“Boss? You in here?” Whitley barreled into the cookhouse, scouring the room with wide, sullen eyes. The youngest vaquero at the ranch, he retained the thin wiriness common to boys who had not yet reached their full maturity. Amber had rarely seen him with anything but a brooding expression on his face.
Derek turned, and she heard him sigh. “What?”
“Gideon said to fetch ya.” Whitley’s voice carried an unmistakable edge, sharp enough to approach the point of disrespect. “There’s a man here lookin’ fer work.”
Derek blinked. “Good.” He spoke as though he didn’t notice the insolence, but Amber knew better. Derek missed nothing. “I’ll be right out.”
“I dunno, boss. We need men, but…”
“But what?”
Amber glanced out through the window once more, but she could see only Gideon’s back and the well-ridden gelding that stood next to him. Curious, she looked from Derek to Whitley.
“Well, I dunno what he can do. He ain’t all there.”
“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