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

Shades of Gray
Wendy Douglas

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.

Acknowledgments

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!)

Contents

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

Prologue

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.

Chapter One

“Riders comin’.”

Amber Laughton heard the call but held her response, choosing to concentrate on her work for another moment. Separating the troublesome weeds from the healthy plants in her fledgling dill bed didn’t take that much thought, but the mindless chore gave her a chance to think.

The Double F Ranch rarely welcomed visitors these days. Invitations were no longer extended or accepted, and she could think of no one interested in seeing that change. No one, perhaps, except Derek Fontaine, arrived at last.

“Amber-girl, you hear me? Riders comin’.”

She looked up, shading her eyes with one hand. High, thin clouds gave the day a deceptively overcast appearance, but they didn’t entirely stop moments of fierce brightness. Blinking, she picked out Micah standing at the corner of the house.

She smiled softly. The little man, as much grandfather as friend to her after so many years, stood as straight and tall as his size and aging body would allow. Alternately he stared out toward the curved front drive, then sent her sharp, pointed looks, intended no doubt to make her take him seriously.

She did, and he had to know it. “I heard you.”

“You expectin’ somebody?”

“And who do you think I’d be expecting?”

“Them crazy Andrews brothers ain’t been out here in a while. It could be them,” Micah suggested, scowling.

“That doesn’t mean I’d be expecting them. Clem and Twigg come to see Whitley, and you know it.” Amber dropped the last few weeds into a dilapidated wooden bucket, already half full of wilting green plants, and stood, wiping her hands on her stained apron. For once she had remembered to put on her gardening apron, and she refused to change it now simply to impress uninvited company. Even if it was Derek Fontaine.

Besides, a dirty apron hardly mattered under the circumstances; she looked every bit the part of the hired housekeeper she was. Her plain brown cotton dress and sturdy work shoes hadn’t been new in years. She’d pulled her hair back into a serviceable, tidy bun early that morning, but tendrils had loosened by now and clung with damp persistence to her forehead and neck. Her hands were red and chapped from the scalding hot, then icy-cold water and strong lye soap of yesterday’s laundry, while her fingertips seemed permanently tinted to a faded black from the rich dirt in her garden.

“They might say they’re comin’ to see Whitley,” said Micah, disapproval wrinkling his already weathered brow, “but they don’t care nothin’ that he’s their nephew. They just wanna stick around till you invite them to supper.”

“Well, if it’s them, they’ve run out of luck today.” Amber stepped around the bucket and headed in his direction. “Whitley went to town again, and I don’t have time to entertain them until he gets back.”

“Nah, I don’t think it’s them, anyway.” Micah narrowed his eyes. “That don’t look like their horses.”

She rounded the corner of the house and stopped next to him, shading her eyes with one hand as she looked out across the prairie.

There were two of them.

Amber swallowed the words, along with a clipped gasp for air—or thought she did, until Micah demanded, “What’s wrong with you, girl? Course there’s two of them. I said riders comin’. We was talkin’ about the Andrews brothers, fer cryin’ out loud. Addin’ them esses at the end of a word usually means more’n one.”

“I’m sorry. I…don’t know what I was thinking. I assumed it would be Derek Fontaine, but I thought he’d be alone.”

“Fontaine!” She might have said Jesus Christ for all the stunned amazement that crackled in Micah’s voice. “Why d’you think it’s him now? We been wonderin’ fer durn near a year iffen he’d come.”

She shot a weary glance at the old man. His wide, rheumy eyes and gaping mouth matched his astonished tone. “I got a note from Frank Edwards a few days ago,” she admitted.

“You shoulda told me! We coulda got things ready fer him.”

“What difference does it make? It’s his, no matter what condition it’s in.”

Micah’s gaze raked her with uncomfortable deliberation. “What’s wrong, Amber-girl? This is Richard’s nephew. You loved Richard an’ he was good to both of us. How come you don’t want Derek here? You don’t even know him.”

Amber sighed. It might shock him to realize it, but Micah didn’t know everything about her. He thought he understood her, and she would never tell him any differently—for both their sakes. She couldn’t face him if he knew all her secrets.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I haven’t slept well the past couple of nights.”

He nodded. “It’s the change in season. Spring ain’t your fondest season anymore.”

Turning, she watched the newcomers approach ever nearer. As a child, spring had always been her favorite time of year, and part of her still marveled to see the earth renew itself. But spring had also seen an end to much that she held dear, and she could no longer take the same joy in it.

“No.” Her answer, finally, was clean and simple, allowing her to concentrate on the new arrivals. “I don’t suppose it is.”

The riders reached the edge of the crushed rock-and-shell driveway, close enough that she could make out the first details. The men both appeared to be thirty or thereabouts, lean and fit. Their features remained indistinct, but they rode well, straight and easy, one on a gleaming red sorrel and the other on a powerful black stallion. The horses looked healthy and lively, even from a distance.

Pausing at the front of the house, they shared a brief exchange that didn’t carry before Micah caught their attention with an abbreviated wave and a sharp “Halloo.”

The man on the sorrel led the way around back. “Is this the Double F Ranch?”

Amber lost, in that moment, any doubts that may have lingered about the man’s identity. It was Richard’s voice asking the question, Richard’s face looking down at her. His eyes remained shadowed under the brim of his dusty brown hat, but that changed nothing. Derek Fontaine was clearly his uncle’s double, though separated by a span of thirty years.

She had never given much thought to Richard’s looks; he had simply been her father’s friend. Suddenly, though, looking at Derek and his younger version of Richard’s face, she discovered with some surprise that he was quite possibly the most handsome man she’d ever seen. The high curve of his cheekbones gave his face an elegance that was apparent even under a reddish-brown beard and mustache. The whiskers provided a subtle accent for his full, finely drawn lips, but at the same time concealed the cut of his jaw. His nose presented the only unremarkable feature on his face.

“Ma’am?”

Amber blinked and swallowed. For pity’s sake, what was the matter with her? Standing here, staring at this man—any man—like a smitten schoolgirl.

She frowned and shook her head. “I beg your pardon, sir. We don’t often have visitors. This is the Double F Ranch. And you must be Derek Fontaine.”

He stiffened, but nodded with a sharp tilt of his head. “I am. You were expecting me?”

“Mr. Edwards—the banker—sent word a few days ago.”

“And you are?”

“I’m sorry.” She flushed, both embarrassed and irritated by her lapse in manners. “This is Micah Smith, and my name is Amber Laughton. We worked for your uncle.”

Derek nodded and removed his hat in a gesture of respect Amber had long ago forgotten to expect. She stared up at him, bewildered, and neglected for a moment to blink.

Blue. His eyes were blue, similar to Richard’s, but Derek’s were a bright, pure color that looked nothing at all like his uncle’s, with lashes so long Amber could see them from where she stood. Derek’s hair fell well past his shoulders, longer and lighter than Richard’s, a pale brown color the sun had bleached to mostly blond-red. He resembled heaven’s own angel, strong and fair, she thought in an odd moment of whimsy—or he would have if the expression in his eyes hadn’t looked so…bleak.

“How d’ya do, Mr. Fontaine?” Micah’s welcome dissolved the stillness, much to Amber’s relief. She blinked and looked away. “I knew yer uncle well. We shared many a fine glass a’ whiskey. He was a good friend, and I’m real sorry he ain’t here with us now.”

“Yes, well, thank you.” Derek turned to the other mounted man before Amber could offer her own condolences. “This is Gideon.”

Was the change in subject as deliberate as it appeared? Amber stared at Derek a moment longer, but his stark expression provided no clue. Perhaps he still grieved over the loss of his uncle. With no other choice, she fixed her gaze on the second man.

Nothing about Gideon could be termed light except for his long blond hair. Everything else was dark. Hat, shirt, pants and boots—even the stallion’s shimmering coat—shared the same deep ebony color. And the leather patch that covered his left eye was black as well.

“Mister…Gideon.” Amber looked directly in his good eye and did her best to ignore both the patch and the mean-looking red scar that snaked out from beneath it. The scar bisected his left cheek into two crooked halves. The right side of his face, however, remained as beautiful and flawless as any angel in heaven above.

Were they suddenly beset by fallen angels?

“Ma’am,” Gideon said, his voice as low and polite as his good eye was cold and distant.

“It’s miss. I’m not married.” Something compelled her to correct the assumption, though she couldn’t imagine why it should matter.

Gideon nodded, then introduced himself to Micah.

“We’d like to settle in, if you don’t mind,” said Derek.

“Of course. Micah, if you’ll take Gideon to the bunkhouse and see to Mr. Fontaine’s horse, I’ll show him the main house.”

“I prefer to take care of my own horse, if you don’t mind, Miss Laughton.”

“I…er, yes, of course.” Amber glanced at the sorrel, focusing her attention on the animal rather than its owner. The man seemed to have a talent for making her feel like a blundering fool. “I’ll be over there, in the garden—” she turned to point behind her “—whenever you’re ready.”

“Come along then, boys, an’ I’ll show ya the way.” Micah headed toward the corral with a wave, and the younger men followed his lead without comment.

Well, then. So this was it. Amber watched them make their way across the yard, an anxiety she didn’t recognize putting an awkward brittleness into her shoulders, her limbs.

Remain calm, she told herself. Don’t think, just breathe. But a hollow had opened up low in her stomach, and it transformed even simple breathing into a sketchy, labored effort.

“This kind of weakness is completely unacceptable,” she insisted softly, aloud this time, hoping it might give her strength. Now, of all times, she must keep her wits about her.

A year of grace. She’d had that long to prepare herself for this moment. She’d even thought, until now, she’d done a credible job of it. Why, then, did she feel on the sharp edge of such panic and…emptiness?

Stop it! Don’t waste your time on emotion. It’s useless. Be practical. Look at the facts.

The facts? Yes, they were simple enough: Derek Fontaine had arrived at last to claim his inheritance. The Double F Ranch was his, bought and paid for with the life and death of his uncle Richard. And Richard had been a friend to Amber—and more—when she had needed him most.

But none of that would matter to Derek. The bleak look in his eyes, his stiff back and unyielding shoulders told her that much. He was the kind of man whose loyalties belonged only to himself, and that could mean anything for those who remained at the ranch. He was free to do whatever he chose with the Double F and its employees. He could keep them on or not.

Amber’s breathing settled with a soft grunt as the men disappeared into the barn. Derek, she was coming to realize, had a marked presence that put her on edge. Nothing about him gave the impression that he was simple or easygoing, nor did he seem much like Richard. Rather, he unnerved her with a hardness, a fierceness, that had become all too familiar in the last few years—ever since men had begun returning from that cursed war.

But that didn’t matter right now, and she couldn’t afford such distractions. Amber brushed the back of one hand over her forehead and turned toward the garden. The past was over and couldn’t be changed. All that mattered now was Derek Fontaine’s arrival, and his right to be there.

She had prayed this day would never come, but it was here—and with it, the choices she had always known would be hers. Really, there was no choice at all. She had never expected a guarantee once Derek Fontaine arrived.

Now what?

Amber swallowed and knelt among the dill plants to take up where she had left off. If he wouldn’t let her stay, where in the world could she go?

What the hell were you thinking to head south again?

Derek couldn’t stifle the question, any more than he could ignore other, similar sentiments that had occurred to him countless times since he’d left Chicago. And he had no better answers now than when he’d started. In fact, he had nothing but more questions.

He left the barn, his bedroll slung over one shoulder and a knapsack in the opposite hand. Charlie was bedded down safely, leaving Derek with nothing but questions—serious ones—about the ranch and its operations.

He slowed, glancing around, then stopped shy of the drive, flexing his shoulders with an absent frown. Now that he’d arrived and faced the reality of inheriting a cattle ranch, a new and deeper tension settled at the base of his neck.

Shit. The place was a damn mess! The barn door hung crooked, the corral fence had broken and missing railings, and he’d gotten just close enough to the bunkhouse to recognize the unmistakable stench of rotting food. What would he find when he looked closer?

Just your luck. The mocking snicker came from inside his head, a voice that sounded remarkably like his father. No—not his father; the correction came quickly. He’d never heard his father’s voice. He was thinking of the man who had married his mother.

Precisely. It sounded like Jordan Fontaine at his most sarcastic, and the voice continued. Your inheritance is falling down around your ears. Just as you deserve.

“Well, so what if it is?” Derek muttered. The defiance in his tone sounded disagreeably childish, and he sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” He added that for himself, certain it was true. He’d never expected to like this place to begin with.

But it was his now…and he had nowhere else to go and nothing to do.

He blinked, then cast another look around him. What counted was the ranch—the land. In that way, he must be like Richard, for that’s what he was after. Land, and nothing more. No emotions and no regrets. Land…with the isolation it offered, the solitude he craved.

In a perverted sort of way, he supposed, he’d earned it. The hard way. Being the bastard son of a man who could walk away without a backward glance—not one in thirty years—should afford Derek some advantage.

He shifted the weight of his bedroll and started for the house again. He found it laughably ironic in a sad, sick sense that Richard had left his ranch to Derek. Richard, the man who had been there for the biological part of fatherhood and nothing more, then had disappeared into the wilds of Texas, seeking adventure and fortune. And Derek, the son nobody wanted.

Oh, yes. He would say he had earned every damned acre of this place. But if his father—if Richard—had loved the place so much, why had he let it go to hell this way?

Nearing the back of the house, Derek realized that the house proper, the cookhouse and the yard all appeared to be better cared for. He credited Amber with the improvement, since she had taken responsibility for the garden.

And what a garden it was.

The plot was large and thriving, with long, straight rows of young, healthy-looking plants. They stretched to the creek that ran in the near distance, bright yellow puffs of flowers standing as sentries at the end of each row. A large cottonwood and several smaller trees provided ample shade along the creek bank.

Amber had positioned herself in the midst of it all. She crouched in a sea of green, plucking at the plants around her and dropping her harvest into a bucket. And she was humming. Her light soprano voice made the strains of Dixie a happy, festive tune, a melody full of joy and life as it had once sounded, before pain and death transformed it into something melancholy and mournful.

She seemed content. Derek slowed, blinking as he considered the possibility of contentment…happiness. Both seemed foreign to him. Had he ever known a life that held any part of such simple emotions?

He dropped his bedroll and knapsack to the ground and moved closer, drawn almost against his will. “I heard Abe Lincoln asked for that song to be played at the White House just after the war and before he was assassinated. Said it had always been a favorite of his.”

Amber shrieked, a small yip of surprise, and shot to her feet, trying to spin around at the same time. She scrambled for balance and almost knocked over her bucket in the process.

“You frightened me!”

“Sorry.” He frowned, chastising himself. Why had he said something like that? Referring to Lincoln—to the war at all—was a foolhardy thing to do for a man in his position, even with old friends. And he didn’t know a damned thing about Amber Laughton.

He examined her with a slow, deliberate gaze. He had never seen hair quite the color of hers, a rich reddish-brown that shimmered with burnished bronze highlights. Reckless curls escaped at her forehead, her neck, and tempted him with a hint of wild beauty. Her thin, elegant nose angled above full, raspberry-red lips. Her eyes flashed with a verdant, sparkling green, and seemed to see far more than they revealed.

Her hands appeared nervous as she wiped them on her apron, already stained brown and green, and her voice intrigued him with its anxiousness. “I’m not usually so skittish. I was thinking. About the garden, I mean. The summer squash looks good, and we may have some black-eyed peas ready in a week or so.”

Derek flashed a quick, mostly disinterested glance over the greenery behind her. “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t know anything about gardening.”

“Of course.”

“Are you responsible for all this?” He motioned in a grand gesture.

“Keeping house for your uncle wasn’t difficult.” She shrugged, making no attempt to meet his gaze. “He was very tidy in his habits. It made sense that I take over the cooking and the gardening as well. It kept me busy.”

Derek nodded slowly, as though he accepted her explanation—and he supposed he did. At least in part. She said all the right things, the things he expected a woman in her position to say, and yet she spoke with singular deliberation, as though she weighed every word with particular care.

Why?

“What about the rest of the place?” He went on the offensive.

“What about it?”

“It’s a mess.”

“I beg your pardon!” Her eyes popped wide, and her lips tightened with obvious irritation.

“Please, Miss Laughton.” He made no effort to disguise his impatience. “It’s obvious the place is falling apart. I’d like to know why.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Derek reached up to the back of his neck, massaging the tense muscles that refused to relax. Maybe this wasn’t the best time for this discussion; he’d only just arrived and hadn’t yet done a proper reconnaissance.

He opted for courtesy. “How long have you lived here?”

She narrowed her eyes with notable skepticism. “More than two years now. I came as your uncle’s housekeeper—and his friend—and stayed after he…” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes darkened with what Derek assumed was remembered pain.

“Died.” He supplied the word with a trace of impatience. It may have been a heartless reaction, but it shouldn’t have been necessary. Richard’s death wasn’t recent. And his housekeeper still grieved?

And what about his housekeeper? Derek couldn’t ignore his doubts. 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?

Unless…she had no family or friends to whom she could turn. Or none who would claim her. He blinked, startled by the innuendo. Unless she defined friend differently than he did.

“Did you know Richard before that?”

She smiled thinly, as though she recognized his suspicions. “Yes. I knew him for more than ten years.”

She didn’t give much ground, he noted. “I hope you understand that I’ll have many questions about the ranch, and my uncle. We weren’t close, and I find myself at a sudden loss here.”

“Richard was a wonderful man.” She shot him a spirited glare. Intrigued, he looked closer. “He was a good friend, especially when—others needed him most.”

“If you say so.”

She drew in a sharp breath and stepped back, away from him. Her eyes flared with fiery green sparks, an eloquent conviction that she’d hidden until now. She blinked slowly and then expression and fire disappeared as she fixed her gaze beyond his shoulder.