shook a bit
from the strain.
But even in her exhaustion she smiled to
herself. Inside her apron pocket was a small leather pouch that
contained nearly forty dollars in gold dust. And that was something
she hadn't gotten for crossing the pass. Forty dollars! Back home,
laborers received about a dollar and a quarter a day.
In her whole life Melissa had never had more
than a dollar she could call her own. This gold dust she had earned
herself, and no one would drink it up or take it from her.
Unless, of course, Dylan Harper took a mind
to do just that. At the thought, Melissa pressed a protective hand
over the bulge in her pocket, knowing even as she did that she
wouldn't stand a prayer against him if he decided to take her
money. Or anything else, for that matter. He was a big, strapping
man—every inch of him hardened to lean muscle by hard work. She
would do well to remember that he held the upper hand in their
arrangement, and that he could change the rules to suit him anytime
he wanted.
It wasn't a pleasant thought. Yet, even so,
Melissa couldn't help but recall how kind he'd been to her thus
far. Until fate had flung her into Dylan's path, she'd believed
that the years of grinding poverty had nearly smothered out all the
hope in her, and that her marriage to Coy had finished the job. But
she felt hope stirring again, coming to life after years of
silence. Maybe today was just the beginning of something a bit
better.
"We're going to be all right, little Jenny,"
she whispered to the sleeping baby, then kissed her silky cheek. "I
think we might be all right."
Apparently all the activity and new sights
had worn out the little girl, because she slept the deep,
untroubled sleep of childhood. Melissa couldn't help but smile. The
baby's tender mouth made suckling motions, but otherwise she was
far away in a dreamy landscape.
Inside the small room Melissa dumped the load
of dry wash on the bed and put Jenny down in her crate. Dylan
hadn't come upstairs yet, and she was relieved he hadn't. With all
the goings on, she hadn't given a thought to dinner yet. Heavens,
she hadn't even stoked the fire in the stove.
Eyeing the kitchen chair with yearning, she
decided to sit for a moment, just to take the ache out of her back.
But she didn't have time to dawdle—if Dylan's meals weren't ready
when he wanted them, or if she didn't do the other chores he
expected of her, she worried that he'd put an end to her business.
She couldn't risk that.
After a brief rest Melissa hurried to the bed
to sort out and fold Dylan's clothes. Holding up one of his shirts,
she paused to study it. She let her hand skim over the fabric and
envisioned the span of his shoulders, the length of his torso.
Putting the shirt aside to be ironed, she picked up a pair of his
denims, lean-waisted and long-legged.
She knew so little about the man who wore
these clothes. Outwardly, he was handsome, rugged, and tall. His
features were even and well proportioned. But what life he'd come
from and why he was here were mysteries to her. He'd been in Dawson
before the gold rush began, so Klondike fever hadn't been what
brought him North.
He was by turns, gentle and savage. He had
taken her in when he didn't have to, and in doing so had let Coy, a
worthless deadbeat, wriggle out of a large debt that Dylan didn't
expect to be repaid. Yet when a man in his store had attacked his
integrity, his reaction had been swift, violent, and
frightening.
But the one thing Melissa found the most
troubling was her growing attraction to Dylan. She told herself it
was only a silly, girlish infatuation for the man because he'd been
kind to her and Jenny. That he was almost as fearsome as he'd been
the first day she met him. And the arguments nearly worked. But not
quite.
Something in her made her breath catch when
Dylan was near. And it wasn't giggling or girlish at all.
Impatiently, Melissa shook off the thoughts
and hastily folded his shirts and jeans. Her most important task
was to
from the strain.
But even in her exhaustion she smiled to
herself. Inside her apron pocket was a small leather pouch that
contained nearly forty dollars in gold dust. And that was something
she hadn't gotten for crossing the pass. Forty dollars! Back home,
laborers received about a dollar and a quarter a day.
In her whole life Melissa had never had more
than a dollar she could call her own. This gold dust she had earned
herself, and no one would drink it up or take it from her.
Unless, of course, Dylan Harper took a mind
to do just that. At the thought, Melissa pressed a protective hand
over the bulge in her pocket, knowing even as she did that she
wouldn't stand a prayer against him if he decided to take her
money. Or anything else, for that matter. He was a big, strapping
man—every inch of him hardened to lean muscle by hard work. She
would do well to remember that he held the upper hand in their
arrangement, and that he could change the rules to suit him anytime
he wanted.
It wasn't a pleasant thought. Yet, even so,
Melissa couldn't help but recall how kind he'd been to her thus
far. Until fate had flung her into Dylan's path, she'd believed
that the years of grinding poverty had nearly smothered out all the
hope in her, and that her marriage to Coy had finished the job. But
she felt hope stirring again, coming to life after years of
silence. Maybe today was just the beginning of something a bit
better.
"We're going to be all right, little Jenny,"
she whispered to the sleeping baby, then kissed her silky cheek. "I
think we might be all right."
Apparently all the activity and new sights
had worn out the little girl, because she slept the deep,
untroubled sleep of childhood. Melissa couldn't help but smile. The
baby's tender mouth made suckling motions, but otherwise she was
far away in a dreamy landscape.
Inside the small room Melissa dumped the load
of dry wash on the bed and put Jenny down in her crate. Dylan
hadn't come upstairs yet, and she was relieved he hadn't. With all
the goings on, she hadn't given a thought to dinner yet. Heavens,
she hadn't even stoked the fire in the stove.
Eyeing the kitchen chair with yearning, she
decided to sit for a moment, just to take the ache out of her back.
But she didn't have time to dawdle—if Dylan's meals weren't ready
when he wanted them, or if she didn't do the other chores he
expected of her, she worried that he'd put an end to her business.
She couldn't risk that.
After a brief rest Melissa hurried to the bed
to sort out and fold Dylan's clothes. Holding up one of his shirts,
she paused to study it. She let her hand skim over the fabric and
envisioned the span of his shoulders, the length of his torso.
Putting the shirt aside to be ironed, she picked up a pair of his
denims, lean-waisted and long-legged.
She knew so little about the man who wore
these clothes. Outwardly, he was handsome, rugged, and tall. His
features were even and well proportioned. But what life he'd come
from and why he was here were mysteries to her. He'd been in Dawson
before the gold rush began, so Klondike fever hadn't been what
brought him North.
He was by turns, gentle and savage. He had
taken her in when he didn't have to, and in doing so had let Coy, a
worthless deadbeat, wriggle out of a large debt that Dylan didn't
expect to be repaid. Yet when a man in his store had attacked his
integrity, his reaction had been swift, violent, and
frightening.
But the one thing Melissa found the most
troubling was her growing attraction to Dylan. She told herself it
was only a silly, girlish infatuation for the man because he'd been
kind to her and Jenny. That he was almost as fearsome as he'd been
the first day she met him. And the arguments nearly worked. But not
quite.
Something in her made her breath catch when
Dylan was near. And it wasn't giggling or girlish at all.
Impatiently, Melissa shook off the thoughts
and hastily folded his shirts and jeans. Her most important task
was to
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