Wildstar

by Nicole Jordan

  Her eyes widened as he pulled the garment off, baring his powerful shoulders and chest. Jess shot to her feet, nearly losing the shotgun that had been cradled in her lap. He was all lean muscle and rough curling hair, and the masculine sight made her pulse race.

  Devlin merely gave her an amused glance, as casual about his nudity as he had been about threatening Hank Purcell. "You going to shoot me?"

  "N-no, but . . . I th-think I'll wait outside," Jess stam­mered as she edged toward the door.

  "Maybe that would be a good idea," Devlin said with the teasing silver fire of devilment in his eyes. "I'll join you when I've changed."

  Averting her gaze, she practically threw the brandy glass on the bureau top and got herself out of that room, closing the door firmly behind her. Devlin's whiskey-mellow laugh followed her down the hall, making her cheeks burn.

  She waited outside on the stairs in the August night, grateful for the pleasant breeze off the mountains that cooled the heat of her embarrassment. How could she have shown so little dignity, running off like that? Devlin must think her green as grass after all the fancy women he'd known.

  But then she was green about men like him, Jess re­flected. She'd only just turned sixteen when her mother died. She hadn't minded in the least leaving that fancy school in Denver to take over running the Sommers Boardinghouse, nor had she minded the hard work; it only helped numb her grief over losing her mother. But having to look after Riley and two dozen other hungry miners had left her no time for pleasure or the pursuits other girls her age enjoyed. No time to think about marriage, either. There weren't enough hours left in the day to allow a man to pay her court, even if one had ever caught her eye, which hadn't happened. She'd scarcely ever noticed the opposite gender before, at least not in that way.

  Certainly no man had ever affected her the way Garrett Devlin did. She'd seen bare male chests before, but none had ever hit her with a wallop like a kick from one of Clem's mules. Devlin's body was as perfect as his face, it seemed. But how had he gotten those muscles in his shoulders and arms? All the gamblers she knew of would have sold their mothers' souls before lifting a hand to do phys­ical labor.

  Trying to dismiss her improper thoughts, Jess glanced heavenward. From where she stood, she could see the dark outlines of Sherman and Republican mountains, whose mines provided the livelihood for most of Silver Plume's twelve hundred or so residents. Silver Plume was situated some fifty miles due west of Denver, at the bottom of a vast hollow, hemmed in by the towering Rockies. A wide, rushing stream called Clear Creek ran through the middle of town and continued down the canyon, channeling be­tween high, precipitous walls of rock for two miles till it reached Georgetown, where Jess had been born.

  Her father, Riley, had been lured there, along with thou­sands of other prospectors, during the Pikes Peak gold rush in '59. With its fabulous discoveries of silver ore, Georgetown had grown up almost overnight. Dubbed the Silver Queen of the Rockies, it was now the county seat, with a population of five thousand, making it the third largest city in Colorado.

  A decade after the first rush, Silver Plume was estab­lished as a silver camp. Seeking greener pastures, Riley had moved his family there and played a small part in turning "The Plume" into a roaring, prosperous mining town.

  The settlement had started with a single street and spread out in a ramshackle fashion, with hundreds of drab, hastily erected shacks crowded together on the valley floor of Clear Creek Canyon. Silver Plume now was no longer quite so shabby, though. Many of the shacks had been re­placed by small clapboard houses, and the commercial dis­trict boasted numerous stores, a dozen saloons and hotels, several eating places, a lumberyard, three Chinese laun­dries, two churches, and an office for the town's own weekly newspaper, as well as the stamp mills that were the lifeblood of any Western mining town and boardinghouses like the one Jess ran, which lodged and fed the hundreds of hard-rock miners of the Plume.

  Thinking about how tough those early days had been, Jess managed to get her pulse rate under control by the time Devlin came out, but it quickened again as soon as she saw him in the moonlight. He had buckled on his six-shooters, and with the dual Colts riding his hips and a black, low-crowned Stetson shadowing his face, he looked like one of those hard men who lived by the gun.

  Jess found herself staring, despite her best intentions. Devlin had one thumb hooked in his gun belt, while the other hand carried his carpetbag and a Winchester rifle. Below that belt, the rough denim of his trousers stretched across masculine contours, calling attention to creases only a man would have. Unnerved again, she looked away. It wouldn't matter what he was wearing, Jess decided—or not wearing, for that matter. He would always make a woman think forbidden, dangerous thoughts.

  "Did you come to town expecting a war?" she asked in an unsteady voice.

  "Never hurts to be prepared. Where do we go from here?"

  "Home. Afterward I can take you up to the mine—that is, if you don't mind starting right away?"

  He thought of the comfortable hotel bed he'd just walked away from and sighed inwardly. "That's fine."

  "Good. I'm afraid of leaving the mine unprotected. I should have thought of it before, but if Burke means to try something, it might be tonight, when he knows the Wildstar's unguarded. Do you have a horse?"

  "No, I came in on the train."

  "You can use my father's for a while, and maybe later on you could rent one of your own. There's a livery stable near our place."

  Jess led the way down the stairs and along the street till she came to the mare she had borrowed from Carson's Livery.

  "We can walk to the house," she told Devlin. "It isn't all that far. I only needed a mount because I had to look for Burke."

  Devlin hooked his carpetbag over the horn of the lady's sidesaddle and shoved the rifle in the boot. Politely taking the mare's reins from Jess, he fell into step beside her as she headed west, toward the residential side of town.

  "Burke lives in Georgetown," Jess explained, "in a big fancy house, and I went there first. But his butler said he was here in Silver Plume. I had to go to two of Burke's other saloons before I finally tracked him down at the Di­amond Dust."

  "That must have been an interesting sight if you stormed into his other places the way you did here."

  Hearing the amusement in Devlin's tone, Jess flushed and didn't answer.

  "What precisely does Hank Purcell do for Burke, any­way?" Devlin asked a moment later.

  "He's the mine superintendent for the Lady J. That's the claim next to ours, the one Burke wants to link up with the Wildstar."

  They both fell silent then. A buggy went by in the street, its wheels rattling. Afterward, the only sounds were their footsteps and the gentle clop of the mare.

  Jess cherished the quiet. Tomorrow Silver Plume would be teeming with buckboards and ore wagons and mules and rough men, but tonight the town slept in the dark shadow of the mountains. She found herself looking around her, trying to see it through Devlin's eyes. The double row of wood-frame stores and saloons, many of which had false fronts to make them appear two stories tall, looked like a hundred other main streets in the West. Nothing special, but it was home.

  She would have liked to say Silver Plume was attract­ive, but it still held the raw simplicity of a frontier town. The hard-packed dirt streets turned to a sea of mud when it rained, and there were no trees to speak of—very few of the evergreens and quaking aspens and big cottonwoods that lined the residential streets of nearby Georgetown.

  Silver Plume couldn't compare to Georgetown in size or sophistication, either. Miners and working-class folks lived here, while the wealthy silver barons and powerful railroad magnates built their mansions there. Georgetown boasted numerous attractive Victorian buildings, including an opera house and several first-class hotels, the premier one being the fancy French Hotel de Paris. The residential sec­tions were filled with neat clapboard dwellings ringed by white picket fences and brightened by colorful flower gar­
dens.

  The entertainment in Georgetown was far more elegant as well—concerts and singing societies and theater per­formances, rather than the rock-drilling contests and wres­tling matches Silver Plume usually offered. Jess wondered what had drawn Devlin here.

  Oh, yes, gambling.

  She stole a glance at him. What would Clem say when he learned she'd hired a smooth-talking stranger—a no-account gambler, at that? Clem would take one look at Devlin's sleek good looks and suave manner and dismiss him as a dude.

  But Devlin had agreed to help her protect the mine. Even if she didn't think much of him personally, she was willing to overlook his faults—and Clem would just have to as well.

  She turned south at the next corner and led Devlin down a quiet back street for two blocks, between dozens of small, closely packed miners' cottages of similar design. It was darker here, away from the few streetlamps Silver Plume possessed, but the moonlight was bright enough to outline the large, white, two-story frame building fifty yards down on the right.

  "That's our boardinghouse," Jess said, directing Dev­lin's gaze. "My grandfather was a doctor who made a good living. Before he died, he had the place built for my mother so she would always have an income."

  "I take it your father's mining ventures weren't too profitable?"

  "Mining is a chancy business, Mr. Devlin."

  "So I've heard."

  At his wry drawl, Jess realized how defensive she must have sounded. His comment hadn't been an accusation against her father for being unable to support his family. She softened her tone. "Taking in boarders provided my mother gainful employment. There aren't too many good jobs for women hereabouts, and she had me to raise."

  "She seems to have made a success of it."

  "She did well enough. She managed to put by a little for emergencies and to send me to school in Denver, even though I didn't want to go."

  She could feel Devlin's gaze searching her face. "And you took your mother's place," he said finally, his tone oddly gentle.

  Jess nodded. "I'm not as good a cook as she was—she was the best in all Colorado—but I'm still good. And at least we're always full up. I offer room and board to min­ers and pack a lunch for their shift."

  "And you've been doing this for how long?"

  "Five years."

  Devlin came to a halt suddenly, which made Jess stop, too. She was a bit startled when he placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his, studying her intently. "You couldn't have been more than a child. That's a large burden for a girl to handle alone."

  She couldn't prevent the warm flush that seemed to flood her entire body. Devlin was regarding her with an admiring expression, as if she had done something special. But then running the boardinghouse had been a big re­sponsibility back then. She was getting pretty good at it now, but some days she still felt like she had when she was sixteen—small and inadequate and scared. Scared of letting her father down. Riley depended on her to keep things going, and she couldn't fail him. Other times she felt annoyingly female. A man could do so much more than a mere woman could. Like walking into a saloon, or challenging a powerful silver baron like Burke.

  It was odd how Devlin seemed to understand what she'd been up against. Odd and disconcerting.

  "Oh . . . I don't do it all alone," Jess managed to say a bit breathlessly. "I have help. I told you about the Chinese couple, and there's a widow neighbor who waits on the ta­bles and cooks on Sunday. That's my day off."

  "Today."

  "Yes."

  He let her go and resumed walking. "Your day off didn't turn out too pleasantly."

  "No." Quelling a shudder, Jess fell silent again, remem­bering the terror of this morning when they'd brought her father's bleeding body home. But he was going to be all right. And so would his mine, if she had anything to say about it. She wouldn't allow Burke to destroy everything Riley had worked for.

  Her thoughts occupied, she almost didn't notice Dev­lin's surprise when they passed the boardinghouse.

  "We're not going in?"

  "No. Our home is just a bit farther." She'd done some fast thinking while she'd waited for Devlin to change clothes. Her original plan to put him up in her boarding-house would never work, she realized now. A man like Devlin was accustomed to far fancier lodgings than a small plain room with a bed and a washstand, and a com­munal dining room shared by two dozen miners. He might even be insulted, maybe enough to quit. But she could take him home with her. Not only were the accommoda­tions nicer, but he could sleep there during the day and keep an eye on Riley if she wasn't there to look after him. "I thought maybe you would be more comfortable at our home."

  They turned right at the next corner, then walked for an­other block, before Jess came to a halt in front of a small dwelling. It was a typical miner's house—one story with a clapboard exterior—but had been spruced up a bit. The fresh coat of white paint boasted blue trim, while potted geraniums adorned the front porch and bay window.

  "We don't live high on the hog," Jess said apologeti­cally as she tied the horse.

  "I'm not too choosy."

  The smile he gave her in response to her skeptical glance took Jess aback. She didn't believe for one minute that Devlin wouldn't mind the lack of luxury, but it was kind of him to say so.

  She held a finger to her lips as she led Devlin inside. "I don't want to wake Riley," she whispered.

  The front part of the house was dark, but a light shone from somewhere down the narrow hall. Jess lit a lamp and gestured at the darkened room on the left as she passed. "That's the parlor, if you want to read or . . . my mother never let anyone smoke in the house, but you can if you want. The bathroom is at the end of the hall, the privy's out back, through the kitchen. I'm afraid the only running water we have is cold, but I'll be glad to heat some when­ever you need it."

  As she spoke, she moved down the hall, past a tiny sit­ting room, to the third door on the right. Obediently, Devlin followed her into the small bedroom. The furniture was plain, consisting of a brass bed, an iron washstand, a pine bureau and clothespress, and a rocking chair. But an obvious effort had been made at relieving the starkness. A thickly quilted yellow cotton spread covered the bed, lace curtains hung at the window, and a colorful braided rug decorated the wood floor. In all, the effect was comfort­able, cheerful, and quite feminine, Devlin noted with cha­grin.

  "Will you be okay in here?" Jess asked. He heard the uncertain note in her voice and turned to meet her anxious gaze. "This is your room, isn't it?" "It's yours now."

  "Where will you sleep?"

  "Don't worry about me." She flashed him a bright smile as she whisked the hairbrush and comb off the bureau. 'There's a pull-out cot in the sitting room next door. It will do fine for me. And it's closer to Riley. I can hear him better if he should wake in the night. Now, I'm sure you'll want to get settled, and I have to go check on my father. I'll see you in a few minutes." She backed out of the door­way before he could argue, leaving him the lamp.

  Devlin looked around in disgust. If there was a cot in that closet next door, it could only be a mattress on the hard floor. But Jess Sommers was willing to sacrifice her own comfort—and even let him smoke in her house—so he'd have no reason to leave her employ. Clearly she des­perately wanted to please him. But it grated against every chivalrous instinct he possessed to turn her out of her room. He had been raised a gentleman, and despite his rough living the past ten years, he still maintained a pre­tense of good breeding. And to sleep in her bed . . . Dev­lin's gray gaze strayed to that bed. How soft and feminine and virginal it looked. The sheets probably smelled sweet like her, too—

  Get your mind on business, Devlin. He shook his head sternly. He had a job to do.

  He dumped his carpetbag on the bed and began arrang­ing shaving gear and clothes. A few minutes later, he heard light footsteps pass his room, then the murmur of voices. After waiting a bit longer, Devlin followed the sound.

  He found Jess in the kitc
hen, sitting at the table and ar­guing in low tones with a grizzled, bearded old fellow who looked like he'd spent the last half century out of doors being weathered by the elements. The old man wore the loose woolen shirt and overalls of a miner.

  Both of them glanced up at Devlin's entrance.

  "Clem," Jessica said carefully, "this is the man I was telling you about. Mr. Devlin, this is Clem Haverty. He's my father's partner in the Wildstar Mine. Clem handles all the pack mules and drives the ore wagon."

  Clem's black-eyed glare could have shriveled a rattle­snake. When Devlin touched his hat in polite acknowledg­ment, the mule skinner leaned over and spat a stream of tobacco juice in the spittoon at his feet. "Jessie ain't never brung a fella home afore, not even fer supper."

  "Clem!" She threw an embarrassed glance of apology at Devlin. "I didn't bring him home for supper. I mean, of course I mean to feed him supper, but that's just in ex­change for his acting as guard. We have a business deal."

  The older man's fierce expression didn't let up one bit. "I hear tell Jess got herself into a shooting scrape with Hank Purcell and you pulled her out."

  Devlin shrugged. "I merely impressed him with the ne­cessity of dropping the gun he had aimed at her back."

  For the first time, Clem took his eyes off Devlin to look at Jess. The mouth half buried in the shaggy gray beard twisted in a sneer. "Fancy talker, ain't he?"

  "Yes, but he's a good man with a gun, Clem," Jess an­swered. "We need him."

  Clem ignored her claim. ""You a stranger in town?"

  The smile Devlin gave him could have charmed a griz­zly. "Do you know me?"

  "Cain't say as I do."

  "Then I guess that makes me a stranger."

  For a minute, the mule skinner's scowl only deepened. Jess held her breath. Clem was a rough-talking, ornery old devil who lacked an education, but he was like family, and she didn't want to take sides against him. Devlin didn't ex­actly seem intimidated, though, or even offended. He stood there calmly taking Clem's deliberate insults, regard­ing the old man with a shrewd, unwavering gaze.