Free The Outcast by Rosalyn West

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.

Chapter 5
    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