Wildstar

by Nicole Jordan

  "You make it sound . . . like I'm a child. I'm not. I'm a full-grown woman."

  Devlin smiled as his gaze drifted lower to her breasts. "Full-grown, perhaps . . . but not en­tirely a woman."

  The implied insult stung. "What is that sup­posed to mean?"

  Have you ever bedded a man, angel? "Just that you're inexperienced."

  Jess wanted to deny it, but when she frowned up at him, she was trapped by his gaze. His eyes were dangerous, the gray deep and subtle like smoke from a wildfire. But then he was a dangerous man. Dangerous as sin.

  WILDSTAR is an original publication of Avon Books. This work has never before appeared in book form. This work is a novel. Any sim­ilarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  1350 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1992 by Anne Bushyhead Published by arrangement with the author Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-90334 ISBN: 0-380-76622-1

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Irene Goodman, Liter­ary Agency, 521 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10017.

  First Avon Books Printing: December 1992

  AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Jay, of course; my own bright star.

  This one's all for you.

  . . .'Twere all one

  That I should love a bright particular star

  And think to wed it, he is so above me.

  —William Shakespeare

  Chapter 1

  Silver Plume, Colorado; 1884

  L

  ean and naked, the gambler lounged at the window of his second-floor hotel room, his attention drawn by the commotion on the street below. The thud of galloping hooves had shattered the peace of the lazy summer morn­ing and startled the few brave souls who were out and about after a wild night's revelry, it was Sunday, the one day of the week that a rowdy mining town like Silver Plume slowed down. Except for the occasional rig or pack mule tied to the hitching rails, Main Street was nearly deserted.

  The fury riding hell for leather up the dirt street— bareback, no less—seemed oblivious to the peace.

  Garrett Devlin watched curiously from his hotel win­dow. Ordinarily such a disturbance wouldn't concern him, but he'd come to this town for a reason. Everything that happened in Silver Plume interested him. And this sight downright intrigued him.

  The rider wore skirts. Four inches of lace-edged drawers showing beneath blue sateee proclaimed her to be a woman, as did the long mane of honey-blond hair stream­ing wildly in the wind.

  "Marshal!" Devlin heard her cry. She was targeting the man with the badge on his vest as he walked past the gen­eral store opposite the hotel. "Marshal Lockwood!"

  She drew her horse to a plunging stop before the mar­stud in a spurt of dust, with a gasped plea of "Wait!" She was breathing hard, Devlin could see, while her tone was frantic.

  The marshal touched his hat politely but remained on the boardwalk, safely out of range of the snorting horse. "Mornin', Miss Jess. What can I do for you?"

  She had trouble catching her breath, and her full breasts rose and fell with the effort. Devlin studied the effect ap­preciatively, with the eye of a connoisseur.

  She was wearing a wrapper—the kind of loose gown in­tended to be worn only at home—made of lustrous, dark blue sateen, without a bustle. Her tresses were tumbled en­ticingly as if she'd only just risen from her bed. Which perhaps she had, Devlin thought, enchanted by the provoc­ative sight. She looked a bit younger than he'd first as­sumed from her luscious curves. Maybe twenty. From so far away, he couldn't make out the color of her eyes, but he could see well enough that her face was flushed with anger, or perhaps fear.

  "Riley's been shot!" she gasped out finally.

  "What in thunder?" The blank look on the marshal's face turned to a startled frown. "Your pa's been shot?"

  She managed to nod but her voice shook when she an­swered, "Shot in the back. He was up at the mine . . . going over the books."

  She pointed frantically up at the rugged mountains be­hind the store, making Devlin momentarily lift his gaze. The spectacular granite peaks dominated the earth and sky, towering over the townsite and the deep canyon where Sil­ver Plume nestled. From his vantage point, Devlin could see the numerous mine dumps that littered the slopes, as well as the tortuous trails that zigzagged up the steep sides and seemed to disappear in the vast vault of blue sky.

  "A guard from the Silver Queen found him and brought him home," Devlin heard her say. "He's in a bad way. If he hadn't been found when he was, he might be dead by now. The bleeding's stopped, but he's still not out of dan­ger. I'm afraid . . . he may still die." Her voice caught on a sob, but then she swallowed hard. "I've already fetched the doc. He's on his way."

  The marshal apparently was still trying to take in the events. "Who in tarnation would do such a thing?"

  "You know very well who! Burke's hirelings, that's who."

  "Now, Miss Jess, you don't know that—"

  "I do so know it! And I want to hear what you're going to do about it."

  "I'll go up to the Wildstar and take a look around."

  She clenched a slender fist in a gesture of frustration. "Whoever did it will be long gone by now. Why don't you arrest Ashton Burke? He's behind the attack, I know it."

  Ashton Burke. Devlin recognized the name. Burke was a rich English capitalist who owned this hotel, a dozen sa­loons and gaming halls in three towns, and any number of mining interests.

  "You got any proof of that?"

  "He threatened us last week when Riley wouldn't sell him the Wildstar. What more proof do you need?"

  "Now, Miss Jess, you know I can't just go around arrestin' people without proof. Besides, an upstanding fig­ure such as Mr. Burke would never resort to such violent means."

  Her scoffed answer was drowned out by a petulant, se­ductive voice behind Devlin.

  "Garrett, honey, I'm gettin' mighty lonesome. Why don't you come back to bed?"

  He didn't glance at the sultry, ebony-haired beauty in his bed. Lena was a dealer for the Diamond Dust Saloon next door. She was also occasionally a lady of pleasure, with emphasis on the word pleasure. She chose her clients with discrimination, and she'd latched onto Devlin the first night he'd sat at her faro table.

  Devlin was accustomed to such immediate attention. With his sable hair, smoke-gray eyes, and stunning dark looks, he'd always attracted women without the slightest effort. Sometimes it was a nuisance, the way women ran after him. But in this case it worked to his advantage. His suave, sophisticated appearance allowed him to pass for a gambler, while furthering his acquaintance with Lena Thorpe allowed him to find out more about the town with­out drawing undue attention to himself.

  For the moment, though, he ignored Lena's seductive plea, more interested in hearing the conversation across the street.

  "Did Riley see who did it?" Marshal Lockwood was asking.

  "No, I told you," the young woman he'd addressed as "Miss Jess" snapped. "Some lily-livered coward shot him in the back. How could he possibly see who did it? All I know is what the guard said. There was a stranger nosing around up there this morning. He had a scar over one eye and he was riding a roan."

  Devlin's interest shot up ten degrees. A scar above his eye. Riding a roan. He leaned forward, his gray eyes nar­rowing. In the three days since his arrival, he'd made little progress in locating the man he'd come to
find. This was the first good lead he'd had since the train robbery two weeks ago.

  "You should be arming a posse," the blond beauty ac­cused. "Preventing law-abiding citizens from being shot down in cold blood, instead of standing here defending Burke and his hired guns. But then maybe you're on his payroll, too."

  Marshal Lockwood turned red in the face—whether from anger or guilt Devlin wasn't sure—and made a blus­tering denial. "There's no call to say such things, ma'am. I was elected law officer fair and square, and I don't cot­ton to insults about my integrity."

  Miss Jess squared her shoulders. "And I don't cotton to seeing my father shot while the culprit goes scot-free. I'm warning you, Marshal, if you won't do something about Ashton Burke, I will. I mean to fight back. I'll hire my own gunslingers, if necessary. Burke will never get the Wildstar, as long as there's a breath left in my body! Now, I've got to get home to Riley. The doctor may be there by now."

  She wheeled her mount to leave, but as she turned, her gaze raked the hotel window where Devlin stood. For an instant as she looked up, her eyes locked with his, then took in his sleek muscular frame, exposed to her view. Her reaction to his nudity amused and charmed him: she flushed and ducked her head before kneeing her horse into a gallop.

  "Miss Jess, don't you go doing anything foolish!" Mar­shal Lockwood hollered after her, plainly alarmed by her threat to take matters into her own hands. "You hear me?"

  "What's all the ruckus about?" Lena asked as she came up behind Devlin. The scent of expensive perfume and the pure smell of woman enveloped him as she slid her arms around his lean waist.

  Devlin gestured with his head at the street below.

  Lena glanced out the window as the blond rider gal­loped off. "What's she in such an all-fired hurry for?"

  "You know her?"

  Lena shrugged and yawned, the fingers of one hand teasing the dark, curling hair on his chest. "Name's Jessica Sommers. Runs a boardinghouse for miners to keep food on the table and her pa outfitted with gear. Riley Sommers always did have his head in the clouds. He's been working his claim for nigh on six years, but it never amounted to much."

  "He was shot this morning." "You don't say."

  She didn't seem surprised by the violence, Devlin noted. But then, here violence was a part of life. Silver Plume was a typical Western mining town: rowdy, lusty, and raw around the edges. Here men lived and hustled and hoped, scrounging for dreams in the hardrock earth, sometimes discovering wealth beyond their imaginations, sometimes finding death.

  "How is Sommers connected to Ashton Burke?"

  "Oh, Riley's been feudin' with Ash since time began."

  Suddenly feeling a tickling sensation below his waist, Devlin glanced down to see Lena drawing a vivid red feather boa across his taut abdomen, through the crisp black hair of his groin.

  "Sugar," she whispered huskily in his ear, "don't we have better things to do than talk about some old mine feud?" Pressing her nude voluptuous body against his bare back, she moved suggestively against him.

  He felt himself hardening in response. Lena made a sen­sual sound of approval deep in her throat, while unerringly her fingers found the shaft that was swiftly becoming long and swollen and thick. Intimately caressing, she explored and fondled his burgeoning erection. "I do declare, you're a magnificent fella."

  His laugh was low and very male, but he remained still, enjoying her play and the feel of warm, stroking fingers curling around him.

  Pressing harder against his buttocks, Lena rotated her hips in invitation. "I want you to take me again, darlin' man."

  Fully aroused now, he turned with a virile, wicked smile. "My pleasure, ma'am. I'm always willing to ac­commodate a beautiful lady."

  "My, what a smooth-talkin' fella you are."

  "Who's talking?" he murmured as he slid his hands down her back, beneath the smooth mounds of her but­tocks. Unhurriedly he lifted her, in one easy motion wrap­ping her open legs about his flanks and angling so her back was pressed against the wall.

  Lena cooed and clutched at his naked shoulders, the feather boa forgotten. When she arched against him, he bent his knees and glided into her slick warm flesh, thrust­ing deep. Her throaty gasp turned into a hot little whimper.

  Lifting her hips high and hard against his, Devlin took her for the third time that morning, but part of his mind re­mained divorced from the pleasure. That part contemplated the conversation he'd overheard just now about a stranger with a scar over one eye—and planned what he would do about it.

  He had every intention of making the acquaintance of

  Miss Jessica Sommers. In the meantime, though, he might as well enjoy what was left of the morning.

  Six blocks away, in the kitchen of a small miner's cot­tage, Jess clenched her fingers till they ached as she watched Doc Wheeler dig the .44-caliber bullet from her father's back. At least he couldn't feel the pain. Uncon­scious, Riley Sommers lay on his stomach on the hard supper table, his blood dripping onto the yellow hand-woven cotton rug. The crimson splotches looked obscenely vivid in the bright pool of sunshine streaming through the window.

  Jess didn't realize that the strangled sob she heard be­longed to her until her father's partner and best friend, Clem Haverty, patted her arm in clumsy affection.

  "He's bad hurt," the wizened old mule skinner said in a hoarse whisper, "but I ain't never seen Riley give up with­out a fight. He'll make it, Jess."

  "Oh, Clem," she said shakily, then swallowed, trying to get hold of herself. Going to pieces wouldn't help her fa­ther keep his tenuous hold on life, or help her face this horrible situation any better.

  How had it come to this? Riley had worked so hard to get where he was, and look what he had to show for it. A bullet in the back. She couldn't bear to see it.

  Feeling Clem squeeze her arm in sympathy, she glanced up at him through her tears. The deep lines creasing his forehead beneath his shaggy gray hair showed how wor­ried he was. He was fighting the same fear she was, she knew: a stark, gnawing dread in the pit of the stomach that felt like acid.

  "Somebody tried to kill him a-purpose," Clem muttered unnecessarily, tugging on his long beard.

  Jess nodded, not trusting herself to make a reply.

  "I find the bastard what done it, I'll hold me a necktie party."

  It was a measure of how shook up he was that he'd let the profanity slip out. Clem had a vocabulary that could set a prairie afire, but he always made an effort to curb his tongue around her. Normally, Jess didn't allow cussing in the home she shared with her father, or in her boarding-house a block away, where Clem and a dozen other miners lived. She was willing to make an exception this time, though. In this case, she shared Clem's sentiments exactly.

  Silently she added her own oath to his, and the resultant surge of anger she felt was a welcome respite from her fear. Purposefully she hoarded that anger, directing it to­ward the man she knew was responsible for such treach­ery. Ashton Burke. Just the thought of him filled her with an icy cold rage. Wealthy, powerful, manipulative men like Burke deserved such fates as this, not Riley. All the rich men in the world, all the silver kings and railroad mag­nates, the financiers and industrialists and their greedy agents, all the money-grubbing parasites who lived off other men's hard work and honest sweat

  Just then Doc Wheeler made a sound of satisfaction as he extracted a flattened slug of lead from his patient's back. Jess hastened to hold out a basin to catch it.

  "You better save that, young lady. Riley will want to see it."

  "He gonna make it, Doc?" Clem demanded fearfully.

  The doc grinned. "Sure he's gonna make it. Bullet missed the lung by a good quarter inch, lucky for him. Be­sides, Riley's tougher'n an old boot. Take a lot more than this to kill him."

  Jess felt her knees go weak. Murmuring a prayer of re­lief, she sank into a kitchen chair and pressed a hand to her mouth, while Clem unashamedly wiped his eyes.

  After Doc Wheeler had cleaned the raw flesh with car­boli
c and scrubbed the blood off his hands, he carefully bandaged Riley's back. Then together he and Clem carried the unconscious man into the small blue-and-white master bedroom and laid him face down on the bed whose covers Jess had already turned back.

  "He'll likely be out for a while," the doctor said to her. "I'll leave you a bottle of morphine to give him when he wakes. Sleep will be the best thing for him. Keep an eye out for fever and send for me if it gets too high tonight. Otherwise, I'll be back tomorrow to change the bandage."

  Jess thanked the doctor and, too concerned to leave her father alone, asked Clem to show him out. She was sitting beside the bed when Clem returned. At her invitation, he claimed the other rocking chair beside hers, hooking his thumbs around the suspenders of his blue duck overalls.

  They watched in silence for a while, until Jess finally spoke. "Burke had to be behind it," she said in a low tone.

  "More 'n likely."

  "Marshal Lockwood didn't believe me." "Reckon he wouldn't."

  "Darn it, it isn't fair!"

  "Nope, that it ain't."

  "Burke has everything money can buy. Everything any man could possibly want. Why does he have to have the one thing that Riley has worked so hard for?"

  "I dunno. Don't seem right that Burke can do anythin' he's wishful of."

  "Well, he won't get away with it this time!" Jess vowed.

  "What you aimin' to do?"

  "Make him think twice about sending his hired guns to do his dirty work."

  Stroking his grizzled beard, Clem eyed her warily. "Maybe you best steer clear of Burke, Jessie. If he did this to Riley, he's liable to do jest about anythin'."

  Jess looked away, her jaw set with determination. "You've got it all wrong, Clem. Ashton Burke had best steer clear of me. He's not laying claim to the Wildstar, and he's not going to hurt Riley. Ever again."

  It was a vow she intended to keep. All her life Jess had watched her father straggle to eke out a living from the Col­orado silver mines, first as a prospector, then as the owner of a low-grade ore mine. He'd been toiling unsuccessfully far longer than her twenty-one years, and had endured the pain of lost dreams and savaged hopes for all that time.