Wendy Douglas - Shades Of Gray

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?”