The Outcast
Page 30
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.
Chapter 27
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.
“The Glendower name, the heirs to carry it, those were what the squire insisted upon. You were my condition, Patrice. I told him I wouldn’t settle for anyone else.”
Her heart leapt. But still, she was cautious. “Why?” She needed to hear him say it, just once.
“Because I have loved you all my life, and I’ve never wanted anyone else to share my future with me.
She closed her eyes, overcome by the words, by the wonder of hearing them spoken at last. Her legs weakened, refusing to support her. She sank down in the grass beside him, trembling inside and out. “Why—why didn’t you ever say so?”
It was his turn to evade her questioning stare. “Thought you’d think it was because I wanted the name Sinclair and all that went with it.”
Her sudden chuckle startled him. He shot her an aggrieved look, only to be taken by the relief in her lovely features.
“The name Sinclair?” She laughed again, then sighed, opening the bag she’d carried with her since coming to the Glade. “Here’s all that comes with me, Reeve.”
As he watched bemused, she drew out two exquisite glasses, a pair of candlesticks, and a length of embroidered cloth. She spread them out carefully for his appraisal.
“This is all there is, all I have left of who I am. It’s not much to settle for.”
The intensity of his gaze engulfed her. “Looks like an awful lot to me. More than I can offer.”
“I don’t want the Glade, Reeve. I don’t want the name Glendower or the properties or the gold. I want you, just you, for the man you are, the man I love. That’s worth more to me than everything in Dodge’s bank vault, than the opinions of anyone in Pride.”
His arm went about her shoulders, drawing her to him so that she leaned upon his chest, her head resting back against his shoulder. His mouth moved in a light sweep across her hair.
“So there’s no reason I shouldn’t ask you to marry me?”
She closed her eyes again, willing time to stop so she could savor this moment forever. “None at all.”
“Deacon? Your mother?”
“Deacon will be agreeable to anything I want. Mother picked you long ago. I fear she’s been dreadfully disappointed in me for taking so long to grow up.”
“Jonah?”
She refused to let the name separate them any longer. “Jonah is dead, and I shall always miss him. But Reeve, you and I are alive and in love, and no ghost or ghosts are going to stand between us.” She rolled to look him in the eye. “There’s something more I need to tell you. About your father’s last words.” She touched her love’s face, soothing away the creases furrowing his brow. “He asked that you forgive him. And he wanted you to know that he had asked your mother, and she was the one who refused him. Probably for the same silly reason that you refused to tell me how you felt before you rode off to enlist. Pride. I know enough about pride to know it’s no substitute for love. I love you, Reeve. Ask m
e now.”
His hand fanned wide across her damp cheek. “Marry me, Patrice.”
“I will.”
He hugged her in tight. A tremendous weight let go within him, a tether to the past. “Thank you, Jonah.”
Patrice lifted up slightly. “What did you say?”
Reeve smiled. “I said I love you, Patrice.”
And she was happy to believe him at last.
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Happy reading!
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Senior Editor
About the Author
ROSALYN WEST made a smashing debut at
Avon Books with her first book, A MAN’S TOUCH.
Critics called it “one of the best books of the year”
and Rosalyn West “one tremendous talent.”
Her second book, A WOMAN’S HEART, was an
even bigger hit. THE OUTCAST is her third book.
Rosalyn West lives in southwestern Michigan
and is currently at work on a post-Civil War series
which follows friends who return from the war
to find not only their lives changed, but themselves,
as well. She invites reader to write her for
promotional materials and a newsletter update
by sending a SASE to:
P.O. Box 896
Portage, MI 49081
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Copyright © 1998 by Nancy Gideon
Inside cover author photo by McClain Studios
Published by arrangement with the author
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-94307
ISBN: 0-380-79579-5
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