keep her mind on her own business and her future a tall,
blond man was not part of either. Nor were she and Jenny part of
his plans. He'd made that clear from the beginning, and after all,
legally she was still bound to Coy.
She carried Dylan's clothes to the big trunk
at the end of the bed, where he stowed his belongings. Lifting the
lid released the heavily masculine scents of buckskin and shaving
soap that she found alluring. It was like sniffing freshly ground
coffee, or the sweet odor of pipe tobacco. Inside, she discovered
the usually neat contents in a tangled hodgepodge of drawers,
socks, pants, shirts, and long johns. She remembered his plowing
through the trunk early this morning. He'd dressed in a hurry to
meet a steamer captain down at the waterfront.
She was tempted to leave this mess as she'd
found it. She had worked hard all day, and this was an extra chore
she didn't want. But she couldn't very well throw tidy things on
top of the jumble and slam the lid closed. Sighing, she knelt in
front of the trunk and began repacking everything. When she pulled
out a pair of buckskins, something metallic fell out of their folds
and clattered to the floor.
Glancing down, she saw a small oval picture
frame lying on the planking. It held a photograph of a beautiful
dark-haired young woman. Slowly, Melissa picked it up to study it.
The woman wore her hair up, but the style couldn't disguise its
rich, heavy waves. The low-cut neckline of her gown revealed a
long, slim throat graced with a strand of pearls. Matching pearl
eardrops hung from her small lobes, and in her face, captured for
all time by the photographer, Melissa saw supreme self-confidence.
She looked like a woman who had never asked for a man's permission
in her life, and was accustomed to having her own way.
Melissa sat back on her heels. A sweetheart?
she wondered. A wife? That was an unsettling thought, but of
course, it was possible. Many of the men up here had left behind
wives and families. The picture frame itself was silver, wrought
with intricate detail that bespoke the photograph's importance. But
as Melissa considered the woman's image, she thought that something
about her seemed slightly off kilter.
Beautiful though she was, she didn't look as
if she were the type to attract Dylan Harper. She didn't know why;
if she'd thought she knew little about Dylan before, now she felt
even more ignorant.
Melissa wiped the glass with the hem of her
apron and examined the picture again. Had he held this woman's
hand? Stroked the curve of her cheek with a gentle touch? Almost
unconsciously, Melissa reached up to graze her fingertips over the
nearly healed bruise on her own cheek.
Had he held her in his arms and kissed her?
Suddenly, the door opened and Melissa, still kneeling before the
trunk with the photograph clutched in her hand, looked up to find
Dylan towering over her. She'd been so engrossed with her own
thoughts, she hadn't heard him come up the stairs. Flooded with
guilt and frozen by spontaneous terror, she felt the hot blood of
embarrassment fill her cheeks.
He was a giant glaring down at her—a wild,
frowning man with a long torso set upon longer legs. "Did you find
what you were looking for, Melissa?"
She glanced at the pile of clothes, and then
at the photograph as if seeing it for the first time. She realized
how this must look—as if she were snooping through his belongings,
and, oh, God, maybe even stealing something. Hastily, she dropped
the picture frame back into the trunk as though it were a burning
coal.
"I—" she began, but her voice was just a dry
croak. Her throat felt as if it were closing. She gripped one of
his shirts that she'd washed earlier and held it out. "I was just
folding your things. Th-they were all— I wasn't prying! Truly I
wasn't. The photograph was tangled in your clothes and it fell
out." To her horror, she felt her eyes begin to sting with rising
tears. She was so tired, she didn't have much strength
blond man was not part of either. Nor were she and Jenny part of
his plans. He'd made that clear from the beginning, and after all,
legally she was still bound to Coy.
She carried Dylan's clothes to the big trunk
at the end of the bed, where he stowed his belongings. Lifting the
lid released the heavily masculine scents of buckskin and shaving
soap that she found alluring. It was like sniffing freshly ground
coffee, or the sweet odor of pipe tobacco. Inside, she discovered
the usually neat contents in a tangled hodgepodge of drawers,
socks, pants, shirts, and long johns. She remembered his plowing
through the trunk early this morning. He'd dressed in a hurry to
meet a steamer captain down at the waterfront.
She was tempted to leave this mess as she'd
found it. She had worked hard all day, and this was an extra chore
she didn't want. But she couldn't very well throw tidy things on
top of the jumble and slam the lid closed. Sighing, she knelt in
front of the trunk and began repacking everything. When she pulled
out a pair of buckskins, something metallic fell out of their folds
and clattered to the floor.
Glancing down, she saw a small oval picture
frame lying on the planking. It held a photograph of a beautiful
dark-haired young woman. Slowly, Melissa picked it up to study it.
The woman wore her hair up, but the style couldn't disguise its
rich, heavy waves. The low-cut neckline of her gown revealed a
long, slim throat graced with a strand of pearls. Matching pearl
eardrops hung from her small lobes, and in her face, captured for
all time by the photographer, Melissa saw supreme self-confidence.
She looked like a woman who had never asked for a man's permission
in her life, and was accustomed to having her own way.
Melissa sat back on her heels. A sweetheart?
she wondered. A wife? That was an unsettling thought, but of
course, it was possible. Many of the men up here had left behind
wives and families. The picture frame itself was silver, wrought
with intricate detail that bespoke the photograph's importance. But
as Melissa considered the woman's image, she thought that something
about her seemed slightly off kilter.
Beautiful though she was, she didn't look as
if she were the type to attract Dylan Harper. She didn't know why;
if she'd thought she knew little about Dylan before, now she felt
even more ignorant.
Melissa wiped the glass with the hem of her
apron and examined the picture again. Had he held this woman's
hand? Stroked the curve of her cheek with a gentle touch? Almost
unconsciously, Melissa reached up to graze her fingertips over the
nearly healed bruise on her own cheek.
Had he held her in his arms and kissed her?
Suddenly, the door opened and Melissa, still kneeling before the
trunk with the photograph clutched in her hand, looked up to find
Dylan towering over her. She'd been so engrossed with her own
thoughts, she hadn't heard him come up the stairs. Flooded with
guilt and frozen by spontaneous terror, she felt the hot blood of
embarrassment fill her cheeks.
He was a giant glaring down at her—a wild,
frowning man with a long torso set upon longer legs. "Did you find
what you were looking for, Melissa?"
She glanced at the pile of clothes, and then
at the photograph as if seeing it for the first time. She realized
how this must look—as if she were snooping through his belongings,
and, oh, God, maybe even stealing something. Hastily, she dropped
the picture frame back into the trunk as though it were a burning
coal.
"I—" she began, but her voice was just a dry
croak. Her throat felt as if it were closing. She gripped one of
his shirts that she'd washed earlier and held it out. "I was just
folding your things. Th-they were all— I wasn't prying! Truly I
wasn't. The photograph was tangled in your clothes and it fell
out." To her horror, she felt her eyes begin to sting with rising
tears. She was so tired, she didn't have much strength
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