The Outcast Page 15

  A Southern home received guests as if they were long-lost family. But when the new banker settled next to his army friend at the Glendower table, he faced a trio of icy stares and one look of bewilderment from Hannah Sinclair, who at least remembered enough of her graciousness to ask about his trip.

  “It was hellacious, ma’am. Damned Rebs tore up so much of the track, I spent more time toting my own bags than enjoying the scenery.” He gave a quick nod toward Deacon and Byron, who’d frozen in their seats at his choice of words. “Pardon my bluntness, gents, but I’m not much for traveling. Makes me tired, and if I don’t get my rest, I tend to get cranky.” He smiled up at Patrice as she stretched around him to fill his wineglass. Appreciation sparkled in his eyes. “Thank you, ma’am. If there’s one thing you Southerners know how to do, it’s serve your liquor with style.”

  The answering smile stiffened upon Patrice’s lips. It took supreme effort not to upend the rest of the decanter into his lap. But the vintage was too good to waste on their abrasive guest, and such behavior would dismay her mother. So, with a killing glance at Reeve, she returned to her seat and fixed their company with a direct stare.

  “So Mr. Dodge, when do you plan to open the bank’s doors?”

  “I’ve got one helluva mess to sort through, first, and I’ve got to find myself someplace to stay.” His smile took a wry turn. “Seems every room in town is suddenly full-up. So much for you folks’ reputation for hospitality.”

  “You’ll grow on ’em, Dodge,” Reeve murmured, grinning into his wineglass. It was his first dinner at the Glendower table where he was the only one comfortable, and he meant to enjoy it.

  “Guess I’ll be bunking in the back room of the bank. I was hoping I’d seen the last of nights spent on a sagging cot.” He shrugged philosophically and focused on his soup.

  The entrée was served in silence and consumed in haste as the air of tension increased by the moment. After clearing the dishes away and seating herself once again, Patrice glanced at the stony-faced men on either side of her, then chose to ignore the beseeching lift of her mother’s brows pleading, Don’t make any trouble. If no one had the gumption to ask what they all wanted—needed!—to know, she would.

  “And once you get things organized, Mr. Dodge, how long will it be before you start calling in all our loans?” She canted another glare at Reeve, that look saying in effect, You are responsible for this! Then she waited to hear what their new banker had to say. Would he lie or tell them straight out?

  Dodge chuckled. “I thought you bluegrass belles were supposed to be all blushes and no brain.” Then he winced at Reeve’s well-placed kick to his shin.

  Patrice showed her teeth. Her honied voice purred, “Apparently you were misinformed, Mr. Dodge.”

  He nudged Reeve with his elbow, failing to provoke a reaction. Pushing his empty wineglass away and dabbing his napkin at his mouth with a sigh of satisfaction, he leaned back in his chair to regard the combative beauty with a level gaze.

  “I don’t know what notions you have about us monsters up in the North, but I wouldn’t be much of a businessman if I bankrupted all my customers, now would I?”

  Patrice cast a hopeful eye toward Deacon, but his expression remained still, and his brow, knit with suspicion. “Were you a successful businessman in—where is it?”

  “Michigan,” Reeve supplied, keeping a cautious watch on the two of them in case they should go at it with the table knives.

  Dodge grinned. “Born and bred and proud of it. And yes, ma’am, I’m a helluva businessman.”

  “Then you are obviously an exception compared to your other countrymen, for they have descended upon us like a swarm of locusts, determined to get fat off bleeding us dry.”

  “Patrice!”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. But I’m sure Mr. Dodge would want me to speak the truth. I’d heard Northern men liked women of opinion.”

  Dodge smiled at Reeve, and murmured, “I see what you mean about her.” Then to the flashing-eyed female, replied, “Yes, ma’am, I enjoy a woman who speaks her own mind, but not one who claims to be able to read what’s on mine.” With a nod to his uncommunicative hosts, he rose. “I’d best be on my way. I thank you for the meal and the conversation.”

  Once out on the broad porch, Dodge drew out a favorite cigar, clipped and lit it, taking a long inhalation before muttering, “Garrett, what the hell have you gotten me into?” He turned at the sound of his friend’s footsteps. “Cheerful group. If they had a rope fastened in a loop, we could have had a party.”

  Reeve didn’t smile. It wasn’t funny. “They’re scared. They’re afraid you came down to pull their lives out from under them. It’s going to take some doing to convince them otherwise.”

  “That why you picked me, for my naturally charming ways?”

  Reeve snorted. “You’re about as subtle as a cannonball. I asked you to come down because you’re smart and tough … and you owe me the air you’re breathing.”

  Dodge grinned. “Couldn’t get anyone else, huh? You should have tried to save more lives, then you’d have had a larger group to choose from.”

  “After taking a bullet to save the likes of you, I gave up on heroics.”

  Dodge laughed at the cynical drawl. “Damn, I almost forgot how much I liked you. Can’t say the same for the rest of your friends here in Pride.”

  “They’ll warm up to you. How can they resist someone with your tact and diplomacy?”

  “In other words, watch my back or I’ll find a knife in it.”

  Reeve’s somber nod took the humor out of the situation.

  Grinding the cigar butt under his heel, the banker asked, “Are you sure you want me to use all of the money? There isn’t a chance in hell that you’ll get it all back in this century. Even with my genius.”

  “I’m not looking for repayment.”

  Dodge shot him a shrewd glance. “You’re looking for forgiveness, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, there’s not much of a chance of that happening, either.”

  Reeve shrugged. “Stick to banking instead of fortune-telling, Dodge.”

  “I don’t need a crystal ball to read these people loud and clear. But I’m starting to wonder if you didn’t save me from that sniper so you could sacrifice me later.” He shoved at Reeve’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Sergeant. We’ll have coffee, if I’m not too full of bullet holes to hold it in.”

  He untied his reins, then looked back up at Reeve.

  “I like your little lady. I imagine she’ll keep your life … and your bed, interesting if she doesn’t fillet you out with that sharp tongue of hers first.” His bawdy wink was followed by an even cruder suggestion. “Get her between the sheets fast before she cuts off anything important.”

  “You’ve got a nasty mind, Dodge.”

  “It’s the only thing that gives me comfort during my nights alone. I’ll have to do something about that sad state of affairs soon.” Grinning wide, he swung up on his piebald stallion and gave a negligent wave. “Hope these folks are more liberal with their daughters than they are with their trust.”

  Reeve lifted a hand. “Don’t count on it.”

  “If you brought me down here to die, the least you could do is see I die a happy man.”

  Reeve watched him ride away. Hamilton Dodge was brusque and aggressive in manner. But he was one hell of a friend. Reeve just hoped he wasn’t making the price of that friendship the other man’s life.

  “Are you crazy bringing him down here?”

  Reeve didn’t turn at his father’s harsh question. “I don’t think so.”

  “When word gets out that you brought a Yankee officer to handle our debts, what do you think is going to happen?”

  “Reckon we’ll find out fairly soon. Even if Gates kept to his oath of confidentiality, Tyler was there when I sent the telegram. I don’t imagine it’s much of a secret anymore.”

  “And this is how you intend to win folks over?”

  Reeve looked at
him then. His features were composed, revealing none of his angry impatience with the other’s lack of trust. “It won’t matter what they think of me if they don’t have homes to live in or businesses to run. Dodge is a good man. He won’t extend charity, but he will treat them with respect and fairness. He won’t put any families out in the cold.”

  “And just where did you find such a saint who’s willing to invest his money to save our necks?”

  Reeve didn’t answer with the entire truth. What he said was, “On the battlefield, where you learn real quick who you can depend on.” What he didn’t say was Hamilton Dodge wasn’t putting up any of his own money. The funds to bail out Pride County came from the Glendower account Jonah had sitting safe in a Michigan bank earning a tremendous wartime return from investments Byron Glendower would likely prefer not to know about. Dodge wasn’t taking the risk for the sake of their neighbors—he was. And if their plan to revitalize Pride County failed, the Glade, and all his dreams, would be ruined right alongside them.

  Patrice frowned as her brother poured another ample glass of whiskey. She’d never known him to be more than a casual imbiber, usually just a taste to be polite. Deacon liked to have his senses about him. But lately, his intentions were far from social. They seemed more directed toward an isolating oblivion. And both she and their mother worried.

  She waited until Hannah went up to bed before broaching her concern with the utmost caution. She made her tone light.

  “Deacon, I’m going to have to carry you upstairs if you don’t pace yourself a little more prudently.”

  He didn’t look at her as he tipped up the glass for a long swallow. “Just leave me down here.”

  Not exactly the opening she hoped for. She had to find a way through her brother’s impenetrable shell to be any good to him at all. She’d watched the weight of his worries press upon his shoulders, and they were beginning to bow under the unrelenting burden. She needed to let him know she understood, that she wanted to help him. If she could make him listen.

  He twitched away from the light touch of her hand upon his arm. Keeping his back to her, he moved to the bank of dark windows overlooking the night. His lean features reflected there in the pane—his moody frown, his troubled brow, the dulled opaque of his eyes.

  “I’d rather do my drinking alone.”

  She refused to heed the dismissal in his flat tone. “I’m sure you would. It can’t be pleasant having your sister watch you falling into ruin.”

  The line of his jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

  “Deacon, talk to me. Please.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Nothing? Or nothing you care to share with me?”

  His silence told her to pick her own answer. She wasn’t willing to settle for that.

  “We’re out of money, aren’t we?” She was learning to read his silences. There was an affirmative in his momentary pause of breath, in the stillness that took hold of him. “How bad is it?”

  “I’ll take care of it.” He gulped down the remaining liquor and reached for the nearly empty decanter. She gripped his wrist to halt the gesture. Tendons tensed beneath the cuff of her fingers, but he didn’t try to pull away.

  “How bad, Deacon?”

  The snap of her demand broke through his silence. His eyes went narrow and flinty, regarding her as a threat. “I said I’ll take care of it. Or don’t you believe me?”

  Patrice sighed her frustration and picked her words carefully. “Of course, I believe you’d do anything possible to secure our future and that of the Manor. I’m not questioning that, Deacon. I know how hard you’ve worked. And I also know what it’s like to try to carry on, pretending you can make things as they were. While you were gone, I had that burden, and I know how difficult it is. No one expects miracles from you. Mama and I aren’t fools. We can see how bad things are. We’re not blaming you for them, and we’re not going to be disappointed if you have to ask for help.”

  “Help? What kind of help?”

  She could see by the tightening of his mouth and jawline he thought she was accusing him of failure, that she questioned his ability to take care of them. His defenses slammed up, making a prideful fortress to keep out reason. Whether to the drink or to the sense of defeat, she was losing him. She took a frantic gamble to keep him from slipping away.

  “Go to the bank, Deacon.”

  “To that Yankee?” He stared at her, amazed, disbelieving.

  “I don’t like him either, but he’s our only choice. We can’t rebuild on dreams of the past. We need money. We need materials. Pride isn’t going to supply them. The bank is where the money is. If you go to this man and explain our situation—”

  “He’ll strip us of everything we have without blinking an eye. You don’t bare your throat to an enemy.”

  “He’s said he won’t foreclose—”

  “Patrice, don’t be a fool! What did you expect him to say? He’s already got the power to take our lands. Now you want to just hand him our souls? What’s come over you? You think Garrett brought him here to save us? You want to place our future blindly in that murdering bastard’s hands?”

  Patrice paled. A weakening panic shook through her. She scrambled for an argument, some way around her brother’s distrust. She had to make him see it wasn’t about “them and us.” It was about people working together to rebuild their county.

  “Deacon, please. The trust has got to start somewhere if we’re to—”

  “What? Survive? You don’t survive by trusting. Trusting makes you vulnerable and gets you dead. You trust yourself, your own kind, your family. That’s all. You don’t give strangers power over you. You don’t invite them to dinner and smile while they insult you and your ways. What’s wrong with you, Patrice? Your feelings for Garrett making you soft in the head?”

  Color flamed to her face. “At least I have feelings, and I’ve learned to believe in them. You’ve never cared for anyone or anything your whole life unless Father told you to.”

  Her accusation struck home. He winced, taking a step back. A host of emotions skirted the hard edge of his control but couldn’t escape it. He spoke with a chilling tonelessness.

  “You don’t have any idea what I do or do not care about. I don’t let my feelings rule my judgment.”

  “Then I feel sorry for you. You may call me foolish, but at least I’m not some frigid autocrat shut off from the world and those who care about me. Not like you and Father. You’re wrong, Deacon. You’re wrong in this. We can’t survive alone.”

  If her words reached him at all, his outward expression gave no sign of it. Fury and fear roiled beneath that blank facade as he said, “We’re already living off charity. Something our father would never have allowed if he were still alive.”

  “No. He’d have us huddling in the shell of the Manor using our arrogance to keep us dry and warm.”

  The sting of his palm came so fast, she had no time to brace for it. Patrice clasped her burning cheek in surprise. Horror at what he’d done took momentary control of her brother’s face. She could see the desperate apology working in those stricken features. Then he blinked and the chill was back, separating deed from consequence, making excuses when none were acceptable.

  “I won’t have that kind of talk. Not ever.” His tone was as slick and cold as black ice. “We are Sinclairs. That name has always meant something in Pride and always will. I’ll see to it just like Father did. I make the decisions now, and you will not go against them. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Patrice?”

  She heard and was sick at heart. It was her father standing there, giving one of his unbending lectures. Shutting out advice, closing out logic. Refusing to consider she had a mind and a right to speak it. Clinging to what once was instead of looking to what could be. And those age-old attitudes would be the death of them, just as the glorious South was dying from the same lack of vision. Her answer was quiet, toneless, as empty of life as her brother’s expression.

  “Y
ou’ve made yourself very clear.”

  As she exited the room, Deacon resisted the urge to call her back, to plead insanity, to beg her forgiveness. He suppressed those anxious cries of the heart by refilling his glass and taking another determined swallow.

  It started as an aimless walk to work the shaking from her limbs and the numbing anguish from her mind. She moved through the thickening darkness aware of nothing but her misery. Though her cheek ached dully, that pain was mild compared to the shock scoring her soul.

  He’d hit her. Her brother had struck her and turned upon her as if she were guilty of betraying him and all he stood for. That had never—ever—been her intent. Even through the glaze of her tears, she could see her mistake now. In confronting him with her opposing views, she’d backed him into a corner, forcing him to strike out or break down. How scared and desperate he must be feeling to resort to such drastic action. In trying to offer her assistance, she’d managed to close the door between them, perhaps locking it forever. For him to make any move in her direction now would mean confessing he was wrong, that their father had been wrong, that the war was wrong and their very standard of life was in error. He couldn’t do that. Why had she thought he’d behave any differently than any man of the South raised to value respect over love, and pride over common sense?

  She’d reached the stables. There, she leaned her forearms on the whitewashed rail of the empty breeding paddock, allowing the melancholy mood to possess her. Only the startling warmth of strong fingers upon her jaw shook her out of it.

  “Who hit you?”

  Patrice stared up into Reeve’s thunderous features in alarm. Trapped by the obvious, she found herself stammering, “?-hit me?”

  Reeve angled her cheek toward the pale moonlight, outlining it with a surprisingly light touch. “This looks about the size of your brother’s hand.”