YUKON TERRITORY WAS A GOLD MINER'S HEAVEN, AND DEVON O'SHEA HAD COME TO CLAIM HER SHARE....

But instead of a thriving store in a boom town, Devon O'Shea discovered she was part owner of a filthy, disorganized tent-% stuck in the middle of a godforsaken frozen Moose pasture with a bunch of motley gold diggers and a mountainous slap | of animosity for a partner: Stone Man MacKenna:

Gathering mop, Pail, and sheer determination, Devon vowed to make this post the best in Yukon Territory: Stone Man didn't scare her-not his bear voice, giant size, or eagle eyes... or threats of the bug-infested tent and bed they had to share. But his kiss-a gruff attempt to convince her that the Yukon was no place for a lady-left her feeling, for the first time in her life, feminine and alive.

Here in the green wilderness of the North, dreamers were, panning for bits of heaven. Here, perhaps Devon might find a handful of her very own after all.... \

Kristin Hannah is the

Winner of the Golden Heart/RITA Award ·

from the Romance Writers of America.

Cover printed in USA

ISBN D-4Mcl-m73b-3 14736>

27778 00499

Also by Kristin Hannah Published by Fawcett Books:

THE ENCHANTMENT ONCE IN EVERY LIFE IF YOU BELIEVE

A

HANDFUL OF

HEAVEN

Kristin Hannah

1&.: -:.:

FAWCETT GOLD MEDAL · NEW YORK

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

A Fawcett Gold Medal Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1991 by Kristin Hannah

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-91985 ISBN 0-449-14736-3 (

Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: September 1991 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4

To the men in my life, Benjamin and Tucker. I love you.

And to my mother, who always believed I could do anything.

Special Thanks . . .

To Rob Cohen and Elisa Wares, who gave me what every first-time author dreams of-a chance.

To Megan Chance and Nadine Miller for their unwavering support and excellent advice.

And, perhaps most importantly, to Andrea Schmidt, who kept my baby boy happy while I worked.

Prologue

smack,

1

2

yet,

that

Just once . . .

and

.it

m

4

trembling, he stripped off his huge mittens and eased the fur-lined hood from his face.

"Old Bill," Midas hollered at the Yukon's only mail carrier. "What the hell you doin' way out here?"

Bill tried to smile and failed. "Damn, it's cold out there," he muttered, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Curling his arthritic fingers around the hot tin, he lifted the cup and let the steam pelt his face.

"Come on, Bill. Whatcha doin' here?"

Bill took a sip before he answered. "I got a letter for Stone Man."

Everyone looked at Stone Man. He felt their eyes drilling through his chest. Mail was scarcer than gold on the Thron-diuck River, and gold was damned scarce.

Frowning, he walked over to Old Bill. As he entered the stove's small circle of warmth, an involuntary shiver rattled his bones. "Who the hell would write to me? I've never gotten a letter in my life. It must be a mistake."

Bill reached into his buckskin bag and withdrew a crumpled, dirt-smudged envelope. "It come outta St. Louis, and it's addressed to Cornelius J. MacKenna. That's you, ain't it?"

Stone Man took the letter in his weather-chapped hands and stared at it for a long moment. Whoever had written this letter had taken his time. The penmanship was flawless. Perfect.

It was an honest-to-God letter from someone out there.

His strong hands shook. Like the other hard-bitten, lonely souls who wandered the Yukon Territory, Stone Man had left civilization behind long ago. He'd come north because he didn't have friends or family or loved ones. He had stayed because he liked it that way.

And now ... a letter.

Awkwardly, his big fingers unaccustomed to the task, he opened the envelope and slowly withdrew the letter. The brushed, bumpy paper was folded in exact quarters, the edges aligned with military precision. Unfolding the paper, he began to read.

Dear Mr. MacKenna,

I take pen in hand to respond to the advertisement

5

which you placed in the St. Louis Post Dispatch. As it is now November, I can only hope you are still in need of assistance. If so, I would like very much to be considered for the position of partner in your trading post.

The terms stated in your advertisement are entirely acceptable to me. I agree to manage the post for one year in exchange for one-half ownership in the post plus room and board.

Although I admit to inexperience in such a venture, you will find me a hard worker, well organized, and willing to work for our mutual success. I will be eagerly awaiting your reply.

Sincerely, Devon O'Shea

P.S. Should you choose to take me on as your equal partner, could you please advise me as to what I should bring to make my time in the Yukon Territory more enjoyable?

He shook his head in disbelief. "Well I'll be ..."

"What is it?" came the miners' chorus.

He smiled for the first time in weeks. Why not? He could afford to be sociable. This Mr. Devon O'Shea had answered his prayers. In another few months he'd be left alone again. He wouldn't have to worry about running the post, and he could photograph wildlife to his heart's content. And he'd never, never find himself trapped in a room with chattering miners again.

He closed his eyes. It was almost enough to make one believe in God.

"What is it?" Midas demanded.

"It's a reply to my advertisement."

"What advertisement?"

"When you fools first started straggling into my valley, I ran advertisements in about ten big-city papers seeking a partner in the post."

"Why'd ya do a damn fool thing like that?" Midas cut in. "You're mean as a wet cat. Ain't nobody in the world you could work with."

6

Chapter One

Her

7

8

Oh my God.

Guide for Alaska and Yukon Gold Seekers?"

Guide

Guide

10

II

here?"

12

13

carry it off. It spiraled end-over-end like a dancing black bubble and landed in the brown river. With a silent curse she curled her fingers around the icy steel of the bike's handlebars and yanked hard.

The mud fought back. Rain hammered her face, pooling and clogging in her eyes and running in cold streaks down her cheeks. She licked the wet rivulets from her lips and swiped them from her eyes.

Sucking in a big breath, she pulled with all her strength. "Come . . . on." The words came out in two bursts of chattering teeth.

The bicycle popped free. She hauled it onto the canvas and lay it on its side, pushing slowly to her feet.

Panting, shaking with cold, she peeled the mud-blackened gloves from her hands and crammed them into her handbag. Staring at her treasured racycle, its bright red frame mottled with clumps and streaks of mud, she felt tears threaten.

She squeezed her eyes shut. No. She had to remain calm. Crying wouldn't help. Besides, it was only mud. What was mud to a Two-Speed, Changeable-Geared Racycle? A little water and the bicycle would be as good as new. One had to keep things in perspective.

Slowly she opened her eyes. Adventures, she thought grimly, were messy businesses.

Tilting her chin upward, she took her first step toward Mr. MacKenna's trading post.

It was the second step that nearly killed her. She plungi into the mud like a falling boulder. The black goo tonguedi her knees, curling cold and syruplike around her legs. Bits and chunks of it splattered up to her face, mingling with the rain and sliding down her wet cheeks in torrents.

She knotted her fists, fighting the urge to scream in frustration. Gritting her teeth, she plodded through the thigh-deep mud. Her skirts were a deadweight that fought her eve: step.

After what seemed hours, she stopped. Heaving for breath,! wiping the persistent rain from her eyes, she tried to focus. Something loomed in front of her. She blinked hard.

Slowly the blur cleared, and she could see a string of two-inch-by-twelve-inch planks stretched out before her.

"A boardwalk." The word came out in a soft, thankful sigh. She surged forward, stumbling blindly toward the nearest plank. Her foot came down hard on the board's edge, driving it deep in the soggy mud. Beneath her foot the wood shifted and shot forward. With a strangled cry she fell backward, landing flat on her back in the mud.

"Darn it!" she screamed, beating her ice-cold fists in the mud. She wanted to kick the stuffing out of something, anything, she wanted to-

No.

She had to relax, to get control. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she tried counting. "One . . . two . . . three ..."

She staggered to her feet. Slinging an arm around the nearest post, she held herself upright. Eyes closed, she tried to regain her breath.

Something cold and wet smacked her in the head. She looked up. Hanging above her were the dirtiest, ugliest, biggest pair of denim pants she'd ever seen. Scrawled across the seat were the words: MACKENNA'S POST.

It couldn 't be. Devon's every hope for the future vanished. She eyed the half-finished log cabin at the end of the muddy street, and disappointment settled rock-hard in the pit of her stomach. Her post could at least have been in the cabin.

Reluctantly she brought her gaze back to the filthy, grayed canvas structure in front of her. MacKenna's Post. Her post. The store she'd come halfway across the country and then some to run was housed in a dilapidated tent. A tent.

"Perfect," she said with a groan. "Just perfect."

Shoving through the flaps, she marched inside. Dead center she stopped, her eyes scanning the sorry tent in a heartbeat. About the size of an average dining room, it had sagging gray canvas walls, a mishmash of haphazard shelving, a tiny metal stove, and a filthy wood-plank floor.

Against the far wall a mountainous slab of humanity sat hunched behind the most lopsided, disorganized counter she'd ever seen. The thick, sharp odor of unwashed bodies and old food engulfed her. Her fragile control slipped a notch. This . . . this pigsty was the post she had intended to transform into a fashionable store.

"Mr. MacKenna?" she said stiffly, moving toward the

14

I'm your new partner

whooshed

Spit! \

his she d Louis Post Dispatch

15

Darwin was right.

our

Chapter Two

17

Thick, angry silence encased them. Mr. MacKenna's breathing quickened, punching through the quiet like a fist, spilling across Devon's face in hot, harsh bursts.

"Say something," she demanded. "An apology would not be out of order."

Nothing.

Exasperated, she broke eye contact. Staring at the row of small, nut-colored buttons that lined his tan flannel shirt, she crossed her arms. Beneath the sodden, wrinkled folds of her skirt, her foot picked up a staccato beat.

Darn him, she thought angrily, he wasn't going to be any help at all. Unless, of course, she wanted someone to load her trunks on a dogsled and hand her the reins.

As usual, it was up to her to solve things.

She set her mind to work. Her thoughts sped up one logical path and down another, seeking, probing, searching for a compromise, but every avenue of thought led to the same revolting but inescapable conclusion: They were stuck with each other. They'd both made a bad bargain, and now there was nothing left for them but to make the best of a horrid situation.

"There's no way in hell you're going to be my partner."

She rolled her eyes. "I am your partner."

"Holy shee-it!" boomed from the rear of the tent.

Devon spun around, her eyes drawn to the shadows huddled just outside the opening. Eavesdroppers! Snorting her

16

disapproval, she strode over to the opening and flung the flaps back. Three men stared back at her.

"Don't you gentlemen know how rude it is to listen in on other people's conversations? Where are your manners?"

One of the men-a boy, really-yanked off his hat and crushed it to his gaunt chest. The battered felt quivered in his shaking fingers. "I-I got manners, ma'am," he stammered, staring at his own hands. "I-I'm Cornstalk, ma'am. They call me that 'cause o' my yeller hair and my skinny . . .uh. . ."

Warmth flared in Devon's heart. It had been years since any man, boy or no, had been nervous in her presence. "Your height?" she offered.

He lifted his head just far enough to look at her. At her soft smile, he grinned. "Yeah. 'Cause o' my height."

A big, one-armed black man pushed past Cornstalk. He

smiled at her, a Santa-like grin that made his bright eyes

disappear into folds of flesh. "I'm Bear," he said, tugging

at the gray-white tufts of hair that spotted his cheeks and jaw.

So called for the fight I lost."

Her gaze flitted to his baggy sleeve. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. If you gotta be sorry for somebody, an' maybe you're that type o' gal, be sorry for the bear. That old coot's lying dead as Moses' toes, an' all for an arm he can't use."

Devon couldn't help smiling. Young Cornstalk looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks, and Bear-well, a woman with a good needle and thread probably wouldn't be turned away. For the first time in months she actually felt . needed. A ray of hope crept into her soul. Maybe she could make a life here after all. "Cornstalk," she said with a smile, "would you do me a favor?"

"Sure, ma'am."

Could you run on down to the riverbank and collect my things? I'd appreciate it greatly."

"You bet, ma'am."

She laid a pale hand on his forearm. "You're a real gentleman, Cornstalk."

"Gentleman. Shee-it," hissed the gnarled, bent old man standing beside Bear.

Midas ..." Bear's voice was a rumble of warning.

18

just

like

20

Devon ignored the ill-mannered outburst. "That should! be enough to get me back to Seattle. I have enough money) for the train trip cross-country."

Cornstalk skidded into the tent. "All done, miss. Youj* things're in the log cabin Crazy Spike started to build afore he died o' bein' shot in the back. Anything else I can do for] you?"

Stone Man pinned a cold stare on the kid. "You can ca: her across the Chilkoot on your back."

Devon snorted derisively. "I'm not crossing the Chilkooi Trail, Mr. MacKenna, so you can just put that out of yoi mind. I'm returning the way I came. By water."

"Oh, miss," Cornstalk said in a rush, "there ain't no gettin' out of here this year, leastways not by water. The only way out of here this late in the year is to walk."

"Get out," Stone Man roared. Cornstalk jumped like a scared rabbit and hightailed it out of the tent. "Is he telling the truth?" Devon whispered. "There's a way out, but not by water." "Oh, my God," she groaned. "I'm stuck. Really stuck.' "No, you're not. You're leaving here if I have to fling yoi like a rock."

Her head snapped up. "Enough is enough, Mr. M Kenna. This is all your fault. You placed the advertisemen and you accepted my application. You're the one who p tended to have a store and not some..." She glanced aroun in disgust. "Hovel with shelves. So don't you dare threatej me."

"No goddamn woman was supposed to answer. Yoi tricked me."

"Tricked you, Mr. MacKenna? Did you anywhere in ths advertisement specify that your partner had to be a man?" "Lady, I've had just about enough of you." "Oh, no, you haven't, Mr. MacKenna, not by a long shot If you didn't want a woman, you should've said so. But you didn't, and so here I am. Broke, stuck in the middle of godforsaken frozen moose pasture with a store that looks like it burned to the ground yesterday and a partner who look like he crawled from the rubble this morning." Her eye

21

narrowed with resolve. "Well, Mr. MacKenna, you wanted a partner, and you've got one."

"I didn't want you."

She smiled, a ghost of a grin that curved her lips without touching her eyes. "You aren't exactly hero material yourself, Mr. MacKenna. But what we wanted doesn't matter a bit. What matters is what we got, and what we've got is each other. I'm here for the winter."

"Over my dead body."

The smile slipped up to her eyes. "That would be preferable, I'll admit, but as it's unlikely, let's not waste time hoping. Now," she said, clapping her hands, "the advertisement said the partnership included room and board. Could you please show me to my room?"

The shadows exploded with laughter.

"W-What's so funny about that?" She glanced nervously at the men huddled behind the canvas wall. "The advertisement did say room and board, didn't it?"

A slow grin slid across Stone Man's bearded face. "Oh, yeah," he said, "it did. Standard room and board for the gold fields. Follow me, Miss O'Shea."

He led her to a small wood-framed tent not more than a hundred feet from the post. Easing open the door, he said silkily, "Here it is. Home sweet home for me ... and my partner."

Devon's eyes snapped up to his. "You don't mean-"

His gaze flicked through the open door. "Take a look at your new home. Yours and mine, that is."

Cold dread killed Devon's retort. Something in his eyes, something painfully akin to glee, chilled her to the bone. He didn't want to live with her any more than she wanted to live with him. So why was he smiling?

"Come on . . ."he whispered in her ear.

Suddenly she was afraid; the last thing in the world she wanted to do was to look inside the tent.

Her hands curled into tight little balls. This tent was her nome, and ignoring that fact wouldn't change it. Squaring

her shoulders, she turned stiffly toward the door.

One look inside and her legs turned to warm molasses.

Uood God" she groaned. "You must be joking."

22

23

"Do I strike you as a man with a sense of humor?"

Her stomach did a wrenching flip. The space was so small She could feel him beside her, his big body like a cloud foul-smelling smoke, hovering, plunging her into the dark < shadow.

He was gloating. She knew it without looking at him. He' thought she'd take one look at this . . . this . . . Words failed her. Nothing in her past had provided a word worthy of I"" place. Filthy rathole was far too kind.

The tent floor, what she could see of it beneath the laye of dirt and mud, was a series of rough-hewn planks chinke with gobs of moss. The planks formed a three-foot-high wall that ended where the taut canvas began. The ceiling sagge sadly, its once-white surface grayed by soot and smoke, the exact center of the room was a little sheet-metal bod perched precariously on wooden slats. If not for the batter metal pipe that rose from its misshapen surface and disappeared through a hole in the tent's ceiling, she wouldn't have known it was a stove.

There were no windows, and the air in the tent, if in truth there was any, was stagnant and fetid. The table was a thick board set on two stumps, and four stumps made up the chairs. Two hooks jutted from the left-corner support pole.

She immediately thought about the two trunks she'd packed so carefully. Then she looked back at the rusty hooks and< groaned. Her closet was a hook.

It was worse than she could have imagined. Much worse. She scanned the room for a bright spot, a ray of hope. There had to be some redeeming quality. She forced a tight-lipped smile. Maybe, with a little elbow grease . . .

She glanced to the left and froze. Every hopeful thought fled her mind. Her mouth dropped open. The word "no'* hung soundlessly on her lips. "It can't be . . ."

"Yes," came Stone Man's gloating declaration. "That^1) the bed."

Her eyes rounded in horror. There was only one bed. big, rough-hewn bed with a splintery partition down the middle.

One bed for both of them.

She forced herself to meet his triumphant stare."You mean

to tell me that if I had been a man, I would have slept there? With you?"

His grin expanded. "Yeah. All us miners sleep that way. It's warmer." He turned back to the others. "Go to the log cabin and get her things, Cornstalk, the lady's going home."

The tone of his voice struck her with mallet-hard force. Anger surged through her blood. "Don't move, Cornstalk," she yelled. "And you," she hissed at her partner, "you wait a minute."

"I'm just helping out."

"Don't help me," she snapped. "It's your help that got me here. Your help that has me standing in the middle of a darn tent, faced with the prospect of freezing my ... gentle parts for months in a rathole. So don't help me anymore."

"No, you're not."

"I'm not what?"

"You're not going to freeze your butt off until spring in my tent."

"Our tent," she corrected grimly.

"My tent."

She whipped the letter out of her handbag again. "It's our tent. Unless you're planning to build me one."

"Quit flinging that damned letter in my face like it was a presidential decree. I wrote it. We both know it."

Unfolding the letter, she held it up and read aloud, "As stated in my advertisement, you will be made my equal partner in the trading post immediately upon your arrival. The position requires full day work approximately eight months a year and includes room and board."

Folding the now-muddy letter back into precise quarters, she placed it in her handbag and glanced up at him.

His face looked hot enough to explode. "Lady ..."

Devon rammed her slim forefinger in his barrel chest and ·net his hard-eyed gaze head-on. "You don't scare me, Mr. MacKenna, not with your bear voice or your giant size or your eagle eyes. I don't scare easily. Now answer me: Is this °ur tent, or do you intend to build me one?" I can't build you a tent."

A frown darted across her brow. "Why not? It seems the simplest solution."

a- -" -

24

was

was

25

Chapter Three

i

plop.

27

Oh, yes, you are.

28

Shit!

standing

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\

31

you

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He rubbed his sweaty palms on the coarse denim of his pants. For the first time since he'd left prison, he wished he were a drinking man. A belt of Scotch would taste good right now. Damn good.

Wait a minute, he thought. Why the hell am I nervous? She was the one who ought to be scared. She was the one who was leaving-somehow. He didn't exactly know how he was going to do it, but he was damn well going to do something to make her run from him like a shot-at coyote.

Yes, she was the one who ought to be nervous. In less than twenty-four hours she'd be packing for a trip north, one that the scrawny little thing wouldn't-

Don't think about the hardship. It was her own fault she was up here. If she'd just been a man like she was supposed to none of this would have happened.

He'd just have to convince her highness to leave. How hard could that be? She was only a woman-and a damn stupid one at that. A smart one wouldn't have gotten off the sternwheeler.

He could outsmart her by a Yukon mile.

Smiling, he slipped into his mackinaw and started for j home. Nothing to it. By this time tomorrow the little lady with the uppity ways would be halfway to Fortymile.

And good riddance.

He stood outside his own door for a long minute, reminding himself that she was stupid and he was smart. Still, she had a way about her of making a man feel dumb. ...

Suddenly the door swung open, and there she was, standing right in front of him, her face all flushed and lively. Then-eyes locked. He felt his mouth drop open. She'd cleaned up, and she looked ... younger.

Guilt tickled his gut. The trails weren't kind to a woman her size.

"Mr. MacKenna?"

Her brackish voice ripped a hole through his thoughts. It wasn't his goddamn fault she was a woman. His mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth; his eyes narrowed. "You wasted water on a damn bath?" he growled. "There'd better be enough left for drinking, or you'll be the one hauling it."

The startled look froze on her face, and whatever she'd

been about to say vanished. Pushing past her, he barreled into his tent. Two steps in he stopped in his tracks. "What the . . ." He spun around, stabbing her with his eyes. "This place smells like a goddamn hospital."

She met his angry stare without flinching. "Better a hospital than a privy."

"Why you-"

She hurried to his side. "Let's not fight, Mr. MacKenna. I've made us a nice supper, and I would so hate to spoil it. Let's call a truce. Perhaps after eating we can reach a compromise."

He reined in his temper, forcibly reminding himself of his mission. Already he knew her well enough to know that if he antagonized her, she'd only dig her heels in deeper. And her goddamn heels were in deep enough now. "Okay," he mumbled, letting her help him out of his coat. "What's that other smell?"

A pained look crossed her face. "Supper."

"Oh." He watched as she smoothed wrinkles from his old mackinaw and hung it carefully on the lower hook. He snorted. The little priss was probably itching to iron it.

"Sit down, please," she said, waving her hand regally toward the table.

There was a bright red tablecloth on the table and two white cloth napkins. "Christ," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that, Mr. MacKenna?"

"Call me Stone Man. And I didn't say anything." He lowered himself to one of the stump chairs and scooted close to the table.

She buzzed around the stove, lifting lids, stirring, tasting, testing, opening the oven door and closing it. It made him dizzy just watching her.

"So, Mr. ... uh ... Stone Man, how long have you been in the Yukon?" Her voice sounded different, nervous. "It seems so desolate and lonely up here. But then, perhaps you're that type of man. I, myself, find that..."

Her words mushed together in his mind. She was chattering like a squirrel, and it was giving him a headache.

"How old are you?" he cut in when she took a breath.

A pot lid clattered noisily into place, and she spun to look

34

35

\

:<

Slow down. Think.

36

Damn!

I bet if one of us tried to get a little lovin', a proper lady like herd run for cover

Chapter Four

37

\ \

Damn.

No.

She was letting him kiss her!

40

41

He backhanded the moisture from his lips. "You bitch," he snarled.

"Perhaps," she snapped back. "But I'm not a whore, Mr. MacKenna, and the next time you kiss me, you'd better protect your ..." Her gaze lowered pointedly, "privates. A knee can be a powerful weapon."

"Lady, if there's one thing you're in no danger of touching, it's my privates."

She smiled grimly."And here I was thinking I had nothing to be thankful for."

Green-tinged light emanated from the battered tin lantern, creating a strange, unearthly pall in the tomblike tent. The Yukon stove sputtered and hissed, its metal top clattering at the fire's bright orange onslaught.

Devon was ready to scream. The only human sound in the, tent was the ceaseless staccato of her tapping toe on the planks beneath her feet. It drummed in her ears. She and Stone Man | had been sitting not more than five feet apart for three hours. In all that time not one word had passed between them. Not j a syllable.

Right now, she decided, even a grunt would be a relief.

In all her twenty-nine years she couldn't remember ever! feeling so edgy. He was making her crazy. She'd always hated J hostile silences. They reminded her of her father.

As a child she'd had no choice about how she lived. But| she was an adult now, and things were different-she made j the rules that governed her life. She refused, positively re-1 fused, to live like enemies for ten months. She'd spent her j whole childhood walking on eggshells around her father's! sullen silences and terrorizing tempers. She'd be darned if | she'd do that again.

Her foot stilled. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her head j and leveled a heavy stare on her partner."What's wrong with] talking?" she demanded.

He didn't even look up from the book he was reading.

She shot to her feet and started pacing. It was a struggle not to wring her hands together. Maybe a less shrewish approach would work."Shall we play cards? Whist, perhaps?"

Nothing.

She tried again. "How about a cup of tea?"

Less than nothing. She yanked hard on the reins of her temper. She wouldn't let him goad her into a tantrum. Forcing her lips into some semblance of a smile, she remarked, "Is that Treasure Island you're reading? I must say, I wouldn't have expected a ... man such as yourself to be-"

He slammed the book shut. "Shut up."

She smiled triumphantly. It might not be much, but it was better than that horrible silence. "I will not."

He flipped the book open again and pinned his gaze to the volume's water-warped pages. "Talk all you want, lady. From now on, I'm deaf as a post to your caterwauling."

Caterwauling! Her hands curled into white-knuckled fists. Oooh! He had a lot of nerve, slandering her conversational skills. Him! A big, dirty, disgusting specimen of a man who-

She gathered her wits about her. There was no sense in plunging to his Neanderthal level. Nice, intelligent people could argue without shouting, and she was certainly intelligent. "We are humans, Mr. MacKenna, and humans talk. That's the distinction between us and the animals." Her chin popped to a self-righteous angle, and she peered down at him from her loftier position. "Of course, with some of us, the line blurs."

The barb was delivered so calmly it took Stone Man a moment to realize he'd been insulted. When it sunk in he surged to his feet. "Who the hell are you to find fault with me? I am what I am. If you don't like it, get the hell out. No one invited you here."

Her lips tilted upward in the barest glimmer of a smile. "Not true. You invited me here."

His face turned purple. A small blue vein throbbed at his temple. "Quit goddamn reminding me."

A small sigh escaped her lips. There was no victory in baiting him. It was like taking candy from a baby. The only victory lay in remedying their animosity. Somehow she had to get him to observe the most basic social amenities. Otherwise ... she shuddered at the thought of "otherwise."

"Mr. MacKenna," she said evenly,"let's try to get along,

42

thunk.

His lips.

44

God almighty, bearer of all light-

\

45

46

47

48

She tried to hold her breath and talk at the same time| "I've come to work."

His head jerked up. He stabbed her with narrowed, anj eyes. "Go home."

"Shall we have this discussion again?" She trailed her forefinger along the nearest shelf top. A thick layer of dust stuck to her finger.

"Just go."

She walked up to the counter. Blowing the dust off her finger, she smiled as the cloud poofed in his face. "No more talking. I'm here to work."

He eyed her daisy-sprigged dress of lavender muslin and snow-white apron with contempt. "Doing what?"

She patted her bucket. "Cleaning."

"No."

"Yes."

His fist slammed hard onto the lopsided counter. A jar of penny nails crashed to the floor. The glass shattered on impact. A dozen or so rusty nails clanged against the weathered floorboards then rolled into the muddy cracks.

Devon flinched.

"No!" he roared. "My tent already smells like a god hospital. You aren't going to do the same thing to my post.

"Our post." She marched over to the huge cask of water sitting just to the right of the counter.

"You can't use that water for cleaning. That's for drinking, You want water for cleaning? Then start hauling it."

She splashed a ladleful of water into her bucket. Then another.

"Goddamn it," he bellowed. "Don't you listen to anyone?"

She flashed him a smile. "No. It appears to be the only thing you and I have in common."

He must have recognized the determination in her eyes, because he scowled and then plopped his furry chin in big palm. "Clean all you want," he hissed, "but say word and you're out." He waited a minute before "Cold."

Chapter Five

She was humming off-key. Way off.

Stone Man hunched his shoulders higher and burrowed his chin into his chest. Christ. She sounded like a throat-shot wolverine, whiny and pitiful.

It was giving him a headache.

He tilted his face just enough to skewer her with his eyes. His gaze was hard, angry. Whoever decided it was wrong to punch a woman hadn't met Devon O'Shea.

He let out a long, low sigh, wishing again that he was the kind of man who used his fists easily. Plopping his elbows on the counter, he eased his chin onto his steepled fingers and wondered why she couldn't at least be normal. Women were supposed to be stupid, sociable, easily intimidated by men.

All he'd wanted was someone to manage the post so he could take photographs. And what had he gotten? An obsessively chatty woman who picked up his boots before they hit the floor and thought like an army general.

Christ... He was more tied to the r-;.-¦.?aow than he was before.

He tried to drag his gaze away from her but couldn't. Of their own accord his eyes kept seeking her out. He couldn't help staring at her; she was so damn out of place.

He ground his teeth. If only she knew how ridiculous she looked, with her flowery dress and her curled-up hair. The throbbing in his temples intensified then slid down to the base of his skull and hammered.

49

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Shit.

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click, click, click

Shall I light the stove?

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Silly. him-

55

Righting herself, Devon stared at the hunched-over little hobgoblin, her smile fading. The little man was looking at her over his shoulder, studying her contemptuously.

She stifled a sigh. The last thing she needed right now was to face the old man's hatred. It had been a hard day.

"So, Stoneyman," he said, still staring at Devon."I guess we lost our bets. The bitch is staying."

Devon felt a flash of anger. She waited pointedly for Stone Man to say something. He didn't.

"Are you going to let him talk to me like that?" she demanded of her partner.

Stone Man shrugged. "You want protection? Get a dog."

"Why, you ..." She clamped her mouth shut. Silently counting to ten, she regained composure then focused a steady stare on Midas. "Are you here for a reason?"

Midas turned his back on her. "Stoneyman," he said pointedly, "I need some soup."

"So, get it."

Midas's banty legs moved like eggbeaters as he stomped| over to where the soup used to be. "What the hell . . Where's the damned soup?"

Devon hurried across the tent.

Stone Man followed Midas. "Just because the place is a little cleaner, Midas, doesn't mean ..." His words ground to a halt. He stopped dead, his eyes widening, scanning the counters. "What the hell? It's supposed to be here."

Devon could hear the rumble of anger in his voice, and she flinched. Some people didn't like change-at first. She figured Stone Man was one of those people. "H-Here it is," she said, pointing to the last row of shelves.

Both men walked over to where she was standing. They couldn't seem to keep their eyes off the perfectly organized, spotlessly clean expanse of shelving that lay between them.

Stone Man stared down at her. His whole face seemed clenched. "What is it doing over here?"

He was going to like it. He was. Once he got used to the system . . .

"Answer me!"

She wet her lips nervously. "Waiting to be purchased."

"What was wrong with the soup waiting where it was?"

"It was hard to find."

"Not to me. Or my customers."

"Well, it'll be easier for everyone from now on."

Stone Man slammed his beefy arms across his chest."And why is that?"

Devon couldn't contain her proud smile. "Because everything is in its place. Alphabetically."

A hoarse laugh shot out of Midas's mouth.

"Alphabetically?" Stone Man's voice was a low growl of disbelief. "You organized my store alphabetically?"

A frisson of discomfort crawled up Devon's spine. Why didn't he look pleased? "Y-Yes. It'll make things ever so much easier," she said, knowing she was beginning to babble but unable to stem her words. She always babbled when she was nervous. "You see, the soup is between the soap and the snow glasses. How could it be any simpler? Of course, it was difficult to decide whether the glasses belonged with the G's or with the S's, but I decided-"

"Most of my customers can't read! They wouldn't know a G if it rose up and bit them on the butt."

Devon's mouth dropped open, and her hand flew up to cover the opening. "Oh, my God, I never thought..."

"Get out!" The words were a lion's roar.

She forced her chin higher and squared her shoulders. "No. I made the mistake, and I'll rectify it. All I have to do-"

"Now."

"No."

His cheeks reddened. His eyes bulged. In one move he swept Devon into his arms and barreled for the tent flaps. "Stay here, Midas," he flung her over his shoulder. "I'll be right back."

Midas cackled gleefully. "Okay, Stoneyman. I'll start writin' the ABC's on the walls while you're gone."

Devon kicked and screamed in his arms as he lumbered across Front Street. At their tent he snagged the latchstring in his big hand and yanked. The door flew open, hitting the side support beam with a resounding thwack as he barreled through.

57

She pummeled his hard chest with her fists. "Darn you," she cried, "let me down."

"I'd be glad to."

Before she could find a breath to answer, she was flying through the air like a sack of potatoes. She hit the bed hard, sinking deep into the worn mattress. Dust poofed up from the filthy sheets, stinging her eyes, tickling her nose. She scrambled to her knees, crouching. Every instinct in her body screamed for primal release. She wanted to smack his leering face, to scratch his eerie gold eyes out. Her hands curled into hooks as she glared up at him, her eyes narrowed, angry, her breath coming hard and fast. "You-" she hissed.

He swooped down on her, taking her wrists in his hands. Her words died in a gasp. His hold burned, twisting her fingers until they relaxed. "Don't even think of doing battle with me," he said harshly, his eyes glittering like topaz shards. "I'm not like the men youVe known in St. Louis. I don't follow society's stupid rules." His voice dropped to a hush. "And I step on people who do."

His words were like a bucket of icy water on the fire of her anger. He meant it, she realized grimly. He would step on her, and up here no one would care.

It was sobering and frightening to realize how powerless and alone she really was. She was a woman unused to being afraid, a woman used to being in control. With effort she forced down her pride. This wasn't the time to react on a gut level. She needed to think, to analyze her predicament and devise a reasonable compromise.

"All right," she said shakily. "I won't do battle with you. I concede your greater strength. Now would you please let goof my wrists?"

His fingers flipped open. She jerked her hands back then laced her fingers together and laid them in her lap. Her neck bowed. Staring at her hands, so small and white against the wrinkled cotton of her apron, she took a deep, fortifying > breath.

"Devon?"

She didn't look up. She wasn't ready to meet the mocking triumph in his eyes.

His forefinger found the hollow triangle beneath her chin and forced her chin upward.

The look in his eyes wasn't what she'd expected. He looked old, and infinitely sad. And almost sorry. Her heart skipped a beat, and she couldn't help feeling a spark of hope. But then, she reminded herself, it never had taken much to give her hope. She'd always been an optimist-even during the bad days of her childhood.

"Devon," he said softly, "don't make us any worse enemies than we have to be."

She looked directly into his eyes, seeing for the first time the tiny mahogany flecks that darkened the amber orbs. "Why must we be enemies at all?"

The sadness in his eyes vanished, and they once again turned cold and distant. "It's my way. I don't like people."

She answered without thinking. "That doesn't make sense. I don't like beets, but when my Aunt Edna used to serve them on Thanksgiving, I ate a whole plateful."

He jerked his finger back as if burned. "/ don't make sense?" he asked incredulously. "I don't even know what you're babbling about half the time."

Devon realized her error instantly. Darn! What was it about him that disconnected her brain every time she opened her mouth? If she wanted to get through to him, she had to jam lots of meaning into a few well-chosen words. Babbling about Aunt Edna's beets was definitely a tactical error.

"I don't care whether you choked on every one of your aunt's slimy beets at Thanksgiving. I just want you to shut up. Is that asking so much?"

A question! He'd actually asked her a question. Now they were getting somewhere. She beamed. "Well, since you've asked, let me answer. You're my partner and my ... tent-mate; we can't spend seven months in total silence. I rather enjoy talking, and ..." She stopped. He was looking at her as if she were a rabid dog.

"Keep away from me, Devon, and keep away from my store. In fact, if you take one dainty little step into my post again, you'll find yourself swimming in the Yukon River. Am I understood?"

She gritted her teeth. Enough trying to be polite and civ-

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Chapter Six

his

Ha!

chose

Ue felt

Home Sweet Home.

maybe.

The Red Badge of Courage.

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Chapter Seven

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Father?"

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see

\

Good-old-spinster-aunt Devon. This woman, the look in her eyes.It's me. It's my future.

\

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Smack!

Smack!

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Chapter Eight

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Yet. There just had to be a window over the table. The sunlight in the morning is so pretty.

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was

did

Oliver Twist

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supposed

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listened

Chapter Nine

Click, thump.

click,

Thump.

you lose.

out

little

I'll

God

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I

back off, lady

* * *

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Bacon, two pounds, 80 cents; beans, five pounds, 75 cents; sugar, ten pounds, 2 dollars and 50 cents; coffee, three pounds, 3 dollars; jam, two jars, 2 dollars.

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Science of a New Life.

Stop it!

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Chapter Ten

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thunk.

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His eyebrows drew together, and a dark frown settled across his rawboned features as he picked it up.

Devon watched, fascinated, as Stone Man tugged the til off the shell and turned it upside down. Coarse gold flakes streamed onto the counter.

It was a long moment before Stone Man looked up at George. "This gold isn't from a river around here."

"Rabbit Creek."

Stone Man let out his breath slowly. "Shit..."

George grinned. "Yep. I staked my discovery claim. Now I'm on my way to find Ogilvy to record it. Just thought I'd pass by here and let you know so's you can pass the word."

"Sure," Stone Man answered in a voice so tired and old Devon barely recognized it. Without another word he swept the gold back into the empty shell and handed it to George.

Devon stood off to the side, uncertain as to what to do. Stone Man obviously didn't like George's news. But why? The discovery of gold in the valley, that was a good thing . . . wasn't it? And a customer with a shell full of gold; well, that simply had to be a good thing.

"Wait," she said as George started to leave, "would you like to buy some tarts or a piece of pie?"

"No, thanks, my Injun wife does just fine by me, missy."

Disappointed, Devon watched him leave. As she headed up to the counter, she noticed that Stone Man hadn't counted her words. That was a first. "Stone Man?"

"There goes Fortymile."

"What do you mean?"

"In the Yukon it doesn't take more than ten minutes to go from deserted valley to boom town. That's why we use tents- they go up and down quickly. Hell, the minute word of George's strike hits, there'll be men pulling up stakes from Fairbanks to Nome. They'll settle in so fast, my peaceful valley-"

"Customers!" Her face lit up. "Our post will be full every day."

"They won't all be miners. A few of the men headed this way will be store owners. By spring this valley'll be a goddamn town."

She chewed on her lower lip. Competition they couldn't

105

really afford-not with Stone Man's personality. "Well, we'll just have to be the best. I could maybe make some more-"

"That's it," he said tiredly, plunking forty matchsticks in the jar. "Go home."

"But-"

His fist slammed onto the counter. "Now!"

Devon spun on her heels and barreled for the door. Midas entered at the same time, and they rammed into each other. His contemptuous laughter rang in her ears as she stumbled backward.

"Leaving?" he mocked. "So soon?"

Forcing her chin a notch higher, she sailed past him without a word.

His hate-filled voice followed her outside. "Well, Stoney-man, ya got rid o' the bitch early today. Good goin'."

Devon stopped, waiting for Stone Man's response. There was none.

She clenched her fists in frustration. When was that man going to realize that partners stood up for each other?

Sitting across the supper table from Stone Man, Devon watched him push his food around on his plate. He was staring at his supper through wide, unseeing eyes. Not once had he lifted his gaze from the plate.

Her heart went out to him. He was so obviously upset. How, she wondered, could anyone get so upset over a little handful of gold?

But in her heart she knew. It wasn't the small amount found that bothered him. It was what it represented. A thousand greedy men coming to rape the land, and every one of them looking for that handful of golden dust.

For the hundredth time she pondered his prediction. Would the moose pasture be a town by spring? A town with real streets, real stores, real people?

Dare she hope?

"Stone Man," she began cautiously.

He lurched to his feet. Belching loudly, he backhanded the leftover food from his beard and threw his unused napkin onto the table. "I've got to go."

'{

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Friends

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OLEY'S FAMILY PILLS.

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were

cheechakos,

How could he be so goddamn stupid? like

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* * *

Chapter Eleven

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FRESH PIES, CAKES, BISCUITS, FREE TART WITH PURCHASE.

Pink.

\

Pink.

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He was going ta make her throw it away.

was funny.

that's

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Silence surrounded them as they each headed for their respective spots-he to the counter, she to the table. She did her usual things: she made coffee, she rearranged the pies and tarts, she dusted. But time and again her gaze returned to the man seated behind the counter.

More than once she thought of Father Michael's words: There's more to Stone Man than meets the eye.

By the next day their awkwardness with each other had passed. They were back to their silent, word-counting but comfortable routine.

Devon glanced around the post. Everything was as it should be, as it had been every day for the past month. Yet below the surface everything was different.

She felt differently today than she had yesterday. The laughter they'd shared had changed things between them. At least it had changed what she wanted from him. Nonhostility wasn't enough anymore. She wanted that laughter, that moment of caring back.

Maybe, she thought, if she could get him to help her put up the sign, they could find that closeness again. With that in mind, she stood up.

"Devon, sit down. It's still raining."

She plopped back onto her stool. "I know, but-"

"But you think if you pop up and check every ten seconds it'll stop?" He laughed. "Relax, your sign will go up today. It's only a flash rain. Dollar to a dog turd says it's sunny by two."

She smiled. "You'll excuse me if I find myself without a dog turd, I hope?"

He grinned and turned his attention back to his plates.

She cleared her throat. "I'm bored."

He plopped two matchsticks in the jar, then said, "You wanted to be a post operator."

"Maybe I could hum. That doesn't count as talking."

That got his attention. "No!"

"Well, do you have a better suggestion?"

Sighing, he shoved the plates aside. "How about a few hands of poker?"

"But I don't know how to play."

"Good, we'll play for money. Have a seat. Now, let's start with the rules. ..."

In the next hour the wind picked up, whistling through the patchy copse of aspen trees that bordered the tent. The rain's fury trebled. Hammerbolts of icy water thumped the post's sagging roof and coursed down its canvas walls. The brownish water of the Yukon River burped and struggled against its banks.

But inside it was warm and dry. The little Yukon stove sputtered and hissed, taking the chill out of the storm-dark midday air. The two partners sat across from each other at the scarred spruce table, their elbows resting on the wooden surface as they studied their respective hands.

"Aha!" Devon gave a short cry of triumph as she lay down two queens.

He frowned.

She leaned forward in anticipation. One by one he lay down his cards. Four, ace, four, six ... four.

She tried to act like a good sport about it. "You win. Again." Then she muttered under her breath, "Darn it anyway."

"Notice anything different, Devon?"

She took the cards from him and started stacking them into four neat piles, one pile for each suit. "No."

"The rain has stopped."

Her hands stilled. Her gaze shot skyward. "It has!" She jumped to her feet and raced over to the counter for her coat. Bundling herself up, she grabbed her petticoat, snagged a hammer and nails, and headed for the flaps.

"Ah, Devon?"

She stopped. "What?"

"Do you remember the day you arrived?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Do you recall being up to your ass in mud?"

"Oh, no."

"Don't worry. We'll get the damn sign up." Grabbing hold of the old table, he hauled it over to the flaps and shoved it through the opening. It immediately sank about six inches into the mud. He waited until it stopped sinking, then he tested it for balance.

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The Science of a New Life.

Are you thinking about our kiss?

She!

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Chapter Twelve

Fresh pies, cakes, biscuits. Free tart with $10

.

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free

with a ten dollar purchase.'1"

ignore the old fart.

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My partner.

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She leaned closer, stabbing him with her eyes. "I have] every right, Midas. I'm a Yukoner now, and all I ask is to be| treated like any other Yukoner. I want to be left alone."

Midas swallowed hard, his knobby Adam's apple sliding! up and down his thin throat. His eyes wore the wary, cornered look of a schoolyard bully who'd met his match.

"She's got you dead to rights, Midas," Digger said. "That's the code of the Yukon, and you gotta live by it. We don't harass each other. Hell, if we wanted people sticking their noses in our business, we'd live in San Francisco or| Boston."

Midas jerked to his feet. Wrenching his precious jug out! of Devon's grasp, he hugged it to his gaunt chest. His eyes! flashed with unconcealed hatred. "Lady, you want to be left! alone, you got it. I wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire. And I wouldn't eat one of your tarts if I was dying of hunger." He turned to Digger and Cornstalk. "Let's go, boys."

Digger grinned, his yellowed teeth glinting gold in the) tent's early-afternoon sunlight. "Naw, I think I'll just hang | around a while."

Midas harrumphed. "Cornstalk? You comin'?"

Cornstalk stared hard at his own hands. "I ... I reckon | I'll stay, too."

"Then stay, damn you!" Midas yelled as he stormed out] of the tent.

Devon smiled giddily. Stone Man had finally stood up for I her! She chanced another glance at him. He was still staring I at her. She felt his eyes, as liquid as maple syrup, envelop her. Pride shone from their golden depths. Very, very slowly, | he nodded at her.

His silent salute touched her heart. She couldn't remember the last time someone had been proud of her. When she was a child it had been her dearest dream that someday her father | would look at her like that.

She offered him a bright smile. He smiled back, and she I felt an almost blinding sense of joy. With effort she turned her attention back to Digger and Cornstalk. "So, boys, what was it you were going to say about Bonanza Creek? I really f do want to know."

Cornstalk grinned. "Oh, boy, Miss Devon. There isn't any gold in that durn creek!"

"Really?" she heard herself say, "and why is that?"

"Well, the valley's too wide-"

"The willows don't lean the right way-"

"Everyone knows George's strike is on the wrong side of the Yukon. . ."

Devon tried to concentrate on the men's theories but couldn't. After a few minutes she gave up even trying. All she could think about were Stone Man's eyes and the way he'd nodded at her in a silent acknowledgment. In that instant, that heartbeat when their gazes had locked, she'd seen past Stone Man's unkempt facade to the soul that lay within. In his eyes there had been pain and, more than that, there had been understanding. An understanding of what it meant to be left out.

Father Michaels was right. Underneath Stone Man's gruff, dirty exterior beat a heart lonely and aching.

A heart like her own.

At closing time Devon left the post's warm interior and stepped outside. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dusk-shrouded street.

She glanced left. A lonely copse of aspen, their bright-gold autumn leaves cloaked by descending night, huddled together against the wind. At the other end of the street, Joe Ladue's new sawmill/saloon stood silhouetted against the charcoal sky, its lightning-jar windows glinting silver in the moonlight.

A cold blast of air cut down from the hills, sweeping through Front Street with a howling sigh. She pulled her woolen cloak tighter around her chin, mentally thanking Stone Man for making her bring it. He was right again; autumn was melting into winter. The nights were getting longer and colder.

Thinking about Stone Man made her frown. He'd acted strangely this afternoon, and the change in his demeanor bothered her. After he'd stood up for her against Midas, he'd gone into one of his deep silences. He'd stared at her for the remainder of the day, but not once had he spoken or smiled.

128

thwack.

'¦¦

130

131

and

No. He had

i\

trying.

handsome.

i\

132

long ago it was better to shield one's thoughts and dreams. Especially from a woman.

He shrugged. "It was almost winter, and I can't stand a frozen mustache and beard."

Her smile flattened. "Oh. I thought..."

The disappointment on her face made him feel awkward. Cowardly. Damn it.

He'd planned this evening for her, to give her some of the warmth she'd given him. Why then, when it came time to actually give her something tangible like the truth, did he find himself slinking back into the comfortable darkness of detachment?

"No, that's not true." The words slipped out.

She looked up at him, surprised. "Oh?"

He wished like hell he had a beard to tug on right about now or to hide the heat he felt creeping along his jawline. Now was the time to tell her the truth. To make the kind of confession he hadn't made since he was seventeen years old; a confession that he cared.

"I shaved and all because I thought-after Midas-you might need some cheering up. He was wrong to yell at you like that, and . . . well, I know how much you care about shit like that, and I. . ."

"Yes?" she prodded.

"I didn't want you to feel bad."

Tears lurched into Devon's throat. She swallowed the lump, trying to dislodge it. He'd done it for her. For her. She felt special for the first time in her life.

She noticed the blush that stained his cheeks, and an almost aching tenderness unfolded inside her. He was so big, so rough around the edges; but inside, where it counted, he was as frightened and vulnerable as she.

"I don't know what to say. ..."

Stone Man jumped to his feet. "Thank God. Then let's do the dishes."

He grabbed the large metal washbasin off its hook behind the stove, filled it with preboiled river water from the cistern in the corner, and set it on the table. Adding the potful of water Devon had already heated, he dropped in a bar of lye

133

soap and swirled his hands in the water until it was a murky gray.

Scooping up the dirty enamel dishes, he tossed them into the washbasin. Grayish water splattered over the basin's curled rim, forming big blotches of darkening black on the tablecloth. He shot Devon a sheepish glance. "Sorry."

She smiled. "What's a little water? You want to wash tonight?"

"I guess."

Grabbing her dishtowel, Devon sidled up to him. Her skirts swayed softly, buffeting her ankles. She stared down at the washbasin, fascinated by the quick, sure movements of his hands as he washed the dishes. A patch of milky soap clung to the tiny black hairs on the back of his hands then slid slowly back into the water.

"You mind taking this plate before my hands prune up?" His voice held a suppressed laughter she hadn't heard before.

She giggled. "Sorry."

They washed the dishes and talked of little things; of their day, of the Yukon, of the madness that made grown men muck for gold so far from their homes. Every so often the sound of their mingled laughter filled the tent. Devon couldn't remember when she'd felt so good. It was as though the simple declaration that he cared for her had freed Stone Man. His icy detachment and surly defenses were gone. He was simply her partner, her friend.

She dried the last cup reluctantly, afraid that the spell would be broken when they stepped apart. She needed a plan to keep them together, and she needed it quickly.

As he hefted the washbasin and carried it to the door, she brushed past him.

"Where you going?"

"The cache," she answered, disappearing into the small canvas-covered enclave.

She barreled back into the tent in less than a minute, a green tin box clutched to her breast.

"What are you up to?"

"You'll see." She hurriedly put water on to boil then set a big cast-iron pot on the stove's red-hot surface. She plopped a dollop of bacon grease into the pot.

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wanted

137

Chapter Thirteen

Yes, I think it is.

she

need

It's someone else's story.

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"When father was drunk, he was mean," she said matter-of-factly. "He would scream and yell and rage. And there was the strap. ..."

The strap. She hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to think about it. But suddenly it was there, in her mind, and she couldn't dispel the picture of it.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately not to remember. Memories hurtled one after another through her mind: her mother, broken in mind and body; herself, huddled in a corner, watching it all and crying, always crying; her father's drunken, leering face and high-pitched holler. And the strap. Always the strap. An uncontrollable shiver swept Devon's body. Stone Man's hold on her tightened. "Did he hurt you?" His voice sounded angry, almost predatory. Devon flinched. "I told you not to interrupt." "Did he hurt you?"

She could tell he'd keep asking until she answered, so she did. "He didn't beat me."

It was the answer she'd always given herself, and it was true. He'd never beaten her, except in discipline, and then only when she'd deserved it by being a bad daughter. So why was it that whenever she thought of him she got a sick, hollow feeling in her stomach?

Such a pat, well-thought-out answer, thought Stone Man. The simple sentence tore at his heart. She was trying so hard to be calm, to be perfect. He felt a white-hot surge of anger at the man who'd taught her that only in perfection could she find love.

He didn 't beat me. The sentence was a shield, an automatic response she'd come up with to keep her analytical mind from digging any deeper.

But the pain was still there, buried just beneath her calm, rational exterior in a box marked DO NOT OPEN. He knew because he was thirty-nine years old, and he had the same pain locked away in his own soul.

She couldn't go on pretending she hadn't been hurt. If she did, she might end up like him, bitter and alone. He didn't know why the thought bothered him so intensely, but it did.

He had to help her. But how? Nothing in his life had pre-

1

pared him to take on the role of comforter. He reached out to her in the only way he knew; he tightened his hold on her body. Before he knew it he'd said, "Fists aren't the only way to hurt people."

She drew in her breath sharply.

"Let it out, Dev. I'm right here, I'll take care of you."

Amazingly she believed him. For the first time in her life she felt protected.

"He hated me." The three tiny words slipped from her mouth, and the moment they did they freed her.

Tears coursed down her cheeks. She wept; for the father's love she'd never known, for the mother's caring she'd done without, for all the times she'd stopped herself from crying. She cried until her soul was parched and dry, and there were no tears left to cry. When she was finished, she felt stronger. Whole.

She pulled a wrinkled-up handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. Cautiously she looked up at Stone Man. He was looking down at her, and there was a tenderness in his eyes that stole her breath.

The moment stretched between them, and slowly Devon

became aware of how she must look. Her hair had come

'oose and no doubt looked like a lopsided bird's nest. And

er eyes! Lordy, her eyes felt like sun-baked mud puddles,

U dry and cracked and red.

Smoothing the hair out of her eyes, she tried to smile. "Well, that was fan."

"Thanks for trusting me," he said softly.

That lump came back to her throat. She nodded, feeling the tears return to her eyes. The words "thank you" stuck in her throat. If she said them, the waterworks would start again.

Embarrassed suddenly, she groped for something to lighten the mood. To do something with her hands, she brushed the hair out of his eyes. That was it! Eyeing his hair, she scrambled to her knees. "Could I cut your hair?"

He didn't know what he'd expected her to say, but it sure as hell wasn't "Can I cut your hair?" He smiled. Leave it to Devon to spill her guts and then turn to cleaning. Please?"

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He shrugged. At that moment he couldn't have denied her a thing.

She leapt off the bed. Beaming, she rushed over to her armoire and returned with a big pair of silver scissors.

"Here," she said, patting the back of the stump chair, "sit down."

He did as he was told. She swept a dishtowel around his neck and clamped the two ends together with a clothespin.

"Collar length all right?"

He eyed the scissors uneasily. "No shorter."

The snip, snip, snip of the scissors filled the quiet tent, accompanied now and then by the sputtering flame of the lantern. Stone Man sat perfectly erect, his only movement the sporadic tapping of his foot on the hard wooden floor.

She edged sideways. Her left leg snuck up between his, burrowing past his knee and settling comfortably along his thigh. The contact jolted him upright.

"Sit still," she ordered.

He froze, his gaze glued to the softly swirling mass of skirting between his legs. He felt the heat of her leg through the wool of his pants. A jet of pure electricity shot up his thigh, landing hot and hard in his groin. He shifted his weight.

"Stone Man, sit still."

Was it his imagination, or was her voice huskier? Was she feeling it, too, this burst of sensation? He tilted his head back. Immediately he wished he hadn't. Her breasts were a hand's width from his face. He sucked in his breath hard. He held it as long as he could then let it shoot past his lips. It fluttered through the lacy edge of her crisp white apron.

The soft, slim fingers of her left hand slid under his chin,| exerting pressure for him to look up. He fought it, forcing himself to look straight ahead-right past her breasts to the sagging canvas wall beyond.

"Lookup."

Reluctantly he did and found himself staring right into her face. For the space of a breath he felt like he were drowning J in her eyes. It took a supreme effort to wrench his gaze away. |

Her nearness was giving him all sorts of ideas, ideas he shouldn't be having around a woman like her.

He broke out in a cold sweat. What the hell was he thinking? She wasn't a whore. . . . She was a lady. What in God's name did a man do when he wanted a lady?

The answer came swiftly. Run.

He jumped to his feet, wincing as his left boot heel came down on the scalloped edge of her underskirt. The sickening sound of rending cotton hissed through the tent.

Caught off balance, Devon stumbled into his chest. The scissors clanged to the floor amidst a shower of night-black hair. She flung her arms around his neck, clinging to him for support.

He felt her nipples harden, felt them push against the worn flannel of his workshirt like twin pebbles. Struggling for control, he stared at the ceiling. Concentrating on each breath, he willed his traitorous body to relax.

He felt the quick, almost birdlike movement of her head. She'd lifted her face to his.

Oh God ... He grabbed her by the shoulders, intending to push her away, but as his fingers curled around the softness of her flesh, he felt his control waver. Slowly, slowly, he pulled her to him.

When he looked down into her huge, expectant eyes, he was lost. In the deepest recesses of his tired, bitter soul, something warm and bright and almost hopeful unfurled.

"Cornelius?" Her voice was a throaty purr that slid down his ramrod-stiff spine like melted butter.

She was on her tiptoes now, her face within inches of his. He could feel the soft vibrations of her breath against his throat. Her lips were one quick movement away. . . .

She wanted him to kiss her, the little fool.

The realization that he wanted the same thing hit him like a lightning bolt. He swallowed dryly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to kiss a woman-a quick roll between the sheets, sure, but a kiss? An honest-to-God, lip-to-lip kiss? Never.

"Devon, don't be stupid." He tried to stifle the harsh, almost desperate tenor of his voice but couldn't. "You don't know what you're starting here."

She stared up at him unblinkingly. He was wrong. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it more than she'd ever wanted

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to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. Eyes closed, he leaned heavily against the tree trunk.

Yep, two days away from her and he'd be as good as new. "Stone Man" MacKenna.

But his last conscious thought before drifting off to sleep was of a pair of green eyes.

Chapter Fourteen

Devon curled her gloved fingers around the tin cup, drawing some small bit of warmth from the metal. She took a sip, sighing contentedly as the hot tea slid in a river of warmth down her throat.

From her seat beside the stove she glanced idly around the post. It was perfect, spotless. There was absolutely nothing to be done. Nothing.

Darn it. Stone Man hadn't been gone a week, and already she was bored to tears. And lonely.

"Hiya, miss."

Devon's startled gaze flew to the tent flaps. Digger Haines was standing just inside the post, and for the first time since she'd met him he wasn't smiling.

"Hello, Digger. Would you like some tea?"

He shuffled over to the little stove and pulled out a stool beside her. With a heavy sigh he slumped onto the hard wooden surface. "Call me Marvin. I don't feel much like Digger today."

Devon leaned toward him. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing much," he said with unusual bitterness. "I just made about the biggest discovery of my life, and I can't do nothin' about it. That's all." He stripped off his thick winter gloves and laid them on the floor in front of the stove. "Yeah, guess I'll have some o' that tea after all."

Frowning, Devon poured him a cup. "What do you mean?"

He took the cup greedily, wrapping his stubby fingers 151

He's gone, darn it. If he were so all-fired concerned about how she ran the post, he should have stuck around. A

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First December 1896.

Weather today is crisp and clear. No new snow last nightbuildup remains at approximately eighteen inches.

Several miners seen milling about the saloon this a.m.- apparently it's now too cold to be on the trail. Hard winter is close, and the men who have spent months mining Bonanza Creek are returning home.

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It's time he came home.

<

No!

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like her. could

cheechako,

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cheechako\

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Chapter Fifteen

Damn bees.

This isn 't the way it should have ended for you. Of all of us, you deserved better.

Don't start thinking about what he deserved. . . .

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Damn!

The Portrait of a Lady.

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It has to be done.

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Chapter Sixteen

Stone Man awakened with a smile on his face. Lazily he lifted his head off the pillow. For the first time in a week he didn 't have a headache. His smile expanded.

The first thing he saw was the woman stretched out beside him. Devon. In his mind the word was a caress. She looked breathtakingly beautiful and oh so desirable.

"Devon," he whispered throatity.

She blinked awake. "Morning," she purred.

He felt himself drowning in her eyes. He reached out to her. She snuggled closer. A lock of burnished russet hair twined around his forefinger, and it felt like a swatch of the finest French silk.

"I. . ."He stopped, suddenly awkward. "I don't know what to say. Words are so inadequate. But thank you for saving my life. It means a lot to me that you cared enough to bother.

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Goddamn it!

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cheechako

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No, goddamn it, I'm not all right. I haven't been all right since the day you came into my life.

Oh, Bear . . .

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You just plan that party, missy. I'll be there.

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Oh, God.

Oh my God.

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Chapter Seventeen

L

crack.

The little one ignored his friends' warnings. He marched right up to Midas. "Father Michaels tole us about St. Nick. Are you him?" he demanded.

Midas dropped down to one knee. "I sure am."

The minute the words were out of his mouth, Santa was swarmed. The children were all over him, giggling, teasing, testing his beard, poking his stomach.

"Whoa, kids, whoa," Santa said, laughing. "I got a job to do. I got some presents for you."

It was now or never. Devon glanced quickly around the room. Everyone was caught up in the excitement of Santa distributing gifts. Everyone, that was, except Stone Man. He was sitting by himself in the corner, eating the last piece of pumpkin pie.

She reached under the table beside her and grabbed the present she'd stowed there earlier in the day. Then, steeling her spine, she briskly crossed the room.

He heard the little click, click, click of her heels and knew he was in trouble. Burying his chin in the soft folds of his flannel shirt, he offered a quick-and hopeful-prayer that she'd walk on by.

She didn't, of course, and after a long silence he forced himself to look up.

She dropped to her knees in front of him. For the first time in days he found himself face to face with her, and the effect made it difficult to breathe. Her eyes were greener than he remembered, her skin paler. The soft, Christmasy scent of her filled his nostrils.

He quickly cleared his throat. "What do you want?"

Pain flitted across her face, and he felt like the idiot he was. Yet he couldn't trust himself to be nice to her. Not now, not with her lips mere inches from his own.

Her tongue darted out from between her pink lips, leaving a trail of glistening wetness in its wake. "I have something -j for you. A Christmas gift."

She shoved a little red-wrapped package at him.

It fell in his lap with a muffled thud. He wanted to touch it but couldn't. His fingers were shaking too badly to function.

She laughed nervously. "You don't have to open it. It's

just my old copy of Dickens's A Christmas Carol. It's one of my favorites, and, well, I thought you might identify-"

"I didn't get you anything." He knew his voice sounded strained, harsh, but he couldn't change it. It felt like he was being strangled. "I've never given ... or gotten a present. [ didn't even think-"

"It's all right." She laid one small, warm palm against his cheek. "Merry Christmas, Cornelius." And with that, before he had time even to mutter thank you, she was gone.

As his fingers trailed reverently across the bright red paper, a huge, desert-dry lump lodged in his throat.

A present. For him. Dear God, it was going to take all the willpower he possessed not to take her in his arms tonight. Every damn scrap.

Several hours later Devon stacked the last plate. Back-handing the sheen of moisture from her forehead, she dried her wet hands on her apron.

The table had been disassembled, the red wool blankets folded and put away. The children and their parents had long since gone home. Only the miners were left, and they were sitting around in small huddles, reminiscing. Not a man in the room wanted to leave.

Well, she amended, maybe one.

Her gaze went to Stone Man. He was sitting all alone in the cabin's corner, half asleep. Her heart skipped a beat. He looked so peaceful with his eyes closed. Almost vulnerable.

Without thinking she took a step toward him.

"Hey Devon!" came a boisterous male voice from the crowd of men at her left.

She swore under her breath. Stone Man's eyes blinked open, and their gazes locked. In that split second before he became fully awake, she saw in his eyes what she'd been looking for. Tenderness.

She flashed him a bright smile.

He immediately scowled. She didn't care; she'd seen the softness, and it gave her new hope for the rest of the evening. Maybe she could find a way to bring that look back into his eyes. She turned toward the boys. "Yes?"

Cornstalk staggered forward. The men closed in around the boy, pushing him forward.

"Mish Devon, we go' sumthin' for ya."

His boozy breath almost knocked her over. The smile froze on her face. She tried not to breathe.

"Me, an' Digger, an' Midas, an' Joe, an' a bunch o' the boys, we go' together an' go' ya sumthin' for Cristmas. Ish our way o' sayin' th-" He hiccuped loudly. "Thanks."

Digger wrenched the pint-sized green bottle out of Cornstalk's hand and shoved it at her. "Crissakes, kid, talk like a human. Here, miss. This is for you. From us."

Emotion squeezed Devon's throat. "I ... I don't know what to say. ..."

"Don't say nuthin', just drink it," hollered someone from the back of the crowd.

She examined the bottle's dirty white label. In elaborate black script it read Farino's Very Dry Champagne. Spirits! She winced. "I-It's a lovely gesture. Truly. I'll save it-"

"Ain't she gonna drink it?" someone else yelled.

"Course she's gonna drink it. Ain't ya, miss?" Digger said. "Joe Ladue carried that bottle all the way from home."

It took willpower to keep the grimace off her face. As a lady, of course, she'd never tasted spirits, never wanted to. "Now?" At their collective nod, she gulped.

"Here, miss, you can use my cup." Cornstalk swallowed the last dregs of hootch in his battered tin cup then wiped the inside clean with his dirty sleeve and handed it to her.

She suppressed a shudder. Digger grabbed the bottle and the cup and with great ceremony poured the champagne.

Devon's eyes widened. "Oh! You needn't pour it all-"

"Nonsense, miss. Champagne don't keep."

She forced a smile. "Naturally."

When the cup was full to the brim, he handed it back her. A dozen pairs of eyes bored through her. She trapped. It would be the height of rudeness to refuse to drink.'

She took a dainty sip of the liquid. "Why, it's good!" exclaimed.

A hearty cheer rose from the men, and they set ab clapping each other on the back.

As they congratulated themselves Devon took several

ladylike sips, finding the tart taste extremely pleasant. The way it bubbled all the way to her stomach was most delightful.

The men waited patiently for her to finish the champagne (which took a shockingly short amount of time), and then filed past her to the door. One by one they solemnly shook her hand, said thank you, and then left.

The second-to-the-last one to say good night was Midas. He shuffled up to her slowly, his pinched face unreadable. She tensed, waiting for his hatred to resurface now that the party was over.

He surprised her by taking her hand in his. "I done you wrong, and I'm sorry. This here was the first Christmas dinner IVe had in twenty-five years, and I can't tell you how-" His gravelly voice dropped an octave. "How good it felt."

Tears sparkled in her eyes. "Oh, Midas ..."

His face remained earnest as he looked up at her. "Don't let no small-minded old man rattle you again-you belong here as much as any of us. Maybe more." Before she could say a word he bolted out of the door and disappeared.

She turned, instinctively wanting to share her joy with Stone Man.

He was standing in the corner with his parka and mukluks already on. His face was grim and unreadable. "Let's go."

Her balloon of happiness popped. Reality smacked her in the face, wiping away her smile. She may have won a small skirmish with Midas, but the war was still to be waged with Stone Man. Wordlessly she put on her parka and boots and followed him out the door.

They hadn't gone more than ten steps when the champagne kicked in. A flurry of bubbles burst to life in her head. She started giggling and couldn't stop.

"Oh, for God's sake," he muttered. "I knew I shouldn't let you drink that."

She tried to catch up with him, but her feet seemed huge, and her skirts kept tugging at her ankles.

He grabbed her hand, steadying her.

She grinned up at him. "Thanks."

Stone Man couldn't help himself. He smiled. She looked

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away, and she'd never touch him again. The thought made him feel hollow and sick inside. But he couldn't lie to her, and his silence was a lie.

Clenching his fists, he said quickly, "I spent five years in prison."

Her hand didn't even flinch. "What for?"

"Murder." He tensed, waiting for her hand to withdraw.

Instead her hold tightened.

The silence stretched between them. Stone Man felt every muscle in his body tighten. Nothing had ever shut her up before. Disgust must have rendered her speechless.

"Aren't you going to ask me?" he asked wearily.

"Ask you what?"

Christ, she must be drunk. He turned his head to look at her. What he saw stole his breath.

Understanding and unconditional acceptance radiated from the dark-green depths of her eyes.

The relief he felt was staggering. He hadn't known until that very second how much he cared what she thought of him. Her silence told him all he needed to know: She didn't believe he was a murderer.

Awe seeped into his voice and eyes. "You aren't going to ask me whether I did it?"

"I know you didn't do it."

That simple sentence, the one he'd waited all his life to hear, shattered the final remnants of his resistance.

Chapter Eighteen

She looked up at him with love in her eyes, and Stone Man was lost. Her loving gaze warmed his cold bones, and for the first time in his life he knew what it meant to be wanted.

That she didn't ask about his past struck a chord deep in his soul. In her silence was absolute trust. "Ah, Dev ..." The words were ragged, torn.

His arms came around her body, and for the first time in her life Devon knew what it felt like to be held, really held. She lay her cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt and breathed deeply of the familiar masculine scent of him.

Goodness it felt wonderful. Of course, it would be more wonderful to be held and kissed at the same time. She figured he'd get to that, and so she waited.

Unfortunately, patience wasn't something she was good at.

Besides, he was taking too darn long.

Wiggling out of his embrace, she looked up at him with what she hoped was a sultry, inviting expression on her face.

He frowned. "Do you feel okay?"

She gave an exasperated sigh. She should have known better than to be subtle with Stone Man. Closing her eyes, she said, "Kiss me."

Then she puckered up and waited.

Her answer was a low, throaty chuckle. She was just about to open her eyes when she felt the hard, callused tip of his finger brush her jawline. The butterfly-soft touch brought a delightful tingle to her skin.

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She decided to keep her eyes shut a moment longer. ' He bent forward. She could feel his breath, hot and rapid, flutter against her lips. "Open your eyes, Dev."

She did, blinking slowly. His face was a hair's breadth from hers. She felt the soft strains of his breath against her cheeks.

"Relax your lips," he ordered.

Her pucker faded. Her lips parted, and she wet them expectantly.

"Ah, that's better;" His lips brushed hers and then retreated.

Immediately she tilted her head up. "More please."

He smiled. "You can't control everything, Dev-especially not this. So just relax and enjoy."

He had to be jesting. How could one enjoy anything mindlessly? "But-"

His mouth covered hers in a long, lingering mating of lips that stole her breath. A delicious shiver sped up her spine. Dizziness danced at the edge of her mind.

This kiss was nothing like the others. It was hot and yearning and wrenching, and it made every nerve in Devon's body tingle. A strange sense of restlessness seized her.

He pulled away slowly, and as he did Devon frowned. Darn it, why did he always have to stop just when it was feeling so nice? She lifted up to her toes and tried to kiss him. His fingers closed around her shoulders, gently but firmly keeping her at bay.

"Relax, Dev." The words were drawled against her moist, aching-for-more lips.

Relax? When her blood was boiling and her skin was afire? Nothing short of a double dose of laudanum could calm her now. "I don't know if I can. ... I don't know how."

"Let me show you." He made an infinitesimal move and claimed her mouth with his. His tongue slipped past her parted lips and probed her mouth. The dull throbbing in her loins turned into a slow, burning need. A hunger. It spread through her body like a flash fire. Suddenly she felt as if she'd drunk three pints of champagne.

Her response frightened her; it was so overpowering, so

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desperate. The throbbing between her legs was making it difficult to breathe. She was losing control. Oh, God ...

She stiffened. Her hands, still clasped around his body, curled into tight fists.

"Touch me," he whispered throatily.

"I'm afraid."

He pulled her closer, letting her absorb the safety of his embrace. "Don't be."

She wanted to touch him. God, did she. Timidly she let her fingers unfurl slowly, one by one, until they were splayed across his broad back. His body heat seeped through the damp flannel of his shirt, warming her fingers.

Moving cautiously, she explored his body with her hands, feeling the bumps and ridges and valleys of his broad back. The more comfortable she became with the feel of him the more she wanted, and soon her hands were roving freely down his back, across his broad shoulder, around his waist. Her boldness grew, and suddenly she found herself wishing she were rubbing naked skin instead of worn flannel.

His hands fell away from her shoulders and traveled slowly-oh so slowly-to her back. His touch was feather light, almost a tickle. Her body trembled in response.

Without warning his hot fingers cupped the firm wool-clad roundness of her bottom and dragged her closer. She couldn't have protested if she'd wanted to; her body was like wax in his hands. They came together, hard and completely. Their bodies merged, melted together.

Need propelled her and made her suddenly bold. She stroked his hair, reveling in the feel of the coarse strands twined through her fingers. She rubbed up against him. The metal buttons on his shirt abraded her breasts.

She gasped at the feel of the buttons against her nipples. The taut crests hardened instantly, straining against the wool of her bodice. Drawn by some dark, instinctive need, she rubbed up against the buttons again.

Stone Man groaned, clutching her tighter. "Kiss me," he said in a raspy voice.

Good God, she thought she was. It took her a moment to realize what he was asking of her, but when she did she complied gladly. Her tongue sneaked forward, brushing the

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in places she'd never expected-her throat, her bottom, her breasts.

The buttons on her chemise gave way easily, and his hand slipped inside. His fingers felt hot and forbidden against her skin. One thumb brushed her nipple, coaxing the peak to hardness. Devon heard a low moan and then another. Goodness, the sound was coming from her!

She blushed, thinking it couldn't be ladylike to make such noises. She was just about to ask him when his hand slid down her belly and pushed between her legs.

Her query died in a gasp. He urged her thighs apart, and like a wanton she responded, opening for his touch. His fingers slid through the curly triangle of hair, seeking out that most sensitive part of her body. When he found it he stroked in a slow, circular rhythm.

Need sent her into a frenzy. Without thinking, she started fumbling with the buttons at his throat.

The moment her fingers touched the first button, Stone Man released his breath in a long, unsteady sigh. Then in one quick movement he ripped his shirt from neck to waist and flung it across the room.

Their hot, damp bodies merged. At the contact Devon's tenuous control snapped. She didn't think; she couldn't. Her whole body was alive, her every hair standing on end.

The hand between her legs disappeared, leaving in its place a cold frustration. His fingers, still warm and wet from touching her, slid beneath her chemise. The moisture left a trail along her breasts, a trail that the cold air traced. She shivered.

"Let's get under the covers," he said.

Crawling underneath the fur and wool blankets, they undressed each other eagerly. Devon snuggled up to him. Bringing her hands to his chest, she explored the soft black hair, marveling at its texture.

He took hold of her wrists. "Wait."

She frowned at him. "But I want-"

"I know what you want," he said throatily. "Trust me." He eased her onto her back. Looming beside her, his naked body half in shadow, half lit by the soft golden glow of the lantern's light, he studied her.

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She lay there, stiff and unmoving, her naked body stretched full-length on the white sheet, her eyes trained on his. She felt exposed and vulnerable . . . and more alive than she'd ever felt in her life. Her every nerve was tingling in anticipation of his touch.

He brushed the soft underside of her breast with his thumb. It was the only touching of their skin, and it felt like a brand on the coldness of her flesh. An uncontrollable shiver swept her body.

She felt the callused column of his finger inch upward toward her nipple. Her whole body tensed; her breathing stumbled.

The finger traced her aureole, teasing her, tormenting her. Her breath came in ragged gasps. "Please ..."

He answered her, moving the pad of his finger to the sensitive peak of her breast. She gasped, involuntarily arching into his hand.

One stroke, then another; and then two fingers settled on the drawn peaks of her breasts-tugging, twirling, teasing. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing. Oh, but it was difficult. The air in her lungs seemed to have vanished.

The hand on her breast slid down to her waist. A frown darted across her face, and she was just about to open her eyes when she felt it. His tongue! He licked her nipple once, then drew back.

The cold night air rushed in, sweeping across the wet, hardened tip. As the cold faded he took the nipple in his mouth again, this time suckling it softly, laving the tip with his tongue. Devon gasped at the sensation. She arched toward him, her head thrown back into the pillows. Oh, God, it felt so good. . . .

He took her in his arms, maneuvering her body until she was straddling his right leg. With his thigh pressed hard against the throbbing spot between her legs, he forced her to move: a slow, rotating rhythm that ground their bodies together.

A fire burst to life in her loins, and she didn't need any coaching to stoke it. She reacted instinctively. Grinding her hips against his thigh, she moved in a dance all her own,

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rubbing, pushing, writhing-anything to assuage the excruciatingly sweet ache that pulsed from the epicenter of her body.

"God," she whimpered, "do something. It hurts. . . ."

He rolled her beneath him. Shamelessly she opened her legs, welcoming the hot hardness of his flesh as it pressed against hers. Her knees came up, hugging his hips.

"Christ," he groaned, feeling her legs slide along his body. A shudder racked him. His control was stretched to the breaking point. Slowly, with a gentleness he'd never before possessed, he slid into the warm, wet sheath of her body.

He felt the evidence of her virginity and stopped.

"Don't stop," she moaned, raking his back with her fingernails. "Please ..."

He gave one hard thrust and ripped the maidenhead apart. She cried out in pain.

He froze then started to pull out. "God, Dev, are you-"

Her hands clutched at his buttocks, holding him in place. "If you stop now, I'll never forgive you," she whispered.

He eased back inside, then stopped, waiting for her body to relax. After a few seconds his hips started moving, a slow, rotating grind against hers.

The fire returned, raged. They moved together. Faster and faster still. He thrust full inside her, then drew slowly back and thrust again.

She writhed against him, moaning his name over and over again, her face buried in the crook of his neck. She could smell their passion; it smelled of sweat and wood smoke and lichen.

The throbbing between her legs intensified, turning into an almost painful burning. She moved faster, wanting- needing-something more. He matched her movements, « driving deeper and deeper into her body with each thrust. I

Devon moaned. God, she thought, it can't go on like this. Something has to ...

"God, Dev." Stone Man's harsh, raspy voice penetrated the haze surrounding her mind. "Let it happen."

What? she thought desperately. What?

And then it happened. A harsh scream tore from her throat.

Her senses exploded, spiraling out of control in a thousand shards of white-hot light.

Stone Man plunged wildly into her. She closed her legs around him, clinging to his sweat-slicked body. His release, warm and wet, filled her. But it was the ragged whispering of her name that lodged in her heart.

For endless minutes they clung to each other. The sweet smells of lichen moss and spent passion surrounded them.

When Devon finally opened her eyes, she found Stone Man staring down at her. "Did I hurt you?"

The vulnerability in his face squeezed her heart. Too choked up to speak, she shook her head.

"Thank God." He started to pull away.

She clung to him. "Don't go."

He sagged against her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, holding her tightly. She brushed a damp tendril of hair out of his eyes and stroked the side of his face, hoping the gentleness of her touch would speak the words her mouth could not.

You belong with me, she thought.

If only she had the courage to speak the words aloud. . . . But she didn't. If she said it, he'd run. Of that she had no doubt.

He'd never belonged anywhere, and years of isolation and alienation had taken their toll. Even now, in her arms, he couldn't believe he belonged.

Emotion swelled in her throat. God, she'd do anything to erase the pain in his soul.

Suddenly she knew why she'd wanted so desperately to be his lover. It had nothing to do with warmth or proximity or even with the fact that he was her last chance. She wanted it because she loved him.

Chapter Nineteen

I love you. The words burned in Devon's throat, aching to be spoken aloud.

She pressed her lips together. That sentence would send Stone Man screaming into the woods. He probably wouldn't stop running until he hit the coast. And then he'd jump in a boat.

It was too soon to speak. For now she'd have to content herself with feeling. "Stone Man-"

"Call me Cornelius," he interrupted softly. "I don't feel much like a stone man right now."

She stretched her naked body full against his. His arms slipped around her waist. Together they snuggled deeper inside their furry cocoon.

Devon looked into his eyes, as warm now as maple syrup, and completely forgot her train of thought. / love you. The words leapt into her mind again, and this time the need to speak was almost overpowering.

She averted her gaze quickly.

His finger brushed her chin, urging her to tilt her face up to his. A wave of longing swept through her as their gazes locked. Longing not of the body but of the soul. God, she wanted to touch every part of him, to know every part of him.

The thought reminded her of his confession about prison. She couldn't help wanting to ask him about it. But she wouldn't, she vowed; she wouldn't ask him. For once in her life she was going to keep quiet.

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"Dev? What's the matter?"

"It's nothing," she said quickly, "nothing at all. I was just wondering about something. Nothing important."

He smiled. "I was hoping a good romp would addle you for a bit longer."

She smiled. "Romp? Couldn't you come up with a more . . . glamorous term?"

"Believe me, I could have chosen worse."

Her smile faded suddenly. She looked up at him earnestly. "Did we make love?"

He flinched, then sighed. Why couldn't she just let well enough alone? He didn't want to answer that question right now. He didn't even want to think about it.

"Cornelius?"

He forced a laugh. In the tent's quiet the sound was harsh and hard. "Did we ever."

Disappointment brought a lump to Devon's throat. She swallowed thickly and looked away. It was what she'd expected, of course. But still it hurt. Why couldn't he admit that what they'd shared was special?

She shouldn't have asked him. She knew better. Why couldn't she ever keep her thoughts to herself?

"Dev?" His voice was quiet, and it wrapped around her like rich velvet in the semidarkness, reminding her that even now, even in her aching silence, she had more than she'd ever dreamed of. She had his arms around her, and she had his love. Oh, he might not know he loved her, but she certainly knew it. For now, she told herself, that would have to be enough.

Unfortunately silent acceptance was not one of her strong suits. But this time would be different, she vowed. This time she'd wait patiently-and quietly-until he realized he loved her.

She only prayed that someday he'd feel comfortable enough with her to actually say the words.

"Dev?"

"Yes?"

"What were you wondering about?" He squeezed her playfully. "Some aspect of my stunning technique, perhaps?"

"No i . . It was nothing. Really."

He stopped smiling. "Prison?"

"I-I know it's none of my business, but I can't help wondering about it."

"I was in for murdering a woman." At Devon's sharp intake of breath, he grimaced. "A whore, actually."

"Why did you take the blame for something you didn't do?"

"I never said I didn't do it."

Her gaze was steady on his face. "I know you, Cornelius, whether you like it or not. And I know you aren't a murderer."

Her simple faith in him was stupefying. No one had ever believed in him. All his life he'd been a pariah, an outcast, shut away from society's light by something he hadn't done. And now after all these lonely years here was someone holding up a light, beckoning him in.

If he'd been standing his knees would have buckled. Sweet Christ, but the light looked good. ...

He was tired of living like an animal, all alone. Once, just once, he wanted to know what it felt like to be at peace. He wanted simply to be.

With her he could be whatever he wanted to be.

It was a heady thought; one he'd never had before, and it opened all sorts of doors. Suddenly he felt like a kid again. Young and trusting and free.

Craziest of all, when he looked into the huge, trusting pools of her eyes, he felt as if he'd finally found a home. One that wouldn't vanish in a puff of smoke the moment he admitted he wanted it.

He released his breath slowly. For her he would take the risk he'd never been willing to take for himself. For her he would venture from the darkness. "Cornelius? Are you all right?" "Are you sure you want to hear it all?" "Yes-if you want to tell me."

He tightened his hold on her body, taking strength from the soft, warm feel of her in his arms. A dozen long-suppressed images flashed through his mind. He winced at the memories.

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"You don't have to tell me. ..."

"Yes, I do." He took a deep breath. "Her name was Mi-belle-the woman I was supposed to have murdered. She worked for my mother." He remembered Mibelle's flashing black eyes and pouty, dark-red lips, and said, "I fell in love with her the first time I saw her. I was only seventeen, but that didn't matter; not to her anyway and certainly not to me.

"It . . . amused her to become my lover. I was so-" Humiliation wrenched in his gut. "So desperate for attention, I followed her around like an overeager puppy, doing whatever she asked of me.

"I even asked her to marry me and not just once. Every time I asked she laughed and said, 'Ask again next week.' And like a fool I did."

The ache in his voice brought tears to Devon's eyes. She wiped them away quickly, knowing he wouldn't want to see them. Not that he was looking at her. He wasn't. He was staring into space, and she could tell by the haunted, hollow look in his eyes that he was seeing the past.

He saw Mibelle as clear as day. She was standing in front of him, her garish red-velvet gown revealing all but the most expensive parts of her body. He was on his knees. He could hear himself begging, whining for some bit of her favor.

He clenched his fists. God, he'd been so stupid. . . .

Slowly he came back to the present. And felt stupid all over again. Devon was lying in his arms, waiting silently for him to continue.

He owed her the truth. Squeezing his eyes shut against the images, he went on in an expressionless voice. "One night Mother had a huge party in The Painted Lady, sort of a thank-you for all of her prestigious customers. Everyone who was anyone in New Orleans was there-the men, at least- and the whores were strutting their stuff. Mother had me all dressed up like a penguin, serving drinks. She knew it would kill me every time Mibelle 'worked,' and it did. Every time Mibelle took a man upstairs, my heart wrenched out of my body."

"Oh, my God ..." Devon breathed.

"I'm not telling you this so you'll feel sorry for me."

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had

It happened to someone else. Some other poor fool of a kid.

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so much from him-his pride, his ability to trust, his willingness to love.

It all fit into place now. The anger he wore like a suit of armor; the drifting, solitary life-style he espoused; the disgust he felt for his fellow man. They were all walls that protected his heart from further injury. The falsely convicted boy had grown into a man who refused to let himself be hurt again. A man who refused to care whether he belonged.

No wonder he refused to leave the refuge of the wilderness. Everyone he'd ever loved had betrayed him.

She sighed. There was nothing she could say that would ease his pain. All she could do was love him as deeply and as well as he'd allow. Maybe someday, if she loved him long enough, he'd realize that his exile was over. Maybe he'd even realize that she wasn't like Mibelle and that his love was safe with her.

With that thought she curled up against his chest and closed her eyes. She was asleep in seconds.

Memory's icy grip eased slowly. He'd made it, he realized suddenly. He'd made it through the darkness and into the light. His eyes slid shut in a moment of silent thanks. He felt better than he had in years: freer, more relaxed.

And all because of Devon.

The woman he loved.

He could no longer deny his own feelings. He needed her: her wit, her laughter, her strength. More even than that, he needed her simple faith.

She made him believe in himself. Because she saw in him more than a reclusive, angry murderer, he became more.

For the first time in his life he wanted something, and he wanted it with a desperation that twisted his gut. He wanted the welcome her eyes promised. He wanted the home her arms offered.

No wonder his stomach was in knots. He wanted something that didn't exist. The home he'd felt in her arms was a false home. Like one of those storefronts on Circle City's main street. It was a home that existed until spring, and then it was gone.

How many times had she promised to leave Dawson City when the river thawed? It wasn't an idle threat either. It was

a plan of action. And, God knew, Devon never turned her back on a plan. As soon as she had enough money for boat fare she'd leave. She couldn't wait to leave the uncivilized Yukon backwater behind her-and the filthy Neanderthal whom she'd slept with because it was "sensible."

Oh, she cared for him. He knew that. But it wasn't enough; not for either of them. They were both stubborn, pigheaded people, and they both knew what they wanted out of life. He wanted to tramp around in the wilderness taking pictures for the rest of his days.

Not so Devon. She might say she'd never marry, but it was what she wanted. It was what every woman wanted: a nice house in town, a husband with a steady job, children, and a dog.

He didn't want any of those things, and he couldn't ask her to adopt his isolated life-style. He loved her too much to turn her into a recluse.

He couldn't leave, and she wouldn't stay. So they'd spend the winter together, laughing, sharing, loving, caring. Pretending spring wasn't coming.

But how could he love her all winter and then return to his old, lonely, meaningless life? For one frozen, magical heartbeat, he would have belonged-and that brief moment would make the return to isolation almost unbearable.

Maybe it would help if he never actually said "Hove you." Maybe if he didn't say the frightening, irreversible words aloud, he could pretend he didn't love her. Then he'd make it through the winter with his soul intact.

Silence wasn't much of a shield. But it was all he had.

Besides, he rationalized, it was better for her if he kept silent. She deserved more out of life than a broken-down old man who was terrified of love. Yes, he'd keep his love a secret. It was better that way. Better for both of them.

Devon snuggled closer against the warmth of Stone Man's body. It didn't help. She rolled onto her back, clutching the blanket to her breasts. Her teeth started chattering. Goodness, she thought, it must be fifty below.

Oh, why did the fire always have to die out in the middle of the night just when it was needed most?

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love you.

Until spring. until spring.

right,

His.

Chapter Twenty

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hers

No.

would.

Oh my God! The river!

Please God, not yet. . .

snap. snap

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willingly

wanted

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Need.

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sense of impending disaster swelled. She was tense, edgy. The burden of holding back her thoughts was killing her.

After washing his hands he sat down at the little table and; put the carefully folded napkin in his lap. He no longer even thought about it; the action was as natural as breathing. ,

A knot twisted his throat as he stared at the bright yellow flowers. How much longer before he was eating off a dirty, · scarred wooden table again-without a napkin, without a tablecloth, without even utensils?

Amazingly the poppies blurred. He swiped angrily at his eyes and jerked his gaze over to the stove.

She was doing her sparrow in a glass box routine again. The sight brought a bittersweet smile to his lips.

She turned around suddenly. Bustling to the table, she swept up their plates and hurried back to the stove. In an instant their plates were piled high with food.

He stared down into his plate, and as he did the full impact of what was happening hit him all over again. Sweet Christ, she'd cooked all his favorite foods. Every goddamn one of; them.

The condemned man's last meal. "Cornelius? Is something wrong? I thought you'd be pleased ..."

He lifted his head slowly to look at her. "Nothing's wrong. It's a wonderful meal. All my favorites."

She beamed. "Good."

She started eating, counterclockwise, one food item at a time. He stared at her a long time, feeling a hollowness spread through his chest. Then, reluctantly, he began to eat. Even the roasted bear meat in chutney tasted like ashes on his tongue.

After dinner, as they stood side by side washing the dinner dishes, Devon tried to study him covertly. She couldn't see his face, but when their bodies brushed she could feel the tension in his arms.

Around them the air seemed charged with undercurrents of disaster. She had to clench her fists constantly to still the trembling of her fingers.

"Shall I make some hot cocoa?" she said in as bright a voice as she could muster.

"No. I don't want chocolate."

"But I'd planned-"

"I don't give a good goddamn for your plans, Dev." He threw down the soggy dishtowel and swept her into his arms. "IVe got plans of my own for tonight-and they don't include listening to your logical babble. Not tonight."

"Logical babb-"

He silenced her with a kiss that left her breathless and trembling. "Now," he drawled against her moist, parted lips, "would you like to hear my plans for this evening?"

A wave of desire washed through her body, chasing her calm, rational thoughts into the dark corners of her mind. She could ask him later. . . .

"I believe I'd rather feel them," she murmured back, arching into him.

She thought she heard a muffled"Thank God" as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.

They undressed each other eagerly. Naked, they came together like new lovers, with a pent-up passion that left them both reeling.

Afterward they lay twined in each other's arms. For the first time all evening Cornelius allowed himself to relax. He was safe for tonight. He knew Devon well enough to know that if she'd planned on saying good-bye tonight she couldn't have made love first. When her mind was on something there was no getting through to her body.

Devon felt his skin against every hot, sweaty inch of hers, and she reveled in the feel of it. The smell of his body, as familiar now as the smell of her own, filtered to her nostrils. They were so perfectly matched, so right. How could he not see it, how could he not feel it?

He had to, she told herself.

She chewed nervously on her lower lip. It was time to find out. Her first instinct was, of course, to blurt out the question burning in her mind. She refrained, reminding herself of her plan to go slowly, to start with a few innocuous, leading questions.

She laid her cheek on the soft, slightly damp mat of hair on his chest. Her forefinger trailed lazily through the black hairs, her touch slow and feather soft.

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"You know, Cornelius-"

Laughter rumbled in his chest. She halted, peering up at him. He was smiling broadly.

She frowned. "What are you laughing about?"

His hand stroked her face. "Just memories, love. It's nothing."

Love. He'd called her love! Hope soared in her breast. Her plan was going to work. She could feel it. He already loved her; he just didn't know it. All she had to do was get him to realize it, slowly and in his own way, and then everything would fall into place. If he loved her, really loved her, he would want their child. He would ask her to stay and make a life with him.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to follow the plan. She still had to go slowly. "Cornelius, I've been thinking about your work."

"My work?" He chuckled. "We make hot, exciting love,| and all you can think about afterward is my work? How] unflattering."

She caught the teasing in his voice and smiled. "Well, I've been thinking about it for a while," she admitted. "I have an idea."

"Fire away."

She scooted upright for a better look at him. She didn't want to miss any nuance of emotion that crossed his face.

Her expression was too earnest, too eager, she knew, but she couldn't seem to change it. Excitement tinged her voice. "You know how much I hate you stomping off to the gulch, dragging that horrid sled."

"Yeah."

"Well, I know you have to carry all that stuff with you, and I thought . . . Well, I thought a dog might help." She smiled at him expectantly, waiting for his agreement.

It didn't come.

In fact he didn't say anything; he just looked at her, strangely, a lazy smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. | She frowned. He certainly didn't seem to be thinking about the merits of home and hearth.

Maybe he needed a little more convincing. "Plus it would be nice to have a pet, don't you think? Especially a dog. He

could sleep on the floor, curled up in front of the stove. It would make everything so ... homey."

He propped up on one elbow to look at her. "You want me to get a dog?" He sounded incredulous.

Devon felt the first stirring of apprehension. It wasn't going right. The plan had barely begun, and already he wasn't following it. He should have agreed by now. Why was he smiling?

"I'd take care of him," she added as an afterthought.

That smile again, a little bigger. "You would, would you?"

"Y-Yes." She nibbled nervously on her lower lip. Oh, why didn't he just agree? How hard could it be to say "Yes, Dev, a dog would be nice. A malamute, maybe." That's what he'd always said in her thoughts.

When she couldn't stand the silence anymore, she started talking again, "A dog would be nice. At least, / think it would. I mean, it would make us more like a family-" She looked at him meaningfully. "You know, a real family. You know it-"

He pressed a finger to her lips."You're babbling, Devon."

"I know, but-"

"Shhh. I appreciate the thought, Dev. Honestly I do. But if I'd wanted a dog, I'd have one."

"But-"

"But nothing. A dog is too damn much responsibility. Hell, what if I forgot to feed the damn thing and he died? I'd feel like shit. No, it's a nice thought. But I couldn't take the responsibility."

Devon sucked in her breath as the implication of his words hit home. Tears seared her eyes. She blinked them away rapidly then sank into the mattress, burying her face in the pillow.

" Devon?" She felt his hand on her bare shoulder, stroking it gently."What is it? Did you really want a dog that much?"

She shook her head, grateful now for the russet curls that shielded her face. "No," she answered in a muffled voice. "I'm just tired. Let's go to sleep."

He snuggled alongside her, his arms coiled around her naked body. One warm hand slid beneath her body and settled against her navel.

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When she felt his hand on her stomach, she lost control Tears poured from her eyes. She didn't try to stem their flow, for she knew it would be useless. Every dream she'd ever h had just been shattered.

God help her. She was pregnant by a man who couldn accept the responsibility of feeding a dog.

A child was certainly out of the question. There was choice left to be made. She loved Cornelius too much make him accept a responsibility he didn't want. She'd firsthand how forced responsibility affected a man.

Not that Cornelius was anything like her father; he wasn't He was an honorable, loving man. So honorable in fact that if he knew about the child, he'd marry her. A marriage he didn't want for the sake of a child he didn't want.

No, she decided grimly, that kind of marriage wasn't what she wanted. Not for herself, not for the child, and certainly not for Cornelius. There was no choice to be made. She had to leave before Cornelius found out about the baby-and that wouldn't be much longer.

When the boat left Dawson City, she'd be on it.

Chapter Twenty-one

In her sleep Devon snuggled closer to Cornelius. Beneath her bunched-up nightgown, she felt the welcome, familiar warmth of his legs intertwined with hers; a quiet, contented snore escaped her lips.

She became aware of it slowly: his sensuous, lingering kiss. Without thinking she parted her lips, allowing her lover free access to her mouth. The kiss-a building, magical caress-deepened. She felt his tongue graze her teeth then move on, tangling with her own. A knot of sweet, aching pleasure formed in her loins.

The hard skin of his palms slid across her breasts, making her shiver in anticipation. She blinked awake.

"Hi," he said.

The sound of his voice brought a lazy smile to her lips. A smile that faded the moment she remembered last night.

The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow. Oh God, she thought suddenly, if the boat came today, this would be the last time she'd waken in his arms. The last time she'd feel his loving touch on her body.

She threw her arms around him. A sob welled in her throat; she felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes.

"Love me," she whispered shakily. "Now ..."

It was slow and quiet and almost bittersweet, their love-making. Afterward, as Devon lay in his arms, she tried to block out the memory of last night, but it was useless.

"Devon?"

She heard his voice as if from far away and wrenched her

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thoughts back to the present. Pulling out of his warm embrace, she looked up at him. The concern in his eyes twisted her heart. "Y-Yes?"

"What's the matter?"

She bit down on her lower lip to stop its tremble. Her gaze plummeted. God help her, if he kept looking at her like that she was going to crumble. . . .

"Dev?"

"Nothing's the matter. I was just thinking about-"About last night. About our child. Her voice wobbled."-about the post. Shouldn't one of us get down there? The men are counting on us."

He sighed, a worn, weary sound that said he knew exactly what she'd been thinking about-and that it wasn't the post. "Yeah," he said finally, pushing away from her body. "I'll open up. You come on down when you want." '

The minute their bodies separated, Devon felt coldness, sweep the length of her exposed skin. A coldness of the soul, j

She forced herself to remain in bed as he dressed for theL day. It was the only way she could keep from flinging herself I into his arms.

When he'd finished dressing he sat down on the bed beside her. The wooden planks supporting the bed groaned beneath his weight, as they did every time he came to bed. For the first time the noise sounded melancholy to her ears. She felt an almost overwhelming sense of loss.

Stop it! her mind commanded. Quit being so maudlin.

She had no reason to cry. For one brief, glorious winter, God had given her what she'd never even dreamed of having. A piece of heaven.

True, it was only a handful; and true, she didn't get to keep it; but she'd had it, and that was more than most people could ever say. And more than that, she had a piece of it to take home with her; a living, breathing memory of her love. She had her child.

It was greedy to ask for more.

She looked up into his face, and her sense of melancholy melted into manageable proportions. She was lucky, she told herself. Lucky to have known him at all. He'd changed her,

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softened her, and without even knowing it he'd given her the two greatest gifts of her life-his love and their child.

She took his face in her hands. The freckled, milky white flesh of her fingers was a pale contrast to his dark skin. Their gazes locked, and in the golden depths of his eyes she saw what she'd always seen. Love.

"If only you could admit it," she said wistfully.

"Admit what?"

"That you love me."

His face hardened. "You put so goddamn much stock in words, Dev. But if you don't know how I feel about you by now, you're not as smart as I thought you were." With that he bounded off the bed, grabbed his mackinaw, and bolted out of the tent.

As the door clicked shut, a steel weight settled on her lungs. Tears pricked her eyes.

He was right. She knew he loved her; it was in his eyes every time he looked at her and in his hands every time he touched her. He just couldn't say the words-and that wasn't surprising, given his past. She even knew that, in time, he'd find the courage to speak.

Unfortunately they'd run out of time. It was all well and good that he loved her, but it wasn't enough. She needed a commitment.

If he'd asked her to stay with him, even once, she'd risk it all. For an invitation would mean he wanted to change his isolated life-style, wanted to build a home with her. It might even mean he wanted to be part of a family.

Normally she wouldn't need an invitation. In fact, if things had been normal, she would stay whether he asked her to or not. But the child changed all that.

Now she needed the security of that invitation, and it hadn't come.

She'd reached the right conclusion last night. She had to leave. It was best for Cornelius. He had his life as he wanted it: solitary and isolated. Without responsibility or commitments. Being tied down to a family would kill his spirit, and "is spirit was what Devon loved most about him.

Yes, it would be better for all of them if she left. Now.

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Before he found out about the child and forced himself to take an action they'd all regret.

Stone Man noticed her coldness the moment she stepped into the post. It swept across his flesh like a winter wind, chilling him to the bone.

It had begun, he realized wearily. She had begun the grim, determined separation of their lives.

Regret churned in his gut. The acrid, angry taste of a thousand what ifs burned on his tongue. What vengeful God had done this to him, he wondered bitterly. Taken an isolated island of a man and thrown him under a brilliant beam of light-a transitory brightness that, when it died, would leave in its wake a darkness colder and more complete than a midwinter Yukon night.

If only he had the courage to ask her to stay. Hope surged at the thought, flaring brightly for several agonizing heartbeats before it died.

He couldn't do it. He'd done that once, with Mibelle, and that little naivete had cost him five years of his life. With Devon he'd be risking more than his freedom. Much more. If he asked Devon to stay and she said no, it would kill him. He'd given up his emotional armor months ago, and he had no shred of it left. He was naked to her attack.

It all came down to self-preservation. If he didn't ask her to stay, then she couldn't turn him down. And if he'd never heard the refusal, he could, in later years, tell himself that perhaps she would have stayed. He could cherish the memory of her.

Besides, why should he have to ask her? He knew Devon; if she wanted to stay with him, wild horses couldn't drag her onto the sternwheeler. She was a woman who did as she pleased; a woman who knew her own mind.

So why should he embarrass himself by groveling? She'd just turn the tables on him like she always did. She'd get that perfectly logical look on her face, gnaw on her thumbnail, and ask him why he didn't come to St. Louis with her.

Why didn't he? The thought came out of nowhere with stunning force.

Why didn't he?

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He didn't because he couldn't. Years ago, when he spurned society, he vowed never to look back. It was a vow he'd kept easily, and after a few years, civilization had come to mean hell to him. The thought of going back, of having to fit in, was terrifying. He'd lived on his own, like a wild animal, for the last twenty-two years. How could he possibly go back?

Even more frightening than the thought of trying to be something he wasn't was the thought of disappointing her.

And he would. Oh, sure, he'd mastered the rudiments of table manners, and he'd even given up chewing tobacco, but he wasn't exactly church-social material. He'd embarrass and disappoint her. Then she'd get that pained, pinched expression on her face-the one that said he'd failed.

She was too big-hearted ever to say a word, but he'd know he'd failed, and he'd want to crawl under the nearest rock and die.

He refused to set himself up for that kind of pain. He much preferred one swift stab in the heart to a lingering, drawn-out bloodletting.

"Miss Devon. Miss Devon!" Her name echoed down Front Street.

Stone Man felt a jab of apprehension. His gaze cut to Devon. She was still sitting at the table, knitting on that silly pink tablecloth.

Just outside the tent a shadow loomed. It appeared to be a single man dragging a sled. "Hang on, Miss Devon, I'm a-comin'," yelled the voice again.

Devon turned to Stone Man. "Who was that?"

"How should I know?" Stone Man retorted in a harsher voice than he'd intended. He couldn't help himself; something about the shadow made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

The distorted black figure tossed his pull-lines to the ground then hefted something-a sack, maybe-off the sled. The object hit the boardwalk with a loud thunk.

Digger Haines plowed through the tent flaps, dragging a burlap sack behind him. The sack burped and slid across the uneven plank flooring.

D'gger stopped beside the table. Swiping the sheen of

sweat from his dirty brow, he flashed Devon a bright grin.' "I done it, miss! This here sack's full of gold." s

Devon jumped to her feet. Her knitting needles clattered! on the tabletop, forgotten. "'That's full of gold?"

"Chock-full, and it's all yours."

Devon's jaw dropped. For the first time in her life, she was speechless.

Digger cackled."You didn't think that grubstake'd amount to anything, did you?" "What grubstake?"

Devon heard Stone Man's too-quiet voice, heard the ominous note of warning in it, but she didn't respond. She2 couldn't. She was stunned. Ideas and possibilities and real-j izations crashed together in her mind, tumbling over one] another. She was rich. Rich. 1

"While you were off tramping through the gulch," Digger! answered good-naturedly,"your partner here grubstaked my J claim on Eldorado." "Oh, she did, did she?" "/ didn't," she answered distractedly. "The post did. Good heavens, Stone Man, we're rich." |

"You're both rich!" Digger patted the sack proudly. "And| this ain't all of it. I still got a pile of muck left to sluice and dozens o' shafts left to dig. Hell, we're all gonna be rich as kings. We can live anywhere we want. Paris, London, San Francisco. Hell, miss, you can go to Boston and have your pick o' husbands."

Devon's smile faded. Stone Man's scowl intensified. "Thanks, Digger," Stone Man said evenly,"go buy yourself a drink. You deserve it."

Digger looked from Stone Man to Devon and back to Stone Man. They were standing like statues, just staring at each other. He loosened his collar, which suddenly felt tight. This was the strangest damn reaction to wealth he'd ever seen. Why, he almost felt bad. . . . "I-I'll just leave it here in the corner. If you got any questions, I'll be stayin' at that new boardinghouse next to the Pioneer Saloon." He turned to leave.

"Digger?" Devon said as he reached the flaps, "thanks. I knew I was right to trust you."

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He beamed. Now that was more like it. "Sure, miss. 'Bye." With that he scurried out of the tent.

"So," came Stone Man's mocking voice, "we can live like kings in San Francisco."

"Or St. Louis." The words slipped out of Devon's mouth before she had time to think. Immediately their gazes locked. Her throat constricted. Time seemed to dwindle away to nothing as she waited for his answer.

Oh, God, she thought desperately, don't make me leave you. All I need is an invitation. . . .

Stone Man's fists clenched and unclenched. A knot twisted around his windpipe. She was asking him to come with her. To her tidy, well-ordered little life in St. Louis.

The Neanderthal and the lady. He winced at the thought. He couldn't do it-not to either of them.

He forced a scowl. "What good is money if you have to live like sardines? You keep the gold, Dev. It's too much responsibility for me."

Devon's knees buckled. She clutched the table edge with shaking fingers to steady herself. He'd done it; he'd turned her down. She glanced down at the tiny pink blanket she was working on, and an unaccustomed bitterness assailed her. "I should have figured that," she said sharply.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You figure it out, Stone Man. I'm tired of thinking for you."

His lips compressed into a hard line. "Whoever said gold doesn't change a person is full of shit."

"Oh, it changes things."

"I know. Digger's goddamn grubstake made you picket-fence rich. You don't need my money anymore to leave. You can buy your own goddamn ticket."

Devon felt like wilting into the floorboards. But years of training with an abusive father stood her in good stead. She'd learned not to show her pain.

Clutching the baby blanket to her breast like a shield, she stared at Stone Man through cold, expressionless eyes. "Your relief is showing, Stone Man, but you needn't worry. I'll be on the first boat out of this sorry, godforsaken pile of mud."

248

Stone Man watched her leave him. Her heels clicked on the plank flooring. Every footfall was like a nail in his heart.| God help him, he thought. It was all over.

The next sixteen days-and nights-were the longest in Stone Man's life. He watched Devon from a distance, never daring to get close enough to touch her. They lived in a world of walled silences and resentful glances. At night he si pinned to the canvas. -,

Who would have thought a ten-by-ten tent could seem so goddamn big? He was afraid to get near her, afraid to touch her. Most of all he was afraid to look at her. The few times their gazes-had accidently locked, he'd seen pain in her eyes. Stark, bitter pain.

It was like having a red-hot knife shoved into his gut. He, knew the pain mirrored his own, knew they both felt it keenly. : But what could they do about it? She hadn't offered to stay. ¦ He couldn't offer to go.

He grimaced. No matter how much he thought about their ; problem, the answer never changed.

Lifting his head, he stared at her. She was sitting at the; table, knitting on that damned pink tablecloth again. Her ramrod-stiff back was to him. She'd been sitting in that precise position for two hours, knitting. Not once had she spoken.

Her pointed silence was wrenching. He hadn't realized until last week how very much he enjoyed talking with her. Or, as she and Dr. Cowan would say-a bittersweet smile tugged at his lips-exchanging thoughts, desires, and ideas.

She hadn't spoken to him since Digger's announcement. They'd lived like enemies in an armed camp-distant, angry, wary-and it was tearing Stone Man up inside. With every silence he remembered the laughter. With every separation he remembered the closeness. God, he couldn't live this way any longer.

Mornings were the worst. When he woke up the first things he noticed were the fresh, clean scent of her and the warmth of her body beside his. For a heartbeat, before his sleepy mind focused, he was in bed with the woman he loved.

Then came remembrance and pain. The scant inches between their bodies yawned like miles, and the feeling of loss assailed him. His first waking thought was always: You don't belong in her bed anymore.

He groaned, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. He'd wanted to say / love you a hundred times this week, but each time the words lodged in his throat. The past had taken its toll. He wasn't strong enough to say the words, not when he knew she was leaving.

A blaring whistle ripped through the tent's premeditated silence.

Devon's head snapped up. "What was that?"

Stone Man didn't answer. He couldn't.

She turned to look at him. "Stone Man? What was that?"

He swallowed hard. "You should recognize it-it's the sound you've been waiting for. The sternwheeler's here."

She paled. One hand flew up to cover her mouth.

His whole body tensed. After a few minutes of excruciating silence, his patience snapped. "Say something!"

"W-When is the next one?"

Icy fear spilled down Stone Man's back. She couldn't. She wouldn't. He'd had sixteen days of pure hell, waiting-just goddamn waiting-for the boat to come. He refused to spend the whole summer wondering which boat she was going to wander aboard.

No way. He'd geared himself up for her to leave. He was ready for the pain. Hell, a part of him welcomed it. "Don't even think about it," he said harshly.

"About what?"

"About waiting for the next boat."

She crumpled forward, her elbows slamming onto the table in front of her.

Instinctively he surged toward her and pulled her to her feet. "Dev? Are you all right?"

Her answer was a high, brittle laugh.

His forefinger forced her chin up. "Dev?"

She looked into his eyes for the first time in days. Her skin looked paler than he remembered, more fragile, and her lower lip was red and raw. Without thinking he ran a finger along its puffy surface. "You shouldn't bite your lip."

250

She tried to smile. It was a trembling, dismal failure."My thumbnail's almost gone. I was desperate."

"Ah, Dev . . . Why are we hurting each other so much?"

Tears sprang into her eyes. "Because we love each other but not enough."

Stone Man squeezed his eyes shut. He'd told himself the same thing a thousand times. So why did it hurt to hear her say it? He knew she didn't love him enough to stay. Still, hearing it from her own lips . . . Sweet Christ, it hurt.

It took him a moment to summon the courage to speak, and when he finally found his voice it was ragged and hoarse. "The boat will only stay long enough for the crewmen to cut a couple of cords of wood. You'd better get packing."

"But-"

He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Don't make it worse. If you're going to leave, then just goddamn go."

"Take your hands off me, please," she said quietly.

He did.

She plucked up her precious pink tablecloth and pressed it to her stomach. She stroked the soft yarn, seeming to draw some solace from it, and after a few seconds her chin edged upward.

He might even have believed she was in control of her emotions if he hadn't been close enough to see the trembling of her mouth.

"Don't worry, Stone Man, I'm leaving. I can't live like this anymore either."

His next two words were the hardest he'd ever spoken. " 'Bye, Dev."

She smiled grimly. "Eager?" Swiping the tears from her wet cheeks, she hiked her skirts off the ground and marched toward the flaps. At the canvas opening she stopped. Without looking at him she said, "I'll be back for my share of the gold."

Then she left him.

Chapter Twenty-two

Devon stood outside the post, trying to gather her composure. She pressed one small, gloved hand to her midsection and tried counting to ten. The old trick didn't work.

Dear God, she wanted to bolt. To simply hike up her skirts and run-as long and as fast and as far as her Curacoa kid walking boots would take her. Anywhere as long as it was away from the sternwheeler.

She looked down at the scrap of paper in her hand. Her lace-sheathed fingers closed tightly around the ticket, obliterating the hastily scrawled sailing time.

It was too late to change her mind. Her things were packed; Cornstalk had taken all of her trunks down to the dock. Everything she owned was on the boat. All that was left was good-bye.

Her stomach twisted into a knot. If only he 'd asked her to stay . . .

"Enough," she said through clenched teeth. He hadn't asked her, and that was that. She'd made a decision-a smart one-and it was time to stop whining about it. It was best for Cornelius and the baby that she leave, and they were the people who mattered.

Setting her jaw at a determined angle, she lifted her pinstriped serge traveling skirt and entered the post. What she found inside stopped her cold.

Everyone she knew was inside.

"She's here!" Digger cried from somewhere within the throng.

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252

The men surged toward her. They were all talking at once, and Devon couldn't distinguish a single voice in the buzzing, excited chatter. She scanned the crowd. The bright-eyed, grin-wreathed faces blurred, melting into one another.

An elbow jabbed her, and she glanced sideways. Father Michaels was standing right beside her. He was looking at her with an odd, disappointed expression on his pointy face. He cocked his head to the left. Her gaze followed his.

To Stone Man. He was behind his precious counter, his barrier to the world. He stood motionless, his big arms folded across his chest, his eyes trained on her.

The heat in his whiskey-colored eyes made her stomach somersault. He was looking at her as if they were alone. . . .

No. She couldn't think like that anymore-not if she wanted to make it out of this post with some modicum of pride intact. She broke eye contact. "What's this all about, Father?" She hoped her voice sounded light.

Midas and Cornstalk pushed to the front of the crowd. Midas cleared his throat, and the men around him quieted. "When we heard you was leavin', we all got together and decided to give you this." He shoved a small piece of wood at her.

Oh, God, not a going-away gift. Her fragile self-control couldn't handle it now. The last thing in the world she needed was for someone to be nice to her.

Reluctantly she took the brown square. It shook in her hands.

"Turn it over, miss," Cornstalk prodded.

After a heartbeat's hesitation,*she did, and the moment she saw the other side a huge lump lodged in her throat. It was a makeshift plaque, and carved onto the dark surface were the words: To Devin. Thefurst womun to winter among us. We 'II miss you.

The words blurred. Her throat constricted. "Oh, my. . ."

"Read it out loud!" yelled someone from the back of the crowd. Immediately the crowd started buzzing in agreement.

Midas put up his hands for silence. "She don't have to read it. We all know what it says."

Devon offered the old man a grateful smile then turned her attention to the men around her. "I-I don't know what to say

. . . except thank you." She pressed the plaque to her breast. "I'll treasure it always."

The sternwheeler's horn blared. The sound sliced through the men's boisterous cheers. Devon felt its impact right down to her toes.

Midas clapped her on the back. "We'll wait outside for ya, Devon. We want to walk you to the boat. No need to hurry. It don't leave for an hour yet."

She nodded distractedly. "All right. I'll only be a minute."

The men shuffled out, leaving in their absence a groaning silence. She stared at Stone Man. He stared back.

"Nice plaque," he said finally.

"Yes, isn't it."

Again the silence. The awkward, yawning silence that was a slap in the face to everything they'd shared. Devon pressed her hand to her stomach, forcing herself to remember why she was going. How noble her reasons were.

Right now she didn't feel noble. She felt cowardly and lost and alone. She swallowed hard, keeping the tears at bay by sheer force of will. "I guess I've got to go . . ."

"Guess so."

"Are you going to walk me to the ship?"

He looked pointedly at the shadows huddled just outside the flaps. "Looks to me like you've got a whole bunch of escorts. One more wouldn't even be noticed."

She forced a shrug. "Guess not."

He pulled a small brown package out from under the couater. "Here," he said gruffly, "this is for you."

"I didn't get you-"

"Just take it." He looked away quickly. "You've given me plenty."

He handed her the gift. She untied the knot with shaking fingers and ripped off the brown paper wrapping.

Her breath caught in her throat. It was a framed photograph of her dented Campbell's soup can full of wild poppies. The picture wobbled in her hands; the flowers blurred. She swallowed hard. "It's perfect. Thank you." Even to her own ears her words sounded horribly stilted and distant.

"You're welcome."

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255

"Well," she said awkwardly, "I'd best be going."

He nodded.

She tried a lighthearted smile and failed."I'd say I'd write, but a letter would never find you."

"Nope."

"So, I guess this is good-bye."

"Good-bye, Dev."

She meant to walk out the door, to walk away. But she didn't. Instead some deep, instinctive need drew her to him.

He didn't back away. He just stood there, waiting for her. The minute she stepped into the circle of his arms, he hugged her with a fierceness that left her breathless. She fitted her body to his, reveling in the wonderful, welcome feel of him. The achingly familiar smell of him surrounded her. His heart hammered beneath her cheek.

"I'll miss you," he said above her head.

His words, spoken in a broken, whisper-ragged voice, severed her final shred of self-control. That was it; the only declaration of love she'd ever get from him. He'd miss her- but not enough to ask her to stay. God help her, it wasn't enough.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, burrowing into the corners of her mouth. She wrenched out of his embrace. Clasping the photograph to her breast, she rushed headlong out of the tent.

She pushed through the flaps and landed smack in the middle of the crowd. The men squished in around her, cutting off her every avenue of escape. The thick, pungent odor of unwashed bodies clawed at her nostrils. Panic seized her.

An arm curled around her waist, squeezing. "It's all right, lass. Take a deep breath. Relax."

She sagged against Father's small, comforting body, letting him protect her. Concentrating on each breath, she felt some small amount of control return. "Sorry, Father," she said with a trembling laugh, "I don't know what came over me."

"Don't ye?"

"Come on, come on!" Cornstalk's voice rose above the men's chatter. "Let's go, miss."

She pulled away from the priest slowly, unfurling until her

back was ramrod stiff. She pasted a thin-lipped smile on her face and then faced the boys. "All right, fellas, let's go."

Tilting her chin, she took her first step toward the stern-wheeler. Her first step away from Stone Man.

Around her the men chattered like locusts, but she couldn't hear a thing over the pounding in her chest. She was surrounded by a dozen friends, and never in her life had she been more alone.

Every step took her farther away from the man she loved. With each footfall she thought it's not too late. Just turn back around...

But it was too late. Way too late.

"Good-bye, miss." Cornstalk's high-pitched voice sliced through her jumbled thoughts.

She jerked her head up. She'd reached the end of the boardwalk, and Digger and Cornstalk were right beside her. Both were grinning. She offered them a tremulous smile.

"Good-bye, Cornstalk. I'll miss you." She laid a hand on Digger's dirty sleeve. "I'll miss you, too, Digger. You changed my life."

Digger's Adam's apple did a swift bob. "You changed mine, too, miss. Your share of the gold IVe found is already on board. I'll send the rest of your gold to San Francisco. I'll send you a telegram when it gets there."

Before Devon could respond, Midas pushed Digger aside. " 'Bye, Devon," he said in a gruff voice.

"Good-bye, Midas. Thank you for the plaque. I'll treasure it always."

"Yeah," he grumbled, melting back into the crowd. In an instant the whole crowd was talking at once, yelling, shouting, wishing her well on her journey.

Father materialized at her side. Taking her hand, he walked with her across the newly-constructed wooden dock and up the wobbly ramp to the sternwheeler. When they reached the puckered metal decking, he stopped.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "He loves you."

The tears she'd been holding back squeezed past her lashes and slid down her cheeks.

"Once this boat pulls out. . ."

click, click, click

257

were

I love you. Good-bye.

258

what if.

260

261

tonight.

Author's Note

The Science of a New Life

About the Author

Kristin Hannah received an undergraduate degree from the University of Washington and a degree in law from the University of Puget Sound. It was during the first magical- sleepless-nights of motherhood that she began writing fiction. Two years later A HANDFUL OF HEAVEN won the Romance Writers of America's prestigious RITA award for Best Historical Romance by an Unpublished Author. Two months after winning the RITA, the book won the Georgia Romance Writers' coveted MAGGIE award. Kristin lives with her husband and son in the Pacific Northwest.