The Outcast (13 page)

Squire Glendower spared no expense in recreating the former glory of their county. He hired a string ensemble down from Louisville, and lilting strains of “Shenandoah” danced upon air redolent with the sweetness of spring blossoms. Though no liveried house servants circulated through the crowd, well-placed tables offered a dry Madeira and lemonade punch, discreetly laced with Fairfax Bourbon. The finger food wasn’t elaborate but plentiful, providing the best meal some of their neighbors had had for years. Conversation sparkled with an atmosphere of family reunion, a mood Patrice feared would spoil soon enough if Reeve showed up in Federal blue.

“Might I say you ladies look lovely.”

Both Sinclair women turned, smiling, toward Deacon. He cut a suave figure in his officer’s uniform, which Hannah had painstakingly cleaned and formally creased. He surrounded himself with an air of old-world elegance and precise manner. Patrice noted with some surprise how handsome her brother was, with his long lines, lean muscle, and self-enclosed stance. Pleasantly average looks honed
to a striking intensity of rapier intelligence and brooding purpose held the romantically inclined females of Pride County at bay. He intimidated without trying, lorded his superiority without conscious effort. And she wondered if any woman could garner the gumption to shake him out of his emotional exile. That was a woman she’d like to meet.

He offered mother and sister each an elbow to escort them inside the Glendower ballroom. Patrice took his left carefully, mindful of the sling he yet wore. He’d recovered quickly, casting off the infection faster than the distasteful obligation he had to the man who’d saved his life. He had nothing to say to Reeve, and Reeve made it easier by staying away.

Couples paired up for the first Virginia reel. Hannah blushed like a schoolgirl at Byron Glendower’s invitation to join him in the promenade. She hung back, thinking perhaps it wasn’t proper so soon after her husband’s death.

“Go on, Mama,” Patrice urged. “Remember what you told me. We’re here to celebrate the future, not look back upon the past.”

At that encouragement, Hannah shyly took their host’s arm and was led away. Patrice sighed happily, not at all aggrieved to have only her brother’s company.

“She looks better, don’t you think?” At Deacon’s noncommittal mutter, she said, “This is good for her, getting out with people, getting on with things.”

Deacon’s gaze followed the whirling couples. His expression remained remote. “They make it look easy.”

She rubbed the rigidly upright column of his
back. “It could be. If you’d let it. Don’t we all deserve a little reprieve from the sorrow and suffering?”

When he didn’t reply, she decided a little teasing was in order to route his melancholy.

“You don’t need to stand guard over me, Deacon. I declare, one look at your scowling face would scare away any chance I have of finding a suitor.”

He blinked down at her, startled, missing the jest until her devilish grin betrayed her. She gave him a slight push.

“Go away. Go find some sweet lonely thing and charm her into taking a walk in the gardens with you.”

“My, my, that sounds like right fine advice to me, darlin’.”

Warm hands caressed the caps of her bare shoulders as intimately as the sultry agreement. Patrice turned to find herself within the coil of Tyler Fairfax’s arms. Though his green eyes glittered from more than a prudent share of his daddy’s whiskey, his smile was all honey-sweet irreverence. A powder keg of trouble, with his mama’s swarthy Creole heritage, he could always charm his away around her irritation, just like his sister. She looked behind him, hopefully.

“Where’s Starla? Is she with you?”

“
Mais non, chère.
Baby sister is still over in Chattanooga with some of Daddy’s family. But she did tell me to see you was thoroughly entertained this evening.”

Deacon closed his hand over one of Tyler’s, drawing it off Patrice’s shoulder. Ice tinged his casually spoken words. “I doubt she’d find a walk in the garden with you all that entertaining.”

Tyler grinned wide. “Why, Reverend Sinclair, how would you know unless you tried it yourself? I pity a man who takes himself so seriously.”

“Better than being a man whom everyone takes as a joke.”

Tyler’s jovial expression didn’t alter, but a hard brilliance turned his eyes to emerald jewels. “Perhaps you’d like to share that joke with me, Deacon.”

Patrice angled between them and snatched up Tyler’s hands. “What we’re going to share is this next dance.” She pulled a practiced pout. “Unless you don’t want to dance with me.”

Tyler responded gallantly, twining her arm around his. “Why, darlin’, I’d have to be a dead man not to want you. For a dance, that is.”

She laughed, then shot her glowering brother a “behave yourself” glare as Tyler led her out onto the floor.

As they waltzed, Tyler managed both to annoy with his too tight embrace and delight with his sassy humor. She knew what he was—a sly, unreliable drunkard with dangerous colleagues and a badly scarred past, a man with no allegiance except to himself and his sister, and no compunctions about smiling as he fed a friend poison. But she couldn’t help liking him. She’d seen a deep-seated sweetness he allowed to escape on rare occasions, such as playing sensitive confidant to both her and Starla as they struggled with youthful fancies. However, the dark streak of his temper struck without warning, making his mood unpredictable and those who knew him wary.

But now, as he moved her about the floor pressing as close as he dared, he was all charm and dimples, and Patrice let herself enjoy his company.

“Tyler Fairfax, please step back, sir. There is not room inside this dress for the both of us.”

“Ummm. There could be.”

She shimmied to discourage his fingers from playing about the back fastenings to her gown.

“Is there a woman over the age of twelve and under ninety who hasn’t slapped your face?”

“There are a few, darlin’. A few,” came his cocky boast.

“I am not plannin’ to be one of them. And if you don’t let some air pass between us, my brother is going to give you more than a polite little love tap on the cheek.”

“I ain’t afraid of your brother.” Still, he backed up an inch or two. “Besides, lookin’ the way you do tonight, it just might be worth it.”

“If I for one minute took you seriously, you’d run like a rabbit in the other direction.”

His smile flashed white and wide. “Try me.”

He spun them through a breathless sequence of turns, leaving her clinging to him dizzily when the music abruptly stopped.

All eyes focused on Byron Glendower as he stepped up onto the raised musicians’ platform with a glass in hand.

“Friends, this is a special night for us,” he called out loudly to quiet the murmur of conversation. “A night we can get together and thank God and the Union Army of the Tennessee’s poor marksmanship for letting our fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers come home safe and sound. Tomorrow, we’ve got a special memorial service for those we won’t see again, but tonight, tonight is for those who are still with us. Raise your glasses with me in a toast to our brave Kentucky sons, the best of Pride County,
those here with us and those we hope will be joining us again soon. A toast to Deacon Sinclair, to Ray, Poteet, and Virg Dermont, Fowler Jennings.” He went on and on, hoisting his glass to each man whose name he called, inviting the others to do likewise. “To Tyler Fairfax who stayed home to protect the county.”

Tyler beamed at the praise while his hand slid lower and lower down the back of Patrice’s gown. He leaned close, his breath whiskey-warm, to whisper, “I told you I was a hero.”

“And to my son, to whom we all owe so much.”

Patrice waited, her glass aloft, wondering why he’d mention Jonah in this toast to the returned.

Byron swiveled slightly, tipping his goblet. “Reeve Garrett.”

Silence. Not a glass moved. For the longest moment, not a breath exhaled as Reeve, clad in dark formal attire, came up to stand beside his father, bold as brass.

And from the back of the room, glass shattered at the feet of Deacon Sinclair before he turned and left the room.

Beside Patrice, Tyler made a soft sound trapped between a chuckle and a snarl. His smile took a wry twist as he upended his goblet, pouring its contents onto the floor.

The remaining guests were more polite. Glasses were returned untouched to the tables and backs presented to the father and son on the riser. The music started up again, and the party continued in a unified snub.

Reeve laughed softly. “Told you how they’d welcome your subtle overture.” He moved off the stage
and back into the shadows, where he wasn’t the cutting target of every covert glare.

Byron refused discouragement. “It served its purpose. They’ve seen you, and they know I’m not ashamed to call you son.”

Reeve bit back his response to that. He watched Tyler Fairfax lead Patrice out through the French doors to the darkened gardens beyond. “Am I excused from this little horse show now?”

The squire had seen the object of his attention but withheld his smile. “Absolutely not. You’re here to take advantage of this gathering. Mingle. Hold your head up. Act like you don’t care what they think.”

“I don’t,” Reeve snapped. “It’s just that these are good people, for the most part, and I dislike pushing myself into their sorrow.”

Byron sighed angrily. “Fine. Do what you will, Reeve. But remember, these are our neighbors, and it’s better to have them as friends than enemies. One at a time, boy. One at a time.”

Reeve tried to do things his father’s way. He walked through the gathering, finding himself confronted with a wall of shunning backs as those he approached turned pointedly away. No one said anything. The slash of their stares said it all. The pulse of their hate was a palpable force. He could ignore it without problem but it wasn’t going to further his cause of finding acceptance among them. One at a time.

“Judge Banning, you remember me, don’t you, sir?”

Noble Banning’s father was a judge in name only, an honorary title and as close as the scalawag ever got to the letter of the law. He immersed himself in politics now, and from what Reeve knew of that
unscrupulous group of liars, Judge Banning was well suited as their peer.

Banning squinted at him. “Yes, I remember you. You were once my son’s friend.”

“I’m still his friend. I was wondering if you’d heard any more about where he is. If he’s in a Federal prison, perhaps I could pull some strings and—”

The judge cut him off cold. “We don’t need your help, sir. Noble is out fighting on the Western frontier. He was able to secure his own release … no thanks to you or your kind. And were I you, I would not be so free in bandying about the word ‘friend.’ Noble might think different about it now.”

Without an excuse me or an end of conversation, the judge walked away from Reeve as if he’d become suddenly invisible. Reeve didn’t mind the snub. He’d learned his best friend was still alive. But was Noble still his friend?

He moved on, coming to the next likely stop.

“Cap’n Wardell?”

Daniel Wardell once rode with the Texas Rangers, as tough and ready a group of men ever assembled. He’d won honors in the Mexican War along with a head wound that left him partially blind. Built thick and strong, like his son, his infirmity cost him none of his tenacity. He angled his head to one side to get a look at Reeve through his good eye. His features tightened.

“Garrett.”

“Have you any news of Mede?”

Granite expression crumbled slightly with his low admission. “Nothing. Not a word. The missus, she checks every day, but his name hasn’t come up on any of the lists. That’s good, I guess.”

Reeve nodded, the heaviness around his heart dragging upon him. “Be much obliged if you’d let me know if you get any word.”

Wardell studied him through his one unwavering eye. He knew people. He was alive because of his ability to make snap judgments about the good or bad in a man. While he wasn’t ready to forgive, he answered with a crisp, “I’ll do that.”

Reeve’s gratitude was unmistakable even to a broken-down old lawman with one filmy eye and another short of sight. But considering the company, he offered no further sympathy. His nod curt, he dismissed Reeve and went back to his watered-down drink.

Well, one shot to the head and one stay of execution. Reeve couldn’t expect any better than that. At least no one had thrown stones at him … yet.

His crosscutting through the hostile crowd brought him to the bank of French doors. He studied the one Tyler and Patrice had disappeared through. He had no right or invitation to follow them. Patrice’s honor was her brother’s business. But Deacon was nowhere in sight. No, he couldn’t go charging out to interrupt a moonlight tryst. But on a balmy evening there was no reason he couldn’t take in the night air, especially after suffering frostbite from his neighbors’s glares.

Casually, he slipped outside and began strolling along the terraced bricks, trying not to be obvious in his scouring of the bushes. He knew Tyler Fairfax too well to think he’d invite a pretty lady out into the darkness just to breathe in the fresh scent of spring. He started to walk a little faster, stride brisk, tense.

Then, from down by the formal herb garden, he
heard a woman’s cry of distress. Patrice. And that’s all it took for him to plow through the shrubberies with bloodshed on his mind.

“Quite the entrance our friend Garrett made tonight.”

It was hard to decipher Tyler’s feelings on the matter as he guided her from the terrace into heavier darkness. Patrice went unprotestingly. She had no fear of being alone with him. They had come down to a quiet formal garden where the sounds from the party were whispers and night music played.

Then Tyler stopped her, coaxing her to look up at him. He wasn’t much taller, so there was no sense of intimidation or threat, just an old friend and confidant curious over the state of her heart.

“You were in love with him once. Are you still?”

His bluntness set her stammering. “N-no, of course not. What gave you the idea that I ever cared two hoots for him.”