第 9 页

She'd tackled her plan to bring him to his knees with the ambition of a general and the determination of a foot soldier. For seven interminably long days she hadn't spoken. Not one single word. Even when he grunted some unintelligible syllable to her, she hadn't responded. She hadn't spoken or smiled or even glanced his way.

And who had noticed her sullen silence? She had.

She'd also tried-subtly, of course-to poison him. Every meal she'd cooked had been worse than pig slop. Last night's supper, in fact, had been the worst meal she'd ever served: hard-as-a-rock pilot bread, cold canned beans, evaporated apricots, and gooey, half-cooked rice. It had been disgusting enough to make her gag.

He'd wolfed down two helpings, burped loudly, then picked up his book and started reading.

Pain brought her mind back to the present. She sucked lightly at her thumb's throbbing tip. At the rate she was going, she'd be thumbless before she finished building her ar-moire. She couldn't seem to get the thing balanced enough to stand up on its own.

The hell with this, she decided suddenly. Why was she wasting her time trying to get the stupid thing balanced? What did she care? It wasn't as if an unbalanced armoire would ruin the tent's decor.

Why not just nail it to the wall and be done with it? Once she'd decided she moved quickly, shoving the rickety, four-planked structure into the tent's corner.

She pushed the right side smack against the tent's half-wood, half-canvas wall. When it was perfectly aligned she retrieved her hammer and nailed the plank in place. Then she stood back, swiping the sheen of sweat from her brow and eyeing her creation.

Not bad. Normally, of course, one wouldn't consider four planks nailed together an armoire. But then, nothing was normal in the Yukon.

Later, with her clothes carefully hung on her new cloth-covered hooks and her shoes and underclothes hidden in burlap-lined boxes, she felt better.

Her life was in order. The books she'd brought with her were shelved, her hats were boxed, the bed was fitted with fresh linen, and the food, stored outside in a heap Stone Man called his "cache," was organized faultlessly. She had folded, scrubbed, beaten, built, and boxed until her fingers were raw.

It was time to move on. Time to get the rest of her life in order.

She knew what she had to do. Living with Stone Man the past week had been the worst time of her life. Worse even than living in the shadow of her alcoholic, abusive father.

As a young girl she'd always rationalized her father's verbal abuse. He was drunk, or overworked, or it was his way of showing affection. But she wasn't a little girl now, and she was incapable of lying to herself.

It was a lie to think she could live another day with Stone Man. She couldn't; at least, not the way things had been for the past seven days. Her nerves were frayed.

She'd come halfway across the world to start a new life, and what was she doing? Reliving her childhood, except that the drunken brawls had turned into silent standoffs.

She'd had enough. She was a post operator, by God, and the sooner Stone Man realized that, the better off they'd all be.

Grabbing a flower-dappled straw hat from her new ar-moire, she jammed it onto her head.

Resolve stiffened her spine and shone in her green eyes as she plucked up her skirts and headed for the door.

The silence was over.

The peace was over.

Little miss levelheaded barged into the post like she owned the place-which, unfortunately, she did. Every muscle in Stone Man's body tensed. Hairs on the back of his neck jumped to attention, quivering like divining rods.

She came to a halt dead center then planted her fists on her hips and leveled a steady, no-nonsense stare on him. Her determination was a tangible cloud between them. There was no mistaking her manner. She was a woman on a mission.

"Hello, Stone Man."

He shoved the battered old miner's hat off his furrowed brow and met her gaze. "I thought it was too good to last."

She studied him warily. "What do you mean?"

He smiled. Shaking her calm was a small victory, but in this war he had to take his winnings as they came. "The last week's been killing you," he said. "Your face has been so red and pinched from keeping quiet, I thought sure you were going to explode."

The grim line of her lips softened. "So, you noticed."

"I'm dumb, not blind."

She moved toward him. "You're not dumb, and I'm sorry for the times I implied otherwise. Shall I make some coffee?"

She was acting slicker than spilled oil, and it made Stone Man's gut clench nervously. But what could a little coffee hurt? He studied her for a moment longer, then answered, "Sure."

Why not? She could make all the coffee she wanted; she could even yap all she wanted. He'd already reached that inescapable conclusion. He couldn't hold her down forever. She was just too damn bouncy.

But this time he was ready for her. He'd been mentally preparing for this conversation for days, knowing she'd ultimately demand her place.

He shivered at the thought of spending the days beside her at the post and the nights beside her in the bed. He'd have a headache all winter long.

"You know, Stone Man," she said, lighting the fire. "I could help you here."

There it was: the offer to help. He swallowed hard, wishing he knew how to pray. This would be a good time to ask the big man for some help.

"Stone Man?"

Her voice wrenched him from his thoughts. He had to say something. Now. Instantly he remembered the plan he'd formulated last night: Plan A. Create a diversion.

He cleared his throat. "HoW about planting a garden? That'd be good for you. Think of all the dirt you could shove around and then clean up."

"It's almost autumn. Gardening is done in the spring, and besides I'm here to work the post."

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the headache that had burst to life at the base of his skull. One sentence and the plan he'd worked so hard on was fodder.

Unconsciously he started rubbing his temples, listening to the pitter-patter of her pointy-heeled shoes on the hard plank floor. The noise was getting louder-she was heading his way. He tensed, trying to remember Plan B.

"I'll make you a deal."

His eyes flipped open. "Ha! IVe made enough bad deals with you to last a lifetime."

"Then make a good one," she said, her low, throaty voice thick with challenge.

There it was, that "I can wrap you around my finger" smile. He clenched his teeth. "Like what?"

"Like this: I'll bet you I can improve business."

The coffeepot started to boil. The lid clattered, bouncing atop the aging tin pot, and steam puffed into the dust-laden air. She moved quickly, easing the pot off the direct heat and pouring two cups.

He watched her spare, economical movements, awed. She was a study in self-restraint. He could see it in her motions, in the determined set to her chin. She'd probably never taken a breath or a step without thinking about it, without planning out her next movement.

"Put your money where your mouth is, Stone Man," she said when she'd turned back around."If I can't do something to improve our business, I'll stay away from the post until spring."

It sounded too good to be true. He eyed her suspiciously. "What happens in the spring?"

"I'll leave when the river thaws. No matter what."

A frown creased his brow. She was outthinking him again, he could feel it. Damn! Why couldn't he think faster? "Who gets to decide whether you've helped business?"

Her eyes met his straight on. "You do."

"Come on," he said, "you're not that stupid."

"Try me."

His head told him to laugh in her face. She had to be outthinking him again. But his instinct was loud and clear: She couldn't win. She was counting on him to act honorably. Ha! He couldn't lose.

As always, he went with his gut feelings.

"All right, you've got four days to do something that boosts business. If you don't find a way to help, you're out. Fair enough?"

She smiled, a dazzling display of white teeth that made his gut sting with warning. "Fair enough.

Now," she said, looking around, "I'll need some supplies. Wax, jars, things like that..."

Stone Man felt all the tension slither out of his spine. A slow grin spread across his face. She was going to cook! He thought about the horrible pastelike rice she'd served him last night. And that pilot bread-one well-thrown chunk could kill a small dog at fifty paces.

She'd cooked one good meal, that first night. A fluke. It had to be; no one chose to eat bad food.

Yes, he'd done the right thing. As usual, his instincts were right. The men in the Yukon wouldn't pay for Devon's cooking. He'd choked down her grim suppers to keep her quiet. For him silence trumped taste.

But not to the rest of the men. They might be desperate, but they weren't desperate enough to eat her cooking. Even Midas could make passable biscuits.

He spat a huge wad of tobacco, his grin broadening as it hit the floor and splattered across her pointy-toed blue shoes. In four days his worries would be over. He chuckled to himself. "Here, Devon, let me help you..."

The minute Stone Man entered his tent that night, he knew something was wrong. Real wrong.

He stopped just inside, his fingers tightening instinctively on the rawhide latchstring that opened the door.

The tent was leaning. A frown creased his brow. "What the-"

"Hello, Stone Man, welcome home," Devon said brightly, helping him out of his dusty old mackinaw. Folding it carefully over her arm, she bustled toward the hook, her skirts swishing atop the wood plank floor. Involuntarily his gaze slid down her ramrod-stiff back and landed at her hips. The rounded curves swayed enticingly beneath her crisp, no-nonsense green skirt.

It took him a moment to remember what was bothering him. He wet his suddenly dry lips and asked, "Why is the tent leaning?"

She stopped short. The lace bottom of her skirt shuddered. "Leaning? The tent?"

He noticed the sudden stiffening of her shoulders, and he grimaced. "Yes, Devon, the tent is leaning. Why?"

She turned around slowly. An unusual pinkness tinged her high cheekbones. "Well," she drew out the word, "it could be my armoire."

He frowned. "Armwaaa? What the hell's an armwaaa? And why would it make my tent lean?"

She stepped to the left, clearing his view. Directly behind her, where his tent corner used to be, there was now a huge, lopsided square. It looked like a half-smashed soup crate that someone had ripped the bottom out of.

His eyes narrowed, sweeping the dilapidated frame. It was nailed to the wall. Nailed. He shook his head, raking his fingers through the morass of black hair at his forehead. How could someone so smart in some things be so stupid in others?

"I was thinking," came her nervous voice,"that a curtain across the front might help, maybe chintz."

"Chintz?" he echoed,'gritting his teeth. "Who said you could put up your damn woman shit in my tent?" He spun around, heading for the door.

She threw herself in front of him, barring the exit with her body. "Oh, no, you don't. IVe made supper-and you're going to sit down like a gentleman and eat it." Her eyes swept him from head to foot in one desultory glance. "Do the best you can, anyway."

His face twisted angrily at her jibe. Goddamn her for thinking she was better than him! Leaning forward, he planted his big hands on either side of her and lowered his face to within inches of hers. She straightened, meeting his cold-eyed gaze with one of her own. Their fast-paced breathing mingled, synchronized, and pounded through the tent's silence.

The moment multiplied. Neither of them moved, neither backed down.

Devon cleared her throat. "This is ridiculous. Are you staying for supper or not?"

Ue felt ridiculous. How the hell did she do that to him so easily? "Fine," he spat the word.

She twirled out from under his arms and bustled over to the stove where she immediately began her evening ritual, the dance with the Yukon stove, or, as he'd come to call it, the sparrow stuck in a glass box routine. She dipped and dove, opened and closed, tasted and tested, poked and prodded.

All that work for food that tasted like cow dung.

It made him sweat just watching her work. Walking to the table, he lowered himself onto the nearest stump chair and plopped his elbows on the table. A soft, sweet scent caressed his nostrils, and he looked up. She'd put a dented-up soup can full of pink fireweed on the table.

He groaned. Home Sweet Home. The next thing he knew, a speckled blue plate was flying his way. It bumped across the pockmarked table. His hand shot out to stop it, and as he did a half-cooked piece of bacon jumped over his elbow and landed in a greasy streak in his lap.

He slapped the bacon strip on his plate and then looked up. Across the table the very picture of well-bred innocence was smiling at him. "Bon appetit, Stone Man."

They were the last words spoken in the tent for over two hours. By the time she'd finished the dishes, Devon's nerves were shot, shredded to bits by the cursed silence.

Wringing out her dishtowel, she hung it over the clothesline. Smoothing back the curls that had fallen in her face, she glanced at him. He was sitting casually on the big stump chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Beside him a small kerosene lantern flickered gaily, painting the drab tent with dancing shards of red and gold. A leather-bound book lay open in his big, dirty hands.

Her gaze lifted to his face. The hard, chiseled planes of his cheekbones were softened by the dim evening sun, and his eyes, usually so hard and cold, were bright. He was staring at the pages of the book, transfixed.

Devon felt something squeeze her heart. He looked almost like a friendless young boy, lost in the adventurous tale of his first story...

A hundred thoughts rose in her mind, but the most important one was maybe. Maybe she'd been wrong about him. Maybe he wasn't the Neanderthal, filthy, foul-tempered hulk he appeared to be.