Free The Outcast by Rosalyn West Page B

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