第 17 页

"Hey Stoneyman," he yelled, pulling a jug of hootch out of his coat, " where's the bitch?"

Hidden behind the counter where she was dusting, Devon froze, waiting breathlessly for Stone Man's response.

There was a long silence, and then Stone Man said, "Go away, Midas."

Sighing disappointedly, Devon rested her forehead on the clean shelf in front of her. When would he stand up for her?

"Now, Stoneyman, is that any way to talk to a customer? I come in for my free tart. Where is it?"

"There aren't any free tarts. So get your scrawny ass off my stool and move on."

Devon pushed tiredly to her feet and stepped out from behind the counter. "Now, Stone Man," she said evenly, "there are free tarts, it just takes a purchase to get one."

"That ain't what the sign says!" Midas sputtered.

Devon stared at the old man. "It isn't?"

"No, it ain't, damn it. It says free tarts."

"It says free tarts with a ten dollar purchase.'1" Midas's beady eyes squinted. "That's trick advertising." He glared at Stone Man. "You gonna stand behind a woman's thinking?"

"I don't see that it's a question of sex, Midas. The sign says what it says."

Midas slammed his sinewy arms across his chest. Jutting his chin out, he stared sullenly at Devon. "Damn woman can't even paint a decent sign."

Digger Haines shrugged. "I dunno, Midas. The sign looks good to me. I didn't know what it said till now, but it's mighty...colorful."

Cornstalk sent her a shy smile. "Bear said just yesterday how it livened up the place."

Their kindness dispelled some of Devon's depression. "He did? Why-"

Midas snorted in disgust. "Bear's dumber than a hundred head of sheep."

Stone Man shot Devon a look that said ignore the old fart. She tried to. Walking to the stove, she wrapped the edge of her apron around her hand and grabbed the coffeepot's tin handle. "Coffee anyone? "

Digger nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, please."

Pouring, she asked, "How are things up at Bona Creek?"

Digger gulped down his coffee. "I dunno, but I hear ~-gold's petering out. If you ask me, that strike of George's ain't gonna amount to a hill of sh-er, dung." , "Midas says the same thing, Miss Devon," Cornstalki chimed in.

"Really?" she asked conversationally, "and why is that?"

"None of your business," Midas snapped. "You make me sick, lady, with your uppity ways and your tryin' to fit in. Well, let me tell you something, you'll never belong here. Never."

Devon paled, taking an involuntary step backward. Was he right? she wondered desperately.

She felt an immediate, almost overwhelming urge to run to Stone Man, to fling herself into his strong arms and let herself be comforted.

She didn't move, of course, for she had no idea how one went about the business of seeking comfort. All her life she'd been the giver of solace, the rock to which others clung. Good old sensible Devon. She had no idea how to turn the tide.

It was just as well, she told herself. Certainly Stone Man knew as little about giving comfort as she knew about receiving it. And there was no one else to whom she could go, no one whose arms felt right around her.

"Never," Midas repeated spitefully.

"Shut up, Midas." Stone Man's command burst through the tent. "You 've got no call to talk to my partner that way."

My partner. Devon's knees went weak. Her heart swelled, and tears clogged in her throat. He'd done it! He'd stood up for her.

Her eyes sought him out. He was looking right at her, and there was a softness in his eyes that was new. It wrapped around her heart with bands of warmth. "Don't let him get' to you," he mouthed.

His support was all the strength she needed. She snapped her chin to a proud tilt and marched right back up to the table. Towering over the shrunken old man, she grabbed the jug of hootch out of his bony hand and slammed it on the table.

"Hey, you can't do-"

Her hard-eyed glare stopped him cold. "Yes, I can, and the sooner you realize that, the better off we'll both be. This is my post, and I have as much right to make my home in the Yukon Territory as you do."

He squinted up at her. "You got no rights."

She leaned closer, stabbing him with her eyes. "I have every right, Midas. I'm a Yukoner now, and all I ask is to be treated like any other Yukoner. I want to be left alone."

Midas swallowed hard, his knobby Adam's apple sliding! up and down his thin throat. His eyes wore the wary, cornered look of a schoolyard bully who'd met his match.

"She's got you dead to rights, Midas," Digger said. "That's the code of the Yukon, and you gotta live by it.

We don't harass each other. Hell, if we wanted people sticking their noses in our business, we'd live in San Francisco or Boston."

Midas jerked to his feet. Wrenching his precious jug out! of Devon's grasp, he hugged it to his gaunt chest.

His eyes! flashed with unconcealed hatred. "Lady, you want to be left! alone, you got it. I wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire. And I wouldn't eat one of your tarts if I was dying of hunger." He turned to Digger and Cornstalk. "Let's go, boys."

Digger grinned, his yellowed teeth glinting gold in the) tent's early-afternoon sunlight. "Naw, I think I'll just hang around a while."

Midas harrumphed. "Cornstalk? You comin'?"

Cornstalk stared hard at his own hands. "I... I reckon I'll stay, too."

"Then stay, damn you!" Midas yelled as he stormed out of the tent.

Devon smiled giddily. Stone Man had finally stood up for I her! She chanced another glance at him. He was still staring I at her. She felt his eyes, as liquid as maple syrup, envelop her. Pride shone from their golden depths. Very, very slowly, he nodded at her.

His silent salute touched her heart. She couldn't remember the last time someone had been proud of her.

When she was a child it had been her dearest dream that someday her father would look at her like that.

She offered him a bright smile. He smiled back, and she I felt an almost blinding sense of joy. With effort she turned her attention back to Digger and Cornstalk. "So, boys, what was it you were going to say about Bonanza Creek? I really f do want to know."

Cornstalk grinned. "Oh, boy, Miss Devon. There isn't any gold in that durn creek!"

"Really?" she heard herself say, "and why is that?"

"Well, the valley's too wide-"

"The willows don't lean the right way-"

"Everyone knows George's strike is on the wrong side of the Yukon..."

Devon tried to concentrate on the men's theories but couldn't. After a few minutes she gave up even trying.

All she could think about were Stone Man's eyes and the way he'd nodded at her in a silent acknowledgment. In that instant, that heartbeat when their gazes had locked, she'd seen past Stone Man's unkempt facade to the soul that lay within. In his eyes there had been pain and, more than that, there had been understanding. An understanding of what it meant to be left out.

Father Michaels was right. Underneath Stone Man's gruff, dirty exterior beat a heart lonely and aching.

A heart like her own.

At closing time Devon left the post's warm interior and stepped outside. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dusk-shrouded street.

She glanced left. A lonely copse of aspen, their bright-gold autumn leaves cloaked by descending night, huddled together against the wind. At the other end of the street, Joe Ladue's new sawmill/saloon stood silhouetted against the charcoal sky, its lightning-jar windows glinting silver in the moonlight.

A cold blast of air cut down from the hills, sweeping through Front Street with a howling sigh. She pulled her woolen cloak tighter around her chin, mentally thanking Stone Man for making her bring it. He was right again; autumn was melting into winter. The nights were getting longer and colder.

Thinking about Stone Man made her frown. He'd acted strangely this afternoon, and the change in his demeanor bothered her. After he'd stood up for her against Midas, he'd gone into one of his deep silences.

He'd stared at her for the remainder of the day, but not once had he spoken or smiled.

There'd also been something different about the way he'd looked at her. As if he were seeing her in a new light.

It had been odd indeed. Even stranger was the fact that he'd left her. As soon as Digger and Cornstalk had departed, Stone Man had mumbled an inane excuse about "having something to do" and bolted out of the post.

Devon stepped gingerly onto the makeshift boardwalk and headed home. When she got to the tent it was dark and empty. Feeling her way along the bookcase, she hung up her cloak and quickly built a fire.

The stove chased away the night's chill as she lit the kerosene lantern and set it on the table.

Golden light wreathed the small area. She set down their plates and utensils then put on her apron and started supper.

Stone Man approached the tent silently. At the door he stopped, his eyes fastened on the rawhide latchstring.

God, he felt like a fool. Why in the hell had he done it? His hand moved up to his face, feeling the whiskerless line of his jaw. He winced. The skin felt red, raw. Exposed.

His eyes slid shut. She was going to crucify him with questions. Shit.

It's too late to turn back. Squaring his shoulders, he lifted his chin and took a deep breath. His big chest puffed out, straining the seams of the blue flannel shirt he was wearing. Before he could talk himself out of it, he jerked down on the latchstring. The door swung open, smacking into the support beam with a resounding thwack. The tent shuddered. A soggy red sock plopped to the floor.

The first thing he saw was Devon's back. She was standing at the stove. He slipped inside, closing the-door quietly behind him.

"You're home!" she cried.

He tensed, his hands curling into white-knuckled fists at his side. Unconsciously he moved into a fighter's stance, legs planted firmly on the ground, hands balled at his sides, chin high.

Metal clanked on metal as she set a lid on her cast-iron pot. Running a hand through her hair, she spun around, heading straight for him.

"I'm so... ooh!" She stopped dead. Her hand flew to her mouth.

The silence thickened and stretched between them. Stone Man felt it ping down every vertebrae in his back "Stone Man?"

The words were spoken so quietly he barely heard them A lump of something huge and paper-dry lodged in his throat. He swallowed thickly, nodding.

Her hand dropped. Her jaw followed suit. She took one hesitant step toward him. "Is it really you?"

He licked his lips. Never in his life had he wanted so badly just to bolt. It took every scrap of courage he possessed to stay there, rooted to the floor. He felt like an exhibit in Phin-eas Taylor Barnum's famous freak show. "It's me, but don't make a big deal out of it. Please."

A soft, tremulous smile shaped her lips. "May I take your coat?"

His eyes fluttered shut in a moment of silent thanks. When he opened them again he found himself staring directly into her eyes. He could see the little flecks of cinnamon that were scattered across her nose, smell the soft fragrance that clung to her clothing. She smelled like a late summer night, soft and flowery and full of promise.

"Sure," he said throatily. Shrugging out of his mackinaw, he handed it to her. Their eyes met again. He looked quickly away. "What's for supper?" ' "Caribou stew. Evaporated peaches. Biscuits. The usual things. I didn't realize tonight was... special."

He snorted. "Nothing's special. I shaved and took a bath. It's no big deal. I always shave before winter sets in."

"From what I hear, winter's still three weeks away."

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Any coffee?"

"Certainly. Sit down." She bustled back to the stove. He took his place at the table, watching her through lowered lashes as she poured two cups of coffee. Her lithe, graceful movements reminded him of a hawk soaring on the wings of the wind.

"That looks good," he commented as she ladled stew onto two enameled tin plates.

"Thanks." In one quick, efficient motion, she served up two side bowls of peaches, plopped a biscuit on top of each plate of stew, and sat down.

Stone Man stared at his plate. Carrots, onions, and potatoes peeked through a rich brown sauce, beckoning him, and a mouth-watering aroma wafted upward. His stomach growled in response.

He started to reach for his spoon then stopped. No. He had a plan, and he meant to stick to it. One night; that's it had to be. Just one night and then he could go back to his old self. He put both hands in his lap and waited patient for her to begin eating.

She edged the napkin out from underneath her fork, she it open, and then smoothed it across her lap.

He grimaced. It was now or never. He grabbed the napkin's tiny white corner between his thumb and forefinger tugged. The fork rattled. He froze, his gaze darting across the table.

She wasn't watching. She was staring intently into stew. Probably trying to figure out which vegetable to eat first.

He tugged again. The napkin sailed free, fluttering int his lap like a truce flag. He sighed with relief. Mission complished.

He watched her pluck up her spoon, oh so daintily, and scoop out a teeny amount of stew. She lifted it to her lip and ate it soundlessly.

Whoever heard of eating stew soundlessly? Thank God was just for one night. He picked up his spoon and started eating, slurping as little as possible.

Devon's whole body felt warm. He was trying to copy table manners! Oh, he wasn't doing a very good job (a darn poor one, in point of fact), but he was trying. Really trying.

She looked across the table at him. Their eyes met. Warmth tingled through her body for a heartbeat; then he turned his attention back to his food.

He wanted her to pretend nothing was different. He felt uncomfortable with the change, and so she was to ignore it. But how could she?