more time. Time enough to prove herself.
Well, it’s too late now, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
She took a deep breath and straightened, mustering every bit of stubborn determination she had. She’d known from the very beginning that Derek would eventually learn it all; she just hadn’t determined what she would do when that happened. Now the time was upon her and she could no longer avoid the hard choices.
Amber turned back to the bed and pulled the quilt into place. Truthfully, there was no question of what she would do. As always, she would do whatever she had to.
It was a matter of survival.
Derek approached the outskirts of Twigg with guarded trepidation. He shifted in his seat, at the same time squaring his shoulders in a show of strength that had become automatic to him. It wasn’t that he expected anything unusual, but he prepared himself in any case. He hadn’t gone out unarmed since the day he’d joined the army, and now was hardly the time to consider a change of habit. Gideon seemed of the same mind.
Alone or not, Derek didn’t doubt his ability to defend himself. He had learned his lessons well and quickly, first as Jordan Fontaine’s unwanted son and then, from the first day at Shiloh, on dozens of battlefields across the country. Entering Twigg could hardly compare.
His unease, it seemed, could be more directly traced to his lofty ambitions upon arriving at the Double F, and his decided inability to achieve them. He’d been looking for peace and quiet, and instead found himself at the head of a floundering ranch populated by less than a dozen men—a group of individuals more closemouthed than any battlefield spies. Talking to Amber proved little better. He’d learned a bit about her personally, but nothing of particular interest where the ranch was concerned.
Or had he?
Derek thought for a moment. Her father was dead and she hated Twigg. Knowing that, however, only led to more questions. How? And why? And most importantly, could any of it involve Richard?
If it did, then that concerned the ranch—and Derek.
He shook his head. It may not have been how he planned it, but if he had anything to spare, it was time. Time to understand whatever secrets lay hidden beneath the surface of life at the ranch, and time enough to resolve them. Patience, whispered a sixth sense he’d learned to rely on through all of the war and beyond, isn’t a virtue or a luxury. It’s a necessity.
Reaching the edge of town, Derek cast an indifferent glance at the first house, then, blinking, stared at the tumbled-down old structure. Good God, had he been overly optimistic about everything? The building listed to one side, tattered and disheveled. An overgrown tangle of grass and weeds surrounded the porch and crept up the front steps.
“Looks worse than the ranch.”
Derek glanced at Gideon and lifted one eyebrow. “That takes some doing.”
Gideon shrugged and a faint sparkle lit his eye—as close to smiling as Derek ever saw him. “You said you didn’t know what to expect. I figure that applies here as well as the ranch. Maybe more.”
This much of Twigg hardly represented the bustling little township that Frank Edwards’s letter had described. “Definitely it applies here,” Derek agreed. “Things don’t seem quite…right.”
Gideon nodded shortly, his gaze tracking left and right with sharp precision. Derek had seen it done too often to mistake the action for anything other than the defensive practice it was. Even with one eye missing, Gideon was more alert and observant than most men—and Derek had known some of the best.
At least at the beginning of the war, he amended regretfully. Many were gone now. Somehow even the best men made mistakes at times, and after four long, bloody years, mistakes began to catch up with a man.
Derek had made his share of mistakes, and most had caught up with him. Even some he’d never considered mistakes. A sour taste tickled the back of his throat, and he swallowed it down.
Later, he snapped to himself. You don’t have time for regrets now. You did what you had to do, fought where you had to fight. You don’t owe explanations to anyone—especially anyone here.
“I don’t know what it is about this place,” Gideon said after a moment, “but I don’t like it.”
“You’re thinking of moving on, then?”
“No, not yet. I want to see just what it is that has my gut twisted like it hasn’t been since…”
“Appomattox,” Derek finished for him, and neither said anything more. There was nothing left to say. Some things about war didn’t change, no matter who a man chose as his enemy. His life and Gideon’s might have been far different before the war, but the fighting had changed all that. And later, after General Lee surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse, nothing was the same for anyone. Life before the war seemed all but meaningless now.
Derek’s interest sharpened as they neared the center of town, much as Gideon’s vigilance seemed to grow keener. He knew well that his uncertainty came from little more than a gut feeling, but he’d learned the hard way that his instincts were right more often than not.
“There’s the bank.” Derek pointed to his left and reined Charlie to a halt. “You want to look around town while I meet with Edwards?”
Gideon pulled up next to him. “Yeah.” He tilted his hat, deepening the shadows that shielded his face, and slanted his good eye toward Derek. “I do.”
Derek dismounted and tethered his horse, while Gideon did the same. “I’ll meet you at the mercantile in thirty minutes,” said Derek as he headed for the bank.
Arriving, he probed the lobby with a keen gaze. Dark mahogany woodwork dominated the room, polished to a high shine. A marble-topped counter, graced with ornate scrolled bars, divided the room. A sour-faced clerk frowned silently from the safety of the teller cage.
“I’m looking for Frank Edwards.”
Wordlessly, the man pointed to a door with Franklin Bacon Edwards, Bank President inscribed on its window glass. Derek knocked once, entered, then closed the door behind him. The man seated at the large, mahogany desk looked up, irritation sketched clearly on his features.
“Edwards.”
The man’s eyes grew wide, but then a smile lightened his expression and he stood. He was of average height, but his stomach protruded with amazing girth. His large drooping mustache and graying mutton chop whiskers swallowed half his face, except for sharp, rapidly blinking eyes that gave him the look of a large, overfed rodent. His dark, tailored suit enhanced the effect.
“Ah, Mr. Fontaine, I presume?” Edwards said with forced cheer as he offered his hand. “You look remarkably like your uncle.”
“So I’m told.” Derek accepted the handshake but withheld his smile.
“Your message came from Chicago—quite a distance from Charleston. I tried to reach you there first.”
Derek shrugged, not tempted in the least to explain how he had ended up in Chicago after the war. He had no reason to trust this man with his confidences, so he merely said, “There wasn’t much left in South Carolina. I decided to move on.”
Edwards
