Keith held up both his hands, palms out, and order was momentarily restored. “I think,” he began calmly, “that Mama and I should take tomorrow’s train over to Port Riley and find out what’s going on.”
Jeff was standing at the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a brandy, which was appropriated by Adam before he could raise it to his lips. After giving his elder brother a scorching look he filled another glass. “This is no job for Mama,” he said. “After all, she’s a woman.”
Katherine felt the beginnings of a headache throbbing in one temple. “Jeffrey,” she replied, “I will not be treated to one of your idiotic masculine diatribes. If you cannot assist us in our dilemma, then kindly leave this room.”
Jeff sank into the big barrel-back chair that had been his father’s favorite. He looked most put-upon, but he held his tongue.
“What Jeff was trying to tell us, in his awkward way,” Adam pointed out with wry sarcasm, “is that he wants to be there when Melissa explains this mess she’s gotten herself into. And so do I.”
Jeff nodded somewhat sullenly and took a sip of his brandy.
Katherine sighed. “Good heavens, if you all go storming over there, you’ll overwhelm her,” she said, rubbing her temple with the fingers of one hand. “Not to mention her poor husband.”
“Husband.” Jeff huffed the word out in a mockery of the very idea.
Keith spread his hands. “We know where Melissa is, and that she’s all right. The rest is academic.”
“I intend to find that out for myself,” Jeff insisted, and he still sounded surly. He’d been patently impossible lately, and Katherine wished that he could be transformed back into a little boy again, just for a few minutes, so that she could spank him.
Adam was still glaring down at the telegram. “ ‘Discovering life’?” he repeated.
Katherine stood up, feeling weary. At times like this she missed Daniel all the more poignantly. “It’s settled,” she said. “We’ll all travel to Port Riley on the morning train.”
With that she left the study.
*
At the end of the day Melissa still had a job, although just barely, if the lecture she’d gotten from Mr. Rimley was any indication. She was so tired that she stumbled off in the direction of Quinn’s house, and if she hadn’t had to pass Kruger’s Mercantile on the way, she would surely have forgotten to buy gloves.
When she arrived at home Quinn met her in the middle of the walk. He was wearing no tie or coat, and his shirt was open halfway down his midriff. “Where have you been?” He bit out the words.
Melissa lifted her gaze from the matting of dark gold hair on his chest to the snapping annoyance in his eyes. “I’ve been working,” she answered, almost too tired to say the words. “You were right—it’s very hard.”
His manner softened at her answer, and he muttered her name in a tone of despairing frustration before reaching out to take her hands. When she winced in pain he drew back far enough to look at them, and a soft but explosive curse word escaped him.
“I’m all right,” Melissa said woodenly, starting around him.
Quinn shook his head in bewildered wonder and ushered her quite solicitously toward the front door. Once inside he led her into that exceedingly masculine room where she’d planned to read the newspaper that morning.
Seating her in a chair near the fireplace, where a blaze was burning low, he turned up the lamp and then knelt at her side to take a closer look at her injured hands.
Melissa felt an inexplicable, wounding tenderness; she longed to bend down and kiss the top of his head.
“My God,” he breathed as he rose to his feet and went over to a cabinet to begin rummaging through drawers and along shelves. “What were you doing?”
“Shucking oysters,” Melissa responded sleepily as he came back to her again, carrying a white metal box in his hands. She was touched to see that it was a first-aid kit.
Quinn dropped to his knees again and began cleaning the cuts on Melissa’s hands with a gentle deftness that twisted her heart. When he’d treated them with disinfectant he lifted audacious brown eyes to hers and said, “You don’t have to do this.”
Melissa’s eyes burned with tears. “Yes, I do,” she answered. “My brothers—”
Quinn shot suddenly to his feet. “Damn your brothers!” he bellowed. “Your brothers have nothing to do with what we’re talking about!”
Melissa lowered her head, and a teardrop fell on one of her hands. “You’re right,” she confessed in a small, broken voice. “It’s myself I’ve got to prove something to, not them.”
He sighed heavily and shoved a hand through already rumpled hair. “I’m trying to understand,” he told her raggedly. “I’m doing my damnedest to understand.”
“I know that,” Melissa said softly.
His manner and the sound of his voice were still brusque. “Just sit there,” he ordered with a halfhearted gesture of one hand. “I’ll go and get you some tea or something.”
“Thanks,” Melissa sniffled. She would always remember that it was in that homely, ordinary moment that she realized what had happened. By some strange turn of fate, some miracle, she had fallen in love with Quinn Rafferty.
A pile of ledger books on his desk indicated that he’d been going over his accounts, and Melissa smiled to herself. She was married to this man, for heaven’s sake, and had no idea what he did for a living.
It was obvious from her sumptuous surroundings that Quinn had more going for him than the single sawmill that Jeff held in such contempt.
She stiffened as another possibility occurred to her. Quinn had told her outright that her fortune would give him almost unlimited financial power. No doubt his desk was strewn with ledgers because he was planning that expansion he’d mentioned.
Despair swept over Melissa as the full import of her situation struck her. She loved a man who had married her for her money.
She looked down through a blur of tears at her mended hands. Any tenderness Quinn showed her was probably just business, not real affection.
Just then he reappeared holding out a glass of white wine. “Here, love. I think this will serve better than a cup of tea.”
Melissa was torn between conflicting needs—one compelled her to slap the glass out of his hand, the other made her want to hurl herself into Quinn’s arms and beg him to hold her close.
In the end she simply thanked him, reached for the glass, and took a small sip of the wine. It was a good chablis.
Quinn had noticed the change in her manner, she was sure of that, but he made no comment on it. Instead he built up the fire and went back to his desk.
Melissa expected him to be bent over his accounts again, but when she looked up she saw that he was leaning back against the edge of the desk, his powerful arms folded across his chest, watching her.
“I’ve been going over this in my mind for the last five minutes,” he said gruffly, “looking for a way to say it without setting off that formidable temper of yours.” He paused, drew a deep breath, and let it out again in a weary rush. “I don’t want you to go back to the cannery. In fact, I forbid it.”
Melissa took a gulp of the wine. “It would probably have been better if you’d left off the part about forbidding me,” she said calmly.
Quinn chuckled ruefully. “My life was so simple before you came along. I didn’t have to pick and choose my words, or rack my brains figuring out what devilment you might be up to—or sleep alone.”
Melissa glanced toward his desk and took another draught of the wine. “And you didn’t have the means to—how did you put it—’expand your holdings.’”
There was a terrible silence, then Quinn asked, in a low and bitter voice, “What’s the matter, Melissa? Were you enjoying my presence a little bit? Maybe thinking that you might not have made such a terrible mistake after all?”
Melissa set her wine glass aside and rose slowly to her feet. Her leather gloves, bought to protect her hands while she shucked o
ysters, slipped, forgotten, to the floor. “I didn’t make a mistake,” she said coldly, “and neither did you. We both knew exactly what we wanted.”
A look of sad frustration moved in Quinn’s handsome face. “Melissa—”
“You wanted collateral, and I wanted a chance to prove that I can make my own way in the world.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m very tired, and I’m due at the cannery early tomorrow morning, so I believe I’ll have my supper and retire. Good night, Mr. Rafferty.”
“Good night,” Quinn responded, his voice as rough as gravel, and he returned to his ledgers and his plans.
Quinn ate a light meal at his desk, served by the disapproving Mrs. Wright, and the clock on the mantelpiece was just striking eight when there was a knock at the front door.
Admitted by the housekeeper, Mitch entered the study with his hat in his hand and a baleful, sympathetic expression on his face. “Having trouble, old friend?” he asked, glancing at the ledgers before he took a chair near the fire.
The word “trouble” brought Melissa immediately to mind, but Quinn realized soon enough that his friend hadn’t been referring to her or to the attending situation. It had more to do with the account books. “You’re not thinking that I’m having financial problems, are you?” he ventured.
He was getting tired of people making him feel like a social-climbing pauper when he owned a thriving timber operation, numerous stocks and bonds, and half interest in the new hotel being built at the end of Simpson Street.
Mitch cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed, and looked down at his boots for a moment. “This morning your wife asked me for money,” he said miserably. “She was wearing a dress that looked like it came out of a rag bag and trying to get into your railroad car.”
Quinn let out a long breath and sat back in his swivel chair. The nape of his neck ached savagely. “She asked you for money,” he marveled, glaring up at the ceiling.
“She said she had some, but it was locked up inside the car.”
Nodding wearily, Quinn opened the top desk drawer on the right and took out a cash box. “How much?”
“Sixty-five dollars. It isn’t that I’m worried about the money, Quinn—”
“I know.” Quinn counted out three twenties and a five and handed them to Mitch. “Stop worrying,” he said. “I’m still solvent.”
Mitch tucked the currency into his wallet without counting it. “I hope you’re not just saying that to preserve your pride or something. I’m your friend, and if you’re in trouble, I want to help you.”
“I’m in a lot of trouble,” Quinn admitted wryly, “but it doesn’t have much to do with money. Want a drink?”
Mitch nodded and went to the liquor cabinet to help himself. “How about you?” he asked, holding up a bottle.
Quinn shook his head. “I’ve had more hooch since I met that woman than in all the rest of my life combined. She’s driving me crazy.”
Mitch grinned as he poured himself a shot of Scotch and returned to his chair. “Here’s to true love,” he said, lifting his glass as he sat down.
Quinn gave him a look, then cupped his hands behind his head and kicked his feet up onto the desk. “She’s got a job shucking oysters,” he said.
A sigh escaped Mitch. “I’m afraid that’s partly my fault,” he said. “She asked me where she could find work, and I pointed her in the direction of the cannery, thinking she’d find out how hard it was and come home.”
Quinn closed his eyes. “You should see her hands,” he despaired. “They’re all swollen and cut. And she’s so tired she can’t see straight.”
“But she’s going back tomorrow,” Mitch guessed.
“That’s right.”
“They’re bound to give her the sack,” Mitch said. “No way she could keep up.”
Quinn opened his eyes again. He was exhausted himself—God, what he wouldn’t give to make love to Melissa and then sleep for a solid week. “I know,” he agreed. “I’m worried about what that’s going to do to her, even though I’d be happy as hell if they showed her the road. Do you think I should pay them to keep her on or something?”
“No,” Mitch answered immediately. “I figure if you interfere in this, one way or the other you’re going to be sorry.”
Quinn knew that his friend was right, but he hated sitting back and watching Melissa take a blow like that. It was easy enough to see that things had gone her way all her life.
After a few more minutes of quiet, companionable conversation Mitch set aside his glass and left.
Quinn was drawn to Melissa, but he forced himself to stay in his study until the numbers in his ledgers began to blur in front of his eyes. When Mrs. Wright came in to collect his supper tray he couldn’t refrain from asking, “Has my wife eaten?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Mrs. Wright answered without hesitation. “She’s had her supper and her bath and fallen sound asleep. I haven’t seen a body so tired since that flume collapsed last fall and you spent a week up on the mountain seeing to it.”
Quinn allowed himself a half smile. Overseeing the repair of a flume was simple stuff compared to dealing with Melissa. “She’s got a job,” he confessed.
Mrs. Wright looked embarrassed. “Yes, sir,” she said in a hushed voice. “I know.” It was clear that the old woman found Melissa a consuming mystery, and she wasn’t alone.
“I want everything done for her comfort,” Quinn said, sliding back his chair and stretching. “Make sure, if you will, that she has a good breakfast and something to eat at midday.”
The housekeeper nodded and went out.
Quinn looked up at the ceiling. More than anything he wanted to go to Melissa, take her into his arms, and teach her all the sweet pleasures he knew she’d enjoy. There was no way that he could do that, however, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep even though he was worn out. With both these avenues cut off, Quinn was at a loss as to how to spend the rest of the evening.
Gillian came into his mind, but his blood didn’t heat the way it used to, nor did his heart rate pick up speed. It amazed him that things could change so quickly, but his whole world had turned around the moment he’d hauled Melissa aboard the train. He’d desired her in the most desperate way ever since.
With a sigh Quinn took the spare key to his bedroom from the corner of a desk drawer and flipped it into the air, catching it in his palm. One day—one day soon—he was going to have to win Melissa’s trust.
He glanced up at the ceiling again and swallowed hard. He had a feeling that he was going to have to crawl through that doorway when the time came, rather than walk.
Presently Quinn dropped the key back into its drawer. He’d go out for a while, and when he came back he’d let himself into the bedroom and collapse on the sofa, just as he had the night before.
Six
Jeff had hoped that Fancy would be asleep by the time he got home; instead, she was sitting up by the parlor fire, talking with Adam’s wife, Banner.
The conversation ceased the instant the women noticed he was there. Jeff felt hurt by that, but he didn’t have to ask what they’d been talking about; he knew only too well.
Fancy’s soft violet gaze touched his face briefly and then skittered away. “Banner tells me you’ve found Melissa,” she said.
Jeff shoved a hand through his hair, distracted. A twisting sweetness moved painfully within him as he looked at Fancy; though much was wrong between them, he loved her as desperately as he ever had. “Yes,” he finally replied. “She’s—er—discovering life or something.”
Banner was preparing to go; she set aside her teacup, got out of her chair, and reached for her cloak. She was looking at Jeff. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that the three of you have decided to stay out of this and let Melissa live her own life.”
Jeff sighed, searching his soul for that quality that seemed to elude him more with each passing year: patience. “She needs looking after,” he said flatly.
Banner and Fancy e
xchanged one of those looks of theirs, and Jeff felt his temper heating up.
“Melissa’s a grown woman,” Banner protested, tying the ribbons of her fancy green bonnet beneath her chin. “She can take care of herself.”
“Yes,” Fancy agreed, glaring at Jeff as though it were his fault that Melissa didn’t have the sense God gave a brass spittoon.
Jeff glanced at the cradle beside Fancy’s chair where the new baby lay sleeping and struggled to keep his voice low. Caroline was his only daughter, and she occupied a special place in his heart. “It’s been four days since Melissa ran out of the church,” he reminded the two women evenly. “Since then she’s married a total stranger, and God only knows what else she’s done. Don’t tell me that my sister can take care of herself.”
“There’s no sense in trying to tell you anything,” Fancy said.
Banner hastened toward the door. “Don’t bother offering to see me home, Jeff,” she told him with sarcastic sweetness. “I brought the buggy.”
As much to spite his sister-in-law as to ensure her safety, Jeff escorted Banner down the front walk and helped her into the waiting rig. Though the lights of gas-powered street lamps glowed all around them, the shadows beneath the bonnet of the buggy rendered Banner all but invisible.
She surprised Jeff by reaching out to take his hand for a moment. Her voice when she spoke was soft and earnest. “You do love Fancy, don’t you, Jeff?” she asked.
He was affronted. “You know I do,” he replied hoarsely.
“Then let Katherine and the others handle this problem with Melissa. You’ve got enough trouble right here.”
Banner had spoken with such cryptic import that Jeff was both alarmed and annoyed, but he had no chance to question her. She was gone in an instant, disappearing with the familiar horse and buggy into the foggy mist.
Jeff went slowly back into the house, still puzzling over Banner’s remark. Sure, he and Fancy had problems—every married couple did—but it wasn’t as bad as his sister-in-law had made it sound.
Was it?
He went back into the parlor and stood before the fire with his back to Fancy, thinking.
My Darling Melissa Page 7
