Harper's Bride

by Alexis Harrington

  He walked to the straight-backed chair next to the stove and sat down with his elbows on his knees, letting the newspaper sail to the floor. Dead—the man who had worked so hard to bend Dylan to his will, he'd nearly broken him. The man who had scrambled to grow wealthy on the misfortune of others. And Scott, the stolid half brother who'd followed in the old man's footsteps, who'd stolen his fiancée. Well, maybe "stolen" wasn't the right word; Elizabeth had probably piloted that event. But they were gone, their lives snuffed out like candles, and all their maneuvering and all the money in the world couldn't save them.

  He looked at the date on the newspaper again—Thursday, May 12, 1898. That was more than three months ago. When he'd told Melissa he didn't expect to see his family again, he'd never once guessed that death would be the reason. Gathering the scattered pages from the floor, Dylan folded them up with hands that trembled slightly. Then he stood, walked outside, and rounded the corner to head upstairs.

  He'd been trying to decide whether to spend another winter in Dawson or go back to Oregon.

  With his fate turning on a brief visit from Big Alex McDonald, the decision had been made for him.

  *~*~*

  "I'm going home, Melissa. Back to The Dalles."

  Melissa sat at the table, sewing a button on one of his shirts. Swept with astonishment, she dropped the work and her hands fell still. He looked as pale as milk, and all the expression in his eyes seemed to have disappeared. "When? Why?"

  He pushed the newspaper across the table to her. Then with a heavy tread, he began pacing a short track in front of the stove, his head down, his hands jammed into his pockets.

  "As soon as I can sell this place, I'm leaving. I have to go back. My father and brother were killed three months ago."

  "Oh, dear God—"

  He gestured at the paper. "It's all there on page seventeen."

  Struggling to grasp this abrupt turn of events, Melissa glanced at the masthead, then opened the newspaper to the page he indicated. She read the opening lines of the story, then looked up at him. "Dylan, I'm so sorry. I know you weren't close, but—but this is horrible."

  He walked to the window and looked out at the hillsides beyond Dawson, apparently lost in thought and time, with his arms crossed over his chest and his weight shifted to one hip. Finally, he shrugged, as if baffled by his own decision. "I guess old ties run deeper than I thought."

  Melissa wondered if she would feel grief or sadness when her own father died, and didn't really know. Life with him had been so dreadful, all she might mourn is what could have been instead of what was. She looked up at his pensive, handsome profile. "I'd really be surprised if you felt nothing. In fact, I suppose I'd be disappointed."

  But he hadn't said "we're going," she realized. He was going.

  Reading further in the small newspaper article, though, she encountered one sentence above all others that stood out as if written in flaming letters six inches high, and perhaps explained Dylan's true purpose.

  Scott Harper is survived by his wife, Elizabeth Pettit Harper.

  "It doesn't make any sense to me, but I have to go and get back what's mine," he continued. "There sure was no love left between us. But death, somehow that puts things in a different light."

  "Yes, I'm sure it does," she replied, feeling cold and hollow inside.

  . . . survived by his wife, Elizabeth . . .

  He turned for a moment and faced her. "Look, this doesn't change anything between you and me, not at all."

  She gazed at him, but said nothing. Of course, everything had changed, at least from her point of view. She felt as if every wish and dream she'd had besides wanting a good life for Jenny were suddenly crashing down around her. She knew she'd been a fool to let her hopes run away with her common sense, but there wasn't much comfort in the knowledge. Maybe for Dylan nothing had changed because he had no feelings for her beyond their original agreement. Right now, she envied him that as much as she resented him for it. Better that she had stuck with her original goal, to achieve independence for herself and Jenny, and not depend on a man for anything. Not even love.

  Pushing a hand through his hair, he began pacing again. Then he stopped and peered her. "You don't want to stay here alone, do you?"

  "In Dawson? Certainly not."

  He looked oddly relieved. "Good. I'll sell this place as soon as I can."

  "That's fine. It's time for me to go back to Oregon and stand on my own two feet." She tried to keep her voice from quivering.

  A slight frown creased his forehead. "Well . . . yeah, sure—if that's what you want."

  "It is. It's what I've worked for." It wasn't what she wanted at all. But what choice did she have? She couldn't compete with his memory of a woman, even if that woman had been, by his own admission, treacherous and scheming.

  "I'll book us passage on a steamer back to Portland. Once you're settled there, I'll go on to The Dalles."

  . . . Elizabeth . . .

  He walked to the door then, muttering to himself about finding a buyer for the store, or at least his inventory, about getting the details wrapped up before cold weather closed the rivers. "See you at dinner."

  A chilly gust blew in when he opened the door. Then he was gone.

  Melissa listened to his boots on the steps. She finished sewing on the button and carefully folded his shirt, smoothing the fabric with her hands. Then she hugged it to herself, burying her face in its folds, and wept.

  *~*~*

  "Sure, Dylan, I'll put the word out. I'll even take some of the goods off your hands if I can use them here in the hotel." Belinda Mulrooney waved off her bartender and poured coffee for Dylan herself.

  Dylan leaned against the counter in Belinda's fancy hotel bar. With her ear always listening for business deals and deal makers, not much escaped her attention. He thought she'd be a good person to see about selling his inventory.

  "Thanks, Belinda. I already talked to Seamus McGinty, too, so I'm hoping I can have this wrapped up within a week or two."

  "Dawson will miss you," she said, smiling, "but if you have family affairs to settle, I guess you'd better go back. Myself, I've been on my own for so long, I can't imagine having family to worry about."

  Just then, a fussy-looking clerk bustled over. "Miss Mulrooney, there you are. Count Carbonneau is here, asking for you."

  Belinda blushed prettily, surprising Dylan. "Oh! Tell him I'll be with him immediately, Ambrose." She turned back to him. "Dylan, if you'll excuse me," and she hurried off with the clerk.

  Although she was plain-featured, her wealth made her the best catch in the Yukon for an ambitious bachelor. But Dylan had never known one who could even get close, much less call on her. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with Ned Tanner the day that seemed so long ago now. "Belinda is too danged outspoken and too smart for her own good," Ned had complained.

  "Count, my mule's rump," he heard an eavesdropper chuckle farther down the bar. "That Charlie Carbonneau is nothing more than a slick-tongued barber from Montreal who came up here to sell champagne. I heard it from a French-Canadian who recognized him."

  "Maybe someone ought to tell Belinda," his companion suggested.

  "Hell, someone did. She doesn't care." The man shrugged. "I guess she likes the compliments he pays her and the roses he sends over every day. I'll bet you she marries him."

  "Belinda? Naw."

  "I'll bet you a whole day of dust she does."

  Even the smartest of women could be taken in by the right smooth-talking man, it seemed to Dylan. The conversation grew more boisterous then as the bar patrons debated Belinda's future marital status. But distracted by his own thoughts, he took a swallow of coffee and ignored it. With the load of regret resting on his heart, he would rather have had a whiskey, but decided that might be a bad idea. Sometimes liquor loosened a man's tongue and got him to admit things he wanted to keep to himself. With a couple of drinks in him, he might get the notion into his head to go back to their room and te
ll Melissa how he felt about her—that he didn't want to take Jenny and her to Portland and leave them there.

  He'd hoped she wouldn't want it either. But regardless of the intimacy they'd shared and the crises they'd come through, she was determined to make it on her own. Well, let her go, then, he told himself impatiently. He wouldn't risk revealing his heart, only to have her reject him. He'd stick to his original plan, and so would she.

  He wouldn't tell her that he'd grown accustomed to coming upstairs in the evening to the aroma of her cooking. Or that the sight of her nursing Jenny could, by turns, arouse him to a fever of desire, or put a lump in his throat that nearly brought tears to his eyes. He'd keep it to himself that her quiet singing was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

  He could just imagine the startled look on Melissa's face if he were to tell her that sometime during their summer together he'd begun to think of her as his wife.

  *~*~*

  Three short days later, dressed in a navy wool traveling suit and an elaborate hat graced with an ostrich feather, Melissa stood in the doorway and took one last look at the room where she had lived for the past few months. She'd swept the floor and dusted the plain furniture to leave a tidy place for the next occupant. Dylan had found a buyer to take not only his stock, but the building and its furnishings, too. Now he was off to hire a wagon to take them and their belongings to the docks where they would board a steamer for home.

  Home. She let her eyes follow the line of the rough log walls and the small area within them. Her gaze touched on the stove where she'd heated her irons and cooked their meals . . . the table where Dr. Garvin had examined Jenny that horrible night she got sick . . . the big, rough-hewn bed where Dylan had taken her with fierce, tender passion.

  It all belonged to someone else now.

  She closed the door with a quiet click and made her way downstairs where her belongings and Dylan's were stacked on the newly built sidewalk. They weren't taking much. Besides Jenny's cradle, Melissa hadn't owned more than what would fit in a big carpetbag, including her gold dust, and Dylan had his trunk. And of course, there was his gold. She didn't know its monetary value, but it was packed in two long rifle boxes reinforced with steel bands. And it was so heavy that Dylan had borrowed one of McGinty's bar boys to help him carry down each crate.

  The early morning air had a decided nip in it, and she cuddled Jenny closer. The baby had fully recovered, thank heavens, with no discernable aftereffects. Dr. Garvin had examined her one last time and found her to be sound. For one lingering moment she stood in the side street and looked up at the sign that hung there.

  Mrs. M. Harper's Laundry

  It surprised her now how much that sign had meant to her, and what it represented. She'd cursed Coy over and again for bringing her to this place, for mistreating her, for selfishly abandoning her. He'd given no thought to what kind of man he'd sold her and Jenny to. If possible, they might have been put in even more dire circumstances than they'd left, and to this day she didn't believe he'd have cared. Unintentionally, though, he'd done her a favor.

  Dylan had given her the freedom to do what she wanted and to be herself. He'd encouraged her to express her opinion, and she knew he loved Jenny. Though she begrudged her child nothing, she wished he'd had enough left over for her, enough to make him want to stay with them instead of going back to Elizabeth.

  Just then, she saw a wagon with low sides pull up in front of the store. Dylan sat on the high seat next to the driver, and she knew it was time to leave.

  "Come on, Jenny," she murmured, lifting her chin, "we're going home."

  *~*~*

  When they got to the river, Melissa was stunned by the number of people, mostly men, swarming the dock, all of them apparently crowding the gangways to board the Arrow, the same steamer they had passage on.

  "Are you sure we'll be able to get on?" she asked as the wagon pulled up.

  "I got the last two cabins, and I paid twice the posted fare for them." His brow lowered ominously. "We'll get on, or the captain will have a hell of a lot of explaining to do." He left her and Jenny in the wagon to see to the loading of the gold.

  Hoisting his trunk to his shoulder, Dylan took her arm and shepherded her through the crowd and up the gangway. Although she'd dealt with lots of men when she operated her laundry business, she felt overwhelmed by the jostling crush of so many. They eyed her with curiosity, or frank appraisal, or obvious respect.

  At last Dylan hailed a harried-looking young purser who led them down the deck to the cabins. "Is the steamship company having a half-price sale?" Dylan asked, gesturing at the crowd.

  "No, sir. But we've got orders to sell tickets to standing-room-only passengers. And believe me, some people are so anxious to leave Dawson they're willing to put up with almost any inconvenience." He stopped in front of a door and unlocked it, handing her the key. "Ma'am, I'm sure you'll be comfortable here."

  Melissa opened the door and looked at a cabin so tiny, there was just a two-foot-wide space to turn around in between the wall and the single bunk. Comfortable, the purser had said? Compared to what? A place on the open deck?

  "Well, yes, I guess—"

  "Sir, if you'll follow me, your cabin is on the starboard side." The purser headed down the deck, obviously assuming Dylan would follow.

  Dylan gazed at her for a moment and then at Jenny. It must have been a trick of the sunlight that fell in narrow beams across the deck—for just an instant Melissa thought she saw a trace of wistful longing in his eyes. Then it was gone, and she supposed she'd imagined it. Maybe she was the only one who felt it—after all, this was the first time they would sleep apart in months.

  But sleeping without him was what she had to face for the rest of her life.

  *~*~*

  Dylan leaned on the steamer's railing and watched endless miles of shore slip by. Snow had already dusted the lower foothills, and he knew they were getting out just in time. Another three or four weeks, and they'd have been stuck in Dawson for the winter.

  They'd been traveling for three days, and for the most part, he'd seen Melissa at meals—thanks to the captain's hospitality they were invited to dine with him. Otherwise, she and Jenny kept to their cabin. He supposed he couldn't blame her. As one of the few women aboard, she was outnumbered by men on the oversold ship, and every passageway and foot of decking was occupied by people.

  It was all over, and as much as he'd disliked what Dawson eventually became, he didn't regret a minute of it. But while he'd gained more than he'd lost, the losses had been hard to bear. Sometimes when he was caught between wakefulness and sleep, he'd wonder if Rafe was with Priscilla, somewhere in a place where souls were finally reunited. And then his thoughts would drift to Melissa, slender, softly curved, and loving. He'd seen her emerge from a prison of fear and intimidation to reveal the woman she was meant to be.

  But apparently, that woman wasn't meant to be with him, and the constant empty ache he felt was only a sample of what he had to look forward to for a long time to come.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Twelve long days later, under clear blue autumn skies and a mild temperature, the Arrow puffed up the Willamette River into Portland.

  Melissa could hardly believe her eyes when she saw the familiar waterfront come into view through her cabin porthole. "Jenny, button, we're here!" she said and laughed. Plucking the baby from her bunk, she held her up to the window. "See? That's Portland, that's where Mama is from. At last, we're here."

  The return trip had been faster and certainly less punishing than her journey to the Yukon. And with each port they stopped at, the ship's population thinned. But she and Jenny had spent most of their time in this cubbyhole, and she was glad to be leaving it. The bathing facilities had been less than adequate, and she felt as if every garment she owned was crushed and wrinkled.

  She'd tried to avoid Dylan—even though every fiber of her being cried out to be with him. The time spent without him gave her a taste of the longing she w
ould face. It would be hard, she knew. Her mind kept returning to the small oval photograph she'd found in his trunk that afternoon. If he still burned for the woman in that picture, after she'd betrayed him and jilted him, no matter how much Melissa loved him, there was nothing she could do about it.

  Gathering their belongings, she moved with the remaining passengers down the gangway, intending to see about Jenny's cradle stowed in the hold. The dockside smells of river water and creosote struck her, and gulls squawked and hovered overhead, gliding on drafts.

  "Melissa!"

  She turned and saw Dylan striding toward her, wearing his slim black pants, a buckskin coat, and his knife tied to his thigh. The wind caught in his long hair, and his full mouth and firm jaw were highlighted in the afternoon sun. Oh, why did he still look so handsome? she wondered miserably. She'd hoped to somehow become immune to his good looks after being away from them. But if anything, he only looked more handsome, and she had to restrain herself from walking into his embrace.

  "I'll hire a cab and take you to a hotel. You can stay there until you find a place to live."

  It felt so good to have him standing next to her again, she wondered how in the world she'd get used to being without him. "Thank you, but you really shouldn't trouble yourself. At least I know my way around this town."

  He took her elbow, turning her from the disembarking passengers, and she was forced to look up into his eyes. "Come on, Melissa," he murmured in that rich, low voice she knew so well. "You've avoided me for most of this trip. I'll be leaving soon enough—let me keep my end of our bargain."

  That bargain, she thought morosely. It had been her salvation and her curse. Maybe if the wedding Rafe performed in the Yukon Girl had been legitimate, Dylan would need to think twice about going back to Elizabeth. But, no—she didn't want him to stay with her because he was legally bound to do so, or felt obligated. She'd have him only if he wanted her and Jenny.

  "Then you should let me keep my promise, too. I wanted to pay you for Coy's debt."