Читать книгу Shades Of Gray - Wendy Douglas - Страница 11

Amber arched across the mattress, stretching to tuck in the sheet. After three days of making Derek’s bed, she concluded the man was a persistently restless sleeper.

His sleeping habits are none of your business. Her cheeks flushed with a dull heat that seemed to haunt her whenever she was in his bedroom. Proving your worth as his housekeeper is the only thing that should concern you at the moment.

Surely he would retain a good worker.

The subject hadn’t come up yet, but she didn’t delude herself. It was only a matter of time.

And then?

Amber ran her hand across the sheet, smoothing out the smallest wrinkle. She continued to hope that she could convince him to keep her on as his housekeeper, but he’d given her little encouragement thus far. Any plans he had for the ranch he was keeping strictly to himself. He had, however, begun to ask questions. Questions about ranch operations, about Richard, about everyone and everything. Questions she’d done her best to avoid.

Tell him too much, too soon, and you won’t need to worry about keeping this job. She’d seen the expressions on other people’s faces when they realized who she was, and she knew exactly what she could expect from Derek once he satisfied his curiosity. When he discovered the truth—or what so many people thought they knew and were so very eager to tell—she would have one chance to convince him to let her stay.

She didn’t doubt what form of persuasion would be expected of her.

An odd sensation, like that of being watched, crawled up her spine, and she shivered. She meant to ignore it, but it persisted until finally she glanced up. Derek stood in the doorway.

“Oh!” She reared back and lost her balance, tumbling awkwardly onto the half-made bed. Cheeks flaming, she scrambled to her feet and gaped at him. He looked back with impressive detachment.

“I’m going into Twigg today. Do you need anything?”

“You startled me!” she snapped. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and she was beginning to feel a little…hunted.

“Sorry,” he said instantly, but he didn’t look the least bit apologetic. Instead he looked bold, untamed and roguish, leaning against the door frame with lazy grace, his arms crossed over his chest as though he had nothing better to do. He wore dark trousers and a blue cotton shirt that turned his eyes to a dazzling shade of blue.

“I was making up your bed.”

He raked her with a sizzling gaze that trapped her words and made them suddenly conspicuous, as if he’d seen her clean unmentionables hanging on the clothesline.

Making up your bed? Dear Lord, what did she think she was doing, talking to this man in his bedroom, next to his unmade bed? Hadn’t she learned how very easily—willfully—a man could misunderstand a woman’s intentions? Certainly, if anything could be misinterpreted, it would be a woman floundering wildly on a man’s mattress.

Derek remained still, however, simply watching her. He seemed bigger and taller, his shoulders broad, and a harnessed power filled the room. Amber’s cheeks remained flushed, and she clenched her fingers into tight fists. Her breath came out as a sketchy wheeze.

“Making the bed,” he murmured softly, breaking the silence. He shook his head and dropped his arms to his sides. “I almost remember when things like that mattered.”

Standing across the bed from him, looking into his fallen-angel features and barren eyes, she felt his proximity as keenly as if he touched her. The possibility seemed imminently dangerous.

“I beg your pardon?” She stepped back, some ancient feminine instinct insisting she put more space between them. “Don’t you want me to do such chores?”

He shrugged and straightened, his movements a study in carelessness. “Go ahead. I don’t care. When you’ve spent as many nights as I have under the stars with just a blanket, any bed at all seems like a luxury.”

Amber swallowed. Was he referring to his trip here? Traveling from South Carolina to Texas on horseback would be a long, arduous journey in these days of reconstruction. Vaguely, she recalled the trip she and her father had made from St. Louis, twelve years ago now. She had been eight years old, and life then had seemed more like high adventure than grueling travel.

Or could Derek mean something else? Something like the war? A deep coldness settled heavily in her chest. To Amber’s way of thinking, most able-bodied men in Texas—in all the South—had blindly enlisted to fight for the Confederate cause. They’d rushed off to fight the damn Yankees, intending to teach those sorry boys in blue a lesson they’d never forget, and be home in a month.

Four years later they’d all been dead or whipped, she thought severely, and they’d left the South in a mess from which it would likely not recover in her lifetime. They had paid dearly for their foolish Rebel bravado and forced a heavy price from their mothers and sisters and wives and sweethearts. A price no one ever seemed to consider.

Surely Derek had played his own part in the debacle. She didn’t know a man who, at least in some small way, hadn’t. And yet how could she blame him, any more than a thousand other men?

“Well, around here I do things like make up the beds,” she announced briskly. “Just as I clean and do laundry. And you don’t have to eat your meals in the bunkhouse. I cooked for Richard, and I can do the same for you.”

Derek stared at her, his eyes narrowing to slivers of blue. “Are you a good cook?”

What choice do you have? Amber swallowed the question, reminding herself that sarcasm would do little to improve her chances of retaining her position at the Double F. Instead she shrugged. “I’m better than Six. I’ve eaten the rocks he calls biscuits and his son of a gun stew. Personally, I think it tastes like paste.”

“Son of a…gun stew?”

“Hasn’t he fixed it for you yet?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what I mean.”

He nodded.

“Oh, don’t worry. I know what it’s really called. But Micah and Six have gone to such trouble to rename it so I wouldn’t hear them say ‘son of a bitch,’ even about stew, I pretend for their sakes.”

Derek angled his head, as though seeing her from a new perspective. “They’re protective of you.”

Her breathing faltered again. He made her feel as though he could see straight through her, all the way to that secret place where she kept her most treasured memories and dearest hopes. She turned from the intensity of his gaze, moving automatically as she fluffed a pillow into place.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered finally. “But Micah should know better. My father may not have approved of my saying it, but he never kept me from knowing the truth.”

“Micah must know your father, then. Does he live nearby?”

Derek sounded as though the answer meant little to him, but Amber knew better. It was another of his endless questions and, like the ones she hated most, it was personal.

She looked at him and said flatly, “My father is dead. Did you say you were going to Twigg today?”

He blinked, then slowly nodded, as though telling himself to accept her change of topic. “Gideon will be riding with me. Can we get anything for you?”

“No.” Her insides froze at the idea. “There is nothing in Twigg I could possibly want.”

“All right.” He hesitated, but finally shrugged and turned toward the door. “I’ll see you later.”

Amber stood motionless, waiting long, breathless minutes as his footsteps receded. When she heard the jingle of harness and the crunch of rock and shell under horses’ hooves, she hurried to the window, watching as they set out at a brisk pace.

Twigg. She had left the town behind her two years ago, along with everything it represented. Now she shuddered at the mere thought of going back, of seeing the derisive faces and hearing the cruel whispers. She wrapped her arms around her midsection, as though to ward off blows.

What would happen when Derek saw the faces and heard the whispers? When he discovered the stories people told with such gloating? It wouldn’t matter how much truth there was to them. He’d meet Frank Edwards, Eliza Bates—and how many others?

Oh, God. She dropped her forehead to the windowpane and gave a soft sigh. She’d hoped for more time. Time enough to prove herself.

Well, it’s too late now, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

She took a deep breath and straightened, mustering every bit of stubborn determination she had. She’d known from the very beginning that Derek would eventually learn it all; she just hadn’t determined what she would do when that happened. Now the time was upon her and she could no longer avoid the hard choices.

Amber turned back to the bed and pulled the quilt into place. Truthfully, there was no question of what she would do. As always, she would do whatever she had to.

It was a matter of survival.

Derek approached the outskirts of Twigg with guarded trepidation. He shifted in his seat, at the same time squaring his shoulders in a show of strength that had become automatic to him. It wasn’t that he expected anything unusual, but he prepared himself in any case. He hadn’t gone out unarmed since the day he’d joined the army, and now was hardly the time to consider a change of habit. Gideon seemed of the same mind.

Alone or not, Derek didn’t doubt his ability to defend himself. He had learned his lessons well and quickly, first as Jordan Fontaine’s unwanted son and then, from the first day at Shiloh, on dozens of battlefields across the country. Entering Twigg could hardly compare.

His unease, it seemed, could be more directly traced to his lofty ambitions upon arriving at the Double F, and his decided inability to achieve them. He’d been looking for peace and quiet, and instead found himself at the head of a floundering ranch populated by less than a dozen men—a group of individuals more closemouthed than any battlefield spies. Talking to Amber proved little better. He’d learned a bit about her personally, but nothing of particular interest where the ranch was concerned.

Or had he?

Derek thought for a moment. Her father was dead and she hated Twigg. Knowing that, however, only led to more questions. How? And why? And most importantly, could any of it involve Richard?

If it did, then that concerned the ranch—and Derek.

He shook his head. It may not have been how he planned it, but if he had anything to spare, it was time. Time to understand whatever secrets lay hidden beneath the surface of life at the ranch, and time enough to resolve them. Patience, whispered a sixth sense he’d learned to rely on through all of the war and beyond, isn’t a virtue or a luxury. It’s a necessity.

Reaching the edge of town, Derek cast an indifferent glance at the first house, then, blinking, stared at the tumbled-down old structure. Good God, had he been overly optimistic about everything? The building listed to one side, tattered and disheveled. An overgrown tangle of grass and weeds surrounded the porch and crept up the front steps.

“Looks worse than the ranch.”

Derek glanced at Gideon and lifted one eyebrow. “That takes some doing.”

Gideon shrugged and a faint sparkle lit his eye—as close to smiling as Derek ever saw him. “You said you didn’t know what to expect. I figure that applies here as well as the ranch. Maybe more.”

This much of Twigg hardly represented the bustling little township that Frank Edwards’s letter had described. “Definitely it applies here,” Derek agreed. “Things don’t seem quite…right.”

Gideon nodded shortly, his gaze tracking left and right with sharp precision. Derek had seen it done too often to mistake the action for anything other than the defensive practice it was. Even with one eye missing, Gideon was more alert and observant than most men—and Derek had known some of the best.

At least at the beginning of the war, he amended regretfully. Many were gone now. Somehow even the best men made mistakes at times, and after four long, bloody years, mistakes began to catch up with a man.

Derek had made his share of mistakes, and most had caught up with him. Even some he’d never considered mistakes. A sour taste tickled the back of his throat, and he swallowed it down.

Later, he snapped to himself. You don’t have time for regrets now. You did what you had to do, fought where you had to fight. You don’t owe explanations to anyone—especially anyone here.

“I don’t know what it is about this place,” Gideon said after a moment, “but I don’t like it.”

“You’re thinking of moving on, then?”

“No, not yet. I want to see just what it is that has my gut twisted like it hasn’t been since…”

“Appomattox,” Derek finished for him, and neither said anything more. There was nothing left to say. Some things about war didn’t change, no matter who a man chose as his enemy. His life and Gideon’s might have been far different before the war, but the fighting had changed all that. And later, after General Lee surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse, nothing was the same for anyone. Life before the war seemed all but meaningless now.

Derek’s interest sharpened as they neared the center of town, much as Gideon’s vigilance seemed to grow keener. He knew well that his uncertainty came from little more than a gut feeling, but he’d learned the hard way that his instincts were right more often than not.

“There’s the bank.” Derek pointed to his left and reined Charlie to a halt. “You want to look around town while I meet with Edwards?”

Gideon pulled up next to him. “Yeah.” He tilted his hat, deepening the shadows that shielded his face, and slanted his good eye toward Derek. “I do.”

Derek dismounted and tethered his horse, while Gideon did the same. “I’ll meet you at the mercantile in thirty minutes,” said Derek as he headed for the bank.

Arriving, he probed the lobby with a keen gaze. Dark mahogany woodwork dominated the room, polished to a high shine. A marble-topped counter, graced with ornate scrolled bars, divided the room. A sour-faced clerk frowned silently from the safety of the teller cage.

“I’m looking for Frank Edwards.”

Wordlessly, the man pointed to a door with Franklin Bacon Edwards, Bank President inscribed on its window glass. Derek knocked once, entered, then closed the door behind him. The man seated at the large, mahogany desk looked up, irritation sketched clearly on his features.

“Edwards.”

The man’s eyes grew wide, but then a smile lightened his expression and he stood. He was of average height, but his stomach protruded with amazing girth. His large drooping mustache and graying mutton chop whiskers swallowed half his face, except for sharp, rapidly blinking eyes that gave him the look of a large, overfed rodent. His dark, tailored suit enhanced the effect.

“Ah, Mr. Fontaine, I presume?” Edwards said with forced cheer as he offered his hand. “You look remarkably like your uncle.”

“So I’m told.” Derek accepted the handshake but withheld his smile.

“Your message came from Chicago—quite a distance from Charleston. I tried to reach you there first.”

Derek shrugged, not tempted in the least to explain how he had ended up in Chicago after the war. He had no reason to trust this man with his confidences, so he merely said, “There wasn’t much left in South Carolina. I decided to move on.”

Edwards nodded solemnly. “The war reached us here, as well. The blockade, you know. And south Texas was occupied by Yankee troops for a time.”

“So I’ve heard. Does that explain the condition of the Double F?”

“Down to business, is it?” Edwards’s smile seemed to wear a bit thin. Derek studied the man, wondering why he would be reluctant to discuss the ranch. Or was it just Derek himself, imagining things because his own desire for privacy made him impatient with polite chitchat?

Edwards gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Please sit down, and we’ll talk.”

Derek sat, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “All right, Mr. Edwards. What can you tell me about the ranch and its present state of neglect?”

Edwards wrinkled his brow in a frown. “It’s never been a matter so much of neglect, Mr. Fontaine. Richard would not have allowed that. He loved that ranch like some folks love a person. He came here just after the Andrews brothers settled this place, and built his ranch up from nothing, just a few wild mustangs and some longhorns he rounded up. He worked and sacrificed—he would have done anything to preserve that place.”

Edwards shook his head, as though Richard’s devotion quite eluded him, then continued. “When so many men left to join the fighting, there weren’t enough left to work the big ranches. The Double F did well during the first years of the war. But being shorthanded for so long took its toll. Supplies and necessities became impossible to get, and what we did have, we shared or donated it to the Cause to keep our boys fighting. Richard did his part—and more. He supported the Confederacy with everything he could spare.”

Another staunch Confederate. “I see.” Derek blew out a weary breath. “So I’ve inherited a broken-down ranch years past needing repair, cattle and horses scattered to hell and gone, and nobody left to work it.”

“There are still hands there, aren’t there?” Edwards’s cheeks flushed and his eyes widened in alarm.

“Don’t you know?” Derek tried to pin the banker with a sharp frown, but the man refused to meet his gaze. “Your letter said you were overseeing the place until I got here.”

“I…” Edwards paused as though reconsidering whatever he’d started to say, then merely nodded. “Yes, of course. I haven’t been there in a while, though. Busy here, you know.” He waved a hand to indicate his desk, which looked remarkably clutter-free.

Derek swallowed a sigh. What the hell was the use? No one seemed inclined to confide in him. “The place isn’t quite deserted.” He made no effort to keep the displeasure from his voice. “There are two old men, a couple of Mexican families, a boy too young to have seen much of any kind of work and a woman. Those are my ranch hands?”

“Six Parker worked for your uncle from the very beginning, and the Mexicans stayed through the whole of the war.” Edwards counted off the workers on his pudgy fingers. “Whitley Andrews may be young and inexperienced, but he’s willing. As for Micah Smith and Amber Laughton, they came together—a pair, you might say. They moved to the ranch when she was run out of town.”

“Run out of town?” The incredulous question slipped out before he could think better of it. Derek snapped his mouth shut, effectively cutting off any other indiscreet remark, but his earlier observations taunted him.

Why would a beautiful young woman confine herself to keeping house at a remote ranch, and for a man old enough to be her father?

And his reply to himself: Unless she defined friend differently than he did.

“I am not one to carry tales, mind you,” Edwards said in a prim voice that told Derek otherwise. “However, since Amber Laughton is living under your roof, I feel obligated to warn you that she was involved in some trouble with a number of men. She consorted with them after her father died—or so they say. Your uncle—well, I don’t know if she bewitched him, or if he thought to do a good deed and take the hussy from our midst. In any case, she moved to the ranch, and she’s been there since.”

Derek said nothing for the space of a heartbeat. “Amber was Richard’s mistress.” It was more a statement than a question. Dozens of other questions raced through Derek’s mind, but a particular reluctance to ask them of Edwards kept him silent. He’d already said too much. He would get his answers, but he’d get them from Amber.

“Only she can tell you that for sure, now that Richard is dead,” said Edwards stiffly, without meeting Derek’s gaze. “But I believe so, yes. I, certainly, will have nothing to do with her.”

Derek tightened his jaw. He couldn’t risk unleashing any emotion over Edwards’s announcement. He had certain secrets from his own sordid past that he wished to leave behind him; he couldn’t afford to start something he wasn’t prepared to finish. He’d already revealed too much in his desire to learn more.

“All right, Mr. Edwards,” he said. “And just what is it you suggest that I do as the new owner of the Double F?” He had no real interest in Edwards’s opinion, but it seemed an easy diversion for the moment.

He was right. Edwards’s mouth flattened in a self-deprecating smile. “It’s your ranch now, Mr. Fontaine. Nothing has to remain as it was. You are under no obligation to maintain the same workers your uncle employed. At the very least, I encourage you to disassociate yourself from Amber Laughton once and for all.”

“I see.”

“Times are changing, people are moving west.” Edwards leaned forward as though warming to his topic. “We’ve had two new families settle in Twigg, a man to take over the newspaper Amber’s father once owned, and a man who plans to build a new hotel. More Mexicans are drifting farther north again, without the Yankee army to get in their way.”

He paused expectantly, his features smoothing themselves back into their thin, rodentlike appearance. “The railroad has come, you know, and here in Twigg, we have plans to be a part of the progress. That can only bode well for you and your ranch. They want cattle up north, and we’ve got them here. Your uncle had great plans for the Double F.”

“As you said, Mr. Edwards, it’s my ranch now.” Derek offered a sparse, distant smile. “However, I am not prepared to rush into ill-advised changes at the moment. You will find that I never make rash decisions.

“In the meantime, I have other concerns about the ranch and its financial situation. And I’d like to arrange for a personal account with your bank. If you don’t mind…”

Edwards nodded, perhaps a bit eagerly, and Derek felt a coil of apprehension relax inside him. He understood this man and his desires; he was a businessman, and Derek had money. Not a fortune, perhaps—a major’s commission hardly made a man rich, but there had been precious little on which to spend it during the war. In these days of reconstruction, it was more than many had. Not that he intended for Edwards to know exactly what he had or how he’d acquired it.

No, he would show the overfed rodent just enough to make them friends—good friends in Edwards’s eyes. And then?

Well, maybe then Derek would have the means to get answers to some of his other questions.