A Handful of Heaven

She had no reason to cry. For one brief, glorious winter, God had given her what she'd never even dreamed of having. A piece of heaven.

True, it was only a handful; and true, she didn't get to keep it; but she'd had it, and that was more than most people could ever say. And more than that, she had a piece of it to take home with her; a living, breathing memory of her love. She had her child.

It was greedy to ask for more.

She looked up into his face, and her sense of melancholy melted into manageable proportions. She was lucky, she told herself. Lucky to have known him at all. He'd changed her,

243

softened her, and without even knowing it he'd given her the two greatest gifts of her life-his love and their child.

She took his face in her hands. The freckled, milky white flesh of her fingers was a pale contrast to his dark skin. Their gazes locked, and in the golden depths of his eyes she saw what she'd always seen. Love.

"If only you could admit it," she said wistfully.

"Admit what?"

"That you love me."

His face hardened. "You put so goddamn much stock in words, Dev. But if you don't know how I feel about you by now, you're not as smart as I thought you were." With that he bounded off the bed, grabbed his mackinaw, and bolted out of the tent.

As the door clicked shut, a steel weight settled on her lungs. Tears pricked her eyes.

He was right. She knew he loved her; it was in his eyes every time he looked at her and in his hands every time he touched her. He just couldn't say the words-and that wasn't surprising, given his past. She even knew that, in time, he'd find the courage to speak.

Unfortunately they'd run out of time. It was all well and good that he loved her, but it wasn't enough. She needed a commitment.

If he'd asked her to stay with him, even once, she'd risk it all. For an invitation would mean he wanted to change his isolated life-style, wanted to build a home with her. It might even mean he wanted to be part of a family.

Normally she wouldn't need an invitation. In fact, if things had been normal, she would stay whether he asked her to or not. But the child changed all that.

Now she needed the security of that invitation, and it hadn't come.

She'd reached the right conclusion last night. She had to leave. It was best for Cornelius. He had his life as he wanted it: solitary and isolated. Without responsibility or commitments. Being tied down to a family would kill his spirit, and "is spirit was what Devon loved most about him.

Yes, it would be better for all of them if she left. Now.

244

Before he found out about the child and forced himself to take an action they'd all regret.

Stone Man noticed her coldness the moment she stepped into the post. It swept across his flesh like a winter wind, chilling him to the bone.

It had begun, he realized wearily. She had begun the grim, determined separation of their lives.

Regret churned in his gut. The acrid, angry taste of a thousand what ifs burned on his tongue. What vengeful God had done this to him, he wondered bitterly. Taken an isolated island of a man and thrown him under a brilliant beam of light-a transitory brightness that, when it died, would leave in its wake a darkness colder and more complete than a midwinter Yukon night.

If only he had the courage to ask her to stay. Hope surged at the thought, flaring brightly for several agonizing heartbeats before it died.

He couldn't do it. He'd done that once, with Mibelle, and that little naivete had cost him five years of his life. With Devon he'd be risking more than his freedom. Much more. If he asked Devon to stay and she said no, it would kill him. He'd given up his emotional armor months ago, and he had no shred of it left. He was naked to her attack.

It all came down to self-preservation. If he didn't ask her to stay, then she couldn't turn him down. And if he'd never heard the refusal, he could, in later years, tell himself that perhaps she would have stayed. He could cherish the memory of her.

Besides, why should he have to ask her? He knew Devon; if she wanted to stay with him, wild horses couldn't drag her onto the sternwheeler. She was a woman who did as she pleased; a woman who knew her own mind.

So why should he embarrass himself by groveling? She'd just turn the tables on him like she always did. She'd get that perfectly logical look on her face, gnaw on her thumbnail, and ask him why he didn't come to St. Louis with her.

Why didn't he? The thought came out of nowhere with stunning force.