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Cornstalk grinned. "Oh, boy, Miss Devon. There isn't any gold in that durn creek!"
"Really?" she heard herself say, "and why is that?"
"Well, the valley's too wide-"
"The willows don't lean the right way-"
"Everyone knows George's strike is on the wrong side of the Yukon. . ."
Devon tried to concentrate on the men's theories but couldn't. After a few minutes she gave up even trying. All she could think about were Stone Man's eyes and the way he'd nodded at her in a silent acknowledgment. In that instant, that heartbeat when their gazes had locked, she'd seen past Stone Man's unkempt facade to the soul that lay within. In his eyes there had been pain and, more than that, there had been understanding. An understanding of what it meant to be left out.
Father Michaels was right. Underneath Stone Man's gruff, dirty exterior beat a heart lonely and aching.
A heart like her own.
At closing time Devon left the post's warm interior and stepped outside. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dusk-shrouded street.
She glanced left. A lonely copse of aspen, their bright-gold autumn leaves cloaked by descending night, huddled together against the wind. At the other end of the street, Joe Ladue's new sawmill/saloon stood silhouetted against the charcoal sky, its lightning-jar windows glinting silver in the moonlight.
A cold blast of air cut down from the hills, sweeping through Front Street with a howling sigh. She pulled her woolen cloak tighter around her chin, mentally thanking Stone Man for making her bring it. He was right again; autumn was melting into winter. The nights were getting longer and colder.
Thinking about Stone Man made her frown. He'd acted strangely this afternoon, and the change in his demeanor bothered her. After he'd stood up for her against Midas, he'd gone into one of his deep silences. He'd stared at her for the remainder of the day, but not once had he spoken or smiled.
128
thwack.
'¦¦
130
131
and
No. He had
i
trying.
handsome.
i
132
long ago it was better to shield one's thoughts and dreams. Especially from a woman.
He shrugged. "It was almost winter, and I can't stand a frozen mustache and beard."
Her smile flattened. "Oh. I thought..."
The disappointment on her face made him feel awkward. Cowardly. Damn it.
He'd planned this evening for her, to give her some of the warmth she'd given him. Why then, when it came time to actually give her something tangible like the truth, did he find himself slinking back into the comfortable darkness of detachment?
"No, that's not true." The words slipped out.
