Wendy Douglas - Shades Of Gray

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.