Coleman Fairfax had once been a huge man, thick with muscles born of carrying liquor casks since he was old enough to run away from home. What was left of that strong body huddled shriveled and trembling beneath a pile of nasty-smelling quilts. The powerful features that had once been cut with bold strokes to fashion a harsh handsomeness had sunk into cadaverous hollows. But there was no change in the old man’s eyes. They still blazed with fury and discontent, and Tyler approached with caution.
“How do you think I feel?” growled the rusty voice. “I’m dying. You just ask ‘cause you like hearing it.”
Tyler ignored the petulant complaint and began speaking with enthusiasm as he circled slightly behind the thronelike wing chair. His father didn’t like looking at his face, so he’d learned to stay carefully out of his field of vision.
“Got some good news, Daddy. Know how you been wantin’ to step up production? Well, I jus’ got us some of the best bottomland you could wish for. Oughta bring in rye to the tune of—”
“Damned fool! You go spending all my money on some worthless plot of dirt?”
“Nossir, Daddy. It’s prime land, already cultivated. Got it from the Sinclairs.”
“Then it’s more than I can afford.”
“I didn’t cost you nothin’, Daddy.”
“Liar. Little sneakin’ liar. Jus’ like your mama. Can’t abide a liar. Get over here where’s I can see you.”
Tyler froze where he was. “I ain’t lying. Made me a deal with Avery’s boy, Deacon. Ain’t costin’ us nothing’. Alls we got to do is bring in the crops and cook up the profits.”
Cole shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the sound of his breathing growing rattly in his agitation. “I don’t like you back there breathin’ down my neck. Get out here wheres I can keep an eye on you and see if you’re tellin’ me the truth.”
Tyler edged around the side of the chair, cautious but sure he was out of reach. Until the sudden swoosh of his father’s cane came at him. He had no time to duck away from the fierce blow. It caught
him square in the face. He went spinning to the floor, taking a table with him.
“You spilled my supper. Who’s gonna clean that up?”
Blackness and the taste of bile swamped over Tyler as he stayed down. The puddle of chicken broth darkened with the blood gushing from his nose. After a long minute, he blinked away the swirling pin dots and levered up to his knees. Quick as a snake, the crook of the cane snagged the back of his neck, dragging him up almost into his father’s bony knees.
“Where’s your sister?”
Sickness threatened to overcome him. He clamped his jaw tight, swaying into the dark, bitter waves.
“Where did you hide her, you sneakin’ little bastard?”
Tyler managed a breath and the sudden cold courage to look the old man right in the eye. “Where you’ll never find her.”
Cole’s features screwed up with a fearsome fury. “I want her back here. I want her home.”
Tyler twisted back, escaping. Hatred seethed from him along with a vicious sense of satisfaction. “She’s never comin’ back. She’s safe. Safe from you.”
The old man’s gaze went rheumy with distress. Tyler might have felt sorry for him if there’d been a scrap of affection in the bastard’s dark heart. He knew there wasn’t.
“I’m dying, boy. I want to see her.”
“Well, she don’t want to see you.” He staggered up to his feet, using his shirtsleeve to swipe away the blood pouring over his mouth and chin. “It’s
jus’ you and me, old man, until you die. When’s that gonna be? I ain’t gonna wait forever.”
Sullen eyes glared at him. “If you’re in such a hurry, why don’t you end it for me?”
Tyler grinned wide, his green eyes, his mother’s eyes, glittering with cold animosity. “Oh no. You deserve to die slow. I wouldn’t think to deny either of us the pleasure.”
Grabbing the bottle of bourbon off the floor next to the chair, Tyler reeled out of the room, away from his father’s gurgling shouts of, “Come back here, boy! We ain’t through talkin’! Get back here you worthless, lying son of a whore!”
He closed the doors on the rest of the tirade. After wiping the top of the bottle off, he took a long steady pull, swallowing down enough to numb the dull ache of his father’s words.
He made it as far as the stairway. Lying back upon the steps, he took another deep drink and waited from the shaking to leave him.
“Die, why don’t you? Why can’t you just die?”
His eyes drifted shut, and the remaining whiskey from the bottle made a tiny river down the steps.
A sound like thunder shook the foundation of the Glade. Surging hoofbeats woke memories of dangerous renegade units crisscrossing the county during the war years. Self-preserving instinct brought everyone within the dwelling out to the front porch, each of them armed and ready to face any enemy.
Reeve was already down at the rebuilt paddocks welcoming the arrivals in with whistles and the wide wave of his arm; a dozen of the most beautiful horses imaginable milling about the enclosure as Reeve swung the gate closed.
Unable to check her excitement, Patrice clasped her morning robe about her and ran barefooted down to the whitewashed rails where Reeve leaned. The Glade and sleek horseflesh was synonymous in her mind and seeing those empty paddocks was a heartbreaking reminder that life would never be the
same again. Having them filled with tossing manes and churning hooves brought a lightness of hope to heart and soul. With childlike joy, she stepped up onto the bottom rail, hanging over it to catch the dusty breeze stirred up by the circling animals.
“They’re wonderful!”
She looked at Reeve then, exchanging a moment of shared pleasure until the darkening of his eyes reminded her of the more intimate enjoyment they’d experienced hours earlier. Her cheeks warmed with an answering mix of longing and frustration.
She’d slept poorly after leaving him out on those mashed-down grasses. She’d tossed in her restlessness, chafing with need. The irritability that came with morning light fled as she detailed the smoky heat of his gaze, as a small smile teased about desirable lips, provoking remembrances of how thoroughly he’d kissed her.
The spark between them was too evident for daylight hours and the approaching company. She turned back to watch the horses, aware of an accelerated pulse driven by the same agitation that moved the animals in reckless patterns. She gripped the top rail to fend off the urge to touch him, to connect once more and experience the powerful movement of man and muscle, so like the heaving flanks of the thoroughbreds weaving in and out as they settled into their new surroundings.
“Look at those lines.” The squire’s tone was ripe with appreciation. “Beautiful.” He faced Reeve in animation and confusion. “How—where—?”
Reeve didn’t answer right away. He walked over to the waiting drovers who’d wrangled the animals from the train. A bill of sale was exchanged, then
the dirty riders nodded at the offer of hot coffee up at the house. While Hannah saw to them with her innate graciousness, Byron repeated the question, this time with a stronger emphasis.
“Reeve, where did these animals come from?”
“Pennsylvania.”
From the North. That said too much yet still not enough. His father began to frown, initial excitement dimming. Reeve went back to the rail, noting wryly that Deacon was now situated in his spot next to Patrice. He settled in a less preferable space on Sinclair’s right to watch the horses move, the sight stirring up feelings of pride and accomplishment he knew were about to be crippled.
“Reeve, what are these animals doing here?”
He pointed to a leggy chestnut instead of answering. “Look at her. Look at that balance, the symmetry. Any foal of hers by Zeus would be worth the cost of the lot of them.”
But Byron wasn’t looking at the mare. He was glaring at Reeve with suspicion and massing outrage.
“Answer me. Where did you get these horses, and how did you pay for them?”
“A fellow I served with was from Valley Forge. We got to talking, and he was telling me about his surplus of blooded mares. I took a chance and had him send these down to me. Here are their papers. The lineage is solid. See for yourself.”
Byron dismissed the registrations. “By what right did you bring them here? Without asking me?”
Reeve’s expression closed down tight, revealing none of his emotions. “Sir, I—”
“What made you think I’d take charity from one
of your damned Yankee friends for inferior horseflesh?”
“There’s not a thing wrong with those mares. And it wasn’t charity.”
“How did you pay for them then? With pilfered Southern goods? With silverware taken from loyal neighbors’ homes over their dead bodies?”
Reeve’s features were as stony as a cliff face. He spoke slowly, without inflection. “I paid for them in gold. Glendower gold. From accounts set up in the North by Dodge’s bank before we lost it all in useless Confederate paper.”
Byron went scarlet with fury. “You had no right! You stole money that wasn’t yours! Without my permission!”
“I didn’t steal it. And I didn’t tell you about it because I wanted it to be a surprise.” He made an angry gesture toward the paddock and hissed, “Surprise,” before stalking toward the house. He’d nearly reached the front steps with his fierce strides before the squire caught up to him. The older man grabbed his elbow and jerked him about.
“How could you think I’d ever agree to this? I will not accept those weak-hocked Northern hobby ponies!”
“Look around. See any Kentucky purebreds wandering loose? They’ve all been broken, shot, or eaten. We’ve no choice but to take some risks in expanding the line if we want to survive. And there won’t be a single weakness in those mares that a few months cropping our bluegrass won’t cure.”
“You’ve overstepped yourself, Reeve. Jonah would never have made such a decision on his own—”
Reeve’s patience snapped. He yanked his arm
free, snarling, “You didn’t give control of the Glade to Jonah, did you? You never would have as long as you were alive to pull the strings. You gave it to me. You told me to build it up again, and by God, I will. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Squire, I’ve got men to pay.”
He went inside, leaving his father to fume. Not seeing the old man sway, clutching his chest as he grabbed the porch rail for balance.
“Reeve?”
He glanced up over Zeus’s saddle at the sound of Patrice’s voice. For a moment, the sight of her snatched his breath. Her face was pink from the exertion of running down from the house. Luxurious copper tresses peeped from beneath the sassy tilt of her silly little hat. The fitted shape of her tobacco brown riding jacket accentuated perfect breasts and trim waist before flaring over the full swirl of her skirt. A thoroughbred. No mistaking those strong, classic lines.
“I’d like to ride along with you if you’re going into town.”
He thought of the two of them alone, of the dangers on the road—not from possible ambush but from the likely collapse of his own restraint.
I’ve never wanted anyone but you.
The words whispered through his mind in silky provocation.
“I don’t think your brother would approve of me as your escort.” He bent down to finishing with the cinch.
“Well, Deacon has already left for the Manor, and Mama said she had no objections.”
He looked at her again, noting her pleased pout.
Such kissable lips … “Did you tell her you’d be riding with me?”
She refused to be daunted by his cynicism. “Yes, I did. Whether you believe it or not, my mama is quite fond of you. She always has been.”
Reeve ducked his head, not wanting her to see the surprise and unexpected delight in his expression. “Your mama’s a grand lady. She knows I’d never let any harm come to you.” His tone growled, censuring his own erotic thoughts.
“Is there a horse I can ride? I’ve been dying to get back in the saddle again.”
Her breathlessness sounded too husky to stem from the thrill of riding horseback. Reeve didn’t dare speculate farther.
He cut a flashy bay mare from the corral and slapped a saddle on while Patrice stroked its velvet nose and murmured soft acquainting words. The tender caressing tones pulled a strange anxiousness through him even as it calmed the high-strung animal. The animal in him prowled in painful arousal.
Not waiting for a boost, Patrice vaulted lithely into the saddle to settle in a graceful sideseat, gathering up the reins in gloved hands. With a nudge of her heel, she sent the bay cantering down the drive. Reeve had no fear for her. She was an excellent horsewoman, always had been. In no time, he thundered after her in a chase lasting only as long as it took them to be out of view from the Glade. Then Patrice skillfully drew in her mount and Reeve fell into a companionable pace beside her.
Patrice patted the satiny neck. “She’s got a beautiful gait, Reeve, as strong and sure as any of our Kentucky-bred.”
Then she surprised him completely. “That was a
brilliant idea, converting the Glade’s assets into Union gold.”
Though he wished he could take the credit to bask in her praise, he couldn’t. “It was Jonah’s.”
“But how did he get together with your friend, Dodge?”
“I wrote him about Dodge and his banking firm in Michigan. He saw to the transfers.” Reeve felt Patrice’s gaze.
“I didn’t know you and Jonah corresponded.”
“When we could.”
“I wonder why he didn’t tell me.”
Her musing made Reeve wonder why, himself. Lately, he’d discovered a whole new side of his half brother in contrast to all he’d believed about him. A human side. A weak side, vulnerable to emotions like jealousy and spite. He thought of Jonah’s letters, full of glowing, gushing details concerning his and Patrice’s happiness. To make him feel closer to things at home or to emphasize the separation? He wondered, and it soured his mood.
Then Patrice made it worse by asking in a fragile voice, “Did Jonah write about me?”
“Not much. Just that you were planning the wedding and he was hoping I could get leave to stand up beside him.”
“And would you have?”
An emotional snag in her question made him turn to catch the intensity of her expression. “Would I what?”