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.
Melissa backed away first, pushing a hand through her straggling hair. "Um, Jenny must be hungry, and I don't want to tire her out. I should feed her and put her to sleep."
Once again, the brief glance they exchanged was charged with unspoken purpose and need. He thought he might be wrong, that what he saw in her eyes was fatigue, or joy, or friendship.
But no. There was no mistaking it—each understood the other.
A better man might have walked away right then without taking the moment one step further, he supposed. But a better man would have lost out on the chance to mend his heart in the arms of this woman, and miss the privilege of honoring her with his own body. If Dylan was less noble, so be it, he thought.
He had slept next to her for weeks, fighting his desire for her, and he'd dreamed of her smooth, slender form more nights that he wanted to count. He'd promised her that he would never try to claim husbandly rights, but they weren't the same people they'd been that day outside the Yukon Girl Saloon.
Now, whether he liked it or not, Dylan had come to care for the woman whose freedom he'd bought for twelve hundred dollars.
He glanced at his bed, and then at the log-walled room. "Well, I guess I should go down and see about the store. I haven't looked in on it in a while."
Melissa touched his arm and let a timid, meaningful gaze slide up to his face before she looked away. "That's fine."
Feeling nearly as shy and self-conscious as he thought she did, Dylan turned and went to the door. His heart hammered in his chest. Then he looked back over his shoulder at her and Jenny. Melissa smiled at him, a sweet, beautiful smile.
He knew he was lost to her.
*~*~*
Do you know what you're doing? Melissa asked herself as she watched the door close. She believed she did, but even if she was wrong, she knew it would not be the worst choice she'd made in her life. Dylan Harper was a good man, a decent man, and the fires he stirred in her could no longer be ignored.
After she fed Jenny, the child fell into the exhausted slumber of a convalescent. Cuddling her in one arm,
Melissa lit the lamp on the table and lowered the flame to a soft glow. Then she carried the baby to the cradle that Dylan had bought for her.
"Good night, sweet little button," she whispered, then kissed the tiny hand that curled around her finger. Gazing down on the little girl with love, she tucked her blanket around her and said a silent, earnest prayer of thanks that her child had been restored to her.
Melissa went to the washstand and looked at her reflection. Her fatigue had left her as soon as Dylan had kissed her. Now anticipation and fear were at war within her, making her hands cold and her insides shaky. He hadn't swayed her with a lot of smooth talk or empty pledges. She knew there were no promises between them beyond what he'd told her the day she met him.
But Melissa was in love with him, an emotion that sent her to the heights of joy when she looked at him and the depths of despair when she thought of leaving him. Whatever might happen, she determined that she would know the touch of the man she loved. Taking off her clothes, she stood before the little mirror wearing only her untidy braid.
Her hair had come loose from its weaving, so she brushed it out and let it fall in soft waves over her shoulders. Expecting to hear Dylan's footsteps on the stairs at any moment, she soaped and rinsed as quickly as she could. What did a person wear in this situation? she wondered with a touch of giggling hysteria. On her wedding night the pretty white muslin nightgown she'd made for the occasion had gone unnoticed by Coy. He'd come to her room long after their quick courthouse wedding, stinking drunk. After a slobbering attempt to consummate their marriage, he'd passed out on the bed next to her.
She shuddered at the memory.
Tonight would not be like that.
She heard the door slam downstairs. Dylan would be up here any moment. Looking around, she spied a clean nightgown slung over the end of the bed. Normally, modesty would never have allowed her to leave her personal clothing in full view, but the last few days had made such details unimportant. Grabbing the gown, she threaded her arms into the sleeves and pulled it down over her head just as she heard Dylan's first footfall outside.
Melissa walked to the bed and climbed between the cool sheets. She'd followed this routine almost every night since she came to live with Dylan, but tonight she sat against the headboard in the semi-darkness, waiting expectantly for the man she had come to regard as her husband.
Then she eyed the barrier that took up the center of the mattress. Melissa remembered the night she'd dragged the sack up here. In a state of panic and certain doom, she'd hoped it would protect her from Dylan. But it had been his integrity that protected her, and the time for walls between them had long passed.
Considering the sack, she scrambled to her knees and pushed on it to roll it off the bed. It wouldn't budge. Slipping her hands beneath it, she put all her effort and will into lifting it, straining and grunting. Still she had no luck. Finally winded, she sat back on her heels, and flipped her long hair behind her shoulders. Mercy, her abject terror must have given her more strength that night than she normally possessed. Well, if she got it up here— She rose to her knees again with her determination and pushed.
The door opened, and Dylan stepped inside where he stood hesitantly, as if waiting for permission to come closer. Though only a low flame lit the room, Melissa could see that he'd shaved, and his long hair looked damp, as if just washed. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his torso, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscle and sinew. The snug black pants he wore showed off his long legs and backside to shameless advantage, although she felt certain that he was unaware of his good looks. A flutter rippled through her—she swore he was the handsomest man she'd ever seen.
"Is she asleep?" he asked, nodding at Jenny's cradle.
"Yes, she's still weak and tired. I-I imagine she'll sleep for hours."
He approached the bed, and his gaze dropped to the rice. Melissa felt a searing tension between them, a powerful charge of desire and primitive need. The feelings were new to her, but they rose from ancient instincts and she recognized them.
"Melissa," he said, and his eyes, as dark as a forest in the shadows, locked with hers, "shall I move this?" He gestured at the rice.
"Yes," she replied in a small voice. "I think it's time."
He lifted the heavy sack with easy grace and propped it in the corner, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing with the effort.
He turned and sat on the edge of the mattress. "God, I'm glad to be rid of that. I hated having it in bed with us." He gave her a crooked smile. "You know, that sack wouldn't have stopped me if I'd decided to give in to temptation."
She glanced down at the hem of the sheet. "I suppose not. Why did you let it stay there, then?"
"Because I knew it made you feel better." His smile broadened a bit, and his gaze trailed down the front of her nightgown. He reached for her hand. "And because some nights it worked."
An exciting flash of danger quivered through her. His touch was warm and vital as it trailed along her hand and wrist.
"Oh?" she said, feeling a little breathless.
He moved closer so that he sat cross-legged on the mattress, occupying the place of the newly discarded rice. His knee bumped her hip, and his hair brushed his shoulders with the movement. Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to the backs of her fingers. His mouth, soft and hot against her hand, was tantalizing.
"Oh, yeah," he said, and his voice grew richer, huskier. He looked up at her with eyes that burned like green coals. "There were nights when I wanted so badly to jump over that damned fence you put up and hold you in my arms."
Melissa knew she'd had nights when she wished for the same thing. "I never knew."
"Well, it's true," he said, and suddenly rose to his knees on the mattress to take her face between her hands. "Melissa—" He shook his head. "I've tried everything I know to keep from thinking about you, about us together, but nothing works."
What he really meant she didn't know—was he talking about a future with her, or just this one night? She had no time to ponder it further, though, because he lowered his face to hers and kissed her passionately, devouring her lips with his own. His breath came fast as he held her. His hands moved away from her face and down her back, then he pulled her to her knees too, so they faced each other, body pressed to body. He rained soft, whispery kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids, her brow, her throat.
"Oh, Dylan," she whispered. Dare she reveal her heart to him? she wondered. It had seemed it would be an easy thing to do when she planned it, but now . . .
Dylan heard her voice, and the sweet sound of it was like kerosene on the fire she'd ignited in him. His pants grew painfully tight over his arousal, and he could think of nothing but how right it felt to hold this woman in his arms. He wanted to stroke every inch of her bare skin and follow with a trail of kisses. Realizing that, he pulled back and looked at her. Her hair fell around her like a rippling curtain of pale yellow satin, rich and shiny. Her simple white nightgown was, strangely enough, more alluring and exciting than the expensive silks and laces that Elizabeth had worn. He saw trust in her gray eyes, and maybe even something more.
"Tell me," he murmured against her ear, his breath short. "Are you sure you want to do this? If you don't, you'd better say it now."
She nodded solemnly, like a child. "Yes, I'm sure. It's what I want," she whispered again. Then she added, "And Dylan, I'm sorry for getting mad at you about the whiskey that day Rafe died. I was wrong to make such a fuss—"
"Hush now, Melissa. It doesn't matter at all. It's behind us." He enfolded her in his embrace and felt her breasts press against him. He wanted to do right by her, to conquer her with her own desire, as he'd once planned. To make up for some of what she'd probably suffered at the hands of Coy Logan.
Elizabeth . . . Logan . . . neither of their memories or their names had any place in this bed. There were just the two of them now, Dylan and Melissa.
He dipped his head to her mouth to kiss her again, and this tim
e she surprised him by meeting his tongue with hers. He groaned and pulled her down on the bed so they lay facing side by side, their arms wrapped around each other.
Dragging his mouth from hers, he pushed her over on her back and fumbled impatiently with the buttons on the front of her gown. He wanted to touch her, but not scare her. It took all of his dwindling self-control to keep from yanking the garment off over her head so that he could finally gaze upon her body.
Melissa reached up and gently pushed his hand away. At first he thought she would deny him access, and then he realized that she had unbuttoned the gown herself. Dylan had one glimpse of the creamy skin inside and placed a kiss on her breastbone, right over her heart. She arched against his mouth, and he felt her heart beating as swiftly as a bird's.
Covering her mouth with his again, he kissed her with all the desolate, urgent longing he'd kept inside for the past three years. Melissa lifted sheltering arms to embrace him and hold him close. He hadn't admitted to himself how lonely he'd been until now. This was where he belonged, he realized, with this sweet-voiced woman and the child he'd come to think of as theirs.
Dylan was no awkward kid—his experience reached far back to his early teens. But tonight he felt as if this were his first time. Maybe because he'd been months without a woman. Or maybe because this one meant more to him than any other ever had.
With a light, wondering touch he slipped his hand inside Melissa's gown and grazed the swell of one breast with his fingertips. Burying his face against her neck, he began a line of kisses that he strung down her throat and over her chest. Her skin smelled of soap and some other warm scent that was all her own. No perfume he knew of had a more enticing fragrance.
She threaded her hands in his hair to guide him toward her breast. His lips followed the path his fingertips had taken until he encountered her tight nipple. He closed his mouth over it and tugged, then was startled by a stream of warm milk that flowed into his mouth. Instantly, Dylan's raw need burned higher and hotter, and he rocked his hips against her thigh.
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