The Outcast (11 page)
“We’ve got to get him to town. He needs a doctor.”
Recovering himself, Deacon said, “I don’t have time to go to town. It’s not deep. Just pull it out.”
Reeve was examining it more closely. “An’ leave hundreds of little splinters you’ll have to dig out later? It’s your arm, Deke. You want to lose it?”
“Have you got a better suggestion, Garrett?” Deacon hissed between clenched teeth. He was hurting now, in great throbbing waves from shoulder to fingertips. The later were trembling uncontrollably.
“It’s just below the skin. If I cut a groove above it, I should be able just to lift it out.”
“Reeve, you can’t.”
Deacon’s head tossed restlessly side to side. “Do it.”
“But Deacon—”
Deacon held up his good hand for his sister’s frantic grasp. “It’s all right, Patrice. He knows what he’s doing. Don’t you?”
Reeve looked to Jericho. “You got any alcohol, any whiskey around here? A needle and some
thread?” When Jericho nodded and ran to get what was needed, Reeve positioned Patrice so that she was kneeling with her brother’s head on her lap, her knees bearing down on his shoulders. Reeve lifted the injured arm, placing it atop Deacon’s rapidly moving chest, then looked into the sweat-slicked face.
“You gonna hold together for this?”
Deacon drew a single deep breath, and his entire system steadied. He regarded Reeve with a cool, flat gaze.
“Do it.”
“Patrice, you hang on to his hand and elbow. Don’t let him move.”
“I won’t move,” came Deacon’s cold assurance.
No
, Reeve thought,
he probably won’t.
And he started to cut. Deacon never made a sound, his arm never twitched as the blade opened skin and muscle to expose the wicked shard of wood. Reeve picked it out carefully, then took the bottle of rye Jericho handed him.
“This is going to—”
Deacon cut through his quiet warning. “Just do it.”
As harsh liquor washed over the open wound, Deacon’s breath sucked in and held, his body going rigid until it was done. Then, slowly, he relaxed, never making a noise even while suffering the fires of hell. Reeve stared at him, impressed by the show of control.
No wonder he’d made such a damn good spy for the Confederacy.
He turned his attention back to the wound. “Looks clean. It’ll need stitching.”
“Patrice can do it.”
Seeing her sudden pallor, Reeve took the needle and thread. “I will.”
“No.” Patrice took the sewing materials from him, her voice surprisingly level. “I’ll do it. I’m sure my talents with the needle are superior to yours.”
And while her brother lay motionless on the ground, his eyes closed, his breathing regular, she stitched up his arm as if attaching lace to a cotillion gown. Her hands were steady, her stitches small and even, as good as his mother’s, Reeve thought with approval. And when it was done, she made a good knot and bit off the remaining thread.
Deacon sat up gradually and flexed his arm. “Nice work. You’d have made a good field surgeon.” His praise won a faint smile. He glanced over at the mess they’d made of the front entrance to his home. “Start clearing that away while Patrice binds me up.”
Reeve stared at him, incredulously, but Jericho went right to work.
“You don’t mean to stay?”
Deacon returned his look with one of mild irritation. “Of course, I do. I want to check that roof and patch what I can before nightfall.”
Reeve wondered if it was brutal Reb training or his own background that made Deacon Sinclair such a hard piece of work.
In a matter of five minutes, his arm bandaged in strips torn from his own shirt, Deacon was up in the attic looking for leaks. And his sister was tying up her hair under a broad-brimmed hat. For the first time, Reeve got a good look at her. And he couldn’t look away.
She wore pants. He was so startled by the surprising
sensuality of those britches on her curves that his tone came out sounding angry.
“Does your mama know you left the house lookin’ like that?”
“I am not a little girl under her mama’s thumb anymore, if you hadn’t noticed.”
If he hadn’t noticed before, he was noticing now. No, there was nothing childish about Patrice Sinclair. Just as hardship had weathered her soft skin, years had matured her softly feminine figure. Gentle swells were toned by physical efforts. No sign of the coquette showed in her confident stance. And there was no question of the effect those trousers had on his celibate state. It was turn away or disgrace himself.
“You’d best head back to the Glade. We got no tea parties to give here today.”
She surprised him by gripping his arm and jerking him back around to face her. Her expression was fierce.
“This is my home, Reeve Garrett. No one tells me to leave.” She tugged on heavy work gloves, the kind field hands used while cutting crops. “I have things to do. If you want tea, you’ll just have to make your own.”
She made it all the way around the back of the house before the chills started in. Knowing she was out of sight, Patrice allowed her knees to give way, going down on them in the overgrown grasses. Leaning forward onto the brace of her palms, her head hanging low while blood pounded between her temples, she let the shivers of sickness have their way. All the horror she’d pushed aside quivered up through her. Her stomach roiled. Her vision filled with a swelling sea of red.
Then, gentle hands cupped her elbows, lifting her into a swallowing embrace. She leaned gratefully into it, recognizing the hard planes on a purely sensory level even as her mind whirled in weak spirals.
“Close your eyes,” came a quiet crooning. “It’ll pass in a minute.”
She surrendered herself to that suggestion. And eventually, the seesaw of sickness slowed and steadied, so she could take a calming breath. Her palms raised, resting upon the smooth bunch of his muscular arms. Holding on while her world righted itself. And she heard herself speak a raspy confession.
“I didn’t go to war. I’ve never seen such sights. Reeve, what happened to my brother to make him so … so …” She couldn’t find the word to describe the frightening lack of humanity in Deacon Sinclair.
“Don’t know about Deacon, Patrice. But war changes men. It changed all of us.”
Patrice couldn’t take comfort in Reeve’s explanation because the war hadn’t changed her brother, it only accentuated the disturbing qualities of aloofness he’d already possessed. She pushed away, and Reeve let her go.
“I don’t want him to see me like this,” she murmured, wiping at her reddened eyes with a sleeve.
“Why?” Reeve’s hand grazed the curve of her cheek. She went still as his rough thumb rubbed away the remaining wetness. “You look beautiful.”
Patrice’s gaze widened in sudden panic … and pleasure. She wanted nothing more desperately than to press into that big open palm, to allow them both this intimate moment. Her hand covered his. And drew it firmly down. Bowing her head slightly to break from his intense stare, she said, “Thank
you for helping my brother. It was very kind of you.”
A pause. She wondered if he was annoyed by her change of topic to one of an impersonal tone. Then he answered expressionlessly.
“He would have done the same for me.”
Patrice didn’t reply. Because she wasn’t sure Deacon would have lifted a finger. She started to stand, and Reeve was quick to provide a strong bolster beneath her elbows. His touch didn’t remain once she was on her feet, but she could feel the warmth, the power of his hands lingering against vulnerable flesh and vulnerable heart. Knowing both must harden to get her through the rest of the day, Patrice turned from him without further words, going back to the business that brought her to the Manor. Part of that business was pretending her foolish pulse wasn’t racing with feverish excitement as she rubbed her palms over the places his hands rested. Pretending she didn’t ache to feel them elsewhere, everywhere.
Scowling at her own misguided passions, she applied the pry bar to rotted wood with a destructive relish.
Reeve watched them work, stubborn and determined brother and sister. He admired their vigor even as he recognized the futility. A few replaced boards and a slathering of tar weren’t going to return Sinclair Manor to its glory days. The whole world had changed, at least in the South. He didn’t think they understood that yet.
“I’m gonna have to be leavin’ soon, Mista Reeve.”
He glanced up at Jericho, surprise evident. “Guess that’d be your choice now, Jericho, but you
know how much these folks need you.”
“I knows that. Miz Patrice and I, we had ourselves an arrangement. I stays on and helps her hold the place for Mista Deacon. Well, he be back, and I be thinkin’ it’s time for me to get on to my own work.”
“You got a job waiting somewhere?”
Jericho’s dark features firmed, and a fierce light gleamed in his eyes. “I surely do. One I been waiting to tend to for a lot of years.”
A man didn’t ask another man his business, so Reeve said nothing more except, “We’ll all miss you, Jericho.”
“This been like a home to me, Mista Reeve. It ain’t easy to walk away. I reckon you understands that.”
Reeve nodded grimly. Though they weren’t the same color, they’d suffered along the same line of prejudice keeping them on the outside looking in.
“But home be family, Mista Reeve, and I gots family out there awaiting for me to find ’em.”
“Your sister?”
“I ain’t seen her for nigh on ten years.”
“You know where to look?”
“I heard tell them folks that—bought her moved down Texas way. Guess that’s where I’ll be going. There ain’t nothing for me here.”
Reeve nodded. “I’ll be hoping good things for you, Jericho.” He knew the cost the other man was about to pay, that severing of soul it took to walk away. “Before you go, stop on by the Glade, and I’ll see you get supplies. You got a horse?”
“I got two feet, and they’s free to come and go. I thank you for the offer. I be hanging on here, just for a little bit, just to see Miz Patrice gets settled.”
He cast a knowing glance at Reeve. “You gonna be seeing to that?”
Reeve allowed a small smile. “That’s my plan.”
The dark head nodded toward the roof, where Deacon was spreading on hot sealant to the weak spots. “He ain’t gonna like it no more than his daddy liked the idea of him and Jassy.”
“He’s not the one who has me worried.”
For the second day, Patrice pried loose rotted boards until her shoulders ached and blisters formed atop blisters on her once satin-soft hands. Surprisingly, she enjoyed the work, the sense of participation in the rebuilding of their home. At the same time, she had to wonder what kind of life they’d have once they were back in the Manor.
As much as she wanted to believe that Deacon could save their family from debt and decline, she knew the hard facts. The pampered daughter of Avery Sinclair wouldn’t have lost a second of sleep to worry. She was no longer that sheltered girl. She’d spent the past years grubbing for just the basics of survival, not the extravagances they used to take for granted. Wearing a gown to more than one occasion she’d once considered a tragedy. Now tragedy was what she glimpsed in her brother’s eyes when she caught him unawares. Tragedy was choosing between
buying food for the next meal or fixing shoes which had long since worn through on the bottom. But she had nothing to replace them with. And now Deacon talked about restoring luxuries. What were luxuries compared to shoes without holes?
She straightened and stretched in hopes of relieving the soreness plaguing her every move. So much left to do. She gave a soft laugh. Patrice Sinclair, belle of Pride County, battling wood rot with her bare hands.
“What’s so funny?”
She smiled at her brother and shook her head, gesturing at her mannish clothes and tanned skin. “All this. It’s either laugh or cry, and I’ve shed too many tears already.”
His sweat-dappled brow furrowed in frustration and concern. “Why don’t you go back to the Glade and help Mother plan her party.” Obviously that’s where he felt she belonged, embroiled in the frivolous while he shouldered the world alone. His sentiments touched her but were quickly dismissed.
“Mama doesn’t need me to help her pick a color scheme, but this wall isn’t going to repair itself.”
“I can do it.”
“Deacon, you can’t do it all by yourself. No one can. I’m fit and I’m strong and I’m willing to work. Don’t treat me like some fragile flower. This is my home, too. I love every board, every shingle just as much as you do. I’ve stood off marauders; I’ve dug potatoes with my bare hands, I’ve watched our people leave us, families I helped Mama bring into the world and cared for like they were our own. That was hard. This isn’t hard.”
His lean features flexed. Angry words were directed at himself for his own failure to provide.
“You shouldn’t have to do any of those things. It’s my place to see you don’t have to.”
“Not anymore, Deacon. We need each other now, don’t you see that? Those days are gone and are never coming back.”
He spun away from her. She could see the denying tension in his shoulders, his inner struggle in the clenching of his hands. “Yes, they will. I promised our father I’d carry on just as he would have. He wouldn’t allow you to dig potatoes or pull down rotten boards.”
“Then who’s going to, Deacon? Look around. Do you see anyone else waiting to take my place so I can go have my hair rinsed with rainwater and set in paper curls while I’m bleaching my skin with buttermilk? Do you see a dozen men hanging on your every order, your every whim? Not anymore. There’s just me, Deacon, and you and all this work to be done however best we can handle it.”
He took a gulping breath. “I don’t like it. I don’t like watching you work like a field hand. I don’t like seeing my home falling apart while I don’t have so much as a penny to put it back together. I don’t like knowing that I went off to war and came home to nothing.”
“I don’t like it either, Deacon. But I’m not going to let it stop me from doing what needs to be done.”
He circled around and dropped down heavily upon the top step of the rear porch. Patrice sat between the spraddle of his knees, pulling his arms about her until he was leaning against her back. After a moment, he laid his cheek upon her shoulder and she felt a monumental sigh leave him.
