第 15 页

"Thanks," he said almost inaudibly.

She studied her cup, staring hard at the dark brown liquid. "Don't mention it. That's what friends are for."

After she'd said it she didn't look up; she couldn't. She could feel his eyes on her. They were like twin balls of fire, burning through her scalp. A slow heat crept across her cheeks. She shouldn't have said it. It was too soon; he wasn't ready to be her friend.

"Then maybe I should have found one sooner."

She hadn't known until that second that she'd been holding her breath, but at his words it slipped from her lips in a long, relieved sigh. He'd almost said they were friends. Almost.

It was something.

Friends...

Three weeks later Stone Man was still turning the word around in his mind, still wondering at her use of it.

Did she really think they were friends? Could she truly be that dumb? Any fool knew men and women couldn't be friends. Hell, he couldn't even be friends with men, and he understood how they thought.

He glanced up from the glass plates he was cleaning to look at her. As usual she was hopping around like a bird in search of the perfect worm. Flitting from shelf to shelf, checking, clucking, always moving or straightening some little thing or another.

He sighed, turning his attention back to his plates. At least she was quiet.

"Stone Man?"

Most of the time. He dropped two matchsticks into the jar before looking up at her. "Yeah?"

She had stopped flitting and was now lifting the tent flaps.

Peering outside, she said over her shoulder, "Who said Jack Kelley could come into town and claim Spike's cabin?"

Stone Man let out a tired sigh. Unfortunately he'd been right about how news of George's strike would affect his peaceful valley. New gold seekers arrived daily; new tents sprang up like spring flowers, overnight. And Jack Kelley was the worst of all. He seemed downright dedicated to turning the valley into a boom town.

"Stone Man?" she prompted.

He shrugged. "No one else wanted it."

"It's not fair that he could use that cabin to start up a trading post. He's taking our business."

"I told you, that's what happens when a strike hits. Those damn gold men, they can hear the word whispered on the wind for miles. I imagine the minute he heard about the strike Jack pulled up stakes in Fortymile and hightailed it down here. Hell, and if that's not enough, I hear tell Joe Ladue bought up a bunch of acres along the river and is trying to sell lots at twenty-five dollars apiece."

Her brow furrowed in thought. "I know why Jack's here. But why does he have all the customers?

Does a log cabin make that much difference?"

"Naw, not to miners."

She turned around, letting the flaps shudder shut. "Then what is it?"

Four more matchsticks hit the jar before he answered. "Jack lets the boys sit around and talk. And he grubstakes anyone with a beating heart."

She fell silent, and it was all he could do to keep from chuckling. By now he recognized the pinched, constipated look on her face. She was counting.

He tallied quickly; she had five words left.

She tried her usual word-conservation trick-trying to look confused.

She had her usual success. None. Squelching a smile, he studied his plates.

When she couldn't stand it anymore, she said, "Grubstake?"

He peered up at her. "That's where the post puts up all the supplies a miner needs to get through the winter in exchange for a part ownership in the miner's claim."

Four words.

"We could do that."

He dropped four matchsticks into the jar. "The last thing I want is to be partners with a bunch of grungy, gold-mad miners. No, thanks; I'll take my gold up front. Besides, most of them never find enough gold to pack a pipe, let alone pay back a grubstaker."

She walked over to her precious tart-and-pie shelf, which she'd replenished only yesterday. Her head was bowed, and he could tell she was deep in thought. This was a sign that boded ill for him later.

For now, at least, he could look forward to the rest of the day passing in blissful silence. "Good-bye, Dev."

She was so deep in thought she didn't even look up. "Bye," she murmured absentmindedly as she pushed through the canvas flaps and disappeared.

Closing up for the night, Stone Man found himself thinking about Devon's earlier silence. He cringed, knowing she'd hit him full force with her pent-up thoughts the second he got home.

He was right. As he pushed open the door, she launched into him. "Oh, good, you're home. I've been thinking about-"

He put a hand up for silence."Wait. Let's get dinner started before you hit me with your new plan."

She walked over to the bucket of water, lifted the heavy metal lid, and scooped him a cupful.

Handing it to him, she did a little half turn toward the stacked crates that made up her cupboards.

Burrowing through the perfectly aligned bottles and boxes, she pulled out a tin box labeled with black script letters FOLEY'S FAMILY PILLS. She flipped open the lid and extracted two pills. "Here," she said, offering him the tablets, "this should cure your headache."

"How did you know I had a headache?"

She smiled. "Whenever I talk you get a headache, and if you don't have one now, you soon will."

Biting back a smile, he popped the pills in his mouth and washed them down. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. "Okay. Shoot."

"I think Jack Kelley has all the business because no one knows about my baked goods." She peered at him knowingly. "I think Digger and Cornstalk are hoarding the knowl- edge."

He sighed. He'd wondered how long it would take her I figure it out. "They might be."

"Don't you care?"

"Not particularly. I just appreciate the quiet."

She plopped onto the stool across from him. "But don'1 you see? You need money for your supplies. There's so muck going on at the river. You can't wait to start taking pictures."

"Yeah," he mused unhappily. Things were starting happen and happen quickly. The Thron-diuck had been named the Klondike by men too lazy or too stupid to le the Indian pronunciation, and the lots Joe Ladue had creat . were beginning to sell. Rabbit Creek had been optimistically I renamed Bonanza Creek, and there was even talk of naming! the valley after some geologist, George Dawson.

Of course, the old-timers like Digger and Midas weren't felling for all the hype, but the cheechakos, the newcomers- they were staking claims like madmen.

"We're here." Devon's words broke into his thoughts. "It's happening. We should take advantage of it."

He lifted his face. Her eyes caught and held him. "How? "

"Advertising."

He started to push out of his seat. "No way, Dev. This isn't-"

"Wait. Just hear me out."

He sank slowly back onto the stool's hard surface."Talk."

"One sign. That's all I want. Just one sign that lets people know about my pies and tarts and jams."

"It'll look like goddamn San Francisco."

Her lips quivered, tilting upward at the corners. "One sign won't turn your valley into a town. But it might get you all the photographic chemicals you need."

He thought about that. And more. Glancing around his tent, he noticed all the things she'd done for him. His tent and his clothes were always clean. His suppers were always served hot and with a smile. The sheets on the bed were crisp and white, and the mattress was always fresh-smelling and puffy. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time a bug had scurried up his leg.

"All right. One sign. One little sign."

She leapt to her feet, clapping her hands. "Oh, thank you, Stone Man," she cried. "Thankyou. It'll work; you'll see."

He watched her twirl around like a young girl at her first dance, her face all flushed with joy, her eyes as bright as lichen moss lit by the sun, and he found himself smiling. She looked about sixteen years old.

She was so easily pleased, he thought. Not like the other women he'd known in his life: Mibelle, his mother...

The bad memories made him jump to his feet. His chair tangled in his long legs, and he gave it a vicious kick. How could he be so goddamn stupid? He was actually starting to like hearing her talk.

"Enough chatter, ' he growled. "Let's start dinner."

She froze in midstep, the smile on her face ebbing. The hurt that crept into her eyes stabbed at his heart, but he ignored it. Life was pain. He refused to pretend otherwise.

"There's some stew left." Her voice caught, trembled.

He averted his eyes. "I'll make the bread."

"Fine. I'll go get some canned fruit from the cache."

"Fine." Turning his attention to making biscuits, Stone Man listened to the quiet pitter-pat of her feet as she moved toward the door. He could hear the hesitancy in her step, and he knew instinctively that she wanted to say something to him. Expectancy thickened the air.

Then the door creaked open. The night wind whispered through.

He tensed, waiting.

After a long minute he heard it click shut. He let his breath out slowly. She was gone.

He had to be more careful. He couldn't afford to let his guard down. The last time he'd done it, it had cost him five years of his life in a stinking cell. It was a mistake he wasn't likely to repeat.

And yet she was so easy to like sometimes... So damned easy.

* * *

Devon sagged against the tent's canvas exterior. The wind plucked at her hair, tugging a few strands free to whip across her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't help. Tiny pinpricks of moisture burned behind her eyes.

What had she done? She hadn't said anything to wound him, hadn't insulted him, hadn't even babbled. All she'd done was be happy.

A couple of tears slid down her wind-reddened cheek.

She felt so alone out here, so silly and stupid and out of control. Nothing Stone Man did made sense. He hopped back and forth between friend and enemy with the dexterity of a rope dancer.

She brushed the tears away, suddenly angry at herself for being so dumb. She knew better than to get her hopes up. Every time they even came close to being allies, he shoved her away.

A thought struck her. Was it that simple? Could it be that he was afraid of being her friend, of needing her?

Father Michaels thought so. In fact he'd said as much.

She smiled. If that were the case, then maybe tonight's outburst was a good sign. Maybe, just maybe, it meant that she was burrowing a tiny hole through the icy shell that encased his heart.

And if so, maybe they were already friends.

Chapter Eleven

Devon's oldest muslin petticoat, slit from hem to waist along one seam, lay fanned out on the floor. Gnawing on her beleaguered thumbnail, she studied her canvas.

It would work, she decided. Squatting beside the underskirt, she picked up her paintbrush and wedged it between her teeth, then wiggled over to the jars of paint. Two itty-bitty cans of paint were all she'd been able to find in the whole post. One red, one white.

Nervously she cast a sideways glance at Stone Man. He was still cleaning his precious photographic plates, thank goodness. If he looked up too soon, she was in trouble. Not that it was her fault. How could she have known there wasn't enough paint to do the job?

Oh, well. Shrugging off the dilemma, she turned her attention back to the paints. Very, very carefully, she poured the contents of both small cans into one lightning jar. The colors immediately swirled together, giving birth to a shockingly bright shade of pink. Of course, she thought, any shade of pink would seem shocking in the Yukon.

She dipped her paintbrush in the jar and pulled it out slowly. Pink paint clung to the black bristles, dripping in huge globs back into the jar. She cringed, shooting another sidelong glance at her partner. He definitely wasn't going to like this.

She wiggled to the left, using her body to shield the petticoat from his prying eyes, and then set to work. A half hour later, she lay down the brush and stood up.

The bright pink words leapt out at her. FRESH PIES, CAKES, BISCUITS, FREE TART WITH $10 PURCHASE. The letters were perfectly formed, and not a single blob of paint had fallen where it didn't belong.

She took a step backward, eyeing her work. It was a good sign. Good and clean and- Pink. "Are you done?"

She jumped like a rabbit at his unexpected words. Her whole body tensed. Turning, she reluctantly met his curious gaze. "lam."

He looped his thumbs through his tired old suspenders and stood up, coming around the countertoward her. "Well, let's have a look."

Every nerve in Devon's body leapt to life. She stared at him, her eyes bugged, as he ambled toward the petticoat. His every step reverberated in her ears. This sign was so important to her. It was her contribution to the post. Her way of being needed. Please God, she prayed, don't let him take it from me.

Four feet from the petticoat he stopped dead. "Holy shit..."

She sucked in her breath and held it, her eyes riveted on his stern profile.

"It's pink. Pink. "

She gulped, suddenly unable to force a single intelligible word past her paper-dry lips.

He peered over at her questioningly.

"I can explain-"

"I don't want to hear it." He turned his attention back to the sign.

She chewed nervously on her lower lip. Time seemed momentarily suspended. If he told her to throw it away, it would mean he didn't want her help. Didn't need it. The thought made her almost desperate. She refused to be a useless puppet who simply stood quietly at his side for eight hours a She'd ventured all this way to be a partner, a participant Surely he knew that by now.

The silence closed in on her, shredding her self-confidenc with cat claws until she couldn't stand it another second. She opened her mouth to speak.

He turned suddenly and looked at her. She felt the fire in his whiskey-hued eyes burn her face.

Her breathing stumbled. The words died on her lips. He was going ta make her throw it away. Then he did the strangest and most unexpected thing. He burst out laughing."Midas always said you'd paint my things pink. I guess the old fart was right."