第 18 页

Her eyes caressed the soft folds of blue flannel that sheathed! his chest and arms. It was such a treat to see him in something other than that bland golden-tan workshirt he always wore.

Her gaze moved to the small vee of skin where his collar lay open. His flesh was nut brown from the summer sun, and a smattering of curly black hairs made it appear even darker. She wondered fleetingly what those hairs would feel like. Soft? Wiry? A blush crept across her cheeks at the unladylike thought.

Flickering lantern light curled golden fingers through his hair, turning it into a shimmering curtain of midnight. More light filtered through his downcast eyelashes, fanning in spider-leg strands of amber across his tanned cheeks.

He was almost handsome. Without the aging grayness in his beard he looked ten years younger.

Her eyes feasted on the clean, rugged line of his jaw and the sharp, straight nose that perched proudly above the nicest lips Devon had ever seen on a man. Lips that had once tasted her own...

"What are you looking at?" The words were a growl, deep in his throat.

She looked quickly away. "N-Nothing. Would you like some pie?"

He brought the napkin to his lips. "No, thanks."

As she watched him wipe his mouth, a strange sensation spiraled through her blood. She felt light enough to float. He was trying so hard.

Why? she wondered suddenly. Why was he making this change? "Why?" The word whispered past her lips.

Stone Man felt compelled to look up. There was such an ache in her voice, such a need. Their eyes met.

The lantern's tremulous golden glow wreathed them. Behind her the tent no longer existed; it was a series of charcoal-shaded lumps, a lightless void. The world had dwindled to just the two of them, and he was lost in her eyes "Why?" she asked again.

He licked his lips. She had a right to know, and for some strange reason he wanted to tell her. But the answer- because you didn't deserve Midas's crap-stuck in his throat. Years of training made it impossible for him to force out the words.

It was always a mistake to reveal too much. He'd learned long ago it was better to shield one's thoughts and dreams. Especially from a woman.

He shrugged. "It was almost winter, and I can't stand a frozen mustache and beard."

Her smile flattened. "Oh. I thought..."

The disappointment on her face made him feel awkward. Cowardly. Damn it. He'd planned this evening for her, to give her some of the warmth she'd given him. Why then, when it came time to actually give her something tangible like the truth, did he find himself slinking back into the comfortable darkness of detachment?

"No, that's not true." The words slipped out.

She looked up at him, surprised. "Oh?"

He wished like hell he had a beard to tug on right about now or to hide the heat he felt creeping along his jawline. Now was the time to tell her the truth. To make the kind of confession he hadn't made since he was seventeen years old; a confession that he cared.

"I shaved and all because I thought-after Midas-you might need some cheering up. He was wrong to yell at you like that, and... well, I know how much you care about shit like that, and I..."

"Yes?" she prodded.

"I didn't want you to feel bad."

Tears lurched into Devon's throat. She swallowed the lump, trying to dislodge it. He'd done it for her. For her. She felt special for the first time in her life.

She noticed the blush that stained his cheeks, and an almost aching tenderness unfolded inside her. He was so big, so rough around the edges; but inside, where it counted, he was as frightened and vulnerable as she.

"I don't know what to say..."

Stone Man jumped to his feet. "Thank God. Then let's do the dishes."

He grabbed the large metal washbasin off its hook behind the stove, filled it with preboiled river water from the cistern in the corner, and set it on the table. Adding the potful of water Devon had already heated, he dropped in a bar of lye soap and swirled his hands in the water until it was a murky gray.

Scooping up the dirty enamel dishes, he tossed them into the washbasin. Grayish water splattered over the basin's curled rim, forming big blotches of darkening black on the tablecloth. He shot Devon a sheepish glance. "Sorry."

She smiled. "What's a little water? You want to wash tonight?"

"I guess."

Grabbing her dishtowel, Devon sidled up to him. Her skirts swayed softly, buffeting her ankles. She stared down at the washbasin, fascinated by the quick, sure movements of his hands as he washed the dishes. A patch of milky soap clung to the tiny black hairs on the back of his hands then slid slowly back into the water.

"You mind taking this plate before my hands prune up?" His voice held a suppressed laughter she hadn't heard before.

She giggled. "Sorry."

They washed the dishes and talked of little things; of their day, of the Yukon, of the madness that made grown men muck for gold so far from their homes. Every so often the sound of their mingled laughter filled the tent. Devon couldn't remember when she'd felt so good. It was as though the simple declaration that he cared for her had freed Stone Man. His icy detachment and surly defenses were gone. He was simply her partner, her friend.

She dried the last cup reluctantly, afraid that the spell would be broken when they stepped apart. She needed a plan to keep them together, and she needed it quickly.

As he hefted the washbasin and carried it to the door, she brushed past him.

"Where you going?"

"The cache," she answered, disappearing into the small canvas-covered enclave.

She barreled back into the tent in less than a minute, a green tin box clutched to her breast.

"What are you up to?"

"You'll see." She hurriedly put water on to boil then set a big cast-iron pot on the stove's red-hot surface.

She plopped a dollop of bacon grease into the pot.

As the grease hissed and popped, she grabbed Stone Man's arm and led him to the bed. "Sit up there. Those stump chairs are too darn hard, and-"

"Don't bother explaining. I can tell you've got a plan here, and I'm not about to get in your way.

Now, you want me up there?"

She nodded. He lifted the heavy partition off the bed and laid it on the floor, then climbed into bed. Leaning against the headboard, he watched Devon's fluttery movements, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

In a matter of moments he heard the telltale pop-hiss-pop of popping corn. His smile deepened.

She was making a party out of it.

Devon scooped the popped corn into an old red coffee can then set it aside as she made two cups of steaming tea laced with milk. She carried her bounty carefully toward the bed. Handing Stone Man his cup, she tucked the can under her arm, and wiggled onto the bed beside him.

Like two adolescents they sat next to each other, eating popped corn and sipping tea and talking about everything from the weather to the newest inventions. Everything but themselves.

Within an hour a chill seeped into the tent. Even the hardy stove couldn't keep the cold air completely at bay. Without saying a word Stone Man got up from the bed and pulled a black fur blanket from the chest near the bookcase. Crawling back onto the squishy mattress, he tucked the blanket up under Devon's chin and around her shoulders.

"Wait," she said, "you need it, too. Move closer and we can share."

Sidling up to her, he tucked the black wolverine blanket around both of them. She half turned, tilting her face up to his. In the shimmering light of the kerosene lantern, her skin looked almost golden, and her eyes were black.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to put his arm around her, to draw her close. She melted against him. The top of her head rested just below his chin, and he could smell die fresh, clean scent of her.

He leaned back against the headboard, taking her with him.

"What shall I tell you about now?" she asked quietly. "Mr. Marconi's amazing wireless telegraph?"

He thought for a moment then said, "Tell me about your family. I feel like hearing a happy story."

He felt her stiffen. "Then you've asked the wrong question."

Stone Man went very still. For some reason he'd always assumed she'd had a picture-book life.

Little miss perfect. Could there be pain in her past as there was pain in his? The thought was unsettling.

His hand moved to her hair. Absent-mindedly he stroked the flyaway mass, drawing it back from her face. He didn't intend to ask her about something as private as her pain. It was none of his business.

The thought gave him pause, and incredibly he realized that he wanted it to be his business. He wanted to be a part of her life.

He didn't analyze the thought. He simply accepted it. It would frighten him tomorrow, he knew, but for once in his life he felt the need to really get to know another human being.

He heard himself say, "Is it something you want to talk about?"

Her answer was a long time in coming. "Yes, I think it is."

Chapter Thirteen

Yes, I think it is. Devon couldn't believe she'd said it. Whai! on earth had possessed her? She never talked about her past.' She never even thought about it. At least she tried not to.

Yet hadn't she waited for years for someone to ask? As a young girl she'd ached to talk about her pain to someone. She'd always been able to shield Colleen from their father's meanness, and as a result Colleen hadn't seen the ugliness and hadn't asked about it. Neither had anyone else. Devon supposed it was because she was always the caretaker, the problem solver. Good old sensible Devon. Certainly she didn't have any problems.

She snuggled closer to Stone Man. Being wrapped in his arms made the past seem somehow... smaller, less frightening. This was her chance. Here, in his strong arms, she could purge her soul and begin to heal. She could allow herself to be weak.

Lord, how she wanted, just once, to be comforted.

But she was afraid. A long time ago she'd boxed up the memories and buried them in her heart.

Never once had she taken them out of storage and examined them with an adult's eyes. She was afraid to open them, afraid that once she started crying she might never be able to stop.

He stroked the hair out of her face. The warmth of his touch soothed her, calmed her fears. God help me, she thought, I need to open the box...

She drew a shaky breath then pulled out of his amis and looked up at him. "If I tell you about my fa-about when I was a little girl, will you promise not to interrupt me? I don't think I could start again if I had to stop. I have to tell it all at once."

He smiled crookedly. "Me, interrupt you?"

She cuddled up against him again, mentally preparing herself for the ordeal of talking about her father. It would be easier, she decided, if she kept herself detached from the story. Pretend it was someone else's life; then she could just say the words, let him hug her, and everything would be fine.

"My father started out a good man, or so my mother used to say. They met when they were both young, not past nineteen, and they wed on a lark. No doubt my father only wanted to get as far as the bedroom, but my mother, being a lady, made him walk to the altar to get there.

"Mother didn't realize the magnitude of her mistake, of course. All she knew was that Paddy O'Shea was the handsomest, liveliest man she'd ever met. He swept her off her feet. Everything went swimmingly, I'm told, until mother conceived me."

Her hands curled into tight fists. Her lower lip trembled. It's someone else's story. "Paddy didn't want to be a father, you see. 'Too much responsibility,' he said. 'Too expensive.' He demanded that my mother 'take something for it.' I know because he told me every chance he got."

She rushed ahead to keep from thinking about that part of it. "When he was sober my father wasn't so bad. He was... orderly. He liked things organized.

"I always did my best to put everything exactly where it belonged. But every time he came home he wanted things in a different place. He'd say that a good daughter would know where things belonged. But I didn't, I could never be good enough." Her voice cracked. "I tried so hard."

She made her voice sound lighthearted. "Of course, father wasn't sober often."

A surge of painful memories accompanied her admission. She squelched them quickly, refusing to dwell on things that couldn't be changed. She wished fleetingly that she could Just stop talking, but she couldn't. She'd started, and now were was nothing to do but finish.

"When father was drunk, he was mean," she said matter-of-factly. "He would scream and yell and rage.

And there was the strap..."

The strap. She hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to think about it. But suddenly it was there, in her mind, and she couldn't dispel the picture of it.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately not to remember. Memories hurtled one after another through her mind: her mother, broken in mind and body; herself, huddled in a corner, watching it all and crying, always crying; her father's drunken, leering face and high-pitched holler. And the strap. Always the strap. An uncontrollable shiver swept Devon's body. Stone Man's hold on her tightened. "Did he hurt you?"

His voice sounded angry, almost predatory. Devon flinched. "I told you not to interrupt." "Did he hurt you?"

She could tell he'd keep asking until she answered, so she did. "He didn't beat me."

It was the answer she'd always given herself, and it was true. He'd never beaten her, except in discipline, and then only when she'd deserved it by being a bad daughter. So why was it that whenever she thought of him she got a sick, hollow feeling in her stomach?

Such a pat, well-thought-out answer, thought Stone Man. The simple sentence tore at his heart. She was trying so hard to be calm, to be perfect. He felt a white-hot surge of anger at the man who'd taught her that only in perfection could she find love.

He didn 't beat me. The sentence was a shield, an automatic response she'd come up with to keep her analytical mind from digging any deeper.