Shades Of Gray. Wendy Douglas

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      Amber had positioned herself in the midst of it all. She crouched in a sea of green, plucking at the plants around her and dropping her harvest into a bucket. And she was humming. Her light soprano voice made the strains of Dixie a happy, festive tune, a melody full of joy and life as it had once sounded, before pain and death transformed it into something melancholy and mournful.

      She seemed content. Derek slowed, blinking as he considered the possibility of contentment…happiness. Both seemed foreign to him. Had he ever known a life that held any part of such simple emotions?

      He dropped his bedroll and knapsack to the ground and moved closer, drawn almost against his will. “I heard Abe Lincoln asked for that song to be played at the White House just after the war and before he was assassinated. Said it had always been a favorite of his.”

      Amber shrieked, a small yip of surprise, and shot to her feet, trying to spin around at the same time. She scrambled for balance and almost knocked over her bucket in the process.

      “You frightened me!”

      “Sorry.” He frowned, chastising himself. Why had he said something like that? Referring to Lincoln—to the war at all—was a foolhardy thing to do for a man in his position, even with old friends. And he didn’t know a damned thing about Amber Laughton.

      He examined her with a slow, deliberate gaze. He had never seen hair quite the color of hers, a rich reddish-brown that shimmered with burnished bronze highlights. Reckless curls escaped at her forehead, her neck, and tempted him with a hint of wild beauty. Her thin, elegant nose angled above full, raspberry-red lips. Her eyes flashed with a verdant, sparkling green, and seemed to see far more than they revealed.

      Her hands appeared nervous as she wiped them on her apron, already stained brown and green, and her voice intrigued him with its anxiousness. “I’m not usually so skittish. I was thinking. About the garden, I mean. The summer squash looks good, and we may have some black-eyed peas ready in a week or so.”

      Derek flashed a quick, mostly disinterested glance over the greenery behind her. “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t know anything about gardening.”

      “Of course.”

      “Are you responsible for all this?” He motioned in a grand gesture.

      “Keeping house for your uncle wasn’t difficult.” She shrugged, making no attempt to meet his gaze. “He was very tidy in his habits. It made sense that I take over the cooking and the gardening as well. It kept me busy.”

      Derek nodded slowly, as though he accepted her explanation—and he supposed he did. At least in part. She said all the right things, the things he expected a woman in her position to say, and yet she spoke with singular deliberation, as though she weighed every word with particular care.

      Why?

      “What about the rest of the place?” He went on the offensive.

      “What about it?”

      “It’s a mess.”

      “I beg your pardon!” Her eyes popped wide, and her lips tightened with obvious irritation.

      “Please, Miss Laughton.” He made no effort to disguise his impatience. “It’s obvious the place is falling apart. I’d like to know why.”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      Derek reached up to the back of his neck, massaging the tense muscles that refused to relax. Maybe this wasn’t the best time for this discussion; he’d only just arrived and hadn’t yet done a proper reconnaissance.

      He opted for courtesy. “How long have you lived here?”

      She narrowed her eyes with notable skepticism. “More than two years now. I came as your uncle’s housekeeper—and his friend—and stayed after he…” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes darkened with what Derek assumed was remembered pain.

      “Died.” He supplied the word with a trace of impatience. It may have been a heartless reaction, but it shouldn’t have been necessary. Richard’s death wasn’t recent. And his housekeeper still grieved?

      And what about his housekeeper? Derek couldn’t ignore his doubts. Why would a beautiful young woman confine herself to keeping house at a remote ranch, and for a man old enough to be her father?

      Unless…she had no family or friends to whom she could turn. Or none who would claim her. He blinked, startled by the innuendo. Unless she defined friend differently than he did.

      “Did you know Richard before that?”

      She smiled thinly, as though she recognized his suspicions. “Yes. I knew him for more than ten years.”

      She didn’t give much ground, he noted. “I hope you understand that I’ll have many questions about the ranch, and my uncle. We weren’t close, and I find myself at a sudden loss here.”

      “Richard was a wonderful man.” She shot him a spirited glare. Intrigued, he looked closer. “He was a good friend, especially when—others needed him most.”

      “If you say so.”

      She drew in a sharp breath and stepped back, away from him. Her eyes flared with fiery green sparks, an eloquent conviction that she’d hidden until now. She blinked slowly and then expression and fire disappeared as she fixed her gaze beyond his shoulder.

      “I think it’s time I showed you the house.”

      Guardedly he studied the woman who stood before him, uncompromising and proud. She wasn’t nearly as detached as she wanted him to believe. She cared, and passionately, about certain things, certain people. And Richard seemed to be one of them.

      Had she been his mistress?

      Chapter Two

      Amber arched across the mattress, stretching to tuck in the sheet. After three days of making Derek’s bed, she concluded the man was a persistently restless sleeper.

      His sleeping habits are none of your business. Her cheeks flushed with a dull heat that seemed to haunt her whenever she was in his bedroom. Proving your worth as his housekeeper is the only thing that should concern you at the moment.

      Surely he would retain a good worker.

      The subject hadn’t come up yet, but she didn’t delude herself. It was only a matter of time.

      And then?

      Amber ran her hand across the sheet, smoothing out the smallest wrinkle. She continued to hope that she could convince him to keep her on as his housekeeper, but he’d given her little encouragement thus far. Any plans he had for the ranch he was keeping strictly to himself. He had, however, begun to ask questions. Questions about ranch operations, about Richard, about everyone and everything. Questions she’d done her best to avoid.

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