“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,
