Читать книгу Shades Of Gray - Wendy Douglas - Страница 12

Andrews Mercantile looked like a thousand other general stores that had sprung up in the fledgling towns that had begun to dot the West. Derek stopped just inside the doorway and glanced around, inventorying the crowded interior with narrowed eyes. Groceries, dry goods and hardware filled the shelves. Kegs and barrels of sugar, flour and molasses littered the floor, squatting next to half-filled sacks of potatoes, onions and other produce.

Several women stood in a semicircle near the dry goods, murmuring among themselves, while two old men sat crouched on a pair of stubby, three-legged stools next to a cold woodstove. A middle-aged man, the proprietor, no doubt, shifted canned goods on a shelf to make room for more.

“Them wimmen cackle like a bunch a’ chickens.”

“Flock.”

Derek followed the voices and found himself looking at the old men. They stared back. “I beg your pardon?”

The thinner of the two, balding on top and scowling, jerked his head in the direction of his companion. “A flock. A group a’ birds is a flock. Clem called them a bunch.”

“Dang it, Twigg.” The other man, really no heavier, with fewer hairs and an almost identical sour expression, spoke up. “It don’t matter about the damn birds. I was talkin’ about the wimmen.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth kicked up in amusement, then faded in bafflement. “Twigg?” He stepped closer. “Like the town?”

“Yep.” The old man straightened with peremptory pride. “They named the town after me. We was the first ones here—the founders. Clem wanted to name the place after him, but that ain’t no name fer a town. Clem!” He snorted.

“Yer him, ain’t you? The new feller at the Double F.”

Derek hesitated, then nodded. “I’m Derek Fontaine.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Clem slapped his knee with a liver-spotted hand. “Yer Richard Fontaine’s nephew, all right. I’d recognize you anywhere. You look just like him. Pay up, Twigg.” He held out the same wrinkled hand, palm-up.

“Dang it, Clem, when he come in you said you never seen the man before. Now yer sayin’ you knew him all the time. That’s cheatin’ an’ I ain’t payin’ no cheater.”

The old men’s quarrel took on a snappish tone, and Derek blocked them out with an ease that surprised him for a moment. But—no. It made perfect sense that the habits of the past remained deeply ingrained within him. Hadn’t he spent years listening to Jordan’s tirades and lectures, standing at attention before the old man’s desk with bright eyes and a thoughtful face, while his mind had darted off to a far different world?

And later, when the noise and stench of thousands of men and animals, all crowded together in the hell that masqueraded as life in the army camps, had become too much, hadn’t he stolen away inside himself for his own private solitude? He’d escaped that and more rather than dwell on things far more oppressive. Things like the emotions conjured up by Clem’s observation.

When he’d first learned that Richard was his father, Derek had embraced the news with equal parts relief and fury. Relief because it explained so much—and fury for the very same reason. He had never seen a portrait, tintype or photograph of his father, if any had ever existed; even the mention of Richard’s name was banned in Jordan’s household after the death of Derek’s grandmother. As a child Derek had never understood why there were so few opportunities to learn about his “uncle” Richard. Now, none of it seemed to matter.

And how odd to realize that, in order to see his father’s face, he’d only needed to look in the mirror. But, damn, he was tired of hearing how he looked just like the man.

“Did they, young Mr. Fontaine?”

The sharp voice recaptured Derek’s attention. “Pardon me?”

“You deaf, boy? I asked if the law ever found out who kilt yer uncle.”

A thousand denials shrieked in his head, each one fierce with disbelief. Derek blinked, gathering his concentration, before attempting to eye the men with cool calculation. “Killed…as in murder?”

“Yeah, murder. Ain’t nobody told you nothin’?” demanded Clem peevishly.

“Apparently not. Or maybe I’ve been talking to the wrong people.”

“You have if you been talkin’ to Frank Edwards. He sits over there in that bank, thinkin’ he knows so much ’cause he studied that law and he owns the bank. Hell, he’s even been pretendin’ to run the Double F since Richard died. Well, let me tell you, he ain’t done nuthin’—an’ he knows even less. He oughta get out here with the rest a’ us, and he might figger a few things out.”

“What’d he tell you, anyway?” Twigg asked.

Derek hesitated. These men seemed to know more than he did, and his purpose here today was to get answers to his questions. He shrugged. “That Richard was found dead several miles from the ranch. That he’d been out alone and it looked like an accident.”

“Accident, my foot!” Clem stamped the floor for emphasis. “He was shot—murdered—by rustlers. You mark my words!”

“Rustlers?”

“Rustlers. They been plaguin’ us since the end a’ the war. An’ everybody ’round here knows it. Edwards knows it, too. But maybe he didn’t wanna scare you off by tellin’ you the truth.”

Richard had been murdered, and Derek had had no idea. He hadn’t even considered asking for the grisly details; after all the death and mutilation he’d seen during the war, it had seemed enough that dead meant dead.

He should have known better.

He took his time in answering. “Looks like I need to visit the sheriff.”

“Bah, don’t waste your time on that worthless no-good nincompoop. There’s been nothin’ but trouble since he took over. First year there was that mess with the Laughton girl an’ her daddy, and then last year he let Fontaine git kilt.”

“Uncle Clem, Uncle Twigg! Lower your voices, please! There are ladies present!” The middle-aged man strode over, his forehead creased in a harsh frown that looked remarkably identical to those of the men who were apparently his uncles. He turned to Derek, his frown easing until he looked as though he merely suffered from a severe case of dyspepsia. “I’m sorry, sir, if my uncles disturbed you. They can be quite a nuisance, I know. I’m Bill Andrews, and I’m the proprietor of this establishment. May I help you?”

Derek settled his gaze on the man. “I’m Derek Fontaine. Has someone from the Double F been in for supplies today?”

“No, sir, we haven’t seen Whitley—”

“Whitley won’t be in. I brought another man with me, a new hand named Gideon. Tall, dressed in black?”

Andrews shook his head. “No, sir, I haven’t seen him—”

“You lookin’ fer help, young Fontaine?” Clem demanded suddenly. “You got enough men to run that place yet?”

“No, Clem, not enough men. But I’m working on it.”

“Well, don’t you worry. There’s a bunch—” Clem flashed a triumphant smirk in Twigg’s direction “—a’ men movin’ around the countryside these days. Men who cain’t settle down after all the years of soldierin’. You hire you some a’ them good Southern boys when they show up at yer door.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed, though he refrained from acknowledging that he’d hire a good Northern man just as quickly. The war had been over for three years, and it was past time for them to put their lives back together and go on. Now didn’t seem the best time to make his point, however. Not if he had any other questions to which he wanted answers.

He blinked, seeking a quick diversion. “Now, about some purchases I’d like to make.”

“Yes?” Bill Andrews’s response carried a stiff formality as his gaze darted disapprovingly between his uncles and Derek.

“Billy’s got some wrinkled potatoes and soft onions he’s been tryin’ to get rid of,” Clem suggested with a sly grin.

“How about them radishes and beets and turnips, Billy?” Twigg asked, his tone far too innocent for Derek to believe. “You ain’t managed to find anybody else to take them off yer hands yet, have ya?”

The younger Andrews’s eyes bugged out and his face turned a deep, shocking red. Lord, had the old men sent him into a fit of apoplexy? Derek shot a half concerned, half amused glance from one to the other.

The breath rushed out of Bill Andrews in one great whoosh, and he bellowed, “Uncle Clem! Uncle Twigg!”

The old men beamed at Derek and nodded proudly before they turned their attention back to their nephew. Their antics tempted Derek to smile—dammit, to grin—as he hadn’t been so persuaded in a very long time.

As a child he’d often wished for a bit of nonsense from the ever-serious Jordan, but jokes and teasing had been beyond the man. Instead, Derek and his older brother—his half brother, he knew now—had relied on each other for their all-too-brief bits of fun, and he could almost picture the two of them in thirty or forty years, languishing in Clem’s and Twigg’s places.

God, Nathan. Memories slammed through Derek with all the force of a minié ball. He turned away and closed his eyes. Where did we go so wrong? I never meant for things to end like they did. I’m sorry…so damn sorry.

“Mr. Fontaine! Wait a moment…please! My uncles were just making sport, and I—well, I sometimes lose my temper with them. We’ll have an excellent variety soon, but at the moment we have only a few early crops and what’s left from last year.”

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?”

“I suppose, from a nostalgic viewpoint.” Darkness shifted around Derek as he moved, and his boots thudded against the wood of the steps as he started upward. “I understand that Richard started with very little here. He did well for himself.”

“Yes, he did well, but it was never easy. He worked very hard. He told wonderful stories of how he slept out in the open at first, capturing a few wild mustangs and some longhorn cattle.” Amber smiled, the reminiscence giving her real pleasure. It came as a distinct relief from sidestepping the ceaseless, difficult questions that had preoccupied Derek until now. “He didn’t construct the house until he was able to find the original Spanish land grant so he could purchase the property.”

“Sounds like the mark of a good businessman.”

An unusual emphasis on the words alerted Amber to some skepticism. “You disagree with his reasoning?”

A rustle of fabric left her wondering if he shrugged, then she caught the dismissive wave of his hand. “You tell me how effective it was. The place is all but falling down around us.”

“It is not!” She surged forward, and her goodwill toward him disappeared with the last emphatic word.

“Of course it is. Why are you so defensive? Have you taken a good look around you lately? There’s more to fix than there is right.”

Amber found herself on her feet, the rocking chair clattering behind her. “That may be, but it’s not because of incompetence or mismanagement on Richard’s part. Don’t even think such a thing! There may be some problems, yes, but aside from his death, it’s because of—”

“The war, I know.” He cut her off, his voice sharp. “I know all about the war. Frank Edwards gave me the same excuse. I didn’t believe it any more coming from him.”

“Of course it was the war,” she snapped, unable to stop herself. “Everything goes back to the war these days. But there’s more to it—you must know that. There was the cattle rustling. And Richard’s death.” The words ran out as hastily as they had come, leaving Amber momentarily breathless.

“Ah, now there’s another interesting topic.” Derek sounded indifferent—disturbingly so. It sent Amber’s nerves screaming and did nothing to restore her breathing. “Rustling,” he continued. “And murder.”

“What do you mean?”

“I get the impression your father didn’t exactly die of natural causes.” He neared the top step and stopped, but his words continued as her heart began to pound. “Nor did Richard, it seems. Why didn’t you tell me he was murdered by rustlers?”

Amber gaped at him, but the darkness revealed nothing. “You didn’t know how he died?”

“How did you think I would find out?”

“The same way you found out you’d inherited the Double F. From Frank Edwards, I suppose.”

Derek laughed, but it was a sharp, hostile sound. “It seems there was a lot Mr. Edwards neglected to tell me.”

Amber nodded in spite of herself. She never would have expected to agree with Derek, but he was right about Frank Edwards. Still, she chose her words carefully, fearful that saying the wrong thing would shift his attention back to probing for details of her father’s death. “It has been my experience that Mr. Edwards has a habit of…reordering the truth to suit himself.”

“You mean he lies.”

“He likes things tidy. Arranged as he wants them.”

“Dammit, Amber!” The words erupted from Derek, startling her with their strength and volume—and his use of her given name. Until this moment, he had not referred to her by any name at all.

“Why is everything such a holy secret around here?” he demanded irritably, climbing the final stair. “Why won’t anyone talk to me?”

“We are talking to you,” she said softly, firmly, holding her ground despite the temptation to step back. “You just don’t want to hear the answers we have. There’s nothing we can do about that.”

The night fell quiet for a moment that grew painfully long.

“Perhaps you’re right.” Derek’s voice sounded mild enough, but it carried a razor’s edge all the same. “That reminds me, I have a message for you.”

“A message?” Her fingers began trembling, and she wove them together tightly.

“Regards. From Clem and Twigg Andrews.” Derek stepped forward until he was within arm’s length of her.

“You met the Andrews brothers.” Ordinarily she would have smiled to think of the eccentric old men, but she couldn’t seem to muster one now.

“Among other people. They’re an interesting pair. More intelligent than their nephews. Bill or Whitley. Bill’s a bit fussy, but he doesn’t have Whitley’s temper. The old men are more honest than Frank Edwards. And friendlier than Eliza Bates.”

Amber blinked and wished the darkness away, feeling an acute need to see Derek’s face.

He’d met Eliza Bates.

Dear Lord, why her, of all people? Had she been alone, or had Melinda—or, worse, Jeff—been with her? Amber couldn’t ask such questions, but she managed what she could. “You met a number of people.”

“I should have stopped in Twigg before I came to the ranch. They’re an entertaining, informative bunch.”

“Entertaining?” God in Heaven, why couldn’t she think? She knew very well that Derek was toying with her, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

She put one hand to her forehead, as though it might help. It didn’t. She could only stand there and stare into the darkness, wishing away the shadows that now offered Derek their protection instead of her.

“The Andrews brothers are quite smitten with you. Some of your other neighbors didn’t seem quite so enamored.”

He knew everything. At least everything the people in Twigg knew—or thought they knew. And that, in all reality, amounted to nothing. Less than nothing. If they thought her responsible for her father’s death and her own fall from grace, so be it. Pride—and perhaps a twinge of guilt—would not allow her to dignify such accusations.

She supposed she had anticipated this moment from the day Derek arrived. It should have come as a distinct relief that the wait was over. It didn’t, and she could only stand there dumbly.

“Tell me, Amber,” he asked in a lazy voice she didn’t believe for a minute, “were you Richard’s mistress?”