And
now, the dramatic concluding book . . . Available June, 1999! And
now, the dramatic concluding book . . . Available June, 1999!
Deacon Sinclair is an intelligence agent for the Confederacy. His current mission is to obtain the telegraph code the Union is using. The inventor of the code is the daughter of William Davis, a telegraph operator for the Union cipher corps. Deacon is willing to do anything for his cause, but he never counted on falling in love with Garnet Davis. In order to complete his mission, he will have to betray her trust and destroy the fragile bond that has developed between them. After Deacon's mission is complete, it is five years before he sees Garnet again. Five long years for Garnet to nurse the hurt he inflicted on her and plot her revenge.
Garnet shows up on Deacon's doorstep five years later, the mortgage to his house in her hand. She also has a husband and a young son with her. She's not the foolish young girl she once was, however. She intends to bring Deacon to his knees by taking his home and his land. When she is through with him, Deacon Sinclair will know what it is like to lose everything he holds dear. The problem is, Garnet risks losing her heart to him all over again.
Rosalyn West takes us back to Pride County, Kentucky in The
Pretender, the fourth installment of The Men of Pride County. This
is a wonderful series that just keeps getting better and better with every book.
Ms. West makes the trip to Pride County something special to remember.
"Rosalyn West is a gifted storyteller! Her characters leap off the pages
and into your heart!"
"The Men of Pride County series deserves a place on your keeper
shelf!"
"Rosalyn West writes romance that tugs at your heart-strings and stays
with you long after you've finished the book!"
- Kristina Wright, The Literary Times
Her father had died in a Union prison.
Deacon took in the facts like hard-packed soil slowly soaking up rain water. Only these truths didn't quench his thirst for absolution. They brought a further parching to his soul.
He'd never tried to find out what happened to William Davis. Why not? He wondered that now as he stood working his way through a bottle of bourbon even as unwelcome strangers settled into the room that had been his, and his parents' before him. If his feelings for Garnet had been genuine, wouldn't he have wanted to discover the fate of her only living relative? Wouldn't he have done what he could to see the man freed once he'd served his purpose? A good man would have seen it as his responsibility. A decent man would have made it a priority. But what had he done? He'd looked down upon those dead ashes where he'd found such fleeting happiness and he'd deliberately extinguished all further thought of Garnet Davis.
Or he'd tried.
He'd ridden back to camp without ever going to see his family. He'd thrown himself back into the field, taking the first available assignment. And he'd sold his soul completely as a firing squad took the life of a neighbor in his stead.
A decent man wouldn't have slept nights.
He slept fine. It was the waking hours that tormented him. He looked forward to the nights because they brought him dreams of Garnet. But when he was awake, reality soured the serenity of those dreams. In the daylight, his conscience was stalked by the deeds he'd done.
William Davis was just another ghost.
She'd lost her father. His own actions had taken the man from her. How would she ever forgive him for such a thing--if forgiveness was something he could ever hope to attain?
He was tipping up the bottom of his third glass, trying not to think of the couple settling into his bedroom, when his gaze happened upon the little boy and the gigantic dog racing about the side yard. He tracked the boy without being aware of it, watching the long spindly legs pumping determinedly to keep up with the galloping hound. He wasn't aware of the smile shaping his lips.
Garnet's son.
Garnet and Montgomery Prior's son, he corrected. But that truth couldn't quite erase the poignant emotions curling about his heart.
Had he made different choices, he could have fathered that boy. He could be settling down in that room upstairs with Garnet as his bride.
What were the chances that he'd ever watch his own child play? An heir . . . an heir to what? Running a share croppers' store for a pittance wouldn't make him the catch of Pride County. Where he'd been slow in picking a bride before, now there wasn't a prayer that one would have him. Not that he cared for the lack of companionship . . . just the lack of tender feeling swelling inside as he watched another man's son.
And as he watched, Boone gave a boisterous leap, colliding forcefully with the oncoming little boy. William fell back into the remains of Hannah Sinclair's garden. And at the sound of his first wail, Deacon was out the door.
The child sat whimpering in the middle of a ruined English rose bush. Great teary eyes lifted as Deacon knelt down to the boy's level.
"I got a pricker," William sniveled extending his thumb for Deacon to see. When Deacon took the small hand in his, William started blubbering in earnest, anticipating the hurt to come.
"Stop that."
The boy blinked at the cut of Deacon's tone. He'd never had anyone speak to him harshly before. Tears froze and shimmered on his flushed cheeks.
"A man doesn't cry over such piddling things." The boy's lip quivered but he bit back further wails. His eyes grew large as he met the other man's serious stare. And he took the sober instruction to heart.
"A man doesn't cry, no matter how much it hurts. Not ever."
"Is that all men or just heartless ones like you?"
With that said, Garnet pushed Deacon aside and bent down in a pooling of silk. Her voice grew tender. Deacon tensed, remembering the sound of her compassion.
"Let me see, darling." She took up the soft hand between her own to inspect the tiny wound. The boy's eyes welled up in response to her sympathy but after a quick glance at Deacon, he blinked them manfully away.
"It's just a thorn, Mama. Just a piddling thing."
"It'll have to come out."
Deacon reached to take the boy's hand from hers. He didn't look at her, even when he heard her sharp inhalation.
"Let me. I've fallen into these bushes more times than I care to remember. And have taken thorns in worse paces then a thumb."
William smiled, shakily.
Squeezing the meaty pad of the little thump between two fingers, Deacon gave the boy a stern look. "This is going to hurt. Don't yell."
"Yell if you want, baby," Garnet contradicted, but the boy's gaze was fixed in Deacon's as he nodded bravely.
Moving quickly, Deacon brought the injury up to his mouth, biting down then spitting the barb out to one side. William swallowed hard but didn't make a sound. He inspected the reddened thumb proudly then showed the wound to his mother.
"It wasn't that bad at all."
Garnet smiled narrowly at his smug proclamation. "Then go play, dear. And stay away from the rose bushes."
He bounded off happily, leaving the two adults kneeling together in the garden. Flushing angrily, Garnet gathered her skirts and began to stand. To her irritation, Deacon was quick to offer assistance-irritated because of the way her pulse leapt at the simplest touch.
"Don't cry. Don't yell. For heaven's sake, he's just four years old."
"Old enough to be taught to take what comes without-"
"Without what?" She shook off his hands and brushed down her crumpled skirt. "Genuine emotion?"
"Without flinching. That's what my father taught me."
She glared at him. "Well, you're not in a position to teach my son anything. I'll decide what lessons I want him to learn."
He'd gone cold and distant. "Yes, of course. Forgive me for intruding. I'm sure you're doing an excellent job turning him into a dandified sissy like that man you married."
"Don't you speak like that about Monty," she hissed. "He's a fine man who's done his best for me and William. And he's taught my son what you never could-honesty. Or isn't that something you consider as important for a real man?" Before he could reply, if he meant to, she spat, "Good day, Mr. Sinclair."
As she spun away, intent on sweeping from him in an indignant righteousness, he foiled her plans by catching her hand. The shock of contact, blanked her mind like a sudden lightening surge. She looked up at him in flustered alarm.
"I'm sorry about your father, Garnet. I didn't know."
No other words could so efficiently cut through her daze of conflicting feelings. Her lips thinned.
"I don't want your sympathy."
"Then what do you want from me?"
She freed her hand with a jerk. "I want you on your knees."
He let her go then. The moment she was freed, she hurried toward the house. He could almost imagine the girl with man's trousers, bobbed hair and coltish stride.
On his knees.
So that was the way it was going to be.
A Sinclair never humbled himself before anyone. Especially to some backwoods girl who'd suddenly taken on aristocratic airs and a wealthy husband. Even though he was genuinely sorry, he wouldn't go so far to make amends. War was war, not something personal for which he should be forever apologetic.
However, Garnet's parting glare let him know to her it wasn't about a war or duty . . . it was about a very personal betrayal. And amnesty for the South and all its soldiers wouldn't excuse him for what he'd done in that peaceful Cumberland valley.
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