The Outcast (37 page)
“No.” His gaze held his friend’s in a moment of intense lucidity. “Reeve, I can’t feel my legs.”
Reeve took in his meaning on a sharp inhalation, then after a slight pause, yelled up at Jericho, “Go on!”
While his attention was diverted, Dodge slipped his hand free and came up on one shoulder, lunging for the pistol he’d dropped earlier. He had it halfway to his head before Patrice’s cry alerted Reeve. He snatched the piece away. Dodge fell back with an anguished moan, his forearm braced over his eyes.
“Don’t do this, Reeve. You owe me a life. Mine’s not worth living. Not like this.”
Reeve was too stricken to respond, so Patrice bent down to take the lieutenant’s damp face between her palms. She spoke gently, firmly, allowing none of her own fear to escape.
“Dodge, listen to me. You listen to me. We’re going to need you to stay with us. Pride needs you. Reeve’s going to need you at our wedding. My friend Starla will be there. You’ll want to meet her, Dodge. She’s gorgeous and single and always on the look out for a handsome fellow like yourself.”
He edged his arm up so he could see her. His face was taut, fever-flushed with pain. “She mind the smell of a good cigar?”
“Knowing Starla, she’ll probably smoke one with you.”
He swallowed hard then muttered, “You gonna leave me out here lying on the ground all night?” He blinked, the movement slowing, growing more and more gradual until his eyes finally stayed shut.
Reeve rocked back on his heels, staring at the men who’d tried to kill his friend and the woman he loved as well as hang him. Two of the group draped facedown over their saddles. He knew them, though not well. Others nursed wounds and animosity barely restrained by Deacon’s gun. Finally, he looked at Tyler. The other man didn’t evade his stare but met it with an emotionless blank. No apology, no trace of what went on inside his head or heart. Reeve’s gaze lowered to the injured hands, studying them for a long moment before saying, “When the doctor’s finished here, I’ll send him to check on those burns.” His stare was steady, unblinking.
Tyler understood. What once existed between them was no more. His gaze flickered to Patrice, who had her arms about Reeve’s broad shoulders in a fiercely protective circle. He gingerly caught up the reins to his rented horse, swinging up to follow the rest of the sullen riders back into the night.
When they were gone, Deacon sheathed his rifle.
“Help me carry him inside, Deke.”
Deacon eyed Reeve for a long second, then dismounted. Between the two men, they managed to move Dodge to the unyielding sofa in Byron Glendower’s study. There, Deacon touched his sister’s shoulder, not missing the way she flinched from him.
“Patrice, let me take you home. You need to let Mama put something on those burns.”
She didn’t acknowledge him but instead spoke quietly to Reeve. “Will you be all right here?”
He nodded, busy making Dodge comfortable.
‘I’ll be back … soon.”
Reeve made no sign of having heard her.
Patrice underestimated the extent of her own injuries. Once the shock wore off, her body surrendered to its weaknesses. Her head pounded from the bullet crease on her cheek and temple. She’d have a scar. The knock to her ribs left them bruised but not broken. The backs of her legs were painfully scorched by the flames. Under the numbing balm of laudanum, she drifted.
Her ragged thoughts were consumed by Reeve, by Dodge, by fleeting images of Tyler Fairfax as the charming young man he’d once been waltzing her about the blue grass. By her brother.
I’m responsible.
Her mind ached. Her heart felt both full and painfully empty.
Deacon hovered close by. She didn’t see him but heard his low tones in the hall outside her door. Her feelings for him fluctuated, sometimes fierce with outrage that he’d let her believe the worst of Reeve when his own actions held the blame, sometimes softening with sentiment when she considered his confession which must, even now, be circulating through the gossips of Pride. He’d tarnished her view with his own candid words, knowing he might well lose her love. He was a despicable deceiver, a selfless hero to the Southern Cause. Too many things for her weary spirit to sort through as her body healed.
The doctor returned the third day to redress her burns, check her lungs, and pronounce her progress satisfactory. She half listened. What about Dodge? The doctor grew grim.
“He has a bullet lodged next to the spine. Because of its position, an operation to remove it would have a 99 percent chance of killing him. I don’t have
the facilities or the knowledge to guess the extent of damage. If he recovers, he’ll probably have no feeling from the waist down.”
The news buffeted her, leaving a bereft heaviness in its wake. “You’re just going to leave the bullet?”
“Shouldn’t hurt, ‘less infection sets in. Or it shifts.”
“Then?”
His failure to answer told the worst. Dodge would die. As the doctor packed up his bags, his observation was as cruel as it was compassionate. “Maybe that would be best.”
But Patrice was appalled.
Deacon lingered in the doorway as the doctor exited. His hands stuffed deep into his pockets as he levered his weight from one foot to the other as if unable to strike a comfortable balance within himself. He glanced at Patrice, his gaze flickering quickly away.
“You look better.” A flat summation that didn’t request her reply. She didn’t give one. He fidgeted a bit longer, his awkwardness touching upon tender sympathies and, at the same time, wringing a savage sense that it was well deserved. Humility didn’t look good on him. Finally, Deacon straightened, freeing his hands so they hung fisted at his sides as his features gelled into familiar impassivity.
“It was my duty, Patrice.” No apology.
“You don’t need to explain war to me, Deacon.”
“The things I did were dangerous. My life was always right there on the edge. I couldn’t afford to let sentiment get in the way of judgment and still do the job.”
“That’s not war, Deacon. That’s you.”
If her observation struck a nerve, he didn’t show
it. “I don’t expect you to understand, Patrice.”
“I may not like it, but I’ve always understood you.”
His eyes closing briefly, he drew a deep inhalation and let it out slowly. “I don’t. I don’t understand. I liked it, Patrice. I liked what I was doing, and that scares the hell out of me.” Then he looked at her, the mask back in place. “I thought I’d drive you over to the Glade if you’re up to it.”
A peace offering. A way to make amends. By accepting it, she’d absolve him. She let the invitation dangle, letting him squirm a moment longer in his own guilt. In the end, she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable, and that surprised her.
“I’m capable of driving myself.”
Her cool response hurt him. Pain winced through his eyes along with the dread that nothing would ever be the same between them again. It wouldn’t. She would never again be so naively trusting or look to him and expect perfection. She would see her brother, with all his faults, fears, and hidden feelings.
“But I would like the company,” she concluded quietly.
Reeve shifted in the leather wing chair he’d been living out of for the past few days. He uncrossed his long legs so he could bend to press the back of his hand to Dodge’s brow. Still no trace of the feared fever. That was good, he told himself. The contact woke Dodge to a now-familiar listlessness.
“ ‘Morning.”
No response. Reeve suppressed his frustration to continue the conversation. It was important that his
friend feel among the living even though he wasn’t interested in participating.
“Got a wire from your folks. They want to come see you.”
That sparked a reaction. His gaze flashed to Reeve’s. “No! I don’t want them to come.” He blinked several times, then went on staring at the ceiling, his voice going flat again. “They can’t afford the ticket or the time. I don’t want to burden them.” His eyes closed after saying that last but not before Reeve saw the awful crowding of fear and anger.
“Doc said you could start sitting up, a little at a time.”
“That’s something to look forward to.”
If there’d been bitterness, sarcasm, or even a hint of hope in that statement, Reeve wouldn’t have been so alarmed. The toneless disinterest made him wonder if Dodge still considered suicide. And if he had the right to stop him a second time. He’d came to Pride because Reeve asked him—for no other reason than that. He’d ridden out to the Glade to take up a fight not his own, forfeiting his future. That was the kind of friend he was. What kind of friend allowed another to make those sacrifices? Agitated, anguished, Reeve pushed out of his chair and paced to the window, aware that Dodge followed the movement.
“I’ve been thinking, Reeve,” he began quietly. “I’m thinking I want to go home.”
Reeve pinched his eyes shut against the sting of helplessness. “All right. If that’s what you want.”
Silence fell, growing more awkward and uncomfortable by the minute. Until a breezy voice intruded.
“I declare it smells of musty men and old liquor
in here. Reeve, throw open the window so I can breathe.”
Patrice swept in, a breath of fresh air, herself. Dodge smiled. He couldn’t help it. She looked great, she smelled delicious when nudging in to perch on the edge of the cushions. She smiled at him, her expression warm with fondness. No pity. No guilt. No sorrow. He soaked it up thirstily.
“I’d kiss you, but you’re a regular porcupine.” Her knuckles buffed the stubble on his chin.
“Hold that thought. You can shave me.”
Reeve snorted. “I offered, and you wouldn’t let me.”
“Well, she’s a helluva lot better-looking than you are.
She kissed him anyway, her lips touching softly to his temple, her scent swirling his senses, purposefully making him acutely aware of how much of him was still very much alive. She sat back, her smile teasing and tender, coaxing him back to his old brash self as her fingers rumpled through his hair.
“We’ll get you one of those chairs with wheels on it, and you’ll be chasing skirts in no time.”
His vision wobbled for a moment, then cleared. “You’re a helluva woman, Patrice Sinclair. If that damned fool Kentuckian isn’t man enough to hang on to you, just you let me know.”
“It would serve you right if I did, Mr. Dodge. I’d enjoy clipping your wings.”
He chuckled. “Then I’d be totally at your mercy.” He canted a look at a glowering Reeve and winked at her. “Somehow, I don’t think we have to worry about that happening.”
Patrice glanced at Reeve, the cadence of her
pulsebeats suddenly accelerating. His return gaze told her next to nothing, reminding her of all that had yet to be said between them. Soon.
Dodge tipped his head back, noticing for the first time that Patrice wasn’t alone. “Mr. Sinclair. Come to say I told you so?”
Deacon ignored him. “When are you going to be back to work?”
“Are customers lining up outside the bank to help me pack?”
“I’ll be waiting so you can help save my ass.” Direct and to the point.
Patrice’s stare shot up to her brother, amazed. Admiring.
Interest quickened in Hamilton Dodge. He levered himself up, pushing with his arms, gritting into the pain. Instead of helping, Patrice propped a pillow behind him. “What kind of help were you looking for?” Wheels turned behind intelligent eyes.
Noting that Reeve had stepped out onto the front porch, Patrice stood and let her brother command Pride’s banker’s attention. Hers was elsewhere.
On securing her own future.
Reeve stood at the edge of the porch, toes off the edge, gaze fixed on the still-smoldering ruins of the stables. The mares had long since been corralled in one of the remaining paddocks with a strutting Zeus prowling the other side of the rail, tail arched, nostrils flared, anxious to get to the business of rebuilding the Glade’s stock. Reeve watched the animal’s restless movements, his gaze distant, unreadable. Patrice was hesitant to approach him.
She’d told him more than once that she loved him. She’d proved it in his bed and at his side. She had spoken of marriage, twice. He had yet to comment on any of those things. She wanted to push him for his feelings, but didn’t dare, not completely sure what she’d hear. So she stuck to safer topics.
“Will he be all right?”
Reeve turned slightly. “Who? Dodge?” He nodded.
“He’s tough. He can do anything he puts his mind to.” His gaze darkened. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For what you did inside. For bringing him back.”
“Oh, that wasn’t me. That was Deacon talking business. Mention dollars and cents and the man lights up like a Roman candle. He’ll be good for Pride. I know it.”
“And you’re good for me.”
Patrice didn’t move. Slowly, he extended his hand. Only then did she go closer, folding her fingers through his. He lifted her hand, pressing it over his heart, expression mysterious, aloof. She wasn’t sure how to break through.
“You knew about Deacon, didn’t you?”
He nodded slightly. “Jonah never said right out, but I guessed it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me blame you?”
“I know how much your brother means to you.”
“But do you have any idea what
you
mean to me?”
His mouth lifted slightly. “I’m beginning to.”
She let it go for the moment, choosing instead to look out over the lush, rolling acres of the Glade. “It’s all yours now. Everything you’ve ever wanted.” She slid a look up at him. “All without strings?”
“You know the squire. He had to tie a few.”
She stiffened in spite of herself. “Such as?”
“He wanted my children to take on the name Glendower.”
“Children?”
“That was one of the conditions.”
“And what about a wife?”
“Usually helps in having children.” He grew guarded. “How much did he tell you?”
Patrice’s past bravery failed her. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “He said I was a condition of your inheritance. That to get the rest, you had to take me.”
Reeve mumbled a soft oath. He released her hand and left the porch, striding purposefully across the lawn, away from her and the grand house. Anxiously, Patrice hurried after him, matching his pace. Neither said anything until they’d reached the far stargazing field. He slowed, finally coming to a solitary oak that stood like an old, grizzled caretaker proudly surveying his surroundings. Reeve sank down, back against the tree, and began plucking at the grasses. Patrice remained standing, uncertain, uneasy, almost feeling unwelcomed. Until he looked up at her.
