Wildstar

by Nicole Jordan

  Riley stood there awkwardly while she dismounted, looking as uncertain, as vulnerable, as Jess did. They were facing each other before he managed to speak. "Do you hate me, Jessie?"

  Her eyes filled abruptly with tears, "I could never hate you."

  Her father held out his arms and, after the slightest hes­itation, she walked into them, accepting his embrace.

  It was a poignant moment, too intimate, too painful, to share with outsiders. Devlin felt like an intruder.

  Turning in the saddle, he looked away—up at the rugged mountains that pierced the crisp, blue Colorado sky. This was the moment he should take his leave. There really was no reason for him to stay. His job in Silver Plume was finished; he'd done what he'd come here to do.

  They had recovered some of the money and much of the silver bullion that Purcell's gang had stolen. Three of the men had confessed to robbing the Colorado Central and identified the two others who had fired the shots which had killed the engineer and fireman. Purcell hadn't partic­ipated directly in the robberies, but he was the brains be­hind the gang and had provided information about train schedules and bullion shipments.

  Devlin took an unsteady breath. He had delivered Jessica safely to her father, so he could leave with a clear conscience. In any case, she needed time to get to know Riley again, time to come to terms with the truth.

  Silently he reined back his horse.

  Just then Riley lifted his gaze and met Devlin's, over his daughter's head.

  Devlin could see the unasked question in the older man's eyes: Will you be back?

  It was a question Devlin couldn't answer just then.

  "Take care of her." he said softly, before he turned his horse and rode away.

  Chapter 19

  How did one face the fact that the father you'd known all your life wasn't really your father? That was the question Jess wrestled with, waking or sleeping.

  Riley's confession upon her return actually filled her with more doubts than it settled. She had talked to him long into the night—about Burke, about her mother, about what had happened twenty-odd years ago. But while Jess understood the logic behind the dissimulation, she still couldn't seem to get a handle on the truth emotionally. Outwardly she seemed unaffected; inwardly she was a mass of jumbled feelings, even though Riley had tried to reassure her.

  "It didn't matter that you weren't my kid," he told her more than once. "I loved you like my own flesh and blood . . . maybe more, since it was because of you that your mother married me."

  It wasn't that she didn't believe him. She knew Riley still loved her, just like she knew the sun would rise every morning and set every evening. It was just that she seemed suddenly to have lost her identity. She didn't know who she was anymore. She wasn't Riley's daughter, so what did that make her?

  It didn't help, either, that Devlin had gone. He had left for Chicago on the afternoon train the same day he'd brought her home. Jess missed him desperately, despite all her grievances against him, even despite the scandalous, infuriating, domineering way he'd treated her the night he'd found her in the opium den. She needed his sympa­thy, his understanding, and she could have used a good dose of his tenderness and charm, as well. He always seemed to know just the right thing to say to help her through the rough times.

  But he wasn't here, and she didn't know if he ever would be.

  The thought made her heart ache with longing and dread. His departure had left everything unresolved be­tween them. It felt as if Devlin had taken a part of her with him when he'd gone. Even more absurdly, she felt abandoned.

  She didn't have the right to feel that way, Jess knew. Devlin didn't owe her a thing. He hadn't made her any promises. He'd never pretended feeling anything stronger for her than lust. Nor had he ever intimated that he meant to remain in Silver Plume after his business was finished.

  Certainly he had never hinted that he was in any danger of falling in love with her. No matter that her father—Abruptly Jess caught herself. No matter that Riley would have liked to see a match between them. Even if Devlin were the marrying kind, which he wasn't, he wouldn't want to marry her. He'd made that clear enough on several occasions. She wasn't the type of woman who appealed to his masculine ideals. According to him, she was too tough and unfeminine for a woman. Certainly he wouldn't want her for his wife. His social standing, his enormous wealth, his physical beauty, his worldliness, all argued against even the possibility.

  Of course, if he really loved her, none of those things would matter. Her winning Devlin's love, though, was like wishing on wild stars. She wasn't likely ever to see it come true, not in this lifetime. Especially now that he was gone.

  At least she wasn't pregnant. Her monthly courses had come shortly after Devlin's departure, and while one small part of her was disappointed, Jess was mostly relieved. She didn't want to bring a bastard into the world, any more than her mother had wanted to. A child deserved a loving, caring father, and she couldn't give a child that if Devlin wasn't interested.

  But if Devlin's absence left her desolate, her new es­trangement from Riley was tearing her in two. Riley seemed to take her knowing about her parentage even harder than Jess herself had. Every time he looked at her, she could see the regret and sorrow in his eyes, as if he knew she thought less of him because of it. Jess didn't know how to help him. No matter how many times she told herself it was wrong to blame Riley for deceiving her, she didn't know if she could forgive him. Or her mother, either. Her mother hadn't told her the truth, even when she lay on her deathbed. But it was Riley who had been left to face the consequences.

  Jess wished she could feel differently. The awkward re­serve, the distance, between her and Riley hurt. For the first time in her life, she couldn't be easy with him. The intimacy, the feeling of family they'd always shared, had somehow been shattered.

  She didn't even have the usual numbing solace of work to help take her mind off her troubles. During the weeks she'd spent trying to protect the mine from Burke's manip­ulations, her boardinghouse had suffered, but under Mei Lin's supervision, the Chinese laborers Devlin had hired had vanquished the mountain of cleaning, and Flo had kept up with all the ordering. With everything running so smoothly, Jess felt just a bit superfluous.

  Riley told her not to worry about it—in fact, they wouldn't even have to operate the boardinghouse any longer. Once they started seeing a profit from the mine, they would be wealthy enough that they wouldn't need the income her boarders provided. But Jess needed the activity to keep her occupied. She did agree, however, to retain the laborers since Riley asked her to.

  She also agreed to be at home when Riley gave Ashton Burke permission to call. To her surprise, Riley not only sanctioned the visit but insisted on it.

  "You have to face it sooner or later, Jess," Riley rea­soned quietly.

  His choice of words was deliberate, Jess realized. He hadn't said, "You have to face Burke," but "You have to face it." She could ignore Burke if she chose, but she couldn't ignore the truth just because she didn't like it.

  Burke came the following Sunday afternoon. Jess waited tensely as Riley ushered him into the small parlor, not knowing how to act. It seemed that Burke was just as uncomfortable, though, which astonished her. She had never seen the suave, sophisticated Ashton Burke at a loss before.

  The atmosphere, which was stiff and constrained, only worsened when Riley excused himself after a few minutes. Jess felt terribly awkward, remaining behind with this stranger who was her father. Oddly, though, Burke seemed content just to look at her.

  Finally he set down his teacup and cleared his throat. "I truly am sorry, Jessica."

  She fought the urge to clench her teeth as she answered quietly, "You expect me to forgive all the things you've done, just because you now say you're sorry?"

  "Jessica, I never meant to hurt you or your mother."

  "But you meant to hurt Riley."

  There was a short pause. "Yes. I won't deny that. But I regret it more than I've eve
r regretted anything in my life." He looked away, as if ashamed to meet her eyes. "My only excuse is that I couldn't forgive him for marry­ing your mother. Jenny Ann chose him, and for that I hated him."

  "There is no excuse for trying to destroy a man as fine as Riley!" Jess replied, her voice low and fierce.

  "I know. Believe me, if I had known about you . . ." His voice trailed off lamely.

  Jess sat there, squeezing her fists and remembering all the heartless, vicious things this man had done to her father—to Riley—as well as to herself. How did you for­give such theft and greed as Burke had shown? How did you forgive attempted murder? How did you forgive such hate? It was all she could do not to shout those questions at him.

  Yet she also remembered something Devlin had said about Burke. Maybe he just needs someone to teach him the kind of values Riley taught you.

  Nothing had ever been truer. Ashton Burke des-perately needed to learn such basic values, such simple human de­cency. Someone should have set him straight long ago.

  Jess didn't know if she wanted to attempt the task, though. Or if she was even capable of it. She was guilty of the same kind of hate that Burke was. Hatred of him. It wouldn't be easy to give that up after all these years.

  Just then he turned his head to look at her again, his blue eyes searching hers. "I know I'm asking a great deal, Jessica, but . . . I should like to become better acquainted with you. I've never had a child before. . . ."

  The naked vulnerability on his face shook her. She had never expected Ashton Burke ever to need anything or anyone, and certainly not to admit it. Yet he was laying himself bare before her. And she knew, as certainly as she knew anything, that while he had coveted many things be­fore, he had never wanted anything as much he wanted her respect.

  Respect was not something that he could command, though. Even with all his wealth and consequence. Burke was helpless in this situation. It made Jess feel very strange and uncomfortable, knowing she had that kind of power over someone.

  "I'm not asking you to accept me as your father.*' Burke said awkwardly into the silence. "I'm only asking for the chance to get to know you."

  Jess met his eyes levelly. "You could never be my fa­ther. Riley is my father and always will be."

  Even as she said the words, she knew they were right. The truth about her parentage didn't change that elemental fact.

  "I would never attempt it," Burke replied solemnly. There was another long silence.

  Finally Jess forced a small smile. "There is something you could do for me."

  He leaned forward eagerly. "Yes?"

  "Would you tell me about my mother?"

  The strain in Burke's pale face suddenly faded. He looked like a man who had been given a reprieve from hanging. "It would be my great pleasure," he said softly.

  She found Riley in the kitchen when the visit was over. He was sitting at the table, staring down at his work-worn hands. Without speaking Jess came up behind him.

  She felt him stiffen as she bent down and put her arms around his neck, but she pressed her cheek against his weathered one and simply held him.

  "Burke's gone," she said finally.

  "I figured as much." His tone was low, uncertain. "Did you make peace with him?"

  "Not entirely. But it was a good start. I told him he couldn't be my father. That place is already taken."

  Riley's hand came up to cover hers.

  "I love you, Papa. You'll always be my true father."

  "Oh, Jessie. . . ."

  There were tears of relief in his eyes when he held her away to look at her.

  Jess gave a shaky laugh. "Don't do that, or I'll cry, too."

  Riley chuckled and wrapped her in a bear hug. "I'm not about to cry. I have my daughter back."

  A thousand miles away in Chicago, Devlin was facing his own father. The length of an impressive dining table separated them, while an elegant silver candelabra almost obscured their view of one another. Devlin had been in­vited to Sunday dinner.

  It was a formal affair, which did little to mitigate the constraint that still lingered between them, but Devlin at least gave his father credit for trying. C.E. quite obviously was exerting himself to make amends for the years of es­trangement. In fact, for the past week he had found one excuse after another to secure his son's company.

  He'd actually met Devlin's train from Denver. Devlin hadn't expected that courtesy, even though he had cabled ahead, reporting his success in apprehending the outlaw gang. But when he stepped down from his private car, his father was waiting for him.

  They stood staring at each other for a long moment be­fore C.E. extended his hand.

  "Thank you, son." His tone was low, gruff, as if the ad­mission hurt. "I'm in your debt."

  Having his father indebted to him was precisely what Devlin had intended, but the pleasure he'd anticipated somehow fell short. What he wanted now from C.E. was far less petty, far more profound. He wanted the same kind of relationship Jess had with her father. The same kind of love.

  It was an impossibility, of course, but they could make a start. Devlin clasped the hand that his father offered to him, firmly, without reticence.

  C.E. had driven him home—Devlin's home—in his car­riage, and while the conversation had been stilted, before parting they had made arrangements to meet the follow­ing afternoon to discuss in more detail Devlin's trip to Colorado.

  That meeting had led to other engagements, and culmi­nated in an invitation to dinner at C.E.'s mansion. Exquis­itely prepared by a French chef, the meal was a feast fit for a returning prodigal son—an analogy that was not lost on Devlin, to his wry amusement.

  The two of them remained at the table, sipping their port, after the dishes had been cleared away by a servant.

  "I want to thank you again for all you've done," his fa­ther repeated for the third time that week.

  "Don't mention it," Devlin responded politely.

  "No, no, it meant a great deal to me. And it was a big effort on your part. . . more than a month of your time. I'd like to repay you somehow."

  Devlin's fingers tightened on his wineglass. "Some things can't be bought," he said carefully, his tone cool.

  "I didn't mean to imply . . . it wasn't money I was thinking of. . . ." His denial was swift, but from the height­ened color on his face, Devlin knew very well it was some expensive gift his father had had in mind.

  After another moment of silence, C.E. cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Perhaps you would accompany me into the city tomorrow, Garrett. There's a bank I'd like you to look at. It's given me more trouble than it's worth, and I'm thinking of selling."

  Devlin raised an eyebrow. "Is there some reason I should?"

  "Naturally you'll want to become acquainted with my holdings. You'll need to know all the details when you in­herit."

  Devlin went very still. The port wine on his tongue sud­denly tasted bitter. "You disinherited me ten years ago," he said very slowly.

  "No. No, I didn't. I never changed my will. I couldn't bring myself to do it."

  Devlin's gray eyes turned wintry. "You merely denied me your affection and companionship all these years."

  "I wanted to teach you a lesson."

  "Oh, you did that, all right."

  "Garrett, I was wrong. . . . I'm sorry."

  A dozen seconds ticked by.

  "Everything I own—it's still yours, son."

  Devlin had to force himself to keep his anger under control. "I don't need," he enunciated clearly, "or want your money. Give it to a charity."

  C.E. hesitated, looking frustrated. "If that's how you feel about it. . . ."

  "That's how I feel. I won't be in Chicago much longer, in any case. I intend to return to Colorado as soon as I can manage to wrap up some of my business affairs."

  C.E.'s heavy brows drew together in a frown. "If I'm not prying, may I ask why?"

  "The trial date for Purcell's gang is set for the week af­ter next, and I'd like to be th
ere to testify."

  "But you'll be returning afterward?"

  "That's doubtful. I have some unfinished business to at­tend to."

  "Ah, I see." But it didn't look as if he did see. Rather, he looked disappointed. "I thought perhaps . . . we were just coming to know each other again. . . ."

  Observing the genuine regret on his father's face. Dev­lin relented. "It isn't business I can postpone. I intend to be married soon."

  "Oh?" C.E.'s tone was startled. "Do I . . . er, know the lady?"

  "No. And I doubt you would approve of her. She couldn't come close to meeting your high standards. She doesn't give a damn about wealth or social status." Devlin smiled, as if at a private memory. "She kicked me out of her house when she found oat I had money. Threatened to shoot me, in fact."

  "Good God."

  The look on C.E.'s face was priceless, and it gave Dev­lin more than a little satisfaction. For ten years he'd wanted to thumb his nose at his father like this.

  "She's as different from you as night and day," he added, amused. "Her idea of wealth is a bathtub with hot running water."

  "And you want to take this woman to wife?" his father said faintly.

  Devlin smiled again, a charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm old enough this time not to need your permission."

  "But . . . you've thought this through?"

  "I've done nothing but think about it for the past week."

  "Well, then." It was a helpless little remark, oddly im­potent for a man as powerful and accustomed to control as his father.

  Sipping his wine, Devlin watched the struggle on his fa­ther's face. C.E. was forcibly biting his tongue, obviously trying to hold back the demands he wanted to make.

  It was the most Devlin could ask.

  "I don't need your permission to marry," he said slowly, "but I'd like your blessing."

  There was a long pause while C.E. searched his face. "Are you sure she can make you happy?" he asked at last.