No Strings Attached. Susan Andersen

you said, Mr. Edwards, it’s my ranch now.” Derek offered a sparse, distant smile. “However, I am not prepared to rush into ill-advised changes at the moment. You will find that I never make rash decisions.

      “In the meantime, I have other concerns about the ranch and its financial situation. And I’d like to arrange for a personal account with your bank. If you don’t mind…”

      Edwards nodded, perhaps a bit eagerly, and Derek felt a coil of apprehension relax inside him. He understood this man and his desires; he was a businessman, and Derek had money. Not a fortune, perhaps—a major’s commission hardly made a man rich, but there had been precious little on which to spend it during the war. In these days of reconstruction, it was more than many had. Not that he intended for Edwards to know exactly what he had or how he’d acquired it.

      No, he would show the overfed rodent just enough to make them friends—good friends in Edwards’s eyes. And then?

      Well, maybe then Derek would have the means to get answers to some of his other questions.

      Chapter Three

      Andrews Mercantile looked like a thousand other general stores that had sprung up in the fledgling towns that had begun to dot the West. Derek stopped just inside the doorway and glanced around, inventorying the crowded interior with narrowed eyes. Groceries, dry goods and hardware filled the shelves. Kegs and barrels of sugar, flour and molasses littered the floor, squatting next to half-filled sacks of potatoes, onions and other produce.

      Several women stood in a semicircle near the dry goods, murmuring among themselves, while two old men sat crouched on a pair of stubby, three-legged stools next to a cold woodstove. A middle-aged man, the proprietor, no doubt, shifted canned goods on a shelf to make room for more.

      “Them wimmen cackle like a bunch a’ chickens.”

      “Flock.”

      Derek followed the voices and found himself looking at the old men. They stared back. “I beg your pardon?”

      The thinner of the two, balding on top and scowling, jerked his head in the direction of his companion. “A flock. A group a’ birds is a flock. Clem called them a bunch.”

      “Dang it, Twigg.” The other man, really no heavier, with fewer hairs and an almost identical sour expression, spoke up. “It don’t matter about the damn birds. I was talkin’ about the wimmen.”

      The corner of Derek’s mouth kicked up in amusement, then faded in bafflement. “Twigg?” He stepped closer. “Like the town?”

      “Yep.” The old man straightened with peremptory pride. “They named the town after me. We was the first ones here—the founders. Clem wanted to name the place after him, but that ain’t no name fer a town. Clem!” He snorted.

      “Yer him, ain’t you? The new feller at the Double F.”

      Derek hesitated, then nodded. “I’m Derek Fontaine.”

      “Ha! I knew it!” Clem slapped his knee with a liver-spotted hand. “Yer Richard Fontaine’s nephew, all right. I’d recognize you anywhere. You look just like him. Pay up, Twigg.” He held out the same wrinkled hand, palm-up.

      “Dang it, Clem, when he come in you said you never seen the man before. Now yer sayin’ you knew him all the time. That’s cheatin’ an’ I ain’t payin’ no cheater.”

      The old men’s quarrel took on a snappish tone, and Derek blocked them out with an ease that surprised him for a moment. But—no. It made perfect sense that the habits of the past remained deeply ingrained within him. Hadn’t he spent years listening to Jordan’s tirades and lectures, standing at attention before the old man’s desk with bright eyes and a thoughtful face, while his mind had darted off to a far different world?

      And later, when the noise and stench of thousands of men and animals, all crowded together in the hell that masqueraded as life in the army camps, had become too much, hadn’t he stolen away inside himself for his own private solitude? He’d escaped that and more rather than dwell on things far more oppressive. Things like the emotions conjured up by Clem’s observation.

      When he’d first learned that Richard was his father, Derek had embraced the news with equal parts relief and fury. Relief because it explained so much—and fury for the very same reason. He had never seen a portrait, tintype or photograph of his father, if any had ever existed; even the mention of Richard’s name was banned in Jordan’s household after the death of Derek’s grandmother. As a child Derek had never understood why there were so few opportunities to learn about his “uncle” Richard. Now, none of it seemed to matter.

      And how odd to realize that, in order to see his father’s face, he’d only needed to look in the mirror. But, damn, he was tired of hearing how he looked just like the man.

      “Did they, young Mr. Fontaine?”

      The sharp voice recaptured Derek’s attention. “Pardon me?”

      “You deaf, boy? I asked if the law ever found out who kilt yer uncle.”

      A thousand denials shrieked in his head, each one fierce with disbelief. Derek blinked, gathering his concentration, before attempting to eye the men with cool calculation. “Killed…as in murder?”

      “Yeah, murder. Ain’t nobody told you nothin’?” demanded Clem peevishly.

      “Apparently not. Or maybe I’ve been talking to the wrong people.”

      “You have if you been talkin’ to Frank Edwards. He sits over there in that bank, thinkin’ he knows so much ’cause he studied that law and he owns the bank. Hell, he’s even been pretendin’ to run the Double F since Richard died. Well, let me tell you, he ain’t done nuthin’—an’ he knows even less. He oughta get out here with the rest a’ us, and he might figger a few things out.”

      “What’d he tell you, anyway?” Twigg asked.

      Derek hesitated. These men seemed to know more than he did, and his purpose here today was to get answers to his questions. He shrugged. “That Richard was found dead several miles from the ranch. That he’d been out alone and it looked like an accident.”

      “Accident, my foot!” Clem stamped the floor for emphasis. “He was shot—murdered—by rustlers. You mark my words!”

      “Rustlers?”

      “Rustlers. They been plaguin’ us since the end a’ the war. An’ everybody ’round here knows it. Edwards knows it, too. But maybe he didn’t wanna scare you off by tellin’ you the truth.”

      Richard had been murdered, and Derek had had no idea. He hadn’t even considered asking for the grisly details; after all the death and mutilation he’d seen during the war, it had seemed enough that dead meant dead.

      He should have known better.

      He took his time in answering. “Looks like I need to visit the sheriff.”

      “Bah, don’t waste your time on that worthless no-good nincompoop. There’s been nothin’ but trouble since he took over. First year there was that mess with the Laughton girl an’ her daddy, and then last year he let Fontaine git kilt.”

      “Uncle Clem, Uncle Twigg! Lower your voices, please! There are ladies present!” The middle-aged man strode over, his forehead creased in a harsh frown that looked remarkably identical to those of the men who were apparently his uncles. He turned to Derek, his frown easing until he looked as though he merely suffered from a severe case of dyspepsia. “I’m sorry, sir, if my uncles disturbed you. They can be quite a nuisance, I know. I’m Bill Andrews, and I’m the proprietor of this establishment. May I help you?”

      Derek settled his gaze on the man. “I’m Derek Fontaine. Has someone from the Double F been in for supplies today?”

      “No, sir, we haven’t seen Whitley—”

      “Whitley