第 5 页

"What you need is a boat ticket home."

"What I need, not that you would recognize these items, is soap, water, and a bucket."

He took a step toward her. "Lady, you've got about ten seconds to get the hell out of my store."

"Aha!" she cried, clapping her hands together. "Here's! the soap-right next to the pickaxes. Why didn't I look there first?" Sweeping the cleaning goods into her arms, she tilted her head to a proud angle and headed for the door.

As she sailed past Stone Man, his hand snaked out, capturing her wrist in a viselike grip and pulling hard. She landed in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest. The smell of wood smoke on flannel crept into her nostrils.

He lowered his head. "I'll be home for dinner at eight,' he whispered harshly in her ear. "Be ready to shut your mouth for once and listen."

His warm breath slid down her cheek, setting off a flurry of butterflies in her stomach. The well-worn flannel beneath her cheek swayed, lifting and dropping like a calm sea. It took her a moment to remember she'd been insulted.

"Shut my mouth!" she hissed, wrenching free. "You listen to me, Stone Man. It was your incompetence and failure to consider all possibilities that got us into this mess. From now on, you listen to me."

The skin around his eyes flinched. "Never."

She tossed a contemptuous glance around the disorganized store. "This dump is half mine. I'm your partner, and until spring you'll darn well listen to me."

"Never."

She went on as if he hadn't spoken. "Come spring I'll gather my earnings and leave this sorry blight on the earth's face. But until then we're equal partners."

"You won't last that long, lady."

Her gaze turned icy. "Don't bet on it, Stone Man. I have a way of... surviving." Tightening her hold on the precious cleaning supplies, she strode out of the tent.

After she'd left, Cornstalk turned to Stone Man. "What's a blight?"

Stone Man's gaze remained riveted on the fluttering tent flaps. "She is, son. She is."

Snapping open his pocket watch, Stone Man glanced at the time: eight o'clock. He couldn't put it off any longer. The boys had been gone for hours. It was time to shut down the post and go home.

Home. The word alone made him tense. Yesterday his tent was a home; today, who knew?

He flipped open the tent flaps and peered out.

The camp was naturally quiet-just the way he liked it. The rain had dwindled to a silvery mist that clung to the gray-blue spruce needles like flecks of crystal. Puddles winked white from the sea of mud. Fogless, the sky was a dull amber-blue fusion of early evening light; the strange, half-lit evening of the autumnal Yukon.

He knew from experience that tomorrow's dawn would be perfect, a day made for photography.

He jammed his hands into his pockets, letting the tent flaps flutter shut. He should be getting his glass plates and chemicals together-and what was he doing? Hiding in his tent like a naughty schoolboy, afraid to go home.

"Damn," he muttered. She had him acting like Cornstalk, stupid and nervous.

He rubbed his sweaty palms on the coarse denim of his pants. For the first time since he'd left prison, he wished he were a drinking man. A belt of Scotch would taste good right now. Damn good.

Wait a minute, he thought. Why the hell am I nervous? She was the one who ought to be scared. She was the one who was leaving-somehow. He didn't exactly know how he was going to do it, but he was damn well going to do something to make her run from him like a shot-at coyote.

Yes, she was the one who ought to be nervous. In less than twenty-four hours she'd be packing for a trip north, one that the scrawny little thing wouldn't-Don't think about the hardship. It was her own fault she was up here. If she'd just been a man like she was supposed to none of this would have happened.

He'd just have to convince her highness to leave. How hard could that be? She was only a woman-and a damn stupid one at that. A smart one wouldn't have gotten off the sternwheeler.

He could outsmart her by a Yukon mile.

Smiling, he slipped into his mackinaw and started for home. Nothing to it. By this time tomorrow the little lady with the uppity ways would be halfway to Fortymile.

And good riddance.

He stood outside his own door for a long minute, reminding himself that she was stupid and he was smart.

Still, she had a way about her of making a man feel dumb...

Suddenly the door swung open, and there she was, standing right in front of him, her face all flushed and lively. Then-eyes locked. He felt his mouth drop open. She'd cleaned up, and she looked... younger.

Guilt tickled his gut. The trails weren't kind to a woman her size.

"Mr. MacKenna?"

Her brackish voice ripped a hole through his thoughts. It wasn't his goddamn fault she was a woman. His mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth; his eyes narrowed. "You wasted water on a damn bath?"

he growled. "There'd better be enough left for drinking, or you'll be the one hauling it."

The startled look froze on her face, and whatever she'd been about to say vanished. Pushing past her, he barreled into his tent. Two steps in he stopped in his tracks. "What the..." He spun around, stabbing her with his eyes. "This place smells like a goddamn hospital."

She met his angry stare without flinching. "Better a hospital than a privy."

"Why you-"

She hurried to his side. "Let's not fight, Mr. MacKenna. I've made us a nice supper, and I would so hate to spoil it. Let's call a truce. Perhaps after eating we can reach a compromise."

He reined in his temper, forcibly reminding himself of his mission. Already he knew her well enough to know that if he antagonized her, she'd only dig her heels in deeper. And her goddamn heels were in deep enough now. "Okay," he mumbled, letting her help him out of his coat. "What's that other smell?"

A pained look crossed her face. "Supper."

"Oh." He watched as she smoothed wrinkles from his old mackinaw and hung it carefully on the lower hook. He snorted. The little priss was probably itching to iron it.

"Sit down, please," she said, waving her hand regally toward the table.

There was a bright red tablecloth on the table and two white cloth napkins. "Christ," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that, Mr. MacKenna?"

"Call me Stone Man. And I didn't say anything." He lowered himself to one of the stump chairs and scooted close to the table.

She buzzed around the stove, lifting lids, stirring, tasting, testing, opening the oven door and closing it. It made him dizzy just watching her.

"So, Mr... uh... Stone Man, how long have you been in the Yukon?" Her voice sounded different, nervous. "It seems so desolate and lonely up here. But then, perhaps you're that type of man. I, myself, find that..."

Her words mushed together in his mind. She was chattering like a squirrel, and it was giving him a headache.

"How old are you?" he cut in when she took a breath.

A pot lid clattered noisily into place, and she spun to look at him, her pale face flushing. "Sorry, I didn't expect you to-I mean, most men wouldn't ask. I'm twenty-nine."

He studied her for a long moment. She wasn't bad looking, in a skinny, freckled kind of way.

There were probably lots of men desperate enough to marry her. "Kinda old to be gallivanting around the country like a girl in short skirts, isn't it? Why don't you settle down, have some kids?"

Her hands were shaking noticeably as she plucked up his plate and started ladling dinner onto the cobalt-blue tin. "I'm not old. And I have no intention of discussing my personal life with you."

Setting the plates on the table with mathematical precision, she smoothed everything-her hair, her cheeks, her skirts. Then she sat down like a princess and picked up her fork.

His gaze dropped to the plate she'd set in front of him. He stared at it, amazed. The food was perfectly placed: the sliced moosemeat smothered with rich gravy was at twelve o'clock, the butter and spice-laced turnips at four o'clock, and the biscuits at seven o'clock.

The aroma made his mouth water. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and this was the best-looking meal he'd ever seen. Lowering his elbows to the table, he curled his arms protectively around his plate. The action was unconscious, a left-over legacy from prison days, when food was protected at all costs. Taking the flaky roll in his dirty hands, he cracked it open and slid it through the moose gravy, then piled a huge fingerful of turnips on top and shoved it into his mouth. Chewing noisily, he rammed a chunk of meat in his mouth, then glanced across the table.

She was staring at him, agape.

He stopped chewing. "What's the matter with you?"

Her gaze immediately dropped back to her perfectly ordered plate. "Nothing," she said quickly, cutting a thimble-sized bite of meat.

"Good," he said, slogging another hunk of biscuit through : his gravy. He lowered his head again but kept his eyes fixed on her through slitted lashes.

He couldn't believe it: She was eating counterclockwise, one food item at a time. She didn't so much as touch her turnips until every bit of meat was gone.

With a snort of disgust, he went back to eating.

"Well," came her whiskey-tenored voice, "how is your meal?"

"Fine," he said, jamming the final bite of biscuit into his already overstuffed mouth. Swallowing loudly, he took a long swig of water, then leaned back in his chair and burped.

At his belch, Devon dropped her fork. The clang of metal hitting hardwood seemed obscenely loud in the quiet room.

He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Now, lad... uh, Devon, we've got to solve our problem." His eyes swept the spotless tent in a heartbeat, noticing the shelving she'd built for his books. Until now they'd been scattered all over: under the bed, under the stove, behind the snowshoes- wherever he happened to be standing when he didn't want to read anymore.

Good God, she must have ferreted them out like a miner after ten-dollar nuggets.

He groaned. Midas was right. By tomorrow his bed would be pink, probably with little white flowers on it. She'd been here all of six hours, and already he felt uncomfortable in his own home.

He cleared his throat. "We can't live together. It won't work."

She dabbed the napkin at her mouth then set it alongside her plate and looked up at him. "Where will you go?"

His hold on the coffee cup tightened. The woman was goddamn unbelievable. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Neither am I."

"Neither are-" Slow down. Think. He hated having to think; he wasn't good at it. What he wanted to do was pick her up by her skinny backside and toss her out of his tent. He remained calm by sheer force of will. "You don't know what it's like up here in the winter. Eighty below zero isn't uncommon. You can't even imagine that kind of cold."

She chewed on her lower lip. "Give me the two hundred dollars, and I'll go home."

"Dammit, Devon, even if I had the money, you can't go home by water. Not this year."

"You can't expect me to walk?"

He dropped into the chair opposite her. "It's not that difficult a trip," he lied, staring right into her eyes. "WeVe all done it. And Bear offered to-"

"No." Snapping to her feet, she swept the dirty dishes into her arms and strode over to the half-full wash basin.

Her back was to him as she flung the plates into the sudsy water, but he didn't need to see her face to know she was furious. Her body was stiff with silent anger.

"Devon..." The rich, warm cadence of his voice floated across the tent.

Her ruthless attack on the dishes didn't dim. "I'm not walking, Stone Man. Not anywhere. Get that through your thick skull. Here I am and here I'll stay until spring."

Damn! He slumped in his chair, plopping his furry chin, onto his laced fingers. She meant it. She was staying.

There had to be a way to force her out...

Suddenly Midas's words popped into his mind. I bet if one of us tried to get a little lovin', a proper lady like herd run for cover...

He studied her, wondering.

Would she run from lovemaking?

He swallowed dryly. It was his only hope.

Pushing himself slowly to his feet, he moved awkwardly across the room. Right behind her he stopped. The rain-sweet scent of her filled his nostrils. She smelled of goodness, not like any of the women he'd touched before. He was used to women who reeked of stale tobacco smoke and cheap liquor. He could tell just by looking that her hair would feel like wolf fur: soft and long, and just a bit prickly.

He focused on the pale curve of her neck. Her skin was so ) light, like a layer of new cream flecked with cinnamon.

He lifted his hand and held it just over her shoulder, staring in amazement at the slight tremble of his fingers. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his hands shake.

How did you touch a woman you hadn't paid for? Would she scream? Hit him? Cry?

It didn't matter, he reminded himself, as long as she left. Running his tongue over paper-dry lips, he stared at the milky softness of her skin, wishing, strangely, that his hands were clean.

Then, steeling himself for her response, he touched her.

Chapter Four

His fingers curled around the thin curve of her shoulders, squeezing gently.

She flinched at the contact, but one sharp intake of breath was the only sound she made. Beneath his damp palm he felt a butterfly-quick shudder of apprehension. Then she regained control. Her body stiffened.

His hand inched across the bumpy surface of her serge coat toward her throat. Her breathing quickened, taking on the harsh, uneven tenor of the hunted. He forced himself to continue moving slowly; he wanted to frighten her, not terrorize her.

His dirty fingers slid through the frothy swirl of lace at her throat and crept downward, burrowing past the starched cotton of her collar to the skin beneath. The small indentation below her collarbone was like a bower of milky velvet cradling his callused fingertips. The quick, even beat of her pulse danced against his flesh.