Wildstar

"This has nothing to do with Burke, you stupid fool! My daughter could get killed, and you stand there doing nothing!"

Devlin laid a hand on Riley's arm, wanting to calm him before he had an apoplectic fit. "This isn't getting us any­where," he said urgently. "I'll do better to hire my own guns."

"You aren't gonna take the law into your own hands," the marshal insisted.

"Just watch me," Devlin retorted, his tone grim.

"No," Riley interjected. "There's a better way. Burke is the law around here. If anybody can light a fire under this crowbait"—he gave Lockwood a scornful look—"Burke can. And maybe he also has a notion just where up north Purcell is headed. Purcell worked for him for a good while."

Devlin was skeptical that Ashton Burke would suddenly turn charitable, and said so.

"I'll make him help, by God," Riley said through his teeth as he turned his horse.

And so, for the second time that night Devlin found himself entering the Diamond Dust Saloon, looking for someone. Riley was close behind him, hunching his shoul­ders against the pain in his back.

They found Burke still gaming at Lena's faro table. He appeared highly perturbed at the interruption, but with a grimace acquiesced to their request to speak privately with him. As they left, Lena gave Devlin a probing look, but didn't interfere.

Burke reluctantly led them upstairs to his private office. The room was opulently furnished, as Burke seemed to prefer, but neither of them took the seats they were of­fered, or accepted a drink.

Burke, however, poured himself a brandy and drank it while Devlin told him briefly, in clipped tones, about Jess's abduction earlier that night, what Purcell had admit­ted regarding the Lady J's mining ore from the Wildstar, Purcell's alleged connection to Zeke McRoy, their own suspicions about Purcell's having a hand in the train rob­beries, their trouble with the sheriff, and then finally came to the point. They needed Burke's help in forming a posse to ride after Purcell.

From the faintly contemptuous sneer on his face, Burke obviously wasn't inclined to be cooperative.

"Why the devil should I help?" he said at the conclu­sion.

"Common decency might do for a start," Devlin replied with sarcasm.

"Because Jess is in danger," Riley added quietly.

"I hardly think that is my concern."

"You sure ought to be concerned about your own daughter."

There was a long pause while Burke digested Riley's words. His expression changed from scorn to a puzzled frown, then utter disbelief. A dozen heartbeats later, the doubt disappeared and comprehension set in. Burke went absolutely white.

"My daugh—?" He choked on the word. The crystal snifter fell from his fingers and shattered on the carpet as he reached blindly for the back of a chair. Staggering over to it, he half fell into the seat. His mouth worked silently, and he couldn't seem to speak or even gather breath.

For a long moment, the noise from the crowd below, muted and distant, was the only sound in the room.

"Dear God . . . Jenny Ann . . ." The harsh rasp was raw with pain. "I didn't know."

"She didn't want you to know," Riley said defensively.

Burke squeezed his eyes shut. "Why? Why didn't she tell me?"

"Because you made it clear you would never marry her. You told her you wanted a wife who could move in your social circles, and that darn sure left her out."

"But I would have married her if I'd realized she was carrying my child."

"How was she supposed to know that? All you ever did was lord it over everybody—her included. Jenny Ann didn't want to bear the shame of raising a bastard alone, so she married me. How does that make you feel, Mr. Burke, knowing you threw away the best thing that ever came into your life?"

Devlin had to admire the dignity in Sommers's bearing. Riley obviously felt pain in finally divulging the truth after all these years; the bitter knowledge that his wife had loved this man must have eaten at his soul like acid. And yet his revelations were made with more careful control than Devlin could have managed in the same circumstan­ces.

"No . . ." Burke protested hoarsely. "I loved her."

"You don't know what love is," Riley said quietly. "You never thought about anyone but yourself in your life. I loved Jenny Ann more than you ever could. And I love Jess more than if she was my own daughter."

Seeing the anguish contorting Burke's pale face, Devlin could almost feel sympathy for the man. And yet when Burke looked up to glare at Riley, his blue eyes were burn­ing with an emotion that seemed very much like hatred.