Wildstar

Watching him go, Devlin felt marginally satisfied with his progress. They had danced around each other, but Burke's frustration in finding a man he couldn't sway was evident.

Clamping down on his own frustration, Devlin went in search of a good poker game. He could be patient if he had to, and it looked as if this job, like Jessica Sommers, would require an extraordinary amount of patience.

Chapter 6

Patience was not a quality Jess possessed much of Sat­urday night. She found it hard to sleep that night, al­though her restlessness had only a little to do with her concern over Ashton Burke. The Wildstar mine was well guarded, and things had been quiet during the past week since her father had been shot.

She was worried about Riley though. That afternoon he had stubbornly attempted to have Clem drive him up to the mine, but halfway up the mountain, all the jostling in the wagon had broken open the wound in Riley's back and started it bleeding again. Devlin had to be awakened to help Riley into the house, and Doc Wheeler had to be fetched. Doc had lit into Riley for his foolishness and railed about the danger of infection as he liberally applied carbolic to the raw flesh. Still muttering, Doc bandaged the wound tightly to stop the bleeding, then administered another dose of morphine to ease Riley's pain.

But what also bothered Jess, almost as much as her fa­ther's muleheadedness, was that Devlin stayed out most of Saturday night.

She heard him come in very late and quietly pass the door of the tiny sitting room where she slept on the floor. She wanted to ask where he'd been and what he'd been doing, but being his employer didn't give her the right to demand an accounting of his free time.

Irritably, she turned over on her lumpy mattress, trying to find a comfortable position. It really wasn't her business what Devlin did on his Saturday nights. He had probably been gambling, anyway, or, quite possibly, he'd found a woman to keep him company—

At the disturbing thought, Jess punched her pillow, then caught herself. She adamantly refused to admit she might be the least bit jealous of the saloon girls and fancy women who could attract Devlin's interest. In a deter­mined effort to sleep, she forced her eyes shut.

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It was later than usual when she woke Sunday morning, but the small house was quiet with both men still asleep. Jess lay there a minute, remembering the terror of last Sunday, when her father's bleeding body had been brought home. Shuddering, she threw back the covers and got up.

She ate a solitary breakfast of eggs and ham, and cleaned up after herself. Feeling at loose ends, with noth­ing to do till time for church, Jess heated water for a bath and washed her hair, then toweled and combed it dry. Re­membering Devlin's hurtful comment about her being afraid to let herself be a woman, she spent nearly an hour arranging her hair, piling the tawny mass in a knot high on her head, with coils of braids down the back, feminine curls above her ears, and soft fringe of bangs on her fore­head. Then she slipped into Devlin's room to retrieve her best Sunday outfit from the clothespress.

She risked only a single glance at him, finding the sight far too intimate in the dim light that filtered beneath the curtains. With his muscular shoulders and chest bare above the yellow quilt, his black hair and whisker-shadowed jaw a dark contrast against the white pillow, Devlin looked dis­turbingly, roughly masculine in the feminine surroundings.

Just then his eyelids with their thick black lashes lifted abruptly, and his gray gaze found hers with startling im­pact. His look was alert and piercing, as if he anticipated trouble and was eminently qualified to deal with it. Jess tensed, while her hand crept to her throat where her heart had lodged. She had forgotten Devlin was a hired gun . . . a stranger she'd found in a saloon barely a week ago. What did she really know about him, after all? At the mo­ment he looked hard and dangerous, and just a little bit frightening.

He must have realized she was no threat to him, though, for he visibly relaxed, his features softening, his expres­sion a striking counter to the previous moment.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Jess whispered when she had caught her breath.

Devlin smiled languidly, his eyes a tangled brush of dark lashes and pale smoke. "You can wake me anytime, angel," he replied in a voice raspy with sleep.

Fumbling in the clothespress for her garments, Jess dragged them out and clutched them to her breast. "Go back to sleep," she told Devlin when she realized he was watching her. His gaze was moving over her with an inten­sity that felt as physical as a stolen kiss. Instead of the blue sateen wrapper she wore, she might as well have had nothing on at all.

"I could think of better things to do than sleep if you would come to bed with me."

His outrageous remark brought a furious blush to Jess's cheeks. "I c-can't," she stammered. "I have to go to church. I mean . . . I wouldn't if I could."

"A pity," Devlin said with another sleepy smile. "You don't know what pleasure you're missing." Rolling over, he snuggled his face deeper into the pillows. "Call me when it's time to eat," he mumbled, and was breathing evenly in another instant.

More shaken than she cared to admit, Jess dragged her gaze away from the muscular splendor of Devlin's bare back and let herself out of the room. In her flustered state, she was thankful to have found an outfit that matched.

The fawn-colored skirt boasted a short train, and was covered by a wraparound overskirt of coffee-striped gren­adine, drawn up behind to produce a bustle. After fussing with the skirts, Jess donned a white muslin waist that form-fitted her high, corseted bosom, then the basque jacket made of the same striped grenadine as the skirt. A lace collar fastened by a broach and a small feathered toque hat completed the ensemble. Critically eyeing her­self in the cheval mirror in the sitting room, Jess thought she looked feminine and chic enough that not even Devlin could find fault with her appearance.

She attended the service at the Methodist church and re­mained afterward, talking with longtime friends, answer­ing inquiries about last week's terrible shooting, receiving condolences, and accepting good wishes for Riley's swift recovery. She walked home, enjoying the quiet of the beautiful August morning. The stamp mills were blessedly silent, while far above her, lofty granite summits pierced the azure sky, flirting with puffs of snow-white clouds.

Jess was gazing up at the mountains when a carriage went bowling past her, driven by a groom attired in livery. She tensed when she recognized Ashton Burke. He might have been checking on his numerous properties in Silver Plume, or more likely, he'd spent last night gambling and then stayed at his Diamond Dust Hotel rather than return to his fancy home in Georgetown.

To Jess's surprise and immense wariness, he ordered the driver to pull over. She couldn't believe even the lordly Ashton Burke would have the audacity to stop and speak to her after what he'd done to her father, but he was ob­viously waiting for her, and she refused to be intimidated.

When she reached his carriage, Burke tipped his hat to her, his blond hair glinting in the sunlight like a new-minted gold piece. "Good morning, Miss Sommers. I trust your father is recovering."

His polite greeting, voiced in that clipped, haughty Brit­ish accent, grated across her nerves. She was certain Burke didn't give a fig about her father. And although his tone oozed sympathy, she had the distinct feeling the silver king was taunting her. She managed a stiff "Good morn­ing" in reply.

"I thought I might call on your father this afternoon, if he is free," Burke announced.

Jess bit back the urge to say, "Don't bother, you won't be welcome," not only because it was Sunday, when one was obliged at least to try to exhibit a Christian spirit, but because she wouldn't let this ruthless baron drag her down to his level.