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.
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thwack.
'¦¦
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and
No. He had
i
trying.
handsome.
i
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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
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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
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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."
&
nbsp; 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.
A Handful of Heaven Page 4