The Outcast Read Free Page B

with the daily crises of finding food or selling off the silver to buy seed for vegetables. While Hannah drifted through the hazy afternoons upon daydreams of long ago, Patrice was on her knees in the dirt, using a sterling pie server as a spade to plant tiny seedlings that would feed them over the long winter months. She and Jericho Smith, their only remaining servant, sat together over the last of the coffee discussing their defense should marauders return to take what little they had left while Hannah asked again for two lumps of the sugar they’d run out of months ago. And as Hannah slept smiling in the thrall of her memories, Patrice wept into her pillow, afraid that every night sound bore a threat, terrified that the next day would bring the news that with her brother’s death, all was lost. As matriarchal figurehead, Hannah was a symbol of poise and refinement, but for a source of strength and courage, Patrice learned to look inward.
    “Go back to your needlework, Mama. Everything’s fine.”
    And she smiled to offset the damning certainty that nothing would be the same again now that Reeve Garrett had returned.
    The sound of approaching hoofbeats ended the need for further talk. Both women looked around. There was no mistaking the horseman. No one else melded into an animal to form one muscled unit. And few wearing Union blue traveled alone in Pride County.
    Patrice stood slowly, forming an imposing column of support and defense at her mother’s side, no less wary than she’d been of the nightriders come to burn her house around her. She held a frail hand in one of hers, mindful not to crush the slender fingers in her agitation.
    The rider dismounted, a handsome figure, proud in bearing, determined in manner. He paused long enough to loop his reins through the brass tethering ring before striding to the stairs. Patrice stiffened a degree with each step he came nearer until she was as rigid as buckram stays. She pulled quick, insufficient breaths between the firm clench of her teeth. The sound whistled ominously beneath the modulated greeting her mother gave.
    “Why, Mr. Garrett, what a surprise.”
    Hannah Sinclair was too well bred to reveal the nature of that surprise, whether good or bad. Instead, she smiled, showing no less welcome than she would to Breckinridge, himself, had he come to tell them the Confederacy had been saved. Her free hand extended in invitation.
    Reeve took the frail hand and raised it gallantly to his lips. His gaze never strayed from the neighboring matriarch to the seething female at her side.
    “Miz Sinclair, you’re lookin’ lovely, as always. After four years, a man gets hungry for such a sight to remind him that he’s come home.”
    Ignoring Patrice’s indignant snort, Hannahblushed prettily. “Go on with you, Mr. Garrett. I don’t remember you as given to such excessive flattery.”
    “I’m not one for speaking less than the truth, ma’am.”
    That pleased Hannah as much as it annoyed her daughter.
    Only then did Reeve glance at Patrice for a perfunctory nod. “Miss Patrice.”
    Patrice’s glare bored holes through him.
    Hannah withdrew her hand but not her hospitable manner. Encouraged, Reeve lingered on the front steps, seeing an opportunity to learn things Patrice hadn’t stayed long enough to tell him.
    “Is your family visiting here at the Glade, Miz Hannah?” He glanced about, seeing no driver or carriage.
    Hannah indulged him with a sad smile. “Alas, Mr. Garrett, the Glade has been our home for the past months. The squire was kind enough to offer his generosity.”
    “Seeing as how close we were to becoming family.” Patrice added that like a rapier stab. Her stony expression gave nothing away but her stare was razor-stropped sharp.
    Reeve remained unflinching as he turned his attention back to the elder Sinclair lady. His brows knit with apprehension.
    “Has somethin’ happened to the Manor?”
    “We have more than just chimneys remaining, which is