Wildstar

by Nicole Jordan

  "That isn't true! I don't have time to enjoy being a woman. I don't have time to primp and preen and deck myself out in fancy clothes."

  "Oh yes, you're afraid, sweetheart. You're afraid to feel a woman's passion."

  Jess stared at Devlin in dismay, realizing there was some truth to his accusation. She was afraid . . . of him, of the sinful promise in his eyes, of the way he made her feel. He stood there, arrogant and self-assured, his denim-covered legs spread slightly, his right thumb hooked over his gun belt. He looked more strikingly handsome than a man had any right to look.

  "Oh yes, Miss Jess." His voice dropped to a husky mur­mur that sent tingles of physical awareness running along her skin. "Some man ought to take you in hand and show you the kind of desire a woman can feel . . . make you a complete woman."

  "I suppose you think you're that man."

  His grin slowly became tantalizing. "I could be."

  Her breath seemed to stop at the notion.

  "But not tonight. As you said, you're paying me to guard your mine, not teach you about womanhood. Do you intend to give me my gun back?"

  "I don't know."

  "Your virtue's safe . . . for tonight."

  He held out his hand, waiting with apparent patience but. with a glint of maddening amusement in his eyes. After a moment's hesitation, Jessica lowered the revolver and handed it to him, butt first.

  He holstered it, then turned to the table and retrieved his hat. "I'll stay outside for the rest of the night. You can put a chair under the door handle if you're afraid of me."

  Not answering, Jess watched as Devlin picked up his Winchester and crossed the small room. Reaching over­head for the lamp, he turned down the flame till it gave off only a faint glow. "Get some sleep," he ordered softly, be­fore leaving the cabin solely to her.

  When the door shut behind him, Jess let out the breath she'd been holding. The urge to shove a chair under the door handle, as he'd suggested, made her palms itch, but she refused to let that provoking devil think she was afraid of him. Determinedly she made herself get up from the ta­ble and walk over to the bed.

  Sitting on the lumpy mattress, she struggled to unfasten her slim-heeled, high-button shoes. Then crawling beneath the blanket, she pulled it up to her chin and lay staring at the rough pine ceiling, trying unsuccessfully not to think of Garrett Devlin. It was a long, long while before her eyes drifted closed.

  Outside, Devlin settled himself on the rocky ground near the hut, with his back to a boulder, and tried unsuc­cessfully not to think of Jessica Sommers. It was a novelty for him, being held off at gunpoint by a woman. For that matter it was a novelty that a woman had refused his ad­vances. Females usually tripped over themselves trying to please him and win his attention. That Jessica hadn't was doubtless because she didn't yet know the size of his bank account.

  What would she say if he told her that he owned mines, ranches, and railroad stocks worth millions? That he could claim two newspapers, seven banks, a dozen factories, a racing stable, and his own private railroad car? Her atti­tude toward him would change quickly enough then. She needed money badly—to get her father back on his feet and their mine operating in the black. If what he suspected was true, she would have to use her life savings simply to pay him the salary she'd offered.

  Devlin hunched his shoulders as a cool night breeze blew off the mountain and swept across his overheated body; this high up the air was thin and pure and bracing. Yes, Jessica would change. While he might be intrigued by her courage, while he might admire her fierce loyalty to her father, he had little faith that she was any different from other women. As soon as she learned his net worth, she would prove to be just as mercenary as all the other money-hungry females in his past. . . . His mother, who had married his father for money and position. The mar­ried socialite who'd seduced him when he was fifteen in order to gain an introduction to his father. His one-time fiancée, who'd taught him that the lure of wealth and power could poison simple feelings like love.

  It had been a hard lesson, one that had changed his life.

  As the only son of wealthy Chicago railroad magnate C. E. Devlin, Garrett had grown up in the lap of luxury and been groomed to take over his father's empire. But the transition had never occurred. In fact, he'd scarcely spoken to his father in the past ten years, since their bitter es­trangement when they'd quarreled over his future.

  C.E. had always been a hard, exacting, aloof man who drove his son to meet impossibly high standards—until Garrett finally rebelled. He was twenty-one and fresh out of Harvard when he'd fallen head over heels in love with a young woman and asked her to marry him. His father, though, objected to her lower social status and threatened to cut Garrett off without a penny if he went through with the marriage. Declaring he could live without his father's money, he asked his fiancée to leave town with him.

  Never once had he considered that she might turn him down. But her reaction quickly revealed her horror at the prospect of a life other than the wealthy one she'd bar­gained for.

  "Go west? Garrett, darling, you don't honestly expect me to sacrifice my entire future simply so you can defy your father. Why don't you make up with him, tell him you're sorry?"

  Garrett felt a sickening sense of disillusionment knotting in his stomach. "I don't think you understand. He means to disinherit me if we marry."

  She gave him a coaxing, purely female smile that said such an obstacle was only a minor one. "Then we'll wait until we can bring him around."

  "You don't know my father. He can't be persuaded from a course once he makes up his mind. And I've had enough of living under his thumb. I mean to go out west, and I want you to come with me."

  "But where will we live, how will we afford a house, a carriage, clothes? How will I entertain your guests? How will you support me?"

  "I can earn enough to support you without being tied to my father's money bags."

  "How, darling?"

  "I'm familiar enough with the rail business to get a po­sition with a railroad."

  "But you would have to start at the bottom."

  "I've always been skilled at cards. I could make extra money gambling if necessary."

  "Gambling? Garrett, you know I love you, but you can't expect me to give up my life, all my dreams, so you can throw away your future. I have to think about my own fu­ture, too."

  Which was all she cared about, he realized with a rising ache in his throat.

  He'd pleaded with her to reconsider, hoping desperately that he'd misunderstood, that money and position didn't really mean so much more to her than he did. When she'd abruptly ended the engagement, it had felt like a knife be­ing shoved in his gut. He had loved her—ardently, mind­lessly, as only a young man of one and twenty can love. He'd believed she loved him. Her avowals had seemed so genuine. But what kind of love was it that couldn't pass even the first test of loyalty, of commitment?

  Devlin restlessly shifted the Winchester on his lap as memories intruded. He had cried that night. Broken down and sobbed like a baby for his lost love, his lost inno­cence. And when his tears had dried, his disillusionment had stayed with him.

  He'd gotten over her eventually. What had meant so much to him then now seemed like an unsavory dream. He could barely recall what she looked like now. Her name . . . her name didn't matter. There had been too many women since then to remember only one. But he'd never forgotten the pain she'd caused him, or the lesson she'd taught him. And he was determined he would never be used that way again.

  He had gone west alone, without her, without his fa­ther's money, vowing to make enough on his own that she would regret refusing him, and determined to prove to his father he could be successful without his help.

  Those had been tough years, since he was a greenhorn at nearly everything that mattered in the West. He'd had to grow up fast, had to learn new skills. He worked on the railroad for a time, drove cattle, tried his hand at panning for gold. He discovered a kind of pleasure in earning his livel
ihood by his own honest sweat, but the pay was poor for menial jobs. So he honed his talent for gambling—well enough to make a decent living at it. And then, because he wanted to continue living, he learned to draw fast. He achieved a reputation for being good with a gun, and was once a deputy sheriff in a small town in Kansas. He even hired on as an extra gun with a big cattle outfit in Wyo­ming during a range war.

  All the while, he was investing his earnings and gam­bling winnings in ranches, mills, mines, and railroads throughout the West. It wasn't until the Black Hills gold rush, though, that he finally began to make money on a large scale. He lucked into a big strike while working his claim, and used the proceeds to buy an interest in the now fabulously rich Homestake Mine. By the time he finally returned to Chicago four years ago for his mother's fu­neral, he was well on his way to becoming a rich man.

  He stayed there in Chicago, making it his home, and proceeded to increase his wealth significantly. Not only did he prove to be a shrewd investor, but he managed to charm, outwit, seduce, or slay any dragons barring his way to achieving his ultimate goal—being wealthy and power­ful enough to thumb his nose at his father. At last, after ten years, he could claim success.

  Not that his father noticed.

  C.E. had kept his word, disowning Garrett as his son, never writing or speaking until Irene Devlin's funeral, and then only tersely. He'd never forgiven Garrett for bucking his command, or escaping his control. Devlin was certain his father at least knew of his achievements; any man of C. E. Devlin's consequence and shrewdness would be aware of events of even minor significance to the business community. But no acknowledgment had ever been made.

  They'd crossed paths several times in Chicago since the funeral, twice at social functions within the past year. A cool nod was the only recognition C.E. ever gave him. Devlin found it a bitter absurdity that despite their ten-year estrangement, his father's snubs still bothered him. Dam­mit, he was thirty-one years old and he still hadn't outgrown his need for C.E.'s approval. He still craved his father's good opinion.

  And without that approval, success seemed a hollow victory. Money hadn't satisfied him, nor had power. He could afford the best in life—the finest houses, the best entertainment, the most beautiful women—but he couldn't suppress the feeling of discontent that had plagued him lately, a weariness bordering on ennui, a hollowness of the soul that could only be called loneliness, despite his active social life. He was rich enough and good-looking enough to buy most any woman he wanted, but he stuck with fancy women and occasionally married ladies—only those sophisticated and worldly enough to know that an affair with him wouldn't lead to marriage.

  The young woman who'd started it all had married a banker, borne three children, and was now a plump society matron lording over her dwindling coterie of Chicago's nouveau riche. Devlin had only learned about her because he'd bought her husband's bank shortly after his return to Chicago, and because she'd shown up at his doorstep, pro­fessing a willingness to share his bed in exchange for her husband's advancement. He'd sent her away with a strong feeling of disgust and only a vague feeling of regret for the loss of the love he'd once felt for her.

  He felt a much greater regret for the loss of his father's respect and affection.

  No one could have been more amazed than Devlin when C.E. had voluntarily paid him a visit during the week just past. For a full minute he'd stared at the calling card that bore his father's name, thinking there had to be some mis­take, before finally directing his housekeeper to show the visitor into his study.

  It was definitely his father. They stood eyeing each other like two strangers, until C.E. finally broke the si­lence.

  "You're looking well, Garrett," he said gruffly.

  Devlin could have returned the remark. At sixty, his fa­ther was still tall and attractive and sharp-eyed, though his black hair was liberally streaked with gray. Devlin found himself wondering if his father might not be a lonely man. C.E. hadn't remarried after his wife's death, and even dur­ing her life, Irene Devlin had been a cold, selfish woman, more concerned with the state of her social calendar than with her husband's or son's welfare. And if the string of mistresses his father was reported to have had since then was any indication, C.E. hadn't been satisfied with any of the women he'd had in keeping. But not for one minute did Devlin believe his father was interested in exchanging banalities or discussing the past.

  "To what do I owe the honor of this visit, sir? I don't presume this is a social call."

  "No, I've come on business," C.E. responded coolly.

  Devlin invited his father to sit down in a wing chair, then settled himself behind his desk. There was another long pause before the elder man cleared his throat. "I hear you've done well for yourself."

  "Did you doubt I would?"

  "No. You're my son, after all."

  My son. How sweet those words sounded. How bitter. Devlin couldn't stem the surge of anger welling up in him. Odd that C.E. should remember he had a son now. There had to be a reason, and whatever it was doubtlessly stemmed from his own self-interest. C. E. Devlin had been the son of a poor Irish immigrant, but he'd pulled himself up by his bootstraps and risen out of poverty to become one of the most powerful men in the country. And he hadn't done it by espousing sweetness and light. Tycoon was too kind a word for his style of management. Devlin knew; a strong streak of his father's aggressiveness ran in his own veins. But the old man was a controlling, manip­ulative bastard of the first order. It had taken Devlin twenty-one years to realize that, to understand that his fa­ther had always withheld his love and approval until he re­ceived whatever it was he wanted. Love had been a reward for obedience, purely that. Remembering, Devlin clenched his jaw and sat waiting for his father to come to the pur­pose of his visit.

  "You've heard about the trouble with the Colorado Cen­tral by now?" C.E. asked finally.

  "I've heard of it, yes." Three robberies in four months. It was a record anyone in the rail business had to be con­cerned with.

  "And you know my position with that railroad?"

  "I know." His father was both a major stockholder and on the board of directors of the Union Pacific, which had leased the Colorado Central for its own use back in '78.

  "So you understand why I'm anxious to get to the bot­tom of this."

  "I can imagine," Devlin said dryly.

  "I want the robberies stopped. Now."

  Devlin managed to repress a hard smile. Of course his father would want immediate action. Not because he wanted justice. Not because he wanted to recover the sto­len money. Not even because he felt remorse for the two men who'd been killed in the last robbery. But because C. E. Devlin hated to be thwarted.

  "I expect you've already tried?" Garrett remarked.

  "We've hired a half dozen of Pinkerton's detectives, but all we've gotten are worthless reports."

  And of course he would not be willing to wait till the detective firm achieved any results. "So . . . what do you want from me?"

  "You've lived out west. I hoped you might be able to recommend a reliable man who could be counted on to track down these outlaws, to put an end to these robberies. I'm willing to offer a substantial reward for apprehension and conviction of the criminals."

  A dozen thoughts ran through Devlin's mind at once, but the chief one was disbelief. His father had hundreds of contacts throughout the country, many of whom could have given him the information he sought. So why had C.E. come here, of all places? Could he possibly be using this as an excuse simply to see him! As an opening to re­new their acquaintance, if not their relationship as father and son?

  The surge of hope that possibility engendered made Devlin sit up. If that were true, he was willing to meet his father halfway.

  "I know of someone, yes," he said slowly.

  "Who?"

  "Myself."

  "You?" The skepticism on his father's face was not very heartening. "You can trace a gang of outlaws and bring them in?"

  "You d
on't sound as if you have much faith in me." The comment was meant to be dry, but his tone sounded more bitter than sarcastic.

  C.E. hesitated, eyeing his son for a long moment. "Faith is not the question."

  "No?"

  "No. I've always believed you could do anything you set your mind to. I just can't imagine why you would want to involve yourself in this. It could be dangerous. These men have already killed once."

  Devlin had his reasons, some of them not so high-minded. To put his father in his debt. To show that for once C.E. needed him. To regain his father's respect by succeeding where others had failed. But more than that, this opportunity to prove himself might just possibly be a first step toward reconciliation.

  Unwilling to voice any of those thoughts, Devlin shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "Maybe I'm just bored. Sitting here running an empire isn't the challenge I thought it would be. I could use an adventure. I'd like to try."

  "Very well, then. I would be grateful for your help."

  I'm counting on it. Aloud, Devlin said, "Let me see those reports so I can get started."

  He rose when his father did, and accompanied him to the front door. C.E. accepted his bowler and walking stick, but then hesitated.

  "Garrett . . . perhaps you won't believe this, but ten years ago . . . my intentions were good. I wanted to spare you the kind of marriage I had to endure with your mother."

  Devlin found himself clenching his teeth. He had wanted his father to admit that he'd been wrong all those years ago. Not wrong in denying his blessing for a mar­riage that would have been a disaster, but wrong in the methods he'd employed to gain his son's compliance. But this was the closest thing to an apology he would ever get from his father, Devlin knew. He could either accept it or reject it.

  "As much as I'm loath to admit it," he replied with ef­fort, "you were right. She would have made me an abom­inable wife."

  C.E. gave him another long searching look, as if seeking reassurance, before he finally turned and quit the house. Devlin shut the door softly behind him, more determined than ever to live up to his father's expectations.