Harper's Bride (20 page)

. . . don't throw away this chance . . .

Rafe's story, and his warning, kept repeating
themselves in Dylan's mind as he walked toward the stairs that
evening. Was his friend right? He knew that Rafe was dying, and for
a moment he stopped to consider his own mortality. Rafe was just
five years older than he was, and it sounded as if he'd collected
regrets for the whole of his short life. If he himself were hit in
the street by a runaway wagon tomorrow, or contracted some fatal
disease, would he take regrets with him to his grave? he wondered.
And even if he lived to be an old man, did he plan to do it alone,
with no one to share his triumphs and setbacks?

The prospect was depressing as hell.

On Melissa's clotheslines, shirts and
underwear flapped in the breeze along with diapers and dresses. No
one could say she was lazy or purely ornamental. She did two jobs,
really, the laundry and the housekeeping. He'd never thought her
weak—after all, a woman who'd crossed the Chilkoot Pass while
pregnant and survived Coy Logan wasn't weak. But she'd revealed
herself to be even stronger than he would have guessed. Her
strength didn't lie only in her physical resilience. She possessed
a vitality of spirit that amazed him.

He knew she worked hard, though. Maybe, he
thought—just maybe she would like to get away from the stove and
have someone wait on her for a change.

Glancing down the street, he saw Belinda
Mulrooney's Fairview Hotel. It was said to be a magnificent
establishment, just as she'd promised. During her first twenty-four
hours of operation, the bar alone took in six thousand dollars.
Even if the place did have canvas walls, the dining room was
reported to be lavish.

He took the stairs two at a time and opened
the door to find Melissa at her usual spot at the stove. She
glanced up at him and smiled, then ducked her head, blushing shyly.
She had rebraided her hair, and she wore a clean, starched apron.
She was a sweet sight to come home to, he couldn't deny that.

"I was thinking we might have dinner out
tomorrow," he said, stopping at Jenny's cradle to let her grab his
finger. The baby grinned at him and gurgled; even she looked better
than she had when he first saw her.

"Out? Do you mean on a picnic?"

He glanced up. "No, I mean at the Fairview
Hotel."

"Oh, Dylan, really?" Melissa's eyes were wide
with excitement, and her smile was as bright as ten candle flames.
"I've heard it's a grand place. But what about Jenny?"

He shrugged. "We'll bring her along. She
should be all right. Belinda owes me a couple of favors—she might
even have a maid she can spare to watch her for an hour or so."

"We'll have to dress up, won't we?" she
asked, casting a sidelong glance at his buckskins.

He laughed. "Oh, I might surprise you. I
guess you haven't seen all of my clothes." Then he added, "I
believe I heard Belinda even has an orchestra playing."

Melissa's brow furrowed slightly as she
stirred the stew. "Do you think they have dancing there?"

"No, the orchestra is out in the lobby. Why?
Is dancing against your religion, or something?"

Idly, she stirred the pot on the stove.
"Well, no, of course not. I just—I don't know how, that's all."

He went to the table and sat down, afraid
that if he didn't he'd be tempted to stand behind her and nuzzle
her slender white neck "Really? I thought all girls knew how to
dance."

"There wasn't a lot of call for ballroom
dancing where I grew up," she said.

"It was forced on me when I was a kid. 'No
gentleman can conduct himself in society if he cannot properly
escort a lady around a ballroom,' he mimicked in a pinched-up voice
that made her giggle. It was good to see her smile, he thought.

"I think we were only told not to use our
sleeves for handkerchiefs."

"Oh, I heard that one too." This scene wasn't
far from the one he'd envisioned. Sitting around the kitchen at
night after dinner. Talking, laughing, being close. "Would you like
to learn? To dance, I mean?"

"Maybe someday, I guess. I'll get someone to
teach me."

"I'll teach you," he said, and knew he
offered only for the chance to hold her.

"What, you mean now?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?"

She looked at him with those clear gray eyes
as if he'd lost his senses. "But dinner—"

"We can take a couple of turns. We'll just be
a minute or two."

"There's no room in here. Don't you need a
dance floor to dance?"

"No, not to learn a few steps."

"But there's no music."

"Sure there is. Can't you hear McGinty's
piano player next door?"

Yes, Melissa heard it. The sound was always
there, in the background. And Dylan had managed to deflect all of
her excuses. But she didn't want to stumble all over his feet and
make a fool of herself. Dancing—that had been the last thing on
anyone's mind in her old neighborhood.

He held out his hand to her. "Come on,
Melissa. If you won't dance with me, I'll just have to ask
Jenny."

She laughed. "Oh no, you won't. I just fed
her and she'll spit up all over you if you jiggle her."

"Then I guess I'll have to jiggle you. Come
on now, don't say no."

Oh, that teasing grin was so hard to resist.
She couldn't imagine what had put him in such a playful mood, but
it sure beat an angry, cleaver-wielding man.

"Well, I suppose . . ." She put down her
cooking spoon, and he immediately whisked her into his arms. He
cocked his head and listened for a moment.

"They're playing 'On Top of Old Smokey' down
there. Let's see, that's a waltz. Put your left hand here"—he
positioned it high on his right arm—"and I'll take your right one
here." He closed his fingers around hers and put his other hand on
the small of her back. "Now just relax and follow me."

Relax! As if she could, with the clean, male
scent of him drifting to her and his warm arms holding her. He
stepped back and pulled her along, but her feet didn't move, and
she tumbled against his chest. Had she noticed before how broad it
was?

"Oh, I'm sorry," she gasped, recovering her
balance, but not her dignity. Her face turned flame-hot.

He chuckled. "That's okay, but this time when
I step back, you step forward. When I move to my left, you move to
your right. You know, just follow along."

Melissa had grave doubts, but she nodded,
unwilling to be released from his grasp just yet.

He led them through a series of less than
graceful maneuvers on the small floor space, her skirts snagging on
the chair legs, until the music changed to a much faster tempo and
beat. Their movements narrowed to just standing in place and
turning in a circle. It all seemed so silly, Melissa got the
giggles and couldn't stop. Dylan laughed with her, and finally they
collapsed into the chairs at the table.

"You get the idea," he said, and pushed his
hair away from his forehead with both hands. "Kind of."

"Yes, kind of." It felt so good to actually
laugh with someone for a change—to have something to laugh
about—and not have to worry about being told to pipe down, damn it.
"We'll just have to wait until we have a bigger kitchen to dance
in," she added, and than realized how it sounded. "I mean a bigger
floor, anyway."

Dylan's laugher died, but the smile stayed in
his eyes as he gave her a contemplative look. It passed so quickly
she wasn't sure what she had seen, except she felt as if he been
examining her soul with his riveting gaze. "Maybe we'll have a
chance to try again someday," he said.

Pushing herself away from the table, she
replied hastily, "I'll finish putting dinner together."

For the rest of the evening after they ate,
Melissa bustled around the small room in a flurry of busyness.
Dinner out, in a hotel dining room! And with Dylan. She had eaten
in a restaurant only one other time in her life, and that had been
in Seattle when Coy relented and let her buy hot tea and a doughnut
in a cafe. Surely, this would be more exciting.

While Dylan sat at the table and held the
baby, she brought out her nicest new dress and pressed it
carefully. She even ironed a clean dress for Jenny, although she
worried that it might be a little small for her—she was growing so
fast. Jenny sitting on Dylan's lap looked so natural, she thought.
He had endless patience for her, and he genuinely seemed to enjoy
entertaining her. Melissa got that little pull at her heart again.
If only he were really her father.

As for her clothes, Melissa had a nice dress
to wear, but her heart sank when she realized how functional and
bulky her work shoes were. They weren't intended to be worn for a
dressy occasion. And she had only two pairs of stockings, both
black cotton.

Thinking back to the day she and Dylan had
gone to the marketplace, she remembered seeing all kinds of pretty
lingerie for sale—petticoats, corsets, silk stockings. Of course it
was disgraceful that it was all out on public display, but just the
same it had been lovely. Standing at her ironing board, she could
feel the weight of her apron pocket, heavy with gold, against her
thigh. She had feared spending even one cent of that dust she'd
worked so hard for. It represented her future, which was uncertain
at best.

But tomorrow night would be very special.
Maybe she could afford to part with just a little money to buy nice
stockings and a pair of dress shoes. And possibly some cologne to
go in the atomizer Dylan had bought for her.

At about ten-thirty, after Jenny was asleep,
Dylan stood and stretched. Melissa tried not to stare, but she was
fascinated by the way his shirt buttons strained against the lean
muscle beneath them.

"Well, I guess I'll go down and have a last
look at the store."

"All right," she responded. This was her time
to get ready for bed. When he returned, she would be in her
nightgown and lying under the covers with the lamp out.

But tonight when he closed the door behind
him and went downstairs, Jenny woke up squalling. It took Melissa
the better part of a half hour of rocking her and walking her and
swinging her in her cradle before she settled down again.

After the baby finally went back to sleep,
Melissa stripped down to her chemise and drawers and stood at the
porcelain basin to wash. She glanced out the window next to, her.
Outside, the early August sky was growing dark; the midnight sun
was finally waning and the nights were getting longer. Down in the
street the parade continued, and she heard music coming from
several of the dance halls and saloons on Front Street.

Her arms and neck were covered with suds when
she heard Dylan coming up the stairs. Oh, God, she thought, as she
looked in the mirror at her state of undress. She began splashing
water haphazardly, trying to rinse off the soap and dry herself
before he came in, but she succeeded only in soaking her chemise in
the process.

The door opened and Melissa jumped, letting
out a gasp. There Dylan stood, looking at her as if he'd never seen
a woman before, taking in every inch from her bare feet to the top
of her head. Looking down she saw that her wet chemise was as
transparent as organdie, showing off her nursing breasts and
nipples to their fullest. The expression in his eyes was
possessive, powerful.

But it wasn't fear she felt.

"P-please turn around," she demanded with a
shaking voice.

With a last sweeping glance at her form, he
took a deep breath and complied. "I thought you'd be done by now,"
he said, sounding a little short.

"I would have been, but the baby woke up,
and—"

"Look, I'll just wait outside on the steps
until you're finished. You can call me." He walked out again and
slammed the door behind him.

Melissa scurried to finish her ablutions and
shimmied into her nightgown, worried about keeping him outside too
long, but almost afraid to let him back in.

Outside, Dylan flopped down on the top step,
resting his elbows on his knees, and tried to ignore the nagging
ache in his groin. That image of Melissa—full, ripe breasts,
nipples like sweet cherries, a tiny waist, and gently curved
hips—burned a picture in his brain that knifed through his heart,
bounced down to his crotch, and back again. How the hell was he
supposed to go back in there and sleep in the same bed with her and
pretend that he hadn't been affected by her? Sullenly, he propped
his chin on his hands. He wasn't a monk, but by God he was living
like one, and he didn't like it for one damned minute.

For the briefest moment he thought about
visiting one of the prostitutes that had settled over on Second
Avenue in the heart of the business district. But he abandoned the
idea. It wasn't just physical satisfaction he wanted. He could buy
that any hour of the week, except Sundays, of course. He wanted
more, and with a sinking feeling he realized that the only woman
who could give it to him was Melissa.

In the soft warmth of her he might find
solace and peace, possibly even the sense of belonging he'd craved
since he was a kid.

But making love to Melissa was out of the
question. Men needed only the urge to make love. Women needed a
reason. And he cared too much about her not to give her a good
reason. Where would that leave them? Nothing could come of their
pairing. He would be going back to The Dalles, and she would
continue with her life, someplace.

Behind him the door opened a crack. "I'm
finished now."

"Okay," he grumped.

He heard her bare feet scamper across the
plank flooring, and then the ropes under the mattress creaked as
she flew into bed.

He stood up and stretched his back, wishing
he had somewhere else to sleep tonight, without the torture of
temptation lying next to him. He'd once thought of sending Melissa
off to a hotel. Now he wondered if he should be the one to get a
room. Tipping back his head to look at the emerging stars, he knew
he couldn't do that either.