My Darling Melissa (42 page)

A silence fell when she entered, and then someone dared to whistle. Melissa couldn’t discern who the culprit was and didn’t care. She had one priority, and that was to find Quinn.

She scanned the shadowy interior of the cook house, the smoke from Wong’s stove stinging her eyes, but saw no sign of her mate. After drawing a deep breath she approached a large man with a bushy red and yellow beard and a toothless grin.

“Pardon me, sir,” she said formally, “but I’m looking for Mr. Rafferty. Have you seen him, please?”

The lumberjack’s grin broadened, and Melissa was beginning to suspect that he was the scalliwag who had whistled at her minutes before. “I reckon you’ve probably seen a lot more of the boss than I have, ma’am,” he replied.

The men howled with laughter at this, and Melissa charitably supposed that they had little merriment in their dreary lives and must therefore seek amusement where they could. “Thank you,” she told him, with her chin high. She was just about to turn and walk out when Quinn came in.

The look in his eyes fairly pinioned her to the floor. She had obviously committed a serious breach of etiquette by entering the cook shack when the men were there, but she was in no mood to apologize. After all, her motives had been sterling.

His jawline clamped down tight, Quinn gestured with one hand toward the door. Breaking her paralysis took deliberation on Melissa’s part, but she managed to precede him out into the dazzling new day with dignity.

“I was only looking for you!” she burst out in a defensive whisper before he could begin the inevitable lecture.

Quinn curved one arm around her waist and propelled
her toward a team and wagon waiting near the burned-out hulk of the railroad car. “Well, you found me, Calico,” he said flatly.

Melissa dug in her heels. She knew he meant to take her down the mountain, and she was eager to go, but she wasn’t leaving without her notes, and they were still in the cabin. “I’ve got to get my article,” she protested.

Quinn pulled folded sheets of notebook paper from the pocket of his shirt.

“Here you are, Nellie Bly,” he said dryly. With that he lifted Melissa into the wagon seat and then climbed up beside her to take the reins. She noticed a shotgun lying on the floorboard within easy reach, and a chill shivered up and down her spine at the incomprehensible idea that someone actually wanted to take her life, and Quinn’s.

They’d traveled some distance down the harrowingly narrow mountain road before she ventured to present the question that had been chewing at her on one level or another since the night before. “What’s your terrible secret, Mr. Rafferty?”

He looked at her out of the corner of one eye. Although he’d washed up that morning, as Melissa had, he was still essentially dirty, and his clothes were the same ones he’d been wearing when the car exploded. “Before I answer that I want to tell you something else, Melissa. What happened last night put a lot of things into perspective for me. You’re the most important person in my life, and I want you to remember that.”

Melissa bit her lower lip. Nearly losing Quinn had changed some of her attitudes, too, but she wasn’t ready to define those new feelings yet, so she kept her peace.

Quinn drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “Mary isn’t my sister,” he said, keeping his eyes on the twisting, rutted trail before them. “She’s my daughter.”

After what she’d learned about her father and the life-and-death trauma of the explosion, Melissa was hardly moved by this revelation. In fact, she realized that she’d known the truth all along in some corner of her heart. She
put her hand out slowly and rested it on Quinn’s leg. “And Gillian is her mother,” she guessed softly.

Quinn nodded. “You’re not angry that I didn’t tell you?”

“I’m not sure you’ve ever had a chance to. Ever since we met, things have been happening so fast that a body can hardly catch his breath.”

He bent to kiss her temple. “Thanks, Calico.”

Melissa’s brow furrowed in a concerned frown. “Have you told Mary?”

Quinn shook his head. “Not in so many words. Sometimes I think she already knows.”

After that they fell into a reflective silence. Quinn concentrated on the road and his own thoughts, and Melissa wrote and rewrote her newspaper article in her mind. At the same time, on another level of her being, she worked at accepting the painful knowledge that someone else had borne Quinn a child.

Whenever Melissa’s mind turned to thoughts of Gillian and Quinn making love, she renewed her efforts to concentrate solely on the article. By the time they’d reached Port Riley, in midafternoon, she could have recited the piece word for word. It was only a matter of writing it all down.

She waited until Quinn was in the bathtub, and thus relatively helpless, to announce that she was going to the newspaper office to talk with Mr. Bradberry.

Quinn was outraged, knowing he’d been outmaneuvered, but there wasn’t much he could do. He’d have to find fresh clothes and wrench them on before he could stop Melissa from leaving the house, and by that time she’d be halfway to her destination.

His outburst was still stinging her ears when she hurried into the shell of the Rip Snortin’ Saloon, where Mr. Brad-berry had set up his presses. At the sight of Melissa’s bright, excited eyes he knew she had a story and led her to a typewriting machine.

Melissa had learned to typewrite in college, although she was not skillful or fast. She pecked out the story of the explosion and fire as rapidly as she could, making a number
of mistakes, and ripped it from the machine to hand to her editor.

Mr. Bradberry nodded as he read and then informed her that the piece would appear on the front page of the first edition of the new Port Riley
Testament.

Melissa was delighted. “Does this mean I can be a reporter?” she asked, unable to contain her enthusiasm.

The elderly man cleared his throat. There was hubbub all around as clerks and printers prepared for the first run of news, and Melissa had to strain to hear his words. “I understand that you may be—er—in the family way, Miss Corbin,” he said, his cheeks turning bright red. The contrast with his white hair and mustache was striking.

Melissa lowered her eyes. It was no marvel to her that something so private was so generally known. She’d grown up in a town only slightly larger than Port Riley, and she understood that gossip got around faster than a head cold. “I’m a good writer, Mr. Bradberry. If you’ll only give me a chance, you’ll see.”

“I’ll be glad to, young woman,” he replied, “but it’s fiction I want from you. Long stories that I can publish in serial form. That way, you don’t have to be running around town poking your nose into everybody’s business.”

“But that’s a reporter’s job!” Melissa argued. She was tired of always having her plans circumvented.

Mr. Bradberry was equally adamant. “We’ll discuss that after your child is born. In the meanwhile, it’s fiction I want.”

Melissa sighed. At least she hadn’t been told that she could never again write for the paper, and her piece on the fire
had
made the front page. “I’ll be at the hotel picnic on Saturday. Don’t you want my account of that?”

The old man’s fingers tapped rhythmically against his upper arm. “You are a stubborn little snippet, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Melissa beamed proudly.

Bradberry laughed at that. “It just so happens that a good reporter has to be stubborn. You bring me whatever pieces seem pertinent to you, miss. If I like them, I’ll print them.”

The deal seemed fair to Melissa, and she offered her hand to seal it. She was leaving the building, her mind racing over possible topics for articles, when she saw the man leaning against a hitching rail. His shape and something else about him were familiar, and it was obvious, even though he tried to be subtle, that he’d been waiting for her.

Melissa decided to be bold, since she was a real reporter now, and she walked right up to him and put out her hand. “Hello, Mr. Rafferty,” she said.

Eustice looked at her in surprise, unsettled at being recognized. He was an ugly man, but not because of his scraggly beard or hawk nose; it was the plain evil that emanated from him that made him unattractive. The only trace of Quinn that Melissa could see in that dissolute face was in the dark, brazen eyes, and she suppressed a shudder, at the same time keeping her smile fixed to her mouth.

He ignored her hand until she let it fall back to her side, then said, “Say hello to my boy for me.”

The words were innocuous, and yet they chilled her. She turned and walked away from Eustice Rafferty without looking back.

In her room at the hotel Melissa took a hot bath, shampooed her hair, and had an early supper in the kitchen. She was on her way back upstairs when she encountered Quinn in the lobby.

“Where have you been?” he demanded after he’d dragged her into the office he shared with Gillian.

“Right here,” Melissa responded cheerfully.

Quinn turned away and slammed his fist down on the desktop in frustration. He immediately gasped in pain, and Melissa smiled, thinking he’d gotten what he deserved for losing his temper. “Damn it,” he barked out, “last night you were almost killed. I bring you back to Port Riley to protect you, and what the hell do you do? You disappear!”

“I had a story to turn in,” Melissa answered, widening her eyes innocently.

“’I had a story to turn in,’” mimicked Quinn, infuriated. “You could have damned well come back to the house when you were through!”

“Whyever would I do that?” Melissa asked guilelessly, gazing up at him. “I don’t live there.”

“And you do live here, I suppose?”

“I do indeed,” Melissa replied, savoring her moment of impending triumph. “You see, I own half interest in the place.”

The starch drained out of Quinn. He groped for the desk chair and collapsed into it. “Oh, no,” he groaned.

Melissa nodded. “Aren’t you going to welcome me to the business, partner?”

Quinn folded his arms on the desk and dropped his head onto them, still groaning. Melissa was beginning to think his appendix had ruptured when he finally rallied and sat up straight again.

“You don’t know a damned thing about running a hotel,” he pointed out reasonably.

“Since when has that ever stopped me?” she countered.

Quinn had no answer for that. “Melissa, I forbid you to do this. You are my—”

“Your what?” Melissa interrupted. “I’m not your wife, so what am I, Quinn?”

He rose slowly, ominously, to his feet, glowering at her, bending forward. “You would be my wife if you’d stop this foolishness long enough to let me drag you in front of a preacher,” he said in a voice that was all the more unnerving for its softness.

Melissa retreated a step. “Your utter lack of romantic refinement never ceases to amaze me, Mr. Rafferty,” she said coldly, reaching behind her for the doorknob. “If you want me for a wife, you’ll damned well have to court me.”

“Court you, hell,” Quinn hissed. “In another five seconds I’m going to carry you out to that lobby and throw you into the fountain!”

Melissa patted her heart as though to still its hammering beat. “My hero!” she sighed. While Quinn was standing there looking volcanic she whirled, wrenched open the door, and made a dash for it.

She was in her room, gasping for breath with the door
locked behind her, when she realized that Quinn hadn’t pursued her. She was both relieved and disappointed as she settled herself at the small desk she’d had brought in and began rewriting the pages of her novel that had gone up in the explosion of the railroad car.

That night she dreamed of fire and fear, and at first she thought, in that detached way of dreamers, that she was reliving the near-disaster that had taken place on the mountain. Instead, she soon learned, she was in hell, having been consigned there for writing trashy novels and sharing Quinn’s bed without benefit of clergy.

When she was brought before the devil, kicking and fighting every inch of the way, she was not surprised to find herself looking into the face of Eustice Rafferty.

The final preparations for the picnic had been going on since dawn, and Melissa was in her element, bossing everyone from the chef to the lowliest chambermaid. Special poles had been set up, linked by thin wire, and she was making sure that the Chinese lanterns and paper streamers were hung properly. Just as she turned, satisfied, to go inside and see that André had chosen the best caviar, Quinn opened the French doors and stepped out of the dining room.

Melissa hadn’t seen him at all the day before, and she felt as though he’d just returned from a long absence. Hiding her eagerness, she strolled toward him. “Good morning, Mr. Rafferty,” she said. “It’s good to see that you’re taking an interest in the festivities.”

“It ought to be almost as much fun as a hanging,” he observed.

Melissa gave him a winning smile. “That would depend, of course, on who was being hanged,” she said.

He glared at her. “Enough is enough, Melissa. We’re going to Port Hastings today to get your brother to marry us.”

Melissa shook her head. “No poetry, no daisies.” She sighed, thinking of her conversation with Keith a couple of days before.

“What?” Quinn demanded, glaring at her.

“Never mind,” Melissa replied airily, starting around him.

He stopped her, as she had known he would, but before either of them could speak the unmistakable noise of an automobile engine sounded, along with an insistent horn. Both Quinn and Melissa went to investigate.

Pure joy bubbled up inside Melissa when she realized that the motorists approaching the hotel at breakneck speed were Fancy and Banner.

They came to a flourishing stop just short of a forsythia bush beside the front walk and were engaged in a lively conversation, made up mostly of hand gestures, when Quinn and Melissa approached.

The two women exchanged places so that Fancy was at the wheel, and the vehicle sputtered and popped as it shot into reverse and zoomed backward.

Quinn squeezed his eyes shut and Melissa winced as the rear bumper came perilously close to a brass hitching post, but Fancy stopped the motorcar in the nick of time.