The Outcast Read online

  “Then they’ll have me to thank when Dodge gets them square with their debts and looking forward again.”

  “They’re not going to thank you. They’re looking for an excuse to tar and feather you. And you’re handing it to them, boy. No … you’re sticking it down their throats.”

  “They don’t need an excuse, Squire. They pinned every one of their sorrows and grudges on me the minute I rode back into this county. I’m just doing what you suggested.”

  “I told you to win them over, not stampede over them!”

  “I won’t go crawling. I won’t beg forgiveness for something I didn’t do.” Though his relaxed posture didn’t change, a foundation of pure steel supported his words. “I can’t make them want to get on with their lives. I can’t force them to accept me. I didn’t ask Dodge here to win public popularity. I asked him to take over where Jonah left off to save their stubborn hides. The same reason Jonah moved the Glade’s money up north.”

  “It was treason.”

  “It was survival.”

  Silence thick as slave brick slapped up a wall between them—Byron unable to bend, Reeve unwilling to beg, too much alike to compromise. How could they have ever thought they’d find a common ground even when both were standing on it? Finally, Byron spoke the words burdening his heart.

  “I let them call you traitor. I did nothing to stop it because I could see they were right. But I wanted to believe you were still loyal to this family.”

  Reeve’s jaw tensed, the muscles flexing, working on the anger, the frustration, the fear that had been so much a part of him since the day he’d ridden north. What good would it do to pour out his soul, to cite his reasons atop tomes of logic? Byron Glendower wasn’t interested in politics or practicality. It wasn’t about North or South, pride or proper surnames. It was about why Reeve Garrett took arms against his own blood.

  “What I did, I did for this family, for this community.” And to him, further explanation was inconsequential.

  Byron Glendower studied him for a long somber minute, powerful emotions struggling for domination. But in the end, his belief wasn’t strong enough. “No matter what was behind it, the fact is, you stood against us instead of with us. That’s what they’ll remember. That you were their enemy”

  “Their own traditions were their enemy. Ask Jonah …”

  Their father’s features went cold as the stone over Jonah’s grave. “I can’t because Jonah died for what we believed in.”

  “No.” Reeve stood, a pillar of furious denial. “He died for what you believed in. And I will never forgive him for that. Or you for insisting upon it!”

  Byron surged up as well. “Why? Because he was more of a man than you were?”

  “Because he failed himself by not being the man he could have been. By not doing what he knew was right.”

  He turned toward the doorway, chafing in his frustration, only to confront a pale and anguished Patrice Sinclair. He strode past her without a word, the condemning ring of his words strangling her hope of finding happiness with him.

  Byron dropped into his chair, the fervor of his convictions deserting him, just as his only remaining son deserted him … again. The pain of it pressed upon his heart in a crushing fist.

  “Why did I ever think it could work between us?” he mourned aloud, not fully aware of Patrice’s presence in the room. “All I ever wanted was for that boy to love me. What else could I have done? What more did he want from me?”

  “A little love in return?”

  He looked up through a glaze of regret and remorse to focus upon the lovely features bending near his. He shook his head, not understanding. “I did. I gave him a home. I gave him a chance to better himself.”

  “But did you ever give him anything of yourself?”

  He was too swamped with agony to see the wisdom in her words. Instead, he struck out blindly, in wounded anger. “Everything I did was for him. Don’t you understand? It was all for him. Not Jonah. For Reeve. It was all for Reeve. And he wouldn’t take it, damn him! Why wouldn’t he take it?

  Patrice knelt down, taking one of the blue-veined hands in hers. The coldness of that suddenly fragile hand shocked her. It felt so … old! Her own heart twisted with grief, filling her words with passion.

  “You wanted to give him things, Squire. But what you would never give him was respect for who he was, who he is. You made it impossible to accept your love without surrendering himself.”

  Byron shook his head again, dazed by denial, confusion.

  “Don’t you see,” Patrice continued to plead. “You did the very same thing with Jonah. You made your love conditional upon his bending to what you wanted him to be. I know … because I’m guilty of doing the same thing.” Her breath hitched in an tight sob. “We both used Jonah and his love to get what we wanted. What we wanted was Reeve, not him.” Byron angled away, refusing to acknowledge her with his gaze but unable to shut out the horrible truth of her words.

  “You don’t think he knew that? We killed Jonah. Not the North, not the war, not Reeve. We did it; you and I. With our own selfishness.”

  “I loved Jonah,” Byron cried in torment. “He was my son.”

  “So did I. But did either of us tell him? Or did we make him believe we could only love him if he was more like Reeve? Reeve was the only one who loved him for the goodness of who he was. And he’s right to hate us now for what we’ve done.” Tears streamed down her face as shame washed over her in a bitter tide. Too late to make amends to the dead, too late to make repairs with the living. She drowned in that sorrow, head buried in her arms, weeping upon the lap of her would-be father-in-law. But even as his gnarled hand stroked her hair, Byron fought for a way to offset his share of the blame.

  “He has no right to punish me. Reeve was the one who refused to be honest about what he wanted. He pretended to scorn what I had, what I built, but he wanted it.” His breathing grew labored as the hidden cache of bitter feelings worked their way out like a long-festering splinter. The price of their release ravaged him, rending heart and mind, pressure building instead of finding a safe avenue.

  “He’s lied to me,” he went on in an aching mumble. “He’s going to destroy it all to spite me. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he know I did everything I could? I loved his mother. If I’d been other than who I was, I would have married her in a minute and conceived him proudly. It wasn’t because of who she was, it was me, the obligations I already had to this place, this county, to my wife. Still I would have given them up for her, for the pride of calling him my son. But then Jonah was born. What else could I do?”

  Patrice had no answer to that lament. She understood their world too well and the strictures that went with it. He couldn’t have had Abigail Garrett any more than Patrice could have had Reeve. Love wasn’t enough to brave the separations between them, the vast ocean parting their social classes, the expectations of their peers, the fears and prejudices of a lifetime and the burden of future generations. They couldn’t break those unspoken tenets any more than her own brother could have surrendered his station for the love of a mulatto slave. It wasn’t done. It wasn’t condoned. More than just difficult, it was dangerous. Even if one were willing to risk the sacrifice, how could they wish such hardship on the other and still claim to love them.

  That was what Reeve had tried to tell her, and she hadn’t wanted to listen.

  Byron continued in a failing voice, each syllable ripped from him at great physical and mental cost. He bent forward, gripping his shirtfront, twisting it in his knotted fingers as if trying to wrench his heart free from its agonized containment.

  “I offered him everything, Patrice. Everything he wanted. The Glade, my name and all that went with it. All I asked from him was that he give me what Jonah promised to give me. A son, an heir, through you, Patrice. With the Sinclair line and the Glendower name, he could have had it all!”

  Patrice’s mind went numb. She was a condition of his inheritance. A payment. Jonah ha
dn’t hesitated, because he loved her. But Reeve had never said those words to her.

  Hurt and disappointment spread like a sickness, burning her trust, her hopes to ash in a fever-hot flash. Her head whirled as hundreds of images bombarded her anguished mind. Hungry kisses, fiery explorations, the taut, unbearable suspense and yearning afterward. Betrayal cut deeper than any truth he might have told her, severing her will to go on as surely as if he’d cut the vital flow to her heart.

  Through the roar in her head, through the mists of foggy pain, a sound intruded. A wet gurgling sound coming from Byron Glendower. Stark reality jerked her out of her cocoon of injury.

  The squire sprawled across his desktop. A sharp spasming of his arms knocked his papers, his prizes, to scatter upon the floor. He choked, clawing not at his throat but at his chest. Only when she saw his contorted features purpling did she recognize what was happening.

  His heart.

  “Oh, my God!” She surged forward, hands fluttering about his hunched body, uncertain of where to grasp, not knowing what to do. She leaned him back in his chair and tore loose his neckcloth and shirt collar, but those small things gave no relief. His rigid arm swung wildly, smashing the glass he’d been drinking from against the hardwood molding. From somewhere inside her, Patrice seized upon the necessary calm.

  “Try to breathe, Squire. Try to relax. Let me go get …” Reeve was the only choice. As she stood, Byron’s hand caught her forearm. His grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Tell … Reeve … tell him …”

  Tears skewed her vision. “I’ll get him. Save your strength.”

  But he continued to pull her down toward him, to hear those hoarse whispered words as if he knew they would be his last.

  “Tell Reeve … I asked his mother … She said no. Tell him … I forgive him for Jonah. That I lo—”

  The rest was lost as his back bowed, arching him out of the chair as if some great fist was plucking at him, pulling him, then let him go. He fell back silently, his eyes still open, fixed upon hers for that final promise.

  From the doorway, her mother cried out, the sound of it shrill, threading away to nothing as Patrice sank down onto her knees. Cold, dead fingers yet clung to her, demanding her vow. She couldn’t speak, not a word, even as Reeve pushed her aside.

  “Daddy? Daddy?”

  She remembered thinking how odd to hear Reeve call him that.

  He felt for a pulse, hand shaking. Feeling, waiting. Waiting. Finally closing pale lids over lifeless eyes.

  Then the squire’s fingers loosened, releasing her to an endless swoon into darkness.

  Byron Glendower lay in state in the parlor. Hundreds came from throughout the county to pay respects and to cast suppositions about the new master of the Glade.

  Had he killed his father, just as he’d killed his brother?

  Reeve was a solid, somber presence not to be ignored. Dressed in dark attire, carefully groomed and shaven, he greeted each guest by name, offering a hand few chose to take and direct eye contact most shied from. He didn’t look like a gloating schemer or a grieving son, but none could fault his manners.

  They took exception to him and the fact that he would no longer be content in the shadows.

  He was now the owner of Glendower Glade. Their economic, if not their social, peer. And it stuck in their craws like the crosswise fit of his Union saber.

  Quietly, Hannah Sinclair saw to the food and the arrangements for the burial when she would rather have attended her still-too-dazed and silent daughter. Tyler Fairfax assumed that duty with surprising decorum despite his startling appearance, both eyes as blackened as a roving racoon’s. He kept to Patrice’s side, her limp hand pressed between his, smile constrained, fending off those who would engage her in conversation; a gentleman for once instead of a rogue. Sober.

  Deacon commandeered a far corner for himself, keeping a brooding eye on Reeve and a more covert one upon his sister. He remained tight-lipped about the rumor that the squire’s death followed several violent arguments with Reeve, one immediately prior to his death.

  It didn’t help matters when Hamilton Dodge arrived to take a very public stand at Reeve’s side.

  “You all right?”

  Reeve nodded as if he wasn’t the first to think to ask that. It was nice someone had.

  “Helluva surprise.”

  Again, the noncommittal nod. A beat later, Reeve said, “Thanks for coming.”

  “Thought I should stop by. Do you want me to stay or go?”

  “Whatever you want.” But Reeve’s stare caught his. The look didn’t reveal much, Reeve was too good at packing things down tight and keeping a lid over them. But the flash of gratitude was obvious.

  “I don’t want to make things more uncomfortable for you … you know.”

  Reeve did know. And he was damned resentful that his good friend, his only friend in the room, should feel unwelcome in his home. His tone was gruff. “Get something to eat. Mingle.”

  Dodge grinned, able to find amusement in the hostile scrutiny. “A wolf among sheep. Divide and conquer, eh? They can’t glare at both of us at the same time.”

  A faint smile from Reeve. “Before you go, we’ll toss down a brandy. Or two.”

  Dodge was agreeable. Then he caught sight of Patrice and Tyler. “What’s that about?”

  Reeve followed his direction. An expressionless glaze crept over the brief flicker of something dark and dangerous. “Nothing.”

  “Right.”

  Dodge’s problem was that he saw too damned much.

  “Think I’ll go say my hellos to Miss Sinclair.”

  For Patrice the past twenty-four hours had passed in a blur. A protective numbness blanketed the savage shocks she’d received; Reeve using her to meet the terms of his inheritance, Byron’s death. Because she couldn’t absorb it all, she pushed it away until strong enough to deal with it. Though she wasn’t watching Reeve, the image of him burned against her mind. The memory of his touch, his scent, the texture of his body pressing down over hers played havoc on an innocence she’d been ready to shed for him, with him. Twined between those scorching recollections was the insidious serpent of Byron Glendower’s claim. Relentlessly, that truth coiled tighter, choking her as she sat demure and silent in a room filled with friends who had no idea that just a short time ago, she’d been rutting with the man they abhorred.

  Tyler provided an unexpected source of comfort. He’d sat close as an attack dog on a short leash, warding off unwanted company and, at the same time, not pressing his own upon her. All his self-serving ways he’d abandoned to support her in her unspoken need. She vowed to thank him later; for right now, she hadn’t the strength.

  Her wounded gaze focused upon a hand out stretched patiently before her. She looked up to meet the warmth in Dodge’s eyes.

  “Hello again, ma’am.”

  The instant Tyler felt her imminent withdrawal, his clasp tightened about hers, keeping it in his possession while he seized Dodge’s hand himself and stood.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Tyler Fairfax. My daddy owns the distillery in town. We’re old, dear friends of the family. You must be our new money changer. Welcome to Pride, Lieutenant Dodge.”

  There was no welcome in a the challenging grip or in the fix of cold green eyes, but Dodge smiled wide in unassuming pleasure. “It’s ‘Mister’ now. The war’s over. I’ve heard of you, Mr. Fairfax. Reeve tells me you are a helluva good friend.”

  Tyler blinked, but nothing else in his insincere facade wavered. “Did he? It’s right nice to hear he regards me so highly. Might I hope we’ll become friends as well, Mr. Dodge?”

  “Man can’t have too many friends.” He withdrew his hand and smiled at Patrice. “I was wondering if we might finish our talk, Miss Sinclair. Unless you think this isn’t the proper time.”

  Patrice felt the tension in a Tyler’s grip. Gently, she rubbed her fingertips over his knuckles. The effect was immediate and tranquilizing.


  “Tyler, would you be so wonderfully kind as to excuse us for a moment? Mr. Dodge and I need to have a private word. Business.” She smiled up at him, and his will melted down into his shoes. “But don’t go too far away, you hear?”

  Recovering from his surprise, Tyler lifted her hand to his lips for a feather-light touch. His stare was intense, devout. With just a hint of suspicion. His voice was a purring caress. “You take your time, darlin’. I’ll just go make some talk with Reeve.” His stare skewered Dodge’s. “Mr. Dodge, I’ll have to come pay a visit on you. Soon.”

  Dodge said nothing until Tyler wound his way through the crowd. Then he exhaled. “That’s Reeve’s friend?”

  “Once, he was.”

  “Touchy fellow.” Dodge angled, looking over his shoulder at the broad back of his coat. “See anything?” At Patrice’s puzzled frown, he grinned wryly. “Just thought he might have left his card stuck there on the point of his dagger.”

  Patrice didn’t smile. “It’s not anything to joke about, Dodge. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating Tyler Fairfax. And don’t forget that he’s my friend. I wouldn’t want him hurt.”

  Without asking, Dodge assumed Tyler’s seat but not the same liberties. At least not with his touch. Instead, he shared his observations to the prickly woman beside him. “You look like you’re held together with a fraying baling strap.”

  Patrice chuckled at his aggravating charm. “You have a subtle poetry about you, Dodge.”

  He still smiled but a deeper concern steeped in his eyes. “Had a rough day of it?”

  “You might say that.”

  She didn’t say half enough, but the redness around her eyes and the pinched quality of her expression said quite a bit more. Especially when Dodge nodded toward Reeve.

  “You wouldn’t know to look at him, but he’s having a hard time of it, too.”

  Patrice’s gaze went to flint. “I gave him my condolences.”

  “He could use a lot more from you, Patrice.”

  Her stare snapped to his, angry, alarmed. “And what does that mean? We were going to discuss business, Mr. Dodge.”