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A Handful of Heaven

by Kristin Hannah

Introduction

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.

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

EARLY MARCH 1896

"Hey, Stoneyman!"

The guttural shout hung like a foul odor in the tent's chill air. Stone Man MacKenna felt its intrusion in every pore and bone of his body. His big hands clenched, unclenched. Just once, he thought, let me hit the noisy bastard just once...

"You gone deef?"

He lifted his head slowly, pinning an ice-cold stare on the three men huddled around his Yukon stove. Just looking at the pea-brained, loudmouthed bunch made his gut ache. His rawboned face shifted into its customary scowl. "What do you want?"

Midas Magowin grinned, showing off a set of teeth more dead than alive. "You settin' over there thinkin' about how much you'd like to shoot us? Hell, we ain't doin' nothin' but talkin'."

Stone Man's scowl intensified. "That's plenty."

"Not to the Mounties downriver, it ain't. So, if you're gonna shoot us, shoot; and if you ain't, quit your glarin'. It gives me the willies."

"That's the idea."

"We're stayin'. It's colder'n spit out there right now, and you got the best stove in the pasture."

Midas leaned back on his stool just far enough to get outside the stove's circle of heat, then he spat. The moment the slimy brown stream left his lips it froze solid. The rock-hard glob hurtled through the air and hit the planked floor with a solid smack, shattering into a dozen glasslike shards.

"This is a trading post, damn it," Stone Man growled. "I'm not running a hotel for gossipy, good-for-nothing gold diggers."

Chuckling, Midas rubbed his bony hands together. "Truth is, Stoneyman, you ain't runnin' shit.

This here's the sorriest excuse for a tradin' post IVe ever seen."

Stone Man's bushy, jet-black eyebrows drew slowly together. Beneath the hairy ledge, eyes the color of aged bourbon narrowed. "You'd best remember where you are, old man." His big voice fell to a whisper. "This is my post. That's my stove. I haven't kicked your butt yet, and I've put up with your infernal jabbering. But no half-bald, gnat-sized, older-than-God miner is going to tell me how to run my post. Understood?"

Midas flashed a triumphant smile. "Fair enough." "H-Hey Stone Man .

With an irritated sigh, Stone Man turned to the speaker. It was the kid, Cornstalk, the gangly newcomer who listened to Midas's mindless chatter for hours on end and imitated his hero's every movement. "Yeah, kid?"

Cornstalk's thin, freckled face broke into an eager grin. "Thanks for letting us stay. It sure is warmer in here."

Stone Man grunted in response. His teeth ground together in a familiar surge of resentment.

They'd won. They were staying-again. He couldn't get rid of them until closing time. He knew it; they knew it. Other people depended on the trading post's hours.

He certainly couldn't reason with them. He'd been trying that since the moment they'd moved into his peaceful valley, and all he'd gotten for his effort was a pounding headache.

What was it about mining that drew fools like buzzards to a dead elk, he wondered. They came four thousand miles for a golden dream, but most of them never even staked a claim. Instead they sat around, drinking, smoking, playing cards, and yapping.

He shoved a lock of raven-black hair out of his eyes and glared at the motley group. Their raised voices battered his ears, rending a hole in the silence he'd traveled thousands of miles to find.

They sounded like a pack of hyenas fighting over a rabbit bone-howling, barking, hissing.

He squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples. All he wanted was to be left alone. Was that asking so goddamn much?

"Hey, Cornstalk," Midas's tobacco-graveled voice interrupted his thoughts. "What was I talkin' about before Stoneyman's surly presence interrupted me?"

Stone Man's eyelids felt as heavy as boulders. With supreme effort he opened his eyes and looked up. The first thing he saw was Midas's triumphant, gap-toothed grin. Just once, he thought, glancing at his fists. Just once... The old fool started up again. "Cornstalk, I asked you what in the hell I was talkin' about."

"Christ, Midas," Stone Man snapped, "you only talk about two things: gold and ladies. Neither of which, by the way, you'd know from bear shit."

The old man's Cheshire cat grin flattened. Offering an injured sniff, he replied, "That proves what IVe long suspected about you, Stoneyman. You're big and stupid. I don't talk about ladies. I talk about whores."

"Yeah!" Cornstalk agreed.

Midas affectionately slapped his skinny protege on the back. "Like I was sayin' yesterday, a good whore's about the best thing that can happen to a man, but a lady-ooee! Hell, I 'd rather tussle with mating wolverines than a purebred lady. 'Cause a lady's a fight just itchin' to happen, and once she starts a'talkin', only a heart attack can shut her up." He shot Cornstalk a knowing look.

"Hers, that is. Yours won't cause more'n a stutter."

Suddenly the tent's canvas flaps flipped open. Freezing air blasted through the opening, and a man stumbled into the store. Snow swirled in after him, pooling and drifting around his mukluks as he hurriedly re-tied the flaps.

The air settled almost immediately. Hobbling slowly, the stranger moved over to the stove, pulled out a small three-legged stool, and sank onto its hard surface. His whole body seemed to deflate.

After a moment he shook his behooded head. Snow danced off his heavy parka and hit the hot stove in a spray. The hissing and popping of dying flakes filled the tent. Hands 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 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."

"I don't want to work with anybody. I want to be left alone. That's why I put the advertisements in. I need someone to protect my investment in the post while I take my pictures."

"Investment. Ha!"

Stone Man ignored Midas completely. "Anyway, it's been a while since I sent the ad. Nobody ever answered, and, hell, I forgot all about it."

Midas slapped his sinewy thigh in glee. "And now you got one? Yee-ha! Crack open another jug o' hootch, boys. This is our lucky day! There ain't a man alive who's meaner'n Stoneyman. His partner has to be an improvement."

"Maybe he plays poker!" Cornstalk chimed in, taking a big, dribbling swallow of hootch.

Midas grabbed the jug and greedily raised it to his lips. "You bet." The words came out in a watery gurgle. "And maybe..."

Their voices droned on, running together in Stone Man's mind until he had trouble thinking. They were even worse when they drank, he thought sourly. Then they talked all at once.

The pounding in his temples accelerated. For the first time in years he wished for one of the simpler amenities of civilization: transportation. If the post were in San Francisco or Boston, O'Shea could be at work in a week. But not here, not in Yukon Territory. Stone Man would be lucky to meet the man before the fall colors hit. Even if he wrote a letter hiring O'Shea today, Stone Man would still spend the next few months trapped with a bunch of worthless miners.

The smile slid off his face. It was going to be a long wait.

Chapter One

LATE SUMMER 1896

Willpower alone kept Devon O'Shea seated. Perched on the edge of her berth, she sat stiff as a new nail, her perfectly manicured hands curled into a bloodless ball in her lap.

Ten minutes. That's all she had to wait. In just ten short minutes she'd meet her new partner, Mr. Cornelius J. MacKenna.

Unfurling her fingers, she pressed one slim hand against her churning stomach. Why couldn't she calm down? She knew it was irrational to be so nervous, and Devon rarely acted irrationally. And yet, no matter how often she chided herself, she couldn't stem the trembling in her hands or the racing of her heart.

Today was so very important. It was the day her new life began: a life not shoved on her by adversity but one of her own making. Her life.

Sighing softly, she drummed her fingernails against the metal frame of her berth, listening with half an ear to the faintly metallic beat. In the cabin's quiet, it sounded like the cavalry coming.

She sighed again. If only she were more like her sister, Colleen. Colleen wouldn't be nervous now. She'd be far too busy spinning romantic fantasies about Mr. MacKenna to be anxious.

But Devon was nothing like her younger sister. Colleen was spontaneous, whimsical, impractical; Devon was calm, pragmatic, levelheaded. Unlike Colleen, she saw no point in spinning daydreams. Oh, she knew Colleen envisioned Mr. MacKenna as tall and breathtakingly handsome, knew her sister pictured him alighting gracefully from a jet-black lan-daulet, doffing a natty top hat, and blathering romantic poetry.

But not Devon. She didn't spend her time wishing for a handful of heaven to call her own.

Daydreaming, wishing, pretending, whatever one called it, was a silly waste of time. Mr. MacKenna, whatever he looked or acted like, was her partner for one year. For better or worse.