Shades Of Gray

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“What?” Derek stood as he uttered the question, and his chair skittered back behind him. The word came out low and fierce.

“It’s his arm.” Whitley gave a dismissive wave. “He’s only got one.”

She looked at Derek, but nothing about him indicated his least emotion as he strode past Whitley. His beard and mustache did a fine job of concealing his expression. She caught a glimpse of things in his eyes now and then—things she never quite understood—but it wasn’t enough to reveal anything about the man beneath the fallen-angel features.

Chapter Five

Derek knew the stranger was another veteran without having to see the man. Doubtless he was, as Clem and Twigg had noted, another man moving across the country because he couldn’t settle down after years of fighting.

Or, like Derek himself, because he had no home to return to—until he’d come here, that is. And the case could be made that Derek himself had helped to destroy his own home.

But that was old news. Not entirely true, and it wouldn’t matter if it had been. He had the Double F now. It was, at the very least, a place to be.

He headed down the brick pathway, passing Amber’s tidy herb garden, then cut across the yard. Derek swallowed a sharp grunt of annoyance as Whitley’s footsteps scuffled along behind him.

Gideon waited near the barn, standing with the stranger next to a spent, nondescript brown gelding. Derek blinked as he approached, concealing his interest beneath lowered lashes.

The newcomer was tall, perhaps an inch shorter than Derek. His dusty clothes and overlong hair suggested he’d spent some hard days on the trail. And he had both his arms. It was his left hand and forearm, to just below his elbow, that were missing.

Derek tightened his lips. It didn’t appear that Whitley cared whether or not he got his facts straight. He formed opinions based on little or no information, and seemed to expect that others would believe even his most outlandish claims if only he repeated them often enough. Worse, he never knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“I’m Derek Fontaine.” He held out his hand. “I own the Double F.”

The man blinked as though dazed and stared at Derek’s outstretched hand. He looked tired, the color washed from his face, and his pale complexion emphasized the dark circles beneath his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks. He raised his gaze slowly to Derek’s, revealing eyes unnaturally wide and grave and heavy with something resembling…despair.

“Beauregard Montgomery, Mr. Fontaine.” He finally responded with his own introduction and shook Derek’s hand.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Montgomery?”

“I…” He looked away, allowing a moment of silence to pass before he glanced back at Derek. Or, more accurately, at a spot somewhere beyond Derek’s shoulder. “I wondered if you had any work for a fellow like me.”

A fellow like me. Derek would go to his grave hearing men—friends, comrades, enemies alike—describe themselves in such terms. They meant a man without an arm, a leg, or perhaps an eye, like Gideon. Men who believed they had lost the best part of themselves—their manhood—as well.

Derek nodded solemnly, betraying nothing of his thoughts. He turned to Whitley. “Whitley, take care of Mr. Montgomery’s horse.”

“But that ain’t my job! I was workin’ with Gideon an’—”

“Come on, Whitley.” Gideon gathered the gelding’s reins and held them out. “You take care of Mr. Montgomery’s horse like Derek says.”

Whitley glanced from Derek to Gideon, his eyes narrow and angry. Derek stared back in stubborn silence. It took some effort, but he reminded himself of the need to curb his impatience. He had tried to be understanding with the men and Amber. In his experience, many people, Southerners particularly, found change difficult; the War for Southern Independence had displayed that in all its glory—and pain. A South Carolinian, born and bred, Derek didn’t need any reminders of Southern eccentricity.

But he’d waited damn near as long as he could afford to for them to accept him. Richard’s murder and Derek’s unexpected arrival may have made things uncomfortable, even difficult, but the ranch had been limping along without a leader for a year now. He couldn’t wait indefinitely for them to adjust to his authority.

“If you say so.” Whitley’s answer came slowly, petulantly, and only after Gideon cleared his throat with a gruff cough that sounded much like a warning.

“I do.”

Whitley shot a last indignant glare in Derek’s direction, then snatched up the reins and led the horse away.

“I’ll take care of things.” Gideon followed after leveling a steady look at Derek.

Trusting Gideon, Derek dismissed the problem for the moment and turned back to his current concern. “Now then, Mr. Montgomery. What kind of work are you looking for?”

Amber draped two colorful rugs, both made of tightly woven rags, over the railing of the long front veranda. She smoothed out the wrinkles in each, one in varying shades of blue and the other in green and yellow, then took up a long wicker club and began whacking it against each in turn. The wide, flat, fanlike end made a dull whump when it hit, curling dust up from the fabric until it hovered around her in a cloud. She sneezed and blinked the grit from her eyes.

She’d left the stew simmering, and later she would mix up biscuits—a triple batch, knowing the men’s appetites for anything that didn’t resemble Six’s rocks. If she had the time, a spice cake would make a fine dessert.

In the meantime, she had turned to her housekeeping duties. Her first choice would always be to spend her time in the garden. Sinking her fingers into the cool, rich soil was such a pleasure. With Derek in residence, however, she dare not neglect any of her chores.

Amber took another healthy swing with her mallet, wondering about the stranger who’d arrived. Who was he? Did Derek know him? What was he doing here? She had witnessed their meeting through the cookhouse window, but it had revealed precious little. Eventually Derek had escorted the man to the corral, and she hadn’t seen them since.

Flexing her shoulders, she gave the rugs another good smack. Goodness, but it felt good to whack those poor, defenseless rugs, she thought as the action dissipated some pent-up energy. She allowed herself a silly grin and hit them once more, twice, a third time for good measure. Tension she hadn’t realized she had began to relax within her, spreading a certain sense of release through her arms and legs.

Drawing back to assail her victims once more, she felt that eerie feeling of being watched begin to creep over her. Instinctively she spun around, every instinct at the ready and the wicker mallet clenched in her hands like a weapon.

Derek raised his arms in mock surrender. “Do you take prisoners?”

She glared at him and lowered the mallet. “Why don’t you ever make some noise so a person can hear you coming?”

He shrugged. “Too much time trying to do the opposite, I suppose. I’d like you to meet our new cook.”

She blinked, and her irritation evaporated as she regarded the man standing behind Derek. He didn’t indicate much interest in her, but the rugs, or perhaps the porch or her roses, seemed to captivate him.

Derek made the introductions, and Beau stepped forward. “Ma’am,” he said in a soft drawl.

Georgia? Amber wondered as she tried to place his accent. No, that wasn’t right. Virginia, perhaps?

She ignored Derek and candidly eyed Beauregard Montgomery. For pity’s sake, he had both his arms. Trust Whitley to exaggerate the case. She should have known better; she hadn’t trusted the young cowboy since the day she caught him sneaking out of the ranch house study, trying to steal a decanter of Richard’s best whiskey. Richard would have fired Whitley if he’d been able to find enough competent workers.

Whitley’s shortcomings, however, didn’t concern her nearly as much as did Beau. She’d never met a man who seemed so downright skittish, due, she’d wager, to his missing hand. She could well imagine the reality of his situation; her own more limited experience had taught her how cruel and unthinking people could be. She’d stake her reputation—if she had one—that the loss of his hand had caused Beau a host of difficulties that had nothing to do with his physical infirmity.

“How do you do, Mr. Montgomery.” She tried to catch his gaze with hers. “Please call me Amber.”

He looked at her then, uncertainty etched on his features. “Thank you. And I prefer Beau.”

She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the Double F.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Carefully he accepted her handshake. “Er—Amber.” He corrected himself with a crooked smile that, at best, was only half there, but she took it as a start.

“I should be thanking you. You’re the answer to my prayers. Derek promised he’d find a cook to help me—and here you are.”

“You haven’t tasted my cooking yet. I’m afraid I learned out of desperation, during the war.”

“No matter.” Amber smiled in encouragement. “I’ll be glad to help at first, if you need. I have a whole book of recipes, and I’ve learned a few tricks myself.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“We’re agreed, then,” Derek interjected, sounding suddenly impatient. He had remained quiet until now, which had enabled Amber to concentrate on Beau. Even so, she had remained supremely aware of Derek’s presence; she heard his every breath, noticed each time he stirred. He seemed to have invaded her very consciousness, and she could never quite dismiss him.

“I’ll introduce you to the other hands and show you where to put your gear,” Derek said to Beau. “You can meet up with Amber later.”

“If I’m not at the house, I’ll be in the cookhouse or one of the gardens.” She pointed in the proper direction.

Beau nodded.

“I’ve got stew started already, so tonight’s meal should pose no difficulty.”

“How’s your recipe for biscuits?”

“Light and fluffy.”

Beau nodded again and almost smiled again, too. “Then we’ll use yours.”

“Gideon, Six and I won’t be here,” Derek announced suddenly.

Amber stared at him. “What? Why?”

He leveled a flat gaze on her. “This is a cattle ranch with a herd that’s been neglected for too long. There’s work to be done, not enough men to do it, and I can’t wait any longer to get started.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “How long will you be gone?”

“Overnight.”

Curse him and his stiff, one-word answers. She did her best to settle her features into an even display of indifference. “Is anything…wrong?”

He raised his brows and angled his head in her direction. “There’s a lot wrong. I told you that. Right now I want to get a better idea of this herd and see how these cowboys work.”

He turned and strode toward the bunkhouse. “I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. This way, Beau.”

Amber couldn’t bring herself to look away from the men’s departure. Nor could she lie to herself. It was not Beau she watched, but Derek. He carried himself like a warrior, a man she instinctively recognized as someone to be counted on—if he believed in you. He had a presence that threatened her, overwhelmed her, unnerved her…fascinated her.

She whirled around to face the half-beaten rugs. No. Fascination suggested something entirely inappropriate, something like—enchanted? Perhaps mesmerized, or even infatuated. And those reactions were completely unacceptable. Utterly ridiculous. She hardly knew Derek. He didn’t like her, and she didn’t like him. Did she?

Don’t worry. He’s leaving, at least for a day.

Relief spread through her, making her almost light-headed. She wouldn’t have to see him, think about him or this sudden awareness that refused to give her any peace. And if he left, even for a day, she could escape his damned questions. A day wasn’t much of a reprieve, but it would do for now.

Derek and the others were ready to leave within the hour. Amber packed some food in a canvas bag—smoked meat and bread and cheese—and handed it to him as they prepared to ride out.

“Here. I don’t know what provisions might be left in any of the line shacks, or even where you’ll be going. This will carry you through, at least until tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” He took the package, his eyes darkening with what she interpreted as grateful surprise. Didn’t he expect his housekeeper to look after his welfare? He gave no indication of his thoughts, however, merely settling his hat on his head. It deepened the shadows over his face and effectively obscured any clues his features might have revealed.

She swallowed a small sigh of frustration and stepped aside as Derek secured the pack to his bedroll. He swung up into the saddle without another word, his movements clean and sparse, and with a style and grace that created a curious little ache in the middle of her chest. For the second time in less than an hour, Amber couldn’t make herself look away from him. Merely breathing seemed suddenly difficult.