第 7 页

"You won't make me cry," she mouthed to the mountainous man on the bed. "And you won't make me leave."

He answered with a soft, even cadence of breath. As she listened to the sounds of his sleeping, she felt her own eyelids grow heavy. Goodness, it had been a long, exhausting day.

Slowly she inched her back onto the musty, flat mattress. Edging as far away from Stone Man as she could, she pulled the dirty, scratchy wool blanket up to her chin. She lay stiff and unmoving, trying to will her lower lip to stop trembling.

Please God, she thought, let this all be a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.

Devon wakened reluctantly, groggily. The inside of her mouth felt like an old shoe, all dry and caked with sand. For the first time in her life she hadn't brushed her teeth before going to bed.

Why?

Memory slapped her in the face. Groaning, she pushed herself to her elbows and blinked, opening her sleep-gritted eyes painfully.

A pair of legs came into focus. Naked, pale, and thin, the legs lay scissored atop a metal-hued wool background.

Good heavens! They were her legs! A sharp cry of dismay shot past her lips. She scrambled upright, shoving her nightdress to her ankles. As the material ballooned around her legs, she brought her knees up and wrapped her arms protectively around her shins.

Cautiously, keeping her lashes lowered, she peered to her right.

He was gone. She straightened, scuttling backward. She hit the rough-hewn spruce headboard hard, feeling it rattle along her spine.

"Morning."

The soft word landed in her lap like a rock. She stiffened instinctively, shooting a nervous glance to her left.

Stone Man was sitting at the table, slurping something from a battered, blue-speckled tin cup. The smell of coffee, strong and pungent, wafted to her nostrils. She breathed deeply, letting the wonderful, familiar scent warm her. "Good morning," she said cautiously. "How long have you been up?"

Rising, he poured a second cup of coffee and offered it to her. "Long enough to do some thinking."

She didn't say what popped into her mind. Instead she smiled and took the cup of coffee from him. Her fingers curled around the tin. The warm metal had a strangely calming effect. She felt her heart slow down, her breathing normalize.

"Mi-" His big, chiseled face screwed into a tight frown. "Hell," he muttered, "I'll be damned if I'll call you Miss O'Shea."

Devon smiled. "Fair enough. You may call me Devon."

"Whatever. The point is, I've thought and thought about the problem-not something I'm good at, mind you-and I can't see a way out. You can't leave; I can't build you a tent. We're stuck together for the winter."

She sighed. "I know."

"I suppose you think you made a bad deal. God knows, I got shit."

She opened her mouth for a stinging retort.

"Hold your horses," he cut in. "That's not what I mean. Aw, hell, all I wanted was a partner to run my post so I'd be free to come and go as I pleased, to take all the photographs I want to. And what did I get? A damned woman who can't be left alone."

"I'm not an imbecile. IVe been on my own since I was fourteen years old. I can certainly manage a few hours a day in your, I mean our, trading post."

"Being on your own in St. Louis-" he said the word like it tasted foul on his tongue "-isn't like being on your own in the Yukon. You're the only white woman for miles, and the valley's filling up faster than a whore's bed. You're not safe alone."

Her chin edged up. "I can take care of myself."

His laugh was harsh, mirthless. "Right. Lady, you can't protect shit."

Her chin dropped into the crevice between her knees. Much as she hated to admit it, he was right.

The thought of being alone with men like Midas made her blood run cc!d. "So what do we do now?"

Pushing suddenly to his feet, he grabbed his mackinaw from its hook and slung it over his shoulder. "You stay out of my store and out of my way. That's what we do."

"Now just a blessed minute, you can't..." She stopped. He wasn't listening to her.

Without sparing her a glance he jammed a battered felt hat on his head and stormed out.

She bounced out of bed. Ramming her fists on her hips, she glared at the still-shaking door. Stone Man MacKenna better think twice if he thought he could tell her what to do. She'd come all this way for a chance to start her life over as a post operator, and she was darn well going to do it.

Tossing down the last sip of coffee, she got dressed, snatched up her cleaning supplies, yanked open the tent's narrow wooden door, and marched through the doorway.

The sight that greeted her stopped her dead. She felt like Alice just stepping through the looking glass.

It was a whole new world. There was no trace of yesterday's boggy, stinking, fog-shrouded dung heap. The ground beneath her feet was barely even mushy.

The sky was like she'd never seen it: a deep, sapphire blue that reminded her of a bottomless lake.

And the greens! Every tree and bush and shrub shone green in the golden sunlight. Here and there the first spots of autumn color peeked through.

She sucked in her breath, awed. The land was wild, free, beautiful. Tightening her hold on the bucket's handle, she hiked up her skirts and headed for the post.

He was sitting behind that disgustingly lopsided counter again. As before, his head was bowed forward, and he was studying some squares of pale-green glass. His coal-black hair hung limp and dirty around his face, and his blunt fingertips kept up a steady thrumming on the counter. The stove was cold, uninviting.

In one efficient glance she appraised the store.

Her stomach sank. It was even worse than she'd first thought. There were rows and rows of sagging, half-filled counters. Items were clustered together without apparent rhyme or reason, and atop it all lay a thick, grayish haze of dust.

She took a deep breath and immediately wished she hadn't. The tent smelled like rotten food, dirty socks, wet wood, and kerosene.

She tried to hold her breath and talk at the same time "I've come to work."

His head jerked up. He stabbed her with narrowed, anj eyes. "Go home."

"Shall we have this discussion again?" She trailed her forefinger along the nearest shelf top. A thick layer of dust stuck to her finger.

"Just go."

She walked up to the counter. Blowing the dust off her finger, she smiled as the cloud poofed in his face.

"No more talking. I'm here to work."

He eyed her daisy-sprigged dress of lavender muslin and snow-white apron with contempt. "Doing what?"

She patted her bucket. "Cleaning."

"No."

"Yes."

His fist slammed hard onto the lopsided counter. A jar of penny nails crashed to the floor. The glass shattered on impact. A dozen or so rusty nails clanged against the weathered floorboards then rolled into the muddy cracks.

Devon flinched.

"No!" he roared. "My tent already smells like a god hospital. You aren't going to do the same thing to my post.

"Our post." She marched over to the huge cask of water sitting just to the right of the counter.

"You can't use that water for cleaning. That's for drinking, You want water for cleaning? Then start hauling it."

She splashed a ladleful of water into her bucket. Then another.

"Goddamn it," he bellowed. "Don't you listen to anyone?"

She flashed him a smile. "No. It appears to be the only thing you and I have in common."

He must have recognized the determination in her eyes, because he scowled and then plopped his furry chin in big palm. "Clean all you want," he hissed, "but say word and you're out." He waited a minute before "Cold."

Chapter Five

She was humming off-key. Way off.

Stone Man hunched his shoulders higher and burrowed his chin into his chest. Christ. She sounded like a throat-shot wolverine, whiny and pitiful.

It was giving him a headache.

He tilted his face just enough to skewer her with his eyes. His gaze was hard, angry. Whoever decided it was wrong to punch a woman hadn't met Devon O'Shea.

He let out a long, low sigh, wishing again that he was the kind of man who used his fists easily. Plopping his elbows on the counter, he eased his chin onto his steepled fingers and wondered why she couldn't at least be normal. Women were supposed to be stupid, sociable, easily intimidated by men.

All he'd wanted was someone to manage the post so he could take photographs. And what had he gotten?

An obsessively chatty woman who picked up his boots before they hit the floor and thought like an army general.

Christ... He was more tied to the raow than he was before.

He tried to drag his gaze away from her but couldn't. Of their own accord his eyes kept seeking her out. He couldn't help staring at her; she was so damn out of place.

He ground his teeth. If only she knew how ridiculous she looked, with her flowery dress and her curled-up hair. The throbbing in his temples intensified then slid down to the base of his skull and hammered.

Once she'd started cleaning she was like a tornado in the tent, her movements so fast they became a blur of motion. First she'd torn down all his shelving. The second she'd finished that, she'd set about separating the whipsawed planks from the solid wooden blocks that formed the shelving's support. Squares on the left side of the counter, planks on the right.

Then she'd scrubbed down the planks, her small hands whirling on the wood, never stopping or slowing. He'd watched, awestruck, as splinter after splinter lodged in her lily-white flesh. He'd waited expectantly for her shrieks of pain, and again she'd disappointed him. Not once had she complained. Not once. In fact, other than that godawful humming, she hadn't said a word.

Her refusal to talk was starting to bother him.

Frowning, he wove his blunt-edged fingers through the wiry pile of gray-black hair at his chin, tugging thoughtfully. Who would have thought silence could be so irritating?

Extricating his fingers, he snapped open his pocket watch and glanced down at the plain face.

One o'clock. She'd been cleaning for four hours already and only half the tent was clean. Clean enough for her highness, anyway.

He groaned aloud. Shit. She peeked up from behind a now-glistening shelf. "What was that, Stone Man?"

"Nothing," he grumbled.

She straightened slowly, pressing her hand to the small of her back and easing the kinks out of her spine. Her small breasts strained against the stiff cotton of her apron. Dark, damp patches of fabric hugged her breasts and circled her underarms.

Stone Man's breath stumbled. She looked different, not nearly so uppity. A few wayward strands of her hair h come loose, curling haphazardly across her sweat-dappl brow. A single bead of sweat slid down the swanlike c of her throat, disappearing into the ruffled lace at her collar. The fabric clung to her neck like a second skin.

She glanced around, looking for something."Shall I some coffee?"

Stone Man yanked down the brim of his hat. His g; plummeted, landing hard at his crossed arms. "Do what you want."

He could hear the little click, click, click of her pointy heels on the dried plank floor as she bustled up to the stove. Unwanted, a picture of her legs as he'd seen them this morning flashed in his mind. Long and pale, they had looked almost ethereal against the harsh wool of his blanket.

The clicking had stopped. He tensed, waiting for her to break the silence with another of her stupid observations. When she didn't say anything, he reluctantly peeked out from beneath the dirty brim of his hat.

Immediately he wished he hadn't. She was staring right at him, and a small smile was playing at the edges of her mouth.

"Shall I light the stove? Or would you rather do it?"

Something sour swelled in his stomach. Shall I light the stove? She sounded like one of those rich English biddies talking to her scullery maid. And that look-it was enough to set his blood boiling.

One more of those "I can wrap you around my little finger" smiles and little miss perfect was going to find herself ass-deep in Yukon mud.

"I'll do it," he growled. "It's my stove, I'll light it." Hauling his big body out of his comfortable chair, he shambled over to the cold, forlorn little stove. Taking a match from the tin box nailed to the main support post, he lifted the metal lid and started the fire.

She sank onto the little three-legged stool near the stove and sighed wearily. "I must say, cleaning this... tent is proving to be quite a challenge." She patted the coil of hair that had slid sideways and now rested loosely above her ear. "I like challenges. Don't you?"

He grunted in response, lowering himself slowly onto a stool beside her. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was starting to wilt. Poor little thing, he thought with a sneer, all that cleaning was too much for her. She probably wouldn't try it again for weeks. Thank God...

She popped up. "Well," she said, smoothing the dirty front of her apron. "I'd better get back to work. I couldn't sleep tonight knowing our post was a pigsty."

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "You've got to be kidding."

"Do I look like a woman who jokes about dust?"

His lips pulled into a tight grimace. "No. Or anything 5 else, for that matter. What about the coffee?"

She offered a smile that left him feeling like a child. "That was for you, silly." Then, before he had time to answer, she started it again. Humming.

He snapped to his feet, instinctively taking a fighter's stance: legs braced apart, arms at his sides, hands coiled. Silly. She'd called him- him- silly.

Enough was goddamn well enough. He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face him.

He was gratified by the flash of fear in her eyes. Good, he thought. Let her be afraid of me for once. Lowering his face to within inches of hers, he said harshly, "Your half of the post is clean.

Leave mine alone."

The fear transformed magically into triumph. "Sorry, Stone Man. I cleaned your half first."