Harper's Bride (25 page)

"Money? Didn't you say she came from a
wealthy family?"

"Some people never get enough. I began to
suspect that her father and mine had plotted the whole thing from
the beginning, but . . . "

Pushing himself from his chair, Dylan went to
the stove and shook the coffeepot. His movements were restless,
like those of an animal pacing in a cage. She knew the coffee in
the pot must be only lukewarm, but apparently he didn't care—he
filled his cup. But he left it on the stove and paced to the
window, where he stared at the blue-black night sky.

"But?" she prompted quietly.

Keeping his back to her, Dylan shoved his
hands in his back pockets and sighed. "Hell, I thought I was in
love with her, and I figured it didn't much matter how we'd come
together." Shaking his head, he added, "I was truly bewitched by
her."

With the benefit of hindsight, Dylan wondered
why he hadn't seen Elizabeth for what she was. Being in love with
her, that shouldn't have mattered. But, then, she had been very
clever in her duplicity, cloaking it with a sizzling, teasing
passion that had made him view her exactly as she must have wanted
him to: helpless but so charming, so beautiful, so ornamental. He
felt like a fool now.

He wasn't about to tell Melissa that the only
time Elizabeth had not found fault with him was when she writhed
beneath him in his bed over the stables. It had been a puzzle to
him then, and even now he wasn't sure he grasped how a woman with
such dainty, impeccable manners and dress could turn into a
demanding, insatiable hellcat who'd left him sweating and
exhausted, with his back on fire from the long red welts she'd
raised with her nails.

Dylan glanced over his shoulder at Melissa's
downturned head. Guileless, gentle, and modest, she was so unlike
Elizabeth. Faint smudges beneath her lower lashes told of her
fatigue, but she still looked beautiful to him.

"The harder I tried to please her, the more
demanding she became until she had me by the b—Well, let's say she
wanted her own way about everything. I knew something wasn't right
between us, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Finally, the night
I had that blow-up with the old man, I went to her place and asked
her to come away with me, right then, that moment. I was
practically on my knees, begging her to go, when her father came
into the parlor and told me that our engagement was off." He turned
to face Melissa. It hurt to talk about it, but somehow, it hurt
more to keep it to himself. "She had decided to marry my brother,
Scott, instead. Elizabeth confirmed it and said she'd been waiting
for the right moment to tell me."

"Oh, Dylan," Melissa moaned.

He walked back to the table and flopped into
the chair again. "What a perfect ending it was—to everything. I
guess they deserve each other. I hope I never care that much about
anyone again."

He could tell her that, but he knew it was
already too late.

Dylan cared about Melissa.

The day and night that followed were a blur
to Melissa. The passage of time was marked only by sunrise and
sunset, and by the soda baths she gave Jenny, who, though still
feverish, doggedly clung to life. Melissa refused to do more than
catnap while Jenny slept, and occasionally she woke up stiff,
feeling like an old woman from dozing in the chair.

Once someone came upstairs looking for the
singing washerwoman, but she called through the door that they had
a sick child in the house and she couldn't work. She had certainly
lost her desire to sing. There was nothing to sing about.

Keeping the trading store closed, Dylan
maintained the vigil with her, leaving only to attend Rafe's
funeral. She wished she could pay her respects as well, but it was
impossible. At any rate, there was nothing she could do for Rafe
now, but Jenny needed constant care.

Dylan returned from the ceremony hollow-eyed
and looking exhausted.

"Did Dawson do well by Rafe?" she asked,
looking up from Jenny's cradle.

He nodded and went to the coffeepot on the
stove. "The funeral drew quite a crowd, and a lot of eulogies were
spoken for him. I think more people knew and liked him than he
realized. Nearly everyone there pitched in some money to get him a
good headstone. McGinty, Big Alex, Bill Ladue, they all gave. Even
Belinda."

Thinking of what Dawson winters would be
like, her mind conjured a tiny casket covered with roses and a
string of mourners trailing behind it in a bitter wind, their black
figures set against a cold, gray sky. She gazed down at Jenny and
said, "What a desolate place to have to bury a person. It would be
so hard to leave someone alone in a grave with ice and snow and
darkness. I don't think I could . . . " She
looked up at Dylan. "I just don't know what I'd do
if . . . I couldn't stand it."

He walked over to her and handed her his cup
of coffee. "We're not going to worry about that now, okay? Jenny's
going to get well, and everything will be fine. As for Rafe—" He
sighed. "If it's possible, I think his spirit has gone to be with
someone who died before him, someone who meant a lot to him."

Late in the afternoon, Dr. Garvin came by as
he'd promised, and Melissa thought the young physician looked
surprised to see that Jenny had survived thus far.

"This is promising, very promising!" he
declared upon examining her. "Her fever isn't gone, but it's
down."

Dylan stayed out of the way, but Melissa saw
the hope and relief in his eyes.

Dr. Garvin instructed her to maintain the
regimen of Jenny's treatment and told her to take care of herself
as well.

For the rest of the day and that night, Dylan
stayed close by. Melissa silently blessed his company, although she
insisted that he get more sleep than she did. He brought their
meals in from restaurants and chophouses to save Melissa the chore
of cooking, and took his turn walking Jenny. She drew strength from
his quiet presence, and sometimes while both he and the baby slept,
Melissa would watch over them and feel such a rush of love she
thought her heart would break.

The long hours in the small room gave her a
lot of time to think, and she came to two decisions. First, she
knew she would take in no more laundry here in Dawson. Jenny might
have caught her fever in a number of ways, but Melissa refused to
expose her to any more danger. She'd made good money washing for
the miners, but no amount of gold was worth risking her child's
health.

As to her heart, she knew that to speak her
feelings now was out of the question. She and Dylan were both
distracted and worried. But when this was over, she thought, when
Jenny was well again—the baby would get well, she was
positive—Melissa determined that she would tell Dylan how she felt.
She had come to realize that life was too perilous and uncertain to
let the chance for love slip away.

She looked at him as he lay across the end of
the bed, his chest rising and falling, the worry in his face
smoothed out in sleep, and let her eyes trace the line of his full
mouth. The stubble of his day-old beard shadowed his face,
emphasizing his strong male features. She wished she could trail
her fingertips along his jaw and over his lips, just for the
pleasure of touching him. The kisses that they had shared seemed
like a dream now, beautiful but not real. The rice sack still
occupied the space in the middle—Melissa had come to hate the
thing.

Dylan was bitter about Elizabeth, and he had
every reason to be. She had as much, if not more, reason to be
bitter about Coy. But what good could it bring? It would be a
mistake to let those experiences color their lives. After all, who
knew when fate could steal away a life? Their recent brushes with
death—Rafe's, Coy's, and Jenny's fever—had given her a new
perspective. They needed to put the past where it belonged, behind
them, and leave it there.

Yes, both she and Dylan had been disheartened
by life. And the events they'd experienced were lamentable.

But to have nothing to show for one's years
but regret and a longing heart seemed the greater tragedy to
her.

*~*~*

Melissa stood on the bottom rail of a corral,
watching her husband lead a horse in a circle around the enclosure.
He was tall and straight and lean, with long hair that flew behind
his shoulders in the wind. Perched on the horse's bare back was a
young child with curls as fair as the man's. Her childish voice
urged the horse on, although Melissa couldn't catch the words. They
were beautiful together, the man and his daughter, outlined by the
bronze and pale blue of sunset, and Melissa felt so proud of them.
The little girl's giggle floated to her on the soft breeze, and as
they drew near, she saw the dark green glint of her husband's eyes,
reflecting a mingling of joy and frank desire that made her breath
come faster.

"I think she's getting better, Melissa," he
said, and the child giggled again . . .

Melissa woke with a start and sat up. She
realized she'd fallen asleep with her backside still in the chair
and her torso hunched over on the bed.

"She's really better. Look" Dylan was
standing next to her with Jenny in his arms. She saw one little
fist wave and heard the baby's contented gurgle.

She shot from her chair and looked at Jenny.
Swiftly, she moved her hands over the baby, feeling for fever.
There was none. She still had the horrible-looking rash, but it was
improving, and she smiled when she saw her mother.

"Oh!" Melissa said, laughing with relief.
Dylan put Jenny in her arms, and she gazed down at her face,
laughing again. "Oh, thank God! Jenny, my dear little button, are
you feeling better?"

Jenny gurgled and smiled broadly.

"Hah!" Melissa laughed again triumphantly and
did a little dance around the room, being careful not to bounce
Jenny too much.

Dylan watched her and laughed as well. "I was
sitting by the window, watching the sunset, and I heard her. When I
came over here to look, she was awake and sort of giggling."

Suddenly, everything in the room and beyond
the window looked beautiful. The sun, dipping down behind the
clouds, turned the room a burnished, mellow gold. Melissa drew a
deep, bracing breath and exhaled it. She felt as if a great weight
had been lifted from her shoulders and she could stand straight
again.

Certainly, Jenny was not well yet, but
Melissa was positive that she'd turned the corner toward recovery.
From the dark night of Rafe's death and Jenny's terrible illness
the sun had shone again. Impulsively, she crossed the room to Dylan
and surprised them both by kissing him soundly on the mouth.

Dylan actually felt himself flush all the way
to his ears, and he saw color rise in Melissa's cheeks too.

She ducked her head and said, "I'm sorry if I
seem forward. But I want to thank you, Dylan, for being a good
friend to me. For bringing the doctor and staying with us, for
helping me take care of Jenny." Melissa's words bore a heartfelt
sincerity that touched him. They were straightforward and honest,
not coy or sly. "You didn't have to do any of it. I'm very
grateful." She gazed at him with those clear, gray eyes that
sparkled despite her fatigue.

He felt tongue-tied for the first time in
years. He wanted to tell her how he felt, that any danger posed to
her or Jenny roused every protective instinct he had, as if they
were really his family. But the words wouldn't come, despite Rafe's
last advice to him. He was wary, not of Melissa as much as of love
itself. The wound Elizabeth had inflicted with her treachery was
still too new, and the scar on his emotions was still too tender
for him to even consider giving his heart again.

Remaining silent, he put his arm around her
and held her and Jenny to his heart. Strands of Melissa's hair had
come unraveled from her braid, but it still smelled of soap and
clean water. A tangle of emotions were sluicing through him so
quickly he didn't know what to say. Relief for Jenny, his feelings
for Melissa, regret for Rafe's passing—they jumbled together and
nearly made him blurt out three words that he would not be able to
take back.

"I just did the right thing, the decent
thing," he said, resting his chin against her head. Truth be told,
a few weeks ago he'd wished that none of the Logan clan had ever
set foot in his store. But now he envisioned with dread the day
that he would leave this woman and her child. Maybe Rafe was right;
maybe he'd be a fool to let them slip away from him.

"I guess I haven't known many decent people
in my life, then," she said. She lifted her face to look into his
eyes, and something intimate and elemental passed between them. He
felt it shoot through him, and he knew she did too. For a moment
the isolation of the dusk-dim room made it seem as if they were the
only people left in Dawson. All the troubles they'd endured faded,
the memory and weight of them falling away like autumn leaves. With
Melissa's soft coral lips just inches from his own, the need to
kiss her was overwhelming. Her eyes drifted dosed. He knew he
should stop himself, but she was here and he hungered for her.

Dylan dipped his head and touched her mouth
lightly with the tip of his tongue . . . first
her upper lip . . . then her lower. Her swift,
light intake of breath was just the permission he needed to give in
to the temptation. Sweet warmth and lush softness were his as he
took her mouth with his own. He felt his pulse in his head—or was
it her heartbeat? He couldn't tell. He only knew how she made him
feel, powerful and vulnerable at the same time.

He lifted his head just enough to speak.
"Melissa," he whispered. It was all he could say, so completely did
she fill his head and soul. She must have heard something in his
voice, though, a call that spoke to her on the deepest level of her
own soul. She made a tiny sound in her throat, almost a moan, and
brought her lips to his again with a passion that melted his heart
and hardened his arousal. Yearning to feel the curve of her breasts
and hips against him, he tightened his arm around her. But with
Jenny wedged between them, he couldn't pull her body against his
own as he so badly wanted to.