The Men of Pride County: The Pretender

by West, Rosalyn

“Why, if my eyes don’t deceive me, the signature on the bottom of this order is Montgomery Prior’s. Isn’t he your boss man? Are you sayin’ he don’t have the authority to choose merchandise for his store?” Green eyes slitted. “Or that you have the authority to defy him?”

  Tyler’s casual claim drew attention from those lingering by the stove. And from another source.

  “What’s going on here, gentlemen?”

  Garnet slipped up to the counter with her best diplomatic smile. She looked between the two men who held each other’s glares with the intensity of wolves guarding territory. Tyler was the first to break free, turning to Garnet with his most charming manners.

  “Why, I just don’t understand it, Miz Prior. Your clerk here is refusing to fill an order for me that’s been authorized already by your husband. Is there some problem?”

  Garnet glanced at the list. Winchesters and Henry rifles with 45-70-caliber bullets. She schooled her features to reveal none of her alarm. “Are you planning to wage your own war, Mr. Fairfax?”

  Tyler laughed. “Oh, no, ma’am. Nothin’ like that a’tall. I’m a member of a shooting club.”

  “Tell her what you shoot at.”

  Garnet ignored Deacon’s fierce challenge to say calmly, “It’s none of our business, as long as it’s legal.”

  “Legal, my a—”

  “Mr. Sinclair, please take care of this order.”

  Deacon met her demand with an equally terse, “No.”

  After a moment of tense exchange, Garnet called, “Mr. Rosen, please take care of Mr. Fairfax and see his order is filled to his satisfaction.”

  Herschel approached cautiously, but nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Prior.”

  Garnet leveled a look at Deacon. “I’d like to speak to you for a moment, Mr. Sinclair.”

  She led the way to the feed room. When he closed the door behind them, she turned on him in a cold rage.

  “How dare you question my husband’s orders?”

  “Do you have any idea what he wants those guns for?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care? They put a bullet in our banker because they didn’t like his politics, and you don’t care? They try to hang my sister’s husband and burn his roof over his head, and you don’t care?”

  She sighed fiercely. “Of course I care. I just can’t allow you to make a forum of it in front of half the town.”

  “What better place to make a stand for what’s right?”

  “We’re here to do business, not make judgments.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  She drew a breath, frustrated by his stubbornness, by his correctness. It was no longer the issue that fueled her anger with him. It was the sleepless night she’d spent, fighting the desire to seek him out, hating the fact that she was still no closer to understanding his motives than she was while watching her home burn to the ground at his command.

  “And who are you to be the moral conscience of this community?”

  The slight flicker behind his eyes before he assumed his impassive face told her she’d hit the mark. She pressed on ruthlessly.

  “You condemn them for doing with guns what you did with words and false charm.”

  “I was fighting my country’s war. They’re creating their own.”

  But she could read him well enough to see he didn’t completely believe his own argument.

  “What war, Deacon? A war against a decent farmer who only wanted to make a difference for a cause he was devoted to? A war against an unworldly backwoods girl who was foolish enough to believe every word you told her? And you argue the moral Tightness of what my husband does? How dare you? What makes you any better or any different than they are? They hide under sheets, and you hid behind lies. You both prey upon the weak to get what you want, and you do so without the slightest degree of remorse.”

  She wanted him to argue that it wasn’t true, that he was better, different, more noble in his ideals. But he said nothing in his defense.

  And that made her all the angrier, because if he was guilty of everything she said, she was a fool for loving him.

  When he finally spoke, his words were no comfort.

  “I’ve had to live with the consequences of the choices I’ve made. If you deal with Fairfax, be prepared to do the same … Mrs. Prior. Just be sure you know why you’re willing to sacrifice your conscience. That’ll make all the difference in how well you sleep at night.”

  He started past her to the door. Her question made him pause.

  “And how well do you sleep, Deacon?”

  He turned slowly, fixing her with a steady stare. His voice held no inflection.

  “The last time I rested well was the night I slept with you.”

  Riotous emotion brought tears to her eyes and a shiver of fury to her tone. “Damn you, Deacon.”

  His half smile mocked himself, not her, as he opened the door. Sound from the store rushed in but couldn’t drown out his quiet reply.

  “I’m sure you’re right about that.”

  “Mr. Sinclair!”

  Assuming a tolerant smile, Deacon went to join Myrna Bishop. He glanced curiously at her companion, a slender blond woman with an unnervingly direct stare.

  “Mr. Sinclair, may I present my cousin, Constance Collier? She’s the one I spoke to you about.”

  “The hatmaker.”

  “Actually, I’m a teacher by trade,” the woman corrected, as she extended her hand in a forthright manner. Her accent was decidedly Northern. Deacon took her hand, slightly surprised when she gave it a vigorous shake. “But dear Myrna has convinced me that millinery work is the safer profession.”

  Myrna shot her a disapproving glare, then turned her charm back to Deacon. “Constance is interested in your upstairs rooms.”

  “There are no living accommodations, Miss Collier.”

  “It’s Mrs.,” she amended again in her pleasantly low voice. “And that’s quite all right. Myrna has convinced me to stay with her for the time being. At least until I can get my feet under me again.”

  He felt Garnet beside him before he actually saw her. “Mrs. Prior, this is Mrs. Collier. She’d like to discuss leasing the upstairs for her millinery shop.”

  Garnet smiled. “How nice. We’d hoped to put the space to good use. How soon would you like to occupy it?”

  “As soon as we can come to financial terms.”

  Garnet glanced about. “Is Mr. Collier with you?”

  “I’m a widow, Mrs. Prior.” Her attention slipped casually to Deacon. “I’ve been handling my own affairs for some time now.”

  Garnet’s smile stiffened. A widow. She reassessed the other female, who had suddenly gone from safely married to dangerously unattached and openly flirting with Deacon Sinclair. She was of good height, though lithely built, attractive in a rather angular way. There was a quick intelligence to her gaze and a simmering sensuality to her bowed smile. And Garnet felt the threat to her territory, though it wasn’t truly hers to protect. She was supposedly wed, and Deacon and the slyly smiling widow were free of any entanglements.

  At that moment, she would rather have leased her upstairs rooms for Klan meetings than to one available milliner.

  “I’m not a wealthy woman, Mrs. Prior, but I would be agreeable to any fair amount. I’m looking forward to establishing myself in Pride as soon as possible.”

  And staking her claim on its unattached men. Garnet bristled. Forcing herself to remember that she had no apparent cause to reject the woman’s offer, she gestured toward the store’s office. “Let’s talk, Mrs. Collier.”

  The bold blonde paused to bestow another come-hither look at Deacon. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sinclair. I’ll enjoy being above you.”

  That was one image that would keep Garnet from finding a decent night’s rest.

  Chapter 18

  The first sound to greet her as she entered her front door was that of delighted female laughter. Her already testy mood darkening, Garnet passe
d her cloak to a waiting servant and went to find the source.

  It was a cozy sight, Hannah Sinclair and her supposed husband seated side by side on the parlor sofa. Almost like a courting couple. It would seem every female in Pride was actively in pursuit of romance, with herself the one obvious exception. The moment Hannah saw her frowning in the doorway, she jumped up as if caught by a displeased chaperone. Murmuring that she had to check on the kitchen, she excused herself from the room.

  “Rather inappropriate of you to be entertaining our housekeeper in my absence, wouldn’t you say?”

  Undaunted by her tart assessment, Monty quirked an eyebrow. “My, we are on edge this evening. Anything you’d care to discuss, my dear?”

  No, she didn’t care to go into what weighed upon her heart, so she vented what was on her mind.

  “You and Mrs. Sinclair have become very close.”

  “She is a charming woman. I enjoy her company.” His mild smile said he missed the point.

  “And if others suspect you enjoy more than that?”

  There was no mistaking her meaning, and clouds gathered upon Monty’s brow.

  “Mrs. Sinclair is a lady. Who has suggested otherwise?”

  “No one … yet. But if you continue to seek her company as if—” she checked the hallway, then continued, “you were not already married, people will talk.”

  “People will always find something to talk about, whether it’s the truth or not. Come, child, what’s really bothering you this evening?”

  She could hardly say she was chafing over the possible attraction between Deacon and their new tenant. Instead, she picked a safer yet no less volatile topic. “Why did you agree to sell Tyler Fairfax guns?”

  His brows soared, but he refused to look guilty of anything. “I thought our business was to sell things. Is that a crime?”

  “It could be the cause of many.”

  “My dear, you yourself encouraged dealings with Mr. Fairfax, and I believe it was also you who wanted me to belong in the community. I’ve done both those things, and yet you fault me for them now.”

  She scowled at him, not quite taken in by his expression of innocence. “Lately, I’ve heard unsavory things about your new friends.”

  “From what source? Your Mr. Sinclair? I would hardly expect him to be approving. Are you now accepting his judgment over mine?”

  “Perhaps he knows these people better than you or I.”

  “If he was such a good judge of character, why did he lose his home? And why did he let you go?”

  She winced at that rapier-sharp question. “Perhaps he’s learned from his mistakes.”

  All traces of the befuddlement fell away as Monty demanded shrewdly, “Is that what you think has happened where you’re concerned?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?” Pride starched up her posture, but it was hope quavering in her voice. A fragile hope that what she and Deacon had had was strong enough to prevent him from turning to another woman—even if he had every right to, and she none to protest. Monty’s attitude softened with care.

  “That a man would call himself ten times the fool for missing the chance to marry you? No, darling, that’s not so far-fetched. But this particular man—?” He shrugged eloquently. “Perhaps he does regret it now that you hold all that once was his.” As a startled pain crossed her features, he added gently, “That may sound cruel but it is also true.” He embraced her gently. “Now, my dear-ling, think on that while I’m away this evening and guard your heart from foolish wishes.”

  To distract herself from the ache his words woke inside more than from real interest, Garnet asked, “Where are you off to?”

  “I’m going into town to play a few hands with my new friends. Now, now, dear, do not look so disapproving. I am nobody’s mark when it comes to scheming. I’m not above a plot or two myself when it comes to seeing your future secured. The day will come when you’ll want a real husband instead of an uncle to act the part. I’m looking to that end, my dear, and I’m not looking in Sinclair’s direction.”

  Had she been less wrapped up in her own misery, she would have latched on to that odd claim with a demand to know what he was up to. She accepted his quick kiss to her brow and didn’t question his hasty escape. Only one thought plagued her turmoiled mind.

  Was she being manipulated once again by the coldly cunning Deacon Sinclair?

  And Hannah Sinclair, who’d been about to enter the room with a warm toddy for her distraught mistress, paused as if struck by lightening as she heard what passed between the supposed man and wife.

  Of course. Now it all made perfect sense.

  Slowly, she smiled to herself, then carried the soothing mix into Garnet, keeping the newfound knowledge to herself as a comforting secret.

  Patrice Garrett greeted her brother with a smile and a shushing gesture. The babe in her arms had finally drifted off to sleep, freeing her for the moment. Instead of waiting for her in the parlor, he followed her upstairs, into the room made up for the child’s nursery. He lingered beside the bassinet as she gently placed the boy upon his back, pausing for a tender moment as the little miracle she’d created whimpered, then took comfort sucking on his own tiny fist. In a matter of seconds, he was as limp as one of the rag dolls she’d played with when only a child herself.

  To Deacon, it didn’t seem like so very long ago.

  Patrice motioned for him to come with her. He hesitated, staring down at the child for another moment at a loss with his silence.

  “I’m exhausted and still plump as a Christmas goose, but I’m happy, Deacon. I’ve never been so happy.”

  He smiled thinly, glad for her, yet never so aware of his own empty existence. “Where’s your husband?”

  “Reeve’s out in the stables. We’ve a mare about to foal, and he’s concerned about her.”

  “Things are going well for you, then?”

  “Everything is wonderful.”

  He nodded. “Good.” A pause, then another, more distant, “Good.”

  “We’ve decided to name him Jonah. Jonah Garrett Glendower.”

  Again, Deacon nodded, noting the significance with a deepening isolation. Jonah, after Reeve’s half-brother and his sister’s first fiancé. The man who’d stepped in front of a firing squad in his place, altering the future of everyone around him with that martyred act. Vaguely, he asked, “Glendower?”

  “A promise Reeve made to his father that our children would carry on his family name. A shame he couldn’t be alive to see his heir. He would have been so proud, I think.” Momentary sadness etched her features.

  “So would our father, Patrice. It might not have been the man he wanted for you, but it was the match.”

  “Yes, a great joining of the Manor and the Glade.”

  “Or it would have been, had I handled things better.”

  “Stop it.”

  The sharpness of her tone cut through his melancholy. His manner immediately toughened. “Stop what? Beating myself with the truth—that you, his wayward daughter, found favor, while I, his chosen, failed him?”

  “Stop living in his shadow. He’s dead, Deacon.”

  He flinched, but his reply was icy. “I know. And I’ve allowed all his dreams to die with him.”

  “His dreams, Deacon. His dreams. What about yours?”

  He regarded her so blankly she wanted to slap him just to knock a bit of sense into his thick head. With a sigh, Patrice changed her tactics. Confrontation would only force her brother to retreat further behind his armored shell. That wasn’t how to reach him. She knew little of the mechanics of the great war that had taken so much from her family, but she understood how a flanking maneuver worked. And if she was successful, Deacon would never know what had hit him.

  “When I was a child, winning Father’s approval was all that mattered to me,” she began, laying a careful groundwork. “I was so focused on what would please him, I never gave a thought as to what might please me. After he died, I put you in that same
position. I needed to make you proud of me by making the choices you wanted me to make. I was a child who was afraid to recognize what I wanted, what I needed. You yourself were the one who told me to grow up, to think for myself.” She smiled faintly. “Well, that’s not quite what you meant but it’s what I took to heart. Deep down, I’ve known what I wanted since I was a little girl, but I allowed pressure from Father, from you, to cloud my thinking.”

  “I never—”

  She touched a gentle hand to his lips to still the rest of that protest. “Of course you did. I don’t blame you for that. I blame myself for allowing you to have that kind of control over me. You were doing what you thought was best, what was required of you by all our traditions, by all our rules of conduct. Well, I’ve never been one for following rules.”

  That wrung a reluctant smile from him. Encouraged by the fact that he still listened, she continued.

  “Yes, I wanted Father and you to be proud of me, but I didn’t let that interfere with my decision to marry Reeve. He was what I wanted for myself, not for the good of the family name or anything else that you men dwell on. I wanted him for me, for my happiness. If things had been different and I had married Jonah to please the Sinclairs and the Glendowers, I don’t know if I would ever have felt the contentment I feel right now. I did the right thing, for me. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Now I do. I was a little slow to be convinced.”

  She pursed her lips. “Just a little? Deacon, I love you, but you are so dense sometimes. How a man with your intelligence can be so singularly dim—” She broke off, sensing from his bristle of defensiveness that she was taking the wrong track. She regrouped behind a smile. “I love you, Deacon, and I want you to be happy. What is it that you want for yourself? Not for Father, but for yourself?”

  “I don’t—”

  She cut off his stiff reply with an impatient wave. “Yes, you do. You wouldn’t be so miserable if you didn’t.”

  His brows puckered. Anger touched his tone. “What do you want from me, Patrice?”

  “Honesty would be nice. Openness. We’ve had little of that between us over the years. You never know, I might even be able to help you.”