Deacon wrestled on his muddied trousers in the dimness of the dressing room. He didn’t have time to wonder what kind of evidence he was leaving on the hardwood floor. As he stuffed in his shirttails, he cast a look around him, stunned by what he saw.
He saw a man’s bedroom, with signs of it being fully occupied.
If Montgomery Prior was sleeping in this room, did that mean he wasn’t sleeping with his wife?
Then chaos took hold.
Garnet answered the pounding at her chamber door. An anxious house servant burst out, “Mrs. Prior, it’s your husband. He’s been shot!”
Chapter 22
Clots of mud disappeared as recently disheveled covers were thrown back to receive an insensible Montgomery Prior. Deacon stood in the background as Garnet and Hannah listened anxiously to Doc Anderson’s prognosis. It wasn’t good. Monty had taken a bullet to the chest, a dangerous wound for even a young, fit man, lessening the odds for an older, sedentary gentleman who’d lost a great deal of blood. The situation was grave, each second critical. If Monty held on for the next twenty-four hours, his chances to survive doubled. If no fever set in, the percentage kept increasing. What the doctor stressed was the immediate constant care he’d need. Both women volunteered to see someone was always at his side.
Helpless to do much more than stay out of the way while the ladies set up a hospital room with quick efficiency, Deacon lingered by the doorway, distressed by his own dark thoughts.
How much better everything would be if the Englishman died.
He hated the idea, and himself for thinking it, but a rational part of his brain recognized the truth of it. If Monty quietly slipped away, Garnet would be free to marry. She’d never need know about her departed husband’s past and he could correct any overtures Monty had made so far to bilk the people of Pride. Skinner would lose his leverage, but if Roscoe was right, Deacon would lose his chance of ever getting his home back.
He watched Garnet bending over the gray-haired gentleman to carefully blot his forehead. Moved by the tender sympathy in her exquisite face, he realized that having the Manor and his inheritance was a far distant goal. Having Garnet and the child they’d made between them was everything.
Monty’s survival or demise wouldn’t change that fact.
Then Garnet’s gaze lifted, meeting his for a brief, telling moment. In the dark pool of worry, he could see deeper eddies of distress. Because she’d been unfaithful in the same bed her wounded husband now occupied? Because she couldn’t trust that the moment of passion between them would develop to something more? He saw the splintering doubt in that fleeting communion, an unanswered pain of past betrayal and fresh uncertainties. He deserved that from her even after the beautiful love they’d made. She needed more from him now. More than physical pleasures. She needed words. She needed to hear the truth to wash away the tinge of his dishonorable actions. He wanted to reassure her that his motives were solid, that his love would overcome the stain of infidelity. But they were not alone and she looked too quickly away.
What if her guilt placed an insurmountable wall between them? Deacon began to frown.
“Tough old bird, isn’t he? Who would have thought.”
Deacon’s glance stabbed to where a pale Roscoe Skinner leaned on the door jamb at his side. While he might plot the old fellow’s death, he didn’t like the idea of Skinner taking pleasure from it.
“Who shot him?”
At Deacon’s terse questions, the women turned toward them.
“Mr. Skinner, should you be up and around?” Hannah cried worriedly.
“Thank you for your concern, ma’am, but the doctor said I was in no danger. Blade just grazed my ribs. Nothing vital got perforated.”
“What happened on the road, Mr. Skinner?”
Roscoe grew somber at Garnet’s directness. “Your husband was carrying a stack of investor’s money. The attack was unexpected. It happened so fast, I couldn’t have prevented it.”
“Who pulled the trigger?”
“Tyler Fairfax.”
That news stunned even Deacon, who wouldn’t have believed the scheming drunkard could have fallen any farther in his esteem. But cold blooded murder? For financial reasons? It could have happened that way. Could have, but he suspected it didn’t.
“Now that I know Mr. Prior is holding his own, I aim to go after Fairfax myself.”
Skinner’s hard claim alerted Deacon. Roscoe was going hunting, and it wasn’t to bring Tyler back alive. If Monty died and Tyler didn’t survive to tell his side of the tale, Skinner’s word would be all they had to go on. And that didn’t sit well with Deacon. Skinner’s word wasn’t something he’d take at face value—not knowing as he did that Skinner had more than one face.
“Where do you plan to look?”
“He’s wounded. At his home, at his sister’s, then I’ll start checking with his friends. Don’t worry, Mrs. Prior. I’ll find him. And he’ll pay for what he did to your husband.” And as he turned out into the hall, he gripped Deacon’s arm, turning him out for a private word. “And you’ll pay, too. Don’t think you’re getting off easy, Sinclair. I’ll take care of you when I get back. You might want to make yourself scarce before I do, or things will get ugly, real ugly.”
Deacon smelled Garnet’s unique scent as she moved to stand beside him as Roscoe wobbled down the hall. He was almost afraid to look at her, afraid he’d see regret, remorse, or even anger over what had happened between them while her husband was being attacked. He couldn’t bear the thought of her guilt.
But Garnet wasn’t thinking in a carnal direction.
“Do you believe him?”
He started at her low, calm question. “Skinner? No. Not until someone backs up his story.”
“What if Monty never wakes up?” Anguish colored her voice, making him wince at his earlier thoughts. She obviously loved Monty, regardless of the nature of their marriage.
“That’s why I have to find Tyler before Skinner does.”
He started again as her fingers brushed across the back of his hand to slip into his palm. His closed up for a heartening squeeze.
“Find him, Deacon,” she urged. “I don’t want any doubts to remain. Not about anything.”
He nodded, giving her hand another press. “And then we need to talk.”
“Yes,” was all the encouragement she’d give him, before sliding her hand free and returning to her husband’s bedside.
Deacon saddled his horse and spurred it in the opposite direction that Skinner had gone. He had the advantage, that of knowing a thing or two about Tyler Fairfax and who he would first think to go to if he were in any real peril.
If she hadn’t been up with Jonah’s feeding, Patrice would never had heard the knock.
At least, she thought it was a knock.
She’d tucked the sated baby back into his bassinet, then gone downstairs to put the infant’s soiled linens to soak. She stopped in the kitchen to pour a glass of water for herself and was carrying it across the front foyer when the noise brought her up short. Someone or something was on the porch making that weak thump against the solid panel.
Made cautious by harsh experience, she padded on bare feet into Byron Glendower’s former study. Trembling hands a contrast to her cool demeanor, she drew a loaded pistol from the big desk and returned to the hall. If it was nothing, she wouldn’t disturb her husband and child in vain. If it was something, she wouldn’t be caught unprepared.
The freezing rain had finally stopped leaving a heavy mist rising from the ground in a cold, thick curtain. The stables were silent, no sign of disturbance there. She stepped out onto the porch warily. That’s when she saw a single horse cropping on their corner bushes. Its reins were trailing on the wet grass. Its empty saddle was dark and slick with an all too recognizable stain.
“ ‘Trice …”
The sound came from behind her, making her heart leap and the gun in her hand jerk up in self-defense as she whirled back toward the house. The
glass in her other hand shattered on the stone porch floor as it fell from nerveless fingers.
“Oh, my God! Reeve, come quick!”
Even as she shouted for her husband, Patrice was kneeling down before the figure slumped next to the door, searching out the source of the terrible blood flow.
“Patrice? What is it?” Reeve barreled through the door dressed only in long underwear washed to a faded pink. He carried a rifle, expecting anything, ready for everything. Except the sight of his onetime friend bleeding all over his doorstep. “Tyler.” He looked to his ashen-faced wife. “How bad?”
“Bad,” she answered, tears in her eyes.
“Let’s get him inside and I’ll go for the doctor.”
Tyler gripped his arm, dragging himself back from the brink of unconsciousness. “No,” he whispered hoarsely. “Deacon. Bring Deacon. No one else.”
Reeve carried him murmuring insensibly into the front parlor, draping his muddied, bloodied form across a newly upholstered sofa.
“Any idea what this is about?” Patrice asked, as she tucked a pillow behind his lolling head.
“With Tyler, it could be anything. A falling out with his cutthroat friends, his bastard of a father, who knows? I know I don’t like leaving you here with him like this, not knowing what kind of trouble he’s bringing behind him.”
“Reeve, we have to help him.”
He met her solemn stare for a long moment, then nodded. “Of course we do.”
Theirs had been a lengthy friendship marred by the changing times. But fond memories couldn’t be dismissed as unimportant, so they would do what they could, regardless of the danger that might be even now following on his heels.
Reeve gestured to the pistol she’d placed on the table at the end of the sofa. “Keep that within reach. I’ll be back as quick as I can. Hopefully your brother can shed some light on this, though I can’t see him and Tyler involved in anything together.”
“Be careful.”
He nodded, kissed her hard and was gone.
“ ‘Trice?”
“I’m here, Tyler.” She took up his hand, pressing it comfortingly between her own.
“Don’t let me die.”
“I won’t. I promise. After all, you saved me once. Now I can return the favor.”
A faint rueful smile etched his taut features. “Then we’ll be even and owing each other nothing. Then you can finally get rid of me.”
“Don’t be silly. You know Reeve and I will always love you, just as we do Starla. You just make it hard for us sometimes.”
“I know, darlin’, I know.” But his eyes closed and his smile sweetened with relief. “Maybe I can make some of it up to you tonight.”
Reeve was leading his stallion Zeus from the barn, tacked and ready for a fast trip to Sinclair Manor, when he heard a single rider approach in a hurry. He eased his rifle from its scabbard in case their predawn visitor had more than a courtesy call on his mind. Then he stuffed the barrel back in its sheath when he recognized the lean, upright posture of his wife’s brother.
“Tyler?” Deacon called as he swung down, not questioning where Reeve was headed before daylight.
“Inside.”
“Alive?”
“When I left.”
“Anyone else know he’s here?”
“Nope. He was sending me over to get you. You mind telling me what’s going on?”
“I’m hoping Tyler can answer that.”
He greeted Deacon with a faint smile.
Deacon cut right to it. “Was it Skinner?”
“That son of a bitch,” Tyler mumbled in agreement. Haltingly, he filled them in on Roscoe’s treachery, ending with, “I should have known not to turn my back on him.”
“And he should have kept a better eye on you, as well. You nearly carved out his spleen.”
Again, the faint smile. “Meant to. Prior?”
“Hanging on.”
Tyler’s eyes slid shut, his energy lapsing. His breaths came shallow and fast. “Patrice says I’m not dying. What do you say, Rev? Figure you’d put it plain.”
“I’m not a doctor,” he replied, not meeting his sister’s plaintive gaze. “But it looks pretty bad.”
“Guess I’d better talk fast, then.” He drew a slow, bracing breath and began. “Skinner’s my fault. I brought him here. Prior wanted someone to oversee the properties and keep an eye on you, and I remembered Roscoe from the war years. Figured I could plant him at the Manor and keep tabs on what was going on.”
“How did you know him?”
Tyler smiled. “We boys with bad reputations tend to find one another. He was tradin’ secrets for the highest price. He did a few things for me now and again and I told him a thing or two. That’s all I’ll say about that. But I remembered him having a particular dislike for you, Rev.”
“Why? I don’t know him.”
“You were in the same brotherhood.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your code name was ‘the Reverend,’ his was ‘Hermes.’”
Things fell into place for Deacon. Hermes. He’d never met the man, but he knew the name of the infamous counterspy he’d helped expose. Before the court martial could convene, Hermes had escaped and disappeared. And now he had resurfaced to take his revenge upon the man who’d turned him in as a traitor.
“There’s more,” Tyler whispered, his voice failing, his breath growing weaker. “Roscoe, he was responsible for Jonah.”
Deacon, Patrice, and Reeve exchanged quick looks. It was Reeve who answered.
“We know who was responsible for Jonah dying. The two of us are right here.”
Tyler shook his head. “No. Roscoe set a trap for Deacon and Jonah sprang it. He meant for it to be you, Rev. Then, before they executed you, he was going to slip in and offer to get the information you were carrying through to Richmond. He would have been a hero and you would have been dead. That was his plan.”
“But he hadn’t counted on a real hero stepping in,” Reeve interjected softly, choking up at the thought of his half-brother’s sacrifice.
Deacon stayed focused on the current problem. “So you brought him here to finish what he started.” There was no time to delve into the complexities of emotion ricocheting between heart and mind. He’d said it was duty where Jonah was concerned, but Roscoe’s suspicions were closer to the truth than Deacon had been willing to accept. He had wanted to be the hero. He had wanted the glory for himself. And he’d never stopped suffering for the results, not ever. Jonah had died bravely, his sister’s fiancé. And he’d let it happen. Knowing it was part of a plot conceived by Roscoe Skinner lessened some of that blame—some, but not all. Never all. In some ways, it made him even more culpable. Skinner had sought his death, not that of an innocent martyr to the Cause. It was no longer an impersonal matter of war. It was a very personal attack.
Now he knew who. He just needed to know why.
“If I’d wanted you dead,” Tyler was saying, “you’d a been buried long ago. I just wanted him to make some mischief so nobody would see what I was up to.”
“Getting the judge appointed county supervisor so you could pretty much run Pride as you saw fit.”
Tyler grinned at Deacon. “Always was too damned smart. Knew you’d pick up on it ‘less you was distracted. Figured Roscoe would keep you busy. Should a figured he’d come to see me as a liability sooner or later.”
“He’s saying you tried to kill Prior and stole the money.”
Tyler’s gaze sharpened in alarm. “He’s lying.” He looked to Patrice. “You don’t believe that, do you?”
“Then you’d better plan on staying alive to prove it.” Deacon looked to Reeve. “Keep him here and keep things quiet.”
Reeve nodded. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to set a trap for a traitor.”
Chapter 23
After a quick stop in town at the break of day to speak to Dodge and Noble Banning—Dodge because of his Yankee
background and his contacts with those still maintaining a loose martial law and Noble to obtain his legal counsel—Deacon returned to the Manor, numbed with weariness but alive with anticipation. It took him several determined minutes to finalize his case against Roscoe. The law was already after him, and now he would see the man hanged. His threats lost their power. That accomplished, Deacon had only one remaining purpose.
Prior was still unconscious but breathing stronger and resting easier. His mother was sitting at the Englishman’s bedside, and again he experienced a twinge of concern. She seemed awfully committed to a married man. An irony, considering he was planning to steal the man’s wife.
After exchanging brief words and learning that Garnet had retired to get some much needed rest, Deacon headed wearily for his own small room in back. His mind spun with the question of what to do about Garnet.
It didn’t appear that Prior would die, despite the seriousness of his wound. If that was the case, would Garnet be willing to risk the scandal of divorce to begin a life with him? Would Prior let her and the boy go without a fight? He dismissed the thought of using blackmail as leverage. That would force him into the same mold as Skinner. That’s not who he was anymore.
Would Garnet believe him if he told her his motive was love?
That was the big question. He had nothing to give her except a history of lies. Would she always wonder if he’d only wanted her as a means to get back his properties? Or to claim his son? He’d have to work long and hard to convince her otherwise. But first, some sleep; then he’d seek her out for a little long-overdue truth-telling.
He pushed open the door, sliding out of his coat as he stepped inside. Then froze.
For there asleep on his bed was Garnet Prior, her hair spread across his pillow, encasing it in ebony silk.
The gentleman he’d always prided himself on being would have discreetly backed out and left her to her rest. He closed the door quietly behind him, not caring what that made him. She woke at the sound, regarding him through quiet eyes that showed no alarm or displeasure.
The Men of Pride County: The Pretender Page 25