My Darling Melissa

by Linda Lael Miller

  Melissa deliberately batted her eyelashes and drawled, “Why, Mr. Rafferty! Can it be that you’re afraid of little old me?”

  Quinn laughed ruefully and squatted on the hearth to build up the dying fire. “I may never be the same, Calico,” he confessed. “How are you feeling tonight?”

  “Bored,” Melissa answered fitfully, making fists of her hands and bringing them down hard on the bedcovers. “Bored, bored, bored!”

  He rose back to his full height, setting the fireplace screen in place as the blaze caught and then dusting his hands together. His gaze was comically wary. “Don’t count on me for entertainment,” he warned. “I’m all done in.”

  Melissa smiled. “Want to bet?”

  With a wondering laugh Quinn thrust his hand through his hair. “You’re a brazen little scamp, aren’t you? I hardly dare imagine what you’ll be like when you’ve been in that bed a week.”

  “I don’t plan to be confined for that long. My baby is all right, and so am I, and I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  The mirthful indulgence in Quinn’s eyes was replaced by annoyance. “You’re not doing anything of the sort.” He waggled a finger at her, growing more incensed with every passing moment. “If I have to, Calico, I’ll tie you to that damned bed!”

  Melissa’s resolve weakened slightly in the face of his obvious sincerity, but she still protested, “My reputation will be ruined!”

  “Your reputation? My darling, you haven’t had one since the day you arrived in this town, so don’t start worrying now!”

  “I don’t want to argue, Quinn,” Melissa said softly, and she bit her lower lip and allowed tears to pool in her eyes. She even allowed her chin to quiver just a little.

  Quinn was immediately contrite, just as Melissa had intended him to be. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. And then he brought two envelopes from his coat pocket. “I almost forgot. There were a couple of letters for you today.”

  Melissa held out her hands delightedly and rubbed her fingers together until Quinn brought her the mail.

  The first letter, and the fattest, was from her mother. It contained long, heartfelt exclamations of bridal happiness, descriptions of Harlan’s ranch and the people who lived and worked within its borders, and comical accounts of her efforts to give the enormous ranch house a feminine touch.

  Bittersweet emotions filled Melissa as she read; she was delighted at her mother’s joy, but she also envied it. She finished the letter, folded it carefully, and opened the second one. Fancy had written a witty, harried narrative that made Melissa laugh out loud.

  “Jeff and all the kids except Caroline have the chicken pox,” she paused to explain.

  Quinn shook his head, clearly sympathetic to his gender. “That’s awful.”

  Melissa read, then gave a little squeal of delight. “Fancy and Banner are ordering a motorcar so that they can travel back and forth to Olympia and plague the legislature to grant women the vote!”

  Quinn laughed at that and sat down on the edge of the bed. When Melissa had finished reading the letter and was staring off into space and biting her lower lip, he took her hand in his. “You miss them a lot, don’t you?”

  Melissa nodded, though it wasn’t just homesickness that was bothering her. She would have to write her mother and Fancy back now and admit to her scandalous predicament. She had no idea where to begin.

  Quinn cupped her chin in his hand. His voice was low and gruffly tender. “I’ll take you home as soon as you’re well enough to travel, if that’s what you want.”

  “You’re awfully eager to get rid of me, Mr. Rafferty,” Melissa accused, hurt.

  He kissed her in that plying way he had and then murmured, “No. Never.”

  She slid her arms around his neck and drew him into a second kiss. This one pressed her back into the pillows and brought a hesitant masculine hand to her breast. Quinn was the one to break away, short of breath.

  “Damn you,” he muttered.

  Melissa loosened his string tie and then unbuttoned his shirt to the middle of his chest. “I’ve been stuck in this bed all day, Mr. Rafferty,” she crooned innocently. “What I need is a nice, warm bath.”

  Quinn groaned as she reached beneath the fabric of his shirt to caress him lightly with both hands.

  “Care to join me?” she added saucily.

  Quinn laughed miserably and halted her hands by resting his own over them. “No,” he said, but his eyes were warm as they lingered on her face.

  He got up presently and left, and when Melissa heard water running in the bathroom she knew she’d won again. After several minutes had passed Quinn came back and carefully divested her of the bed jacket and matching silk nightgown she’d been wearing since that morning.

  He grazed her taut nipples gently with his knuckles just to tease her, then lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bathroom. He lowered her gently into the massive tub, which was filled with warm, scented water, and began bathing her. His attendance was slow and systematic, and when it was over Quinn had extracted proper vengeance.

  She was limp with contentment when he dried her and carried her back to the bed. Someone had been in to change the sheets and lay out a fresh flannel nightgown, and Melissa submitted dreamily as Quinn pulled the garment over her head and tucked her in.

  “I think I’ve learned the secret of keeping you docile,” he teased, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

  Melissa couldn’t resist reminding him of the morning, he was so damnably smug and arrogant. “I know a few secrets myself, Mr. Rafferty,” she said.

  Becky arrived with a dinner tray and left again. Melissa was so relaxed that she only fed herself half the meal—Quinn had to give her the rest. Soon enough he took the food away and turned out the lamp, and the only light in the room was the mysterious glow from the fireplace. Melissa slipped into a sweet, contented sleep.

  Somewhere in the depths of the night sudden passion quickened her senses into a semblance of wakefulness. Bitter disappointment seized her when she realized that she’d only been dreaming. Quinn was not loving her; he was not even in bed with her.

  The fire had been reduced to mere embers on the hearth. Melissa sat upright, feeling brutally lonely as the elemental truths of her situation struck her. While she would have her child, she would never be more than an amusement to Quinn, an occasional plaything. If he’d loved her, he would have insisted that they marry.

  She lit the lamp and got carefully out of bed to see if Quinn was sleeping on the settee facing the fireplace. There was no sign of him, and Melissa sensed that he was nowhere in the house, so abject was her feeling of abandonment.

  She knew that she dared not stay another day, another hour, not even a minute longer than she had to. To linger was to risk permanent loss of her soul.

  She had no clothing except for the ball gown she’d been wearing the night of the accident, so she put that on, gathered up her notebooks, and slipped out into the hallway.

  By the light glowing in her own doorway she found her way down the hall to the stairs and slowly, carefully descended. She held her breath as she crossed the entry hall and bent to put her tablets down. Rising again, too quickly, she swayed with dizziness.

  She’d managed to work the lock and open the door to a chilly, salt-misted wind and was just about to reclaim her notebooks and slip out when the door suddenly slammed shut.

  Melissa jumped, she was so startled, and then told herself that the breeze had drawn the door closed. She was forced to give up this theory when light filled the entryway and strong masculine hands turned her around.

  The expression on Quinn’s face was terrible, but Melissa knew instantly that he was frightened, not angry, and she felt an incomprehensible urge to comfort him.

  “I didn’t think you were at home,” she said lamely.

  “That’s obvious,” Quinn replied, his jawline still taut. “As it happens, I just came in about two minutes ago. Where were you going, Melissa?”

 
She bit her lip and sagged back against the door, feeling weak. She was forced to admit—to herself, at least—that she probably wouldn’t have made it as far as the sidewalk. “Back to the State Hotel,” she admitted.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “Because it isn’t right, my being here. I’m not your wife—this isn’t my home—”

  He took her by the arm and propelled her into the study, where he promptly seated her in a chair and then turned up a gas jet so that there was light. “It’s the middle of the night,” he reminded her, turning his back to pour a glass of brandy.

  Melissa sighed. I know that, she wanted to say. So where were you, Quinn? Whom were you with?

  He was annoyed by her silence; the emotion flared in his eyes. “I’m taking you back to Port Hastings in the morning,” he announced with flat, arrogant finality. “Maybe you’ll be safe there.”

  Melissa was shaking her head, amazed. “If you’re so anxious to see the last of me, why did you stop me from leaving just now?”

  “It’s the dead of night, that’s why, and you’ve been hurt. You’re still weak.”

  Melissa could not deny that her strength was depleted, but she needed work and distraction from her troubles, not bed rest. “Please understand,” she said softly. “I can’t keep giving myself to you as though I were your wife—”

  “I’m perfectly willing to marry you,” Quinn said without a shred of affection in his voice or grace in his manner.

  Melissa stared at him. “What?”

  “You’re carrying my child, after all,” he went on after tossing back the last of his brandy. “You belong in my house and my bed.”

  Although Melissa had longed for Quinn to suggest marriage—a real, legal marriage—she heard something else in his words that put her off and made her wary. “But, of course, I’d have to give up writing books and forget all about publishing a newspaper, wouldn’t I?”

  Quinn folded his arms and leaned back against his desk. “Is that too much to ask, Melissa? Raising a child takes a lot of time and effort—were you planning to leave the job to the servants?”

  “Of course not.” Melissa flared, torn in two. She wanted to have a family of her own and spend the rest of her life with Quinn, but she had other dreams, and she knew she’d be as dull as worn calico without them.

  “I want an answer,” Quinn pressed.

  Melissa lifted her chin. “Very well, then,” she replied. “My answer is no, Mr. Rafferty.”

  Twenty-one

  Melissa moved back into her room at the State Hotel the following morning. Knowing that it would be unwise to engage in heavy physical labor too soon, and wanting to avoid Quinn Rafferty, she concentrated on her writing. She was careful to eat properly, and get her sleep, and take a walk in the fresh air every day. At the end of ten days the weakness was gone.

  The sky was a soul-wrenching shade of blue that bright spring morning when she set out for the newspaper office, where Charlotte had been working diligently for nearly two weeks. Passing drunks tipped their hats to Melissa as she made her way along the wooden sidewalk and into the building that had once been the Rip Snortin’ Saloon.

  Even though the progress Charlotte had made came as no surprise to her—she’d visited almost every day—Melissa felt a twinge of guilt as she surveyed the ground floor. Every speck of dirt was gone, the bar and mirror had been removed, and the walls had been whitewashed. Two of Quinn’s mill hands had delivered the printing press in a wagon just that morning, and Charlotte had already polished it until it glowed.

  With a soft smile Melissa approached the ancient flatbed press and touched the handle, dreaming. Sadness filled her because she could not have Quinn and the newspaper, too.

  There was a sound behind her at the swinging doors, and Melissa turned, expecting to have to chase away a reveler. Occasionally men wandered in thinking that the Rip Snortin’ Saloon had reopened.

  The visitor was Miss Emma Bradberry, and she was in the company of a short, rotund man with a flowing white mustache and a hairless pate. “This is my papa,” Miss Emma explained bluntly, looking very uncomfortable. “Mr. Wilson Bradberry. Papa, may I present to you Mrs.—er—Miss—”

  Melissa took pity on the embarrassed Emma, who was clearly at a loss to explain the scandalous intricacies of the situation, and stepped forward, her hand out in greeting, a smile fixed on her face. “I’m Melissa Corbin,” she said warmly. “How do you do?”

  Wilson Bradberry cleared his throat, and in that moment Melissa knew that this pleasant-looking little man had not come to bring good news. “My daughter tells me that she’s sold you my press and you intend to publish a newspaper.”

  Melissa nodded, and out of the corner of one eye she saw Charlotte edging cautiously down the stairs.

  “What do you know about newspapering, young lady?” Mr. Bradberry demanded, not unkindly.

  “Not much,” Melissa answered, shrugging her shoulders. “But I did graduate from the University of Washington, and I’ve published a few—works of fiction.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Bradberry, who was clearly unimpressed. He lapsed into a pensive mood then, seeming to forget that there were other people around.

  “Is there a problem?” Melissa was forced to ask when the silence grew interminable. By that time Charlotte had worked her way to her employer’s side.

  Mr. Bradberry awakened from his reflections with a harumph and a small start. “There is, you see, in that I’ve brought presses all the way from New York and just this morning bought the land and lumber to construct a building to house my newspaper.”

  Melissa felt as though the floorboards had parted and she was about to drop through. While thriving, Port Riley was not large enough to support two newspapers, and she knew she couldn’t hope to compete with Mr. Bradberry. He had years of experience and a reputation in town, while she had only dreams. The disappointment was overwhelming, but Melissa was determined to lose graciously. “I wish you every good fortune, of course,” she said.

  Mr. Bradberry was staring at her, sizing her up. He harumphed again. “You say you’ve written fiction. That’s different from dealing with good, solid facts, you know.”

  Melissa nodded. “I meant to learn by doing,” she said sadly, hurting as her dream died.

  The old man looked around with approval in his eyes. “There’s something to be said for plain old bullheaded courage, young woman, and I can see that you have plenty of that. If you still have a hankering to learn reporting when my presses are up and running, you come and see me.”

  Feeling a faint flicker of hope at this, Melissa bit her lower lip and then nodded. “Would there be a job for my friend Charlotte?” she ventured to ask. “She’s the one who did most of the heavy work around here.”

  Mr. Bradberry assessed Charlotte with the same crisp dispatch with which he’d studied Melissa and then agreed, with an abrupt jerk of his head. He seemed preoccupied now, looking around him. “You know, we could house my presses in here, just until the new place is built. It would be a little cramped, but—”

  “Papa,” Emma protested, speaking for the first time since she’d made introductions, “this is a saloon!”

  “It’s got four walls and a roof,” Bradberry replied dismissively. His eyes danced with energy and exuberance as he looked at Melissa. “What do you say, miss? Can we come to some sort of arrangement?”

  Melissa was beginning to see the positive aspects of the situation. The sooner Mr. Bradberry’s newspaper could be published, the sooner she could start learning to be a reporter. “Yes,” she said, her chin high. “I think we can.”

  At that Mr. Bradberry shook Melissa’s hand, and then Charlotte’s, promising to return with his presses and other equipment within the next few days.

  “Have I told you that I’m a twin?” Miss Emma called back as her father dragged her out of the building.

  With a sigh Melissa crossed the room and sank into one of the chairs Charlotte had lined up along the wall.

>   She put both hands to her face, drew a deep breath, and let it out again. “Well, I guess I’m beaten before I start,” she said.

  Charlotte came and sat beside her. “Maybe it’s better this way, Melissa.”

  Melissa knew that it was—Mr. Bradberry had a lot to teach her, and she should be glad that he was willing to give her a chance to learn. Still, she’d made plans, and now she was set adrift.

  Her eyes widened as she remembered her pregnancy. Mr. Bradberry had not known about that when he’d offered her an opportunity to write for his newspaper. It went without saying that he would not be amenable to the idea of a woman with a watermelon stomach dashing all over town to get a story.

  “Oh, Charlotte,” she wailed, despondent, “what about my baby?”

  Charlotte looked glum. It was enough of a miracle that a seasoned newspaper publisher had been willing to consider a woman for a job; for him to accept a pregnant one would be unheard of. “You have a few months to prove yourself,” she said lamely, spreading her hands and looking very sad.

  It was time to face defeat, Melissa decided. The only thing to do now was go home to Port Hastings. There she and her child would be surrounded by a loving family, and she could open a dress shop or a candy store.

  Completely depressed, she paid Charlotte what she owed her and left.

  Her walk carried her past the pretty saltbox houses and the tree where Ajax’s motorcar had met its disastrous fate. She skirted the exclusive Seaside Hotel for the rocky beach that fronted it.

  Far out on the strait a luxury ship was passing, and its great whistle droned a greeting to Port Riley. Seagulls chattered and squalled against the skies, and at the top of a grassy slope, on the hotel lawn, people laughed over a game of croquet. Although she had vast sums of money at her disposal, Melissa did not feel like one of the privileged any longer. She was a person meant for mediocrity, a failure, and the knowledge was crippling, for she had been bred to be special.

  She stopped there on the beach to struggle against a wave of sheer misery. High on the hill there was a crack, and presently a brightly colored wooden ball rolled to a stop beside Melissa’s shoe.