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
