"Aren't they handsome?"
Patrice could see them through the parted draperies, following Starla Fairfax's
hungry gaze to the gathering of young men sipping whiskey on the lawn. A sharp
poke to the corset stays knocked her from her dreamy lethargy. Her friend chuckled
knowingly.
"Which one?"
Patrice cast a guilty look at her smug neighbor then tried to look indifferent. "Which one what?"
Starla laughed at her prim manner. "Which one of them pretty boys has you all hot and bothered?"
Hiding the flush of her cheeks behind a fluttering fan, Patrice's gaze was nonetheless drawn back to the boisterous group who pretended not to notice their fair audience. "I declare, Starla Fairfax, your talk is as bold as that neckline."
Starla was far from shamed. "My brother would love to think he's the one turning your head. Is he? Then we could be true sisters."
"Tyler?" Patrice frowned as she studied the lanky green-eyed devil with his sly smile and 100 proof temper. He was a sweet eyeful, all dark, Creole beauty, sure enough, but Patrice knew him too well to be fooled by slick charm alone. "Your brother packs a kick more dangerous than that bourbon your daddy brews. A girl would be crazy to cast her hopes his way."
Not at all offended, Starla surveyed the others. "What about Noble?" She all but purred his name.
Patrice grinned, watching her friend's cat-eyed gaze scald over the magnificent picture Noble Banning presented in evening wear. He was the image of what every Southern gentleman should be; all straight, prideful bearing with the drawling manners of a natural leader and orator. She knew Starla harbored a secret fancy for him that was as unrequited as it was passionate within her girlish heart. She chuckled. "I wouldn't dare. You'd snatch me bald-headed if I so much as smiled in his direction."
"Oh, pooh, Trice. That's not true." But she seemed pleased despite her protest. She nodded then toward the impressive figure wearing his father's Mexican War saber on his hip. It made him look every inch the hero. "Mede? I declare he makes hearts beat faster every time he flashes those dimples of his."
Patrice agreed. Lycomedes Wardell was built solid and square-jawed, as formidable in stature as he was shy in manner. A combination the county girls found devastating. But Patrice would never think of him as other than neighbor and friend.
And that narrowed the field of heartbreakers down to two.
"A smart girl would grab up Jonah Glendower. He's gonna be filthy rich and he'd been hanging around your front porch all summer hoping for a sign the feeling's mutual."
Patrice let her thoughts linger over the younger Glendower issue and she knew Starla was right. Jonah was bright as a newly minted eagle with all his father's ambitions and influence. Conscientious, intellectual, well-bred and pedigreed to the envy of his farm's best stallions, he was her family's choice. But not hers.
"But safe don't excite a girl like you, Patrice. Not like ole Reeve Garrett does. I don't know what you see in that surly boy." She giggled. "Other than the obvious."
The obvious held Patrice's attention. Long legs meant to mold to saddle leather. Brawny arms and strong hands made to master the most rebellious mount. Dark tawny hair mussed by the whip of the breeze, straying into eyes as mysterious and deep as one of the Glade's peat bogs. And just as dangerous to one as careless of her own sure footing as Patrice tended to be.
Reeve Garrett, Byron Glendower's illegitimate son, a study of unapproachable angles; rugged, hard, without a trace of softness except when he extended one of his infrequent smiles.
The sight of him made Patrice breathless.
"What are you girls doing, peeking through the curtains like a couple of nosy housemaids?"
Starla groaned and stepped away from the window. "If it isn't Deacon Sinclair, come to preach what's right and proper. Is Deacon your name or your calling?"
That barbed quip faded from memory upon Patrice's sigh. She turned from the room full of ghosts, from figures haunting her lawn a lifetime ago . . .
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