Wildstar

"We take the body back to town."

Slowly Devlin rose to his feet, feeling ten years older than he had a few minutes ago. Jess was watching him in concern, he knew, but he hardened his resolve.

When she handed his Colt back to him, he accepted it without looking at her and bolstered the weapon. The pas­sionate embrace they'd shared might never have been— except for the disheveled state of Jess's clothing. As if recalling her near seduction at Devlin's hands, she turned her back on him and began buttoning her shirt.

A muscle tightened in his jaw as the awkward silence stretched between them. He ought to say something to re­lieve her embarrassment, he knew. Any man who called himself a man would have tried to reassure her, would have attempted to convince her that what had happened between them was natural and beautiful. But Devlin stopped himself. If she thought he was a callous bastard who only wanted to climb between her legs, then maybe she would try harder to keep away from him. And it was becoming obvious that Jess would have to be the one to keep away. He certainly didn't have the willpower to with­stand the fierce desire that had raged through him when he kissed her, when he merely touched her.

Devlin's mouth twisted with bitter self-mockery. He'd never thought of himself as a weak man, but that was be­fore he'd met a honey-haired avenging fury named Jessica Sommers. It was little comfort to know that only a hail of bullets from a desperate outlaw could have stopped him from taking her and destroying her innocence. Zeke McRoy's untimely appearance had saved her.

Devlin wasn't sure whether to view it as a blessing or a curse.

Chapter 9

He didn't need this, Devlin thought with self-derision as he rode up the dark mountainside five days later, on Saturday evening. He couldn't afford to spend precious time worrying about a stubborn, tawny-haired miner's daughter who very obviously was capable of taking care of herself and her worthless mine if left to her own resources. He was wasting what might be his last opportunity, trapped here in Silver Plume while Zeke McRoy's gang doubtless planned another train holdup. He needed to be miles north of here, asking questions and trying to dis­cover who McRoy had ridden with.

He liked even less what was happening between him and Jess . . . the closeness that was developing between them. He was letting himself get far too involved with her, Devlin knew. Not just her problems, but with her.

He didn't like the tender feelings he was beginning to feel for Jess, the protectiveness, the desire. He didn't like leaving himself so vulnerable. He'd spent ten years suc­cessfully avoiding getting caught in a woman's clutches, and while Jessica Sommers's ambitions might not be as mercenary as most other females', his relationship with Jess was becoming too intimate for comfort.

Yet the only solution that would let him protect himself—keeping away from her entirely—was out of the question. He couldn't leave Jess to face Burke's hired gun­men alone, not with her father still down and her mine crew deserting her. The past five days had been hell for Jess, beginning with the death of Zeke McRoy. Seeing a man die had shaken her, Devlin knew, though she'd tried to hide it. And then there'd been the craven marshal of Sil­ver Plume to deal with.

When they'd returned to town at dawn with McRoy's body and roused the marshal out of bed, Lockwood had done absolutely nothing besides mutter about throwing Devlin in jail for killing a man. Clearly the marshal was not about to go hunting down the gunmen himself. He val­ued his own skin too much, not to mention his standing with Ashton Burke.

Furious almost to the point of hysteria, Jess had lit into him with a blistering tirade that should have taken a strip off his yellow hide. Devlin had his hands full calming her down enough to get her out of there. He wasn't concerned about the spi

neless marshal. Jess could testify that Devlin had acted in self-defense, and there'd been a dozen wit­nesses to the shooting spree at the Wildstar and the delib­erate wrecking of Clem's ore wagon. Marshal Lockwood didn't have a case strong enough even to arrest him. Be­sides, Devlin had access to some of the best legal counsel in the country—although he did not tell Jess that.

She was still ranting when he got her home. "The nerve of that slimy little worm, accusing you of murder! He ought to be tossed in jail himself!"

But she was using anger, Devlin suspected, to cover up her horror at being involved, however unintent-ionally, in the death of a man.

Seeing the desperation in her eyes, he'd felt a fierce rush of tenderness, an overwhelming need to protect and comfort her, yet he had refrained from taking her in his arms as he longed to do, knowing where such an unwise action would lead. He'd allowed her father to comfort her instead.

After Jess had told the story to her father—Riley had been worried sick about her during their absence—Devlin had to physically force her to lie down in her own bed and threaten her with mayhem if she didn't drink the mug of warm milk he'd laced with laudanum. Even then, she only acquiesced because he promised to ride up to the mine right then and stay there for the rest of the day and that night as well. Playing guard for that damned mine was the absolute last thing Devlin wanted to do just then, but he had no choice, not with Jess's pain-filled eyes pleading with him. He'd never seen her so vulnerable, so helpless. Her last words before her eyes closed in exhausted slum­ber were about taking care of the Wildstar.

The next morning, though, she was up at the mine at dawn, packing a shotgun, with no trace of vulnerability showing in her eyes or her expression. Instead, Devlin saw fierce determination and sheer grit.

She needed every ounce of grit she possessed to get through the next few days. Clem was little help to her. The mule skinner was still mourning his dead critters, and al­though he showed up for work each morning, he moved like an old man in a daze. He had only four mules left, and Jess had to scrounge for the money to buy more. She or­dered an ore wagon on credit, as well, to replace the one that had been destroyed in the accident, hut until it came, Clem had to haul what little ore the crew took out of the earth down the mountain by jack train, the rawhide sacks of rock strapped securely to the mules' shaggy hides.

Production had suffered even further because of the rain that came down in torrents. For two incessant days, the heavens had opened up. rendering the mountain roads treacherous and submerging the town streets in knee-deep mud.

Jess herself took over guarding the mine during the day, against her father's fierce protests. Riley was beside him­self with concern, but he was in no position to argue if he wanted to keep his mine crew going. Two of the miners had already quit, claiming they couldn't afford to continue working under such dangerous conditions when they had families to think about. Riley wasn't able do any mining himself, either. Although he was getting physically stron­ger each day, he still couldn't leave his bed for longer than a half hour at a time without tiring himself out. Nor could he make the long trek up to the mine without risking ex­haustion and setting his recovery back even further.

Devlin didn't like the situation any more than Riley did. Jess had refused to allow him longer duty at the mine, say­ing it wouldn't be right to impose on him, but it galled him to feel both helpless and trapped.

He'd nearly reached the end of his restraint yesterday afternoon, when Burke had called at the Sommers's place. Devlin had been awakened from a fitful sleep by a knock at the front door, and when he'd dragged himself out of bed to answer it, he found Riley planted in the open door­way, blocking the entrance, one hand clutching his chest. Ashton Burke stood outside on the front step.

"I've told you before," Riley was saying, "I'm not inter­ested in selling."

Barefooted, holding a revolver at the ready, Devlin came up behind Riley. Burke immediately raised his hands to show that he was unarmed.

"I merely wanted you to know I'm willing to increase my offer," the Englishman murmured pleasantly. "Ten thousand dollars more. Twenty-five thousand, total. That's a great deal of money, Mr. Sommers."

Riley shook his head.

"You heard him," Devlin interjected. "He's not inter­ested."

Burke stretched his lips into a sour smile. "I hope you don't come to regret your decision. Good day to you, then."