Wildstar

by Nicole Jordan

  Gambling on what might be a worthless mine, he'd spent every penny of his life savings to work his claim. No one could make him see reason, not even Jess's mother. The siren song of silver had gotten into Riley's blood. Al­ways the bonanza was just around the corner, just a few more feet along a tunnel. That rich vein that would make him instantly wealthy. He'd never found it.

  And now Ashton Burke wanted to take away even that pitiful dream. Burke's Lady J mine was adjacent to Riley's Wildstar up in Cherokee Gulch. Just last week Burke had stopped by the house and offered to take the mine off Ri­ley's hands for a goodly sum of hard cash. Not only wouldn't Riley sell, but he'd seen a hidden significance in the timing of the offer.

  "Don't you see, Jess?" he'd told her excitedly. "If Burke struck a vein in the Lady J, then maybe there's rich ore in the Wildstar. I just have to find it."

  She hadn't had the heart to crush his hopes. She hadn't insisted on making him see the truth—that Burke was act­ing out of pure vindictiveness. He wanted the mine simply to hurt her father by putting him out of business.

  It was plain as day to Jess. The bitter rivalry had been going on since before she was born, ever since Riley had dared to marry the girl Burke had laid claim to. And Ashton Burke was a man who hated to be thwarted, who hated anybody who didn't sidestep for him. In fact, it seemed clear to Jess that Burke enjoyed crushing little people in his drive to accumulate wealth and power, par­ticularly self-made men like her father.

  But she wouldn't let him succeed. If she had to go up against a powerful silver baron like Burke to protect her father, she would.

  It was a good three hours before Riley stirred. When his eyelids fluttered open, Jess bolted upright in her chair.

  "What . . . happened?" her father rasped before sud­denly flinching and groaning in pain.

  Hurriedly, Jess knelt beside his bed and gently clasped his hand. "Don't try to talk, Riley. You've been hurt."

  "Feels like . . . somebody shoved . . . a stick o' dyna­mite in my shoulder."

  Clem, hovering over the bed, granted. "Near enough. You was backshot."

  "Who . . .?"

  "Riley, please," Jess pleaded. "Come on now, you've got to take your medicine."

  She directed Clem to help raise her father's head while she spoon-fed him a heavy dose of morphine. Riley gri­maced in pain, but swallowed dutifully. When she was done, though, Riley clutched at her hand and wouldn't let go of it or the subject.

  "Was it Burke?"

  "Do you know anyone else who would want you dead?" Jess answered with no little asperity.

  "Always knew . . . Burke wanted my hide, but I . . . never figured he'd stoop to shooting me in the back."

  Lovingly, Jess smoothed her father's sweat-dampened brown hair that was sprinkled with gray. "I didn't either."

  "Jess?. . . Got to tell you something . . . about your ma. . . ."

  "Riley, don't talk, please."

  "In case I pass on."

  "You aren't going to die!" she cried furiously, then caught herself and took a calming breath. "Now, you hush and go to sleep like the doctor said."

  "You don't understand. . . . Burke . . . doesn't know about you. . . . Got to tell him . . . so he won't hurt you."

  "No one's going to hurt me. You just quit worrying and concentrate on getting better. When you're well enough, I'll make you a whole pan of strawberry biscuits."

  "Strawberry?" The smile Riley gave was wan and drowsy. "All . . . for me?"

  "Yes, all for you." She bent and tenderly kissed his tem­ple. "Now you go to sleep."

  It took a while, but eventually the morphine took effect. Squeezing her father's hand one last time, Jess tucked the covers around his waist, mindful of the bandage, then headed directly for the kitchen pantry where Riley kept his weapons.

  From a shelf, she took down his double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun and a box of cartridges, and began to load.

  Chapter 2

  There were any number of ways to die in the Wild West, and Devlin had faced his share of near misses in his checkered career. He'd nearly been crushed by a shifting load of railroad ties while supervising the addition of a line spur for one of his father's many railroads; almost gored by a longhorn on a trail drive back in '74; barely missed being shot by an outraged, less-than-sober husband who never would've had the courage to draw on an ac­knowledged gunhand had he drunk a few less whiskeys; and come close to being speared by a Sioux brave's lance in the Dakota Territory during the Black Hills gold rush.

  But he'd never before been confronted by a tawny-haired, avenging fury with fire in her eyes. She stormed into Burke's private gaming parlor like a desert whirlwind, bringing with her the fresh scent of life and carrying the threat of death.

  The shotgun in her hands looked plain and lethal amid the gleaming walnut woodwork and polished crystal chan­deliers. She had changed out of her morning robe, Devlin noted, while her fabulous hair was pinned up sedately be­neath a small hat. Her gray skirts sported a modest bustle, and the high-necked jacket-bodice molded her firm, gener­ous bosom to flattering perfection. Still, her sensible cloth­ing looked dowdy compared to the fine feathers of the few sporting women present and the elegant evening attire of the male guests.

  The Diamond Dust Saloon was closed to the public, it being Sunday, but the private parlor boasted a good crowd. Devlin had accepted Ashton Burke's invitation to a friendly game of faro, lured more by the prospect of infor­mation than by the promise of high stakes, limitless cham­pagne, and a distinguished clientele.

  He was seated next to Burke when Jessica Sommers made her startling appearance. Devlin watched with rapt attention as she forged a path through the crowd and the haze of cigar smoke. She paused halfway across the parlor, narrowed eyes scanning the company.

  The entire room gradually went silent, except for the rapid click of the still-spinning roulette wheel.

  "Burke!" she said through gritted teeth when she laid eyes on the fair-haired Englishman, her low tone one of savage anticipation.

  Chairs began to scrape as men in the line of fire moved out of the way. Devlin, though, held his place as she ad­vanced, fascinated by the sight of Jessica Sommers up close. Gold, he thought with an odd sense of pleasure. Her eyes were a tawny gold to match her hair. And right now they were flashing like pyrite in sunlight. She was spitting mad and looking for blood.

  Beside Devlin the raven-haired Lena, vividly gowned in red satin with paste diamonds and bare shoulders, edged back from her place as dealer at the table. On his other side, Ashton Burke sat unmoving, the epitome of power and wealth in his cutaway tailcoat and opera hat, a thin cheroot clenched between his teeth.

  Burke was apparently unconcerned by either his wrath­ful caller or the weapon she carried. He played another card on the green baize table before removing his cheroot, tipping his hat to her politely, and smiling with mocking civility.

  "Miss Sommers," he said, his upper-class British accent cultured and clipped. "To what do we owe the honor of this unusual visit?"

  "Don't patronize me, Burke. You know exactly why I'm here—because one of your hired guns shot my father in the back and left him for dead. I used to think a snake like you might have a few scruples, but that was low, even for you."

  Ashton Burke's smile never wavered yet grew decidedly cooler. "Ah, yes, your father. I was indeed sorry to hear of his . . . misfortune. How does Riley fare?"

  "He's alive, no thanks to you!"

  "But you are mistaken, my dear. I had nothing to do with his accident, nor did any of my employees."

  "Accident . . . ?" Jessica Sommers clenched her teeth, obviously struggling for control. "Don't disgust me. You'd like nothing more than to see Riley gone so you can get your hands on his claim."

  "Merely because I offered to buy the Wildstar mine for an extremely generous price is no reason to make unsub­stantiated allegations. Your father's property interests me only from a legal standpoint, to preclude the possibility of conflicting claims, but certa
inly not enough to cause him harm. I suggest you look elsewhere for your malefactor. Now . . . this is a private party, Miss Sommers. If you're quite finished, I will have someone escort you out."

  Her hot amber eyes growing hotter, she made no move to leave. "I'm only going to warn you once, Burke. You keep your hired guns away from my father, do you hear me? If Riley so much as stubs his toe without cause, I'm holding you responsible. I'll come after you with this"— she raised the shotgun—"and put so many holes in you that you'll look like a sieve. They'll be able to pan for gold nuggets with you."

  Burke's smile faded entirely. "I suggest that you refrain from issuing such dire threats, Miss Sommers. I should hate to have Marshal Lockwood issue a warrant for your arrest."

  A silent bystander, Devlin watched the interplay be­tween the firebrand and the silver king with keen interest and perhaps a touch of sympathy. He could almost feel Jessica Sommers's impotent rage and Burke's cool superiority—and the loathing they each felt for the other. Animosity shimmered between them, ripe and dangerous. It was intriguing, the way they'd squared off like two mountain lions battling over the same lair, claws bared—

  Curiously, Devlin looked from one to the other, sud­denly struck by the similarities between them. Both had refined features, hardened now by the stamp of determina­tion. Burke's eyes were pale blue to Jess's gold, true, and he was perhaps thirty years older. But they could have been cut from the same cloth.

  Devlin tucked away the interesting observation in a cor­ner of his mind, just as he caught a movement at the edge of his vision. A man was moving up behind Jess, out of her range of sight. A lean, black-haired man by the name of Hank Purcell; Devlin had met him briefly an hour earlier. The Colt six-shooter in Purcell's hand was aimed directly between Jessica Sommers's shoulder blades.

  Devlin hadn't planned on interfering, but that was be­fore the odds had turned uneven. With a smooth move­ment of his arm, he let the gambler's hideout gun fall from his sleeve, into his palm. The snub-nosed derringer had lit­tle range, but had the power to launch two solid one-ounce balls. One, Devlin shot at the ceiling, raining plaster dust down on Purcell's head. The second he held in reserve as Purcell froze.

  The report echoed loudly in the elegant parlor. Devlin saw Miss Sommers flinch, felt Burke tense beside him, but kept his attention on Purcell, behind the girl. "I'd give it another thought," he suggested with deceptive laziness, his thumb holding back the hammer of the small derringer.

  Jess spun around to face her attacker, her expression first one of startlement, then disgust as she eyed the weapon in Purcell's hand. "This is how your employees stay neutral, Mr. Burke?"

  "Drop the gun," Devlin said as if she hadn't spoken.

  Purcell's savage expression turned mutinous.

  "It's your funeral," Devlin added amiably. He could feel Ashton Burke's pale blue eyes boring a hole in him, but he wasn't surprised by the silver king's decision.

  "Do as he says, Hank," Burke ordered.

  Purcell, after another moment's futile delay, gingerly laid the revolver on the floor.

  "Now back off, easy." Devlin waited until the man had edged away, hands raised, palms out, before directing a lazy smile at the angry young woman. "Miss Sommers, I imagine this might be a good time to take your leave."

  She turned slowly to give him a long glance, those tawny eyes of hers wary and questioning. But she must have thought better of arguing, for her gaze shifted to the silver king. "Don't forget what I said, Burke," she warned softly before pivoting on her heel and making her way to the door.

  The quiet crowd, which inched back to allow her a wide berth, gave a collective sigh of relief when she'd gone. It was a long moment, though, before the guests returned to their previous pursuits and the noise level rose again.

  In contrast, the silence at Devlin's table was deafening. As he slipped the small gun up his sleeve, he could feel Burke's simmering anger.

  "Did no one ever tell you, Mr. Devlin, that it is not wise for a stranger to choose sides in an argument that does not concern him?"

  Devlin smiled pleasantly. "Call it a major failing of mine, Mr. Burke. I never have been able to abandon a lady in distress . . . or watch someone get ambushed from be­hind. Just doesn't sit right. Under the circumstances, how­ever, I can understand why you might not see it in the same light."

  "You understand correctly. When I extend my hospital­ity to a man, I expect a certain degree of courtesy in re­turn, if not loyalty."

  "Well, then, I won't take advantage of your hospitality any longer." Devlin pushed the yellow pile of hundred-dollar chips he'd won to the center of the table. "Keep it," he said dryly, "as a token of my appreciation for an enjoy­able evening and to cover the damage to your ceiling. Ex­cuse me, will you?"

  With a polite nod at Lena, who was hovering about in dismay, Devlin slid his chair back and rose. Pausing long enough to kick Purcell's six-shooter under a table, he fol­lowed the path Jessica Sommers had taken, feeling at least three pairs of eyes—Burke's, Purcell's, and Lena's— burning into his back all the while.

  Outside in the darkness, Jess was leaning against the wooden hitching rail, trying to control her trembling. She heard the bat-wing doors swing open, then the leisurely tread of footsteps on the planks of the boardwalk. It was him, she knew without even looking. Not wanting to let him see her momentary weakness, she straightened and brushed the telltale dampness from her eyes before daring to glance over her shoulder at him.

  He had stopped three, maybe four feet away. His hat brim was pulled low, hiding most of his mahogany-colored hair. Jess couldn't see his features, either, even in the golden glow from a nearby streetlamp. But she'd already seen his face, already been stunned by it. If a man could be called beautiful, this one was. Beautiful as sin. With nothing remotely effeminate about him. He was no Eastern dandy; he was raw, diamond-hard masculinity in a twenty-four-karat setting.

  He was the kind of man who made sensible mothers want to keep their daughters locked out of sight, the kind her own mother had warned her about. Just now, in his quietly expensive suit, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his brocade vest, he looked sleek and refined and . . . dangerous.

  A dark angel with a devil's smile.

  Jess had seen that smile inside the saloon tonight. Even in the tension of the moment when he'd held a gun on Purcell, that sensual smile he'd given her had shot through her like an arrow, making her stomach feel quivery and her knees suddenly weak.

  The remembrance of that smile and his sleek good looks put Jess on her guard, made her want to seek the safety of her home and family. Still, she owed him.

  "I want to thank you, mister, for what you did," she said quietly.

  He responded with a slight bow that would have looked absurd and affected coining from any other man, but from him it seemed right. "Think nothing of it, Miss Sommers. I was glad to oblige."

  His manners were those of a gentleman, his low, silk-smooth voice that of a ladies' man. That voice unnerved Jess. She was accustomed to hard men and hard language and knew how to hold her own with that kind. His kind, though, she didn't know how to deal with. This close to him, she felt inadequate, somewhat rustic even, despite her two years' training in a fancy Denver finishing school where she'd been sent to acquire the graces of a lady.

  "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me," she said carefully, in her best boarding school manner.

  "The name's Devlin. Garrett Devlin."

  Moving a step closer, he used his thumb to tilt back the brim of his hat, and smiled gently down at her, a smile that took the wind out of her again. But it was his eyes that held her attention. His shrewd, intelligent eyes. Jess stared up at him, trying to fathom their color. Inside, in the bright light of the chandeliers, they had looked cool, crystal gray. Here in the shadows they were a smoked silver.

  Oh, yes, definitely dangerous, she thought a bit help­lessly, even as she mentally chided herself for letting him affect her so.

  "And you're
Jessica Sommers," she heard him say softly. " 'Miss Jess' to some. I overheard your conversa­tion with the marshal this morning."

  Her tawny brows drawing into a puzzled frown, she thought back over the events of the morning. As she re­membered, she abruptly felt a surge of heat flood her face. The man at the window. The naked man at the window. She'd only seen the upper part of his body, his bare chest and sleek, muscled shoulders, and then only for an instant. But that one glimpse had been more than enough to make her aware of his masculinity, of his physical superiority to other men she knew.

  Flustered and trying to hide it, Jess took a step back and came smack up against the hitching rail.

  "Was your father badly injured?"

  Grateful for the change of subject, Jess shook her head. "No . . . he's going to be all right. The doctor said he was lucky, the wound wasn't as bad as it looked. Riley's been sleeping all day and so far he doesn't even have a fever." She paused, wanting to thank this man for his concern. "It was kind of you to ask."

  The slow curve of his beautiful mouth drew her total at­tention. Nearby in the street a horse nickered, reminding Jess where she was. "I'm sorry . . . that you had to get in­volved in my fight. I'm afraid you've made a formidable enemy in Burke."

  Devlin shrugged, a lazy movement of those powerful, elegant shoulders. "I've made enemies before."

  I can well believe that, Jess thought as she silently stud­ied him. And he didn't seem the least bit concerned. But then, Garrett Devlin didn't look like a man who scared easily. In fact, he looked like the kind of man who would be accorded respect wherever he went, even by wealthy barons like Ashton Burke.

  "How is it you're keeping company with sidewinders like Burke?" she asked curiously.

  "I was in town looking for a good game, and he was able to provide it."