第 19 页

But the pain was still there, buried just beneath her calm, rational exterior in a box marked DO NOT OPEN. He knew because he was thirty-nine years old, and he had the same pain locked away in his own soul.

She couldn't go on pretending she hadn't been hurt. If she did, she might end up like him, bitter and alone.

He didn't know why the thought bothered him so intensely, but it did.

He had to help her. But how? Nothing in his life had prepared him to take on the role of comforter. He reached out to her in the only way he knew; he tightened his hold on her body. Before he knew it he'd said, "Fists aren't the only way to hurt people."

She drew in her breath sharply.

"Let it out, Dev. I'm right here, I'll take care of you."

Amazingly she believed him. For the first time in her life she felt protected.

"He hated me." The three tiny words slipped from her mouth, and the moment they did they freed her.

Tears coursed down her cheeks. She wept; for the father's love she'd never known, for the mother's caring she'd done without, for all the times she'd stopped herself from crying. She cried until her soul was parched and dry, and there were no tears left to cry. When she was finished, she felt stronger. Whole.

She pulled a wrinkled-up handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. Cautiously she looked up at Stone Man. He was looking down at her, and there was a tenderness in his eyes that stole her breath.

The moment stretched between them, and slowly Devon became aware of how she must look. Her hair had come 'oose and no doubt looked like a lopsided bird's nest. And er eyes! Lordy, her eyes felt like sun-baked mud puddles, U dry and cracked and red.

Smoothing the hair out of her eyes, she tried to smile. "Well, that was fan."

"Thanks for trusting me," he said softly.

That lump came back to her throat. She nodded, feeling the tears return to her eyes. The words "thank you" stuck in her throat. If she said them, the waterworks would start again.

Embarrassed suddenly, she groped for something to lighten the mood. To do something with her hands, she brushed the hair out of his eyes. That was it! Eyeing his hair, she scrambled to her knees. "Could I cut your hair?"

He didn't know what he'd expected her to say, but it sure as hell wasn't "Can I cut your hair?" He smiled.

Leave it to Devon to spill her guts and then turn to cleaning. Please?"

He shrugged. At that moment he couldn't have denied her a thing.

She leapt off the bed. Beaming, she rushed over to her armoire and returned with a big pair of silver scissors.

"Here," she said, patting the back of the stump chair, "sit down."

He did as he was told. She swept a dishtowel around his neck and clamped the two ends together with a clothespin.

"Collar length all right?"

He eyed the scissors uneasily. "No shorter."

The snip, snip, snip of the scissors filled the quiet tent, accompanied now and then by the sputtering flame of the lantern. Stone Man sat perfectly erect, his only movement the sporadic tapping of his foot on the hard wooden floor.

She edged sideways. Her left leg snuck up between his, burrowing past his knee and settling comfortably along his thigh. The contact jolted him upright.

"Sit still," she ordered.

He froze, his gaze glued to the softly swirling mass of skirting between his legs. He felt the heat of her leg through the wool of his pants. A jet of pure electricity shot up his thigh, landing hot and hard in his groin.

He shifted his weight.

"Stone Man, sit still."

Was it his imagination, or was her voice huskier? Was she feeling it, too, this burst of sensation? He tilted his head back. Immediately he wished he hadn't. Her breasts were a hand's width from his face. He sucked in his breath hard. He held it as long as he could then let it shoot past his lips. It fluttered through the lacy edge of her crisp white apron.

The soft, slim fingers of her left hand slid under his chin, exerting pressure for him to look up. He fought it, forcing himself to look straight ahead-right past her breasts to the sagging canvas wall beyond.

"Lookup."

Reluctantly he did and found himself staring right into her face. For the space of a breath he felt like he were drowning in her eyes. It took a supreme effort to wrench his gaze away. Her nearness was giving him all sorts of ideas, ideas he shouldn't be having around a woman like her.

He broke out in a cold sweat. What the hell was he thinking? She wasn't a whore... She was a lady. What in God's name did a man do when he wanted a lady?

The answer came swiftly. Run.

He jumped to his feet, wincing as his left boot heel came down on the scalloped edge of her underskirt. The sickening sound of rending cotton hissed through the tent.

Caught off balance, Devon stumbled into his chest. The scissors clanged to the floor amidst a shower of night-black hair. She flung her arms around his neck, clinging to him for support.

He felt her nipples harden, felt them push against the worn flannel of his workshirt like twin pebbles.

Struggling for control, he stared at the ceiling. Concentrating on each breath, he willed his traitorous body to relax.

He felt the quick, almost birdlike movement of her head. She'd lifted her face to his.

Oh God... He grabbed her by the shoulders, intending to push her away, but as his fingers curled around the softness of her flesh, he felt his control waver. Slowly, slowly, he pulled her to him.

When he looked down into her huge, expectant eyes, he was lost. In the deepest recesses of his tired, bitter soul, something warm and bright and almost hopeful unfurled.

"Cornelius?" Her voice was a throaty purr that slid down his ramrod-stiff spine like melted butter.

She was on her tiptoes now, her face within inches of his. He could feel the soft vibrations of her breath against his throat. Her lips were one quick movement away...

She wanted him to kiss her, the little fool.

The realization that he wanted the same thing hit him like a lightning bolt. He swallowed dryly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to kiss a woman-a quick roll between the sheets, sure, but a kiss? An honest-to-God, lip-to-lip kiss? Never.

"Devon, don't be stupid." He tried to stifle the harsh, almost desperate tenor of his voice but couldn't. "You don't know what you're starting here."

She stared up at him unblinkingly. He was wrong. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. In his arms she felt it all; comfort, security, warmth. All the feelings she'd never known. Yet it wasn't enough. She wanted more. She wanted, just once, to know passion.

She pulled a few useless hairpins out of her hair. Her ragged topknot collapsed, melting into a fiery spray of waist-length curls. "Then show me," she whispered.

"Oh, God, Dev..."He groaned, taking her face in his hands with a gentleness he didn't know he possessed. Anchoring his hold at the base of her neck, his thumbs grazed the velvet skin of her cheeks. She was so damned soft...

She smiled up at him, and the look in her eyes captured his breath. He lowered his head to kiss her. She reached up, meeting him more than halfway. His mouth slanted possessively over hers.

He moved slowly, not wanting to frighten her. His tongue slid along her parted lips, seeking without demanding, until slowly, timidly, she opened her mouth. The unspoken invitation made his heart hammer inside his chest. His hold on her body tightened, and before he knew it he was clinging to her like a drowning man. After all the years alone it felt so good to be in someone's arms, to be held and kissed and cared for.

His eyes squeezed shut in a silent prayer. For the first time in his life he'd found something real.

Something real. A chill swept through his body at the thought. With a deep, shuddering groan he dragged his lips from hers and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

He was a fool, a goddamn thirty-nine-year-old fool.

How could he be so stupid? A man like him didn't find happiness, and certainly not in the arms of a woman like Devon. A lady.

She touched his face. Her palm felt warm and moist against his skin, reminding him forcibly of other, more intimate parts of her body. He groaned.

"Cornelius?"

He succumbed to the pressure of her voice. Pulling back, he looked down. She was staring at him through love-filled eyes.

He fought a wave of despair. He'd waited all his Life for that look, but now it was too late. He was too old to build a white picket fence and too set in his ways to live inside one. He was a Yukoner, a loner. Always had been, always would be. With the realization came a sense of loss so profound it made his knees weak.

"Kiss me some more," she murmured dreamily."It made my toes tingle."

What she said was "kiss me," but all he heard was the creaking shut of that damn gate. She might be naive enough not to know where this kiss was going, but he damn sure wasn't. A man couldn't make love to a woman like Devon and then walk away. At least he couldn't. Unless he wanted to live inside that white picket fence, he had to stop what was happening between them.

Before he could talk himself out of it he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her backward.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," she said with an impatient sigh. "What now?"

"Lesson's oyer."

She frowned. "Lesson? What lesson? I just want to be kissed some more."

"Find someone else."

The first glimmer of hurt crept into her eyes. "I don't want someone else. I want you."

That simple admission almost did him in. Christ, he thought desperately, if he didn't leave right now, he was going to pull her into his arms and give her what she was so innocently asking for.

With a low growl he grabbed his mackinaw off the hook and headed for the door.

"Wait, Cornelius, please. Let's talk about this."

He stopped. Schooling his features into the scowl he'd worn for twenty-two of his thirty-nine years, he glared at her. "Don't call me that. I'm Stone Man."

And that, he admitted to himself as he stormed out of the tent, was the biggest lie of all.

Devon winced as the door slammed shut. Damn him! She was getting sick and tired of him running away every time things got interesting.

She stared at the door for a long time, trying to will him to return. When he didn't, she went to the stove and made herself a cup of tea. Sitting down with her tea and her book, she proceeded to wait for his return.

"You can run, but you can't hide," she said in a quiet, determined voice. "We will talk about this."

At the moment, however, in the tent's lonely solitude, the thought was paltry solace indeed.

Stone Man stood on the banks of the Yukon, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. The dead, pock-faced moon cast its skeletal blue fingers along the murky water. He watched through narrowed, unseeing eyes as the season's first chunk of ice floated down the river, its awkward triangular shape illuminated by the moon's wan glow.

A late-night drizzle began to fall; slowly at first, then building. Nail-sharp shards of rain bit at his whiskerless cheeks and forehead, shooting in cold streaks down his neck. Swiping the wetness from his face with an impatient hand, he flipped up his fleece collar, burying his chin in its woolly warmth.

The icy onslaught captured his attention for no more than a heartbeat. He had one glorious moment of freedom, and then he was back in the mire, thinking about Devon.

He'd never wanted a woman so badly in his life.

Why? he asked himself for the hundredth time since leaving the tent. Why did he want her?

He'd learned long ago to live without sex. Growing up in The Painted Lady, he'd learned that sex was nothing more than a couple of quick grunts and a poke in the dark. Nothing to mess up a life over.

And if New Orleans's most famous brothel hadn't taught him the lesson well enough, prison certainly had. Hell, even after five years in that hellhole, he'd never had any difficulty ignoring a troublesome woman.

But Devon was different. More and more often lately he'd found himself watching her and worse yet listening to her. He liked the way she talked-so calmly-and he liked the way she looked at him. Not like he was a dirty, no-account drifter, but like he was a somebody. Like he mattered.

He did matter to her, he knew that, and for some strange reason she mattered to him.

That was precisely the problem. He'd known, of course, that he was beginning to care for her, but until tonight he hadn't realized how much.

Time and again he'd told himself that she was just a friend, a partner, a fellow Yukoner, but he couldn't lie to himself anymore. Not after that kiss. Now he had to face the truth: She was a woman, and he wanted her.

God, was he in trouble.

Fortunately he knew how to deal with trouble. He'd been dealing with it all his life, and always in the same manner- by running from it.

It was time to get the hell out of Dawson City.

A loud knock on the door woke Devon from a sound sleep. She opened her eyes slowly. Scarred planks of wood filled her vision. She blinked. Where in the world- She remembered in a rush. She'd fallen asleep at the table, waiting for Stone Man.

Lifting her head slowly, she cast a bleary-eyed glance at the bed. It was empty.

Her stomach sank. He hadn't come home last night. Darn. He was doing a pretty good job of hiding after all. Wearily she brought herself upright in the chair and took a sip of long-cold tea.

The cool liquid helped wash away the sour taste in her mouth.

The knock came again. Louder this time.

She wiped the sandy vestiges of sleep from her eyes and called, "Who is it?"

"Bear."

Every trace of exhaustion vanished. She smiled. Bear was just the person to talk to about the confusing events of last night. Bear was the only person in the world who really knew Stone Man.

She jumped to her feet. "Coming!"

Racing to the crockery bowl she kept filled with water, she splashed her face and brushed her teeth, then quickly plaited her hair. Feeling almost human again, she smoothed her horribly wrinkled skirt and hurried to open the door.

"Good morning, Bear," she said brightly, "what a wonderful surprise."