Harper's Bride (17 page)

Yanking off his hat, he tossed it on the bed.
It landed on the rice sack still firmly situated in the middle of
the mattress. Shit. If that wasn't enough to remind him of their
situation, maybe a horse kicking him in the head would do the
trick. Not for the first time since Melissa had come to stay, he
felt the confinement of this small room. He tried to tell himself
it was because he didn't like sharing his privacy, but more often
he realized the small quarters were making it harder to keep his
word to her.

"Shall we see how Jenny likes her new bed?"
Melissa proposed as she fiddled with her cuffs.

Grateful for the change of subject and
activity, he jumped to agree. "Good idea." Dylan moved the cradle
to the end of his bed, and Melissa retrieved Jenny from that damned
crate that he so disliked.

But after she laid the baby down on the new
tick, the tension between them melted as they stood over the cradle
and watched Jenny together, their arms brushing. He gave the bed a
little push to start it rocking. The little girl smiled up at them,
and Dylan felt a rush of tenderness greater than he'd ever
known.

Jenny was not his child, and Melissa was not
his wife. They would never be his family.

But right now he wished for all the world
that he knew how to change that.

*~*~*

That night Melissa fell into bed, exhausted
from the long, stressful day. But as she lay curled up against the
sack of rice, waiting for sleep, she felt both contented and
restless at the same time.

From the beginning Dylan had made it plain
that he had his own plans, and that he'd taken in Jenny and her as
a simple act of temporary charity. And she had feared him as much
as she had feared any man she ever knew; he could be violent and
frightening and harsh.

But not toward her. Time and again, he'd gone
out of his way to do good things for her. When she thought of
them—the clothes he'd bought, the rocking chair, the sign for her
laundry, and now the cradle—why, no one had ever given her so much.
Or been as thoughtful.

Then tonight when he'd kissed her, she'd felt
a wild quickening, an urge to respond. Rather than just enduring
his caress, she'd wanted to take her hands out of his so that she
could stroke his long hair and feel the muscles under his shirt.
But he'd pulled back before she wanted him to. Even now she felt
tempted to peek over the sack between them just for the pleasure of
looking at him in the low light. In the relative quiet of this
room, she listened to his breathing—he was so close, and she just
knew he lay there in only his drawers with the sheet pulled up to
his hips. She'd seen him thus many other times.

Instead, she rolled over and punched her
pillow with a long sigh.

Fire, oh, she was playing with fire. For one
thing, she didn't know for certain that Dylan was not somehow
entangled with a woman back home. Indeed, she didn't know much
about him at all, except that he was in exile from his family, just
as she was. And like it or not, she was still Coy's wife. But even
if she were not, and while Dylan might be as free as a bird, she
knew that he valued his independence as much as his integrity.

With this jumble of thoughts whirling in her
head and plaguing her heart, she finally drifted off.

Sometime later in the night, Jenny's cries
pierced the layers of Melissa's exhausted sleep. She moved leaden
limbs to tend her daughter, but when she hoisted herself to her
elbows, she saw Dylan bending over the baby's cradle and carefully
lifting her to his shoulder.

"Hold on there, little Jenny," he whispered.
"We'll let your mama sleep, okay? She had one hell of a day." The
baby quieted immediately, and Melissa watched as he carried her to
the rocking chair, where it sat in a shaft of moonlight. He wore
only his drawers, and his hair brushed his bare shoulders. The
noise in the street faded away, and Dylan rocked her child in his
arms. They sat limned in silver. His hair looked almost white, and
sharp shadows fell across his face as he smiled down at the baby
and pressed a kiss to her forehead. When he spoke again, his
whisper was as soft and light as a dandelion puff, as if he told a
secret that only Jenny was meant to hear. "I love you,
sweetheart."

Melissa kept her silence and lay back against
her pillow, her throat tight with emotion. She thanked God that
Dylan Harper had found such tenderness and affection for her
baby.

Then she prayed that he might learn to feel
it for her, too.

Two days later, Melissa sat down on a soap
crate next to her washtubs and stared at the wet street, her elbows
on her knees and her chin in her hands. A soaking drizzle had
fallen from the dull gray sky since morning, and it showed no signs
of clearing. Pungent smoke from cook fires all over town hung in
the air, held in place by the heavy clouds overhead.

Fortunately, they'd had few rainy days; damp
weather made her hard job even more difficult. Although she and her
clotheslines were under the cover of a canvas awning Dylan had
thoughtfully erected, the moisture-laden air kept the wet clothes
from drying. Even her skirt was clammy nearly to her knees. Thank
heavens Dylan had offered to let Jenny sleep in the store.

As she sat, she did some mental calculations
and realized that with the bonus Big Alex had given her, she now
had almost one thousand dollars in gold.

One thousand dollars! she marveled, looking
out on the rainy day. In Portland she and Jenny could live for two
years or more with that much money.

But her first obligation was to pay back
Dylan. Earning this gold hasn't been easy, but it had been quick,
and she would be able to make more as long as there were dirty
clothes in Dawson.

She had some competition now, but she still
had more work than she had time for. She had one advantage,
however, that the competition did not—a clientele who loved to hear
her sing. Melissa had no business experience, but she was smart
enough to realize that her singing was an asset that cost her
nothing. She didn't go so far as to give performances, but her
habit of entertaining Jenny had brought her customers from all over
the region. Lottie Oatley, who sang for the miners with her sister,
Polly, had even visited her one day and offered her a job in their
concert hall.

But Melissa was satisfied to continue with
her laundry business. Now if only her heart could find the same
contentment. She resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder
toward Dylan's side window, as she'd done so many times in the last
few days. She never found him there—that was good. Wasn't it?

Since he'd bought her the cradle for Jenny,
Dylan had been in her thoughts during almost every waking moment
that didn't require her undivided attention. Her thoughts about him
concerned more than just how nice he'd been to her, too. She'd
actually found herself beginning to regret the rice sack that
served as a barrier between them in his bed. Were all men careless
and rough during intimacy? she wondered. Or would it be different
with Dylan? Just considering the idea made her cheeks flame
hotly.

Melissa's thoughts were interrupted when she
heard the splash of approaching boots. She looked up to see the
familiar red wool coat of Sergeant Foster Hagen of the North West
Mounted Police. He was tall and ramrod straight, with riveting
silver eyes and a carefully waxed handlebar mustache. He wore his
Mountie hat squarely over his brow, completing his no-nonsense
appearance. Though the rain had picked up its pace and soaked his
uniform, he gave no indication of discomfort, accustomed as he was
to all kinds of weather, fair or foul.

And while his bearing made him noticeable,
she wasn't likely to forget him in any case. He had been the
arresting officer who sent Coy to the government woodpile.

He glanced up at her sign on the side of the
building, and then at her again. "You are Mrs. Coy Logan, are you
not?"

She rose from her seat. God, what had Coy
done now? she wondered anxiously. "Yes, I am, but I don't know
where my husband is, Sergeant. Except for a short . . . visit two
days ago, I haven't seen him in weeks."

"Oh, I know where he is, ma'am. Please"—he
gestured at her soap crate—"won't you be seated again?"

Melissa's hands turned ice cold, and she
closed them into fists at her sides. He must have done something
really bad this time—dear God, maybe he'd been given a blue ticket,
banishment from the Territory. She didn't care if that was the
case, but as his wife, perhaps the authorities could force her and
Jenny to leave as well. "I would rather stand, Sergeant, if you
don't mind."

He nodded stiffly, and for a moment his
proper military demeanor shifted uncertainly. He looked up at the
sign again, and then at her. "Well, Mrs. Lo . . . ma'am, it is my
regrettable duty to inform you—"

Melissa tightened her fists.

"—that your husband, Coy Logan, died early
this morning at St. Mary's Hospital. Pneumonia, I believe Father
William said it was."

The air whooshed out of her lungs, and she
stared at the sergeant. "He—he's dead? Coy is dead?"

He inclined his head, and a trickle of rain
ran from the wide brim of his hat. "Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid so. You
say you haven't seen your husband lately?"

Melissa looked, down at the wooden pallet
under her feet. She swallowed and swallowed, but her throat was
suddenly as dry as cotton. "Except for a minute two days ago, I-I
hadn't seen him in weeks. Coy thought that he could do better in
Dawson without the burden of a wife and child. So he left me here."
She didn't lie, but despite her shock, she was careful not to
mention the details of her illegal divorce.

The unflappable Mountie looked distinctly
uncomfortable. He slapped his gloves against the palm of his hand
and twiddled with his impeccable mustache. "Yes, well, we found him
passed out behind one of the saloons last night. Apparently he
regained consciousness long enough to tell one of the sisters where
you could be found."

She raised her eyes again. "Did he . . . do
you know if he left any message for me? Or for his daughter?"

Now Sergeant Hagen shifted from one foot to
the other, while a puddle formed around his boots. "Nothing I would
repe— No, I don't believe he did, Mrs. Logan. I'm truly sorry. The
sisters said he had no money or personal effects."

"Do you know, that is, should I arrange for a
funeral?"

"No, that won't be necessary. There was some
confusion and, well, he was already buried in our potter's field
before I had a chance to find you."

"Potter's field—does that mean his grave
isn't marked?"

"Yes, it does." He tipped his wet hat
deferentially and added, "My sincere condolences, ma'am." Then he
walked back through the mud to Front Street.

Coy was dead.

She was a widow.

Just like that. Melissa sat down hard on the
soap crate. The man who had married her and taken her from her
unhappy home in Portland, who had fathered her baby and brought her
to this wilderness outpost was gone.

He'd looked dissipated a couple of days ago,
but her horror upon seeing him again had been so great that she
hadn't realized he was ill. She folded her hands tightly in her
lap. Maybe that had been why he'd come around that day. He must
have known he was sick, and he'd expected her to take care of
him.

Of all the things she had thought might
happen to him, she'd never imagined that he'd pass from this earth
as a charity patient to be buried in a pauper's unmarked grave. Try
though she might, Melissa couldn't rouse any grief, or any other
emotion but one. And she struggled to push it to the back of her
mind because it was heartless and unworthy.

Feeling suddenly very cold, she stood again
and went to fetch the child she had conceived with the late Coy
Logan.

*~*~*

When Melissa walked into the store, one look
at her chalky face told Dylan that something was wrong. Rafe, who
sat pitching cards at a chamber pot again, obviously noticed it
too—the ten of clubs took a wild turn and fell far short of its
intended target.

"Melissa," Dylan said, "are you all
right?"

She moved like a sleepwalker across the floor
to Jenny's crate, which they'd brought downstairs to use in the
store. Picking up the baby, she touched her cheek to the little
girl's silky head.

Dylan stepped out from behind the counter.
"Melissa," he repeated, worried. He reached out and grasped her
arm. Standing this close to her, he could smell the rain in her
hair. "Did Logan come back?"

She shook her head. "No. He won't bother us
anymore." Her gray eyes were as blank as a wall. "Coy is dead."

For one wild moment, while he looked at her
paper-white face and fragments of thought tumbled around in his
head, he wondered if she had killed Logan. He tightened his grip on
her slim arm. "Dead?"

"Sergeant Hagen said it was pneumonia." She
went on to explain the Mountie's news in a dull monotone.

Rafe used his cane to push himself from the
chair. With decorous gravity he led Melissa back to the now vacant
seat. “Please sit down, dear madam. This is quite a shock, I'm
sure.” He offered to bring her a glass of water and a headache
powder, which she declined. Then he collected his deck of cards
from the enamel pot, stepped away from her, and withdrew his gold
pocket watch. "I am due at a card game at the Pioneer Saloon," he
said to Dylan in a low, winded voice. "I hope I have the kind of
luck that has just been left on your doorstep."

"What are you talking about?" Dylan murmured
back.

Rafe gave him his jack-o'-lantern grin. "I
imagine it will dawn on you later." Patting Melissa's arm on the
way out, he left the store.

Dylan returned his attention to her. "Coffee?
It's been sitting on the stove since the morning."