Wildstar

"Don't you see, Jess?" he'd told her excitedly. "If Burke struck a vein in the Lady J, then maybe there's rich ore in the Wildstar. I just have to find it."

She hadn't had the heart to crush his hopes. She hadn't insisted on making him see the truth—that Burke was act­ing out of pure vindictiveness. He wanted the mine simply to hurt her father by putting him out of business.

It was plain as day to Jess. The bitter rivalry had been going on since before she was born, ever since Riley had dared to marry the girl Burke had laid claim to. And Ashton Burke was a man who hated to be thwarted, who hated anybody who didn't sidestep for him. In fact, it seemed clear to Jess that Burke enjoyed crushing little people in his drive to accumulate wealth and power, par­ticularly self-made men like her father.

But she wouldn't let him succeed. If she had to go up against a powerful silver baron like Burke to protect her father, she would.

It was a good three hours before Riley stirred. When his eyelids fluttered open, Jess bolted upright in her chair.

"What . . . happened?" her father rasped before sud­denly flinching and groaning in pain.

Hurriedly, Jess knelt beside his bed and gently clasped his hand. "Don't try to talk, Riley. You've been hurt."

"Feels like . . . somebody shoved . . . a stick o' dyna­mite in my shoulder."

Clem, hovering over the bed, granted. "Near enough. You was backshot."

"Who . . .?"

"Riley, please," Jess pleaded. "Come on now, you've got to take your medicine."

She directed Clem to help raise her father's head while she spoon-fed him a heavy dose of morphine. Riley gri­maced in pain, but swallowed dutifully. When she was done, though, Riley clutched at her hand and wouldn't let go of it or the subject.

"Was it Burke?"

"Do you know anyone else who would want you dead?" Jess answered with no little asperity.

"Always knew . . . Burke wanted my hide, but I . . . never figured he'd stoop to shooting me in the back."

Lovingly, Jess smoothed her father's sweat-dampened brown hair that was sprinkled with gray. "I didn't either."

"Jess?. . . Got to tell you something . . . about your ma. . . ."

"Riley, don't talk, please."

"In case I pass on."

"You aren't going to die!" she cried furiously, then caught herself and took a calming breath. "Now, you hush and go to sleep like the doctor said."

"You don't understand. . . . Burke . . . doesn't know about you. . . . Got to tell him . . . so he won't hurt you."

"No one's going to hurt me. You just quit worrying and concentrate on getting better. When you're well enough, I'll make you a whole pan of strawberry biscuits."

"Strawberry?" The smile Riley gave was wan and drowsy. "All . . . for me?"

"Yes, all for you." She bent and tenderly kissed his tem­ple. "Now you go to sleep."

It took a while, but eventually the morphine took effect. Squeezing her father's hand one last time, Jess tucked the covers around his waist, mindful of the bandage, then headed directly for the kitchen pantry where Riley kept his weapons.

From a shelf, she took down his double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun and a box of cartridges, and began to load.

Chapter 2

There were any number of ways to die in the Wild West, and Devlin had faced his share of near misses in his checkered career. He'd nearly been crushed by a shifting load of railroad ties while supervising the addition of a line spur for one of his father's many railroads; almost gored by a longhorn on a trail drive back in '74; barely missed being shot by an outraged, less-than-sober husband who never would've had the courage to draw on an ac­knowledged gunhand had he drunk a few less whiskeys; and come close to being speared by a Sioux brave's lance in the Dakota Territory during the Black Hills gold rush.

But he'd never before been confronted by a tawny-haired, avenging fury with fire in her eyes. She stormed into Burke's private gaming parlor like a desert whirlwind, bringing with her the fresh scent of life and carrying the threat of death.

The shotgun in her hands looked plain and lethal amid the gleaming walnut woodwork and polished crystal chan­deliers. She had changed out of her morning robe, Devlin noted, while her fabulous hair was pinned up sedately be­neath a small hat. Her gray skirts sported a modest bustle, and the high-necked jacket-bodice molded her firm, gener­ous bosom to flattering perfection. Still, her sensible cloth­ing looked dowdy compared to the fine feathers of the few sporting women present and the elegant evening attire of the male guests.