“You don’t want to talk to me, do you?”

His eyes glittered with challenge, daring her to answer.

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you never seem satisfied with what I say.”

It was enough of the truth for now. She just didn’t add that a part of her was very busy noticing him as a man. She had from the very beginning. And that his physical presence made her suddenly aware of herself as a woman.

She swallowed and added, “And because you never take anything at face value. You always seem to suspect a hidden meaning, an ulterior motive—and you make me…uneasy.” It was a better word than nervous. Or self-conscious.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to look for hidden meanings if you would talk to me. If I didn’t have to pry out every bit of information you held…!”

Harlequin Historicals is delighted to introduce new author Wendy Douglas

Here is what some of her fellow authors have to say about her debut novel

SHADES OF GRAY

“A heartwarming voice and a story about the power of love.”

—New York Times bestselling author and three-time RITA Award winner Jennifer Greene

“An exquisite love story of hope and healing, and a stunning debut for Ms. Douglas!”

—Romantic Times Career Achievement Award winner

Mary Anne Wilson

#599 THE LOVE MATCH

Deborah Simmons/Deborah Hale/Nicola Cornick

#600 A MARRIAGE BY CHANCE

Carolyn Davidson

#601 MARRYING MISCHIEF

Lyn Stone

Shades of Gray
Wendy Douglas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and WENDY DOUGLAS

Shades of Gray #602

For Doug

For giving me the time and freedom to finally achieve my dream. For teaching me about the miracles that come from taking chances. And for being my best friend…my very own hero. I love you.

Acknowledgments

This book was a labor of love, a book of my heart. Even so, I could not have written it without the help and support of some amazing people: Alison Hart, who volunteered to read the manuscript and offered unlimited time, advice and understanding. (Thanks, Petunia.) Tracy Green, Cheryl Johnson, Lynda Mikulski and Carolyn Rogers, who brainstormed, listened, read and critiqued my baby with sincere enthusiasm and encouragement. Mary Anne Wilson, who taught me that a hard man is good to find—and knew just the hard men I would need for this book. Dana Stabenow, who made exactly the suggestion I needed, just when I needed it, to find the right ending. Laurie Miller, who generously shared her medical knowledge, particularly with home remedies suitable for the post-Civil War era. My Texas “expert,” Betty Sue Crain, who offered pictures, maps, stories, an exclusive Texas tour in seven whirlwind days, and for cooking dinner—more than once—so I could keep writing. The “Thursday LaMex girls,” Kathy Hafer and Jean Whitley, for proofreading and years of unflagging support. (Margaritas are on me next week!)

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Prologue

Texas, April 1868

He rode damn near to the edge of nowhere before he found it. For days now, the landscape had sauntered by with indifferent sameness, offering little more than mesquite, prickly pear cactus and Indian paintbrush. Finally, a new image appeared in the distance.

The Double F Ranch.

Derek Fontaine reined his horse to a standstill and examined the far-off buildings. At the same time, he grappled with the sound of a hundred noisy voices, all shouting inside his head and demanding his attention. The lies, the accusations…the angry recriminations. He’d been so sure he could hold them under the strictest control—and had done so for years. Suddenly they were back…and for what?

He scowled at the scene before him as the memories forced themselves upon him: the lies from all the years they’d pretended Richard Fontaine was his uncle; the unfair accusations he would never forget; the names with which they had branded him. Troublemaker, traitor…bastard.

Betrayals all, and from those he’d trusted most. His own family.

The anger and loneliness of a childhood spent unwanted and unloved festered up inside him like an old wound that had never quite healed. Derek swallowed, forcing back the memories as he had always done before. He couldn’t afford to open himself up to it all again, reexamining those tired, ancient emotions when he’d come so close to losing himself to it once. Later, when the pain finally went away, or when he regained his strength, he would think about it.

But not now. Now he had all he could manage just trying to figure out what the hell he was doing here.

“That it?”

Derek blinked, turning as he swept a distracted gaze over his companion. Gideon—the only name he’d given, back three hundred miles or so—said nothing more. Willing enough to shoulder his share of the work and more, and evenly divide the few costs they’d incurred along the trail, he had also established himself as a man of few words. He didn’t disclose personal confessions and he didn’t ask questions. That suited Derek just fine.

He nodded, shifting as imperceptibly as he could. It was sufficient movement to prod a creak from his leather saddle, and he took a moment to appreciate the noise. It sounded familiar, reassuring somehow, and it settled him, reminded him of who he was and where he’d been.

Turning back to study the terrain, he noticed, then dismissed, a patch of bluebonnets waving brightly in the breeze. More interesting was the view of the sprawling frame ranch house and outbuildings that squatted earnestly in the distance.

He answered after another moment. “I expect it is.”

“It doesn’t exactly look deserted.”

Derek aimed a sharp gaze over the details: a lazy plume of smoke wafting from a chimney, while a cloud of dust billowed from what he suspected was the corral. Definite signs of life.

He shrugged. “I didn’t know what I’d find.”

“You still don’t.”

“True enough.”

“You expect trouble?”

Derek urged his horse forward without answering, and Gideon followed a moment later.

“I always expect trouble,” Derek finally replied. “It’s just a matter of what kind.”

Gideon nodded again, but said nothing more, leaving Derek free to consider the possibilities of what lay ahead. He knew what he wouldn’t find: Richard Fontaine alive and well and waiting for his arrival. If he had been, there would be no reason for Derek to be there.

But Richard was dead and Derek wasn’t. He was here in south Texas, looking out across the love of the other man’s life: the land. More than his ancestry, more than family…perhaps more than life itself, Richard had loved this place.

That doesn’t mean you have to love it the same way, Derek reminded himself. He doubted that he ever would. He didn’t have enough emotion left within him for that. But it was the perfect answer, for now.

He had more than twenty-five years behind him as Jordan Fontaine’s son. And later, he’d survived four long—agonizingly so at times—years of civil war. In his life, he’d faced enough strife, enough pain…enough everything. He just wanted a little peace and quiet.

The Double F would give him that. The space and freedom to be alone, to forget…to heal?

Well, no. He shook his head and urged his horse to move faster. He wouldn’t go that far. He knew better. But maybe, if he had any luck left to him at all, he might get the chance to discover if there was anything left of the man named Derek Fontaine.

Chapter One

“Riders comin’.”

Amber Laughton heard the call but held her response, choosing to concentrate on her work for another moment. Separating the troublesome weeds from the healthy plants in her fledgling dill bed didn’t take that much thought, but the mindless chore gave her a chance to think.

The Double F Ranch rarely welcomed visitors these days. Invitations were no longer extended or accepted, and she could think of no one interested in seeing that change. No one, perhaps, except Derek Fontaine, arrived at last.

“Amber-girl, you hear me? Riders comin’.”

She looked up, shading her eyes with one hand. High, thin clouds gave the day a deceptively overcast appearance, but they didn’t entirely stop moments of fierce brightness. Blinking, she picked out Micah standing at the corner of the house.

She smiled softly. The little man, as much grandfather as friend to her after so many years, stood as straight and tall as his size and aging body would allow. Alternately he stared out toward the curved front drive, then sent her sharp, pointed looks, intended no doubt to make her take him seriously.

She did, and he had to know it. “I heard you.”

“You expectin’ somebody?”

“And who do you think I’d be expecting?”

“Them crazy Andrews brothers ain’t been out here in a while. It could be them,” Micah suggested, scowling.

“That doesn’t mean I’d be expecting them. Clem and Twigg come to see Whitley, and you know it.” Amber dropped the last few weeds into a dilapidated wooden bucket, already half full of wilting green plants, and stood, wiping her hands on her stained apron. For once she had remembered to put on her gardening apron, and she refused to change it now simply to impress uninvited company. Even if it was Derek Fontaine.

Besides, a dirty apron hardly mattered under the circumstances; she looked every bit the part of the hired housekeeper she was. Her plain brown cotton dress and sturdy work shoes hadn’t been new in years. She’d pulled her hair back into a serviceable, tidy bun early that morning, but tendrils had loosened by now and clung with damp persistence to her forehead and neck. Her hands were red and chapped from the scalding hot, then icy-cold water and strong lye soap of yesterday’s laundry, while her fingertips seemed permanently tinted to a faded black from the rich dirt in her garden.

“They might say they’re comin’ to see Whitley,” said Micah, disapproval wrinkling his already weathered brow, “but they don’t care nothin’ that he’s their nephew. They just wanna stick around till you invite them to supper.”

“Well, if it’s them, they’ve run out of luck today.” Amber stepped around the bucket and headed in his direction. “Whitley went to town again, and I don’t have time to entertain them until he gets back.”

“Nah, I don’t think it’s them, anyway.” Micah narrowed his eyes. “That don’t look like their horses.”

She rounded the corner of the house and stopped next to him, shading her eyes with one hand as she looked out across the prairie.

There were two of them.

Amber swallowed the words, along with a clipped gasp for air—or thought she did, until Micah demanded, “What’s wrong with you, girl? Course there’s two of them. I said riders comin’. We was talkin’ about the Andrews brothers, fer cryin’ out loud. Addin’ them esses at the end of a word usually means more’n one.”

“I’m sorry. I…don’t know what I was thinking. I assumed it would be Derek Fontaine, but I thought he’d be alone.”

“Fontaine!” She might have said Jesus Christ for all the stunned amazement that crackled in Micah’s voice. “Why d’you think it’s him now? We been wonderin’ fer durn near a year iffen he’d come.”

She shot a weary glance at the old man. His wide, rheumy eyes and gaping mouth matched his astonished tone. “I got a note from Frank Edwards a few days ago,” she admitted.

“You shoulda told me! We coulda got things ready fer him.”

“What difference does it make? It’s his, no matter what condition it’s in.”

Micah’s gaze raked her with uncomfortable deliberation. “What’s wrong, Amber-girl? This is Richard’s nephew. You loved Richard an’ he was good to both of us. How come you don’t want Derek here? You don’t even know him.”

Amber sighed. It might shock him to realize it, but Micah didn’t know everything about her. He thought he understood her, and she would never tell him any differently—for both their sakes. She couldn’t face him if he knew all her secrets.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I haven’t slept well the past couple of nights.”

He nodded. “It’s the change in season. Spring ain’t your fondest season anymore.”

Turning, she watched the newcomers approach ever nearer. As a child, spring had always been her favorite time of year, and part of her still marveled to see the earth renew itself. But spring had also seen an end to much that she held dear, and she could no longer take the same joy in it.

“No.” Her answer, finally, was clean and simple, allowing her to concentrate on the new arrivals. “I don’t suppose it is.”

The riders reached the edge of the crushed rock-and-shell driveway, close enough that she could make out the first details. The men both appeared to be thirty or thereabouts, lean and fit. Their features remained indistinct, but they rode well, straight and easy, one on a gleaming red sorrel and the other on a powerful black stallion. The horses looked healthy and lively, even from a distance.

Pausing at the front of the house, they shared a brief exchange that didn’t carry before Micah caught their attention with an abbreviated wave and a sharp “Halloo.”

The man on the sorrel led the way around back. “Is this the Double F Ranch?”

Amber lost, in that moment, any doubts that may have lingered about the man’s identity. It was Richard’s voice asking the question, Richard’s face looking down at her. His eyes remained shadowed under the brim of his dusty brown hat, but that changed nothing. Derek Fontaine was clearly his uncle’s double, though separated by a span of thirty years.

She had never given much thought to Richard’s looks; he had simply been her father’s friend. Suddenly, though, looking at Derek and his younger version of Richard’s face, she discovered with some surprise that he was quite possibly the most handsome man she’d ever seen. The high curve of his cheekbones gave his face an elegance that was apparent even under a reddish-brown beard and mustache. The whiskers provided a subtle accent for his full, finely drawn lips, but at the same time concealed the cut of his jaw. His nose presented the only unremarkable feature on his face.

“Ma’am?”

Amber blinked and swallowed. For pity’s sake, what was the matter with her? Standing here, staring at this man—any man—like a smitten schoolgirl.

She frowned and shook her head. “I beg your pardon, sir. We don’t often have visitors. This is the Double F Ranch. And you must be Derek Fontaine.”

He stiffened, but nodded with a sharp tilt of his head. “I am. You were expecting me?”

“Mr. Edwards—the banker—sent word a few days ago.”

“And you are?”

“I’m sorry.” She flushed, both embarrassed and irritated by her lapse in manners. “This is Micah Smith, and my name is Amber Laughton. We worked for your uncle.”

Derek nodded and removed his hat in a gesture of respect Amber had long ago forgotten to expect. She stared up at him, bewildered, and neglected for a moment to blink.

Blue. His eyes were blue, similar to Richard’s, but Derek’s were a bright, pure color that looked nothing at all like his uncle’s, with lashes so long Amber could see them from where she stood. Derek’s hair fell well past his shoulders, longer and lighter than Richard’s, a pale brown color the sun had bleached to mostly blond-red. He resembled heaven’s own angel, strong and fair, she thought in an odd moment of whimsy—or he would have if the expression in his eyes hadn’t looked so…bleak.

“How d’ya do, Mr. Fontaine?” Micah’s welcome dissolved the stillness, much to Amber’s relief. She blinked and looked away. “I knew yer uncle well. We shared many a fine glass a’ whiskey. He was a good friend, and I’m real sorry he ain’t here with us now.”

“Yes, well, thank you.” Derek turned to the other mounted man before Amber could offer her own condolences. “This is Gideon.”

Was the change in subject as deliberate as it appeared? Amber stared at Derek a moment longer, but his stark expression provided no clue. Perhaps he still grieved over the loss of his uncle. With no other choice, she fixed her gaze on the second man.

Nothing about Gideon could be termed light except for his long blond hair. Everything else was dark. Hat, shirt, pants and boots—even the stallion’s shimmering coat—shared the same deep ebony color. And the leather patch that covered his left eye was black as well.

“Mister…Gideon.” Amber looked directly in his good eye and did her best to ignore both the patch and the mean-looking red scar that snaked out from beneath it. The scar bisected his left cheek into two crooked halves. The right side of his face, however, remained as beautiful and flawless as any angel in heaven above.

Were they suddenly beset by fallen angels?

“Ma’am,” Gideon said, his voice as low and polite as his good eye was cold and distant.

“It’s miss. I’m not married.” Something compelled her to correct the assumption, though she couldn’t imagine why it should matter.

Gideon nodded, then introduced himself to Micah.

“We’d like to settle in, if you don’t mind,” said Derek.

“Of course. Micah, if you’ll take Gideon to the bunkhouse and see to Mr. Fontaine’s horse, I’ll show him the main house.”

“I prefer to take care of my own horse, if you don’t mind, Miss Laughton.”

“I…er, yes, of course.” Amber glanced at the sorrel, focusing her attention on the animal rather than its owner. The man seemed to have a talent for making her feel like a blundering fool. “I’ll be over there, in the garden—” she turned to point behind her “—whenever you’re ready.”

“Come along then, boys, an’ I’ll show ya the way.” Micah headed toward the corral with a wave, and the younger men followed his lead without comment.

Well, then. So this was it. Amber watched them make their way across the yard, an anxiety she didn’t recognize putting an awkward brittleness into her shoulders, her limbs.

Remain calm, she told herself. Don’t think, just breathe. But a hollow had opened up low in her stomach, and it transformed even simple breathing into a sketchy, labored effort.

“This kind of weakness is completely unacceptable,” she insisted softly, aloud this time, hoping it might give her strength. Now, of all times, she must keep her wits about her.

A year of grace. She’d had that long to prepare herself for this moment. She’d even thought, until now, she’d done a credible job of it. Why, then, did she feel on the sharp edge of such panic and…emptiness?

Stop it! Don’t waste your time on emotion. It’s useless. Be practical. Look at the facts.

The facts? Yes, they were simple enough: Derek Fontaine had arrived at last to claim his inheritance. The Double F Ranch was his, bought and paid for with the life and death of his uncle Richard. And Richard had been a friend to Amber—and more—when she had needed him most.

But none of that would matter to Derek. The bleak look in his eyes, his stiff back and unyielding shoulders told her that much. He was the kind of man whose loyalties belonged only to himself, and that could mean anything for those who remained at the ranch. He was free to do whatever he chose with the Double F and its employees. He could keep them on or not.

Amber’s breathing settled with a soft grunt as the men disappeared into the barn. Derek, she was coming to realize, had a marked presence that put her on edge. Nothing about him gave the impression that he was simple or easygoing, nor did he seem much like Richard. Rather, he unnerved her with a hardness, a fierceness, that had become all too familiar in the last few years—ever since men had begun returning from that cursed war.

But that didn’t matter right now, and she couldn’t afford such distractions. Amber brushed the back of one hand over her forehead and turned toward the garden. The past was over and couldn’t be changed. All that mattered now was Derek Fontaine’s arrival, and his right to be there.

She had prayed this day would never come, but it was here—and with it, the choices she had always known would be hers. Really, there was no choice at all. She had never expected a guarantee once Derek Fontaine arrived.

Now what?

Amber swallowed and knelt among the dill plants to take up where she had left off. If he wouldn’t let her stay, where in the world could she go?

What the hell were you thinking to head south again?

Derek couldn’t stifle the question, any more than he could ignore other, similar sentiments that had occurred to him countless times since he’d left Chicago. And he had no better answers now than when he’d started. In fact, he had nothing but more questions.

He left the barn, his bedroll slung over one shoulder and a knapsack in the opposite hand. Charlie was bedded down safely, leaving Derek with nothing but questions—serious ones—about the ranch and its operations.

He slowed, glancing around, then stopped shy of the drive, flexing his shoulders with an absent frown. Now that he’d arrived and faced the reality of inheriting a cattle ranch, a new and deeper tension settled at the base of his neck.

Shit. The place was a damn mess! The barn door hung crooked, the corral fence had broken and missing railings, and he’d gotten just close enough to the bunkhouse to recognize the unmistakable stench of rotting food. What would he find when he looked closer?

Just your luck. The mocking snicker came from inside his head, a voice that sounded remarkably like his father. No—not his father; the correction came quickly. He’d never heard his father’s voice. He was thinking of the man who had married his mother.

Precisely. It sounded like Jordan Fontaine at his most sarcastic, and the voice continued. Your inheritance is falling down around your ears. Just as you deserve.

“Well, so what if it is?” Derek muttered. The defiance in his tone sounded disagreeably childish, and he sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” He added that for himself, certain it was true. He’d never expected to like this place to begin with.

But it was his now…and he had nowhere else to go and nothing to do.

He blinked, then cast another look around him. What counted was the ranch—the land. In that way, he must be like Richard, for that’s what he was after. Land, and nothing more. No emotions and no regrets. Land…with the isolation it offered, the solitude he craved.

In a perverted sort of way, he supposed, he’d earned it. The hard way. Being the bastard son of a man who could walk away without a backward glance—not one in thirty years—should afford Derek some advantage.

He shifted the weight of his bedroll and started for the house again. He found it laughably ironic in a sad, sick sense that Richard had left his ranch to Derek. Richard, the man who had been there for the biological part of fatherhood and nothing more, then had disappeared into the wilds of Texas, seeking adventure and fortune. And Derek, the son nobody wanted.

Oh, yes. He would say he had earned every damned acre of this place. But if his father—if Richard—had loved the place so much, why had he let it go to hell this way?

Nearing the back of the house, Derek realized that the house proper, the cookhouse and the yard all appeared to be better cared for. He credited Amber with the improvement, since she had taken responsibility for the garden.

And what a garden it was.

The plot was large and thriving, with long, straight rows of young, healthy-looking plants. They stretched to the creek that ran in the near distance, bright yellow puffs of flowers standing as sentries at the end of each row. A large cottonwood and several smaller trees provided ample shade along the creek bank.

Amber had positioned herself in the midst of it all. She crouched in a sea of green, plucking at the plants around her and dropping her harvest into a bucket. And she was humming. Her light soprano voice made the strains of Dixie a happy, festive tune, a melody full of joy and life as it had once sounded, before pain and death transformed it into something melancholy and mournful.

She seemed content. Derek slowed, blinking as he considered the possibility of contentment…happiness. Both seemed foreign to him. Had he ever known a life that held any part of such simple emotions?

He dropped his bedroll and knapsack to the ground and moved closer, drawn almost against his will. “I heard Abe Lincoln asked for that song to be played at the White House just after the war and before he was assassinated. Said it had always been a favorite of his.”

Amber shrieked, a small yip of surprise, and shot to her feet, trying to spin around at the same time. She scrambled for balance and almost knocked over her bucket in the process.

“You frightened me!”

“Sorry.” He frowned, chastising himself. Why had he said something like that? Referring to Lincoln—to the war at all—was a foolhardy thing to do for a man in his position, even with old friends. And he didn’t know a damned thing about Amber Laughton.

He examined her with a slow, deliberate gaze. He had never seen hair quite the color of hers, a rich reddish-brown that shimmered with burnished bronze highlights. Reckless curls escaped at her forehead, her neck, and tempted him with a hint of wild beauty. Her thin, elegant nose angled above full, raspberry-red lips. Her eyes flashed with a verdant, sparkling green, and seemed to see far more than they revealed.

Her hands appeared nervous as she wiped them on her apron, already stained brown and green, and her voice intrigued him with its anxiousness. “I’m not usually so skittish. I was thinking. About the garden, I mean. The summer squash looks good, and we may have some black-eyed peas ready in a week or so.”

Derek flashed a quick, mostly disinterested glance over the greenery behind her. “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t know anything about gardening.”

“Of course.”

“Are you responsible for all this?” He motioned in a grand gesture.

“Keeping house for your uncle wasn’t difficult.” She shrugged, making no attempt to meet his gaze. “He was very tidy in his habits. It made sense that I take over the cooking and the gardening as well. It kept me busy.”

Derek nodded slowly, as though he accepted her explanation—and he supposed he did. At least in part. She said all the right things, the things he expected a woman in her position to say, and yet she spoke with singular deliberation, as though she weighed every word with particular care.

Why?

“What about the rest of the place?” He went on the offensive.

“What about it?”

“It’s a mess.”

“I beg your pardon!” Her eyes popped wide, and her lips tightened with obvious irritation.

“Please, Miss Laughton.” He made no effort to disguise his impatience. “It’s obvious the place is falling apart. I’d like to know why.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Derek reached up to the back of his neck, massaging the tense muscles that refused to relax. Maybe this wasn’t the best time for this discussion; he’d only just arrived and hadn’t yet done a proper reconnaissance.

He opted for courtesy. “How long have you lived here?”

She narrowed her eyes with notable skepticism. “More than two years now. I came as your uncle’s housekeeper—and his friend—and stayed after he…” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes darkened with what Derek assumed was remembered pain.

“Died.” He supplied the word with a trace of impatience. It may have been a heartless reaction, but it shouldn’t have been necessary. Richard’s death wasn’t recent. And his housekeeper still grieved?

And what about his housekeeper? Derek couldn’t ignore his doubts. Why would a beautiful young woman confine herself to keeping house at a remote ranch, and for a man old enough to be her father?

Unless…she had no family or friends to whom she could turn. Or none who would claim her. He blinked, startled by the innuendo. Unless she defined friend differently than he did.

“Did you know Richard before that?”

She smiled thinly, as though she recognized his suspicions. “Yes. I knew him for more than ten years.”

She didn’t give much ground, he noted. “I hope you understand that I’ll have many questions about the ranch, and my uncle. We weren’t close, and I find myself at a sudden loss here.”

“Richard was a wonderful man.” She shot him a spirited glare. Intrigued, he looked closer. “He was a good friend, especially when—others needed him most.”

“If you say so.”

She drew in a sharp breath and stepped back, away from him. Her eyes flared with fiery green sparks, an eloquent conviction that she’d hidden until now. She blinked slowly and then expression and fire disappeared as she fixed her gaze beyond his shoulder.

“I think it’s time I showed you the house.”

Guardedly he studied the woman who stood before him, uncompromising and proud. She wasn’t nearly as detached as she wanted him to believe. She cared, and passionately, about certain things, certain people. And Richard seemed to be one of them.

Had she been his mistress?

Chapter Two

Amber arched across the mattress, stretching to tuck in the sheet. After three days of making Derek’s bed, she concluded the man was a persistently restless sleeper.

His sleeping habits are none of your business. Her cheeks flushed with a dull heat that seemed to haunt her whenever she was in his bedroom. Proving your worth as his housekeeper is the only thing that should concern you at the moment.

Surely he would retain a good worker.

The subject hadn’t come up yet, but she didn’t delude herself. It was only a matter of time.

And then?

Amber ran her hand across the sheet, smoothing out the smallest wrinkle. She continued to hope that she could convince him to keep her on as his housekeeper, but he’d given her little encouragement thus far. Any plans he had for the ranch he was keeping strictly to himself. He had, however, begun to ask questions. Questions about ranch operations, about Richard, about everyone and everything. Questions she’d done her best to avoid.

Tell him too much, too soon, and you won’t need to worry about keeping this job. She’d seen the expressions on other people’s faces when they realized who she was, and she knew exactly what she could expect from Derek once he satisfied his curiosity. When he discovered the truth—or what so many people thought they knew and were so very eager to tell—she would have one chance to convince him to let her stay.

She didn’t doubt what form of persuasion would be expected of her.

An odd sensation, like that of being watched, crawled up her spine, and she shivered. She meant to ignore it, but it persisted until finally she glanced up. Derek stood in the doorway.

“Oh!” She reared back and lost her balance, tumbling awkwardly onto the half-made bed. Cheeks flaming, she scrambled to her feet and gaped at him. He looked back with impressive detachment.

“I’m going into Twigg today. Do you need anything?”

“You startled me!” she snapped. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and she was beginning to feel a little…hunted.

“Sorry,” he said instantly, but he didn’t look the least bit apologetic. Instead he looked bold, untamed and roguish, leaning against the door frame with lazy grace, his arms crossed over his chest as though he had nothing better to do. He wore dark trousers and a blue cotton shirt that turned his eyes to a dazzling shade of blue.

“I was making up your bed.”

He raked her with a sizzling gaze that trapped her words and made them suddenly conspicuous, as if he’d seen her clean unmentionables hanging on the clothesline.

Making up your bed? Dear Lord, what did she think she was doing, talking to this man in his bedroom, next to his unmade bed? Hadn’t she learned how very easily—willfully—a man could misunderstand a woman’s intentions? Certainly, if anything could be misinterpreted, it would be a woman floundering wildly on a man’s mattress.

Derek remained still, however, simply watching her. He seemed bigger and taller, his shoulders broad, and a harnessed power filled the room. Amber’s cheeks remained flushed, and she clenched her fingers into tight fists. Her breath came out as a sketchy wheeze.

“Making the bed,” he murmured softly, breaking the silence. He shook his head and dropped his arms to his sides. “I almost remember when things like that mattered.”

Standing across the bed from him, looking into his fallen-angel features and barren eyes, she felt his proximity as keenly as if he touched her. The possibility seemed imminently dangerous.

“I beg your pardon?” She stepped back, some ancient feminine instinct insisting she put more space between them. “Don’t you want me to do such chores?”

He shrugged and straightened, his movements a study in carelessness. “Go ahead. I don’t care. When you’ve spent as many nights as I have under the stars with just a blanket, any bed at all seems like a luxury.”

Amber swallowed. Was he referring to his trip here? Traveling from South Carolina to Texas on horseback would be a long, arduous journey in these days of reconstruction. Vaguely, she recalled the trip she and her father had made from St. Louis, twelve years ago now. She had been eight years old, and life then had seemed more like high adventure than grueling travel.

Or could Derek mean something else? Something like the war? A deep coldness settled heavily in her chest. To Amber’s way of thinking, most able-bodied men in Texas—in all the South—had blindly enlisted to fight for the Confederate cause. They’d rushed off to fight the damn Yankees, intending to teach those sorry boys in blue a lesson they’d never forget, and be home in a month.

Four years later they’d all been dead or whipped, she thought severely, and they’d left the South in a mess from which it would likely not recover in her lifetime. They had paid dearly for their foolish Rebel bravado and forced a heavy price from their mothers and sisters and wives and sweethearts. A price no one ever seemed to consider.

Surely Derek had played his own part in the debacle. She didn’t know a man who, at least in some small way, hadn’t. And yet how could she blame him, any more than a thousand other men?

“Well, around here I do things like make up the beds,” she announced briskly. “Just as I clean and do laundry. And you don’t have to eat your meals in the bunkhouse. I cooked for Richard, and I can do the same for you.”

Derek stared at her, his eyes narrowing to slivers of blue. “Are you a good cook?”

What choice do you have? Amber swallowed the question, reminding herself that sarcasm would do little to improve her chances of retaining her position at the Double F. Instead she shrugged. “I’m better than Six. I’ve eaten the rocks he calls biscuits and his son of a gun stew. Personally, I think it tastes like paste.”

“Son of a…gun stew?”

“Hasn’t he fixed it for you yet?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what I mean.”

He nodded.

“Oh, don’t worry. I know what it’s really called. But Micah and Six have gone to such trouble to rename it so I wouldn’t hear them say ‘son of a bitch,’ even about stew, I pretend for their sakes.”

Derek angled his head, as though seeing her from a new perspective. “They’re protective of you.”

Her breathing faltered again. He made her feel as though he could see straight through her, all the way to that secret place where she kept her most treasured memories and dearest hopes. She turned from the intensity of his gaze, moving automatically as she fluffed a pillow into place.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered finally. “But Micah should know better. My father may not have approved of my saying it, but he never kept me from knowing the truth.”

“Micah must know your father, then. Does he live nearby?”

Derek sounded as though the answer meant little to him, but Amber knew better. It was another of his endless questions and, like the ones she hated most, it was personal.

She looked at him and said flatly, “My father is dead. Did you say you were going to Twigg today?”

He blinked, then slowly nodded, as though telling himself to accept her change of topic. “Gideon will be riding with me. Can we get anything for you?”

“No.” Her insides froze at the idea. “There is nothing in Twigg I could possibly want.”

“All right.” He hesitated, but finally shrugged and turned toward the door. “I’ll see you later.”

Amber stood motionless, waiting long, breathless minutes as his footsteps receded. When she heard the jingle of harness and the crunch of rock and shell under horses’ hooves, she hurried to the window, watching as they set out at a brisk pace.

Twigg. She had left the town behind her two years ago, along with everything it represented. Now she shuddered at the mere thought of going back, of seeing the derisive faces and hearing the cruel whispers. She wrapped her arms around her midsection, as though to ward off blows.

What would happen when Derek saw the faces and heard the whispers? When he discovered the stories people told with such gloating? It wouldn’t matter how much truth there was to them. He’d meet Frank Edwards, Eliza Bates—and how many others?

Oh, God. She dropped her forehead to the windowpane and gave a soft sigh. She’d hoped for more time. Time enough to prove herself.

Well, it’s too late now, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

She took a deep breath and straightened, mustering every bit of stubborn determination she had. She’d known from the very beginning that Derek would eventually learn it all; she just hadn’t determined what she would do when that happened. Now the time was upon her and she could no longer avoid the hard choices.

Amber turned back to the bed and pulled the quilt into place. Truthfully, there was no question of what she would do. As always, she would do whatever she had to.

It was a matter of survival.

Derek approached the outskirts of Twigg with guarded trepidation. He shifted in his seat, at the same time squaring his shoulders in a show of strength that had become automatic to him. It wasn’t that he expected anything unusual, but he prepared himself in any case. He hadn’t gone out unarmed since the day he’d joined the army, and now was hardly the time to consider a change of habit. Gideon seemed of the same mind.

Alone or not, Derek didn’t doubt his ability to defend himself. He had learned his lessons well and quickly, first as Jordan Fontaine’s unwanted son and then, from the first day at Shiloh, on dozens of battlefields across the country. Entering Twigg could hardly compare.

His unease, it seemed, could be more directly traced to his lofty ambitions upon arriving at the Double F, and his decided inability to achieve them. He’d been looking for peace and quiet, and instead found himself at the head of a floundering ranch populated by less than a dozen men—a group of individuals more closemouthed than any battlefield spies. Talking to Amber proved little better. He’d learned a bit about her personally, but nothing of particular interest where the ranch was concerned.

Or had he?

Derek thought for a moment. Her father was dead and she hated Twigg. Knowing that, however, only led to more questions. How? And why? And most importantly, could any of it involve Richard?

If it did, then that concerned the ranch—and Derek.

He shook his head. It may not have been how he planned it, but if he had anything to spare, it was time. Time to understand whatever secrets lay hidden beneath the surface of life at the ranch, and time enough to resolve them. Patience, whispered a sixth sense he’d learned to rely on through all of the war and beyond, isn’t a virtue or a luxury. It’s a necessity.

Reaching the edge of town, Derek cast an indifferent glance at the first house, then, blinking, stared at the tumbled-down old structure. Good God, had he been overly optimistic about everything? The building listed to one side, tattered and disheveled. An overgrown tangle of grass and weeds surrounded the porch and crept up the front steps.

“Looks worse than the ranch.”

Derek glanced at Gideon and lifted one eyebrow. “That takes some doing.”

Gideon shrugged and a faint sparkle lit his eye—as close to smiling as Derek ever saw him. “You said you didn’t know what to expect. I figure that applies here as well as the ranch. Maybe more.”

This much of Twigg hardly represented the bustling little township that Frank Edwards’s letter had described. “Definitely it applies here,” Derek agreed. “Things don’t seem quite…right.”

Gideon nodded shortly, his gaze tracking left and right with sharp precision. Derek had seen it done too often to mistake the action for anything other than the defensive practice it was. Even with one eye missing, Gideon was more alert and observant than most men—and Derek had known some of the best.

At least at the beginning of the war, he amended regretfully. Many were gone now. Somehow even the best men made mistakes at times, and after four long, bloody years, mistakes began to catch up with a man.

Derek had made his share of mistakes, and most had caught up with him. Even some he’d never considered mistakes. A sour taste tickled the back of his throat, and he swallowed it down.

Later, he snapped to himself. You don’t have time for regrets now. You did what you had to do, fought where you had to fight. You don’t owe explanations to anyone—especially anyone here.

“I don’t know what it is about this place,” Gideon said after a moment, “but I don’t like it.”

“You’re thinking of moving on, then?”

“No, not yet. I want to see just what it is that has my gut twisted like it hasn’t been since…”

“Appomattox,” Derek finished for him, and neither said anything more. There was nothing left to say. Some things about war didn’t change, no matter who a man chose as his enemy. His life and Gideon’s might have been far different before the war, but the fighting had changed all that. And later, after General Lee surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse, nothing was the same for anyone. Life before the war seemed all but meaningless now.

Derek’s interest sharpened as they neared the center of town, much as Gideon’s vigilance seemed to grow keener. He knew well that his uncertainty came from little more than a gut feeling, but he’d learned the hard way that his instincts were right more often than not.

“There’s the bank.” Derek pointed to his left and reined Charlie to a halt. “You want to look around town while I meet with Edwards?”

Gideon pulled up next to him. “Yeah.” He tilted his hat, deepening the shadows that shielded his face, and slanted his good eye toward Derek. “I do.”

Derek dismounted and tethered his horse, while Gideon did the same. “I’ll meet you at the mercantile in thirty minutes,” said Derek as he headed for the bank.

Arriving, he probed the lobby with a keen gaze. Dark mahogany woodwork dominated the room, polished to a high shine. A marble-topped counter, graced with ornate scrolled bars, divided the room. A sour-faced clerk frowned silently from the safety of the teller cage.

“I’m looking for Frank Edwards.”

Wordlessly, the man pointed to a door with Franklin Bacon Edwards, Bank President inscribed on its window glass. Derek knocked once, entered, then closed the door behind him. The man seated at the large, mahogany desk looked up, irritation sketched clearly on his features.

“Edwards.”

The man’s eyes grew wide, but then a smile lightened his expression and he stood. He was of average height, but his stomach protruded with amazing girth. His large drooping mustache and graying mutton chop whiskers swallowed half his face, except for sharp, rapidly blinking eyes that gave him the look of a large, overfed rodent. His dark, tailored suit enhanced the effect.

“Ah, Mr. Fontaine, I presume?” Edwards said with forced cheer as he offered his hand. “You look remarkably like your uncle.”

“So I’m told.” Derek accepted the handshake but withheld his smile.

“Your message came from Chicago—quite a distance from Charleston. I tried to reach you there first.”

Derek shrugged, not tempted in the least to explain how he had ended up in Chicago after the war. He had no reason to trust this man with his confidences, so he merely said, “There wasn’t much left in South Carolina. I decided to move on.”

Edwards nodded solemnly. “The war reached us here, as well. The blockade, you know. And south Texas was occupied by Yankee troops for a time.”

“So I’ve heard. Does that explain the condition of the Double F?”

“Down to business, is it?” Edwards’s smile seemed to wear a bit thin. Derek studied the man, wondering why he would be reluctant to discuss the ranch. Or was it just Derek himself, imagining things because his own desire for privacy made him impatient with polite chitchat?

Edwards gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Please sit down, and we’ll talk.”

Derek sat, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “All right, Mr. Edwards. What can you tell me about the ranch and its present state of neglect?”

Edwards wrinkled his brow in a frown. “It’s never been a matter so much of neglect, Mr. Fontaine. Richard would not have allowed that. He loved that ranch like some folks love a person. He came here just after the Andrews brothers settled this place, and built his ranch up from nothing, just a few wild mustangs and some longhorns he rounded up. He worked and sacrificed—he would have done anything to preserve that place.”

Edwards shook his head, as though Richard’s devotion quite eluded him, then continued. “When so many men left to join the fighting, there weren’t enough left to work the big ranches. The Double F did well during the first years of the war. But being shorthanded for so long took its toll. Supplies and necessities became impossible to get, and what we did have, we shared or donated it to the Cause to keep our boys fighting. Richard did his part—and more. He supported the Confederacy with everything he could spare.”

Another staunch Confederate. “I see.” Derek blew out a weary breath. “So I’ve inherited a broken-down ranch years past needing repair, cattle and horses scattered to hell and gone, and nobody left to work it.”

“There are still hands there, aren’t there?” Edwards’s cheeks flushed and his eyes widened in alarm.

“Don’t you know?” Derek tried to pin the banker with a sharp frown, but the man refused to meet his gaze. “Your letter said you were overseeing the place until I got here.”

“I…” Edwards paused as though reconsidering whatever he’d started to say, then merely nodded. “Yes, of course. I haven’t been there in a while, though. Busy here, you know.” He waved a hand to indicate his desk, which looked remarkably clutter-free.

Derek swallowed a sigh. What the hell was the use? No one seemed inclined to confide in him. “The place isn’t quite deserted.” He made no effort to keep the displeasure from his voice. “There are two old men, a couple of Mexican families, a boy too young to have seen much of any kind of work and a woman. Those are my ranch hands?”

“Six Parker worked for your uncle from the very beginning, and the Mexicans stayed through the whole of the war.” Edwards counted off the workers on his pudgy fingers. “Whitley Andrews may be young and inexperienced, but he’s willing. As for Micah Smith and Amber Laughton, they came together—a pair, you might say. They moved to the ranch when she was run out of town.”

“Run out of town?” The incredulous question slipped out before he could think better of it. Derek snapped his mouth shut, effectively cutting off any other indiscreet remark, but his earlier observations taunted him.

Why would a beautiful young woman confine herself to keeping house at a remote ranch, and for a man old enough to be her father?

And his reply to himself: Unless she defined friend differently than he did.

“I am not one to carry tales, mind you,” Edwards said in a prim voice that told Derek otherwise. “However, since Amber Laughton is living under your roof, I feel obligated to warn you that she was involved in some trouble with a number of men. She consorted with them after her father died—or so they say. Your uncle—well, I don’t know if she bewitched him, or if he thought to do a good deed and take the hussy from our midst. In any case, she moved to the ranch, and she’s been there since.”

Derek said nothing for the space of a heartbeat. “Amber was Richard’s mistress.” It was more a statement than a question. Dozens of other questions raced through Derek’s mind, but a particular reluctance to ask them of Edwards kept him silent. He’d already said too much. He would get his answers, but he’d get them from Amber.

“Only she can tell you that for sure, now that Richard is dead,” said Edwards stiffly, without meeting Derek’s gaze. “But I believe so, yes. I, certainly, will have nothing to do with her.”

Derek tightened his jaw. He couldn’t risk unleashing any emotion over Edwards’s announcement. He had certain secrets from his own sordid past that he wished to leave behind him; he couldn’t afford to start something he wasn’t prepared to finish. He’d already revealed too much in his desire to learn more.

“All right, Mr. Edwards,” he said. “And just what is it you suggest that I do as the new owner of the Double F?” He had no real interest in Edwards’s opinion, but it seemed an easy diversion for the moment.

He was right. Edwards’s mouth flattened in a self-deprecating smile. “It’s your ranch now, Mr. Fontaine. Nothing has to remain as it was. You are under no obligation to maintain the same workers your uncle employed. At the very least, I encourage you to disassociate yourself from Amber Laughton once and for all.”

“I see.”

“Times are changing, people are moving west.” Edwards leaned forward as though warming to his topic. “We’ve had two new families settle in Twigg, a man to take over the newspaper Amber’s father once owned, and a man who plans to build a new hotel. More Mexicans are drifting farther north again, without the Yankee army to get in their way.”

He paused expectantly, his features smoothing themselves back into their thin, rodentlike appearance. “The railroad has come, you know, and here in Twigg, we have plans to be a part of the progress. That can only bode well for you and your ranch. They want cattle up north, and we’ve got them here. Your uncle had great plans for the Double F.”

“As you said, Mr. Edwards, it’s my ranch now.” Derek offered a sparse, distant smile. “However, I am not prepared to rush into ill-advised changes at the moment. You will find that I never make rash decisions.

“In the meantime, I have other concerns about the ranch and its financial situation. And I’d like to arrange for a personal account with your bank. If you don’t mind…”

Edwards nodded, perhaps a bit eagerly, and Derek felt a coil of apprehension relax inside him. He understood this man and his desires; he was a businessman, and Derek had money. Not a fortune, perhaps—a major’s commission hardly made a man rich, but there had been precious little on which to spend it during the war. In these days of reconstruction, it was more than many had. Not that he intended for Edwards to know exactly what he had or how he’d acquired it.

No, he would show the overfed rodent just enough to make them friends—good friends in Edwards’s eyes. And then?

Well, maybe then Derek would have the means to get answers to some of his other questions.

Chapter Three

Andrews Mercantile looked like a thousand other general stores that had sprung up in the fledgling towns that had begun to dot the West. Derek stopped just inside the doorway and glanced around, inventorying the crowded interior with narrowed eyes. Groceries, dry goods and hardware filled the shelves. Kegs and barrels of sugar, flour and molasses littered the floor, squatting next to half-filled sacks of potatoes, onions and other produce.

Several women stood in a semicircle near the dry goods, murmuring among themselves, while two old men sat crouched on a pair of stubby, three-legged stools next to a cold woodstove. A middle-aged man, the proprietor, no doubt, shifted canned goods on a shelf to make room for more.

“Them wimmen cackle like a bunch a’ chickens.”

“Flock.”

Derek followed the voices and found himself looking at the old men. They stared back. “I beg your pardon?”

The thinner of the two, balding on top and scowling, jerked his head in the direction of his companion. “A flock. A group a’ birds is a flock. Clem called them a bunch.”

“Dang it, Twigg.” The other man, really no heavier, with fewer hairs and an almost identical sour expression, spoke up. “It don’t matter about the damn birds. I was talkin’ about the wimmen.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth kicked up in amusement, then faded in bafflement. “Twigg?” He stepped closer. “Like the town?”

“Yep.” The old man straightened with peremptory pride. “They named the town after me. We was the first ones here—the founders. Clem wanted to name the place after him, but that ain’t no name fer a town. Clem!” He snorted.

“Yer him, ain’t you? The new feller at the Double F.”

Derek hesitated, then nodded. “I’m Derek Fontaine.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Clem slapped his knee with a liver-spotted hand. “Yer Richard Fontaine’s nephew, all right. I’d recognize you anywhere. You look just like him. Pay up, Twigg.” He held out the same wrinkled hand, palm-up.

“Dang it, Clem, when he come in you said you never seen the man before. Now yer sayin’ you knew him all the time. That’s cheatin’ an’ I ain’t payin’ no cheater.”

The old men’s quarrel took on a snappish tone, and Derek blocked them out with an ease that surprised him for a moment. But—no. It made perfect sense that the habits of the past remained deeply ingrained within him. Hadn’t he spent years listening to Jordan’s tirades and lectures, standing at attention before the old man’s desk with bright eyes and a thoughtful face, while his mind had darted off to a far different world?

And later, when the noise and stench of thousands of men and animals, all crowded together in the hell that masqueraded as life in the army camps, had become too much, hadn’t he stolen away inside himself for his own private solitude? He’d escaped that and more rather than dwell on things far more oppressive. Things like the emotions conjured up by Clem’s observation.

When he’d first learned that Richard was his father, Derek had embraced the news with equal parts relief and fury. Relief because it explained so much—and fury for the very same reason. He had never seen a portrait, tintype or photograph of his father, if any had ever existed; even the mention of Richard’s name was banned in Jordan’s household after the death of Derek’s grandmother. As a child Derek had never understood why there were so few opportunities to learn about his “uncle” Richard. Now, none of it seemed to matter.

And how odd to realize that, in order to see his father’s face, he’d only needed to look in the mirror. But, damn, he was tired of hearing how he looked just like the man.

“Did they, young Mr. Fontaine?”

The sharp voice recaptured Derek’s attention. “Pardon me?”

“You deaf, boy? I asked if the law ever found out who kilt yer uncle.”

A thousand denials shrieked in his head, each one fierce with disbelief. Derek blinked, gathering his concentration, before attempting to eye the men with cool calculation. “Killed…as in murder?”

“Yeah, murder. Ain’t nobody told you nothin’?” demanded Clem peevishly.

“Apparently not. Or maybe I’ve been talking to the wrong people.”

“You have if you been talkin’ to Frank Edwards. He sits over there in that bank, thinkin’ he knows so much ’cause he studied that law and he owns the bank. Hell, he’s even been pretendin’ to run the Double F since Richard died. Well, let me tell you, he ain’t done nuthin’—an’ he knows even less. He oughta get out here with the rest a’ us, and he might figger a few things out.”

“What’d he tell you, anyway?” Twigg asked.

Derek hesitated. These men seemed to know more than he did, and his purpose here today was to get answers to his questions. He shrugged. “That Richard was found dead several miles from the ranch. That he’d been out alone and it looked like an accident.”

“Accident, my foot!” Clem stamped the floor for emphasis. “He was shot—murdered—by rustlers. You mark my words!”

“Rustlers?”

“Rustlers. They been plaguin’ us since the end a’ the war. An’ everybody ’round here knows it. Edwards knows it, too. But maybe he didn’t wanna scare you off by tellin’ you the truth.”

Richard had been murdered, and Derek had had no idea. He hadn’t even considered asking for the grisly details; after all the death and mutilation he’d seen during the war, it had seemed enough that dead meant dead.

He should have known better.

He took his time in answering. “Looks like I need to visit the sheriff.”

“Bah, don’t waste your time on that worthless no-good nincompoop. There’s been nothin’ but trouble since he took over. First year there was that mess with the Laughton girl an’ her daddy, and then last year he let Fontaine git kilt.”

“Uncle Clem, Uncle Twigg! Lower your voices, please! There are ladies present!” The middle-aged man strode over, his forehead creased in a harsh frown that looked remarkably identical to those of the men who were apparently his uncles. He turned to Derek, his frown easing until he looked as though he merely suffered from a severe case of dyspepsia. “I’m sorry, sir, if my uncles disturbed you. They can be quite a nuisance, I know. I’m Bill Andrews, and I’m the proprietor of this establishment. May I help you?”

Derek settled his gaze on the man. “I’m Derek Fontaine. Has someone from the Double F been in for supplies today?”

“No, sir, we haven’t seen Whitley—”

“Whitley won’t be in. I brought another man with me, a new hand named Gideon. Tall, dressed in black?”

Andrews shook his head. “No, sir, I haven’t seen him—”

“You lookin’ fer help, young Fontaine?” Clem demanded suddenly. “You got enough men to run that place yet?”

“No, Clem, not enough men. But I’m working on it.”

“Well, don’t you worry. There’s a bunch—” Clem flashed a triumphant smirk in Twigg’s direction “—a’ men movin’ around the countryside these days. Men who cain’t settle down after all the years of soldierin’. You hire you some a’ them good Southern boys when they show up at yer door.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed, though he refrained from acknowledging that he’d hire a good Northern man just as quickly. The war had been over for three years, and it was past time for them to put their lives back together and go on. Now didn’t seem the best time to make his point, however. Not if he had any other questions to which he wanted answers.

He blinked, seeking a quick diversion. “Now, about some purchases I’d like to make.”

“Yes?” Bill Andrews’s response carried a stiff formality as his gaze darted disapprovingly between his uncles and Derek.

“Billy’s got some wrinkled potatoes and soft onions he’s been tryin’ to get rid of,” Clem suggested with a sly grin.

“How about them radishes and beets and turnips, Billy?” Twigg asked, his tone far too innocent for Derek to believe. “You ain’t managed to find anybody else to take them off yer hands yet, have ya?”

The younger Andrews’s eyes bugged out and his face turned a deep, shocking red. Lord, had the old men sent him into a fit of apoplexy? Derek shot a half concerned, half amused glance from one to the other.

The breath rushed out of Bill Andrews in one great whoosh, and he bellowed, “Uncle Clem! Uncle Twigg!”

The old men beamed at Derek and nodded proudly before they turned their attention back to their nephew. Their antics tempted Derek to smile—dammit, to grin—as he hadn’t been so persuaded in a very long time.

As a child he’d often wished for a bit of nonsense from the ever-serious Jordan, but jokes and teasing had been beyond the man. Instead, Derek and his older brother—his half brother, he knew now—had relied on each other for their all-too-brief bits of fun, and he could almost picture the two of them in thirty or forty years, languishing in Clem’s and Twigg’s places.

God, Nathan. Memories slammed through Derek with all the force of a minié ball. He turned away and closed his eyes. Where did we go so wrong? I never meant for things to end like they did. I’m sorry…so damn sorry.

“Mr. Fontaine! Wait a moment…please! My uncles were just making sport, and I—well, I sometimes lose my temper with them. We’ll have an excellent variety soon, but at the moment we have only a few early crops and what’s left from last year.”

Derek swallowed a weary sigh and turned back. “I don’t need anything like potatoes or onions, Mr. Andrews. The Double F has a very healthy, producing garden of its own.”

“Thanks to that horrid Amber Laughton!” The pronouncement came from the direction of the dry goods, where the ladies present had seemed busy choosing among several bolts of fabric. One of the women, rotund and frowning, separated herself from the group and stalked over to them.

“Now, Eliza, don’t get started.”

“Bill Andrews, how can you say that? After what she did, why do you men insist on taking up for her? Thank God some men, like my dear son-in-law, are smarter than that.”

Derek stared at the woman, eyes narrowed to cloak his instant dislike of her and her intrusion. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, madam.”

“Oh, don’t listen to these fools, young Fontaine.” Clem waved his hand at the store in general. His earlier frown returned, and he stared at the others, blinking rapidly. It put Derek oddly in mind of a demented chicken. “This here’s Eliza Bates. Eliza, meet Derek Fontaine, Richard’s nephew. If’n he’s anything like his uncle, he ain’t gonna wanna listen when you bellyache about Amber anymore’n we do. It gets mighty tiresome, let me tell you.”

“Clem Andrews!”

Derek ignored the disgruntled cry. “And what is there to bellyache about, Clem?” He rather enjoyed Eliza Bates’s sharply indrawn breath.

No one answered for a moment, nor did they meet Derek’s gaze as he looked at them, one by one, until Twigg finally said, “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with Amber. She had her a little trouble a couple a’ years back an’ some folks cain’t fergit it.” He shot an angry chicken-blink, identical to Clem’s expression, at Eliza. “Some folks just don’t want ’er to have a life ’cept’n what they decide she kin have.” Twigg’s eyes sparked with defiance. “Me an’ Clem, we feel different.”

“Yep,” Clem added. “We feel different about a lot a’ things from other folks, an’—”

“If you gentlemen—and ladies—will excuse me…” Derek interrupted as smoothly as possible. He sought an even tone, firmly stifling the impatient snap that would have satisfied him far more. He couldn’t afford to alienate these people—not yet. Not if there was a chance they could provide answers to other questions he had.

Indeed, they seemed willing enough to talk.

But, Christ! Why hadn’t Richard gone insane himself, living with this bunch—Derek fought back an impulsive smile—of lunatics?

“Mr. Fontaine, wait!” Bill Andrews’s cry stopped him before he’d taken a step. “You said you had some purchases to make?”

“That can wait, Mr. Andrews. I think I’ve had enough for one day.” He shot a last, amused glance at Clem and Twigg as he turned to leave. Clem winked at him.

“Mr. Fontaine!”

The strident grating of Eliza Bates’s voice stopped him just short of the door. He turned, waiting as she bore down on him, but he made no attempt to disguise the impatience in his voice when he said, “Yes?”

“Don’t let a pretty face and soft voice fool you, Mr. Fontaine.” Her expression offered a peculiar mixture of angry disapproval, authority and earnestness. “Amber Laughton has a history of bewitching men into seeing whatever she wants them to. You listen when I tell you she was responsible for her own downfall and the death of her father.”

He stared, withholding any outward reaction. “And why should that concern me, madam?”

She snorted in a startlingly masculine manner. “She is a shameless hussy with no morals or decency! When she couldn’t seduce my son-in-law, she became your uncle’s mistress, and she’s still living at the ranch, from what I hear. Your ranch now. If you’re looking for a fancy woman of your own—”

“It will be no one’s business but my own, Mrs. Bates.” The whole ridiculous exchange suddenly irritated the hell out of him. “Good day.”

Escaping to the veranda at the front of the house, Amber started the rocking chair in motion with a push of her toes, and settled back for a few moments of relaxation.

It was her first chance of the day to relax. She’d wasted too much time watching Derek ride toward Twigg—too much time thinking—which left her scrambling to catch up on her chores. Even in the garden, where she could usually dawdle for hours, she’d had to rush just to finish the watering. Now, finally, this private time came as a pleasant escape.

Amber closed her eyes and laid her head against the back of the chair, yielding to the enveloping darkness. With unerring precision, she found herself again considering the precariousness of her situation, the uncertainty of life. If she was forced to leave the ranch, where would she go? She had no family save Micah, and they weren’t even related. And how could they leave? Micah’s rheumatism would never stand the trip, and they hadn’t the money to go. Frank Edwards had been stingy with their wages since Richard’s death.

Enough of that. The shadows had become oppressive, her perspective distorted, and life seemed only painful—unbearable.

Stop it. She jerked forward and opened her eyes, planting her foot flat and bringing the rocker to an abrupt halt. She drew in a ragged breath, blinking against the darkness and smoothing her fingers lightly across her brow. She shoved back an errant curl, and then, as she dropped her hands to her lap, she saw him.

Derek stood at the base of the porch steps, his head back, and he seemed to be staring directly at her. Darkness concealed the fine details, but she didn’t doubt for a moment that it was him. His size, his bearing, everything about the man marked his identity.

How long had he been there? And more importantly, how was it that she could recognize him so easily, after no more than a few days’ acquaintance?

“It’s a lovely evening,” she said softly, the first thing that came to mind. The politeness of her voice seemed oddly appropriate, considering her earlier bad temper.

“You seem to be enjoying it.”

“I am. We won’t be so lucky this summer.”

He shrugged. “I’ve endured worse.”

Worse? Amber kept the question to herself. Derek seemed to care little for the comforts of civilization, yet Richard had described life for the Fontaines of South Carolina as being one of privilege and luxury. Then again, she remembered Richard sharing other stories of living in the bosom of the family.

“Richard described summers in South Carolina as being…difficult, I think was the word he used.”

“My—he told you of his life there?”

Amber nodded, then realized that Derek couldn’t see her through the darkness. “He talked of Charleston and your family on occasion. He loved it, missed it, I think, but he seemed satisfied with his life.” She smiled fondly and settled back in the rocker. “He was an adventurer, he said, better suited to conquering new worlds.”

Somehow the evening shadows seemed to ease her discomfort with Derek. Perhaps it gave her the illusion of anonymity? Or perhaps it was because she couldn’t see his fallen-angel features and bleak eyes, that face of Richard’s that wasn’t Richard at all.

“An interesting assessment of my uncle. Not one I would have made.” Derek’s voice carried an unmistakable edge of disapproval. “Since I hadn’t the pleasure of meeting Richard, however, I’m hardly qualified to disagree.”

“I think it was his love for your family home that kept him from adopting a more traditional Texas style for the ranch house. Adobe was fine for some of the buildings—” she waved a vague hand toward the assortment of shadowy outbuildings “—but it wasn’t right for his home. I gather there are similarities between this house and the one at Palmetto?”

“I suppose, from a nostalgic viewpoint.” Darkness shifted around Derek as he moved, and his boots thudded against the wood of the steps as he started upward. “I understand that Richard started with very little here. He did well for himself.”

“Yes, he did well, but it was never easy. He worked very hard. He told wonderful stories of how he slept out in the open at first, capturing a few wild mustangs and some longhorn cattle.” Amber smiled, the reminiscence giving her real pleasure. It came as a distinct relief from sidestepping the ceaseless, difficult questions that had preoccupied Derek until now. “He didn’t construct the house until he was able to find the original Spanish land grant so he could purchase the property.”

“Sounds like the mark of a good businessman.”

An unusual emphasis on the words alerted Amber to some skepticism. “You disagree with his reasoning?”

A rustle of fabric left her wondering if he shrugged, then she caught the dismissive wave of his hand. “You tell me how effective it was. The place is all but falling down around us.”

“It is not!” She surged forward, and her goodwill toward him disappeared with the last emphatic word.

“Of course it is. Why are you so defensive? Have you taken a good look around you lately? There’s more to fix than there is right.”

Amber found herself on her feet, the rocking chair clattering behind her. “That may be, but it’s not because of incompetence or mismanagement on Richard’s part. Don’t even think such a thing! There may be some problems, yes, but aside from his death, it’s because of—”

“The war, I know.” He cut her off, his voice sharp. “I know all about the war. Frank Edwards gave me the same excuse. I didn’t believe it any more coming from him.”

“Of course it was the war,” she snapped, unable to stop herself. “Everything goes back to the war these days. But there’s more to it—you must know that. There was the cattle rustling. And Richard’s death.” The words ran out as hastily as they had come, leaving Amber momentarily breathless.

“Ah, now there’s another interesting topic.” Derek sounded indifferent—disturbingly so. It sent Amber’s nerves screaming and did nothing to restore her breathing. “Rustling,” he continued. “And murder.”

“What do you mean?”

“I get the impression your father didn’t exactly die of natural causes.” He neared the top step and stopped, but his words continued as her heart began to pound. “Nor did Richard, it seems. Why didn’t you tell me he was murdered by rustlers?”

Amber gaped at him, but the darkness revealed nothing. “You didn’t know how he died?”

“How did you think I would find out?”

“The same way you found out you’d inherited the Double F. From Frank Edwards, I suppose.”

Derek laughed, but it was a sharp, hostile sound. “It seems there was a lot Mr. Edwards neglected to tell me.”

Amber nodded in spite of herself. She never would have expected to agree with Derek, but he was right about Frank Edwards. Still, she chose her words carefully, fearful that saying the wrong thing would shift his attention back to probing for details of her father’s death. “It has been my experience that Mr. Edwards has a habit of…reordering the truth to suit himself.”

“You mean he lies.”

“He likes things tidy. Arranged as he wants them.”

“Dammit, Amber!” The words erupted from Derek, startling her with their strength and volume—and his use of her given name. Until this moment, he had not referred to her by any name at all.

“Why is everything such a holy secret around here?” he demanded irritably, climbing the final stair. “Why won’t anyone talk to me?”

“We are talking to you,” she said softly, firmly, holding her ground despite the temptation to step back. “You just don’t want to hear the answers we have. There’s nothing we can do about that.”

The night fell quiet for a moment that grew painfully long.

“Perhaps you’re right.” Derek’s voice sounded mild enough, but it carried a razor’s edge all the same. “That reminds me, I have a message for you.”

“A message?” Her fingers began trembling, and she wove them together tightly.

“Regards. From Clem and Twigg Andrews.” Derek stepped forward until he was within arm’s length of her.

“You met the Andrews brothers.” Ordinarily she would have smiled to think of the eccentric old men, but she couldn’t seem to muster one now.

“Among other people. They’re an interesting pair. More intelligent than their nephews. Bill or Whitley. Bill’s a bit fussy, but he doesn’t have Whitley’s temper. The old men are more honest than Frank Edwards. And friendlier than Eliza Bates.”

Amber blinked and wished the darkness away, feeling an acute need to see Derek’s face.

He’d met Eliza Bates.

Dear Lord, why her, of all people? Had she been alone, or had Melinda—or, worse, Jeff—been with her? Amber couldn’t ask such questions, but she managed what she could. “You met a number of people.”

“I should have stopped in Twigg before I came to the ranch. They’re an entertaining, informative bunch.”

“Entertaining?” God in Heaven, why couldn’t she think? She knew very well that Derek was toying with her, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

She put one hand to her forehead, as though it might help. It didn’t. She could only stand there and stare into the darkness, wishing away the shadows that now offered Derek their protection instead of her.

“The Andrews brothers are quite smitten with you. Some of your other neighbors didn’t seem quite so enamored.”

He knew everything. At least everything the people in Twigg knew—or thought they knew. And that, in all reality, amounted to nothing. Less than nothing. If they thought her responsible for her father’s death and her own fall from grace, so be it. Pride—and perhaps a twinge of guilt—would not allow her to dignify such accusations.

She supposed she had anticipated this moment from the day Derek arrived. It should have come as a distinct relief that the wait was over. It didn’t, and she could only stand there dumbly.

“Tell me, Amber,” he asked in a lazy voice she didn’t believe for a minute, “were you Richard’s mistress?”

Chapter Four

“So, that’s how they remember me in Twigg.” Her voice held no discernable emotion.

Derek wished suddenly that he could see her face, her eyes. Dammit, he hadn’t meant to broach the subject tonight. He’d planned to wait until tomorrow, when he’d had a chance to think about his questions and how he would phrase them. When his gut had a chance to settle down and not make him all but sick at the thought of Amber with his father.

Derek swallowed heavily. If only she hadn’t spoken so fervently, her soft, feminine voice defending Richard with such passion. Hearing it, he found his better judgment vanishing like the once-glorious Cause that so many had defended with such ardent belief. And, much as the Confederacy had been left defenseless after Appomattox, Derek’s wayward plans had abandoned him to a fierce hunger that all but consumed him.

Hunger? He would have liked to laugh at the word, but he couldn’t. Not when it so weakly described what he felt: a sudden, thrusting, wholly shocking and entirely unwelcome, red-hot desire. For Amber Laughton, a soiled dove. A seductress. His father’s mistress.

Ah, Christ.

“You expected something different?” he snapped, his voice heavy with equal parts doubt and animosity. Damn his body for betraying him. And damn his mind for reminding him of all the reasons. He shoved a hand under the hair at his nape and rubbed the back of his neck, where the tension of the day always seemed to settle. “I don’t imagine they run that many people out of town.”

“Run…out of town? I—is that what they’re saying?”

“It’s what Frank Edwards and Eliza Bates said.”

“And you believed them,” she said softly, shadows shifting as she straightened.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re right, of course. Why wouldn’t you? I’m sure Frank Edwards has been the epitome of honesty and truth with you. And Eliza Bates is known as the soul of discretion.”

Her observation stung; Edwards had misled him, and Amber knew it. The man had lied—more than once—and about important things, such as Richard’s death and the condition of the ranch. He could have exaggerated the situation with Amber, as well. But why would he?

Then again, why not? Edwards had no reason to do anything that served any purpose but his own, and who knew what the hell that might be? His intentions needn’t be any clearer than anyone else’s around this godforsaken place.

And what about Eliza Bates? She had made a point of approaching him with her hateful gossip. He couldn’t deny that he cared little for her manner or her general outlook. Still, the uncertainties rankled.

“You, on the other hand, have been so very forthcoming in all of our conversations,” he pointed out, making no effort to disguise his sarcasm.

A heartbeat of silence passed. “You’re right. Again. I keep expecting you to react as Richard would have…and I continue to be disappointed.”

“I never pretended to be like my—uncle.” He used the title grudgingly. It galled him to call Richard or Jordan by anything but their names; neither deserved more. “You and others here insist on a physical resemblance between us, but that doesn’t necessarily lead to other similarities.”

“My mistake, I assure you. I apologize if it offends you.”

Derek shrugged. “Offense isn’t the word I’d use. I’d have to care to be offended.”

“You don’t care? You have no regrets that Richard died a stranger to you?”

“Regrets?” he asked shortly. She couldn’t begin to imagine. There were days when he thought of little besides the many things he had to regret in this life, but Derek wasn’t about to explain. Not to her, and not now. “It’s difficult to regret what you never knew.”

“I would think that alone would be reason enough. But then, I don’t really know you, do I?”

“No more than I know you,” he agreed.

“I don’t see, then, what else we have to discuss, so I will say good-night.” She reached the front door before he sensed that she’d even begun to move.

Derek reached out and caught her arm just as she entered the house. The fabric of her sleeve was soft to the touch, from wear and many washings, he’d guess, considering the limited wardrobe he’d seen her wear. She had a brown dress and a gray one, both plain cotton. Which had she worn today?

What did it matter? It didn’t, and yet his body felt singularly alive, touching her like this, and he wanted to know. He tightened his fingers around her upper arm, as though the color would imprint itself on his skin, or perhaps to chase away his other, lustful thoughts. It didn’t do either.

She went abruptly still, but she stood her ground, silent and stiff. He couldn’t even hear the sound of her breathing.

“You never answered my question,” he said softly. He loosened his grip, enough to save her from bruising. Even so, the muscles in her arm tensed, as if she were preparing for further confrontation.

“No, I didn’t. And I don’t intend to.”

“No?” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper and allowed disbelief to color his tone. “And why not?”

Amber turned, forcing him to step closer or release his grip. He didn’t let go. “Would you believe me?”

“I…”

“You see? You can’t say for sure, can you? Or if you can, it would be to say no, you wouldn’t believe any defense I could give you.” She tried to move away. “So why put either of us through that?”

He tightened his hold just enough to keep her still. “You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

“Do you really think that?” She gave a delicate snort. “Well, let me tell you what I am sure of. I’m sure of all the times I tried to explain myself to people like Frank Edwards and Eliza Bates. If they didn’t believe in me, why ever do you think I would expect you to? Did Frank Edwards tell you he propositioned me?”

Derek’s stomach churned fretfully, but he swallowed and ignored it. “He didn’t mention it.”

“No, I don’t suppose he would. Well, he asked me to become his mistress both before and after I moved to the ranch. And he’s never forgiven me for turning him down.”

“I see.” Derek drew in a deep breath, and along with it the sweet scent of vanilla. It seemed suddenly familiar, and he realized he had begun to associate it with Amber.

“Do you really? Do you understand, then, why I’ve stopped answering questions such as yours?”

“Are you saying, in this roundabout way, that you didn’t try to seduce Eliza Bates’s son-in-law? And you weren’t Richard’s mistress?”

He heard a sharp intake of breath, then nothing. “I’m not saying anything,” she said eventually. “My answer doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter? To you or to me?”

“To anyone. Now let me go.” She tugged at her arm.

Derek didn’t release her, but he didn’t tighten his grip, either. “I could argue that I have a right to know.”

Complete and utter silence followed his pronouncement, then Amber jerked her arm back with little care, as though she took serious offense at either his touch or his statement. “What gives you any rights where I’m concerned?” she demanded hotly, and darted into the house.

He stepped inside behind her. “I own the Double F. That makes me responsible for everyone here—including you. It gives me the right to know something about you.”

A soft yellow light flared suddenly and the smell of sulfur tickled his nose. Amber stood across the hall, next to a small table. She dropped the spent match, its tip blackened and shriveled, into a small pottery bowl, then replaced the glass chimney on the flickering lamp and turned to face him.

“I don’t work for you.” She spoke evenly but firmly. “I worked for your uncle and stayed until Richard’s heir arrived. It was part of my obligation to him.”

“And that’s finished now?” He probed her face, the verdant green eyes that shone like emeralds in the golden lamplight, but her expression revealed nothing.

“Nearly so, it seems. You haven’t hired me, and without that, you have no rights where I’m concerned.”

“Do you want to work for me?” The question came from nowhere.

She watched him for several long, silent moments, then finally blinked. “I don’t know.” She nestled her hands together and held them in front of her, against her stomach.

It was the faded gray dress that she wore today, with the round white collar and tiny white buttons down the front. Was she trembling? Surely not. She had defended herself and Richard adamantly, fearlessly, at every turn.

Or was it his stare, intense and relentless? But what other choice did he have? Her crystalline eyes revealed little and saw far too much. And her lips, soft and full, parted just enough to tease him with a hint of white teeth and pink tongue.

“Your position here is secure,” he snapped. It had never occurred to him that she would not remain. “I can’t afford to fire anyone. There aren’t enough of us to work the ranch now. But I expect the same work for the same wages Richard paid. Until we make some improvements and the Double F starts paying for itself, there isn’t money for anything more.”

He paused, waiting, but she didn’t respond. Irritation and relief battled for dominance. Hell, he didn’t need a housekeeper; why didn’t he just fire her?

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” he demanded with some frustration.

“I suppose so, yes. Something like that.” Something in her expression flickered, disturbing him. Was that…vulnerability he saw?

“You intend to stay, then?”

She blinked, averting her eyes. “Yes.”

“Then you must accept one thing.” He meant to regain control of the situation. “There can be no misunderstanding.”

“And that is?”

“Honesty. I expect complete honesty from all who work for me. I will not tolerate a lie, under any circumstances. Is that clear?”

Amber drew herself up, tall and proud and sure. “Absolutely. Honesty is a virtue I greatly esteem, myself. I have never lied to you, and you have my word that I will not do so in the future.”

She turned toward the back of the house and her bedroom, tucked behind the stairs at the end of the hall, then stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. “I will always be honest with you, Derek. But that doesn’t mean I will share my every thought with you. Those are mine, burden or comfort, and I will keep them to myself.”

Amber wielded her broom with swift, sure strokes, cleaning dirt, twigs and leaves from the back stoop. She had long ago accepted the light, gusty breeze as a part of everyday life in south Texas, and the daily routine of sweeping the walkway gave her some comfort now and served as a balm to her fractious nerves and wounded pride.

Derek’s questions, followed by his other bold, disdainful remarks, had kept Amber awake through much of the night. The multitude had chased themselves around in her mind like a litter of kittens after their tails. Somewhere in the middle of the night, she had realized the significance of her refusal to answer his direct question. For reasons Amber still didn’t understand, he had let her have her way. She had not bested him, and she did not try to delude herself into thinking that she had. It wasn’t that he had accepted her answer—or, more accurately, her lack of an answer. Nor had he given up searching for a response that satisfied him. He would ask again—and likely soon.

And then what?

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as she could keep her job.

The words echoed with importance as she reached the cookhouse. Amber swallowed. Derek could fire her as easily as he’d agreed to let her stay. He had given her nothing more than an opportunity to prove herself…a little space in which to breathe. Only a fool would waste it.

She swept the pile of debris into her weeding bucket before she propped the broom against the wall, next to the door. If she hurried, she could start her own recipe for son of a gun stew before Six got to it. She wiped her dusty hands on her apron and stepped inside.

A huge worktable dominated the room, its top nicked and scarred from years of use. Amber used it to assemble the first ingredients for her stew. Banging a large cook pot down on one end, she turned toward the door and spied Derek.

He watched her as he pulled the brown, wide-brimmed hat from his head and tossed it onto the tabletop. He ran his hands through his blond hair, shoving it back from his face.

She swallowed and inhaled a deep breath. He moved with an unhurried, lazy grace she’d never noticed in another man. And his hair—did it feel soft as silk, as it looked? One breath stumbled over another and sent her heart pounding.

Don’t be stupid! She forbade herself the least physical reaction to Derek. He presented enough complications to her life as it was.

“Were you looking for me?” she snapped. “I was on my way to the smokehouse.”

“We need to talk.”

“Talk?” He wanted to talk? Already?

“Talk. As in engage in a discussion.”

“Yes, I know what it means. But…now?” She swept a quick, agitated gaze around the room. “I’m in the middle of son of a gun stew.”

He almost smiled. “That’s good news. I expected to have to fetch the doctor if Six kept feeding us. Are you sure you can do it?”

“I’m an excellent cook.” She drew herself up and threw her shoulders back, emphasizing every capable inch.

“I didn’t mean that. I meant do you have time?”

Amber nodded. “I can manage. For a while. At least until you hire more men.”

“I’ll see if I can find us a cook then.”

“Well, if that’s all you wanted…” Surreptitiously she stepped to the side, hoping he wouldn’t notice until she had reached the door. How did he manage to fill a room with little more than his presence, or make her feel as though she needed the open skies and fresh air to breathe?

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“What?” She stopped moving and peered at him—and couldn’t help noticing differences between them. He stood at least six inches taller and outweighed her by close to eighty pounds. His muscled strength was apparent in his arms and chest, even under the fabric of his brown cotton shirt, and his narrow waist made his thighs look like the trunks of large trees.

She felt like the weakest of saplings next to him.

“You don’t want to talk to me, do you?” His eyes glittered with challenge, daring her to answer.

Will you do it? they seemed to demand. Will you tell me the truth, like you promised last night?

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you never seem satisfied with what I say.” It was enough of the truth for now. She just didn’t add that she had trouble concentrating on the things she said because a part of her was too busy noticing him as a man. She had from the very beginning. And that his physical presence made her suddenly aware of herself as a woman.

She swallowed and added, “And because you never take anything at face value. You always seem to suspect a hidden meaning, an ulterior motive—and you make me…uneasy.” It was a better word than nervous. Or self-conscious.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to look for hidden meanings if someone would talk to me. If I didn’t have to pry out every bit of information as if you held the secrets to Lincoln’s assassination and the rest of us had never heard of John Wilkes Booth.”

She glared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing to tell that you don’t already know.”

“Just like I knew that Richard was murdered? Like I know how your father died? Or that you were run out of town?”

“You didn’t ask those questions,” she said tightly as she battled the urge to throttle him. “It wasn’t my place to tell you anything about Richard’s death. I thought you knew already. The rest of it was none of your business.”

“None of my business?” He shot her a fierce glare. “I own the Double F. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t expect it. This inheritance was thrust upon me with no warning, no explanation, and I’m entitled to some questions.”

“Why accept your inheritance then, if you didn’t want it? Why not stay in Charleston with your family and forget about this ranch in godforsaken Texas?”

Derek closed his eyes for a moment, two, then opened them to reveal a very clear, very blue void. He stared at her with blank simplicity and said, “Will you answer my questions?”

What choice did she have? She recognized his growing frustration in his inability to find satisfactory answers, but she hated remembering the things he was asking about. She knew so little. Only enough to be frightened.

She had already far overstepped her bounds with her impudent questions and brazen observations, however. If she continued with such insolence or refused to answer him, he might reconsider his offer.

She sighed. “All right.”

“Please sit down.” He gestured to the nearest chair of four that flanked the table.

She sat, folding her hands together with prim seriousness and resting them on the tabletop. She watched him cautiously, expectantly, but made no attempt to conceal her asperity.

Derek remained silent, studying her with those brilliant blue eyes that shared nothing of the man behind them. Finally he pulled out a chair, and the wooden legs screeched across the plank floor. He sat, never taking his eyes off her.

“Frank Edwards said the Double F was once a successful cattle and horse ranch, that the war caused its present condition. Is that true?”

“For the most part.”

His mouth tightened. “What is the rest of it, then?”

She shook her head. “Richard didn’t confide in me, and he stopped discussing business in my presence after my father died. I can only tell you what I witnessed or overheard.”

“Go on.”

She took a deep breath and wet her suddenly dry lips with her tongue. “The Double F did very well for a long time. Once the war started, Richard all but worked himself to death to keep it going. But after a while, around the middle of the war, I suppose, he had to slow down.”

She glanced down at her twined fingers and noticed her knuckles had turned white. She tried to relax her grip. “By then, not only weren’t there enough men, but the Cause desperately needed money, supplies, whatever anyone could spare.” She looked at Derek. “You must know what it was like.”

He stared back at her, his gaze distant. Eventually he angled his head in her direction. “Yes.”

“Richard gave all that he could. More than he should.” She smiled sadly. “He had a little cash besides Confederate scrip, which by then was all but worthless, but he couldn’t afford to part with it. He had to start making choices. The cattle and horses came first or there wouldn’t be a ranch, he said, so that’s what he worked to save. Other things just had to be ignored.”

She glanced at Derek, whose eyes were alert with polite interest. “When the fighting was over, things didn’t improve. There still wasn’t any money, and Richard couldn’t afford the wages he’d paid before the war. When men began drifting through…well, too many young, healthy ones didn’t come home. Some were unable to do this kind of work, while others couldn’t settle down.”

She paused, listening for a moment to the distant sounds of men and horses on a typical ranch workday. Richard had always said they were the sounds of heaven to him. The thought made her smile, and she continued.

“The violence started…oh, more than two years ago. At first it seemed like just something more for Richard to worry about. There wasn’t enough law here, with too many strange, angry men moving through the countryside. Sheriff Gardner was new and untrained, and the violence became considerable. Eventually it seemed like rustlers were targeting the Double F.”

“The same rustlers who murdered him?”

Amber closed her eyes, but then immediately reopened them. The question allowed no escape, and the darkness made it all too easy for Richard’s image to return in full color and detail. Not the warm, laughing man she had come to love, but as she’d last seen him, cold and still, with a bullet in his chest.

She glanced aside, through the window, and saw Gideon stride purposefully across the yard to the corral. “I assume so,” she said in a sketchy voice no more than a whisper. “No one ever saw them, before or after. I believe Richard had his suspicions before the shooting, but he refused to share them with me. For my own protection, he said. And since he’s been gone, the rustling has stopped.”

“Stopped?” Derek straightened and stared at her, his interest obviously piqued.

“At first I thought it was because Richard was dead. That it may have been a personal grudge, though I can’t imagine it. He had no enemies that I knew of.”

She paused, probing Derek’s expression. Had something flickered in his gaze? Had his mouth tightened? He stared back, his expression as flat and distant as she had come to expect from him, and she decided she must have been mistaken.

“During the first few months I was here, several others were wounded mysteriously. No culprit was ever found, and they left before Richard died. More left after his murder, until we had only the men who are here now. I’ve thought about it and decided perhaps the rustlers simply didn’t need to continue. Without a leader and enough men to work the ranch—”

“There was no need to steal the cattle. They could just round them up after they wandered off,” Derek finished for her.

“Yes. Men on smaller ranches simply turned their cattle loose when they left to fight.”

He leaned back, tilting the chair to stand on its rear legs, and nodded thoughtfully. “It’s quite ingenious, really. You’ve heard nothing more since Richard died?”

“No. I don’t go into Twigg and only the Andrews brothers visit, so I remain relatively isolated. Men don’t often tell women things of that nature, and though my father was an exception, that hasn’t been the case here.”

Derek leaned forward, resting his powerful forearms on the table. “Who was in charge until I arrived?”

“No one, really.” She paused as sudden activity in the yard caught her attention through the window. A man and horse approached, and Gideon strode out to meet them, Whitley close on his heels. Amber smiled to herself, wondering if admiration or jealousy struck Whitley more. Since Gideon’s arrival, the young cowboy had rarely let the man out of his sight.

Regretfully, she turned her attention back to Derek. “Six has been here the longest and knows the most about ranching, but he’s not a leader and he knows it. Micah does what he can, but he had no one when I left Twigg, so he came with me. He doesn’t have the experience and he’s not up to the challenge physically. Whitley would like to take control, but he’s young and inexperienced, and no one listens to him. Frank Edwards issued instructions from town, but he never came himself. He sent them with Whitley so, again, no one would listen. Juan and Carlos are hard workers and will do what is asked of them, except…”

“Except what?”

“Well, they disapprove of taking orders from a woman.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “You were willing to take on the responsibility if the men had cooperated?”

“Please don’t misunderstand.” She almost reached for him, intending to make her point with a light touch to his arm as she would have done with Richard, but she stopped herself after merely unclasping her hands. She flexed her fingers, then laid them flat on the tabletop. “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. We all did our best, in our own ways, to keep the Double F going until you arrived. I just thought if the men would have listened—”

“Boss? You in here?” Whitley barreled into the cookhouse, scouring the room with wide, sullen eyes. The youngest vaquero at the ranch, he retained the thin wiriness common to boys who had not yet reached their full maturity. Amber had rarely seen him with anything but a brooding expression on his face.

Derek turned, and she heard him sigh. “What?”

“Gideon said to fetch ya.” Whitley’s voice carried an unmistakable edge, sharp enough to approach the point of disrespect. “There’s a man here lookin’ fer work.”

Derek blinked. “Good.” He spoke as though he didn’t notice the insolence, but Amber knew better. Derek missed nothing. “I’ll be right out.”

“I dunno, boss. We need men, but…”

“But what?”

Amber glanced out through the window once more, but she could see only Gideon’s back and the well-ridden gelding that stood next to him. Curious, she looked from Derek to Whitley.

“Well, I dunno what he can do. He ain’t all there.”

“What?” Derek stood as he uttered the question, and his chair skittered back behind him. The word came out low and fierce.

“It’s his arm.” Whitley gave a dismissive wave. “He’s only got one.”

She looked at Derek, but nothing about him indicated his least emotion as he strode past Whitley. His beard and mustache did a fine job of concealing his expression. She caught a glimpse of things in his eyes now and then—things she never quite understood—but it wasn’t enough to reveal anything about the man beneath the fallen-angel features.

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