Melissa Logan had done it for him.
His thoughts were interrupted when a stampeder who looked as if he'd been a teacher or a bank clerk back home stopped in to buy pipe tobacco and one of the oranges. But Dylan wasn't distracted for long. As soon as the man left, Dylan returned to his brooding.
He'd seen a number of astounding things since coming North—moments of foolishness, greed, and great compassion. There had been the time in Joe Ladue's saloon when a lovesick miner solemnly offered to pay one of the saloon girls her weight in gold if she'd marry him. She had agreed. He'd watched two partners who had made the harrowing trip to Dawson separate in a fury after they finally arrived. While dissolving the partnership, they had gone so far as to try and split their one skillet in two with a hatchet. He had contributed money to the emaciated Jesuit missionary, Father William Judge, called "The Saint of Dawson," who worked himself to exhaustion tending those who jammed his hospital, day and night, with scurvy, dysentery and malaria.
But all of those things had involved other people—he'd been merely an interested spectator. Today, though, he had been right in the thick of it. Today had just about beaten them all.
Now a woman and baby were upstairs in his room, and would be there for the duration, however long that might be. He didn't want a woman and her kid. He was already kicking himself for letting Rafe talk him into taking Coy Logan's gaunt-eyed, lank-haired wife. He paused, an orange in each hand, and thought about her appearance. Well, maybe she wasn't so bad as all that. Those unsettling gray eyes were downright attractive, when she lifted her head to look at you. And while she was too thin, her recent motherhood gave her a hint of roundness that would probably bloom if she had three squares a day. But she looked worn out. Life with Logan had probably been no picnic, he conceded.
But Melissa or not, Dylan would not let anything get in the way of his goal—to make enough money to go back to Oregon and buy the land he'd yearned for, where no man could tell him how to live. He'd wanted to breed horses, but money had never meant anything to him. Not even she could make Dylan change his mind. Now he would prove to his father it didn't matter that he'd banished his eldest son from the Harper fold; he was doing just fine on his own, and without cheating anyone.
Dylan straightened and let his gaze run the length of the shelves. He sure as hell had never pictured himself doing this kind of work.
At that moment Rafe Dubois walked in. Even without looking up, Dylan would have known he was there. The man's breath was so short, he sounded as if he'd run up ten flights of stairs with a horse on his back. In the midst of all the mud and rough-dressed men, his immaculate attire seemed incongruous. In fact, Dylan sometimes wondered how he had become friends with a man whose background and views on life, sardonic and lyrical by turns, were so different from his own.
"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.
Maybe he wouldn't come back tonight, she h
oped wildly as she lay there trembling. She'd had the same wish about Coy. Maybe he would never come back. He might fall in the Klondike River and drown. Or maybe a wolf would come down from the hills and—
Suddenly, she heard a low, tuneless whistling outside and the sound of a step on the bottom stair. He was coming. He'd be here in seconds. Oh, please, God—
Melissa lurched up and glanced around the room desperately. Something, anything— Her gaze fell upon a big sack of rice leaning against the wall. Springing from the bed, she struggled with the sack, dragging its dead weight across the floor. All the while the footsteps grew louder, closer. With strength she didn't know she possessed, she flung the sack up to the bare, blue-striped ticking, and rolled it to the center of the mattress. It was dumb, it wouldn't stop him, but she had to try.
Climbing in after it, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to slow her breathing. Around the edges of the canvas curtains the sun blazed in the Arctic sky. She wished the night was dark, as it would be back home, so that she could hide her state of undress in its shadows.
Dylan lifted the latch and walked in to find Melissa lying in his bed. Something lay beside her, and it was way too big to be the baby. It took up the full center of the bed, leaving not much room on either side. He narrowed his eyes. Damn if it wasn't the sack of rice. He drew closer to the mattress to study her. Her eyes were clamped shut, and a slight frown drew her brows as if she had put all of her concentration into her charade. She clung to the edge of the mattress, but he knew she wasn't asleep. She was panting, probably from lifting the rice, and a light dew of perspiration shined her forehead. God, he knew that sack weighed seventy-five pounds. He'd carried it up here himself.
He would have laughed at the whole thing, but she was afraid of him and that bothered him. Coy Logan and maybe other men before him had made her fear Dylan, and all she had to defend herself with was a bag of rice. And there was no humor in that. Or in the bruise on her cheekbone that was beginning to turn green and yellow.
Harper's Bride Page 3