The Outcast Read online

  Chapter 13

  For all the rebelliousness of her growing-up years, Patrice loved fine things. While right at home astraddle a half-wild horse or fishing with her bared legs planted in the shallows, she also found a soothing satisfaction tending the household larder. Her favorite time of the year was springtime, when her mother conducted a thorough cleaning and inventory of the Manor. All the exquisite laces and rich brocades came down from the tall windows, letting in streams of vigorous sunlight. The beds were stripped and linens hung out to absorb the fresh clean breeze. The heavy, closed-in sense of the cooler winter months was cast off with the opening of casements and doors, airing out the stagnant dormancy. Silver, china, crystal, and place linens lined up for counting and polishing, gleaming down the long cherry length of their formal dining table. As a child, she’d delighted in the rainbow prisms darting about the room as light sparked off etched glassware. As a woman, she lost herself in a dreamy languor while coaxing a mirrored shine in the sterling, imagining her own bridal treasury as she passed each lazy hour wrapped up in the sensory balm of beeswax and lemon oil.

  She’d never felt a superior pride in the wealth of their possessions, but rather a serene contentment that went with handling, piece by piece, the history of her family. The sterling her great-grandmother brought from England. Delicate tatting done by an Irish second cousin three times removed, the one who’d passed along the red of her hair. Crystal purchased in Europe when her father took her mother for a leisurely tour the year Deacon was conceived. Fragile bone china, a reward for presenting a healthy daughter. Hers someday, with all the romantic memories gathered over decades and centuries past.

  Years had passed since she and her mother conducted the springtime ritual. During the war, there hadn’t been time.

  Now, there was nothing left to count.

  The airy lace of the parlor curtains was sacrificed for the overskirt of her mother’s new gown to celebrate her husband’s first visit home after eight months of a war they’d thought would only last weeks. She hadn’t wanted him to take back the memory of her in faded cotton, but rather the elegant serenity of the world he loved. Crystal was sold to stave off creditors eager to claim their livestock. Most of it was stolen or eaten by the end of the year, anyway. Table linens and crisp batiste sheets were scraped, torn, and wound in balls to provide much needed dressings at battlefront hospitals. Their sterling was looted by the first plague of Yankees to swarm their property, the ones who also made off with the contents of their smokehouse. She’d cried over the china while boxing it up to sell for basic staples of survival: salt, sugar, bacon, flour, all at outrageous prices. The fluted silver serving trays and dishes disappeared one by one into the knapsacks of fleeing slaves. All she had left of her memories were a pair of simple candlesticks and twin goblets edged in gold that she’d carefully wrapped in the handmade front table shawl to hide in an abandoned well in the woods.

  A fine legacy. If she could ever find someone willing to accept her with her burden of guilt and debt.

  All these things wove through her mind as she slowly repacked the Glendower glassware used for the party nights ago.

  She held one of the graceful stemmed flutes to watch the light fracture through it in dazzling strobes. Beautiful. She sighed to think that it might have been hers. All the treasures at the Glade should have been hers as its intended mistress. Why hadn’t she wed Jonah in a small civil ceremony the first time he’d asked her? Then she’d be lingering over her own delicate crystal instead of storing it away for another.

  She’d always loved the stately elegance of the Glade with its cool white-and-gray brick and terracotta roof tiles. It had none of the aggressive arrogance of Sinclair Manor. It needed none. Opulent, tasteful, inviting. She’d dreamed of living within its spacious rooms since the first time she’d worn her hair up. In her secret twilight imaginings, she pictured being swept up the wide curve of the staircase in her husband’s arms. Though she’d come close to winning that Glendower mate, to her eternal shame, it was Reeve, not Jonah, who carried her toward the marriage bower during those restless fancies.

  It was Reeve, not Jonah, she’d wanted to wed.

  And since their kiss, she’d been able to think of nothing else. Forbidden kisses stolen between two youngsters couldn’t match the consequence of those shared between adults. She’d wanted Reeve Garrett when she was a child. And she wanted him still.

  A quiet step behind her caused her to jerk around, face afire, as if her thoughts were obvious for the intruder to see. The tip of her elbow caught one of the precious goblets, sending it toppling to the floor. Her gasp of horror wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sickening sound of glass breaking.

  Reeve bent to retrieve the pieces and studied the clean separation of bowl from stem before straightening. Wide-eyed with shock and dismay, it took Patrice a moment before she could lower her hands from her mouth to speak in shaky anguish.

  “I’m so sorry. I was trying to be so careful.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “But I know how valuable these pieces are and how your family cherishes them. I can’t believe I was so clumsy.”

  He examined the glass dispassionately. “Don’t mean anything to me.”

  Patrice felt a hot tide of embarrassment. Of course they wouldn’t. They’d belonged to Jonah’s mother. They were tokens of a past he didn’t share.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered again, not knowing how else to extricate herself from the awkwardness of the incident.

  “It’s nothing.” He fit the pieces together. “See. It can be mended. A lot of broken things can be repaired … if the damage isn’t too severe and you don’t mind a few flaws. Sometimes, it makes the original stronger.”

  His words stirred up a confusion within her breast. He was talking about the crystal, wasn’t he? Not about them. They’d had no time alone together since the memorial service—since their kiss. Had he been as restless, as sleepless as she, wondering over the possibilities? Her hands developed a sudden tremor. She hid them in the folds of her skirt. She answered her agitation with a snap of temper.

  “I wouldn’t have dropped it if you hadn’t sneaked up on me.”

  Unphased by the accusation, Reeve set the broken goblet on the table next to the rest of the half-packed set. The movement brought him close enough for her to feel his body heat. For her own to warm in response. He paused to look down into her eyes with a disconcerting directness. “I wasn’t sneaking. I stopped in to tell you I was going into town.”

  “So? You don’t have to clear your schedule with me.” She turned back to the glassware but was afraid to continue with the task while her hands remained unsteady. She could almost feel him smile.

  “I wanted to ask if you needed anything. Or if you wanted to ride along.”

  Town. It had been ages since she’d gone into Pride for reasons other than begging for charity to survive. How different to go with head high and heart empty of the shame of dire circumstance. She could bring home some small trinket to make her mother smile. A ribbon, a handkerchief. Nothing too grand. Those items were out of her financial reach.

  She was about to respond with a yes. Then she caught a glimpse of Reeve’s face, long and distorted in the line of glassware.

  She couldn’t show up in town with Reeve Garrett. What would her family’s friends say? How could she force Deacon into making apologies for her thoughtlessness?

  “Thank you,” she mouthed stiffly. “But I have much to do here today. If I need something, my brother will get it for me.”

  Silence. She didn’t turn around. Did Reeve guess the reason behind her refusal? She dared a quick peek up at him from under her lashes, but his features were impassive. Perhaps not. She’d just begun to relax when he drawled, “How thoughtless of me not to consider your reputation. I didn’t remember you as worrying so much over what other people thought.”

  Confused by her willingness to hurt him for the sake of public opinion, she felt she should
justify her uncomfortable stand, to both of them. Adopting his mother’s diplomacy, she said, “That was when I was a child. I didn’t care about family responsibilities then. I grew up, Reeve.”

  Reeve tipped his head toward her in a mocking salute. “Guess that says it all. Miz Sinclair.”

  Unwilling to let him walk away thinking so poorly of her motives, Patrice called, “It would only stir up trouble.”

  He looked back at her, eyes unwavering, intense. “I don’t mind trouble … if the cause is worth it, ma’am.”

  She fidgeted, listening to the echo of his boots in the hall. Dang him and his irritating way of making her feel mean and childish. She had good reason for not wanting to compromise either of them. Didn’t he realize the county was a simmering pot of hostility just waiting for an excuse to blow off steam? She wasn’t going to supply that reason if she could help it. And she wouldn’t shame her brother, not for anything. Not even for the sake of Reeve’s feelings.

  “Oh bother,” she grumbled, then went dashing after him.

  Reeve was just starting down the porch steps when she reached the door.

  “Reeve?”

  He paused, glancing around.

  “You could get me something while you’re in town.”

  He waited, letting her come to him with the request. Digging through her pin money, she produced a coin.

  “Could you pick up a good pair of gloves for my brother? He wouldn’t ask for himself, and I hate to see …” Her voice trailed off. What could she say? That he wouldn’t humble himself to plead for necessities, and her love for him couldn’t allow him to abuse himself over a point of pride.

  Reeve waved off the coin. “I was planning to anyway. A man of importance shouldn’t carry calluses on his palms. Wouldn’t want him mistaken for someone … like me.”

  The lack of rancor in his tone made her search for their meaning. Just a sketch of a smile touched his lips, enough to make her emotions buckle.

  “Thank you, Reeve.”

  For a moment, a glimmer of genuine tenderness shone from behind his studied calm. “I would do anything for you, Patrice. All you have to do is ask.”

  She watched him stride down to the barn, admiring his quick, light-footed movements as much as she was annoyed by the cocky angling of his shoulders. The man had a knack for turning her world upside down. Anything? She wondered.

  War changed the county seat of Pride County. Some changes were as subtle as the sullen defeat on the faces of those he passed by. Others more blatant; spears of charred posts and a square pile of ash where a building once stood, the “Out of Business” signs propped up in too many windows. One of them was the bank.

  Reeve stared at that notice with an ache of remorse. Jonah’s prized accomplishment, born of a conversation between them on a sultry September night. Reeve, all sweaty from saddle-breaking a trio of two-year-olds ready for sale, had sat cooling himself with the fan of his hat, bared feet dangling in the reflecting pond. Jonah was pitching pebbles into the serene waters, brooding over the ripples that spread from the site of the interruption. Reeve asked what was on his mind, unprepared for the depth of his half brother’s turmoil.

  “I’ve got nothing to offer the Glade, Reeve. You, you’ve put heart and soul into it. Me, I fritter away the days improving on a worthless education because it pleases the squire to flaunt my intelligence. I’d rather he praise me for my value, but there’s damned little I can do.”

  He rubbed at his bum leg. The gesture pierced Reeve’s conscience, even knowing it was unintentional on Jonah’s part. A reminder of how his jealousy had ruined another’s life. A reminder of how Jonah as the bigger man had forgiven him.

  “Any fool can sit a saddle and control a dumb animal.” Too late, he realized what he’d said and quick to remove its sting.

  “Hell, if I had a brain like yours, I’d be making the most of it instead of moping around, crying over what any other man who walks upright can do.”

  Jonah winced. He hated being accused of feeling sorry for himself. He glared at Reeve, with his long, strong body and enviable confidence, and demanded, “And just what would you do?”

  “Do what you know. Do what you’re best at. I’ve seen you make numbers get up and dance to any tune of your choosing.”

  He shrugged. “Daddy does the books for the Glade.”

  “Think bigger. There’s more to this world than the Glade, even though the squire doesn’t believe it.”

  Think bigger.

  Reeve smiled at the now vacant and boarded-over building. Proof of just how big a man’s ambitions could be. Without a word to the squire, Jonah built Pride County’s savings and loan, using monies left him by his mother’s wealth. His natural brilliance with numbers and generosity of spirit was behind the widespread expansion throughout the county. But that ended with the war.

  It ended with Jonah.

  Until his brother’s vision had new light, no one would ever let Reeve forget that. And Patrice would have no opportunity to put aside her shame.

  “I’d like to send a telegram.”

  Reeve had known Gates Hargrove, the telegraph operator all his life, as one of the county’s middle class—not poor, not rich, but always envious. He lapped up to his betters like a hound dog and snapped at those who weren’t in a position to benefit him. He squinted across the high counter, and snarled, “You got money?”

  Reeve laid coins on the worn wood, mesmerizing Gates with the rich sheen of gold. Reeve arched a brow, waiting.

  Tasting greed, Gates grumbled, “Where’s it going?”

  “To a Lieutenant Hamilton Dodge, Grand Rapids, Michigan.”

  Gates’s features puckered tighter. “A Yankee friend?”

  Reeve didn’t answer. Instead, he took the lined sheet from Gates and wrote down in the neat lettering Jonah taught him the exact message he wanted sent. Then he pushed the paper under the gold coins and both toward the glaring operator.

  “Send that, word for word.”

  Gates scanned the sheet, sucking his hollow cheeks in like bellows as his agitation grew. He glanced up at Reeve through eyes hard as scrap iron. “I ain’t sending this.”

  “Times are hard, Gates. Be a bad time to have to find another occupation.”

  Cheeks still puffing like an adder’s, Gates bent over his equipment. Reeve waited, expression stony. After the tapping stopped, Gates looked up with a narrow smile. “Something must be wrong with the wires. Takes days to trace it down to the source.” His hand slipped stealthily over the coins. “I can keep trying for you. Let you know when it gets through.”

  Reeve’s hand slapped down over the pale, veiny one. “Try now. Only this time, use the key instead of the tabletop. Might make all the difference.”

  Gates attempted to twist his hand free. Reeve hung on for a minute, giving the gulping fellow something to wheeze about, then he let go. Gates pulled back as if snakebit.

  “Heya, Gates, some problem here?”

  “This fella won’t believe that the lines are down. He wants to send a message up North.” That last was heavily emphasized.

  Reeve turned. “Hello, Tyler.”

  Tyler Fairfax hadn’t changed since the days they’d played at war. He’d enjoyed the game then. Reeve figured he still enjoyed it now. They’d been friends because they understood each other. Tyler, the son of a wealthy distiller, used to idle hours and free sampling from his daddy’s casks, made an amusing, clever companion, always with a mischievous scheme in mind falling just shy of doing real harm. Reeve guessed he’d crossed that line some time ago. His pranks were now tools of intimidation, if what Reeve heard was correct. Tyler’s idea of loyalty always ran toward who he was with at the moment and how it would benefit him. He had the makings of a dangerous enemy.

  “Heya, Reeve.” He smiled wide, showing more teeth than a possum while his eyes remained emerald-bright and hard. “Didn’t get a chance to say howdy over at the Glade the other night. Quite some party.” Never once did he betray his
actual sentiments, managing to say just enough to convey a suspicious ambiguity without giving anything of himself away.

  Reeve could play the same game. “Heard you’ve been busy championing the folks of Pride.”

  “Yessir, found my true calling, you might say. If there’s anything my friends and I can do for you, you jus’ let me know.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Tyler kept smiling with a dazzling insincerity that had Reeve wondering how long it would be before the two of them tangled. It wasn’t something he looked forward to.

  “What brings you into town? An errand for the squire?”

  “No, for myself. If I can get some cooperation.”

  Gates shrank under Reeve’s withering glare, but his belligerent attitude didn’t lessen. Instead, he looked anxiously to Tyler. And Tyler Fairfax reveled in that position of power.

  Tyler’s grin eased just a tad, just enough to light a cold fire in his eyes. “Be a good boy, an’ send my friend’s telegram.” When Gates hesitated a beat longer, he nodded, urging, “Go on now. It’s all right.”

  With a scowl for Reeve, Gates began tapping the key in earnest. Tyler placed a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “See there. You jus’ got to know how to talk nice to folks.”

  Reeve didn’t back down an increment, returning the fixed stare with like intensity. Finally, Tyler blinked, laughed, and patted his back with what might have been fondness. But wasn’t.

  “I won’t keep you if you got places to go. Good to see you, Reeve. I’m sure we’ll be runnin’ into each other again, soon.”

  Reeve smiled at that veiled promise. “I look forward to it.”

  After Reeve was safely down the walk, Tyler stretched over the counter top to snatch up the telegram. “Lemme see that.” He settled back on his heels, his mouth curving as he read the contents. Tapping his chin with the edge of the paper, he mused, “What you up to, Reeve? You can bet I’ll be findin’ out.”

  Chapter 14

  News of the bank in Pride reopening swept through the county on a tide of emotion. Hope didn’t power the talk. For in the next breath, they identified the bank’s new owner, Hamilton Dodge, as their worst nightmare; a Northerner and former Union officer, to boot. And when that Yankee carpetbagger headed out to the Glade his first evening in town, the rumor burnt with a new ferocity—Reeve Garrett had brought the Federal plague upon them.