A Handful of Heaven

Devon stood outside the post, trying to gather her composure. She pressed one small, gloved hand to her midsection and tried counting to ten. The old trick didn't work.

Dear God, she wanted to bolt. To simply hike up her skirts and run-as long and as fast and as far as her Curacoa kid walking boots would take her. Anywhere as long as it was away from the sternwheeler.

She looked down at the scrap of paper in her hand. Her lace-sheathed fingers closed tightly around the ticket, obliterating the hastily scrawled sailing time.

It was too late to change her mind. Her things were packed; Cornstalk had taken all of her trunks down to the dock. Everything she owned was on the boat. All that was left was good-bye.

Her stomach twisted into a knot. If only he 'd asked her to stay . . .

"Enough," she said through clenched teeth. He hadn't asked her, and that was that. She'd made a decision-a smart one-and it was time to stop whining about it. It was best for Cornelius and the baby that she leave, and they were the people who mattered.

Setting her jaw at a determined angle, she lifted her pinstriped serge traveling skirt and entered the post. What she found inside stopped her cold.

Everyone she knew was inside.

"She's here!" Digger cried from somewhere within the throng.

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The men surged toward her. They were all talking at once, and Devon couldn't distinguish a single voice in the buzzing, excited chatter. She scanned the crowd. The bright-eyed, grin-wreathed faces blurred, melting into one another.

An elbow jabbed her, and she glanced sideways. Father Michaels was standing right beside her. He was looking at her with an odd, disappointed expression on his pointy face. He cocked his head to the left. Her gaze followed his.

To Stone Man. He was behind his precious counter, his barrier to the world. He stood motionless, his big arms folded across his chest, his eyes trained on her.

The heat in his whiskey-colored eyes made her stomach somersault. He was looking at her as if they were alone. . . .

No. She couldn't think like that anymore-not if she wanted to make it out of this post with some modicum of pride intact. She broke eye contact. "What's this all about, Father?" She hoped her voice sounded light.

Midas and Cornstalk pushed to the front of the crowd. Midas cleared his throat, and the men around him quieted. "When we heard you was leavin', we all got together and decided to give you this." He shoved a small piece of wood at her.

Oh, God, not a going-away gift. Her fragile self-control couldn't handle it now. The last thing in the world she needed was for someone to be nice to her.

Reluctantly she took the brown square. It shook in her hands.

"Turn it over, miss," Cornstalk prodded.

After a heartbeat's hesitation,*she did, and the moment she saw the other side a huge lump lodged in her throat. It was a makeshift plaque, and carved onto the dark surface were the words: To Devin. Thefurst womun to winter among us. We 'II miss you.

The words blurred. Her throat constricted. "Oh, my. . ."

"Read it out loud!" yelled someone from the back of the crowd. Immediately the crowd started buzzing in agreement.

Midas put up his hands for silence. "She don't have to read it. We all know what it says."

Devon offered the old man a grateful smile then turned her attention to the men around her. "I-I don't know what to say

. . . except thank you." She pressed the plaque to her breast. "I'll treasure it always."

The sternwheeler's horn blared. The sound sliced through the men's boisterous cheers. Devon felt its impact right down to her toes.

Midas clapped her on the back. "We'll wait outside for ya, Devon. We want to walk you to the boat. No need to hurry. It don't leave for an hour yet."

She nodded distractedly. "All right. I'll only be a minute."

The men shuffled out, leaving in their absence a groaning silence. She stared at Stone Man. He stared back.