He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I never agreed to that. Melissa, I don't need the money. You might. Just let me take you to a hotel. Then I'll say good-bye and be on my way."
It would be for the last time—the last time she'd see him. An ache knotted her heart. "But I have to see to Jenny's cradle."
"I'm having it sent to the hotel."
She looked around him. "But where are your things?"
"The captain has agreed to keep my gear in his quarters until I get back. What do you say, Melissa?"
In her life she'd had no dealings with a man who didn't laze around and wait for someone else to do work that rightly belonged to him. Dylan simply took charge of a situation and waited for no one. She would miss that, too.
"All right. Let's go."
He smiled at her, a sweet, tender smile, and she saw that trace of wistfulness again that baffled her. Then he led her to one of the cabs waiting along the docks. The driver jumped down to help her in while Dylan held Jenny. Handing the baby to her, he climbed in. "Take us to the Portland Hotel."
"Dylan! The Portland Hotel? It's too expensive." It was an elegant, luxurious, and extravagant establishment, or so she'd heard. She'd never been inside it herself.
"It's a good hotel, and I want you and Jenny to be safe."
Melissa could think of no argument for this. The horses lurched to a start, and as she gazed at the skyline of the city rolling past, she noted the changes that had taken place in the short year she'd been gone. She, too, was forever changed from the browbeaten woman who'd gone North with her loafing bully of a husband. That woman had never offered an opinion or spoken up to defend anyone but her child. She was no lionheart now—a lifetime of trying to remain in the shadows couldn't be unlearned in only a few months. But at least she'd begun to realize that what she thought and felt had value. And she had the man sitting next to her to thank for that.
They arrived at the Portland Hotel, a dark, imposing edifice, and Dylan told the cab to wait while he escorted her and Jenny inside. Men in fine suits and women wearing the latest fashions strolled the opulent, carpeted lobby, and Dylan, with his long hair, buckskin, and wicked-looking knife turned more than a few heads. It occurred to Melissa that she'd never gotten the chance to see him dressed up—their dinner at the Fairview Hotel had been canceled the day Rafe died.
Walking to the front desk, Dylan rang the bell to get the attention of the stuffy-looking clerk who let his disapproving gaze take in Dylan's appearance. His nostrils were cut so high, he had the look of someone sniffing a disagreeable odor. "May I help you—sir?"
"I need a room for my wife and daughter."
Melissa's head came up at this, but of course, how else could Dylan refer to them without raising eyebrows and suspicions?
Apparently, though, the clerk wasn't impressed. He stared down his long nose at Melissa and Jenny with that same condescending expression. Oh, she knew they were out of place, but she resisted the nervous urge to adjust her jacket and brush at the lap of her skirt.
"I'm sorry, but we've none available," the clerk replied.
A threatening frown drew Dylan's brows together, and he leaned over the counter. "What are all those keys on that board behind you?"
"I can tell you what they are not—keys to vacant rooms. Perhaps you should try one of the other hotels. They might be more suitable to your needs." Icy and undaunted, the clerk looked Dylan up and down again.
Dylan leaned closer still, and she recognized his flinty tone. She'd first heard it when he talked to Coy, and even now it brought back that awful day. "I'm Dylan Harper, and I've just come back from three years in the Yukon. I made enough money up there to buy a thousand pinched-ass prigs like you. I want rooms and an adjoining bath for my wife and daughter, and not some damned broom closet, either." He nodded at the rows of keys on the walls. "Now I suggest you look again."
He never raised his voice above a deadly quiet murmur, so not even the most curious eavesdropper heard him. But it was enough. The clerk's pasty complexion bloomed with a ripe shade of crimson, and he looked as if he'd inhaled ammonia vapors through his high-cut nose.
"Mr. Harper, my most humble apologies. I didn't recognize you." He turned and hurriedly fumbled with the keys, his pale hands trembling slightly. "I am so sorry for the error. We were all very distressed to hear of the recent tragedy in your family. Of course, madam," he added, speaking to Melissa, "I'll have a boy take your things to a corner suite with a lovely view of the west hills." He rang the counter bell sharply, and a uniformed youth appeared to take her carpetbag.
Melissa watched the proceedings with raised brows. She wasn't sure what had happened, but obviously it went beyond Dylan's threatening demeanor. Once in the elevator car, she whispered, "How did that come about?"
He shrugged. "The old man stayed in this hotel a lot. He'd come to Portland on business, and he dragged me along a couple of times." He smiled wickedly. "There had to have been some benefit from carrying the Harper name."
When they reached the fifth-floor suite, Melissa put Jenny down in the soft cushions of the midnight blue velvet sofa. Dylan tipped the bellboy, who departed discreetly, and they were left standing just inside the door with an awkward gulf of silence between them.
Melissa spoke first, unable to prolong this painful farewell any longer. "Dylan, I appreciate everything you did for us. I don't know what would have happened to us if it hadn't been for you. And Rafe."
"You and Jenny made living in Dawson less . . . lonely." He almost whispered the word. Reaching for her hand, he held it and looked into her face. "Will you be all right?"
She lifted her shoulder slightly. "Having money is a big help. We'll be fine," she lied. She'd once told him that she wanted comfort and safety from life—she hadn't realized then that he was the embodiment of those things.
"Do you think you'll visit your family?"
Melissa was torn. "I'm not sure. I guess I owe my father the right to see his granddaughter."
He nodded. "Does he live nearby?"
"Oh, no, I grew up in Slabtown, closer to the river. I'd never even seen this part of the city until Coy and I got married at the courthouse."
Dylan shifted his gaze to Jenny, who'd fallen asleep in the velvet cushions. "I'm going to miss you." Then he looked at Melissa again and pulled on her hand to bring her closer, closer, until she could smell his leather coat and the fresh-air scent in his hair. His arms slid around her waist and he tipped her chin up, trailing his fingertips along her cheek.
Oh, Dylan, she thought, please don't make this harder than it is. Please . . . But she could no more pull away from him than a starving child could refuse a crust of bread. When his lips touched hers, warm and soft and full, her heart filled with such torment and pleasure she thought it would break.
She wanted to beg him not to leave them, to stay where he was loved for who he was, not who he could be made into—loved without hesitation or reluctance.
Dylan broke away first, though. "I guess I'd better get back to that steamer. It's docking for only two hours, and it won't wait for me. Listen to me, now," he began, taking both of her hands in his. "If something should happen to you or Jenny, or if, well, there's another baby, promise you'll get in touch with me."
Startled by his last comment, she felt her face grow hot.
"Promise me," he insisted, and gave her hands a light squeeze for emphasis. Her throat was so tight she could hardly speak. "I promise."
"Okay, good. That's good." He released her and opened the door. His eyes rested on her as if he were trying to memorize everything about her. She couldn't imagine why—Elizabeth was much more attractive.
Suddenly, he shot out a hand and grabbed her by the back of the neck to pull her to his mouth for one last, anguished kiss. "Good-bye, Melissa. Kiss Jenny for me."
Then he was gone.
*~*~*
Dylan pounded down the sidewalk, barely seeing the traffic and other pedestrians around him. He dodged a team
pulling a Weinhard's beer wagon, making the animals shy. The driver shouted and waved a fist at Dylan, but he just kept walking, heading back to the Arrow. The tall buildings on Sixth Avenue, cut with diagonal shadows and bright streaks of late afternoon sun, faded away into the sharply blue sky. All he could see was Melissa standing in front of him, dressed in her dark wool suit and big hat, more beautiful than he wanted her to be.
After he left her, he paid off the cab driver and sent him on. He hoped that walking back to the boat would burn off some of the anger and emptiness he felt. As it was, he felt like punching a wall. He wasn't mad at Melissa. He was mad at himself.
He could almost understand why she wanted to be on her own. After years of being dominated by drunken bullies, first her father, then Logan, she wanted some peace and freedom.
He could give her that, but he just didn't know how to tell her. Willing himself to keep walking toward the river, he resisted the driving urge to glance back over his shoulder. If he gave in to it, he knew he'd run back to the hotel and be on his knees in front of Melissa, begging her to come with him to The Dalles. He could give her and Jenny a good life, and they'd make the family he yearned for. Of course she didn't know that. She had no idea how he felt because he couldn't tell her.
And somewhere, from whatever place his spirit had flown to, he suspected that Raford Dubois was laughing at him.
Where the Willamette River joined the Columbia, the Arrow turned east and chugged on through the night. It passed the high falls the Multnomah Indians told stories about, and the small towns that dotted both the Oregon and Washington sides of the big waterway—Troutdale, Stevenson, Hood River. Their lights gleamed like golden stars along the hillsides.
Dylan tossed and turned in his cramped bunk for most of the night, drifting in and out of a troubled sleep. Sometimes he dreamed that he was twelve years old again and in front of his father's desk, enduring a reprimand for getting his suit dirty in the stable. But in most of the images drifting through his mind he saw Melissa as she'd looked the first night he made love to her at Dawson. Her creamy skin tinted golden by low lamplight, her pale hair tumbling in waves around her, her gray eyes watching him with shy desire.
At last he gave up trying to sleep. Throwing off the rough wool blanket, he pulled on his pants and shirt and went out on deck. The air was sharp and brisk, driven by a riverborn wind.
He leaned on the railing just before dawn, watching the glow of a full moon in the rippling wake of the steamer, and asked himself what the hell he planned to accomplish on this fool's errand. He wished to God that Big Alex hadn't found that newspaper. Then he would have lived along in ignorance a while longer with Melissa and Jenny, instead of rushing off to The Dalles and a purpose that remained in the hazy distance.
There was nothing for him in The Dalles—there hadn't been since the night he left. Yet, from the moment he'd learned about Scott and the old man, he'd felt compelled to return, as if something drew him back to the place of his beginnings. So strong was the pull that he'd left behind the one woman who mattered more to him than any other, and the child he'd come to think of as his own.
As the sunrise glowed in the east, though, and revealed the landscape of sage and grasslands, he felt a quiet joy of homecoming. He wished he could have brought Melissa and Jenny here, to show them Celilo Falls, where the Indians, armed with dip-nets and spears, fished for salmon on rickety scaffolding over the churning river. He would take them back to the land where he grew up—not the house and its high-flown trappings—but the outdoors that he'd loved and which Griffin Harper had given so little thought to. Dylan supposed that land belonged to Elizabeth now.
Elizabeth . . . beautiful, sensual, widowed. Suddenly, he stood upright as the Arrow came into sight of The Dalles docks, and he realized why he'd come home.
He wanted to live on that land again, and he could think of only one way to make that happen.
*~*~*
Melissa had never lived in such luxury. The furnishings in her hotel room were upholstered in brocade and velvet. Her windows overlooked the high, wooded hills to the west and south. The bathroom had marble walls and a long tub of gleaming white porcelain, and the tall mahogany bed was intricately carved at head and foot. She and Jenny were warm, clean, and comfortable.
But she'd trade the velvet and marble to be back in the cramped, inconvenient little room in Dawson if she could be with Dylan.
He'd been gone for two days, and already it seemed that an eternity had passed. Although she'd always worked, now time hung heavy on her hands, and she didn't care about doing anything. She knew she ought to find a place to live and move out of this expensive hotel, but it was easy to let someone else wait on her for once in her life. And since the hotel staff believed that she was Mrs. Dylan Harper, they seemed especially solicitous.
Dylan—his face and form would not leave her mind or heart. Sometimes when Jenny woke at night, Melissa burrowed into the bedding in her half-sleep state, thinking that Dylan would get up and see to her. He'd done it so often. Or she'd wake up in the morning and expect to see him shaving at the washstand, barefoot and shirtless.
On the third day of her moping, she knew she had to break the cycle or she'd sit in the Portland Hotel indefinitely, and Jenny would learn to walk in the hallways.
It was time to get on with her life.
*~*~*
"Will you wait, please? I won't be too long."
"Yes, ma'am, don't you worry, I'll be right here." The cab driver glanced doubtfully at Melissa, then at the shabby street and dilapidated address he'd delivered her to. "Are you sure you want to stop here, ma'am?"
"Yes, I'll be fine." She must have lost her mind to ask a cab to wait—what a careless expense. If she kept living at the hotel and spending money at this rate, she'd be broke. But she didn't know what kind of reception waited for her inside the house they'd pulled up to, and she wanted the option of an easy escape.
With Jenny in her arms, she stared at the door, then took a deep breath and started up the walk. The yard was a ratty tangle of weeds, and the shrubbery nearly covered the front windows. The glass pane in the front door had been broken, and a piece of cardboard was nailed over the hole. The house's green paint had flaked off in big patches and showed the bare wood of the siding. Trash littered the overgrown flower beds, and an air of apathetic squalor hung over the property. It looked worse than she could remember, and certainly was the worst on the block. Even the mild September sun couldn't dispel the wretchedness.
For a moment she considered turning on her heel and getting right back into the carriage, taking Jenny away from here and never looking back again. But Melissa hadn't escaped this neighborhood and this life by being a coward. Tugging on the hem of her suit jacket, she lifted a hand and knocked on the door.
From within she heard thumping, unsteady footsteps as they made their way to the front. Finally, the door opened about six inches, allowing a gust of fetid odors—rancid cooking fat, unwashed bodies, and raw sewage—to reach her nose. Dear God, it was even worse than she'd expected.
A young man wearing only stained underwear stared back at her, and two suspicious bloodshot eyes raked her up and down. "Yeah? What do you want, lady?"
She recognized the hostile voice more than the face. "James, it's me. Don't you know your own sister?"
He squinted at her, looking her up and down again, and then peered at her face. His mouth fell open with astonishment, revealing half-rotted teeth. At that sight, Jenny, staring solemnly at her uncle, jumped slightly in Melissa's arms.
"Lissy? Is it you?"
Melissa nodded, but couldn't make herself smile at him. She was already beginning to regret coming here.
"And this is your little tyke?" James turned and yelled to the back of the house, "Pa, Billy, get on out here. It's Lissy. She's come home."
There was something about that last—she's come home—that made Melissa very uneasy.
"Damn, I guess Coy has done all right by you. You're fi
xed up like a rich man's wife." He looked past her shoulder. "And hiring cabs, too. Well, well, Lissy."
Perhaps she was being petty, but Coy had not contributed to her welfare in any way, and she wouldn't allow the family to think he had. "I earned the money to buy these clothes, James. Coy didn't have anything to do with it."
He shrugged, then opened the door wider and stood aside to let her in. Inside the house clutter and downright filth made her hesitate to take another step. She certainly wouldn't sit down.
Waving in the general direction of their surroundings, James said, "Sorry the place is a mess. Since Ma died and you been gone, there's no one to tidy up." Then he called over his shoulder again. "Come on, Pa, come see your fancy-dressed daughter. Billy, shake a leg."
"Quit your yelling. Billy left early this morning." The elder of the Reed clan emerged from the back of the house, pulling his suspenders up to his shoulders as he shuffled to the parlor in stockings that both bore holes. Looking every bit as disheveled as his son, Jack Reed had more gray hair than brown now, and the stubble of his two- or three-day beard was almost white.
Melissa waited to feel her emotions stir; after all, this was her father, the man she'd grown up with, and she hadn't seen him for a long time. But she felt nothing more than dull anger rumbling to life for everything he'd done to her and the rest of the family.
He squinted at her, too, just as James had. Did she really look so different to them? she wondered. Perhaps as different as they looked to her.
"Well, Lissy, you're looking mighty prosperous. Mighty prosperous." His rheumy, assessing gaze took careful note of her dress and her hat.
"She came in a cab, Pa. It's still out there." James added.
Jack stumped to the window and pushed aside the grimy curtain. "So it is."
"Who's this you brought with you?"
She shifted Jenny in her arms. "This is your granddaughter, Pa. Her name is Jenny Abigail. I thought you'd want to meet her." But with every passing moment she became more convinced that she'd made a mistake in coming here.
Harper's Bride Page 22
