Wendy Douglas - Shades Of Gray

“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?”

“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.”