The Outcast (27 page)
“Try to breathe, Squire. Try to relax. Let me go get …” Reeve was the only choice. As she stood, Byron’s hand caught her forearm. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Tell … Reeve … tell him …”
Tears skewed her vision. “I’ll get him. Save your strength.”
But he continued to pull her down toward him, to hear those hoarse whispered words as if he knew they would be his last.
“Tell Reeve … I asked his mother … She said no. Tell him … I forgive him for Jonah. That I lo—”
The rest was lost as his back bowed, arching him out of the chair as if some great fist was plucking at him, pulling him, then let him go. He fell back silently, his eyes still open, fixed upon hers for that final promise.
From the doorway, her mother cried out, the sound of it shrill, threading away to nothing as Patrice sank down onto her knees. Cold, dead fingers yet clung to her, demanding her vow. She couldn’t speak, not a word, even as Reeve pushed her aside.
“Daddy? Daddy?”
She remembered thinking how odd to hear Reeve call him that.
He felt for a pulse, hand shaking. Feeling, waiting. Waiting. Finally closing pale lids over lifeless eyes.
Then the squire’s fingers loosened, releasing her to an endless swoon into darkness.
Byron Glendower lay in state in the parlor. Hundreds came from throughout the county to pay respects and to cast suppositions about the new master of the Glade.
Had he killed his father, just as he’d killed his brother?
Reeve was a solid, somber presence not to be ignored. Dressed in dark attire, carefully groomed and shaven, he greeted each guest by name, offering a hand few chose to take and direct eye contact most shied from. He didn’t look like a gloating schemer or a grieving son, but none could fault his manners.
They took exception to him and the fact that he would no longer be content in the shadows.
He was now the owner of Glendower Glade. Their economic, if not their social, peer. And it stuck in their craws like the crosswise fit of his Union saber.
Quietly, Hannah Sinclair saw to the food and the arrangements for the burial when she would rather have attended her still-too-dazed and silent daughter. Tyler Fairfax assumed that duty with surprising decorum despite his startling appearance, both eyes as blackened as a roving racoon’s. He kept to Patrice’s side, her limp hand pressed between his, smile constrained, fending off those who would engage her in conversation; a gentleman for once instead of a rogue. Sober.
Deacon commandeered a far corner for himself, keeping a brooding eye on Reeve and a more covert one upon his sister. He remained tight-lipped about the rumor that the squire’s death followed several violent arguments with Reeve, one immediately prior to his death.
It didn’t help matters when Hamilton Dodge arrived to take a very public stand at Reeve’s side.
“You all right?”
Reeve nodded as if he wasn’t the first to think to ask that. It was nice someone had.
“Helluva surprise.”
Again, the noncommittal nod. A beat later, Reeve said, “Thanks for coming.”
“Thought I should stop by. Do you want me to stay or go?”
“Whatever you want.” But Reeve’s stare caught his. The look didn’t reveal much, Reeve was too good at packing things down tight and keeping a lid over them. But the flash of gratitude was obvious.
“I don’t want to make things more uncomfortable for you … you know.”
Reeve did know. And he was damned resentful that his good friend, his only friend in the room, should feel unwelcome in his home. His tone was gruff. “Get something to eat. Mingle.”
Dodge grinned, able to find amusement in the hostile scrutiny. “A wolf among sheep. Divide and conquer, eh? They can’t glare at both of us at the same time.”
A faint smile from Reeve. “Before you go, we’ll toss down a brandy. Or two.”
Dodge was agreeable. Then he caught sight of Patrice and Tyler. “What’s that about?”
Reeve followed his direction. An expressionless glaze crept over the brief flicker of something dark and dangerous. “Nothing.”
“Right.”
Dodge’s problem was that he saw too damned much.
“Think I’ll go say my hellos to Miss Sinclair.”
For Patrice the past twenty-four hours had passed in a blur. A protective numbness blanketed the savage shocks she’d received; Reeve using her to meet the terms of his inheritance, Byron’s death. Because
she couldn’t absorb it all, she pushed it away until strong enough to deal with it. Though she wasn’t watching Reeve, the image of him burned against her mind. The memory of his touch, his scent, the texture of his body pressing down over hers played havoc on an innocence she’d been ready to shed for him, with him. Twined between those scorching recollections was the insidious serpent of Byron Glendower’s claim. Relentlessly, that truth coiled tighter, choking her as she sat demure and silent in a room filled with friends who had no idea that just a short time ago, she’d been rutting with the man they abhorred.
Tyler provided an unexpected source of comfort. He’d sat close as an attack dog on a short leash, warding off unwanted company and, at the same time, not pressing his own upon her. All his self-serving ways he’d abandoned to support her in her unspoken need. She vowed to thank him later; for right now, she hadn’t the strength.
Her wounded gaze focused upon a hand out stretched patiently before her. She looked up to meet the warmth in Dodge’s eyes.
“Hello again, ma’am.”
The instant Tyler felt her imminent withdrawal, his clasp tightened about hers, keeping it in his possession while he seized Dodge’s hand himself and stood.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Tyler Fairfax. My daddy owns the distillery in town. We’re old, dear friends of the family. You must be our new money changer. Welcome to Pride, Lieutenant Dodge.”
There was no welcome in a the challenging grip or in the fix of cold green eyes, but Dodge smiled
wide in unassuming pleasure. “It’s ‘Mister’ now. The war’s over. I’ve heard of you, Mr. Fairfax. Reeve tells me you are a helluva good friend.”
Tyler blinked, but nothing else in his insincere facade wavered. “Did he? It’s right nice to hear he regards me so highly. Might I hope we’ll become friends as well, Mr. Dodge?”
“Man can’t have too many friends.” He withdrew his hand and smiled at Patrice. “I was wondering if we might finish our talk, Miss Sinclair. Unless you think this isn’t the proper time.”
Patrice felt the tension in a Tyler’s grip. Gently, she rubbed her fingertips over his knuckles. The effect was immediate and tranquilizing.
“Tyler, would you be so wonderfully kind as to excuse us for a moment? Mr. Dodge and I need to have a private word. Business.” She smiled up at him, and his will melted down into his shoes. “But don’t go too far away, you hear?”
Recovering from his surprise, Tyler lifted her hand to his lips for a feather-light touch. His stare was intense, devout. With just a hint of suspicion. His voice was a purring caress. “You take your time, darlin’. I’ll just go make some talk with Reeve.” His stare skewered Dodge’s. “Mr. Dodge, I’ll have to come pay a visit on you. Soon.”
Dodge said nothing until Tyler wound his way through the crowd. Then he exhaled. “That’s Reeve’s friend?”
“Once, he was.”
“Touchy fellow.” Dodge angled, looking over his shoulder at the broad back of his coat. “See anything?” At Patrice’s puzzled frown, he grinned wryly. “Just thought he might have left his card stuck there on the point of his dagger.”
Patrice didn’t smile. “It’s not anything to joke about, Dodge. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating Tyler Fairfax. And don’t forget that he’s my friend. I wouldn’t want him hurt.”
Without asking, Dodge assumed Tyler’s seat but not the same liberties. At least not with his touch. Instead, he shared his observations to the prickly woman beside him. “You look like you’re held together with a fraying baling strap.”
Patrice chuckled at his aggravating charm. “You have a subtle poetry about you, Dodge.”
He still smiled but a deeper concern steeped in his eyes. “Had a rough day of it?”
“You might say that.”
She didn’t say half enough, but the redness around her eyes and the pinched quality of her expression said quite a bit more. Especially when Dodge nodded toward Reeve.
“You wouldn’t know to look at him, but he’s having a hard time of it, too.”
Patrice’s gaze went to flint. “I gave him my condolences.”
“He could use a lot more from you, Patrice.”
Her stare snapped to his, angry, alarmed. “And what does that mean? We were going to discuss business, Mr. Dodge.”
He lost none of his warm appeal but she sensed a sudden toughness about him. “It is business to me, ma’am. I take my friends very seriously. I don’t like to see them hurting, either.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dodge, but you are mistaken if you thought I could do anything about that.”
He stood, smile knowing. “I don’t think so, Patrice.”
The familiarity made her bristle, then he completely
disarmed her with his soft offer of, “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll be there for you.”
She didn’t know how to respond. Dodge was Reeve’s friend. Would his confidentiality extend from accounts to acquaintances? She wanted to believe it would. She trusted Hamilton Dodge more than anyone else in the room, more than her own brother. But she let him walk away without revealing a hint of that hope.
With his father’s friends and neighbors milling about inside under the gracious care of Hannah Sinclair, Reeve was left to his own devices. He made no effort to intrude upon the mourning of those who’d come, knowing it wouldn’t be well received. They hadn’t come because he’d asked them, and most of them would probably never set foot through the front door again now that Byron was gone. The situation demanded civility, and so far all were behaving, even Deacon and the rowdy Dermonts. But tomorrow, after Byron Sinclair was in the ground, things would change dramatically. Reeve didn’t kid himself about that for a minute.
He cast a glance to where Dodge and Patrice were talking and happened to intercept her withering glare. He’d given up trying to predict the hot and cold of her moods, and now was not the occasion to demand an accounting from her. Having Byron die in a her presence, almost in her arms, had shaken her. Death was never easy to accept but having to be in attendance was an awful thing, especially for one as sheltered as Patrice. In a respect for her distress and her reputation, he stayed away.
“Reeve, take some air with me.”
Bemused, Reeve followed Tyler out onto the
empty porch. The warm breeze erased the close smells of smoke, perfumes, and death lingering inside. Reeve pulled the clean air in appreciatively, then waited to learn what was on Tyler’s mind.
Tyler walked to the edge of the cement porch. He stared down the green sweep of lawn to the whitewashed gazebo. Reeve wondered if he was remembering the stormy summer days he, Reeve, and Jonah sat within its shelter attaching flies to their fishing lines. Or the cold fall evenings he’d slept there under one of Reeve’s blankets, too drunk to go home. Or too scared. He must have recalled some of it, for in a sedate voice, Tyler began, “You and me, we been friends a long time, Reeve.”
Curious as to where this was going, Reeve agreed.
“I didn’t have too many friends. You an’ me, we kinda stuck together ‘cause nobody else’d have us. But I always liked you, Reeve. I still do. I got nothin’ against you or what you did. That’s why I want you to know this is nothin’ personal.”
He turned. There was no fond recollection in his stare. His expression was deadened, his eyes chips of opaque glass.
“You’ve got to leave here before someone dies.”
“Are you saying it’s gonna be you or me?”
Tyler shook his head, his stare never flickering. “That ain’t what I’m sayin’. Hell, I don’t want to hurt you. I got no choice in this.”
“Yes, you do. Walk away, Ty. You can keep it from happening.”
“You give me too much credit. I can’t stop things from being the way they are.”
“Or you don’t want to. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, to be a big fish in a small pond? Having folks looking up to you? You’re confusing respect with fear. Your daddy do that to your face?”
The sudden shift of topic caught Tyler off guard. For an instant, his reactions were genuine. He flinched back, stare going dull as unpolished jade. Nervously, he wet his lips but couldn’t bring the
words up to deny it. Instead, his voice hollow as a dry well, he said, “I got careless.”
“You know what I’m talking about.” Reeve could see he did. No one knew his circumstances better. “The pond stinks, Tyler. Get out before it sucks you under.”
Maybe it was too late for the truth to reach Tyler Fairfax. Perhaps Reeve was counting on touching something in his old friend that no longer existed. He’d had enough things in his life trying to push him over the edge. If Reeve could just manage to restore that delicate balance.
“Tyler, if you go through with what they’re planning, you’ll be just as bad as he is.”
Turmoil darkened his eyes and worked the lean angles of his face. Then the disturbance settled like ripples disappearing on deep waters. Reeve knew he’d lost his chance.
Tyler walked the edge of the porch in his rolling amble, speaking casually while avoiding Reeve’s eyes. “I can only give you this one warnin’. Things will get worse if you stay. They won’t ever forget Jonah or which side you chose to fight on. Not as long as Patrice wears that engagement ring and you’re sitting here in this house atop the corpses of your brother and father.”
Reeve’s insides chilled at the picture his friend painted but didn’t interrupt the deadly quiet of his words.
“Your protection is gone, Reeve. You don’t have the squire to hide behind. When he’s put in the ground, they’ll come for you. You know that.”
“I do.”
Tyler confronted him with a brief flare of intensity. “Then get the hell out. Go far, far away. You
don’t like them any more than they like you. Sell this place and get out. Start over. I would if I was you.”
