Harper's Bride

by Alexis Harrington

  More than her dress, though, he remembered her expression of pure, ashen terror when he'd glanced up to find her standing over there by the basket of oranges. Fierce annoyance had been his first reaction; why the hell had she chosen that moment of all moments to walk in? If the miner had decided to make the situation uglier than it was, having a woman in the mix could have complicated things considerably.

  But he knew that Rafe was right. She feared Dylan more than anybody else. He felt certain that she'd seen her share of violence in her life. And in a town like Dawson, where everyone was struck with gold fever, scrapes like the one with the miner were bound to occur. Still, he didn't want her to be afraid of him; how would she share that small living space upstairs—how would she even work for him—if she feared him?

  Settling his hat, he recalled that Elizabeth had been afraid of him sometimes, but she had seemed to relish the fear. It had excited her. In turn, she had aroused in him a dark, hot desire that gave him no peace, not even after their clandestine moments in his bed over the stables. He paused, his gaze fixed unseeing on the passing traffic. How did she like her life now? he wondered bitterly, with her wealthy, dull husband—

  As he climbed the stairs, he heard the muffled sound of the baby squalling and it shook him from his thoughts. None of his past mattered now, he knew, and looking back to review regrets was one of the biggest mistakes a man could make.

  When he opened the door, he saw steaming food on the stove, and Melissa pacing back and forth with the baby in her arms. Hearing him, she whirled and her expression made him think of a doe he'd once startled in the woods. Their eyes had locked for just a moment, and he had seen her terror before she bolted off through the brush.

  "Oh! I'll have your dinner for you in just a minute." She put the baby in her crate, and the child began howling again. In a rush she slapped the potatoes, ham, and some biscuits on the table, all the while shifting her gaze between him and Jenny. Then she hurried to the crate and picked up the baby again.

  Baffled, Dylan threw his hat on the bed and sat down at the place she'd set for him. "Aren't you going to eat?".

  Melissa paced the small floor, jogging Jenny in her arms. "No, not now. Not until—" The baby's wails climbed to ear-piercing shrieks. "Oh, please, button, please don't cry," she begged. With her cheek pressed to Jenny's head, plainly she was beside herself with worry.

  Dylan took a bite of the ham. It tasted good, but he couldn't really enjoy it while the agitated woman paced with her screaming child in this little room. Her pale hair had come loose from its knot again and hung beside her face in damp tendrils. He pushed the other chair out with his foot. "Maybe if you stop pacing and sit down?" he suggested. He didn't know much about kids but he thought that Melissa was making things worse.

  She eyed him warily.

  "Come on," he urged.

  Melissa edged closer, feeling as if she were approaching a wild dog, and perched on the edge of the chair.

  "What's the matter with her? Is she sick?" Dylan asked over the bawling.

  "No, I don't think so," she said, hearing the overwrought edge in her own voice. "She usually isn't like this—I just don't know what it is." She continued to jog Jenny frantically in her arms, all to no avail. The baby turned the color of a ripe plum with her screeching. "Jenny, Jenny, don't carry on so, sweetheart, please."

  Melissa glanced up at Dylan's stem face, and her heart thundered inside her rib cage. She was familiar with that kind of expression—he looked angry and impatient, while he fixed her and the baby with that hard glare. On top of that, his dinner was growing cold in front of him, and she knew how men hated that. Oh, God, please make Jenny be quiet, please, please, please—

  Suddenly, Dylan reached out to touch the baby's forehead. Melissa pulled back and clutched Jenny to her chest, unable to completely bite back a scream of her own.

  He withdrew his hand and stared at her. "Does she have a fever?" he asked in that quiet, deadly serious voice she'd heard him use on the miner.

  She shook her head and kept her eyes down, resenting him in that moment because she feared him, and hating the way it crippled her.

  Melissa heard the legs of his chair scrape across the floor, and she held her breath. Now she would hear his boot heels on the plank flooring as he came around to her side of the table. She waited for the sharp, heavy impact of his fist, or the fiery burn of a slap. Either, she knew from experience, would make her head feel as if it were going to come off with the blow. Lights would flash behind her eyes, like a thousand candle flames bursting into stars. She bent farther over Jenny, shielding her as best she could, and drew in a deep, sobbing breath.

  But instead of coming toward her, she heard the boot heels walk away, and then the door opened and closed. His footsteps rumbled down the stairs and glancing up, she found she was alone with Jenny. Dylan's plate still held most of his dinner, and his coffee was untouched.

  She and the baby had driven him out of his own place. No man would tolerate that, and it wouldn't surprise her if he went to the saloon. Now she had to worry about when he would come back, and in what condition. For a wild moment Melissa considered piling everything in the room against the door to keep him out. Or maybe she could pack up Jenny and leave before he got back.

  And go where? she asked herself, trying to hear her own thoughts over the baby's crying. Could she find some kind of work? She wished she could dissolve into tears like Jenny, but she had to keep her wits about her or she would be utterly and irretrievably lost.

  But before she could formulate any other ideas, she heard Dylan coming up the stairs again. He'd been gone only a moment—strange that she had already learned the sound of his steps.

  He flung open the door, then maneuvered an oak rocking chair through the narrow doorway. His sun-streaked hair fell forward, obscuring his face as he wrestled it into the room. "I had this downstairs," he said, straightening. He carried it to the window and angled it so that it faced the street. A mild breeze drifted in. "Rafe will probably miss it, but I thought it might help."

  Melissa gaped at him, taken by complete surprise. She sat motionless, still perched where he'd left her, and stared at Dylan's handsome face. She saw no anger there, no threat.

  He came closer, slowly and carefully. Then he held out his hand. "Come and sit by the window for a few minutes. It might make both of you feel better." He didn't raise his voice over Jenny's squalling, but Melissa heard him perfectly.

  "I'm sorry your dinner got cold," she babbled. "I can put it back in the—"

  "It doesn't matter, Melissa. I'll take care of it." He pushed his open hand closer to her. She hesitated, then shifting Jenny to one arm, put her own hand in his palm. His fingers closed around hers, and he helped her to her feet.

  "Thank you," she murmured as she settled in the rocker. Giving a push with the heel of her shoe, she set the chair in motion. It felt welcoming and soothing, and even Jenny began to quiet.

  He turned to walk to the table, then stopped and fixed her with a direct look "I've never hit a woman in my life. I sure as hell don't plan to start now."

  Dylan sat down at the table and poked a fork into his cold dinner. It tasted good, but he wasn't very hungry. The sight of Melissa huddling over her child, obviously trying to protect them both, had stolen his appetite. And the naked gratitude and relief he'd seen in her eyes when he brought in the rocker had startled him. Did she really believe that all men were like Logan? Was that the only way of life she had known?

  His gaze fell on her again. She sat in a shaft of sunlight that slanted through the open window. It cast a bright halo over her blond hair as she looked down at the baby and rocked her, stroking her silken head with her hand. For just an instant, he wondered what it would feel like if her hand stroked his hair. Would it heal? Would it bring forgetfulness?

  Presently, he heard Melissa humming softly in a voice so sweet that he put down his fork to listen. The picture of mother and child was perfect in that moment, and Dylan felt
a stirring in his soul. Once, a long time ago it now seemed, he'd envisioned his own wife holding their baby like this. He dragged his gaze back to his food. Once, a long time ago, Dylan had let his love for a woman drive him to distraction.

  It was a mistake he swore he would not repeat.

  That night Melissa lay in Dylan's bed, made with the clean new sheets she'd bought. The quiet, semi-dusk of midnight gave the room a mellow pink glow. Jenny slept. She had at last exhausted herself when Melissa had calmed down too.

  The sack of rice still separated her from the fierce, sun-blond man on the other side of the mattress. But he didn't seem quite as frightening now, and she didn't cling so tightly to the edge of the bed. She heard his slow, even breathing and knew he slept, too.

  There were no guarantees in life, but tonight the agreement into which they'd entered at the Yukon Girl Saloon had been sealed.

  And it had been accomplished with the gift of a rocking chair.

  Chapter Five

  Over the next few days, with decent food and a little peace, Melissa began to regain her strength. She still jumped at loud voices and noises, but not every time, and the bruise on her face had finally faded.

  The rocking chair had proved to be a godsend. After that one horrible night, Jenny had settled down again into her sweet-tempered disposition, but Melissa loved to rock the baby while she fed her or put her to sleep. Sometimes they just sat by the window and rocked while Melissa sang to her. Jenny would stare up at her with wide eyes and a half smile, captivated. Although the noise from the street below was nearly continuous, it was the quietest, most tranquil time that Melissa had known as a mother—in fact, in her whole life.

  No loud voice assaulted her ears, no drunken man demanded intimate access to her body, slobbering kisses on her and using her until he passed out.

  Though she viewed Dylan as an intimidating man, now she didn't always flinch when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. And, true to his word, he had not made one attempt to touch her in any way beyond the night he offered her his hand. Except for meals, though, she hardly saw him. They settled into a routine he spent most of his time downstairs in his store, and Melissa kept to this room, cleaning and cooking and taking care of Jenny.

  She was in a peculiar position. She knew that she and Jenny were invading his privacy, and that he felt stuck with them, as if they were a pair of charity cases. Which, she supposed, they were. She wasn't really Mrs. Harper; she worked for him, he said. And he had given her money last Saturday, telling her it was a week's wages. But her job was not like a shop girl's, or a factory worker's, or even a domestic's, at least not like her mother's had been at the Pettigreaves's. In order to earn her keep and pay back Coy's debt, she would have to do more than just sweep this room and cook. At any rate, it wasn't enough to keep her busy.

  Dawson was like a giant carnival, and Melissa knew that a lot of gold dust changed hands in this town, more money than she had ever seen in her life. A lot of people were growing wealthy just by catering to miners and free-spending Klondike kings. Dylan himself was making his money that way. There had to be some way she could do that, too. Having cash would give her independence and security, and the ability to safeguard Jenny's future. Nothing seemed more important to her—not nice clothes, not a husband, not even love.

  Her budding desire to improve her lot was reinforced early one morning shortly after the incident with the rocker, when she and Dylan were standing under the side stairs. There Melissa had set up a washtub and scrub board to do their laundry, and Dylan had carried down some of the wash for her.

  From the milling crowd, a petite, well-dressed woman with a plain face hailed them. "Dylan Harper! I haven't seen you in weeks."

  Melissa recognized Belinda Mulrooney, one of the most successful entrepreneurs, man or woman, to come to the Yukon. She was highly respected and admired for her business savvy; Melissa wished that she possessed one quarter of her shrewdness.

  "I'm here at the store every day, Belinda. You keep yourself pretty busy," Dylan replied, chuckling.

  Everything about the woman, even her bearing, seemed energetic, Melissa thought.

  "That I do. There are too many opportunities in this town to let one get past me. You should've taken advantage of that lay I told you about. The first one I took out measured five hundred feet square, and I got a thousand dollars a day for the month that I had it."

  A lay, Melissa knew, was a short-term, temporary arrangement, whereby a claim owner allowed another person to mine the property in exchange for a percentage of the gold found there. A few people had suggested this kind of enterprise to Coy. He'd rejected the idea outright, saying he was no sharecropper. The truth, of course, was that such an arrangement would have required him to work.

  Dylan shifted his weight to one hip and rubbed the back of his neck, giving the impression of mock regret. "Well, I know about horses, not mining. Besides, I didn't have any interest in digging around in the dirt."

  Belinda grinned archly. "When that kind of money is involved, I'd dig in a hog wallow." She looked Melissa up and down, although not unkindly. "Are you going to introduce me to this lady, Dylan?"

  Melissa shifted Jenny in her arms, feeling awkward, and waited to see what he would say.

  He straightened. "Oh, uh, this is Melissa Lo—Harper. Melissa, this is Belinda Mulrooney. She's got her finger in just about every successful business venture in Dawson."

  "Flatterer," Belinda said, then echoed, "Did you say Melissa Harper?" She glanced at Jenny.

  "Well, it's a long—" Melissa began.

  "Melissa is my . . . wife."

  Belinda considered them both with a perceptive look, then glanced at Melissa's left hand. She didn't have a wedding ring—Coy had sold it long ago, and Dylan hadn't given her one. Surprised by Dylan's comment, Melissa waited for her to say something about the baby, or their obviously hasty marriage, but she only smiled.

  "Congratulations, Dylan, I hadn't heard. How very nice to meet you Mrs. Harper. I've known Dylan, here, for a couple of years. He was one of the first people I met when I came up."

  "Oh," Melissa replied faintly.

  "You two must come by when I open my hotel. It should be ready in another couple of weeks. I'm calling it the Fairview, and it'll be the grandest place in Dawson." She began listing the hotel's attributes, ticking them off on her fingers. "I'll have twenty-two rooms with electric lights and steam heat. There'll be an orchestra in the lobby, and bone china and sterling in the dining room." She reached up to readjust her black straw hat in the stiff breeze that blew under the cloudy sky. "I've got brass beds and crystal chandeliers coming in over White Pass, so I'm leaving for Skagway tomorrow to oversee the whole thing."

  "Are you going alone?" Melissa asked. It seemed like a fearsome thing for a woman to do. Skagway was a raw, wild place, far more so than Dawson.

  Belinda waved her hand dismissively. "Absolutely. I have to make sure the packers I hired don't break those chandeliers, or cheat me."

  She bade them good-bye then, and bustled down the street like a whirlwind through the crowd toward the site of the Fairview to harass her construction workers.

  Dylan chuckled again and shook his head as he watched her go. "She's a real piece of work, that Belinda."

  He took her arm as they walked toward the store for soap. Melissa had to admit that she liked the feel of his hand under her elbow.

  "Thank you for, well, for not embarrassing me in front of her." She looked up at him, at the way his streaked hair caught in the wind and blew back behind his shoulders. Had she noticed the curve of his full mouth before?

  "Oh, you mean I didn't belch or scratch where I shouldn't?" He grinned, showing her dimples and white, straight teeth.

  The joke was so completely unexpected, Melissa burst into laughter. The Dylan Harper she knew didn't make jokes. Or so she had thought.

  "No, that's not what I meant. You didn't have to tell her that I'm your wife."

  "What else could I
have said?" His smile faded. Releasing her arm, he shoved his hands into his front pockets, as if suddenly self-conscious. "I don't think she believed it, anyway."

  "Maybe not," Melissa said softly, almost wishing he still held her elbow. But his deed counted for more than his credibility. When he had told her that she could use his name, she never once expected that he would go out of his way to introduce her as his wife.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, Rafe Dubois had told her the truth when he said that Dylan Harper was a gentleman.

  *~*~*

  "You want to work? Our agreement was that you would work here for me. What more do you think you can do when you have a baby to watch?" Dylan asked when they went back upstairs.

  She had broached the subject of her working with trepidation. If he'd planned on her looking after only his own wants, he might forbid her from doing anything else, and be angry besides But after meeting Belinda Mulrooney, Melissa had given more and more thought to making some money of her own.

  Dylan stood at the mirror over the washstand, barefoot and wearing only a pair of jeans while he shaved. The sun, up since three-thirty, was bright beyond the canvas curtains and fell across his bare back, outlining the plane of his shoulders with light and shadow. Melissa tried not to stare at the ridges of muscles that flanked the long hollow of his spine, or the way his jeans seemed to hang suspended below his narrow waist and follow the curve of his backside. She didn't want to notice any of those things—he wasn't her husband and she didn't want another one after Coy. But she found the sight hard to ignore.

  "Coy told me that saloon girls make a hundred dollars a night just for peddling drinks and dancing with miners," she replied, shifting her attention to the sink full of breakfast dishes that she was washing.

  He looked at her over his shoulder, his razor stilled in his hand, and the lower half of his face hidden by shaving soap. "Jesus, you want to work in a saloon?"