Wildstar

Devlin invited his father to sit down in a wing chair, then settled himself behind his desk. There was another long pause before the elder man cleared his throat. "I hear you've done well for yourself."

"Did you doubt I would?"

"No. You're my son, after all."

My son. How sweet those words sounded. How bitter. Devlin couldn't stem the surge of anger welling up in him. Odd that C.E. should remember he had a son now. There had to be a reason, and whatever it was doubtlessly stemmed from his own self-interest. C. E. Devlin had been the son of a poor Irish immigrant, but he'd pulled himself up by his bootstraps and risen out of poverty to become one of the most powerful men in the country. And he hadn't done it by espousing sweetness and light. Tycoon was too kind a word for his style of management. Devlin knew; a strong streak of his father's aggressiveness ran in his own veins. But the old man was a controlling, manip­ulative bastard of the first order. It had taken Devlin twenty-one years to realize that, to understand that his fa­ther had always withheld his love and approval until he re­ceived whatever it was he wanted. Love had been a reward for obedience, purely that. Remembering, Devlin clenched his jaw and sat waiting for his father to come to the pur­pose of his visit.

"You've heard about the trouble with the Colorado Cen­tral by now?" C.E. asked finally.

"I've heard of it, yes." Three robberies in four months. It was a record anyone in the rail business had to be con­cerned with.

"And you know my position with that railroad?"

"I know." His father was both a major stockholder and on the board of directors of the Union Pacific, which had leased the Colorado Central for its own use back in '78.

"So you understand why I'm anxious to get to the bot­tom of this."

"I can imagine," Devlin said dryly.

"I want the robberies stopped. Now."

Devlin managed to repress a hard smile. Of course his father would want immediate action. Not because he wanted justice. Not because he wanted to recover the sto­len money. Not even because he felt remorse for the two men who'd been killed in the last robbery. But because C. E. Devlin hated to be thwarted.

"I expect you've already tried?" Garrett remarked.

"We've hired a half dozen of Pinkerton's detectives, but all we've gotten are worthless reports."

And of course he would not be willing to wait till the detective firm achieved any results. "So . . . what do you want from me?"

"You've lived out west. I hoped you might be able to recommend a reliable man who could be counted on to track down these outlaws, to put an end to these robberies. I'm willing to offer a substantial reward for apprehension and conviction of the criminals."

A dozen thoughts ran through Devlin's mind at once, but the chief one was disbelief. His father had hundreds of contacts throughout the country, many of whom could have given him the information he sought. So why had C.E. come here, of all places? Could he possibly be using this as an excuse simply to see him! As an opening to re­new their acquaintance, if not their relationship as father and son?

The surge of hope that possibility engendered made Devlin sit up. If that were true, he was willing to meet his father halfway.

"I know of someone, yes," he said slowly.

"Who?"

"Myself."

"You?" The skepticism on his father's face was not very heartening. "You can trace a gang of outlaws and bring them in?"

"You d

on't sound as if you have much faith in me." The comment was meant to be dry, but his tone sounded more bitter than sarcastic.

C.E. hesitated, eyeing his son for a long moment. "Faith is not the question."

"No?"

"No. I've always believed you could do anything you set your mind to. I just can't imagine why you would want to involve yourself in this. It could be dangerous. These men have already killed once."

Devlin had his reasons, some of them not so high-minded. To put his father in his debt. To show that for once C.E. needed him. To regain his father's respect by succeeding where others had failed. But more than that, this opportunity to prove himself might just possibly be a first step toward reconciliation.

Unwilling to voice any of those thoughts, Devlin shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "Maybe I'm just bored. Sitting here running an empire isn't the challenge I thought it would be. I could use an adventure. I'd like to try."

"Very well, then. I would be grateful for your help."