Wendy Douglas - Shades Of Gray

“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

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.

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!)

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

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.