Wildstar

She gave him a coaxing, purely female smile that said such an obstacle was only a minor one. "Then we'll wait until we can bring him around."

"You don't know my father. He can't be persuaded from a course once he makes up his mind. And I've had enough of living under his thumb. I mean to go out west, and I want you to come with me."

"But where will we live, how will we afford a house, a carriage, clothes? How will I entertain your guests? How will you support me?"

"I can earn enough to support you without being tied to my father's money bags."

"How, darling?"

"I'm familiar enough with the rail business to get a po­sition with a railroad."

"But you would have to start at the bottom."

"I've always been skilled at cards. I could make extra money gambling if necessary."

"Gambling? Garrett, you know I love you, but you can't expect me to give up my life, all my dreams, so you can throw away your future. I have to think about my own fu­ture, too."

Which was all she cared about, he realized with a rising ache in his throat.

He'd pleaded with her to reconsider, hoping desperately that he'd misunderstood, that money and position didn't really mean so much more to her than he did. When she'd abruptly ended the engagement, it had felt like a knife be­ing shoved in his gut. He had loved her—ardently, mind­lessly, as only a young man of one and twenty can love. He'd believed she loved him. Her avowals had seemed so genuine. But what kind of love was it that couldn't pass even the first test of loyalty, of commitment?

Devlin restlessly shifted the Winchester on his lap as memories intruded. He had cried that night. Broken down and sobbed like a baby for his lost love, his lost inno­cence. And when his tears had dried, his disillusionment had stayed with him.

He'd gotten over her eventually. What had meant so much to him then now seemed like an unsavory dream. He could barely recall what she looked like now. Her name . . . her name didn't matter. There had been too many women since then to remember only one. But he'd never forgotten the pain she'd caused him, or the lesson she'd taught him. And he was determined he would never be used that way again.

He had gone west alone, without her, without his fa­ther's money, vowing to make enough on his own that she would regret refusing him, and determined to prove to his father he could be successful without his help.

Those had been tough years, since he was a greenhorn at nearly everything that mattered in the West. He'd had to grow up fast, had to learn new skills. He worked on the railroad for a time, drove cattle, tried his hand at panning for gold. He discovered a kind of pleasure in earning his livel

ihood by his own honest sweat, but the pay was poor for menial jobs. So he honed his talent for gambling—well enough to make a decent living at it. And then, because he wanted to continue living, he learned to draw fast. He achieved a reputation for being good with a gun, and was once a deputy sheriff in a small town in Kansas. He even hired on as an extra gun with a big cattle outfit in Wyo­ming during a range war.

All the while, he was investing his earnings and gam­bling winnings in ranches, mills, mines, and railroads throughout the West. It wasn't until the Black Hills gold rush, though, that he finally began to make money on a large scale. He lucked into a big strike while working his claim, and used the proceeds to buy an interest in the now fabulously rich Homestake Mine. By the time he finally returned to Chicago four years ago for his mother's fu­neral, he was well on his way to becoming a rich man.

He stayed there in Chicago, making it his home, and proceeded to increase his wealth significantly. Not only did he prove to be a shrewd investor, but he managed to charm, outwit, seduce, or slay any dragons barring his way to achieving his ultimate goal—being wealthy and power­ful enough to thumb his nose at his father. At last, after ten years, he could claim success.

Not that his father noticed.

C.E. had kept his word, disowning Garrett as his son, never writing or speaking until Irene Devlin's funeral, and then only tersely. He'd never forgiven Garrett for bucking his command, or escaping his control. Devlin was certain his father at least knew of his achievements; any man of C. E. Devlin's consequence and shrewdness would be aware of events of even minor significance to the business community. But no acknowledgment had ever been made.

They'd crossed paths several times in Chicago since the funeral, twice at social functions within the past year. A cool nod was the only recognition C.E. ever gave him. Devlin found it a bitter absurdity that despite their ten-year estrangement, his father's snubs still bothered him. Dam­mit, he was thirty-one years old and he still hadn't outgrown his need for C.E.'s approval. He still craved his father's good opinion.

And without that approval, success seemed a hollow victory. Money hadn't satisfied him, nor had power. He could afford the best in life—the finest houses, the best entertainment, the most beautiful women—but he couldn't suppress the feeling of discontent that had plagued him lately, a weariness bordering on ennui, a hollowness of the soul that could only be called loneliness, despite his active social life. He was rich enough and good-looking enough to buy most any woman he wanted, but he stuck with fancy women and occasionally married ladies—only those sophisticated and worldly enough to know that an affair with him wouldn't lead to marriage.

The young woman who'd started it all had married a banker, borne three children, and was now a plump society matron lording over her dwindling coterie of Chicago's nouveau riche. Devlin had only learned about her because he'd bought her husband's bank shortly after his return to Chicago, and because she'd shown up at his doorstep, pro­fessing a willingness to share his bed in exchange for her husband's advancement. He'd sent her away with a strong feeling of disgust and only a vague feeling of regret for the loss of the love he'd once felt for her.

He felt a much greater regret for the loss of his father's respect and affection.

No one could have been more amazed than Devlin when C.E. had voluntarily paid him a visit during the week just past. For a full minute he'd stared at the calling card that bore his father's name, thinking there had to be some mis­take, before finally directing his housekeeper to show the visitor into his study.

It was definitely his father. They stood eyeing each other like two strangers, until C.E. finally broke the si­lence.

"You're looking well, Garrett," he said gruffly.

Devlin could have returned the remark. At sixty, his fa­ther was still tall and attractive and sharp-eyed, though his black hair was liberally streaked with gray. Devlin found himself wondering if his father might not be a lonely man. C.E. hadn't remarried after his wife's death, and even dur­ing her life, Irene Devlin had been a cold, selfish woman, more concerned with the state of her social calendar than with her husband's or son's welfare. And if the string of mistresses his father was reported to have had since then was any indication, C.E. hadn't been satisfied with any of the women he'd had in keeping. But not for one minute did Devlin believe his father was interested in exchanging banalities or discussing the past.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit, sir? I don't presume this is a social call."

"No, I've come on business," C.E. responded coolly.