A Handful of Heaven

by Kristin Hannah

  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 M
an 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."

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  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."

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  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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  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.