A Handful of Heaven

She laughed nervously. "You don't have to open it. It's

just my old copy of Dickens's A Christmas Carol. It's one of my favorites, and, well, I thought you might identify-"

"I didn't get you anything." He knew his voice sounded strained, harsh, but he couldn't change it. It felt like he was being strangled. "I've never given ... or gotten a present. [ didn't even think-"

"It's all right." She laid one small, warm palm against his cheek. "Merry Christmas, Cornelius." And with that, before he had time even to mutter thank you, she was gone.

As his fingers trailed reverently across the bright red paper, a huge, desert-dry lump lodged in his throat.

A present. For him. Dear God, it was going to take all the willpower he possessed not to take her in his arms tonight. Every damn scrap.

Several hours later Devon stacked the last plate. Back-handing the sheen of moisture from her forehead, she dried her wet hands on her apron.

The table had been disassembled, the red wool blankets folded and put away. The children and their parents had long since gone home. Only the miners were left, and they were sitting around in small huddles, reminiscing. Not a man in the room wanted to leave.

Well, she amended, maybe one.

Her gaze went to Stone Man. He was sitting all alone in the cabin's corner, half asleep. Her heart skipped a beat. He looked so peaceful with his eyes closed. Almost vulnerable.

Without thinking she took a step toward him.

"Hey Devon!" came a boisterous male voice from the crowd of men at her left.

She swore under her breath. Stone Man's eyes blinked open, and their gazes locked. In that split second before he became fully awake, she saw in his eyes what she'd been looking for. Tenderness.

She flashed him a bright smile.

He immediately scowled. She didn't care; she'd seen the softness, and it gave her new hope for the rest of the evening. Maybe she could find a way to bring that look back into his eyes. She turned toward the boys. "Yes?"

Cornstalk staggered forward. The men closed in around the boy, pushing him forward.

"Mish Devon, we go' sumthin' for ya."

His boozy breath almost knocked her over. The smile froze on her face. She tried not to breathe.

"Me, an' Digger, an' Midas, an' Joe, an' a bunch o' the boys, we go' together an' go' ya sumthin' for Cristmas. Ish our way o' sayin' th-" He hiccuped loudly. "Thanks."

Digger wrenched the pint-sized green bottle out of Cornstalk's hand and shoved it at her. "Crissakes, kid, talk like a human. Here, miss. This is for you. From us."

Emotion squeezed Devon's throat. "I ... I don't know what to say. ..."

"Don't say nuthin', just drink it," hollered someone from the back of the crowd.

She examined the bottle's dirty white label. In elaborate black script it read Farino's Very Dry Champagne. Spirits! She winced. "I-It's a lovely gesture. Truly. I'll save it-"

"Ain't she gonna drink it?" someone else yelled.

"Course she's gonna drink it. Ain't ya, miss?" Digger said. "Joe Ladue carried that bottle all the way from home."

It took willpower to keep the grimace off her face. As a lady, of course, she'd never tasted spirits, never wanted to. "Now?" At their collective nod, she gulped.

"Here, miss, you can use my cup." Cornstalk swallowed the last dregs of hootch in his battered tin cup then wiped the inside clean with his dirty sleeve and handed it to her.

She suppressed a shudder. Digger grabbed the bottle and the cup and with great ceremony poured the champagne.

Devon's eyes widened. "Oh! You needn't pour it all-"

"Nonsense, miss. Champagne don't keep."