Harper's Bride (16 page)

He took a sip of the lukewarm coffee and
looked around the walls of the store. His simple life in Dawson
sure had become complicated. He'd drifted North, hoping to leave
behind all of his memories of Elizabeth and his falling out with
the old man. He'd been able to escape them for a while. In fact,
he'd pushed everything and everyone far, far away from him. A loner
by nature, he hadn't missed the company at first. But the Yukon
winters were longer and harder than any he'd ever known, and one
dark afternoon he'd waded through the snow to the saloon next door.
There he'd traded drinks and conversation with a laughably
out-of-place, dandified newcomer from Louisiana named Raford
Dubois. Rafe's frail appearance had proved to be deceiving,
however. What he lacked in physical strength his wit made up for.
He could skewer a man with words as neatly as a fencing master
wielded a rapier. He and Dylan had had nothing in common, but Rafe
had turned out to be a loyal friend. Dylan had enjoyed watching
Rafe lampoon the occasional sourdough with his razor-sharp
intelligence. And tipping a few with Rafe had not distracted Dylan
from his single-minded goal.

Melissa was a different story.

When he came upstairs in the evenings for
dinner and saw her standing at the stove, sometimes he wanted to
turn around and run back down the steps. He found it so easy to
take Rafe's matchmaking to heart. Carrying the scene a little
further, he could envision a future with Melissa standing at the
stove in another kitchen, the one he would build for her in Oregon
with the money he'd earned. She would look beautiful—rested and
happy, so different from the haggard, worn-out drab he'd met at the
end of June. When she looked up at him, her gray eyes would hold a
look of welcome, and the promise of something more intimate to
follow. And there would be Jenny, a giggling toddler by then, and
as blond as her mother, dragging around the wooden pull toy that he
had whittled for her. He would never remember that he had not
fathered her; in his mind she would be his and Melissa's. During
the long winter nights in Oregon, he and Melissa would burrow deep
into the warm bedding and explore each other's bodies with wonder,
reverence, and passion. She and Jenny would be his family, one that
he had made, one that loved him as his other had not.

"Damn it," he swore aloud, and pushed away
the tray, disgusted with himself. He was doing it again, painting
that rosy, unrealistic picture in his head of an ideal life. Hadn't
Melissa made it plain enough that the last thing she wanted now was
a man? Who could blame her after what she'd been through? And what
did he want with another woman? Elizabeth's greedy fickleness had
cured him of the notion of settling down.

All Dylan wanted was the chance to live a
simple life, governed by his own rules and his own code, which were
so different from Griffin Harper's. During their last
confrontation, Dylan's enraged father had divulged something so
staggering that upon hearing it, Dylan had felt as if he'd been
punched in the stomach. Those words had been the last the old man
spoke to him. Dylan had turned on his heel, packed up, and left
behind a house furnished with stolen keepsakes and treasures,
plunder taken from others less fortunate in loan foreclosures.
Robber barons—that's what men like his father were called.

He shook his head and wondered why he hadn't
realized the truth before that moment. His brother, Scott, was a
willing student of their father's cutthroat business practices, but
Dylan had always felt like a stranger, the outsider in the family.
The only thing he had in common with them was his last name.

Dylan remained sitting at the counter with
the plate of cold stew and his gloomy thoughts until the late July
sky began to grow dusky. He knew he couldn't put off going upstairs
any longer—it was almost ten o'clock. Sighing, he stood and grabbed
his hat. Then he went to the corner of the store and picked up the
bulky, tarp-draped shipment from the
Athenian
.

*~*~*

With Jenny asleep in her arms, Melissa pulled
the rocker closer to the window and sat for a moment to look out on
the rooftops of Dawson. The sun skimmed the far edge of the earth
and touched the taller buildings with gold. Now that summer had
ripened, for a few hours the sun would actually dip below the
horizon and let the town sleep in full darkness.

Watching the street, she decided that the
milling throng of people on Front had diminished a bit over the
last few weeks. Certainly, the circus atmosphere was still
there—pianos jangled until morning, and men who'd worked hard in
the gold fields all day came into town at night, eager to spend
what they'd earned on a saloon girl or the turn of a card. The
Novelty Theater featured a hootchie-kootchie girl named Freda
Maloof, whose daring act consisted of a scarf dance, and the Oatley
Sisters' Concern Hall packed customers in six nights a week. But
every steamship that left Dawson carried away stampeders who had
managed to scrape together the fare to return home.

As Melissa sat and rocked, the gray and
lavender shadows of the Arctic evening grew longer, and still Dylan
didn't return. Behind her on the table, the place she had set for
him waited, although she was certain the chicken she'd roasted had
turned cold and dry over the past three hours. Too tired and
anxious to eat anything herself, the meal would simply go to waste
if he didn't return soon.

Miserable, Melissa gripped the arm of the
rocker. She knew it was her fault that Dylan hadn't come home. If
she hadn't asked about Elizabeth Harper, he wouldn't have gotten
angry enough to stay away. That had to be the reason he wasn't here
now.

What a stupid, nosy question she'd asked him,
she thought. It was so unlike her to meddle in other people's
business, but her curiosity had gotten the better of her. Well, she
supposed it had been more than curiosity—a tiny demon of jealousy
had prodded her. And a dreadful realization it was, that she would
be jealous of a woman about whom she knew nothing. But Melissa had
heard the ghost of an unmistakable yearning in his voice when he
spoke of his brother's wife, and for an instant she'd wished that
she was the one who held that place in his heart. That he was the
father of the sleeping child she held against her breast.

Finally, after the evening stars had begun to
emerge, Melissa heard Dylan's boots on the stairs. She sat up
straight in the rocker and listened intently. His footfalls were
slower than usual, as if he were too tired or—please, no—too drunk
to take the steps two at a time, as he often did. Outside on the
landing, she heard a couple of loud thumps, like he'd sat down
heavily, or staggered around and bumped into the wall. On the other
side of the door he fumbled with the latch as though he couldn't
remember how it worked—she knew that sound, she'd heard it often
enough in her life. Oh, God, he must be drunk.

With a shaking hand, she lit a match and held
it to the wick in the oil lamp on the table next to her. Although
Dawson had been wired for electricity, neither this room nor the
store downstairs was equipped for the new technology. The lamplight
filled the room with harsh brightness; if trouble was approaching,
she wanted to see it coming.

Despite the progress she'd made, her old
fears and foreboding came rushing back over her like floodwaters
after a storm. The last few weeks that she'd lived in relative
peace hadn't been enough to make her forget a lifetime of hiding
from an angry, drunken father, or her marriage to Coy, or
completely convince her that Dylan would never hurt her, drunk or
sober. Her palms damp with foreboding, she rose from the rocker and
put Jenny down in her bed.

No matter how drunk he might be, Dylan
wouldn't hurt Jenny, she told herself; he liked Jenny. Her feverish
thoughts fluttered around in her mind like trapped birds. Watching
the door swing open, she took a deep breath, prepared for the
worst.

Then she saw the reason for Dylan's dragging
footsteps and the thumping noises she'd heard on the landing. On
his shoulder he carried a big canvas-draped object. She stood
rooted to the floor, staring as he lowered his burden to the
planking.

Finally, he straightened and glanced at the
waiting place setting on the table. "Um, sorry I missed dinner. I
just . . . well, I can't explain—" He broke off and gestured at the
canvas. "Anyway, I thought you might like this."

Melissa took one step closer. He didn't seem
angry any longer, and he certainly wasn't drunk. In fact, he
appeared almost bashful. "What is it?"

Jenny, awake now and watching the proceedings
with great interest, followed Dylan's movements. It seemed to
Melissa that the little girl fixed her blue eyes on Dylan's tall
form whenever he was near. She wasn't the only one who did.

"I didn't think it was right that the baby
should have to sleep in that damned box." He pulled off the tarp to
reveal an expensive-looking cradle.

"Oh!" Melissa exclaimed and clasped her hands
over her chest. She'd been prepared for the worst, but nothing in
her experience had taught her to prepare for the best. "It's
beautiful!" She crossed the floor in two steps and crouched beside
the bed, extending a hand to caress the pale oak rails. She'd never
seen a baby bed quite like it. Instead of having a base that rocked
like her chair, this cradle hung suspended between two sturdy,
fixed bases, allowing it to swing between them. Inside laid a
snow-white feather tick and a lovely pale pink muslin quilt.

Melissa's throat closed, and sudden tears
stung her eyes. Her poor little Jenny, her baby, now had a proper
bed to sleep in. She'd been born in a tent in the dead of a howling
Canadian winter to a frightened, exhausted mother and a lazy,
bullying father. There had been no gifts for Melissa's child to
welcome her to the world, no loving family of grandparents and
aunts and uncles who vied to hold her, nurture her, guide her.
Rather than the safe, downy nest a mother wanted for her child,
Jenny's existence had been a precarious one.

Until Dylan Harper had come along.

"Do you think she'll like it?" He sounded
uncertain—it was the first time she'd heard a note of hesitancy in
his voice, and it surprised her. Everything about him bespoke a man
who always knew exactly what to do.

"Oh, yes, I know she will! She . . . I
haven't been able to buy much for her." In truth, Melissa had
longed to part with some gold to buy her baby a few things, but
given Coy's outstanding debt to Dylan, she hadn't felt free to
spend anything she earned, not even for necessities.

Melissa looked up at Dylan now, and try
though she would, she couldn't ignore his rugged appeal. He seemed
as tall as a totem pole, and his sun-streaked hair gleamed in the
lamplight. "Where in Dawson did you find something so nice?"

Resting a hand on one end of the cradle, he
said, "I didn't buy it here. I asked the captain of the
Athenian
to get it for me when he made his last run to
Seattle. That's why I went down to the riverfront this afternoon—to
pick this up."

Melissa stood and gazed into his eyes.
"Dylan, thank you," she whispered, clearing her tight throat.
Unable to express the jumble of emotions she felt—relief, a
mother's gratitude, guilt over her assumption that he was drunk,
and one or two more she was afraid to examine too closely—she could
say nothing more.

"I hope maybe this will help make up for the
lousy day you had," he murmured.

"I've had days that were much worse," she
answered, hearing the subtle change in the tone of his voice. It
was warm, personal . . . intimate.

Slowly, he took her hands in his own. Lifting
them to his chest, he forced her to move closer and stand with her
hands trapped between their bodies.

With his touch the atmosphere around them
became charged. In that instant the world seemed to contain only
the two of them. Even Jenny, for a single moment, faded to the
background, and Melissa's vision was filled with this green-eyed,
sun-blond man. Suddenly, she felt hypnotized. She knew she ought to
pull her hand away, but she had no desire to do so. Dylan's gaze
skittered lightly over her face, connecting with her eyes, glancing
over her mouth, her brow, her throat, searching, searching. She
watched, unmoving, as he angled his head and lowered his face to
hers, his lips parted and slightly moist.

She did nothing but breathe in the scent of
him and accept his kiss. It wasn't a kiss exactly—his lips just
brushed over hers, lightly, teasingly. The sensation was like none
she'd ever known—sweet, tender, exciting. Goose bumps raced over
her scalp and down her back. She took a deep breath and a tiny moan
formed in her throat.

The sound jarred Dylan, and abruptly he broke
off the kiss with a suddenness that was almost violent. He felt
Melissa flinch. What the hell was wrong with him? This was exactly
what he'd promised her would not happen that afternoon outside the
Yukon Girl Saloon.

But his body had made no such agreement. He
felt his blood coursing through him, pounding to his groin where
fierce arousal was in the making. His hair-trigger response was
like that of a green kid instead of a grown man. What would he have
done next? Given into his urge to wrap his arms around her and bury
his face against her neck? And after that? He looked down into
Melissa's startled face and released her hands.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, but I didn't mi—that is, well, it's all
right."

"No, damn it, it isn't all right. And it
won't happen again. I promised I wouldn't take advantage of"—he
gestured around the room impatiently—"of this. Of you being
here."

Looking stricken, her face flamed with color.
Obviously, he'd embarrassed her, and she was doing her best to
cover it. Hadn't she suffered enough humiliation today? In her
whole life? Whatever she might think of him, he wasn't about to
have her think he was trying to seduce her by buying presents for
her child.