No Strings Attached. Susan Andersen

and paid for with the life and death of his uncle Richard. And Richard had been a friend to Amber—and more—when she had needed him most.

      But none of that would matter to Derek. The bleak look in his eyes, his stiff back and unyielding shoulders told her that much. He was the kind of man whose loyalties belonged only to himself, and that could mean anything for those who remained at the ranch. He was free to do whatever he chose with the Double F and its employees. He could keep them on or not.

      Amber’s breathing settled with a soft grunt as the men disappeared into the barn. Derek, she was coming to realize, had a marked presence that put her on edge. Nothing about him gave the impression that he was simple or easygoing, nor did he seem much like Richard. Rather, he unnerved her with a hardness, a fierceness, that had become all too familiar in the last few years—ever since men had begun returning from that cursed war.

      But that didn’t matter right now, and she couldn’t afford such distractions. Amber brushed the back of one hand over her forehead and turned toward the garden. The past was over and couldn’t be changed. All that mattered now was Derek Fontaine’s arrival, and his right to be there.

      She had prayed this day would never come, but it was here—and with it, the choices she had always known would be hers. Really, there was no choice at all. She had never expected a guarantee once Derek Fontaine arrived.

      Now what?

      Amber swallowed and knelt among the dill plants to take up where she had left off. If he wouldn’t let her stay, where in the world could she go?

      What the hell were you thinking to head south again?

      Derek couldn’t stifle the question, any more than he could ignore other, similar sentiments that had occurred to him countless times since he’d left Chicago. And he had no better answers now than when he’d started. In fact, he had nothing but more questions.

      He left the barn, his bedroll slung over one shoulder and a knapsack in the opposite hand. Charlie was bedded down safely, leaving Derek with nothing but questions—serious ones—about the ranch and its operations.

      He slowed, glancing around, then stopped shy of the drive, flexing his shoulders with an absent frown. Now that he’d arrived and faced the reality of inheriting a cattle ranch, a new and deeper tension settled at the base of his neck.

      Shit. The place was a damn mess! The barn door hung crooked, the corral fence had broken and missing railings, and he’d gotten just close enough to the bunkhouse to recognize the unmistakable stench of rotting food. What would he find when he looked closer?

      Just your luck. The mocking snicker came from inside his head, a voice that sounded remarkably like his father. No—not his father; the correction came quickly. He’d never heard his father’s voice. He was thinking of the man who had married his mother.

      Precisely. It sounded like Jordan Fontaine at his most sarcastic, and the voice continued. Your inheritance is falling down around your ears. Just as you deserve.

      “Well, so what if it is?” Derek muttered. The defiance in his tone sounded disagreeably childish, and he sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” He added that for himself, certain it was true. He’d never expected to like this place to begin with.

      But it was his now…and he had nowhere else to go and nothing to do.

      He blinked, then cast another look around him. What counted was the ranch—the land. In that way, he must be like Richard, for that’s what he was after. Land, and nothing more. No emotions and no regrets. Land…with the isolation it offered, the solitude he craved.

      In a perverted sort of way, he supposed, he’d earned it. The hard way. Being the bastard son of a man who could walk away without a backward glance—not one in thirty years—should afford Derek some advantage.

      He shifted the weight of his bedroll and started for the house again. He found it laughably ironic in a sad, sick sense that Richard had left his ranch to Derek. Richard, the man who had been there for the biological part of fatherhood and nothing more, then had disappeared into the wilds of Texas, seeking adventure and fortune. And Derek, the son nobody wanted.

      Oh, yes. He would say he had earned every damned acre of this place. But if his father—if Richard—had loved the place so much, why had he let it go to hell this way?

      Nearing the back of the house, Derek realized that the house proper, the cookhouse and the yard all appeared to be better cared for. He credited Amber with the improvement, since she had taken responsibility for the garden.

      And what a garden it was.

      The plot was large and thriving, with long, straight rows of young, healthy-looking plants. They stretched to the creek that ran in the near distance, bright yellow puffs of flowers standing as sentries at the end of each row. A large cottonwood and several smaller trees provided ample shade along the creek bank.

      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