The Outcast (32 page)

“So what did you do?”

“I apologized, of course. Profusely. And I promised never to unman him in public again.”

Patrice’s mood sank pensively. “How awful for you, to have views and be forbidden to express them.”

“Oh, no. My views were heard, loudly and often. In you, my dear. You spoke up for everything I kept quietly to myself. You were my champion, and imagine your father’s shock when he could not control you. You frightened him to death.”

“Me?”

“Of course. Men are their most blustery and belligerent when they have to justify what they’ve done. They dislike being made to feel guilty or not in control. A woman who questions or demands reasons threatens them. A husband depends upon his wife for unwavering support, even when both know he’s wrong.”

“But that’s living a lie!”

“A small illusion perhaps but nothing so terrible. What is it you want in a husband? For him to provide and protect his family. For him to go out each day to face whatever hardships await him so you feel secure. What would you give in return?”

“Children?”

“Delightful, yes, but an added worry upon the shoulders of a man who is now both husband and father. Peace is what a man wants from his wife, a place to feel safe from worldly pressures. When in his home, a man wants understanding, not strife. Respect is the only reward he needs from his family.”

“What about love? Did you love Father?”

“Not with youthful passion, no. Passion makes demands and is often cruel to those who cannot control it. Admiration, respect, trust, those are things that bond a man and woman for a lifetime. I loved your father for his stability. I loved his determination, his pride, even when he was his most bullheaded. I loved the fact that there was nothing on this earth he would not do if I asked it of him. I bore his children, kept his household, and made him feel comfortable in confiding his worries and woes to me. I understood the importance of my role
and was content to keep it, and he loved me for that.”

Patrice stayed silent. These weren’t the words she’d expected to hear. She’d wanted marriage to be romance and indulgence, not practical complacency. Her confusion must have shown, for her mother put an arm about her shoulders for a bolstering squeeze.

“It’s not a prison, Patrice. It’s glorious freedom … if it’s with the right man. If I hadn’t thought your father was that man, I never would have married him.”

“How do you know? I mean, I was pledged to Jonah, and I never felt—I never knew—”

“If he was the right one? He’d have made you a fine husband, which is why we agreed to the match. He could have been the right man, if you hadn’t found that man already.”

Patrice sat completely still, not daring to betray herself with the slightest movement. Her mother went on unconcerned.

“I always liked your Mr. Garrett. A good choice, even if he was not your father’s choice.”

Patrice twisted on the coverlet to stare at her in dismay. “If you knew I was in love with Reeve, why did you allow me to say I’d marry Jonah?”

“Loving and living with are two different things, Patrice. You may have loved him then, but you didn’t have the strength to live the life he would have demanded of you. You were too young, too full of your own needs for a complicated man like Reeve Garrett. Jonah was wiser, more willing to forgive your inexperience than his brother would have been. It was not an easy decision to make, but it was made with your best interest in mind, just as
the one we made for Deacon years before. Your father and I thought Jonah would be the stabilizing influence you needed, neither harsh nor wild. I’m sure you would have made him a good wife, Patrice, had things not turned out as they did.”

If Jonah hadn’t died. If she hadn’t been forced to grow up so fast. If Reeve’s return hadn’t quickened those old desires.

“Do you think I’d make a good wife for Reeve?”

“That depends?”

“On Reeve?”

“On what you’re willing to give up to have him.”

What was she willing to give up to have Reeve Garrett? If she truly loved him, why was there no easy answer?

Hannah touched her chin, guiding it toward her. “It’s more than Mr. Garrett, isn’t it? What else has you so concerned? Is it your brother? Don’t look so surprised. You see, I know your father never had any overseas investments.”

“Oh, Mama. I’m so worried about Deacon. He’s in terrible trouble, I know it. He’s so—”

“Like your father.” Hannah sighed. “Perhaps you should pay another visit to your banker friend and see what he can do.”

Patrice gaped at her. How could she have been so wrong about the woman who raised her? Hannah Sinclair was anything but unaware. For the first time, Patrice could see her gentle, guiding touch upon the family, unobtrusive but always there.

“Go into town, my dear. See Mr. Dodge. Have your brother take you. Use the time on the road to talk to him, not lecture at him. He loves you, Patrice. He’ll listen.”

Deacon didn’t question his mother’s request that he take Patrice into town to do her errands. The ride was uneventful and silent, both brother and sister preoccupied by troubles tied up with the other. Deacon dropped Patrice off in front of the dressmaker’s but didn’t remain to actually see her go inside, relieving her of having to tell him a lie.

Patrice felt a strained undercurrent ripple through the citizens of Pride as she hurried down the walk. Tension created a palpable static, like the crackling before a lightning storm. Those she encountered hushed their whispering to stare at her oddly, then turned from her attempts at a greeting. It reminded her of their treatment of Reeve at the Glendower gala. But why would they shun her? What reason would they have, unless … Unless they somehow knew about her and Reeve.

Cold panic settled in her stomach, hurrying her steps toward the bank. She didn’t try to hide her destination. Deacon would learn of it soon enough.

“Why g’morning, ma’am.” Dodge came to his feet, cigar clenched between his teeth as he smiled and pulled out her chair. Patrice sank into it, desperate to appear nonchalant beneath his too-observant gaze.

“Mr. Dodge, how are you?”

“Well, I haven’t had any sacrifices left on my steps lately, so I suppose I’m doing all right. Unless the good people of Pride are planning something on a grander scale.”

Patrice swallowed hard. “Why would you think that?”

Dodge pinned her with a direct gaze. “Something’s got them all stirred up today. Fairfax and his unpleasant friends have been circulating some
kind of ugly talk. My guess is there’ll be a run on sheets at the mercantile.”

Gathering her courage, she asked, “What kind of talk?”

“No one exactly confided in me, but it has to do with some goings-on out at the Glade last night. You know anything about that, Patrice?”

She cringed in her seat, rattled, anxious. “Why would I?” She glanced away, sure he could read lewd acts all over her expression. Which he apparently could.

“So if you’re not here to taunt me with the fact that I’m the only one in this whole damn county with no love life, I’d guess you’re here on business.”

Used to his shocking bluntness, she didn’t bother with blushes. “Help me, Dodge. I-I don’t know what to do. If I can’t find some way to buy our debt back from Tyler, I-I’m afraid of what might happen. This is my fault.” Tears sprang to her eyes and to her embarrassment, she couldn’t keep the dampness from falling in a scalding stream. “If I hadn’t pushed my brother so hard—If I’d only stopped thinking of myself long enough to understand what he was struggling with—”

Dodge’s handkerchief was in her hand. She blotted her eyes as he crouched down beside her chair, all burly sympathy.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is!”

“No.” He sound so certain, so convincing, she gave a miserable sniff and blinked forlornly. He smiled and opened one arm wide. “I’m told I have a good, solid shoulder.”

Without hesitation, she leaned upon it, relying upon its broad strength while searching for control.
His arm made an uncompromising loop about her, the gesture sheltering, comfortable in its warmth and unpressuring weight. He gave her the time she needed to pull her ragged seams together, not speaking, just there with sturdy, dependable support. Finally, she straightened to met his gaze, finding it calm, encouraging.

“What can I do, Dodge?”

“Your brother’s going to have to do it. I can go to him, or he can come to me.”

“You can go to hell.” Deacon’s cold tones intruded like a harsh slap. “Get up, Patrice, before I forget you’re my sister.”

Dodge’s hand settled upon her shoulder, holding her down as he slowly stood to face the seething Southerner. “Nothing’s going on to get riled up over, Mr. Sinclair. It’s just business.”

Deacon’s eyes slitted. “Funny business. I’m not laughing.”

“Deacon—”

“Shut up!” he hissed down at her. She shrank back. The fearful movement didn’t escape either man. Deacon froze over. Dodge became dangerously soft-spoken.

“Mr. Sinclair, your sister came to ask for my help. She’s done nothing wrong. She’s concerned about you.”

“What kind of help, Yank? Help to bury us all the faster?”

“She asked me to help save your ass before it gets chewed off by your so-called friends.”

“And why would you want to help me?”

“It’s my job, Mr. Sinclair. I don’t have to like you to save your neck, and you don’t have to like me to be smart enough to stick out your hand so I can
keep you from losing everything you’ve worked so hard for.”

“I don’t need help from the likes of you,” Deacon snarled. He snatched Patrice’s arm, dragging her out of the chair. She had the presence of mind to throw up her hand to stop Dodge’s fierce stride forward.

“No, Dodge, it’s all right! It’s all right.”

“Are you sure?” He glanced up into Deacon’s frigid mask of hostility, his own glittering in narrowed eyes.

“Yes.”

Not fully convinced, he put his hand over Patrice’s, feeling the tremors racing through her. He pitched his voice low and steady. “I owe Reeve my life. If you need help, you send someone to get me.”

“She won’t,” Deacon vowed. “You stay away from us. You’re the problem, not the solution.”

“And you’re a fool for believing that, Sinclair, but you’ve a right to your opinion. But God help you if you think those rights extend to raising a hand to that little girl.”

Deacon ignored the threat, pulling Patrice out of the bank, scattering the curious who lingered outside on the walk. He stalked to their carriage and practically threw her up onto the seat. A crack of the whip sent the horse lunging forward, leaving a dust devil in their wake to choke the citizens of Pride.

A mile, then two, passed in tense silence. Patrice sat stiffly, angry, frightened, upset. She glanced at her brother, seeing no promise in the jutting angles cut into his face.

“Deacon—”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” His
accusation slashed sharper than the whip. “How could you go begging to that man? Don’t you have an ounce of shame?”

“Shame?” she railed at him. “Don’t talk to me of shame after the way you humiliated me in front of my friend, in front of half the town!”

“This isn’t about hurt feelings, Patrice. It’s about keeping you safe from your own foolishness.”

He sounded so genuinely anxious, Patrice backed down her own arguments to look at him more closely. He was more than just furious. He was afraid.

And as he drew back on the reins, she knew why.

A dozen hooded riders swarmed around their carriage, forcing it to stop in a shadowed nave of trees. Deacon thrust Patrice behind him but had no time to reach for his sidearm as a rifle barrel pressed to his temple.

“Heya, Reverend. You an’ me need to have us a talk.” Tyler circled around the carriage, the only one of his band brave enough to show his face. Or careless enough. He tipped his hat to Patrice, smiling wide. “Hey there, darlin’.”

“What do you want, Fairfax? Get on with it, then get your thugs out of my way.”

Deacon’s gruffness wasn’t appreciated. The man holding him at gunpoint swung viciously, catching the side of his face with the stock of his rifle, toppling him from his superior pose to the dusty road on hands and knees. Gritty laughter sounded beneath the muffling hoods. One of the riders slipped onto the seat to restrain a furious Patrice.

“Well, then let’s get right to it.” Tyler swung off his horse to hunker down beside the dazed aristocrat. “Me an’ the boys here are gettin’ kinda worried
about you. Seems you can’t control your little sister. She’s been stirrin’ up talk with the company she’s keeping. Looks bad, her being so disloyal to you … an’ to us. A lesson’s gotta be learned here.”

Deacon swayed up onto his knees to snarl, “Don’t you touch her, you son of a—”

The back of Tyler’s hand silenced the rest of the epithet. “Now, Deke, you know I’d never put a mean hand on Patrice. I’m blamin’ you for lettin’ her stray.” He stood and moved away, purposefully not looking up at Patrice.

As soon as Deacon gained his feet, the riders wove around him, kicking at him, knocking him with their horses, trying to force him off-balance again. It didn’t take Deacon long to tire of it. He grabbed the closest man, jerking him out of the saddle, flinging him to the ground to drive his heel into the man’s windpipe. While the fellow wheezed and purpled, he snatched his pistol free, intent on using it until the hooded figure holding Patrice called out, “I wouldn’t, Sinclair.”

Deacon looked up to see the man’s arm curled about his sister’s neck. A tight squeeze had her clawing ineffectually at the woolen sleeve and convinced him to let the gun drop. Immediately, he was felled by a savage kick in the side.

“Be careful a him, boys,” Tyler drawled. “The reverend here’s a dangerous man. A real killer. How many unarmed folks you shot down in cold blood, Deke? An’ you sneer down at us after all you done?” Tyler crossed to where Deacon sat in the dirt, nursing his ribs. He squatted down fearlessly so that they were nose to nose.

“I got me a surprising offer the other day from someone who wants to buy the Manor real bad. Offered
top dollar. What’s a-matter, Rev? Got nothin’ to say about that?”