She looked up at him, surprised. "Oh?"
He wished like hell he had a beard to tug on right about now or to hide the heat he felt creeping along his jawline. Now was the time to tell her the truth. To make the kind of confession he hadn't made since he was seventeen years old; a confession that he cared.
"I shaved and all because I thought-after Midas-you might need some cheering up. He was wrong to yell at you like that, and . . . well, I know how much you care about shit like that, and I. . ."
"Yes?" she prodded.
"I didn't want you to feel bad."
Tears lurched into Devon's throat. She swallowed the lump, trying to dislodge it. He'd done it for her. For her. She felt special for
the first time in her life.
She noticed the blush that stained his cheeks, and an almost aching tenderness unfolded inside her. He was so big, so rough around the edges; but inside, where it counted, he was as frightened and vulnerable as she.
"I don't know what to say. ..."
Stone Man jumped to his feet. "Thank God. Then let's do the dishes."
He grabbed the large metal washbasin off its hook behind the stove, filled it with preboiled river water from the cistern in the corner, and set it on the table. Adding the potful of water Devon had already heated, he dropped in a bar of lye
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soap and swirled his hands in the water until it was a murky gray.
Scooping up the dirty enamel dishes, he tossed them into the washbasin. Grayish water splattered over the basin's curled rim, forming big blotches of darkening black on the tablecloth. He shot Devon a sheepish glance. "Sorry."
She smiled. "What's a little water? You want to wash tonight?"
"I guess."
Grabbing her dishtowel, Devon sidled up to him. Her skirts swayed softly, buffeting her ankles. She stared down at the washbasin, fascinated by the quick, sure movements of his hands as he washed the dishes. A patch of milky soap clung to the tiny black hairs on the back of his hands then slid slowly back into the water.
"You mind taking this plate before my hands prune up?" His voice held a suppressed laughter she hadn't heard before.
She giggled. "Sorry."
They washed the dishes and talked of little things; of their day, of the Yukon, of the madness that made grown men muck for gold so far from their homes. Every so often the sound of their mingled laughter filled the tent. Devon couldn't remember when she'd felt so good. It was as though the simple declaration that he cared for her had freed Stone Man. His icy detachment and surly defenses were gone. He was simply her partner, her friend.
She dried the last cup reluctantly, afraid that the spell would be broken when they stepped apart. She needed a plan to keep them together, and she needed it quickly.
As he hefted the washbasin and carried it to the door, she brushed past him.
"Where you going?"
"The cache," she answered, disappearing into the small canvas-covered enclave.
She barreled back into the tent in less than a minute, a green tin box clutched to her breast.
"What are you up to?"
"You'll see." She hurriedly put water on to boil then set a big cast-iron pot on the stove's red-hot surface. She plopped a dollop of bacon grease into the pot.
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