Now Reeve was back, and a mixture of resentment and relief twisted though him. Here, he had
another chance at a future for the Glade. To take it meant swallowing the humiliation of having his son turn against him, the insult of Reeve’s refusal to apologize for his part in all their miseries.
But there was so much to gain in the balance.
At the moment, he had nothing but the roof over his head and a tax debt he couldn’t meet. His labor force was gone, fleeing down Freedom Road. The only blooded animal on the farm belonged to Reeve, and therein lay all his hopes. Though they’d argued about everything for years, he knew Reeve loved the Glade with a fierceness to rival his own. And he knew he could count on the boy to do the impossible to bring things around again.
But he didn’t know how to tie him both to family and farm until he saw him ride in with Patrice Sinclair across the saddle.
He hadn’t believed anything could get them that close together. A fiery, willful girl, Patrice never shied away from speaking of her hatred for “that lousy, cowardly traitor.” He granted her those forthright opinions. Since the engagement, she felt like family to him, prompting his invitation for her and her mother to stay at the Glade.
It came to him. A stroke of inspiration.
Patrice Sinclair. He liked her. He knew she would have been good for Jonah.
Would she be equally good for Reeve?
A future could yet be bred at the Glade, a future generation, strong and fit and proud.
All he had to do was convince Reeve and Patrice to fulfill their part by getting past the tremendous obstacle of Jonah’s death. To give him the grandchildren he demanded.
Which would be about as easy as getting the county to accept Reeve back into their fold.
The fact that Reeve made no attempt at conversation made the ride easier for Patrice. She didn’t want to make pleasant small talk with him. Nothing about their verbal exchanges was pleasant. The silence allowed her to lose herself in escape, to feel, to experience the strength of a man’s arms, especially
this
man’s arms. But the moment was over.
“You can let me down now.”
The firm band about her waist didn’t ease.
“I’ll take you right up to the door.”
Being delivered to the front steps on the lap of Reeve Garrett held no great appeal. A stalemate ensued, her twisting in irritation, him refusing to relent because he was suddenly enthralled with the feel of her damp curves rolling against him.
“Put me down now.”
Her sharp tone held the authoritative snap one used to chastise a displeasing servant. For an instant, his arm tightened, mashing her to his hard chest, just to prove he was in control of her descent. Then abruptly he let her go. Without the support of his arm to position her, the moment he relaxed his knee, she slid forward into empty air like a clumsy flightless bird in sodden feathers. She landed on her feet with a jaw clacking impact, arms pinwheeling for purchase as damp skirt and petticoat mummified her legs together. She caught Reeve’s boot as her heels slid out from under her. Then came the indignity of him grabbing on to the back of her jacket to lift her up and brusquely deposit her on her feet.
“It would have been a mite easier for me to let you off at the door, but suit yourself.”
He gave a tug on the jacket collar, forcing her to lift her arms so he could strip it off her as if he were unmaking a rumpled bed.
Exposed to the cold rain once more, she stood shivering, glaring up at him. “Thank you kindly for the ride.”
His lips gave a slight twist. “My pleasure, Miz Sinclair.”
She was about to turn loose the tide of her temper when the sight of another soggy rider coming down the drive distracted her. Reeve followed her puzzled stare.
“Expectin’ someone?” His hand drifted down toward the pistol on his hip. Just in case.
“No. Who’d be crazy enough to go out in this weather.”
He was about to point out her own folly when she gasped, a strange little sound somewhere between a strangled sob and a glad cry. Then she was running, her heavy skirts hoisted up out of the muck, her feet flying.
Reeve squinted at the approaching figure, recognizing but not knowing quite who it was. A shabby soldier, like thousands he’d seen on the road, gaunt, whiskered, riding a broken-down excuse for a cart horse. Probably another beggar looking for a hot meal and a night out of the weather.
Something about the angle of his shoulders defied the term vagabond. Though his head ducked to let the rain roll forward off his hat brim, a prideful starch straightened his spine.
“Deacon!”
Even without her joyous shout, Reeve knew him,
for the instant he saw her racing toward him, the rider lifted his head. A heavy beard couldn’t disguise the patrician features and ice-cold eyes of Deacon Sinclair, come home to claim his family.
He stepped down off his winded mount just in time for Patrice to slam into him, all twining arms and salty tears. He rocked from the velocity, then, after a moment’s pause, he lifted his arms wearily to enfold her in a circle tight enough to seal out the rain and the world. His head bent slowly, turning so his cheek found rest atop her wet hair. And a long, satisfied sigh escaped him.
“Deacon—”
Patrice tried to look up at him, but his embrace banded more securely, his palm controlling the cant of her head as he whispered a hoarse, “Not yet.”
She relaxed against him, hands kneading the threadbare fabric of his coat, losing herself along his long-boned lines. Still not quite believing he was there. Alive. Finally, he angled to press a nearly nonexistent kiss upon her brow.
When he stepped back, Patrice felt instantly vulnerable
once more. Her voice trembled.
“You look terrible.”
“I smell worse. This is my first bath in months.”
She touched his haggard face. It was wet. From the rain, he’d say. “I’m not sure I like the beard.”
“It’ll be the first to go, right after these clothes.”
Did he mean the uniform he’d ridden away in with such pride? She frowned slightly, palms stroking over the gray wool with its fortuitous lack of bullet holes.
He glanced toward the house. “They told me in town that you and Mother were here.” Then his gaze touched upon Reeve, who watched the two of them inscrutably from a distance, his Union coat draped over his shoulders. The muscles of Deacon’s jaw flexed beneath the stubble. “That he was here, too.”
Patrice rubbed his forearms to distract him. She wanted nothing to sully their reunion. And she wasn’t ready to have her ride with Reeve examined, either by her shrewd brother or within the uncertainty of her own heart. Better to let the issue slip away. “Come up to the house. Mama will be so thrilled to see you.”
They walked side by side, Patrice tucked in beneath the curl of his arm, her own snug about his middle. The used-up horse trailed behind them. Deacon spared Reeve another glance when they came nearer, the kind of look one gave an invisible servant.
“Take care of the horse.”
Delivered with an offhand indifference, the command fell flat.
“Didn’t you hear that Lincoln freed the slaves?”
Deacon stopped. A deceptive stillness came over
his face. His eyes glinted, ice over slate. Reeve didn’t relent beneath that saber-sharp glare. He met it with a cool repartee of his own, and said, “Ask me. Don’t tell me.”
“Please.”
Another beat of challenge passed. Afraid she’d have to throw herself between them, Patrice tugged at her brother. She didn’t want his homecoming to dissolve into a fistfight in the mud. She cast an impatient look at Reeve. Only when her gaze took on an edge of entreaty, did he respond. Without a change of expression, he reached for the sorry creature’s reins, his comment low, and to Patrice, a puzzle.
“I’d never walk away to let another suffer for my arrogance.”
Deacon stood rigid as one of the plantation’s pillars. It obviously meant something to him. But before the confrontation could develop, Patrice hauled on his arm.
“Deacon, I’m soaked clear through. Could we go up to the house now?”
He backed down incrementally, movements still stiff, like a bristled dog being pulled away from a rival. Patrice jerked hard to break the steady fix of the two men’s stares. Then Deacon came obligingly to enter the dry confines of the Glade.
There, he surrendered to his mother’s embrace, resting his head upon her shoulder like the needy boy he hadn’t been for many years.
He ate to satisfy a long-starved need. Though clean-shaven and wearing a set of Jonah’s clothes that he couldn’t have squeezed into before the war began, though he was meticulous in manner, a difference
in her brother bothered Patrice. She couldn’t name it. He’d always kept his emotions closed off from those around him, even those he cared for, but now she sensed a deeper remoteness, a void that scared her.
He never said what part he played in the defense of the South. Through the first years of the conflict, he’d stayed in Pride County, sporting no uniform, no rank, but a secretive silence that whispered of important business. Business one didn’t ask after. Just glad to have him home when so many Southern women were left to their own devices, Patrice never questioned him. But she worried.
It wasn’t until after Jonah’s death that he appeared one day in officer’s regalia to announce he had things to take care of in the Confederate capital. A subtle edge of danger hung upon that cool statement, warning them not to ask his reasons. Again, they didn’t … they were afraid to. Patrice wondered. Her brother had a gift, a certain blankness that shut off the exchange between heart and mind.
And she hoped he wasn’t an assassin.
She thought he’d be terrifyingly good at it.
They had letters, few and far between. His words echoed vague sentiments. He mentioned the weather in whatever state he’d been in and promised their mother he had plenty to eat. He wrote them about his father’s death, a letter so stark and stripped of feeling it might well have been a telegram from the government. Then, for the last year, nothing.
And it was clear that Deacon meant to go on as if the past four years never happened.
“As soon as the weather breaks, I’m heading to the Manor. I understand it’s still standing.”
“I’ve seen to it.” Patrice straightened beneath his cool perusal, pride surging when he allowed her a thin smile.
“You’re more than welcome to remain here.”
“No disrespect, Squire, but I’d like to have my family at home as soon as possible.”
“None taken. Whatever I have is at your disposal. We weren’t as hard hit as some of our neighbors.” He broke off in embarrassment. He didn’t need to finish. They all knew it was because Reeve served the Union cause. That kept the scourge of Yankee scavengers from their door.
“What I’m going to need is man power. I heard tell all our darkies ran off at Abe Lincoln’s call.”
“All but Jericho,” Patrice told him. “I don’t think I could have held on without his help.”
Deacon nodded. “He’s a good man.”
“I wish I could help you there, son,” Byron continued, “but I’m no better set than you. Reeve’s the only pair of capable hands I have, and you’re welcome to use him … if he’s agreeable.”
Deacon never blinked. “I don’t think it will come to that.”
Byron Glendower sat unhappily at his table. With the reappearance of Deacon Sinclair, he saw his influence over Patrice about to end. Deacon would never allow a match between his sister and a man considered the county traitor. As long as Reeve was out of favor in the community, matrimony was inconceivable.
So he had to find a way to make Reeve more palatable to his neighbors.
It was going to be like forcing castor oil down their throats.
Might as well start now while taste buds were coated with a fine meal.
“We’ve had so little chance to celebrate anything. I’d like to throw open the doors of the Glade and invite all our friends and neighbors … a welcome home for Deacon and our other brave boys.”
Deacon’s features turned to granite.
Like Reeve
? was the question in his frost gray eyes.
Byron pretended not to read it there.
“Once everyone’s here, if it gets out that you need help, I’m sure you’ll get it. The boys of this county pull together. Always have.”
“Those of us who are left.”
Refusing to let the mood go sour, Patrice turned to her mother with a feigned excitement. “I think a party would be wonderful, don’t you, Mama? And we could arrange everything, Squire, a sort of thank-you for all you’ve done for us these past months.”
Byron smiled at her. “I’ll leave everything in your capable hands then.” Because she was playing right into his.
Patrice stepped out onto the broad front porch, letting the door close quietly behind her. Deacon stood at the stone steps, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders slightly rounded, a casual pose that on him struck her as vaguely alarming. He stared off into space, focusing on nothing in particular, looking a little lost.
“Deacon?”
When he turned, there was something in his expression she’d never seen before. A certain wistfulness, maybe even sadness. Surprisingly, he didn’t conceal it behind the stoic mask he always wore.
Instead, he waited, more approachable than she could ever remember, for her to come to him. She touched his forearm in a hesitant overture. His hand slid out of hiding to engulf hers in an unexpected press. He didn’t let go.
Warmed and mystified, Patrice said, “It still surprises me to see you here. I’d almost given up hope.”
“So had I. More than once.”
It must have been very, very bad for him to make such an admission. She gave him time to say more, but he didn’t. She wasn’t surprised by his silence. He would never share his weaknesses with her. He wouldn’t know how.
“So you plan to rebuild the Manor?”
“Of course. Father would expect me to.” At the mention of their father, the stiffness crept back into his joints, straightening him, steeling his features into confident angles of strength and purpose. His fingers loosened about hers but she wasn’t ready to release him yet.