The Men of Pride County: The Pretender
Read The Men of Pride County: The Pretender Online
Authors: Rosalyn West
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.
He lay in her bed. There was no mistaking the herbal scent that clung to the pillows. The same fresh fragrance was in her hair. Soft hair, soft lips, soft shape easily molded to his own.
From the other room the music she played started up again, sweet remembered tones played too poignantly. A peaceful sleep stole over him, his first for a very long time.
And in the gentle dreams that followed, a beautiful angel beckoned to him with a heart of gold. Calling to a soul he no longer believed he possessed …
THE MEN OF PRIDE COUNTY
T
HE
PRETENDER
ROSALYN
WEST
Contents
Pride County, Kentucky
1866
B
etter it burn than belong to another.
Deacon Sinclair stared into the flames, that thought consuming him the way greedy tongues of fire devoured the well-aged wood. Smoke enveloped him, its acrid scent parching eyes already raw from lack of sleep, but he didn’t draw away. He continued to watch the blaze, seeing his hopes, his dreams fall away in ashes.
Everything he loved, everything he’d sacrificed for, would soon be gone.
Today the fertile acres and the majestic house standing proudly upon them would pass from his grasp into a stranger’s hands. Tonight a stranger would make the decisions he’d been bred to. Tonight a stranger would sleep in the bed where he’d been conceived. And he would sleep under someone else’s roof, accepting charity where he could find it.
Except he’d never learned how to do that. Humility, like apology, were things he’d never
been schooled in under his father’s harsh tutelage. He knew how to command his future and that of those around him. He knew how to survive by any means at hand. But he didn’t know how to bend to a bitter fate and graciously admit to failure.
Failure was a luxury he’d never been allowed.
But what else could he do that hadn’t already been done? Tyler Fairfax had sold off the mortgage and the new owner was on his way to claim what Avery Sinclair had died to preserve. A way of life, an inheritance of pride, all gone. And for the first time, Deacon was glad his father had died in battle so as not to witness the shame of his trust betrayed.
Avery Sinclair would never have bent. Nor would he have allowed his home to pass out of his hands. He would have destroyed it first.
He would want Deacon to do the same.
But Deacon couldn’t force himself to take a piece of kindling from the fire burning in the grate before him to turn his family home into a pyre of defiance. It was the last monument to all he held dear, to all he’d aspired to. In destroying it, he would lose himself as well.
There had to be another way.
Anger flickered then flared white hot in defiance of his despair. After all he’d done, after all he’d let escape him—happiness, love, even the basics of his humanity—he was not going to quietly sit by and lose it all anyway. The unfairness of it fanned his fury. This house, these
lands, were his inheritance, not just given but earned: every board foot, every acre through brutal work and endless self-deprivation. Lost in a moment of weakness. Gone upon a schemer’s whim. And though he wished he could cast the blame elsewhere, it settled hot and chokingly within him, a victim of his pride. He’d failed to protect one of the two things he’d vowed never to compromise—his family lands and his family name. What good was one without the other?
He would find a way, perhaps not today or tomorrow, perhaps not for weeks, months, or years, but he would have back what was his. In making that promise, he leaned back from the blaze.
There is no such thing as honorable surrender. There is no substitute for success
.
The war hadn’t taught him that. His father had.
“I’m ready.”
The sound of his mother’s soft tones squeezed about Deacon’s heart. It was a moment before he could stand and turn to face her with an impassive front. That, too, was expected of him. Her brave, accepting smile was bereft of accusation. And that small forgiving gesture nearly broke him. He had to look away or lose the last of his control. Words failed briefly. What could he say to her that would reduce the pain of leaving her memories and security behind? He took a breath, then another to ease the constriction in his throat.
“Patrice and Reeve should be here soon to see you to the Glade.”
“You aren’t coming with us?”
“No. I need—I need to take care of things here. I’ll come by later to make sure you’re settled in.”
“We’ll wait with you.”
Her concern shot a spear of anguish to his core but his reply was carefully void of emotion. “No. I’d rather see to it alone.” Alone, the way he’d handled everything in his life. Alone was preferable. No witnesses to his fall from grace.
“What ever you want, dear.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. What he wanted? He wanted to give her back her home. He wanted to return dignity to his family name. He wanted the vision of the future his father instilled with relentless and unswerving zeal. He wanted to stand tall just once in his life, knowing he’d met every expectation. But this wasn’t about what he wanted. It was about what had to be.
“Mama?”
Because he rarely addressed her so informally or with such raspy feeling, Hannah Sinclair drew close, all at once consoling, yet not sure how to comfort. “What is it, Deacon?”
“I’m sorry.”
She placed her hand on his coat sleeve, inviting him to turn into her embrace, well knowing that he wouldn’t. Her husband had quite effectively and quite ruthlessly weaned him from the
need for compassion—hers or anyone else’s. That was the only cause she’d ever had to curse the man she’d adored. Because she knew he would accept honesty more readily than sympathy, she made her reply one of quiet earnest.
“Don’t be. You did everything you could do.”
His head bowed.
Sensing his uncommon vulnerability, Hannah was about to say more when the sound of an approaching company interrupted. Immediately, Deacon stiffened, self-contained and unapproachable once again.
“That’ll be them. Are you sure you have everything you need, Mother?”
“All I need is my family”
He looked at her then, his features expressionless, emotions swallowed up and sealed away by years of training. If his heart was breaking, he gave no evidence of it. “I’ll bring down the rest of your bags.”
But her hand remained upon his arm, staying him as if there were more she meant to say. Because he couldn’t bear to hear those sentiments, Deacon gently carried her graceful fingers to his lips, pressing a respectful kiss upon them. Asking for and receiving her silent obedience with a remote gentility that was so like his father’s, it brought tears to her eyes. Hannah blinked them away, not wanting him to mistake their cause. She withdrew her hand and softly said, “I’ll let them in.”
Deacon watched her move toward the foyer,
all fragile grace and Southern charm, while he choked on the fact that this was the last time she’d play hostess in her own home. One more sin to weigh upon his soul. He was about to start for the stairs when a familiar voice grated against the last of his reserve.
Tyler Fairfax, come to gloat in smug victory.
Damn him!
Bringing with him the new masters of Sinclair Manor.
Deacon didn’t know much about them. He didn’t need to know more than the fact that these people were laying claim to generations of sweat and sacrifice by virtue of having the one thing he lacked … money. Not having much character to begin with, Fairfax displayed a greed which overcame all promises he’d made to allow Deacon the time to buy back his inheritance. The town banker told him that the new owners had paid an unprecedented sum to snatch up the Manor’s mortgage in a time when much more could be had much more cheaply. In the aftermath of war, plantation property was easier to come by than credit. But it was more than money where Fairfax was concerned; it always had been. Something had prompted the little weasel to sell, something more than the amount. The Fairfaxes had more money than God. No, this was about pride, about wanting to rub Deacon’s face in his misfortune just for the malicious enjoyment of it. There was something about this offer, about these buyers, that had
Fairfax smirking with pleasure. Gritting his teeth and gathering his dignity, Deacon went to discover what it was.
The truth nearly killed him.
Fairfax might have hoped it, but never could he have dreamed the full effect the owner’s identity would have.
Deacon stood in the doorway, rigid with shock, while Tyler, smiling a Cheshire grin, introduced the well-dressed couple standing in the hall.
“Might I present Mister Montgomery Prior and his lovely wife?”
“A pleasure, Mister Sinclair.”
The man who spoke with a clipped British accent extended his hand in an affable manner, but Deacon never saw the gesture or truly noticed the man. His disbelieving stare was fixed upon the stunning woman whose new name and glamorous look couldn’t distract from the way Deacon’s heart seemed suddenly to still in his chest as she smiled and purred, “I believe the pleasure is all ours, Monty. Hello, Deacon. I’ll bet I’m the last person you ever expected to see again.”
The understatement left him speechless.
Because here was one unresolved slice of his past that he’d never dreamed would come calling—even as he dreamed about her every night without fail.
His onetime hope for happiness had become his living hell.
Cumberland Gap, Kentucky, five years earlier
1861
F
rom his place on the ridge, Deacon had the perfect view of the modest farm below. It was like many others nestled into the steep embrace of the Cumberland. A house, a barn, a well, and an old wagon. A neat garden plot covered by a dusting of snow. A scattering of hens. A horse for the wagon and a cow for milk. An existence without luxury but with a peaceful sort of comfort. He watched, although he knew the routine by heart. He’d been observing the farm for almost a week and the pattern was as familiar as it was predictable.
Just after dawn, the door to the house opened and a single figure, bundled in a heavy overcoat with hat tipped against the chill, hurried toward the barn to tend the needs of its meager inhabitants. A puppy that was all mammoth head, whip tail, and plate-sized feet bounded after. Deacon waited until the door closed, until the undisturbed serenity settled back over the intimate
scene. Then he drew his pistol to calmly check its chambers.
He drew a slow breath and steeled himself for the unpleasant business ahead.
Echoes of the shot rolled down into the quiet valley creating an avalanche of sound. Though gunfire wasn’t uncommon, its proximity startled the dog into frantic barking. The lone figure emerged from the barn to scan the surrounding hills fretfully, but reverberations off the wooded slopes confused the origins of the shot. Just as he’d planned.
