第 10 页

Maybe underneath all that dirty, board-stiff black hair and greasy clothes, there was a man, with a man's heart.

She wanted so badly to find some redeeming quality within him; something mat would allow them to reach a compromise. Something that would allow them to survive the winter.

She'd try again to communicate with him. In fact she'd keep trying until they reached a settlement. She had to. Her sanity depended on it. There was no way she could survive a winter trapped in this rabbit hole of a tent with a cold, silent hulk of a man.

"What are you reading tonight?" She forced her voice to sound light.

He didn't even look up.

Gliding over to where he sat, she peeked over his shoulder. "Ah, The Red Badge of Courage. Rather... bleak, don't you think?"

"No."

A start. She touched his hair, letting a long black strand coil around her pale forefinger. "You know, Stone Man, a haircu-"

He belched.

She winced. "Very nice. Anyway, as I was saying-"

"I didn't think interrupting would help."

"You were right. Now then, as I was saying, a haircut and shave wouldn't hurt you a bit. Why, you might even be less... uh, I mean more attractive."

He snapped the book shut. "Now that's something I give a shit about. Being attractive." He let out another belch, spat a wad of tobacco onto the floor, then stood up and started disrobing.

Streams of gray-brown spit splattered the crisp lace pleats at the bottom of Devon's skirt. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at the disgusting stains on the fabric she'd labored to iron.

She yanked on his sleeve, using all her body weight to spin him around to face her. "That's it," she hissed at point-blank range. "No more. I've tried to be nice, but now I'm laying down some rules, mister. One more spit on our floor, and you'll be sorry."

He smirked. "Yeah? How's that?"

She smiled. "I'll start singing after every meal."

His smile faded. "You wouldn't."

"Actually, I find my own voice quite pleasant."

"Fine."

"Good. Oh, and another thing. You're not crawling between my clean sheets in those disgustingly filthy long Johns."

Anger flashed in his eyes. "The hell I'm not."

She slammed her fists on her hips and glared up at him, her chin jutting defiantly. "The hell you are."

For a long minute they stared at each other; then Stone Man growled, "Fine. You win." Grabbing one of the blankets off of the bed, he swirled the iron-gray wool around his body like a cloak and dropped onto the cold, hard floor.

She stared at him, amazed. "You'd rather sleep on that freezing floor than put on clean long Johns?"

He got settled under the blanket. "The floor's warmer than you are, lady. Now shut up and let me sleep."

Chapter Seven

The light hurt her eyes. Devon rolled onto her stomach and yanked the blanket over her head, burrowing deeper into her gray woolen tomb. She didn't want to wake up; lately she much preferred her dream-filled nights to her horror-ridden days.

Then she smelled it: freshly made coffee. She sucked in a deep breath, smelling more musty wool than simmering brew, but her nose was not easily fooled. The aroma was there, hovering just beyond the edges of her nostrils. Her mouth watered.

She inched her way to the headboard. Still under the covers, she shoved her white cotton nightdress to her ankles and sat up.

He was in his usual place, sitting at the table, his long legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, his big fingers curled around a dented blue tin cup. As usual he was studiously avoiding her.

She tugged at the lace stand-up collar of her prim nightgown and cleared her throat."Good morning, Stone Man.

He looked up, peering at her over the rim of his cup. His eyes were puffed and swollen, and the pupils were red. "Morning," he grumbled.

Devon felt a little trill of malicious humor at his obvious; discomfort. Last night had probably been awful for him., Dust in the eyes and nose, a cold, rock-hard floor bruising his body, little creepy-crawly things exploring his flesh. A triumphant smile tugged at her lips. Maybe tonight the clean long Johns wouldn't seem so abhorrent.

"Breakfast is ready," he said unexpectedly, setting down his cup and pushing to a stand.

For the first time she noticed that the table was set-in a manner of speaking-with two plates, two forks, and two tin cups. No tablecloth, of course, and no napkins. Still, he had made an effort. She smiled.

Stone Man turned his attention to the big frying pan on the stove.

Thank God. A few moments of privacy. She flung back the blanket, jumped out of bed, and darted to her armoire. Yanking her red flannel wrapper off the hook, she slipped her arms into the puffy, lace-trimmed sleeves and quickly buttoned the twenty-two pearl buttons that marched from foot to throat.

Delving through her well-ordered boxes, she pulled out her worsted bootees and slipped them on.

Covered from head to foot, she sighed with relief. She was decent.

"This is wonderful," she said as she headed for the table. Taking her seat, she poured herself a cup of the fragrant, steaming coffee. "It's so thoughtful of you to make breakfast."

"I was losing weight."

Stifling a smile, she took a quick gulp of coffee. "Oh? I'm sorry to hear that."

"Hand me that coffee can, would you?" He pointed to a big red can hanging from the wooden beam that bisected the stovepipe.

She untied the can and let it fall into her hands. Immediately a strange, almost alcoholic odor hit her nostrils. She gagged, shoving the can at him. "W-What is it?"

"Sourdough." He slapped a spoonful of the malodorous dough into his batter. She watched, repelled, as he spooned his goopy mixture onto the flat iron griddle, carefully forming four perfect circles. In a matter of moments the flapjacks had turned a deep golden brown.

He tossed a few flapjacks and a strip of crisp bacon on her Plate and handed it to her. "Bon uppitty," he said, practically diving into his own heaping plate.

She lifted her fork, prodding the flapjacks as if she expected them to move. They didn't. She leaned over the plate, sniffing daintily. No odor, either.

"They're flapjacks, not perfume. Just eat the damn things."

Her head snapped up. Their eyes locked. A slow blush of shame crept across her cheeks. He'd been nice enough to make breakfast, and all she'd done was criticize. "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's just-"

"Lady," he said in a weary voice, "in the Yukon we eat three things in the winter. Beans, bacon, and sourdough flapjacks. You might as well learn to like them now."

Grimacing tightly, she speared a bite-size chunk of flapjack and popped it into her mouth. She chewed hesitantly, then faster, a smile darting across her face. "Why, they're delicious."

"Good." The word came out of his overstuffed mouth as "goo."

She couldn't help staring. He was sitting all hunched over with his big arm slung around his plate as if he expected it to be yanked away at any moment. He'd swirled together all the food, and the result was a gooey pile of red-brown.

A delicate shudder swept through her body. God, he was eating it all mushed together.

His fork froze in midair, and Devon felt his eyes on her. "You got a problem?"

Her gaze plummeted to her own carefully ordered plate. "No."

The fork started moving again. "Good." Shoveling in the last bite, he let his fork clang to the table and pushed to his feet.

She set her fork down silently and looked up at him, wishing desperately that she had a napkin with which to dab her mouth. Just watching him eat made her feel... dirty. "Leaving already?"

He wiped the greasy breakfast leavings from his beard and lips with the back of his sleeve.

"Yep." The word came out in a grumbling belch.

"Four days from now I'll be coming with you."

His answer was a grunt. Grabbing his summerweight coat and hat, he started for the door. As his fingers curled around the latchstring, he stopped.

Devon frowned. His eyes were focused intently on the door, as if he were thinking about something. Thinking hard.

"Uh... go ahead and wash my other long Johns," he mumbled finally. Before the words were out of his mouth, he yanked on the string, jerked the door open, and barreled through the opening.

The door slammed shut behind him, setting off a rattle in the log support beams. Devon smiled to herself. Cleanliness. It wasn't much; but it was a start.

Later, with her hair bundled neatly out of her eyes, her teeth brushed, and the tent cleaned, Devon stared into her armoire, wondering what to wear. Finally deciding on a plain white shirtwaist with a stand-up collar and a navy-blue cotton skirt, she set about dressing.

As her skirt billowed around her head and fluttered to the floor, there was a knock at the door.

She froze. Clutching the shirtwaist over her chemise, she glanced nervously to her right. "Who is it?"

"Father Michaels," came a squeaky male voice.

"Father? As in Father?" The squeaky voice chuckled. "Well, I don't have any wee ones, if that's what ye be askin', lass."

"Just a moment, Father," she said, slipping into her shirtwaist. Tying a little blue bow at her throat, she hurried to the door and opened it.

Her first impression of the man standing on her doorstep was of an abandoned baby bird. He was small-tiny, really- and his little round face was dominated by a long beak of a nose and eyes that seemed far too large.

His deformed body reemphasized her first impression. He seemed to be leaning to the left, and his head, with its unruly mop of bright-red curls, rested stiffly against his raised shoulder. It was as if some unkind hand had simply twisted him.

But it was his eyes that caught and held her attention; they a bright, lively blue, bubbling with mirth and an unmistakable joy for life. His good humor immediately affected Devon, dispelling her dour mood of the past few days. She felt as if a breath of spring had washed through her soul.

"Come in, Father. I'm Devon O'Shea."

"And I 'm Father Michaels, resident saver of lost and wan-derin' souls. I heard about ye the minute I got back into camp this mornin', I did. A lady can't expect to enter the Yukon unnoticed."

Devon's smile faded. "So I've learned. Come in. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

His face crinkled into a big smile. "I would indeed." He limped awkwardly into the tent. The thump of his walking stick on the plank floor vibrated through the canvas walls.

She hurried along behind him, pulling out one of the heavy stump chairs.

"My thanks, lass," he said, sinking slowly onto the hard wooden surface.

As she poured the coffee, Devon confessed, "I'm not a Catholic, Father."

He chuckled. "Aye, and if I were in the Yukon a'waitin' on Catholics, I'd be freezin' me butt-er, backside-off for nothin'. I been up here far nigh on five years, and I don't think IVe met a Catholic yet. Although," he said with a wink, "I been hearin' tales that there's a family of them up near Rampart."

She poured two cups and set them on the table, then sat on the stool next to his. "And what brought you up to this godforsaken wasteland in the first place?"

"God forsakes no place, lassie, and ye ought to know better than to suggest such a thing."

She was instantly contrite. "Sorry."

A puckish grin swept his face. "Aye, I know ye are. Anyway, I came up here to find me brother. I found him..." His strong voice strained. "He was livin' in that cesspool of a city, Skagway, with an old Indian woman. Clean mad for the yellow muck, he was. He died about a month after I found him, and me, well, I saw plenty of work that needed doin' up here. So I stayed."

She smiled wryly. "I can understand that; I've only been here a week, and already I've seen a few souls in need of assistance."

"How's your own soul, lassie? It's been a hard time of it yeVe been havin', from what I hear."

Devon's smile quivered. It had been so long since anyone had asked how she was, how she felt.

So long since she'd been allowed to be weak. Inexplicably tears welled in her eyes. She turned away quickly.

His bony hand smothered hers. "What is it, lassie?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Her tenuous hold on control loosened; it felt as if part of her soul were thawing. A single tear splashed on the father's hand. "I don't know," she whispered, "I never cry."

"Aah. Then I'll be guessin' that's reason all by itself. We all need a good cry now and then. Even the strongest of us."

She lifted her head slowly, searching Farther Michaels's creased, pointy face. The compassion in his eyes was like a steel band closing around her heart. More tears clogged in her throat.

Suddenly the weight on her shoulders seemed crushing, suffocating. She needed desperately to talk.

A little hiccup escaped her compressed lips. "It's been a... difficult week, Father. Stone Man and I don't get along well."

His hand squeezed hers once then let go. "I was thinkin' it might be so. Stone Man, he's hard.

Hard and lonely."

"Lonely?"

"Aye. What state would ye expect to find a man in if that man had ne'er had a true mother or father, ne'er had a home to call his own, ne'er known peace?"

She sniffled loudly, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. "What do you mean?"

Father laid a hand on the table top and pushed awkwardly to a stand. Burrowing through his oversized mackinaw, he pulled out a couple of creased, well-handled photographs and handed them to her. She took the aged pictures carefully.

The first was a picture of an old log cabin in an overgrown field. Her eyes scanned the gloomy picture quickly then shifted to the second one.

Involuntarily her gaze returned to the cabin. There was something about it, something vaguely disquieting. She studied the photograph carefully. The cabin was old, dilapidated, and the flower-laced grass came almost up to the window-sills. She could almost see the whisper of the wind in the flowers.