The Outcast (21 page)

Patrice knew. There was an edge to Tyler Fairfax, a razor sharp, right-for-the-throat edge drawn like the flash of his lethal blade when he was crossed. Both he and Starla hoarded secrets they wouldn’t share with another living soul, a darkness Tyler drowned in liquor, Starla hid behind her dazzling
coquette’s smile. That bond of silence between them created a protective closeness no one could penetrate. If there was decency in Tyler, his love for Starla anchored it there. And in her absence, dangerous currents went unchecked, making him, in Patrice’s mind, quite unpredictable.

“Funny,” Hannah continued as they began to stroll down the walk, “he doesn’t seem at all like someone your brother would have as a friend.”

Deacon had no friends Patrice knew of, not even as a child. His off-putting nature prevented that kind of connection with another human being. Though she agreed Tyler was an odd choice even for an impersonal partnership, she was unwilling to distress her mother with any unfounded worries.

And how could she prove them without going straight to Deacon, the source?

“Well, howdy, Miz Sinclair. What a nice surprise to see you in town.”

Mother and daughter paused to let Sadie Dermont and her niece catch up to them. Sadie was a big, rawboned woman with a loud voice and uncouth manner. She and her consumptive husband, a third cousin, ran Pride’s boardinghouse, where the quality of the cooking offset the offensiveness of its hostess. They had no children of their own, so her brother’s lazy brood of boys showed up on occasion to earn drinking money, and their sister, Delyce, a fresh daisy abloom in chokeweed, served as maid and tended tables before returning to her own home to perform the same services. Hannah smiled and offered a polite greeting because she was too well bred to snub another living soul. Patrice said a friendly hello to Delyce. She pitied the girl for her wretched circumstance, yet admired her ability to
endure and remain somehow untouched by her family’s vulgarity.

Sadie wasn’t known for her tact. If a rumor spread through Pride, one could bet it started at her loose lips. She leaned in, her attitude one of conspiratorial privilege.

“I bet the two of you will be so thankful to be back in your own home. Why I don’t think I could have closed my eyes at night whilst under the same roof as a murderer.”

Patrice was about to ask if she suffered from insomnia when her nephews visited, but Hannah’s serene intervention caught her up in time.

“Why, Mrs. Dermont, I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“That Yankee vermin,” she hissed in a booming aside that was overheard by everyone within two blocks.

“Mr. Garrett?” Hannah managed to look both mildly shocked and gently disapproving. “Why he’s been the perfect host. He’s even helped my son with the rebuilding of the Manor.”

Sadie’s meaty brow furrowed, her small mind confused by this news. “But I heard tell he was responsible for executing poor little Miss Sinclair’s fiancé … his own flesh and blood.” A nasty gleam brightened her bovine gaze as she waited to learn some juicy tidbit of scandal. She was doomed to disappointment.

“What happened to Jonah Glendower was indeed a tragedy, but I don’t believe Mr. Garrett is personally to blame for every atrocity committed by the Union Army. I cannot imagine anyone so silly as to believe that as the truth.”

Sadie flushed a ruddy hue, smart enough to recognize
the delicately phrased barb. Her tone roughened. “I heard he gave the order hisself.”

Hannah sighed, unwilling to be pulled in by Sadie’s baiting. “War was a truly awful experience for us all, and I for one, will be thankful when all the ugliness is allowed to settle. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Dermont?”

Flattered by the elegant woman’s warm inclusion, Sadie smiled and nodded until her ridiculously over-decorated bonnet threatened to come undone. She beamed at Patrice. “At least you’ve some happy news to celebrate.”

Patrice regarded the smug harridan in bewilderment.

“You don’t have to worry that I’ll spoil the announcement,” Sadie gushed, pleased to share a secret with the Sinclairs.

“Announcement?”

“You and Tyler Fairfax. There are some who’ve frowned about it being so quick after your fiancé went into the ground—”

“Tyler Fairfax? Where on earth did you hear that?”

Delyce spoke up. “From my brothers, Miss Patrice.” And big soft eyes went round, asking if it was untrue.

Patrice struggled for a moment, forcing even breaths to stave off her outrage. Finally, in a remarkably level tone, she said, “That information is quite premature. Nothing’s been discussed with my brother yet. I do hope you’ve been discreet.”

Sadie’s florid cheeks darkened, and Patrice groaned to herself.
Dear God, everyone knows.
She was going to strangle Tyler until those pretty green
eyes popped right out of his head. The bad feeling she already had got worse.

“What shall I tell folks to ward off the gossip?”

“Tell them that Starla Fairfax is special to me and that as he is her brother, I think of Tyler as an old and dear friend. You should tell them fie upon their ungenerous spirits. Though Jonah and I weren’t wed, I mourn him as a widow. I haven’t even begun to have thoughts of romance yet.”

That should shut up Tyler and his cronies.

She held to her dignity as they continued along the walk, leaving Sadie Dermont to stew on the news—or the lack of it. The Dermonts would see Tyler got the message. But was there more to it than reckless boasting? Would her brother barter her off without consulting her first? Was that the reason behind all their whispering? She couldn’t believe it of him.

But then a week ago, she wouldn’t have believed she’d ever cringe at the slightest upward movement of his hand.

Self-consciously, she touched her cheek, where carefully applied powder hid the rapidly fading imprint of his slap. She hadn’t backed down because she was now afraid of him. Deacon would never harm her.
But he had
, whispered a wary voice. Alcohol brought on that fit of violence, came an anxious excuse, not the desire to hurt and intimidate her.

But it had, hadn’t it?

One blow, intentional or not, quelled her spirit and put a quick end to her rebellion. The tender kiss to her brow was to earn her forgiveness. Or was it to placate her?
No man has the right.
She’d refused
to heed Reeve’s words then, but now they made an unpleasant echo in her mind.

Because even if she didn’t want to admit it, Patrice was afraid of the man her brother had become.

Chapter 16

“A penny.”

Patrice turned away from the gallery rail to see Reeve’s impressive silhouette framed against the doorway. She expressed no alarm at him coming upon her in her softly draped nightclothes. False modesty wasn’t something she subscribed to. Still, he didn’t come any closer, as she asked, “What?”

“For your thoughts.”

She gave a wry laugh and looked back out into the night. “You’d be cheating yourself tonight.”

“Oh come now, it can’t be all that bad,” he cajoled with a gentle teasing.

The words just came, pushed out by a spirit full of anguish and uncertainty. “Deacon slapped me, Reeve.” Her chin notched upward. “He’s never put a hand on me before, but if he does it again, I’d like very much for you to beat the hell out of him.”

A thoughtful pause, then a firm, “It would be my pleasure.”

There was more. He could feel it. He could see it in the tense set of her shoulders as they hunched forward to keep the world at bay. He heard it in the forced calm of her voice. Alone and vulnerable, she huddled inside her silky robe, arms hugging tight to wrap the isolation in and ward the fear away. The need to add the strength of his embrace to that insulating circle almost overruled caution. He saw opening and opportunity in her unhappy stance. Their time together was growing short.

He’d heard disturbing news from Dodge. Even an outsider was privy to gossip if he eavesdropped carefully. The Sinclairs’ tax debt had been paid almost in full, and not by Deacon Sinclair. Dodge hadn’t caught the particulars. He’d added one further rumor, one Reeve found ridiculous at first, and then damned threatening.

Patrice and Tyler Fairfax.

Patrice laughed it off the night of their party. Because it wasn’t true or because she didn’t want it known? He had to know, now, before he took further risks with his heart.

“I’m a good listener. That’s what you used to tell me.

She didn’t respond right away. He could almost hear her thoughts churning, weighing the benefits, the dangers.

“We can walk, if you like. Just walk. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.” A casual offer, no pressure, no strings, no reason to stir objection or suspicion of his motives. He waited, mentally urging,
Take it, Patrice. Don’t be afraid.

She looked back out over the deep evening shadows,
where the scent of honeysuckle perfumed the air and silvery moonlight shone blue and rich upon the far pastures.

“It’s a nice night,” she commented without committing.

“It is.”

She started for the gallery steps, not looking back to see if he followed, unconcerned that she was hardly dressed for an excursion with a man in shirtsleeves. He didn’t crowd her, but rather let her precede him down the outside stairs and out across the springy side yard. She moved like a flickering moonbeam in her pale ivory robe, drifting in and out of the latticework darkness cast down from the live oaks above. She didn’t speak, so he didn’t either, content to follow, to wait, to give her plenty of room until the right moment arose.

They’d come to one of the upper meadows, where nothing obscured the beauty of the heavens and the peaceful sense of solitude. He hadn’t expected her to walk so far, but maybe what weighed upon her mind needed more than a short stroll to sift and sort. Maybe it took that long for her mood to lose its restless edge and the inhibiting presence of family. Then she stopped, without facing him, and abruptly began talking.

“You were right … about a lot things.” She paused, expecting a reply. When it didn’t come, she continued, her own need to release her troubles goading her rather than his prompting. “I’m scared, Reeve. I’ve never been so scared of anything before.”

He couldn’t help the gruff texture in his voice. “Because of Deacon?”

“No. Yes … no.” She shook her head. To clear
her thoughts or to convince herself. Then her answer. “I’m not afraid of him.” A lie. “For him. For our family.” A pause to gather her courage. “Reeve, where do you think he got the money?”

He had some pretty good ideas but wasn’t ready to push them on her yet. Instead, he asked, “Where do you think?”

“Not from the bank. I … I asked him to go there, to talk to your friend.”

“Did you?” That surprised him. She hadn’t seemed that open-minded about their guest at dinner.

“Deacon—he got very angry because I suggested it.”

That was when he struck her, the bastard.
Quietly, he asked, “So if not the bank, who else has money to lend?” And at what price? That was what really had her worried.

She hugged herself again, chafing her palms over upper arms as if cold. “I think he got it from Tyler Fairfax.”

So did Reeve, yet still he asked, “Does Tyler have that kind of money to lend?”

“He’s got lots of it. His father’s distillery never shut down during the war. Apparently, alcohol was one of the fuels that powered our brave armies.” Bitterness tinged her voice as it lowered with conjecture. “I think they were engaged in illegal trade with the North, too.”

“It wasn’t illegal, Patrice. Kentucky as a whole supported the Union.”

“Immoral here in Pride County, then. They were making profit off our enemies.”

“Why would Tyler give credit to your brother?”

“For the free use of some of our best acres to
grow the rye his father needs to make bourbon.” She hesitated as if there was more she wanted to say but chose not to. Or was afraid to.

For her.
Was Patrice part of the price Tyler named for his generosity? She didn’t say, and he couldn’t ask. Not yet. She hadn’t lowered her guard enough to let him get close. It was time to nudge her in that direction.

She flinched beneath the weight of his hands on her shoulders, out of surprise, not resistance. Slowly, firmly, he began massaging the corded tendons running from taut shoulders to her neck. “You look tired.”

“I am. I haven’t been able to sleep, worrying over what we’re going to do.”

She gave her head a luxurious roll. Lose tendrils of her hair caressed the backs of his hands. Reeve struggled to maintain the impersonal pressure and unhurried rhythm. He eased up closer behind her, not touching but near enough to convey the heat and strength of his presence. He felt a shudder of awareness ripple through her on a level that was sensory not cognizant as the tension began to melt away in warm rivers.

“I don’t trust Tyler,” she told him. “I know him too well to think he’s just being neighborly. He’s involved in some unsavory doings with the Dermont boys and others like them. I don’t have proof of it. It’s more like a feeling. Reeve, how could Deacon be so foolish as to entrust our property, our future to men like that?”

The last thing he intended was to make apologies for Deacon Sinclair’s stubborn stupidity, but that’s exactly what he heard himself doing. Anything to ease the torment he heard in her words. “He’s
scared, too, Trice. He’s seeing his whole way of life ending, and he’s trying his best to hold on to it. A desperate man makes bad decisions to protect those he loves.”

“I don’t know that he does,” she confessed in a tight little voice. “Love me, I mean. He’s so much like our father. It’s the land, the name, the status they love.”

Reeve nodded to himself. Like his father, like generations of Southern men to whom possession and pride were all and family fell into those categories right next to breeding stock and immortality. It wasn’t personal. It was business, tradition like crops and politics and slaves—something to hold and control for the power it gave them.

Patrice’s strength suddenly left her. She sank down upon the lengthy grasses, lying back with her arms stretched out above her head, her legs curved to one side in a graceful bend. Her body relaxed with the deep expression of a single sigh.