The Outcast (16 page)

He strode down the center aisle as if unmindful of their piercing stares. His step was confident, his head held high, his shoulders remained unbent beneath the burden of their blame. And hatred smoldered at his indifference to their grief. Perhaps if he’d slunk out repentantly, if he’d wept and wailed unashamedly for the loss of his half brother and friends, if he’d had the decency to look to them for forgiveness, he might have found it. But his arrogance, his remoteness was a slap at them, and they wanted to strike back … hard.

And even as he passed between their staunch pillars of disdain, there were those already plotting their revenge.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were the one who was going to stay safe at home. All this
was supposed to be yours, not mine. I told you I didn’t want it. I told you, but you never believed me, did you? Probably because you knew I was lying to myself.”

Reeve Garrett’s low tones blended with the whispering harmony of tree branches bobbing in the wind under the heavy burden of new foliage. It was a peaceful place, the Glendower family cemetery, set in a quiet glade sheltered from signs of civilization. The idyllic spot fostered a sense of direct communication with nature and the souls long buried beneath the rich Kentucky soil. Only a few were in residence, the rest of them lying across the mountains in Virginia. Byron’s father had an ornate plot with a huge marble headstone. The delicate and lovely Phoebe Glendower rested next to him, with her son’s relatively new space off to her right. Someday, Byron would take his place between them, a family together for eternity. As to where he’d rest, Reeve hadn’t given much thought. His emotions pulled him toward the whitewashed cross bearing his mother’s name, but his pride demanded he take a rightful place here without apology or shame.

Jonah’s headstone was firm against the back of his shirt, and warm from absorbing the sun. Reeve felt comfortable there, speaking to him as if he were actually there instead of in a box six feet below. In the soft caress of the westerly breeze, in the sighing rustle of the trees, in the calming spring songs of the birds above, Reeve felt his brother near and listening. He hadn’t felt his presence at the church. There, he’d sensed only the pain of those left behind, not the forgiveness of those who’d gone on ahead. That’s why he’d come to visit the well-tended grave. To let Jonah know what was on his
heart and mind. And to, just maybe, receive absolution for what he was about to do.

He plucked at spears of bluegrass and tossed them down at his dusty knee-high boots, the gesture automatic as his thoughts fought for expression.

“I miss you, Jonah. You always understood without me having to say things out loud. Maybe I should have said them. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to let you go. You knew me so well, and I’m beginning to think I didn’t have the slightest clue about you. I never, in my wildest dreams, would have pictured you doing something so damn fool stupid. What were you thinking, jumping into a fight you didn’t believe in. You knew the South didn’t stand a chance of winning. You knew our survival depended on the North. Yet you went and threw everything away, for what? Deacon Sinclair? That sonuvabitch wouldn’t have done the same for you. Or was it for Patrice? Was she involved? Was she the reason you gave up your life? I wish I knew. I wish you’d told me, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so … bad.”

The war was over. Why did the battle have to go on and on? He was so tired of the fighting, the justifying, the confusion. He wanted things to be simple again. Then he’d know what to do.

Jonah would have known. He’d always had such crystal-clear vision. Which was why he’d taken all the Glendower assets from his bank and, with Reeve’s help, invested them in the North during the early years of the war to keep them safe under Reeve’s name so as not to be taken as contraband.

Reeve closed his eyes against the glare of the sun, against the remembered glare of his neighbors’
hatred. How was he going to make things up to those tight-fisted, close-minded people? Jonah would have known how to charm them with a humbling smile. But he’d never learned the act of humility. It would have been harder for him to swallow burning coals than to say he was sorry when he wasn’t. He wasn’t sorry he’d joined the Northern army. He would have been a hypocrite to do differently. He wasn’t sorry he’d done his best to bring the tattered country back together, even if the wounds were raw and slow to heal. They would, eventually. But he couldn’t be as sure about the feelings of those in Pride County.

He’d only to look at the glass panes broken out in his mother’s cabin by vandals who’d done the damage and fled in anonymity. To see the smears of horse dung across the walls his mother had lived within, slept within, and taken such great pride in watching him grow within—to know the depth of their hatred.

They believed he coveted what belonged to his half brother. They believed he’d mercilessly had Jonah slain in order to inherit what was his. And in taking over the Glade, in courting Patrice Sinclair, he’d be proving it as clearly as if he’d stood up from his church pew to declare he was glad Jonah Glendower was dead.

How that tortured him. Because it wasn’t completely untrue. There were times he’d cheerfully wished Jonah out of the way, times when resentment made a vile taste in his mouth he couldn’t rinse away. Their father’s poor judgment had made him a servant and Jonah a prince. And it wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

Then why did he feel so guilty claiming that which should have been his all along?

Because he loved Jonah as his brother, as his friend. Despite the fact that he had all that Reeve wanted. Jonah hadn’t asked for it, he hadn’t purposefully stolen it away. And the fact that Jonah always regretted that his good fortune was Reeve’s bad luck made Reeve admire him all the more. And it made stepping into his shoes an awkward and difficult move.

Reeve sighed heavily. “If only you hadn’t spoke up to spare me after that fall broke your leg. I could have gone on hating you, and none of this would bother me at all. Why did you have to make me beholden to you, then go and treat me like a friend instead of a rival? Why didn’t you hate me for threatening what was yours? You should have. Why did you have to make it so damn hard to begrudge you anything? I’d have given my life for you, but I never expected you to do the same. I wanted the Glade, I wanted all of it, but I didn’t want to step over your corpse to get them. You sonuvabitch, how could you do this to me?”

“He loved you, Reeve.”

He didn’t know which surprised him more, the feel of her consoling hand on his shoulder or the sudden intrusion of Patrice’s voice upon his remorse. He hadn’t known she was there, kneeling beside him, or how much she’d heard. He only knew how good it felt to know someone recognized his pain. For the moment, it etched starkly into every angle of his face, into the shiny brilliance of his gaze, in the very hitch of his breathing. Patrice was its witness. No way to deny it, no way to cover
it up, so he didn’t try. Instead, he let go, leaning upon her as he’d lean upon no other.

Because he’d eased her sorrow in the church, Patrice held his tawny head to her bosom now, letting him vent his emotions in great, gulping breaths. She stroked his hair and rocked them both in a soothing repetition. And she spoke the words she’d denied him for so long.

“He loved you, Reeve. He worshiped the ground you walked on. He was always saying, ‘If only I could be more like him.’ He thought if he could be, your father would have loved him.”

Reeve quieted, shaking his head. “Why would he think that? He was heir to the Glade. He had everything.”

“Everything but your father’s pride. You had that, Reeve, and for that, he would have gladly traded all he had.”

“I didn’t want him to die, Patrice. Honest to God.” The words tore from his wounded soul, so angry and raw, it hurt her to hear them. “I’d have traded my life for his if I could have. I don’t know what got into him, some crazy fool idea that he could save others with his sacrifice. I let him do it. I couldn’t stop him. He did what I would have done. Damn him! Why did he pick such a dangerous time to prove himself?”

Patrice knew, but she said nothing. The truth swelled to form a knot in her throat through which no words could pass. Because she couldn’t tell him what he needed to hear, she felt driven to ease his guilt in another way. Her hand slipped beneath his chin, angling his head back so she could see his tormented features. Her own eyes glistened as she brushed the wetness from his cheeks with a touch
so light it was like the intimate warmth of her breath upon his skin. He’d gone totally still, waiting, probing for her reasons with the intensity of his gaze. Because she feared what he might find if he looked too long, too deep, she closed her eyes. And she kissed him.

The first shy sweep became a lengthy savoring. She could taste the salt of both their tears. They didn’t touch except for their lips. All senses sharpened, focusing upon that kiss, upon the soft receiving textures, the sweetness, the shock of forbidden excitement. An answer to all their wondering.

It was good between them.

She couldn’t resist the need to explore. Her fingertips traced the contours of his face, learning its authoritative ridges and tempting hollows. She followed the strength of his rough jaw, down his throat, along his collarbone until, with hands and heart quivering, she flattened her palms against the unyielding wall of his chest to test the urgent passion pounding there. Her own pulse hammered in an uncontrollable response.

Lifting her face, her eyes closing, she welcomed the hunger of his mouth as it charted cheek, brow, and the tender curve of her eyelids before returning to her now-trembling lips for a thorough plundering.

“Again,” she gasped breathlessly when they separated.

Because one more or a thousand more wouldn’t be enough, Reeve hesitated.

“What do you want from me, Patrice?”

Her gaze flickered open, at first displeased by the interruption, then soft with sincerity.

“I want to feel alive again, Reeve. I don’t want to
be buried here in this grave. I know it’s awful to say so, but—”

His forefinger pressed to her lips, sealing in whatever else she’d say. “Don’t apologize. Not to me.”

She kissed the rough pad of his finger, then rubbed her cheek into his broad palm. She looked back up at him, her eyes luminous, vulnerable. “And what is it you want, Reeve?”

“I need you to forgive me, Patrice.”

It would have been such a simple thing to say “I do” and let all the anguish of the past four years dissolve. She could say it, and they could go on from there. But she couldn’t speak the words, knowing they’d be insincere. Not at the risk that the lie would someday haunt them.

She touched his cheek. Her tone quavered with emotion.

“I—I don’t know that I can.”

The disappointment, the crushing defeat of his expression made her wish with all her heart she could have given him the answer he wanted. Instead, she stood and left him there at her fiancé’s grave to make her way in an awkward, slightly hobbling hurry back to the safety of the house.

Because it wasn’t Reeve she couldn’t forgive for the tragedy of Jonah’s death.

It was herself.

Chapter 12

Deacon Sinclair walked out of Pride’s lumber mill and let all his pent-up frustration go in a savage breath. The name Sinclair had always been good for anything they needed. Right now, he needed lumber, badly, to continue his work at the Manor, to get his family tucked safely under their own roof. Dangerous currents stirred at the Glade, and he didn’t like it. He needed beams for reinforcement, boards for new stairs, milled pieces to refit windows and doors, too damn much to be told he couldn’t buy on name only anymore.

The mill’s owner, Harve Barlow, was sincere in his apologies. It was business, and business can’t be run on endless promises. How much business had his family brought to Barlow Brothers over the years? Enough to deserve this one favor, this one exception. But he couldn’t get it. He had no credit when it came to trust, either. Barlow didn’t believe
he could rebuild and recover from his losses. It showed clearly in his sad eyes, in the regretful shake of his head when he said he was sorry.

Sorry. Sorry didn’t keep out the rain! He forked his hands back through his hair and tried to get on top of his anger and fear … anger at his helplessness, fear that Barlow was right. He hated not being in control, and everything was sifting through his fingers—their home, the vast acres, his sister, his future. He needed to grab on tight before it was too late but didn’t know how.

He needed money.

He needed a chance to prove what he could do on his own. And one depended upon the other.

He knuckled his eyes to rid them of the dust and weariness. When he opened them again, he faced the grinning visage of Tyler Fairfax, already well into his cups at quarter past noon.

“Heya, Deke. You’re lookin’ a little down in the jowls. Anythin’ I can do for you?”

“Yes. Go away.” The last thing he needed was the added annoyance of a sodden little mealy worm like Fairfax gloating over his miseries.

Not at all discouraged by his brusque remark, Tyler fell in step beside him as he started aimlessly down the walk. “No luck at the lumber mill, eh? Heard you was riding low on pocket change. Bad luck these days.”

Deacon shot him a venomous glare. “What business is it of yours, Fairfax, whether I have a pot to piss in or not?”

Tyler kept grinning. “You can pee off the side of the road for all I care. It’s Patrice I’m thinking about. I’m—my sister’s right fond of her. Hate to see her
living in a tent, collecting government meals, if you know what I mean.”

Not liking his face rubbed into his inability to provide, Deacon snapped, “Have you got a point? Then make it!”

“Sometimes it’s easy to forget who your true friends are.”

“Are you saying we have some long-lost bond of friendship between us? If there is, I certainly don’t recall it.”

Tyler laughed. “Oh, no, Reverend. I know you got as much use for me as spit on your shoes. But we’re on the same side, of the same brotherhood. And folks like us should stick together, especially now when we all need someone to depend on. Someone to take care of our interests and our families while them Feds is lookin’ to grind us under their heels.”