Читать книгу Shades Of Gray - Wendy Douglas - Страница 9

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.

That doesn’t mean you have to love it the same way, Derek reminded himself. He doubted that he ever would. He didn’t have enough emotion left within him for that. But it was the perfect answer, for now.

He had more than twenty-five years behind him as Jordan Fontaine’s son. And later, he’d survived four long—agonizingly so at times—years of civil war. In his life, he’d faced enough strife, enough pain…enough everything. He just wanted a little peace and quiet.

The Double F would give him that. The space and freedom to be alone, to forget…to heal?

Well, no. He shook his head and urged his horse to move faster. He wouldn’t go that far. He knew better. But maybe, if he had any luck left to him at all, he might get the chance to discover if there was anything left of the man named Derek Fontaine.