Harper's Bride (4 page)

"Still here?" Rafe asked, plucking an orange
from a basket. "You should have closed up long ago. You wouldn't
want to keep the wife waiting."

At Rafe's comment, the long-ago memory of a
lithe, raven-haired beauty suddenly rose in his mind, sharply
detailed, and so different from the blond waif upstairs. He
frowned. "Those oranges are a dollar each," Dylan groused, not in
the mood for the lawyer's wit. Then he admitted more reluctantly,
"Anyway, I'm not ready to go up there."

Rafe leaned against the counter and peeled
the orange, ignoring Dylan's remark about the price. "Then I
believe I'll accompany you next door and let you buy me a drink. As
payment, shall we say, for my legal services."

"I should charge you for getting me into
this. Besides, you don't need me to buy you a drink." Dylan had
never seen a man who could put away as much liquor as Rafe could.
He drank at least a quart a day, although he never really seemed
drunk and he never staggered. Rafe had not told him so, but Dylan
suspected that his drinking had cost him his law practice. However,
his considerable gambling skill seemed unaffected, and he made a
fairly comfortable living at it.

"Stop your bellyaching, Dylan," Rafe said,
popping an orange section into his mouth. "That little girl needed
someone to look out for her and her baby. And you can use the
company."

Dylan frowned again. "I don't need
company—"

Rafe straightened and flung the orange rind
out the door into the muddy street. "God, you're as cross as a
grizzly bear with a boil on his ass. I think you'd better go next
door with me to the saloon. Mrs. Harper doesn't need to deal with
your foul mood after the day she's had."

"Oh, hell," Dylan said, cringing.
Mrs.
Harper
. He tossed the last orange into a basket. Rafe was
probably right, a drink didn't sound like a bad idea, especially
given the circumstances. And it gave Dylan an excuse to put off the
inevitable for a while longer. "All right, let's go. But just for a
while—I have work to finish."

Rafe pushed himself away from the counter and
smiled, all gleaming white teeth, emphasizing his pallid thinness.
His skin was pulled tight across his cheekbones, and his eyes
looked like hollow sockets. Sometimes, when the light was just
right, his smile reminded Dylan of a grinning skull.

As they walked to the Yukon Girl, Dylan
almost suggested that they cross the street and drink at the Arctic
Star instead. After all, he was trying to get his mind off Melissa,
and returning to the scene of their "wedding" probably wouldn't do
the trick. But he decided it really wouldn't matter. It sure as
hell wouldn't change anything.

The Yukon Girl was noisy and crowded with a
cross section of the men who had come to Dawson seeking their
fortune. Cheechakos, the old-timers called them, newcomers.
Newcomers of every stripe—buckaroos, escaped convicts,
schoolteachers, ex-buffalo hunters—filled the streets and the
barrooms up and down Front Street, all hoping to strike gold. Dylan
knew that most of them would be disappointed.

"God, will you look at them?" Rafe drawled,
gazing at the crowd. Many of the men sat with elbows on the tables,
shoulders hunched, looking dispirited and apathetic. "They were
expecting Paris on the Yukon River, I imagine. Too bad the poor
bastards didn't know that most of the best claims were already
staked before they left Seattle last fall."

"Most of them know it now," Dylan replied,
pouring his own shot. "I bought an outfit from a man yesterday who
said he'd camped for five days in that line outside the recorder's
office. When his turn finally came up, he found out that no ground
was left to claim. He sold me his gear for a fraction of what he
paid for it and said he's trying to scrape up enough money for
passage home—if his wife will have him."

Lounging against the bar, Rafe poured himself
a full tumbler of whiskey while Dylan watched. He'd never said much
about Rafe's drinking. But he couldn't resist a comment now, when
just walking across room had left the man panting for breath. "I
don't suppose that liquor is going to do much for your
condition."

Rafe fixed him with a look so suddenly sharp
and cold, Dylan lifted his brows. "Rheumatism fever sealed my fate
when I was twelve years old, Dylan. As it is, my heart has lasted
longer than the doctors thought it would. Now I didn't come to the
Yukon to search for gold, and I sure as hell didn't come up here
for my health. I came just for the fun of it. My time is short, and
I intend to make the most of what's left."

Dylan shrugged and shook his head. Every man
had to find his own path. That's what an old prospector had told
him, and he'd come to recognize the unshakable truth of it. He had
to admire the fact that Rafe spoke so casually and pragmatically of
his own death.

"I don't know what fun there is in being
jostled by this pack," Dylan commented. He had spent his life in
the clean, misty shadow of the Cascade Mountains and wanted nothing
more than to go back to it, to live on his own land, on his own
terms. "All I want is to make my money and leave."

Rafe laughed shortly, his biting humor
restored. "Oh, but that's where we differ, my friend. Over the
years I've seen many examples of man's folly. This is the best yet,
and it's been my privilege to witness it. Some of these people gave
up everything to come up here. They sold prosperous businesses,
they left wives and children, or as in the case of that fool,
Logan, brought them along. They took their lives in their hands to
make the passage, camped in tents on frozen lakes for the
winter—they risked everything to race up here only to discover
there's nothing left for them. And some of those who have made
money have lost it to me at the gaming tables." He chuckled
ruefully. "It's a damned tragedy, if only they knew it."

At the mention of Coy Logan, Dylan tossed
back a second drink. He knew it was cowardly to dawdle here, and he
was no coward. "I'd better get back to work," he said.

Rafe tipped him a knowing look and grinned
again, that wide, white-toothed smile. "That's fine, you go on." He
lifted his head to scan the card tables. "I believe I see a game
that bears closer inspection."

They parted then, and Dylan elbowed his way
through the horde and out to the street. Outside, the milling
parade of men continued like fallen leaves caught in a stream eddy.
It was a hell of a thing when a man lost his direction, Dylan
thought as he glanced at their blank faces. Anything could derail
him—the dream of easy money, a twist of fate, an itch for a
faithless woman.

The faint rumble of dancing feet and a
discordant blur of music poured out of the open saloon doors along
Front Street—piano, fiddle, harmonica, even accordion strains, all
jumbled together. Loud, raucous laughter and voices lifted in song
added to the din. God, he wanted to get away from here.

As Dylan climbed the stairs to his room, the
smell of home cooking wafted to him, and his steps slowed. At first
he thought it was carried on the breeze from one of the saloons,
but it grew stronger as he approached his own landing. Pushing open
the door, he found the room straightened, and the little table was
set with two tin plates and silver. Melissa had cooked dinner?

This was a rarity for him; he got most of his
meals in the saloons in town. He didn't even keep much food up
here. Looking around, he saw pans on the stove, and Melissa putting
down the baby in an old crate. Seeing him, she whirled, obviously
startled, and backed up a couple of paces. She watched him with
wary gray eyes, as if he were a cougar that had stalked into her
campsite.

Well, damn, he wasn't going to bite her, he
thought, feeling out of place in his own room. She didn't have to
jump away from him like that.

"I-I didn't know if you wanted dinner, but— I
hope bacon and biscuits are all right." She never seemed to raise
her voice above a murmur. Her apprehension was like a living thing
as she hovered next to the baby. She seemed to be trying to make
herself as small and unobtrusive as possible.

"Well, yeah, sure . . ." He shoved a hand
through his hair, at a loss for words. He hadn't really expected
her to do any cooking or cleaning for a few days, and certainly not
tonight.

She had tied on an old towel for an apron,
knotted at the back of her waist. Since she had nothing else to
wear, she still had on the same threadbare clothes. Her hair was
tidier, the loose tendrils secured again, but beneath her eyes dark
smudges gave her the careworn look of a woman twice her age.

"Have you eaten?"

She shook her head.

He waved her to the table. "Come on, then,
sit down."

Edging closer, she plucked the bacon and
biscuit pans from the top of the stove, then served him first. It
made him uncomfortable to have her wait on him. He'd grown up with
that, and he'd never liked it.

Melissa sat then, taking a biscuit and a thin
slice of bacon for her plate. Not enough, in Dylan's opinion, to
keep even a cat going. Her nervousness was palpable, and she
lowered her gaze and said nothing, opening a vast chasm of silence
that only increased the tension in the little room.

Hell, she was so quiet and mousey, if the
place were bigger, he could easily pretend that she wasn't there at
all, and go about his business. But she was sitting right across
the table from him, and it felt damned awkward. Searching for a
distraction, he tried a biscuit. It was flaky and tender; at least
she could cook.

"This is good," he said, staring at the top
of her lowered head. "Sorry I didn't have more up here for you to
work with."

She lifted her head, and she seemed to light
up for a moment. "Oh, that's all right. When I lived at home,
sometimes I had to fix meals with less than this. We never had much
to go around."

"Well, it's good," he repeated, trying to
imagine "less than this." He'd had plenty of good food at home,
including the game he had hunted to put on the table.

"Thank you," she murmured, retreating into
herself again.

This situation was impossible, he thought,
and swallowed the rest of his food without tasting it. He felt her
gaze on him when he wasn't looking at her, but she wouldn't meet
his eyes. She didn't talk; she was edgy and nervous. He didn't want
her lurking in the corners, silent and fearful. Having someone to
cook and clean wasn't worth that.

He glanced at the bed, straightened now, and
wished that he had this afternoon to live over again. He wouldn't
have allowed Rafe to talk him into this ridiculous arrangement.
Yes, the woman had needed help, but cash would probably have done
the trick. He sat up straighter as the idea sprang to life. Maybe
it wasn't too late. He could give her money for a hotel room and
get her out of here.

He sank back in his chair. No, that wasn't
the answer, either. The "hotels" in Dawson were little more than
tents and shacks with signs hanging over their entrances. They sure
as hell were no place for a woman and a baby. Sighing, he pushed
his plate away. There was nothing else to do but see this
through.

"Thanks for dinner," he said, and stood to
look at his pocket watch. "It's almost ten, and I have to check on
the store before we go to . . . before I turn in. I'll be back in a
little while."

Melissa nodded and watched him leave, her
heart pounding with trepidation. He was so tall, so broad at the
shoulder, he could do to her whatever he pleased and she would be
powerless to resist him.

Rising from her chair, she cleared the table
and washed the dishes, while the minutes slipped past like the bar
of soap in her hands. She listened for the sound of his boot steps
outside, but heard nothing except faint banjo music from one of the
saloons down the street.

A dangerous man, they said.

A gentleman, Rafe Dubois had told her.

Which was right? Neither? Both?

She glanced at the big bed as she lifted
Jenny from her makeshift cradle to feed her. For a moment she
considered putting the baby in the middle of the mattress, then
decided against it. Using Jenny as a shield would be wrong.

After the baby was glutted with milk and
sleeping soundly, Melissa put her back in her crate and began
undressing for bed. Pouring warm water into the bowl on the
washstand in the corner, she splashed her face and neck. She
released her hair from its knot and loosened it with her fingers,
then paused, her hands suspended in the strands. A small mirror
hung on the wall over the bowl, and she let one hand drop to the
bruise left by Coy's fist.

Her own hand mirror had broken on the journey
up here, and now and then she had caught sight of herself in a
store window. But she'd not had a good look at her face for weeks,
long before the last time Coy hit her.

She trailed her fingers over the mark.
Purple-brown in the middle, it had faded to greenish yellow at one
edge, like a rainbow of the ugliest colors. Coy had struck her
twice before. Usually he'd get drunk, or angry, and he would break
things, or kick something. As frightening as his violent behavior
had been, she had believed herself safe from his abuse because of
it, that he was satisfied to smash a bottle or put his fist through
a barrel lid.

Then a month ago, when Jenny had been cranky
and colicky and wouldn't be soothed, Coy had turned his impatience
and anger on Melissa. Two weeks after that, he'd gotten mad because
his dinner was dried out. She'd known it would only make things
worse to point out that it had reached that state while he was
sitting in the saloon. It was best that he'd abandoned them, she
thought, straightening away from the mirror.

But now she had Dylan Harper to worry
about.

Since she had no nightgown, she would have to
sleep in her thin chemise and petticoat. With her pulse pounding
heavily in her throat, she climbed into the big bed.