay put them in danger?

She rose and went to the front window, gazing out upon the undisturbed landscape. Was his assailant even now watching the house, waiting for a good time to finish what he’d started? She let the curtain drop and shot the bolt on the door. For the first time, her isolation caused her worry. Who would know if something
bad befell her? How long would it be before a neighbor thought to check upon William Davis’s daughter? If someone came for the soldier sleeping before her fireplace, could she—should she—fight them off?

Be careful what you wish for …

She grimaced and clutched the old rifle to her chest. Too late for caution in this case.

Her troubles were already here.

Chapter 2

H
arp music.

I really am dead
.

The sweet tones soothed his initial panic. Gentle sounds, plucking at emotions of regret and wonder and a strangely disassociated relief. He drifted upon the strains of wistful melody, his memories floating, entwined with the heavenly score. Images of long ago, of childhood dreams and adolescent longings never realized. Of the family he would never see again. Of the family he would never have. So sad. So unfair. So … unacceptable.

He had work to finish.

He couldn’t die and abandon those who depended upon him. But the music was so beautiful, so pure. How could he surrender it to return to the harshness of living?

And then there was that face. That heavenly beauty with the tempting mouth and dark, soulful eyes. How could he let her go without exploring the sweet mystery of those lips?

As if in answer, he felt the moist touch of that kiss upon his cheek, cool against his fevered skin, an irresistible invitation. Opening his eyes to catch a glimpse of his angel, he turned toward the kiss and was met by a wet black nose and flaring nostrils.

“What the—?”

The music stopped.

“Boone, get away from him!”

Remembrance returned as Deacon jerked back upon a wash of fresh pain. His movement startled the lanky dog into leaping back as well, setting up a din of barking that pounded through Deacon’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the returning swells of sickness.

Dog toenails scrabbled against wood flooring followed by a baleful yip, a rush of cold air, and blissful silence. Then came his angel’s voice.

“I’m sorry. He doesn’t like strangers.”

Deacon slit his eyes to gaze up at the figure who was both stranger and strangely familiar. The baggy clothing, the short black hair, and the easy movements belonged to the quarry he’d been studying all week.

But the soft voice—so like music itself—and the sinfully lovely features were those of a tempting siren. He stared, amazed that he could have made such a glaring error.

From a distance, the mannish clothes and cropped hair disguised what could never be questioned up close—that this was no man, no boy. The bulky shirts and trousers couldn’t conceal
a form so ripe with curves. The hair couldn’t detract from the gentle contour of her wind-burned cheeks, the mysterious slant of dark eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes, the full lips pursed as if awaiting a man’s attention.

Good God, what a beauty hidden away in this isolated hole in the mountains beneath the inappropriate garb. Such beauty was meant to be captured on canvas, in marble, or by some lucky aristocrat who would adorn her with silks and lace. The cruelty of fate distracted him long enough for her to grow concerned.

She bent to touch her work-roughened palm to his brow, to his unshaven cheek. Air sucked through his teeth in a noisy hiss.

“A fever’s started,” she pronounced in dismay. “I’d better check your wound again.”

In his rapid reassessment, Deacon figured her to be Davis’s wife or perhaps his sister, but when she reached out to peel back his shirt, he realized the truth. It was inexperience coloring her cheeks in fiery embarrassment. It was youth that made her hesitate before placing a hand upon his exposed torso. The maturity ripening her face and form had not yet touched her spirit. She was little more than a child in that regard. Yes, now he remembered. This must be Davis’s daughter.

“It’s not my wish to discomfort you, Miss Davis. You needn’t compromise your delicate nature. I can tend myself.”

Words meant to soothe her agitation instead braced her with a new determination.

“That’s all right, Sergeant. I’m hardly delicate, and this war has left little room for modest sentiments.”

Sergeant?
He was about to correct her when she pulled the crude dressing away, tearing at the edges of his wound, making him gasp. The shock of hurt restored his clear thinking. Sergeant. Yes, of course. He remembered the rank sewn upon his stolen coat. He’d almost betrayed himself in his rare distraction over a pretty girl.

He’d have to be careful.

The girl chewed her lip as she surveyed the wound. “It’s still bleeding something fierce. I’m afraid I don’t know what else to do. You can scarce afford to lose any more blood if you’re going to pull through.”

That was quite the comfort.

Deacon ground his teeth as he came up on his elbows. He blinked hard into the watery waves of sickness, forcing them to ebb back to a manageable level. One look down told him everything she said was true. He wouldn’t last until morning unless something drastic was done.

“Miss Davis—it’s Miss Davis, right?” At her jerky, wide-eyed nod, he continued in a tight voice. “If you’d be so kind as to hand me that stick of kindling …”

She followed his gaze to the fireplace, but not his reasoning. With a frown of confusion, she drew out the slender piece of glowing oak and delivered it into his unsteady hand. She waited, expecting some explanation.

“Miss Davis, you might want to step outside for just a minute.”

She absorbed the quiet caution in his tone while searching his gaze for answers. He could tell the moment she arrived at the correct one. Her face lost all color.

“Oh, my. Surely, you don’t mean to—”

“It’ll cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding. If you can think of another way, I’d be glad to hear it.”

Breathing in quick agitated snatches, she thought long and hard, then reluctantly shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Leave now, Miss Davis.”

She looked wistfully toward the door and its offer of escape from what was to come, but after forcing a hard swallow, she said, “No. I think I should remain, in case … in case you should need me for anything.”

He paused, unable to phrase his admiration. Such courage for a young creature! His voice gentled.

“At least look away.”

Garnet turned her head, steeling herself for the worst.

Coward! Do something!

Chiding herself for being unable to aid him in the horrible deed, she vowed not to behave squeamishly, even as her stomach ached with anticipation of his screams … screams that never came. A sudden sickly sweet smell reached her.
She clamped her lips together when she realized it was the scent of burning flesh.

A quiet thump sounded as he fell back into unconsciousness.

Still fighting nausea as the scorched scent overwhelmed her, Garnet looked back, then quickly snatched up the discarded bit of kindling as it singed the wool of his uniform jacket. She tossed it into the fire, then forced herself to examine the grisly injury.

No bleeding escaped the seared edges of the wound. She let her breath go in a rattly gush. In the face of his incredible bravery, she couldn’t excuse her own hesitation. Controlling her breathing into a practiced rhythm, she also conquered her panic. She could do this.

By the time the soldier came to again, Garnet had washed around the wound and redressed his side with clean linens. She smiled at him as his eyes blinked open, unable to conceal her awe. When he put a hand to his ribs, she answered his unspoken question.

“The wound is closed. Hopefully, there’ll be no problem now with its healing.”

His hand fell away as he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Do you think you could stand with my help? I’d like to get you in bed.” A fierce blush suffused her face when she considered what she’d said. With a stammer, she amended, “You’ll be more comfortable than here on the floor.”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my account, Miss Davis.”

“It’s no trouble.”

It would be a blessing to get him out of the front room, where she was constantly distracted by his presence.

With her assistance, he was able to sit up. With an arm looped about her shoulders, he struggled to get his feet under him, while she hauled back and steadied him. She’d guessed at his height before but had been unprepared for the way he dwarfed her. Lean and long-limbed, he was nonetheless solidly made. That she discovered as she slipped her arm tentatively about his middle. His fingers bit into her upper arms as he swayed.

“Give me … a minute.”

Don’t let him swoon!

She didn’t know how she’d manage to keep him on his feet if he fainted, let alone wrangle him into the bedroom. She angled under his arm, letting him drape over her shoulder with a soul-shocking familiarity. His breath pulsed hard and fast against the side of her face, quickening her own heartbeats in response.

“Are you all right, Sergeant?”

She felt him nod. Then slowly, to prove it, he began to straighten, relieving her of most of the burden of support.

“Where to?”

She directed him to the curtained doorway, pushing it aside with her free hand and guiding
him within the cozy dimness. Heavy drapes at the windows sealed out both the chill and the thin daylight. Once he’d targeted the bed, he let momentum carry him to it. The springs groaned under his abrupt descent and Garnet found herself pulled across his lap. Startled by the contact, she tried to lever back, but his arms remained about her, anchoring her there upon his knees. She sat stiff and still, engulfed by his size, by his heat, by his intimate proximity. For a long moment, neither of them moved. He was merely gathering his strength, she told herself. There was no reason to be alarmed—or to be charged with anticipation.

Finally he leaned back, allowing her to slip from the circle of his arms. Thankfully, his eyes were closed, so he didn’t witness the way her knees knocked together when she stood away from him. Taking a deep breath, she returned to the matter of making him comfortable.

To turn down the bed, she had to reach behind him. Awareness of him overwhelmed her once more. She’d been around so few men, and this one, by virtue of his courage alone, was enough to make her giddy.

She jumped slightly as his uniform jacket hit the bed. Nervously she edged back to see him unbuttoning his long underwear. Her gaze riveted to the expanse of lightly furred chest revealed with the release of each fastening.

“Could you help me with this?”

“Oh … yes, of course.”

She was slowly able to draw off the bloodstained garment, leaving him bare from the trouser band up except for the white swatch of her crude bandaging. Her gaze fixed itself upon his knees.

“What else?” Was that tight-throated little voice really her own?

When he didn’t reply, she was forced to glance upward. A small smile etched upon his weary features.

“Just my boots, if you don’t mind.”

A nervous smile released some of her tension. Just his boots. She bent to wrestle them off one at a time.

When she stood, his figure slumped. His head bowed, his eyes closed, his exhaustion was plain in the droop of his shoulders. Garnet’s tender heart melted.

“You rest, now. Get your strength back.”

He needed only that gentle encouragement. When he started to lie back, the movement caused a grimace to twist his features. Garnet slipped her arm behind his back to support and guide him to the sheets. His eyes never opened, but as she pulled the covers up around him, he murmured a soft, “Thank you.”

Feeling as though she should withdraw but unable to make herself take the first step away, Garnet watched him sink into a healing slumber. Only then did an important thought occur to her.

“Your name? What’s your name?”

She needed something to call him other than the impersonal moniker of “Sergeant.” Especially within the privacy of her own dreams.

When he remained unmoving, she figured him to be asleep. Disappointed, she turned toward the curtained doorway.

“Deacon. Deacon Sinclair.”

Deacon
.

She smiled to herself, liking the way it settled familiarly within her mind.

“Rest, Sergeant Sinclair.”

She stepped outside the room and closed the drape. A sigh escaped her.

Deacon
.

But he didn’t rest. Sleep couldn’t overtake the rapid turnings of Deacon’s mind. He glanced at the Union jacket she’d hung so respectfully on the bedpost. He was in and she didn’t suspect a thing.

Once he’d gotten over his surprise that the occupant of the farm was a woman, he busied himself thinking how to use the fact to his best advantage. She was just a girl, really. A girl full of modest blushes and curiosity. A girl whose heart had beaten with untested passion as he’d purposefully held her near. The way to win her over was no mystery. He was halfway there already. This was her bed. There was no mistaking the herbal scent that clung to the pillows. The same fresh fragrance was in her ridiculously short hair.