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Her chin popped to a self-righteous tilt. "Unlike others who are, shall we say, lower on the evolutionary chain, / speak quite clearly, Mr. MacKenna. I'll say it again: This is our store. Yours and mine. I am your new partner."

He snorted. "Do I look stupid to you?"

She studied him for a moment. "Why, yes, Mr. MacKenna, you do."

A low growl burst from his throat. "Well, I'm not, and I wouldn't let any chatter-mouthed woman have half my store. My new partner's a man from Missouri."

She allowed herself a small smile. "He is? And did your advertisement specify that only males need apply?"

"Goddamn it, lady, I've wasted enough time with you. My partner's a man from Missouri, so get out of here."

"You're wrong. I am he."

"Very funny."

She shoved the letter at him. "I'm having a bit of trouble finding humor in the situation myself, Mr. MacKenna. I just traveled thousands of miles to be part owner in a thriving store in a boom town. Imagine my surprise to find that I'm the proud owner of a filthy, disheveled, disorganized, plank-floored tent stuck smack in the middle of nowhere."

He looked at the letter in her hand; then he looked down his nose at the bedraggled, scrawny, sanctimonious fishwife in front of him. "Holy shit. You can't be-"

Her smile was sugarcoated steel. "Devon O'Shea."

Chapter Two

Thick, angry silence encased them. Mr. MacKenna's breathing quickened, punching through the quiet like a fist, spilling across Devon's face in hot, harsh bursts.

"Say something," she demanded. "An apology would not be out of order."

Nothing.

Exasperated, she broke eye contact. Staring at the row of small, nut-colored buttons that lined his tan flannel shirt, she crossed her arms. Beneath the sodden, wrinkled folds of her skirt, her foot picked up a staccato beat.

Darn him, she thought angrily, he wasn't going to be any help at all. Unless, of course, she wanted someone to load her trunks on a dogsled and hand her the reins.

As usual, it was up to her to solve things.

She set her mind to work. Her thoughts sped up one logical path and down another, seeking, probing, searching for a compromise, but every avenue of thought led to the same revolting but inescapable conclusion: They were stuck with each other. They'd both made a bad bargain, and now there was nothing left for them but to make the best of a horrid situation.

"There's no way in hell you're going to be my partner."

She rolled her eyes. "I am your partner."

"Holy shee-it!" boomed from the rear of the tent.

Devon spun around, her eyes drawn to the shadows huddled just outside the opening. Eavesdroppers!

Snorting her disapproval, she strode over to the opening and flung the flaps back. Three men stared back at her.

"Don't you gentlemen know how rude it is to listen in on other people's conversations? Where are your manners?"

One of the men-a boy, really-yanked off his hat and crushed it to his gaunt chest. The battered felt quivered in his shaking fingers. "I-I got manners, ma'am," he stammered, staring at his own hands. "I-I'm Cornstalk, ma'am. They call me that 'cause o' my yeller hair and my skinny...uh..."

Warmth flared in Devon's heart. It had been years since any man, boy or no, had been nervous in her presence. "Your height?" she offered.

He lifted his head just far enough to look at her. At her soft smile, he grinned. "Yeah. 'Cause o' my height."

A big, one-armed black man pushed past Cornstalk. He smiled at her, a Santa-like grin that made his bright eyes disappear into folds of flesh. "I'm Bear," he said, tugging at the gray-white tufts of hair that spotted his cheeks and jaw.

So called for the fight I lost."

Her gaze flitted to his baggy sleeve. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. If you gotta be sorry for somebody, an' maybe you're that type o' gal, be sorry for the bear. That old coot's lying dead as Moses' toes, an' all for an arm he can't use."

Devon couldn't help smiling. Young Cornstalk looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks, and Bear-well, a woman with a good needle and thread probably wouldn't be turned away. For the first time in months she actually felt . needed. A ray of hope crept into her soul. Maybe she could make a life here after all. "Cornstalk," she said with a smile, "would you do me a favor?"

"Sure, ma'am."

Could you run on down to the riverbank and collect my things? I'd appreciate it greatly."

"You bet, ma'am."

She laid a pale hand on his forearm. "You're a real gentleman, Cornstalk."

"Gentleman. Shee-it," hissed the gnarled, bent old man standing beside Bear.

Midas..." Bear's voice was a rumble of warning.

Devon's warm smile faded as she studied the man called Midas. His eyes, buried like bits of gravel in a sea of wrinkles, drilled her with hate.

"Good Lord," she muttered under her breath. In all twenty-nine years, no one had ever hated her.

Now, after just thirty minutes in the Yukon Territory, she had two enemies And as far as she could tell, that was half the population.

"Go home, lady. We don't want your kind here."

She glared at him, undaunted. "I am home." Without waiting for a reply, she tossed the flaps back in place anj spun around.

Her partner hadn't moved an inch.

Bustling toward him, she steeled herself for his clos mouthed contempt. His surliness was not going to rattle her! she vowed silently. She was going to be calm, collected, and rational. There had to be a reasonable compromise.

So he was big, hairy, uncouth, slovenly, and doubtlessly stupid. Everybody had faults. As long as he quit spitting and took a bath...

When she was completely calm, she looked up. He was staring down at her. Why, he's not old at all, she realize with a start. His mahogany-gold eyes were clear, and the skin surrounding them was etched by the wind and sun bij not by time. It was his soul that was old; deep in his eyes she could see bitterness and disillusionment.

It was a look she knew well, for she herself had aged early. She'd discarded her childhood long ago, choosing instead to don the heavy cape of a mother's responsibility, and though she'd never once regretted her decision to raise Colleen, she couldn't deny the consequences of abandoning her youth. Whenever she looked in the mirror, she found herself staring into the eyes of an old woman, a woman who'd missed the chance to have children.

Yes, she understood the tired sadness in his eyes. For one strange, dizzying heartbeat, she felt almost connected to him. "Mr. MacKenna..."

"You've got to go."

The spell snapped so cleanly it might never have been. Devon felt like a fool for letting a pair of eyes get her so off track. Staring hard at his left breast pocket, she tried to figure out a way to communicate with him.

Be friendly, she thought. That might work. What had that crewman called him? Tilting her head to look at him, she pasted a smile on her face. "Now, Rock Man-"

"Stone Man."

She looked at him blankly. "Pardon me?"

"Stone Man, not Rock Man."

"All right, Stone Man." His nickname matched his wit, he thought. "Let's put our heads together and solve this iroblem."

"I already solved it. You've got to go."

She gritted her teeth. So much for reasoning with a prinate. "I'll go, Mr. MacKenna," she said evenly, "when I vanttogo."

"Then, lady, you'd better want to go right now."

"Devon Margaret O'Shea."

He frowned. "Huh?"

"Another sparkling gem of conversation," she remarked under her breath. "I said, my name is Devon Margaret O'Shea. You may call me Miss O'Shea."

His jaw twitched. "Just start walking. You've got a long trip ahead of you."

"What trip is that?" She smoothed the front of her soiled skirt. "I spent most of my savings on the supplies you recommended. And the two boat trips cost a fortune."

"Two boat trips? Christ almighty! Do you mean to tell me you took the all-water route? What are you, a goddamn queen?"

She stared him down. "Yelling at me isn't going to solve a thing."

"You're wrong!" he bellowed. "It makes me feel better. I like to yell."

Her voice took on an edge of steel. "So did my father. I'm used to bullies, so don't think you can frighten me. The solution is easy, Mr. MacKenna. Just give me two hundred dollars, and we'll pretend this unfortunate situation never occurred."

A collective hiss of astonishment came from the canvas Devon ignored the ill-mannered outburst. "That should! be enough to get me back to Seattle. I have enough money) for the train trip cross-country."

Cornstalk skidded into the tent. "All done, miss. You things're in the log cabin Crazy Spike started to build afore he died o' bein' shot in the back. Anything else I can do for you?"

Stone Man pinned a cold stare on the kid. "You can ca: her across the Chilkoot on your back."

Devon snorted derisively. "I'm not crossing the Chilkooi Trail, Mr. MacKenna, so you can just put that out of yoi mind. I'm returning the way I came. By water."

"Oh, miss," Cornstalk said in a rush, "there ain't no gettin' out of here this year, leastways not by water. The only way out of here this late in the year is to walk."

"Get out," Stone Man roared. Cornstalk jumped like a scared rabbit and hightailed it out of the tent. "Is he telling the truth?" Devon whispered. "There's a way out, but not by water." "Oh, my God," she groaned.

"I'm stuck. Really stuck.' "No, you're not. You're leaving here if I have to fling yoi like a rock."

Her head snapped up. "Enough is enough, Mr. M Kenna. This is all your fault. You placed the advertisemen and you accepted my application. You're the one who p tended to have a store and not some..." She glanced aroun in disgust. "Hovel with shelves. So don't you dare threatej me."

"No goddamn woman was supposed to answer. Yoi tricked me."

"Tricked you, Mr. MacKenna? Did you anywhere in ths advertisement specify that your partner had to be a man?" "Lady, I've had just about enough of you." "Oh, no, you haven't, Mr. MacKenna, not by a long shot If you didn't want a woman, you should've said so. But you didn't, and so here I am. Broke, stuck in the middle of godforsaken frozen moose pasture with a store that looks like it burned to the ground yesterday and a partner who look like he crawled from the rubble this morning." Her eye narrowed with resolve. "Well, Mr. MacKenna, you wanted a partner, and you've got one."

"I didn't want you."

She smiled, a ghost of a grin that curved her lips without touching her eyes. "You aren't exactly hero material yourself, Mr. MacKenna. But what we wanted doesn't matter a bit. What matters is what we got, and what we've got is each other. I'm here for the winter."

"Over my dead body."

The smile slipped up to her eyes. "That would be preferable, I'll admit, but as it's unlikely, let's not waste time hoping. Now," she said, clapping her hands, "the advertisement said the partnership included room and board. Could you please show me to my room?"

The shadows exploded with laughter.

"W-What's so funny about that?" She glanced nervously at the men huddled behind the canvas wall. "The advertisement did say room and board, didn't it?"

A slow grin slid across Stone Man's bearded face. "Oh, yeah," he said, "it did. Standard room and board for the gold fields. Follow me, Miss O'Shea."

He led her to a small wood-framed tent not more than a hundred feet from the post. Easing open the door, he said silkily, "Here it is. Home sweet home for me... and my partner."

Devon's eyes snapped up to his. "You don't mean-"

His gaze flicked through the open door. "Take a look at your new home. Yours and mine, that is."

Cold dread killed Devon's retort. Something in his eyes, something painfully akin to glee, chilled her to the bone. He didn't want to live with her any more than she wanted to live with him. So why was he smiling?

"Come on..."he whispered in her ear.

Suddenly she was afraid; the last thing in the world she wanted to do was to look inside the tent.

Her hands curled into tight little balls. This tent was her nome, and ignoring that fact wouldn't change it.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned stiffly toward the door.

One look inside and her legs turned to warm molasses.

Uood God" she groaned. "You must be joking."

"Do I strike you as a man with a sense of humor?"

Her stomach did a wrenching flip. The space was so small She could feel him beside her, his big body like a cloud foul-smelling smoke, hovering, plunging her into the dark shadow.

He was gloating. She knew it without looking at him. He' thought she'd take one look at this... this...

Words failed her. Nothing in her past had provided a word worthy of I"" place. Filthy rathole was far too kind.

The tent floor, what she could see of it beneath the laye of dirt and mud, was a series of rough-hewn planks chinke with gobs of moss. The planks formed a three-foot-high wall that ended where the taut canvas began. The ceiling sagge sadly, its once-white surface grayed by soot and smoke, the exact center of the room was a little sheet-metal bod perched precariously on wooden slats. If not for the batter metal pipe that rose from its misshapen surface and disappeared through a hole in the tent's ceiling, she wouldn't have known it was a stove.

There were no windows, and the air in the tent, if in truth there was any, was stagnant and fetid. The table was a thick board set on two stumps, and four stumps made up the chairs. Two hooks jutted from the left-corner support pole.