Wildstar

by Nicole Jordan

  "Oh!" Jess's sharp exclamation told him at least she was alive—and she would stay that way, if he had any­thing to say about it.

  They came to a bone-jarring halt at the base of a pine. Scarcely breaking momentum, Devlin twisted his body, half lunging, half crawling behind the shelter of the tree trunk, dragging Jess with him. An instant's glance showed him a dazed Jess trying to push herself up on her elbows.

  Feeling a fierce surge of relief, he rose to a crouch, rifle ready to fire, and squeezed off a shot in the direction of the gunfire. A burst of flame shone in the darkness some twenty yards away, just before a gout of earth kicked up to his left.

  Jess had managed to climb to her knees. "Give me a gun!" she cried.

  The Colt leapt into Devlin's hand in a smooth motion and he tossed it at her, not daring to see if she caught it.

  A bullet ricocheted off the stones of the campfire, then a chunk of bark flew from the tree next to his head.

  A nearby gun spoke, and Devlin knew it was Jess. Keeping to cover while she let loose another shot, he edged his way forward, toward the gunmen. There were two of them, from what he could tell. During a lull in the shooting, he stepped from behind the sheltering pines and fired three fast shots in succession.

  He was answered by another rifle blast. Raising his Winchester, he took a sight on a shadow and fired.

  A rough cry told him he'd hit something.

  Another spurt of gunfire exploded into the night, before the shots slowed.

  "Zeke?" a panicked voice came from the darkness. "You hit? Zeke!"

  Devlin held his fire, his finger hugging the trigger. His fifteen-shot repeating rifle had six bullets left.

  He wasn't given the chance to use them. A few seconds later, he heard the snort of a horse, then the scuffling sounds of a man mounting up. Whoever it was rode off at a gallop, as if the very devil were on his heels.

  The echo of hoofbeats was followed by an ominous si­lence.

  A long moment passed while Devlin stood there, blood pumping in his ears.

  "Jess, are you all right?" he said finally.

  "Yes." Her voice was shaky, but held the same deter­mined note of courage she'd shown during the gunfight.

  "Stay where you are." Cautiously, Devlin moved forward into the darkness. After a moment, he saw the body in the dim light of the campfire, lying facedown in the pine needles. With the toe of his boot, he rolled the man's body over.

  Zeke McRoy. The livid scar above the right eye stood out clearly against a bloodless face.

  Devlin went down on one knee to feel for a pulse, to check for a breath . . . praying for anything that would sig­nify a sign of life. A full minute of fruitless searching put an end to his hope.

  He swore softly, viciously.

  "Is he dead?" he heard Jess ask in a small voice as she came up behind him.

  "Yes."

  He felt her shudder. Helpless anger and regret flooded him. Anger because Jessica's life had been endangered as well as his own. Regret because Zeke McRoy had been his only link to the outlaws who'd robbed his father's train.

  He couldn't question McRoy about the robberies now, and without that, he was at a dead end. To continue the search would be futile. He had only a general description of the other outlaws, not enough to lead him to the gang's hideout. With nothing more definite to go on, he wouldn't know where to begin looking in this vast rocky maze of peaks and canyons. It was unlikely he would find any other promising leads, either. By now the stolen bars of bullion would probably have been melted down and stamped with a new serial number.

  "The other one got clear," Jess said in a quiet voice.

  "Did you get a look at him?" Devlin asked tonelessly.

  "No. I'm sorry."

  He bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. The enor­mity of his frustration felt like a lead weight in his gut.

  He felt Jess's hand, tentative, protective, on his shoul­der, offering comfort. He wanted to shrug it off, to strike out in his anger, and yet more powerful was the urge to take her hand and pull her down to him, to cover her lips with his and draw from her warmth, letting her drive away the hard chill that had seeped into him.

  He set his jaw and did neither.

  Eventually Jess drew her hand back. "What do we do now?"

  "We take the body back to town."

  Slowly Devlin rose to his feet, feeling ten years older than he had a few minutes ago. Jess was watching him in concern, he knew, but he hardened his resolve.

  When she handed his Colt back to him, he accepted it without looking at her and bolstered the weapon. The pas­sionate embrace they'd shared might never have been— except for the disheveled state of Jess's clothing. As if recalling her near seduction at Devlin's hands, she turned her back on him and began buttoning her shirt.

  A muscle tightened in his jaw as the awkward silence stretched between them. He ought to say something to re­lieve her embarrassment, he knew. Any man who called himself a man would have tried to reassure her, would have attempted to convince her that what had happened between them was natural and beautiful. But Devlin stopped himself. If she thought he was a callous bastard who only wanted to climb between her legs, then maybe she would try harder to keep away from him. And it was becoming obvious that Jess would have to be the one to keep away. He certainly didn't have the willpower to with­stand the fierce desire that had raged through him when he kissed her, when he merely touched her.

  Devlin's mouth twisted with bitter self-mockery. He'd never thought of himself as a weak man, but that was be­fore he'd met a honey-haired avenging fury named Jessica Sommers. It was little comfort to know that only a hail of bullets from a desperate outlaw could have stopped him from taking her and destroying her innocence. Zeke McRoy's untimely appearance had saved her.

  Devlin wasn't sure whether to view it as a blessing or a curse.

  Chapter 9

  He didn't need this, Devlin thought with self-derision as he rode up the dark mountainside five days later, on Saturday evening. He couldn't afford to spend precious time worrying about a stubborn, tawny-haired miner's daughter who very obviously was capable of taking care of herself and her worthless mine if left to her own resources. He was wasting what might be his last opportunity, trapped here in Silver Plume while Zeke McRoy's gang doubtless planned another train holdup. He needed to be miles north of here, asking questions and trying to dis­cover who McRoy had ridden with.

  He liked even less what was happening between him and Jess . . . the closeness that was developing between them. He was letting himself get far too involved with her, Devlin knew. Not just her problems, but with her.

  He didn't like the tender feelings he was beginning to feel for Jess, the protectiveness, the desire. He didn't like leaving himself so vulnerable. He'd spent ten years suc­cessfully avoiding getting caught in a woman's clutches, and while Jessica Sommers's ambitions might not be as mercenary as most other females', his relationship with Jess was becoming too intimate for comfort.

  Yet the only solution that would let him protect himself—keeping away from her entirely—was out of the question. He couldn't leave Jess to face Burke's hired gun­men alone, not with her father still down and her mine crew deserting her. The past five days had been hell for Jess, beginning with the death of Zeke McRoy. Seeing a man die had shaken her, Devlin knew, though she'd tried to hide it. And then there'd been the craven marshal of Sil­ver Plume to deal with.

  When they'd returned to town at dawn with McRoy's body and roused the marshal out of bed, Lockwood had done absolutely nothing besides mutter about throwing Devlin in jail for killing a man. Clearly the marshal was not about to go hunting down the gunmen himself. He val­ued his own skin too much, not to mention his standing with Ashton Burke.

  Furious almost to the point of hysteria, Jess had lit into him with a blistering tirade that should have taken a strip off his yellow hide. Devlin had his hands full calming her down enough to get her out of there. He wasn't concerned about the spi
neless marshal. Jess could testify that Devlin had acted in self-defense, and there'd been a dozen wit­nesses to the shooting spree at the Wildstar and the delib­erate wrecking of Clem's ore wagon. Marshal Lockwood didn't have a case strong enough even to arrest him. Be­sides, Devlin had access to some of the best legal counsel in the country—although he did not tell Jess that.

  She was still ranting when he got her home. "The nerve of that slimy little worm, accusing you of murder! He ought to be tossed in jail himself!"

  But she was using anger, Devlin suspected, to cover up her horror at being involved, however unintent-ionally, in the death of a man.

  Seeing the desperation in her eyes, he'd felt a fierce rush of tenderness, an overwhelming need to protect and comfort her, yet he had refrained from taking her in his arms as he longed to do, knowing where such an unwise action would lead. He'd allowed her father to comfort her instead.

  After Jess had told the story to her father—Riley had been worried sick about her during their absence—Devlin had to physically force her to lie down in her own bed and threaten her with mayhem if she didn't drink the mug of warm milk he'd laced with laudanum. Even then, she only acquiesced because he promised to ride up to the mine right then and stay there for the rest of the day and that night as well. Playing guard for that damned mine was the absolute last thing Devlin wanted to do just then, but he had no choice, not with Jess's pain-filled eyes pleading with him. He'd never seen her so vulnerable, so helpless. Her last words before her eyes closed in exhausted slum­ber were about taking care of the Wildstar.

  The next morning, though, she was up at the mine at dawn, packing a shotgun, with no trace of vulnerability showing in her eyes or her expression. Instead, Devlin saw fierce determination and sheer grit.

  She needed every ounce of grit she possessed to get through the next few days. Clem was little help to her. The mule skinner was still mourning his dead critters, and al­though he showed up for work each morning, he moved like an old man in a daze. He had only four mules left, and Jess had to scrounge for the money to buy more. She or­dered an ore wagon on credit, as well, to replace the one that had been destroyed in the accident, hut until it came, Clem had to haul what little ore the crew took out of the earth down the mountain by jack train, the rawhide sacks of rock strapped securely to the mules' shaggy hides.

  Production had suffered even further because of the rain that came down in torrents. For two incessant days, the heavens had opened up. rendering the mountain roads treacherous and submerging the town streets in knee-deep mud.

  Jess herself took over guarding the mine during the day, against her father's fierce protests. Riley was beside him­self with concern, but he was in no position to argue if he wanted to keep his mine crew going. Two of the miners had already quit, claiming they couldn't afford to continue working under such dangerous conditions when they had families to think about. Riley wasn't able do any mining himself, either. Although he was getting physically stron­ger each day, he still couldn't leave his bed for longer than a half hour at a time without tiring himself out. Nor could he make the long trek up to the mine without risking ex­haustion and setting his recovery back even further.

  Devlin didn't like the situation any more than Riley did. Jess had refused to allow him longer duty at the mine, say­ing it wouldn't be right to impose on him, but it galled him to feel both helpless and trapped.

  He'd nearly reached the end of his restraint yesterday afternoon, when Burke had called at the Sommers's place. Devlin had been awakened from a fitful sleep by a knock at the front door, and when he'd dragged himself out of bed to answer it, he found Riley planted in the open door­way, blocking the entrance, one hand clutching his chest. Ashton Burke stood outside on the front step.

  "I've told you before," Riley was saying, "I'm not inter­ested in selling."

  Barefooted, holding a revolver at the ready, Devlin came up behind Riley. Burke immediately raised his hands to show that he was unarmed.

  "I merely wanted you to know I'm willing to increase my offer," the Englishman murmured pleasantly. "Ten thousand dollars more. Twenty-five thousand, total. That's a great deal of money, Mr. Sommers."

  Riley shook his head.

  "You heard him," Devlin interjected. "He's not inter­ested."

  Burke stretched his lips into a sour smile. "I hope you don't come to regret your decision. Good day to you, then."

  They watched as Burke returned to his waiting carriage. As it drove away Riley slumped wearily against the door. "I've thought a lot lately about taking Burke's offer," he murmured. "Maybe it would be cowardly, but it might also be smarter. Trouble is, I don't think I could stand myself if I gave in to his threats. And Jess would have my head."

  Running a hand down his stubbled face, Devlin nodded in agreement. After the violence of last week, Jess was more determined than ever that Burke would never win. It couldn't go on much longer, though. If her resolve didn't weaken, her dwindling resources would force her to cut back her efforts. And Burke would go for the jugular. One more incident like the ore wagon accident and the Wildstar would be out of business.

  The thought made Devlin grit his teeth. Although he could feel the trail left by the gang who'd robbed his fa­ther's train grow colder every day, he didn't intend to quit and leave the victory to Burke. In fact, he'd almost de­cided to put up the money himself to bring in outside help.

  And that was before Jess hadn't come home this eve­ning.

  She was supposed to have been relieved by the guard for the evening shift so she could return in time for supper, but supper had been over for a full hour. As worried as Riley, Devlin had gone after her.

  He approached the Wildstar with caution, his Colt drawn. He saw her horse hobbled a few yards from the main entrance, but there was no sign of Jess. Nor was there any light shining from within the cabin.

  "Jess?"

  Devlin slowly dismounted, his eyes searching the moon­lit mountain scene. He could hear little but the occasional distant thunder of dynamite as a charge was exploded somewhere, and the dull, hammering echo of drill steel as other mining operations carried on the endless task of cut­ting rock. Many of the large consolidated mines worked the Saturday night shift, not shutting down until Sunday morning for a day of rest.

  The contrasting silence here at the Wildstar seemed highly disquieting.

  Needles of fear began to crawl up Devlin's spine. If anything had happened to Jess—if she'd been hurt or shot the way her father had been—he would personally strangle Burke with his bare hands . . . very slowly . . . inflicting as much agony as possible.

  Just then, he heard a small slide of rock scree, followed by quiet footsteps. He leveled his six-shooter, holding it steady as Jess came around the corner of the cabin.

  She gasped and nearly dropped her shotgun. "Devlin! You scared the life out of me!"

  You scared the daylights out of me, too, sweetheart. "Where the hell have you been?"

  His demand came out harsher than he'd intended, and Jess's eyes widened in confusion. "I heard a noise. . . . I went to look. . . ."

  Devlin's mouth tightened at her stammered explanation. "If you mean to continue this fool notion of guarding the Wildstar yourself, you'd better learn to use your head. Never leave your post, for any reason. A noise could be a decoy . . . to draw you away and leave the mine unpro­tected. Stay put and keep your eyes open for a trap." As he spoke, Devlin took her arm and steered her firmly to­ward her horse. "Why didn't you come home?"

  Chastened, Jess pulled her arm from his grasp. "Be­cause somebody had to be here for the evening shift."

  "Llewelyn didn't show up?"

  "Oh, he showed up. He came up here to tell me he was quitting."

  The bitterness in her voice sliced at Devlin's heart. The need to put his arms around her and offer her comfort was like a burning knife in his gut, but he didn't trust himself to touch her and do nothing more than that.

  Instead, he kept his hands off her and saddled
her horse. "You should have ridden down to get me."

  "This is Saturday night. I figured you would be in town living it up."

  Devlin turned to eye her coldly, his gray gaze hard in the moonlight.

  Jess was the first to look away. "I'm sorry. That was un­called for. You've done more than I had any right to ask of you. I'm just tired."

  "I know. You're driving yourself into the ground."

  "I'll be all right."

  Like hell From the comer of his eye, he saw her raise a weary hand to rub her temple and he cursed under his breath. It was insupportable that she'd taken this entire burden on her shoulders. She was pushing herself to the brink of exhaustion and was going to break soon. No one was that strong.

  He tightened the cinch around the horse's barrel with more force than necessary, making the animal dance. "You won't be all right if you keep up this pace."

  He heard her sigh softly. "I can't give up. The crew will only work because I promised them protection."

  "You don't have to do it all yourself. You've got no business staying up here every night, Jess. Dammit, you're not invincible."

  She rallied at his attack, her chin coming up. "If you dare say one word about me not behaving like a woman should, I'll . . . I'll throw you down the mountain!"

  Devlin took a deep breath and strove for patience. "Pull in your horns, angel. I wasn't maligning your femininity." When she simply stared at him numbly, he reached up and brushed her cheek with his knuckles. "Jess, go home and get some sleep. I'll handle this from now on."

  Flinching from his touch, she shook her head. It would be too easy to let Devlin shoulder her problems. Too easy to lean on him and let him cany on the struggle for her. But it wouldn't be right. She couldn't allow him to keep risking his life for her while she walked away. One day his luck just might run out, and she couldn't live with her­self if that happened. If he were hurt or killed because of her . . . She couldn't bear to think of it.

  "I can't let you handle it by yourself," she replied qui­etly. "I can't leave you to fight them alone."