A Handful of Heaven Read online

  YUKON TERRITORY WAS A GOLD MINER'S HEAVEN, AND DEVON O'SHEA HAD COME TO CLAIM HER SHARE....

  But instead of a thriving store in a boom town, Devon O'Shea discovered she was part owner of a filthy, disorganized tent-% stuck in the middle of a godforsaken frozen Moose pasture with a bunch of motley gold diggers and a mountainous slap | of animosity for a partner: Stone Man MacKenna:

  Gathering mop, Pail, and sheer determination, Devon vowed to make this post the best in Yukon Territory: Stone Man didn't scare her-not his bear voice, giant size, or eagle eyes... or threats of the bug-infested tent and bed they had to share. But his kiss-a gruff attempt to convince her that the Yukon was no place for a lady-left her feeling, for the first time in her life, feminine and alive.

  Here in the green wilderness of the North, dreamers were, panning for bits of heaven. Here, perhaps Devon might find a handful of her very own after all....

  Kristin Hannah is the

  Winner of the Golden Heart/RITA Award ·

  from the Romance Writers of America.

  Cover printed in USA

  ISBN D-4Mcl-m73b-3 14736>

  27778 00499

  Also by Kristin Hannah Published by Fawcett Books:

  THE ENCHANTMENT ONCE IN EVERY LIFE IF YOU BELIEVE

  A

  HANDFUL OF

  HEAVEN

  Kristin Hannah

  1&.: -:.:

  FAWCETT GOLD MEDAL · NEW YORK

  Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  A Fawcett Gold Medal Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1991 by Kristin Hannah

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-91985 ISBN 0-449-14736-3 (

  Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: September 1991 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4

  To the men in my life, Benjamin and Tucker. I love you.

  And to my mother, who always believed I could do anything.

  Special Thanks . . .

  To Rob Cohen and Elisa Wares, who gave me what every first-time author dreams of-a chance.

  To Megan Chance and Nadine Miller for their unwavering support and excellent advice.

  And, perhaps most importantly, to Andrea Schmidt, who kept my baby boy happy while I worked.

  Prologue

  smack,

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  2

  yet,

  that

  Just once . . .

  and

  .it

  m

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  trembling, he stripped off his huge mittens and eased the fur-lined hood from his face.

  "Old Bill," Midas hollered at the Yukon's only mail carrier. "What the hell you doin' way out here?"

  Bill tried to smile and failed. "Damn, it's cold out there," he muttered, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Curling his arthritic fingers around the hot tin, he lifted the cup and let the steam pelt his face.

  "Come on, Bill. Whatcha doin' here?"

  Bill took a sip before he answered. "I got a letter for Stone Man."

  Everyone looked at Stone Man. He felt their eyes drilling through his chest. Mail was scarcer than gold on the Thron-diuck River, and gold was damned scarce.

  Frowning, he walked over to Old Bill. As he entered the stove's small circle of warmth, an involuntary shiver rattled his bones. "Who the hell would write to me? I've never gotten a letter in my life. It must be a mistake."

  Bill reached into his buckskin bag and withdrew a crumpled, dirt-smudged envelope. "It come outta St. Louis, and it's addressed to Cornelius J. MacKenna. That's you, ain't it?"

  Stone Man took the letter in his weather-chapped hands and stared at it for a long moment. Whoever had written this letter had taken his time. The penmanship was flawless. Perfect.

  It was an honest-to-God letter from someone out there.

  His strong hands shook. Like the other hard-bitten, lonely souls who wandered the Yukon Territory, Stone Man had left civilization behind long ago. He'd come north because he didn't have friends or family or loved ones. He had stayed because he liked it that way.

  And now ... a letter.

  Awkwardly, his big fingers unaccustomed to the task, he opened the envelope and slowly withdrew the letter. The brushed, bumpy paper was folded in exact quarters, the edges aligned with military precision. Unfolding the paper, he began to read.

  Dear Mr. MacKenna,

  I take pen in hand to respond to the advertisement

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  which you placed in the St. Louis Post Dispatch. As it is now November, I can only hope you are still in need of assistance. If so, I would like very much to be considered for the position of partner in your trading post.

  The terms stated in your advertisement are entirely acceptable to me. I agree to manage the post for one year in exchange for one-half ownership in the post plus room and board.

  Although I admit to inexperience in such a venture, you will find me a hard worker, well organized, and willing to work for our mutual success. I will be eagerly awaiting your reply.

  Sincerely, Devon O'Shea

  P.S. Should you choose to take me on as your equal partner, could you please advise me as to what I should bring to make my time in the Yukon Territory more enjoyable?

  He shook his head in disbelief. "Well I'll be ..."

  "What is it?" came the miners' chorus.

  He smiled for the first time in weeks. Why not? He could afford to be sociable. This Mr. Devon O'Shea had answered his prayers. In another few months he'd be left alone again. He wouldn't have to worry about running the post, and he could photograph wildlife to his heart's content. And he'd never, never find himself trapped in a room with chattering miners again.

  He closed his eyes. It was almost enough to make one believe in God.

  "What is it?" Midas demanded.

  "It's a reply to my advertisement."

  "What advertisement?"

  "When you fools first started straggling into my valley, I ran advertisements in about ten big-city papers seeking a partner in the post."

  "Why'd ya do a damn fool thing like that?" Midas cut in. "You're mean as a wet cat. Ain't nobody in the world you could work with."

  6

  Chapter One

  Her

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  8

  Oh my God.

  Guide for Alaska and Yukon Gold Seekers?"

  Guide

  Guide

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  II

  here?"

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  carry it off. It spiraled end-over-end like a dancing black bubble and landed in the brown river. With a silent curse she curled her fingers around the icy steel of the bike's handlebars and yanked hard.

  The mud fought back. Rain hammered her face, pooling and clogging in her eyes and running in cold streaks down her cheeks. She licked the wet rivulets from her lips and swiped them from her eyes.

  Sucking in a big breath, she pulled with all her strength. "Come . . . on." The words came out in two bursts of chattering teeth.

  The bicycle popped free. She hauled it onto the canvas and lay it on its side, pushing slowly to her feet.

  Panting, shaking with cold, she peeled the mud-blackened gloves from her hands and crammed them into her handbag. Staring at her treasured racycle, its bright red frame mottled with clumps and streaks of mud, she felt tears threaten.

/>   She squeezed her eyes shut. No. She had to remain calm. Crying wouldn't help. Besides, it was only mud. What was mud to a Two-Speed, Changeable-Geared Racycle? A little water and the bicycle would be as good as new. One had to keep things in perspective.

  Slowly she opened her eyes. Adventures, she thought grimly, were messy businesses.

  Tilting her chin upward, she took her first step toward Mr. MacKenna's trading post.

  It was the second step that nearly killed her. She plungi into the mud like a falling boulder. The black goo tonguedi her knees, curling cold and syruplike around her legs. Bits and chunks of it splattered up to her face, mingling with the rain and sliding down her wet cheeks in torrents.

  She knotted her fists, fighting the urge to scream in frustration. Gritting her teeth, she plodded through the thigh-deep mud. Her skirts were a deadweight that fought her eve: step.

  After what seemed hours, she stopped. Heaving for breath,! wiping the persistent rain from her eyes, she tried to focus. Something loomed in front of her. She blinked hard.

  Slowly the blur cleared, and she could see a string of two-inch-by-twelve-inch planks stretched out before her.

  "A boardwalk." The word came out in a soft, thankful sigh. She surged forward, stumbling blindly toward the nearest plank. Her foot came down hard on the board's edge, driving it deep in the soggy mud. Beneath her foot the wood shifted and shot forward. With a strangled cry she fell backward, landing flat on her back in the mud.

  "Darn it!" she screamed, beating her ice-cold fists in the mud. She wanted to kick the stuffing out of something, anything, she wanted to-

  No.

  She had to relax, to get control. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she tried counting. "One . . . two . . . three ..."

  She staggered to her feet. Slinging an arm around the nearest post, she held herself upright. Eyes closed, she tried to regain her breath.

  Something cold and wet smacked her in the head. She looked up. Hanging above her were the dirtiest, ugliest, biggest pair of denim pants she'd ever seen. Scrawled across the seat were the words: MACKENNA'S POST.

  It couldn 't be. Devon's every hope for the future vanished. She eyed the half-finished log cabin at the end of the muddy street, and disappointment settled rock-hard in the pit of her stomach. Her post could at least have been in the cabin.

  Reluctantly she brought her gaze back to the filthy, grayed canvas structure in front of her. MacKenna's Post. Her post. The store she'd come halfway across the country and then some to run was housed in a dilapidated tent. A tent.

  "Perfect," she said with a groan. "Just perfect."

  Shoving through the flaps, she marched inside. Dead center she stopped, her eyes scanning the sorry tent in a heartbeat. About the size of an average dining room, it had sagging gray canvas walls, a mishmash of haphazard shelving, a tiny metal stove, and a filthy wood-plank floor.

  Against the far wall a mountainous slab of humanity sat hunched behind the most lopsided, disorganized counter she'd ever seen. The thick, sharp odor of unwashed bodies and old food engulfed her. Her fragile control slipped a notch. This . . . this pigsty was the post she had intended to transform into a fashionable store.

  "Mr. MacKenna?" she said stiffly, moving toward the

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  I'm your new partner

  whooshed

  Spit!

  his she d Louis Post Dispatch

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  Darwin was right.

  our

  Chapter Two

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  Thick, angry silence encased them. Mr. MacKenna's breathing quickened, punching through the quiet like a fist, spilling across Devon's face in hot, harsh bursts.

  "Say something," she demanded. "An apology would not be out of order."

  Nothing.

  Exasperated, she broke eye contact. Staring at the row of small, nut-colored buttons that lined his tan flannel shirt, she crossed her arms. Beneath the sodden, wrinkled folds of her skirt, her foot picked up a staccato beat.

  Darn him, she thought angrily, he wasn't going to be any help at all. Unless, of course, she wanted someone to load her trunks on a dogsled and hand her the reins.

  As usual, it was up to her to solve things.

  She set her mind to work. Her thoughts sped up one logical path and down another, seeking, probing, searching for a compromise, but every avenue of thought led to the same revolting but inescapable conclusion: They were stuck with each other. They'd both made a bad bargain, and now there was nothing left for them but to make the best of a horrid situation.

  "There's no way in hell you're going to be my partner."

  She rolled her eyes. "I am your partner."

  "Holy shee-it!" boomed from the rear of the tent.

  Devon spun around, her eyes drawn to the shadows huddled just outside the opening. Eavesdroppers! Snorting her

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  disapproval, she strode over to the opening and flung the flaps back. Three men stared back at her.

  "Don't you gentlemen know how rude it is to listen in on other people's conversations? Where are your manners?"

  One of the men-a boy, really-yanked off his hat and crushed it to his gaunt chest. The battered felt quivered in his shaking fingers. "I-I got manners, ma'am," he stammered, staring at his own hands. "I-I'm Cornstalk, ma'am. They call me that 'cause o' my yeller hair and my skinny . . .uh. . ."

  Warmth flared in Devon's heart. It had been years since any man, boy or no, had been nervous in her presence. "Your height?" she offered.

  He lifted his head just far enough to look at her. At her soft smile, he grinned. "Yeah. 'Cause o' my height."

  A big, one-armed black man pushed past Cornstalk. He

  smiled at her, a Santa-like grin that made his bright eyes

  disappear into folds of flesh. "I'm Bear," he said, tugging

  at the gray-white tufts of hair that spotted his cheeks and jaw.

  So called for the fight I lost."

  Her gaze flitted to his baggy sleeve. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. If you gotta be sorry for somebody, an' maybe you're that type o' gal, be sorry for the bear. That old coot's lying dead as Moses' toes, an' all for an arm he can't use."

  Devon couldn't help smiling. Young Cornstalk looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks, and Bear-well, a woman with a good needle and thread probably wouldn't be turned away. For the first time in months she actually felt . needed. A ray of hope crept into her soul. Maybe she could make a life here after all. "Cornstalk," she said with a smile, "would you do me a favor?"

  "Sure, ma'am."

  Could you run on down to the riverbank and collect my things? I'd appreciate it greatly."

  "You bet, ma'am."

  She laid a pale hand on his forearm. "You're a real gentleman, Cornstalk."

  "Gentleman. Shee-it," hissed the gnarled, bent old man standing beside Bear.

  Midas ..." Bear's voice was a rumble of warning.

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  just

  like

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  Devon ignored the ill-mannered outburst. "That should! be enough to get me back to Seattle. I have enough money) for the train trip cross-country."

  Cornstalk skidded into the tent. "All done, miss. Youj* things're in the log cabin Crazy Spike started to build afore he died o' bein' shot in the back. Anything else I can do for] you?"

  Stone Man pinned a cold stare on the kid. "You can ca: her across the Chilkoot on your back."

  Devon snorted derisively. "I'm not crossing the Chilkooi Trail, Mr. MacKenna, so you can just put that out of yoi mind. I'm returning the way I came. By water."

  "Oh, miss," Cornstalk said in a rush, "there ain't no gettin' out of here this year, leastways not by water. The only way out of here this late in the year is to walk."

  "Get out," Stone Man roared. Cornstalk jumped like a scared rabbit and hightailed it out of the tent. "Is he telling the truth?" Devon whispered. "There's a way out, but not by water." "Oh, my God," she groaned. "I'm stuck
. Really stuck.' "No, you're not. You're leaving here if I have to fling yoi like a rock."

  Her head snapped up. "Enough is enough, Mr. M Kenna. This is all your fault. You placed the advertisemen and you accepted my application. You're the one who p tended to have a store and not some..." She glanced aroun in disgust. "Hovel with shelves. So don't you dare threatej me."

  "No goddamn woman was supposed to answer. Yoi tricked me."

  "Tricked you, Mr. MacKenna? Did you anywhere in ths advertisement specify that your partner had to be a man?" "Lady, I've had just about enough of you." "Oh, no, you haven't, Mr. MacKenna, not by a long shot If you didn't want a woman, you should've said so. But you didn't, and so here I am. Broke, stuck in the middle of godforsaken frozen moose pasture with a store that looks like it burned to the ground yesterday and a partner who look like he crawled from the rubble this morning." Her eye

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  narrowed with resolve. "Well, Mr. MacKenna, you wanted a partner, and you've got one."

  "I didn't want you."

  She smiled, a ghost of a grin that curved her lips without touching her eyes. "You aren't exactly hero material yourself, Mr. MacKenna. But what we wanted doesn't matter a bit. What matters is what we got, and what we've got is each other. I'm here for the winter."

  "Over my dead body."

  The smile slipped up to her eyes. "That would be preferable, I'll admit, but as it's unlikely, let's not waste time hoping. Now," she said, clapping her hands, "the advertisement said the partnership included room and board. Could you please show me to my room?"

  The shadows exploded with laughter.

  "W-What's so funny about that?" She glanced nervously at the men huddled behind the canvas wall. "The advertisement did say room and board, didn't it?"