The Outcast

by Rosalyn West

  “No disrespect, Squire, but I’d like to have my family at home as soon as possible.”

  “None taken. Whatever I have is at your disposal. We weren’t as hard hit as some of our neighbors.” He broke off in embarrassment. He didn’t need to finish. They all knew it was because Reeve served the Union cause. That kept the scourge of Yankee scavengers from their door.

  “What I’m going to need is man power. I heard tell all our darkies ran off at Abe Lincoln’s call.”

  “All but Jericho,” Patrice told him. “I don’t think I could have held on without his help.”

  Deacon nodded. “He’s a good man.”

  “I wish I could help you there, son,” Byron continued, “but I’m no better set than you. Reeve’s the only pair of capable hands I have, and you’re welcome to use him … if he’s agreeable.”

  Deacon never blinked. “I don’t think it will come to that.”

  Byron Glendower sat unhappily at his table. With the reappearance of Deacon Sinclair, he saw his influence over Patrice about to end. Deacon would never allow a match between his sister and a man considered the county traitor. As long as Reeve was out of favor in the community, matrimony was inconceivable.

  So he had to find a way to make Reeve more palatable to his neighbors.

  It was going to be like forcing castor oil down their throats.

  Might as well start now while taste buds were coated with a fine meal.

  “We’ve had so little chance to celebrate anything. I’d like to throw open the doors of the Glade and invite all our friends and neighbors … a welcome home for Deacon and our other brave boys.”

  Deacon’s features turned to granite. Like Reeve? was the question in his frost gray eyes.

  Byron pretended not to read it there.

  “Once everyone’s here, if it gets out that you need help, I’m sure you’ll get it. The boys of this county pull together. Always have.”

  “Those of us who are left.”

  Refusing to let the mood go sour, Patrice turned to her mother with a feigned excitement. “I think a party would be wonderful, don’t you, Mama? And we could arrange everything, Squire, a sort of thank-you for all you’ve done for us these past months.”

  Byron smiled at her. “I’ll leave everything in your capable hands then.” Because she was playing right into his.

  Patrice stepped out onto the broad front porch, letting the door close quietly behind her. Deacon stood at the stone steps, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders slightly rounded, a casual pose that on him struck her as vaguely alarming. He stared off into space, focusing on nothing in particular, looking a little lost.

  “Deacon?”

  When he turned, there was something in his expression she’d never seen before. A certain wistfulness, maybe even sadness. Surprisingly, he didn’t conceal it behind the stoic mask he always wore. Instead, he waited, more approachable than she could ever remember, for her to come to him. She touched his forearm in a hesitant overture. His hand slid out of hiding to engulf hers in an unexpected press. He didn’t let go.

  Warmed and mystified, Patrice said, “It still surprises me to see you here. I’d almost given up hope.”

  “So had I. More than once.”

  It must have been very, very bad for him to make such an admission. She gave him time to say more, but he didn’t. She wasn’t surprised by his silence. He would never share his weaknesses with her. He wouldn’t know how.

  “So you plan to rebuild the Manor?”

  “Of course. Father would expect me to.” At the mention of their father, the stiffness crept back into his joints, straightening him, steeling his features into confident angles of strength and purpose. His fingers loosened about hers but she wasn’t ready to release him yet.

  “Just for Father?”

  “For us. It’s our home. And it’s mine, now.” He said that carefully, testing the sound of it. Mine. Liking it. His posture squared up even more, and, with an abrupt revolution toward the distant location of their home, he managed to pull his hand free. “I’ll start with the house and the necessities, then get the mill going again. The acres will have to wait because the tax collectors won’t. I’m not going to lose it, not an acre, not an inch.” And it could have been her father standing there, speaking with such cold ferocity.

  As much as she regretted the loss of the openness of moments ago, Patrice took comfort in his authoritative stance. She no longer had to make the decisions. After all the years she spent chafing within the role of the pampered sex, she took refuge in it now, grateful for the strong male support and leadership her brother supplied. And equally determined to do nothing to make his task of rebuilding harder.

  Suddenly, the topic of conversation shifted, startling Patrice.

  “What were you doing with Garrett?”

  Taken off guard, she had no time to construct a palatable lie. “He gave me a ride back from the Manor, that’s all. I went over this morning to check on things and got caught up in the storm. Nothing for you to get all bothered about.”

  “And he just happened by.”

  “I don’t know.” Her tone sharpened defensively. Her cheeks heated. “Maybe.”

  “More like he was following you. What does he want from you? Forgiveness? Don’t involve yourself with him, Patrice. Don’t forget what he is, what he’s done.”

  She skewered him with a bitter glare. “I don’t need you to remind me, Deacon. I can’t look at him without remembering how he’s ruined my life.”

  Inexplicably, her brother’s mood softened. “I’m sorry, ‘Trice.” His fingertips grazed her shoulder, their touch tentative, his manner awkward with both the gesture and the apology. “Has it been hard for you having him here?”

  This time, she sidled away to block his clear view of her expression. “Not too bad. He doesn’t come up to the house. I can almost pretend he doesn’t exist.” What a blatant lie that was. Absently, she rubbed the ring on her left hand and gave a slight jump when Deacon’s clasp covered hers.

  “Your life isn’t ruined, Patrice. Another man will come along who can make you as happy as you deserve to be.”

  A soft sob choked up in her throat. With one swift move, she spun and hugged to him. That, he hadn’t prepared for. He went rigid.

  “I love you, Deacon. I’m so glad you’re home.”

  Gradually, his own arms banded her within a loose circle, this one as reserved as the first had been impulsive. “We’re not home, not yet. But we will be, I promise you. You and Mother will be taken care of. I’ll see to it. I’ll see to everything.” And his vow sounded more like a vendetta than a goal.

  Reeve sat in the semidarkness of the stable, pieces of harnessing strewn all around him. Meticulously, he cleaned and oiled each strip, polished each buckle before reassembling the unit and making it good as new. At least, he tried. Some were beyond repair, too cracked and neglected to take back the shine and suppleness of care.

  Here in the moist warmth of the stalls, he could lose himself in the familiar. It was a world he took comfort in, one he could control. Not like the fancy goings-on up at the house.

  It shouldn’t have mattered that Deacon Sinclair was back. They had never been friends. Deacon was of a society unto himself, preferring to walk above the rest of humanity rather than among them. If there was any trace of humanity in him at all. Reeve had reason to doubt.

  Yet Patrice welcomed him back as a hero, looking right past the stains of war bloodying her brother’s hands. He and Deacon carried the same sins, yet the other’s were forgiven. Such predictable irony.

  He tried not to think of Jonah, but his shadow was always there, right behind his every feeling, his every move. Even after two years, the questions nagged at Reeve, insistent, like a wound refusing to heal. What prompted Jonah to step from his own neutrality into the face of war—on the wrong side?

  He picked up a bridle and started to disassemble it. He couldn’t get the headpiece free, the buckle frozen in a caking of r
ust. He worked at it, bending, tugging at the leather.

  Damn Jonah, anyway. Why hadn’t he stood by his beliefs and stayed alive to marry Patrice and become the next master of the Glade like he was supposed to? Anger surfaced in a scalding wave, an anger at Jonah for putting him back into an impossible position by choosing to die. Tempting him with what was always beyond his reach.

  He threw the damaged harness to the ground. It was beyond repair. Just like his relationship with Patrice.

  The heat was there, all right. Enough heat to burn the Glade down around them the way Sherman had Atlanta. He’d been scorched by the fit of her against him, the way her breasts flattened upon his chest, the curve of her hips notched in between his thighs, the tininess of her waist surrounded by the brawn of his arm. She made a man’s passions ache like a bad tooth. But that was wanting, not loving. And for him, it was permanence or nothing.

  So, he figured wryly, he might as well get used to the ache.

  In dying, Jonah Glendower was as big—if not bigger—obstacle than he had been when he was alive.

  “Reeve?”

  Caught up in his brooding, he hadn’t heard anyone approach. He reared back, startled, wondering anxiously what had shown on his face in those few unguarded moments. Byron Glendower was the last one he wanted to allow any control over his weaknesses.

  But the squire seemed preoccupied with whatever was on his own mind. “Reeve, we need to talk.”

  Recovered now, Reeve regarded him with a flat stare. “So talk.”

  “Not here. Up at the house.”

  Reeve tensed, suspicions alerted. “Here’s fine.” Here, he’d be on his own terms, not off-balance in his father’s world.

  But perhaps that’s what the squire had in mind when he insisted, “What I have to say can’t be said here. I’ll be waiting in my study … You have time to clean up first.”

  And then he was gone, leaving Reeve unsettled.

  What kind of interview required clean clothes and the main house?

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Chapter 6

  Though he’d lived at the Glade all his life, Reeve’s visits to the main house were rare and probably countable on one hand. Coming up from the barns, bringing the scents of horse and toil with him to spite the subtle order to make himself presentable, Reeve tromped across the pastel rugs, leaving a trail of muck, straw, and worse without a twinge of conscience. He wasn’t a guest, so he didn’t figure he had to dress like one. He was responding to a summons, not an invitation for tea.

  Byron looked up from the paperwork strewn on his desk to give his son a thorough scrutiny. He couldn’t fail to miss the significance of the dirty boots and well-worn clothing. Though his expression remained rigid with disapproval, inwardly he was pleased by the show of rebellion. He liked fight. He admired pride. And he’d never been so impressed with his son as he was right now as he stood squared off and ready for battle.

  “Sit down, Reeve.”

  “I’ll stand. I don’t want soil your fine furniture, sir.”

  “It’s going to be yours to soil, so sit.”

  Reeve was taken aback for a moment, just as Byron intended. Emotions flickered through his son’s steady stare, foremost among them wariness, surprise, and, not missing, just a snap of anticipation. That was good. He gestured toward the chair opposite his huge walnut desk. Reeve came forward with a stiff reluctance to settle on the edge of the leather seat. Although his palms rested easily on his thighs, his posture remained spring-loaded.

  “We’ve said some pretty harsh things to one another since you got home,” the squire began. “Let’s put that behind us.”

  Reeve studied him for a long moment, trying to read behind every nuance of his words. He came away unsatisfied. “Sounds simple.”

  “It could be. If you’d be willing.”

  “Why should I be, Squire?”

  Byron frowned. “Would it be so hard for you to call me Father?”

  “Yes.”

  The crack of Reeve’s answer warned he was moving too fast. He backed up and began again at a more leisurely pace.

  “We haven’t agreed on much in the past, but I believe when it comes to the Glade, both of us have common ground. We’ve both put sweat and time and patience into this place, and we’ve both felt the pride of a job well-done. Will you give me that much?”

  Reeve hesitated, then allowed a brusque, “Yes.”

  “Good. We’ve both done our parts, you from down there, me from up here. And we both deserve to reap a reward for our efforts.” He watched Reeve’s eyes narrow with caution. “Only right now, there isn’t much reward to be had, only more hard work and more commitment. That’s what’s ahead of us, boy.”

  No facial response, but Byron could see Reeve’s grip tighten on his pant legs as he leaned slightly forward. Listening.

  “If you put in the work with me, I think you’re entitled to share in the reward. Don’t you?”

  “What would that be?”

  Byron spread his hands wide, offering the ultimate reward. “All this. The Glade.”

  He heard the breath hiss from between Reeve’s teeth. But his gaze was still wolf-cautious with distrust and disbelief. “You want to give me your farm?” he restated softly.

  “Our farm, Reeve. If you won’t take it as my son, then earn it from me. I can’t bear the thought of it falling into a stranger’s hands.”

  Reeve’s expression twitched in equal distaste. Still, he was far from receptive. “What would I have to do to earn it, providing I’m interested.”

  Oh, he was interested, all right. His stare glittered. His hands worked restlessly against the rough fabric of his Federal-issue trousers. He’d done everything but snap at the offer like a hungry predator. But knowing Reeve as he did, it was too soon to relax. Coaxing wasn’t the same as capturing. He might have tempted his wary son up onto the porch, but he was a long way from getting him inside. And that’s where Byron wanted him.

  He smiled. “Nothing you haven’t been doing already.”

  It was too neat, too easy. Reeve circled the offer mentally, sniffing at it, nudging it, expecting a trap. He’d never had anything just handed to him free of charge before. There had to be a catch.

  What if there wasn’t?

  His palms grew damp. He buffed them nervously against his pants. Something didn’t feel right, and he refused to give in to hope until he found out what little sacrifice he was going to have to make.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. What do think?”

  He leaned back in the chair, giving himself time to assess the situation. The squire appeared easy with the terms, his expression open and without guile. Then why were his fingertips lightly tapping the surface of his desk. Tapping. Tapping. Anxious. Like the quivering jaws of a bear trap about to be sprung.

  Not on his neck.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Glendower’s features clenched in impatience but, ever the negotiator, he managed to nod. “You do that, Reeve.”

  Reeve waited, but nothing followed. His father sat regarding him with a bland smile, business concluded and content with the postponement. A prickle of uneasiness shivered along his skin, a feeling of being fixed in a sniper’s sites while he watched for a clean killing shot.

  “I’ll let you know.” Reeve stood slowly, not daring to consider the proposal while yet in the squire’s office. He knew there was something else crouched just out of sight, some little something that would spoil the whole deal. His father had been so careful not to bring up Jonah or loyalty or even shared blood. He approached it like a straightforward arrangement of services for pay. And that’s what Reeve wanted, wasn’t it? No complications, no surrendering of personal honor? Why the reluctance then? Why didn’t he just say yes?

  Perhaps because he knew his father too well.

  He was halfway to the door when the other shoe dropped.

  “Reeve, there’s a condition I should mention.”


  Reining in his wry smile, Reeve turned back to face the elder schemer. “And it is?”

  “It’s not just the Glade I’ve been working my whole life to build, it’s the name Glendower, as well.”

  Reeve’s mood hardened like concrete.

  The squire hurried on. “I don’t expect you to make any changes now. You’ve made your opinion on that very clear. But when I’m in the ground, I want a Glendower living in this house. If not a son, then a grandson bearing my name.”

  Reeve’s snort of amazement became a harsh laugh. “So it’s the bloodline that has you worried.” He shook his head. “Your vanity is unbelievable. No, I take that back. I believe it. And knowing you, you probably have the perfect broodmare already picked out to beget you that heir.”

  “Patrice Sinclair.”

  The blunt reply rocked him harder than a blow to the midsection. He could do no more for several seconds than gape in shock. Jonah’s fiancée. Then he laughed again, a bitter sound this time.

  “Did it occur to you that she hates my guts? What did you plan on doing? Cross-tying her in a stall while I mount her like one of your servicing studs?”

  “There’s no need for such crudity.”

  “You’d better believe there’s a need, ‘cause there’s no other way she’d ever let me within spitting range, let alone close enough to sow the seeds of your immortality.”

  “Don’t underestimate the situation, boy. Miss Sinclair has plenty of reasons to be agreeable.” The squire actually smiled then, and that scared Reeve to death.

  And it shot a thrill of expectation clear through him.

  Glendower’s confident smile widened. “You chew on it for a while, Reeve. Then we’ll talk again.”

  Reeve found himself standing in the hall, stunned lightning-struck stupid by what had transpired.

  He could have everything! The Glade, Patrice, the Glendower name.

  Everything.

  Except the respect that went with those things.

  His elation withered like bluestem in the first hard freeze.

  He didn’t mind the hard work. No one worked harder than he could toward a goal. He knew the land, he knew horses … and he knew the people of Pride County.