Harper's Bride (24 page)

Dylan grabbed the oil lamp from the small
table near the window. Melissa hovered at the edge of its light,
her trembling hands tightly interlaced at her mouth.

Dr. Garvin appeared calm, and he made
comforting noises as he poked and prodded the screaming Jenny, who
thrashed and kicked, but his grave expression gave Dylan another
icy knot in his stomach. It was the same feeling he'd had this
afternoon when he'd seen Rafe. Then the doctor unbuttoned the
baby's dress to reveal an angry red rash on her chest.

"Oh, dear God," Melissa gasped. Dylan felt as
if his heart had plummeted to his feet.

"Her temperature is one hundred and five,"
the doctor said. Melissa moaned and Dylan winced. "But children her
age routinely get and survive high fevers that would be much harder
on an adult. Her pulse is very rapid, though."

"But what's wrong with her? Is it measles?"
Melissa asked.

The young doctor shook his head. "No, I
believe she has scarlet fever. Everything points to it—the sudden
onset, her high fever and pulse. Her throat is inflamed, and now
this rash— Some people call the fever scarlatina."

"Scarlatina," Melissa repeated parrotlike.
"Scarlatina." For a moment she looked so dazed Dylan thought she
might faint. He put his hand under her elbow, meaning to catch her
if she did.

"How would she get this fever, Doc?" Dylan
asked. "I haven't heard of anyone being sick with it around
here."

Dr. Garvin wrapped up Jenny again and put her
in Melissa's arms. "It's hard to say. Obviously she came in contact
with it somehow. The contagion can cling to rooms and clothing with
great tenacity. It's more common in children than adults, and I
can't say I've seen much of it in Dawson. But there are people from
all over the world in this town, and there are a lot of other
fevers here, too. I'm really not surprised by this."

"You say it's carried on clothes?" Melissa
asked, her voice high and tight.

"It can be."

Dylan saw her stricken look, and his heart
clenched in his chest. She would blame herself for the baby's
fever.

"B-but she'll get well?" Melissa asked. "You
have medicine you can give her?"

The doctor sighed. "Ma'am, I believe you'd
rather I tell you the truth than a lie."

She nodded her head almost imperceptibly.
"Scarlatina often has a bad outcome. And the medications I'd give
to a grown man would kill a baby." What little color that remained
in Melissa's face drained away.

Dr. Garvin looked apologetic. "It's highly
contagious, so both of you might get sick too if you haven't
already had it. Some people though, especially adults, seem to be
resistant to the disease. And I think your baby has a relatively
mild case of the fever—with good nursing some children pull through
just fine. The rash will spread, so sponge her with soda water once
in the morning and once at night. In a day or two you'll also
notice that her tongue has turned the color and texture of a
strawberry. Try to get her to eat though—your milk will be just
fine for her. Other than that—" He sighed. "I'm afraid this is a
wait and hope situation."

After promising to check in the next day, Dr.
Garvin put on his coat and picked up his bag. On his way to the
door, he patted Melissa's arm. "I won't tell you not to worry. But
worrying won't get the job done. Put more energy into taking care
of Jenny and yourselves. If you two should fall ill"—he looked from
Melissa to Dylan—"there will be no one to tend your baby."

Melissa stared at the closed door, feeling as
if the crack of doom had just sounded. Her baby, the dearest little
soul she'd ever known, was close to death, and she was the cause.
She turned to face Dylan. He stood with his arms crossed tightly
over his chest, and his handsome face was wiped clean of all
expression. She knew she'd been angry with him earlier, but for the
life of her, she couldn't recall why now. Whatever the cause, it
must have been trivial. She could think of nothing but the
over-warm bundle in her arms, her own flesh and blood.

She looked down at Jenny's flushed face, at
the rash that crept up to her tiny neck. "I'm so sorry, button,"
she whispered, her breath coming in hitches. "It's all my fault. I
only meant to earn a better life for us. I never thought you'd get
sick from someone's clothes."

"Melissa," Dylan murmured, "it's not your
fault. Blaming yourself won't make Jenny well. Besides, you don't
know if that's how she caught this fever."

"Of course she did!" Melissa snapped back,
unable to keep the emotion out of her voice. Didn't he understand
how guilty she was? She began pacing again. "Either she got it from
the clothes or from the miners." She let an angry, rueful tone
slide into her words. "Oh, I was going to prove to everyone how
strong I was, that I could make it in the world on my own, and it
didn't matter if Coy left me with just the dress on my back. Well,
he's dead now and so is Rafe. And Jenny—"

"Don't say it!" Dylan barked. Frowning, his
eyes like hard green stones, he strode forward and took her
shoulders again in a hard grip. "Melissa, you've got to be strong
to take care of her. You can't afford the luxury of self-pity right
now."

Scared and swamped with contrition, Melissa
stared up at him, at the planes of his face where his own worry and
grief had etched lines, and his eyes that seemed haunted by events
long past. Drawing courage from his warm touch and firm words, she
struggled to bridle her runaway panic. "Yes, of course, you're
right," she admitted and took a deep, steadying breath. Then she
added in a small voice, "It's just that she's so little, and I'm so
scared for her."

He gave her shoulders a light squeeze, then
released her. "I know. But all you can do is your best. And I'll be
right here if you need help."

Melissa took heart in that, and she felt like
kissing him for it. In her whole life, she'd never had anyone to
depend on. She'd heard a lot of empty promises, but Dylan—she knew
his word was good. He'd stand by Jenny and her. "Thank you,
Dylan."

She shifted into action then, and followed
the doctor's instructions about the soda bath and feeding Jenny. At
first the baby wouldn't eat anything. After several tries, though,
she finally took a little milk.

With full darkness upon the town, Dylan and
Melissa sat in edgy silence, keeping watch over Jenny, who slept
fitfully. Her fever did not abate, but the little girl hung on
through the hours. Melissa was grateful for Dylan's company—she
couldn't think of even one other man of her acquaintance who
wouldn't have been asleep or gone by now. There was so much
goodness in him, as intimidating as he could be, yet it seemed he
was determined to spend his life alone.

Just after midnight and while Jenny was
quiet, Melissa, who'd been sitting next to the cradle for hours,
walked to the window, flexing her tense, aching shoulders as she
went. Resting her forehead against the cool glass pane, she gazed
dully at the laughing, free-spending carnival rolling along under
the streetlights on Front. Above, a sliver of moon riding low on
the horizon hid behind a mask of gauzy clouds, and a few stars
twinkled around it. Now that August was waning, the chilly nights
fell earlier and lasted longer.

With her focus so fixed on this room, she
marveled at how precarious life was, and how heartless the world
could be. It continued on, unaware and unconcerned about the fate
of one child who lay in the cradle next to Dylan's bed.

She heard Dylan's chair legs scrape across
the plank flooring, and then felt his warmth behind her as he laid
his hand on her shoulder. His touch was firm but gentle, the
contrast reminding her of the kind man who lurked beneath a
threatening persona.

He worked at the tightness in her muscles,
coaxing them to relax, but her thoughts were bitter.

"I'm beginning to see what you hate about
this place," Melissa said without turning. "It's all a gaudy
spectacle on the surface, but I think there's a lot of suffering
that we don't see. What good is making money if it costs you
everything else that matters?" She shook her head as she gazed down
at the street. "If I'd had the chance to refuse, I never would have
come up here. Why did you? What made you choose this place?" She
heard him sigh behind her, not in exasperation, she thought, but as
if pondering her question. His hand fell away.

"When I left The Dalles, I'd already lost all
I had that mattered to me. I didn't know where to go. I just wanted
to put some distance between me and them—the old man, my brother .
. . Elizabeth."

Melissa turned to face him then. She wouldn't
question him about her—he was the one to bring up the woman's name.
Maybe this time he would tell her what he'd run away from so that
she could understand why his eyes had their haunted look.

He went back to the table and sat down again,
slouching low and crossing his ankle over his knee. "Remember when
I told you about the night I left home, that it was because of an
argument I had with my father about the horses?"

She nodded, leaning against the windowsill
behind her.

"Well, there was a little more to it than
that." He shifted his gaze to an empty coffee cup on the table
before him, turning it idly as if looking for the grit to give
voice to his story. "I met Elizabeth Petitt four years ago at her
homecoming party. She'd just gotten back from some fancy eastern
school. Her father, William Petitt, was one of the bank's biggest
customers. I agreed to go to keep peace with my own family—the old
man told me to put on decent clothes and stop looking like a hired
hand for one night." He sent her a wry smile that stopped short of
his eyes. "How could I resist such a bighearted invitation? I'd
planned to stay for just a half hour or so, make small talk, and
then leave. I don't know why, but I'd supposed that the daughter
was probably a homely bluestocking her family wanted to marry off.
But when I was introduced to Elizabeth, it was like I lost
everything, my sense of time, my heart, my mind—everything. From
that moment I was doomed." He shook his head, and his expression
turned bittersweet. "She was beautiful, with long black curls and
dark eyes, and so different from the other women I'd known. On the
surface she was ladylike and cultivated, almost girlish, I guess.
But beneath all that I discovered a wanton, uninhibited,
free-thinking woman. She had me tripping all over myself like a
fifteen-year-old boy. I turned into the worst kind of blind,
love-sick fool anyone ever saw. I couldn't eat, or sleep, or think
of anything or anyone but her."

Melissa lowered her eyes. It was almost
impossible to imagine Dylan as he described himself then. He was so
serious and controlled, even in anger. The day she'd seen him pin
that miner's sleeve with his meat cleaver crossed her memory. That
was the Dylan Harper she knew—dangerous, swift-moving, and
certainly unpredictable. As difficult as it was to picture him so
besotted, she found it harder still to think of another woman
bringing that out in him.

He plowed his hand through his hair.
"Elizabeth listened to everything I had to say, and there was a
lot—I'd kept most of my thoughts and ideas to myself. Finally, I
thought I had someone to talk to, someone who understood my love
for the land and the horses. At least I thought she understood. I
don't know why—there were never two people with less in common. But
I didn't realize that at the time, and it wasn't until a lot later
when I figured out that while I'd told her all about myself, I knew
almost nothing about her. Before I knew what I was doing, I'd asked
her to marry me."

"I suppose it isn't that we don't know
people," Melissa put in softly. "I think sometimes we make up our
minds to ignore the things about a person that give us doubt, or
make us worry. I know that's what I did with Coy."

He considered her for a moment, as if seeing
a new side to her. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit
for. I think you knew from the beginning that you were taking a
gamble on Logan. It was a bold risk, but the odds were so high you
were bound to lose."

She walked to the cradle and looked at Jenny.
"Maybe you're right," she admitted, letting her eyes meet his. "I
wanted to leave home so badly, I was willing to take a chance on
Coy. It was too much to hope that everything would work out, that
somehow he would turn into the kind of man you—" She looked away
then, and felt her cheeks flushed as if she too suffered from
fever. Reaching down, she swabbed Jenny's head with a cool
cloth.

Her unfinished remark hung between them
awkwardly. "I'm probably not the man you think I am, either,
Melissa."

She looked up again, the cloth wadded in her
fist. "But you've been kind to Jenny and me. You took us in when we
had no one to turn to."

He shrugged and straightened in his chair. "I
didn't have much choice, considering the circumstances. But I'm no
teetotaler, and I hate wearing a suit. I like being outdoors, I
don't have much interest in front parlor politics, and I expect to
get my hands dirty when I work. Elizabeth didn't care if I took a
drink, but she didn't like anything else I did except—" He glanced
away. "Well, she didn't like much else."

Adjusting the baby's dress, Melissa stroked
Jenny's hot, downy hair with the back of her fingers. She thought
again of Elizabeth's patrician features and wondered if the woman
had been out of her mind. There was nothing about Dylan that she
didn't like, except her helpless attraction to him. "It sounds as
if she could have had any man that suited her fancy. Why would she
choose one she felt she had to change?"

"Why," he repeated. Then he looked up at
Melissa and grinned. In this light she thought the smile looked
almost malevolent. "Over time, the reason made itself dear enough.
It was money."