Derek stood at the base of the porch steps, his head back, and he seemed to be staring directly at her. Darkness concealed the fine details, but she didn’t doubt for a moment that it was him. His size, his bearing, everything about the man marked his identity.
How long had he been there? And more importantly, how was it that she could recognize him so easily, after no more than a few days’ acquaintance?
“It’s a lovely evening,” she said softly, the first thing that came to mind. The politeness of her voice seemed oddly appropriate, considering her earlier bad temper.
“You seem to be enjoying it.”
“I am. We won’t be so lucky this summer.”
He shrugged. “I’ve endured worse.”
Worse? Amber kept the question to herself. Derek seemed to care little for the comforts of civilization, yet Richard had described life for the Fontaines of South Carolina as being one of privilege and luxury. Then again, she remembered Richard sharing other stories of living in the bosom of the family.
“Richard described summers in South Carolina as being…difficult, I think was the word he used.”
“My—he told you of his life there?”
Amber nodded, then realized that Derek couldn’t see her through the darkness. “He talked of Charleston and your family on occasion. He loved it, missed it, I think, but he seemed satisfied with his life.” She smiled fondly and settled back in the rocker. “He was an adventurer, he said, better suited to conquering new worlds.”
Somehow the evening shadows seemed to ease her discomfort with Derek. Perhaps it gave her the illusion of anonymity? Or perhaps it was because she couldn’t see his fallen-angel features and bleak eyes, that face of Richard’s that wasn’t Richard at all.
“An interesting assessment of my uncle. Not one I would have made.” Derek’s voice carried an unmistakable edge of disapproval. “Since I hadn’t the pleasure of meeting Richard, however, I’m hardly qualified to disagree.”
“I think it was his love for your family home that kept him from adopting a more traditional Texas style for the ranch house. Adobe was fine for some of the buildings—” she waved a vague hand toward the assortment of shadowy outbuildings “—but it wasn’t right for his home. I gather there are similarities between this house and the one at Palmetto?”
“I suppose, from a nostalgic viewpoint.” Darkness shifted around Derek as he moved, and his boots thudded against the wood of the steps as he started upward. “I understand that Richard started with very little here. He did well for himself.”
“Yes, he did well, but it was never easy. He worked very hard. He told wonderful stories of how he slept out in the open at first, capturing a few wild mustangs and some longhorn cattle.” Amber smiled, the reminiscence giving her real pleasure. It came as a distinct relief from sidestepping the ceaseless, difficult questions that had preoccupied Derek until now. “He didn’t construct the house until he was able to find the original Spanish land grant so he could purchase the property.”
“Sounds like the mark of a good businessman.”
An unusual emphasis on the words alerted Amber to some skepticism. “You disagree with his reasoning?”
A rustle of fabric left her wondering if he shrugged, then she caught the dismissive wave of his hand. “You tell me how effective it was. The place is all but falling down around us.”
“It is not!” She surged forward, and her goodwill toward him disappeared with the last emphatic word.
“Of course it is. Why are you so defensive? Have you taken a good look around you lately? There’s more to fix than there is right.”
Amber found herself on her feet, the rocking chair clattering behind her. “That may be, but it’s not because of incompetence or mismanagement on Richard’s part. Don’t even think such a thing! There may be some problems, yes, but aside from his death, it’s because of—”
“The war, I know.” He cut her off, his voice sharp. “I know all about the war. Frank Edwards gave me the same excuse. I didn’t believe it any more coming from him.”
“Of course it was the war,” she snapped, unable to stop herself. “Everything goes back to the war these days. But there’s more to it—you must know that. There was the cattle rustling. And Richard’s death.” The words ran out as hastily as they had come, leaving Amber momentarily breathless.
“Ah, now there’s another interesting topic.” Derek sounded indifferent—disturbingly so. It sent Amber’s nerves screaming and did nothing to restore her breathing. “Rustling,” he continued. “And murder.”
“What do you mean?”
“I get the impression your father didn’t exactly die of natural causes.” He neared the top step and stopped, but his words continued as her heart began to pound. “Nor did Richard, it seems. Why didn’t you tell me he was murdered by rustlers?”
Amber gaped at him, but the darkness revealed nothing. “You didn’t know how he died?”
“How did you think I would find out?”
“The same way you found out you’d inherited the Double F. From Frank Edwards, I suppose.”
Derek laughed, but it was a sharp, hostile sound. “It seems there was a lot Mr. Edwards neglected to tell me.”
Amber nodded in spite of herself. She never would have expected to agree with Derek, but he was right about Frank Edwards. Still, she chose her words carefully, fearful that saying the wrong thing would shift his attention back to probing for details of her father’s death. “It has been my experience that Mr. Edwards has a habit of…reordering the truth to suit himself.”
“You mean he lies.”
“He likes things tidy. Arranged as he wants them.”
“Dammit, Amber!” The words erupted from Derek, startling her with their strength and volume—and his use of her given name. Until this moment, he had not referred to her by any name at all.
“Why is everything such a holy secret around here?” he demanded irritably, climbing the final stair. “Why won’t anyone talk to me?”
“We are talking to you,” she said softly, firmly, holding her ground despite the temptation to step back. “You just don’t want to hear the answers we have. There’s nothing we can do about that.”
The night fell quiet for a moment that grew painfully long.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Derek’s voice sounded mild enough, but it carried a razor’s edge all the same. “That reminds me, I have a message for you.”
“A message?” Her fingers began trembling, and she wove them together tightly.
“Regards. From Clem and Twigg Andrews.” Derek stepped forward until he was within arm’s length of her.
“You met the Andrews brothers.” Ordinarily she would have smiled to think of the eccentric old men, but she couldn’t seem to muster one now.
“Among other people. They’re an interesting pair. More intelligent than their nephews. Bill or Whitley. Bill’s a bit fussy, but he doesn’t have Whitley’s temper. The old men are more honest than Frank Edwards. And friendlier than Eliza Bates.”
Amber blinked and wished the darkness away, feeling an acute need to see Derek’s face.
He’d met Eliza Bates.
Dear Lord, why her, of all people? Had she been alone, or had Melinda—or, worse, Jeff—been with her? Amber couldn’t ask such questions, but she managed what she could. “You met a number of people.”
“I