Harper's Bride

by Alexis Harrington

  The clerk gestured at the door and hurried away, as if he didn't want to know what was on the other side of it. Taking a deep breath, Dylan lifted his hand and knocked lightly.

  Belinda herself, dressed in purple taffeta but looking drawn and pale, opened the door. The canvas walls surrounding the door frame shivered slightly, like the painted backdrop of a stage play.

  "How is he?" Dylan murmured.

  She shook her head and stepped out into the hallway. "I don't think it will be long, Dylan. I have to get back to the front. You'll stay with him for a while?"

  He nodded. A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach at the finality of her words. Walking into the room with leaden feet, he heard Belinda close the door behind him.

  Inside, the two window shades were pulled against a bright afternoon sun, creating a gloomy sanctum. There was a closed-up, musty odor in here, even though the building was less than two months old. Dylan had smelled that odor once or twice before—it had preceded death.

  Though his eyes were closed and he wore a striped nightshirt, Rafe lay propped on pillows in a polished brass bed. In fact, there were so many pillows behind him, he was practically sitting up. Seeing that, at first Dylan thought that the situation wasn't as critical as he'd feared. Maybe this was just a passing malady, and Rafe would recover.

  But when he pulled a chair dose to the bed and sat down, he realized his hopes were groundless, and the icy knot inside him grew colder still. The lawyer's breathing was as labored as he'd ever heard, and his lips had a faint blue cast. His crepey skin looked like putty-colored wax with a day's growth of beard, and his face was oddly puffy, especially around the eyes. Seeing him now, it was hard to believe that he was only thirty-four years old.

  "Rafe, it's me, Dylan."

  His eyes opened a slit, then, as if satisfied that Dylan was there, he closed them again.

  "Glad you came." His words were slurred and slow in coming. "I guess my luck . . . has finally run out. I always knew . . . it would."

  "God, Rafe, shouldn't I get a doctor?" Dylan asked, straining against his helplessness. He wasn't accustomed to just sitting by and doing nothing. "If there's a chance one could help—"

  "Been and gone . . . been and gone. 'Sorry, friend . . . your heart has failed.' Not a startling revelation. It was never . . . a secret that I would die."

  No, it hadn't been. But Dylan hadn't known that he would be around to see his friend off on his final journey. In his mind he'd believed Rafe would always be there, sitting at a card table in the Yukon Girl, or leaning against the bar with a bottle and a glass. It seemed to him that one way or another, over the years he had lost everyone and everything that mattered to him. A fever had taken his mother. Elizabeth had been lost to greed. His horses were forfeited. And now Rafe. Sometimes he wondered if that was all life was about—loss.

  He put a hand on the thin forearm lying on top of the blankets. "Is there anything you'd like me to do for you? Any debts paid or scores settled? Anything?"

  Rafe grew a deep, ragged breath and glanced at Dylan again. The sunken, drowsy look in his eyes was more pronounced than it had been just the day before. "The Lemieux case—the parish magistrate will hear it tomorrow . . . Mon coeur est sans espoir . . . "

  He rambled like a man talking in his sleep. Dylan leaned forward a bit, waiting for Rafe's mind to clear. "Do you want me to get Father William?" The priest was eternally busy, but if Rafe wanted to see him, Dylan would offer the man whatever donation he asked for his hospital.

  "No, that's not it," he replied, sounding lucid again, but weaker. "That poke there on the bureau . . . there's some gold dust in it. Give it to . . . give it to Melissa."

  Dylan was surprised. "Melissa?"

  The conversation was interrupted by a strangling coughing fit from Rafe. When he finally recovered his wind, he was soaked with sweat and his energy was just about gone. "Yes, damn it . . . give it to her. She might need it."

  "Okay, Rafe, okay. I'll take care of it."

  Apparently satisfied, he drew in another noisy, labored breath. He made a feeble effort to smile, but even that seemed to be beyond the exhausted man. "We had a hell of a good . . . time, didn't we?" Dylan smiled and nodded, feeling his throat tighten. "That we did."

  "And you've been a good friend. I doubt that was . . . always easy. I tend to drink a bit."

  Dylan wished he could laugh at the understatement. "You're a true friend, too, Rafe."

  "It's over now. I'm not afraid, but . . . God, I wish I'd done everything . . . differently, and this isn't a good time to discover that. I want you to . . . think about your own life . . . don't waste it on old grievances. Don't waste it at all."

  Dylan gave his arm a light squeeze, then released it. He was horrified to find that his fingers had left impressions in Rafe's flesh, but he didn't seem to notice.

  A few moments of silence fell between them, and Dylan watched Rafe's chest labor in his effort to breathe.

  "Priscilla . . ." He spoke so faintly, Dylan couldn't have called it a whisper. "Tell Priscilla . . . that I'm sorry . . . tell her I love . . ."

  Those were the last words that Rafe Dubois spoke. A rattle began to sound in his throat. Then he exhaled a final time.

  An unearthly stillness settled over the room.

  Suddenly, Dylan found himself alone.

  He stood and put his hand on Rafe's chest and felt no movement, no heartbeat. Then he sank back into the chair, feeling far older than his own twenty-nine years.

  *~*~*

  When he left Rafe's room, Dylan found Belinda in the busy hotel bar and told her that he'd arrange for the undertaker.

  She signaled for a bottle and one glass and led him to a relatively quiet corner table. The sound of the lobby orchestra carried easily through the fabric walls. Overhead, her cut-glass chandeliers sparkled with electric light

  "Dylan, I'm sorry. I know you two were friends." She pointed out one of the bartenders. "I had Andrew, there, look in on him, but he said it was hopeless."

  About to pour a drink, he set the bottle down on the table, hard. His emotions were raw and his temper short. "Christ, Belinda, in this whole town couldn't you have found a real doctor? Since when is a goddamned bartender an expert about whether a man will live or die?" he snapped.

  A woman not known for her patience, she demonstrated exceptional restraint in the face of his rudeness. The only change in her expression was a slight lowering of her brows. "All of my bartenders are American doctors and dentists. They can't get British licenses to practice here so I gave them jobs mixing drinks instead of medicines."

  Feeling foolish, he rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "Sorry—I didn't know."

  She picked up the whiskey bottle and poured his shot for him. "That's all right," she said, then looked up at him and winked. "Just pay your tab when you leave." She pushed herself away from the table and went back to work.

  Dylan drank his shot and paid six dollars for it. Apparently no one drank for free in Belinda's place, regardless of the circumstances or the occasion. After he left the hotel, he made arrangements with an undertaker on Second Avenue to collect Rafe's remains and organize the funeral. Then he stepped back out into the sunny glare and jostling crowds on Front Street and began walking, with no particular destination.

  For the first time in two years, he felt lost, disconnected. The isolated little tent town he'd once known was growing so quickly, it changed its face on an almost daily basis.

  Change wasn't necessarily bad, he reflected as he passed the skeleton of a new building. And it was unavoidable—plans and people changed, friends sometimes drifted away. Or died. But there was comfort in some things staying the same, and that was what he missed. Rafe had been a dependable constant, his best friend in Dawson and one of the few truly good friends he'd ever had, for all that some had viewed him as an acerbic though stylish drunk. No one could comment on this carnival with the wit and perception that Rafe had conveyed.

  After wandering a
long Front Street, Dylan finally found himself in front of his own store. He looked up at the second-floor window. Melissa was up there. He felt drawn to her, as a traveler adrift on a moonless night would gravitate to a light in a window.

  She and Jenny had added something to his life here, and he'd gotten used to having them with him. For just a moment he wished he could go up there and bury his head in Melissa's lap and tell her about his worries. She would hum to him and stroke his hair and make everything seem right again.

  He could tell himself that Rafe's incident with Priscilla had no relevance to himself and Melissa—and he would probably be right. But in the corner of his heart, he knew the difference wasn't that great.

  God, he didn't want to die the way Rafe had, alone and calling for a woman he'd yearned for but never held close. A man ought to make his life count for something more than a lot of regrets about things left undone and unsaid.

  He just wanted to go home—to leave this place and go back to Oregon. But leaving here would mean saying good-bye to Melissa, too, and he was beginning to think he might not be able to do that.

  He went into the store for a bottle of whiskey—someone should lift a glass to Rafe's memory. His gaze fell on the empty chair in the corner where his friend had spent so many hours, pitching cards at a chamber pot and commenting on the human condition. A dull ache crept up from his chest to his throat, and he felt his eyes start to burn.

  Damn it, he thought and grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck. If he stayed here by himself, he'd end up bawling like a little kid—for his friend and for himself—and he didn't want to do that. Striding to the door, he yanked it open and headed upstairs.

  That small room was home, and right now the only one he had.

  *~*~*

  Melissa had looked at the clock at least a dozen times in the last forty-five minutes. Hours had passed since Dylan left. She'd gone downstairs to see if he was in the store. She'd even peeked over the swinging doors at the Yukon Girl. There was no sign of him, or Rafe either.

  Now she paced the small floor, wearing the clothes she had put on to go to dinner. She had avoided sitting much for fear of wrinkling her nice dress, and her feet were getting tired in her new shoes.

  Jenny had started fussing as well, as if she, too, were waiting for his return. But it looked as if he wouldn't be back in time for the Fairview dinner.

  Melissa had no idea why Dylan had left so abruptly. She assumed it had something to do with Rafe—something very serious—but what, she couldn't guess.

  Unless . . . Oh, God, what if Rafe had grown worse?

  He had stopped to talk to her yesterday when he dropped by the store. He'd shuffled and wheezed like an old man and hadn't looked much better than one.

  Maybe he needed someone to take care of him. Maybe he'd even been become bedridden. Nothing was as bad as not knowing.

  Jenny's displeasure rose in volume, and Melissa picked up the baby to walk her. "Oh, button, please don't start in now," she urged, jogging the baby as she paced. Her tension mounted with each circuit.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she heard Dylan's footsteps on the stairs. Putting Jenny in her cradle, she turned just as he walked in, and with one glimpse of his face, knew something terrible had happened. Beyond his handsomeness and his presence that filled any room he entered, he looked haggard, as if he hadn't slept in days. Even his wide shoulders seemed to droop. Her heart jumped in her chest, and she was engulfed by a feeling of dread.

  "Dylan, what's wrong?"

  He put a bottle on the floor next to him and sank into a chair, weary and boneless. When he looked up at her, she saw loss in his green eyes. "Rafe is dead."

  She gaped at him. "What?"

  He nodded and leaned forward to put his head in his hands. His long, sun-streaked hair fell forward, obscuring part of his face. "Not more than an hour ago."

  Her hands and stomach were suddenly icy. "How? What happened? Did someone kill him? Was there an accident?"

  "You know he's been fading for the past few weeks. He had that weak heart. It finally gave out."

  Rafe had told her about it once. He said he'd gotten it from rheumatism fever when he was a boy.

  "Oh, Dylan, no," she murmured, feeling her eyes sting with tears. Rafe had been the one who rescued her from Coy, even if the proceedings at the saloon had been only for show, so that Dylan could give her a place to go from there. "I'm so sorry."

  She wished she could offer the solace of her arms. Sometimes an embrace was more comforting than words. But though she had felt him watching her when he thought she wasn't looking, after that one kiss he had kept his distance. So instead she sat across the table from him, her heart aching with love for him and grief for Rafe's passing.

  "Did you get to say good-bye?" she asked. How she wished she'd known yesterday that she would never see him again.

  "Yeah. Belinda Mulrooney sat with him until I got there. He didn't last long after that."

  She gazed at the checkered oilcloth on the table, trying to conquer her quivering voice. "At least he didn't die alone. That would have been terrible." She plucked at a loose thread in the cloth. "I hope he was at peace."

  He lifted his head then and looked at her. "I don't think he . . ." His words had a croaky sound. "He had a few regrets. His life wasn't long enough to let him do all the things he wanted." He sat back in his chair and pulled a leather pouch from his pocket. "He asked me to give this to you." He pushed it across the table to her.

  "Me?" She sat back and blinked. "I-I can't accept this, Dylan. He was your friend. You should have it." His gaze skittered away from hers, and he shrugged like a guilty-looking child who claimed to not know who took the last cookie. "He thought you might need it."

  Might need it. For the day when Dylan told her he was going home. She reached out and lifted the pouch—it was heavy. She drew a shaky sigh. "Will there be a funeral?"

  He massaged his forehead with his fingertips. "The undertaker is arranging something for ten o'clock tomorrow morning," he replied woodenly. He leaned over and picked up the bottle he'd brought in with him, then went to the shelf for a glass.

  Melissa's eyes riveted on the dark brown bottle as if it were rattlesnake. The memory of a hundred nights, maybe a thousand, came crowding in on her mind, blotting out everything—Rafe's death, Dylan's grief, her own love for him. All she saw was a whiskey bottle in her father's hands, in Coy's hands, and imagining everything that had gone with it—the arguing, the hitting, the voices raised in anger—

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  Dylan looked at her with a puzzled expression. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm going to have a drink."

  Melissa knew that he went down to the saloon now and then—sometimes she could even smell the alcohol on his breath. She didn't like it, although she didn't have to be around it, either. But he'd never brought a bottle upstairs before.

  "No, you can't," she said and pushed her chair away from the table. "I mean, not here you can't. Not here."

  "What do you mean, I can't?" he demanded.

  "You have to take that bottle out of here. I don't care where." She heard the harpy tone in her voice, the creeping hysteria, but she couldn't stop it.

  His brows dropped even lower. "The hell I will. What's got into you? I just watched my best friend die, and I want a drink." With angry defiance he uncorked the bottle and sloshed the amber liquid up to the rim of the short glass, but made no move to take a sip.

  Jenny began to complain again, but Melissa stood fast, trembling with years of suppressed anger and hurt. "I lived with that"—she pointed at the liquor—"all my life and I don't want to anymore. I'm not asking for much—please, take that outside or downstairs or wherever you want to pour it down your throat. I don't want to be around it."

  Rafe's gray, sunken face stayed in Dylan's mind as clearly as if he were looking at its photograph. He was in no mood to analyze what bothered Melissa. She stood on the other side of the table, r
eminding him of a pinched-up temperance worker, and sounding like Elizabeth at her worst and most demanding. Her gray eyes flashed, and the color was high in her cheeks.

  "Please, Dylan—this isn't a joke," she stressed.

  Disillusionment and grief combined to give him a temper one inch long. He slammed the bottle down near the edge of the table. A dollop of whiskey shot out of the top and splashed his hand. "Now you listen to me," he said, pointing at her. "I'm not your father, and I'm not your husband. That means you're not my wife. This is my room. I built it with my own two hands, and I'll do whatever I please here, when I please."

  Her face became flushed, and her chin quivered ever so slightly. "Shall we leave, then, Jenny and I?"

  "No, damn it!" No. He plowed his hand through his hair, knowing he'd said the wrong thing.

  He stared at her, dressed for a dinner they wouldn't be going to. She'd pulled her hair back with a wide blue ribbon that matched the stripe in her dress. The gown showed off to perfection the fullness of her breasts, her small waist, the curve of her hip. Didn't she understand? Didn't she know how beautiful she was to him? Or how scared he was? He was afraid of losing her, but afraid of losing himself by loving her.

  But, then, how could he make her understand what he barely understood himself? He'd come upstairs, hoping to somehow escape his grief, hoping for comfort, and he couldn't ask her for it. He took a step toward her, his hands extended like a supplicant's, trying to keep his churning emotions out of his voice.

  "When a man dies, having lived just half of his years, with nothing to show for his life—no children, no legacy—" He choked to a stop, unable to find the words he needed.

  Melissa's expression softened, and he saw her tense shoulders relax a bit. "You don't see yourself in Rafe, do you? He always knew his time would be short."

  He stepped closer and took her hand in his. She looked so irresistible, so vital and warm. "Knowing doesn't make someone ready," he said, trying to grasp the depth of his own bewilderment. He rested his forehead against her shoulder and sighed.