Wendy Douglas - Shades Of Gray

“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.