Harper's Bride

  HARPER’S BRIDE

  by

  Alexis Harrington

  Copyright © by Alexis Harrington, 1997

  www.alexisharrington.com

  Smashwords Edition

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  Chapter One

  Dawson, Yukon Territory

  June 1898

  "No more credit, Logan. Not a dime. You already owe me one thousand two hundred dollars and fourteen cents. I'll forget the change, but I want the rest of it. Now."

  Melissa Logan stood just inside the door at Harper's Trading Company, a rough, two-story log building on Front Street. The combined smells of wood smoke, tanned hides, bacon, and raw log walls clung to the place. Holding two-month-old Jenny in her arms, she watched the tense exchange between her husband, Coy, and Dylan Harper. At the end of the counter, a friend of Harper's named Rafe Dubois regarded the proceedings with obvious bland amusement.

  Twelve hundred dollars . . . Melissa could hardly conceive of such a sum. Although prices in the Yukon were unbelievably high, she hadn't realized that Coy had acquired such a debt. And they had been in Dawson for only six weeks. It was plain that Coy had made the man angry. But, then, Coy had a genuine talent for making people angry, and he got mad at everyone else.

  He straightened his skinny length and adjusted his one suspender, clearly offended. The seat of his dungarees drooped beneath his flat backside like an empty feed sack. He gestured behind him in Melissa's general direction. "I got me a wife and baby to feed. I can't do that till I make my big strike. You wouldn't see them go hungry, would you?"

  On the other side of the plank counter, Dylan Harper towered over Coy, his long, blunt finger anchoring a page in a ledger book in front of him. He was a wild-looking man, Melissa thought, tall and lean, with long, sun-streaked sandy hair that brushed his wide, muscled shoulders. His buckskin pants were decorated with a short fringe down the side of each leg, and she saw some kind of Indian amulet around his neck, which remained mostly hidden under his shirt. At his waist he wore a long-bladed knife she suspected he wouldn't hesitate to use. From a high window a shaft of sunlight fell over him, highlighting his sharp, masculine features in muted amber, and making his eyes shimmer like hard green stones.

  Instantly, she realized what Coy most obviously did not: he was a fool to cross this man.

  "You didn't come in here today to buy them something to eat, and you didn't charge over a thousand dollars worth of food. You bought tobacco, nails, a case of champagne"—Harper paused to look him up and down, as if wondering what a man like Coy Logan would do with even one bottle—"kerosene, and a lot of other things. But mostly you bought whiskey, three gallons of it." He glanced briefly at Melissa, then turned his unforgiving gaze back on Coy. "There's nothing written here against your name that would feed a family, Logan. Anyway, it's pretty hard to make that big gold strike when you're cutting wood for the North West Mounted Police." He tapped the ledger page with his fingertip. "I'm calling your debt. You'll pay or I'll bring in the Mounties, and they'll have you chopping on their woodpile again."

  Melissa felt her face get hot, and knew it was more than just the stifling summer heat. Coy had already been in trouble with the iron-handed law in Dawson for public drunkenness. The police had sentenced him to two weeks of their standard punishment—hard labor on the government woodpile. Until now, she hadn't realized that anyone else knew about it.

  Coy shifted his weight, and his tone took on a whining edge. "I know you give credit to some of the others at the diggings—Moody, Black-Eyed Charlie, Mose Swindell. And they run up lots bigger bills than me. You ain't made them pay."

  "I like those boys, Logan. I don't like you." Dylan Harper's low voice rang with finality.

  Melissa knew Coy would not be able to wangle his way out of this. She looked at the sleeping child she held in her arms; if Harper had Coy arrested, what would happen to her and the baby? Jobs up here were hard to come by, and anyway, who would hire a woman with an infant? Melissa didn't know if she had the courage or the strength to face it if things got much worse. Going hungry herself was one thing, but what if her milk dried up and Jenny began to starve as well?

  "I'm telling you, I ain't got nowhere near that much money," Coy said, pushing down his dusty bowler hat on his head. "I ain't got nothing but—" He stopped then and turned to consider Melissa. His long, narrow face and cruel mouth perfectly reflected his shiftless, unreliable character. Often, she wondered tiredly why she had married him. She certainly didn't like the speculative glint she saw in his red-rimmed eyes now. Suddenly, Coy reached out and grabbed her arm, yanking her forward. Jenny shifted in her sleep and then settled down. "All's I got are her and the little one."

  Harper stared at him with a blank expression.

  Coy gave Melissa a push that thrust her forward for inspection. She lowered her face in embarrassment. "She's a quiet type, not like some gabby females, and it don't take much to keep her in line. The baby's quiet, too. Lissy sees to that. She can cook and keep house—" He glanced at her and rubbed at a smudge on her cheekbone, making her flinch. "And she ain't bad to look at when she's cleaned up and her face is washed."

  "What's your point, Logan?"

  "Well, I'm a thinking man, Harper," Coy said with a sly grin, and tapped a dirty finger against his temple. "I'm always thinking. Maybe you and me can work a trade. This gal and the baby for the bill in your book, there. All fair and square, and the Mounties don't need to know a thing about it."

  Melissa's head came up and she gaped at Coy.

  Dylan Harper pulled back as if he had just been offered a box of scorpions.

  Rafe Dubois chuckled and shook his head as he leaned an elbow on the plank counter.

  "What the hell do— Are you crazy?" Harper demanded.

  "Coy!" Melissa cried, so startled that for a moment she forgot to keep quiet."You can't mean . . . " she broke off, unable to finish. She must have misunderstood him—he couldn't mean that he would actually sell his wife and his own flesh and blood to this man Dylan Harper. No one would do that, it was . . . it was immoral, it was . . .

  "Not a word out of you, girl," Coy warned her in a low voice, and pointed a finger at her. "I ain't got time for none of your foolishness." He turned to Harper and continued. "Now she's all right, I s'pose, but she's holding me back. If it wasn't for her, I could be panning heaps of dust. This is my big chance and I aim to grab it."

  Melissa ducked her head again, mortified. She could hardly believe the horrifying, humiliating situation she was in. Marrying Coy to escape her drunken, abusive father had been her chief mistake. Not long after the wedding she had discovered that her husband and father were very much alike. But she had compounded that error when she followed Coy to this wilderness. She'd had to cross the snowbound Chilkoot Pass when she was six months gone with Jenny, only to deliver her in a tent on the frozen banks of Lake Bennett. It was a wonder the baby had survived.

  Unable to keep the scorn out of his voice, Dylan Harper gave a low laugh and said, "I came to the Yukon to make money, Logan. I'm not interested in your offer." He considered the weaselly little bastard in front of him and thought he'd never felt such contempt for a man. He only wanted to be paid, not assume the burden of this silent, haggard-looking woman. Damn, Logan offered her as though she were nothing more than a head of livestock. And a baby too?

&n
bsp; In this business Dylan had run across his share of lowlife no-accounts, but if prizes were given for the lowest no-account, Coy Logan would definitely win. Dylan hadn't been lying when he said he didn't like Logan. From the moment they met, he'd despised him and had found no reason to change his mind since. That was Dylan's sole reason for calling in the debt. In the scope of the Yukon economy, where kerosene cost forty dollars a gallon and a dozen eggs could bring eighteen, Logan's twelve-hundred-dollar balance wasn't that large. In fact, others owed Dylan more. But he trusted them to pay him back. He didn't trust Logan at all.

  Let him dump a wife and baby on him? Hell, no. Dylan had come North two years earlier with one purpose in mind, and he wasn't about to let anything get in his way. A worn-out female and her child were not part of his plans. He couldn't tell how old she was exactly, probably younger than she appeared. She was thin and pale, with hair even lighter than his own falling out of a loose knot at the back of her head. Her clothes were old; the pattern in her calico dress was so faded it was nearly indistinguishable. And except for the moment she'd dared to say something—if he could call her small, soft protest speaking—she seemed as indifferent as a rock.

  But when he looked again at the woman Logan had called Lissy, he paused. She mostly kept her gaze lowered, and she didn't talk. When she stole a glance at Logan, though, something in her dove gray eyes—a glittering hatred combined with forlorn fear—made him think twice. That was no dirt mark on her cheekbone, as Logan would have him believe. It was a bruise, probably a souvenir from her husband's fist. Dylan had a hunch that was Logan's method of keeping her "in line." The thought made him tighten his jaw.

  "Dylan," Rafe Dubois said then, and motioned him to the end of the counter. Rafe's breathing was rattling today, as it did sometimes. "You know he'll either keep beating her, or he'll sell them both to someone else who might treat them even worse," he drawled softly.

  The same thought had already crossed Dylan's mind. Still clenching his back teeth, he cast a glance over his shoulder at the woman again. He didn't want to feel sorry for her, damn it. A woman and a kid? He shifted his gaze back to his friend.

  Rafe leaned closer. "I was about to go next door to the saloon to see if I could interest a miner in some high-stakes poker. You all can come along, and I'll preside over a little hearing to dismiss Logan's debt and transfer, shall we say, the bonds of matrimony from him to you. That is if the lady is amenable to the idea."

  Dylan gaped at his friend. "What would I do with a wife? Jesus, Rafe, none of it would even be legal."

  "Well, that's a fact, now isn't it? But it would get her and the baby away from the pusillanimous son of a bitch."

  "If the Mounties got wind of it, we'd all be sentenced to that damned woodpile of theirs or worse. Besides, you don't even practice law anymore."

  "A trifling point in this case, don't you think?"

  "If you believe it's such a good idea, why don't you take her?"

  Rafe shrugged. "It's not my debt to settle. But where I come from, chivalry would demand that she be rescued." He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a slim, dark cigar.

  Dylan tried one final argument. "This is the Yukon, not New Orleans."

  "That doesn't matter, does it," Rafe said. It was not a question.

  Dylan breathed an exasperated sigh and glanced at the woman again. He knew Rafe was right. Although his friend had a whipsaw tongue and a cynical view of life, his Louisiana upbringing gave him a curlicued code of honor. But Dylan's honor ran just as deep. If something was to happen to Logan's wife, and that seemed like a certainty, his conscience would give him no peace. And with Logan being the lowdown scum that he was, the chances were pretty good that something serious would happen.

  While he wished mightily that fate had chosen another man to take on this woman and her child, he was the one standing here.

  He turned to face Logan again. "All right, Logan. I accept your offer, under two conditions. One, the lady has to agree to this—"

  Logan hooked a thumb in his suspender. His attitude had turned suddenly cocky. "Oh, she agrees just fine."

  Dylan fixed his gaze on her blond, downturned head. "I want to hear it from her."

  Coy Logan prompted her. "Go on, girl, answer him."

  Finally, she looked up, and once again Dylan was unsettled by her piercing gray gaze, as if she was measuring his stature as a man. Then she cast a last glance at Coy Logan. "I agree," she said softly, and touched her cheek to the sleeping baby's head.

  Dylan nodded. "The other condition," he added, pointing at Logan, "is that you will never bother her again."

  "Well, now, you don't got any say-so over—"

  "Yes or no," he interrupted. "I forget the debt, or you go chop wood. It's your choice."

  Logan scowled. "All right, all right, she won't see me again. Who needs her anyway?"

  "Fine, then," Rafe said, slapping the countertop. "If you'll all accompany me next door."

  They trooped through the mud to the Yukon Girl Saloon. Throngs of men wandered the street as they passed, some with purpose, but many others with an oddly lethargic look in their eyes. Melissa's sense of terror was so great, she felt as if she were marching from one level of doom to another. Never had she felt so friendless or so alone, or so without choices.

  Inside the saloon Rafe Dubois took command of a table in the back. The rest of them crowded around it as though it were a judge's bench.

  "Mr. McGinty, a bottle of whiskey here, if you please," Rafe called to Seamus McGinty, the saloon's owner, "and a pen and paper."

  McGinty, a burly, loud-voiced man with a rich brogue, brought the bottle and the other things Rafe had requested. But when he saw Melissa and Jenny, he said, "Jaysus, Rafe, if the Mounties find out I let a woman and her wean in here, they'll be closin' me up for sartin!"

  Rafe reassured McGinty, then poured a tumbler of whiskey for himself and a shot for Dylan while he worked out the details of their agreement. Melissa took note of her surroundings. She was no stranger to saloons; her mother had sent her in search of Pa often enough when she was young. This one was big, filled with rough men just in from the gold fields, those on their way out, and those who wished for nothing more than to return home. A tinny player piano jangled in the corner, and on one side of the room a crowd was gathered around what looked to be a roulette table. From the walls several stuffed moose heads surveyed the goings-on with staring glass eyes.

  How she wished that she and Jenny were back in Portland and had never come on this foolish journey. Dawson was not a lawless place—the Mounties saw to that—but it was dirty and crowded and filled with desperate men.

  Two thousand five hundred miles she had traveled to be abandoned by her husband and left to the keeping of Dylan Harper. Life with Coy had been miserable and difficult, and she would not miss him. She had little confidence that Dylan would be a better man. Coy's irresponsibility had put her in this position without choices. Melissa had learned to hide all of her feelings, but fury bubbled up in her for a moment. It wasn't her debt, and yet she was the one being punished.

  She cast a sidelong glance at Dylan. He was very tall, much bigger than Coy, broad at the shoulder and hard-muscled. His square jaw and full mouth were not unpleasant to look at, she supposed, but there was a savage edge to him that she could not define. He had a temper like ice and fire, they said. Slow to ignite, but merciless in its vengeance. And while it was illegal to carry a gun in Dawson, she'd heard that he kept a big meat cleaver behind the counter in his store. More than one man had been threatened with it, they said. At least he seemed to be generally sober, which Coy was not.

  "Now, then, Coy Logan," Rafe began, pulling Melissa's attention back to the moment. He read some lines that he'd scribbled on a piece of foolscap. "For the debt of one thousand two hundred dollars that you owe Dylan Harper of Harper's Trading Company, you do offer in exchange Melissa Reed Logan and the child, Jenny Abigail Logan. Is that correct?"

  Coy eyed the whi
skey bottle, which he had not been invited to share, and scratched his chin. "I don't see why we have to go through—"

  "Is that correct, sir?" Rafe barked. He was rather fearsome, too, Melissa noted. Thank heavens Jenny slept on in her arms.

  Coy jumped. "Yeah, that's right, yeah."

  The proceedings came to a halt when Rafe Dubois was overcome by a coughing fit that left him gasping into a handkerchief. "Pardon me," he said finally, clearing his throat. "Very well, then. Let's continue."

  When he reached the part that dissolved her marriage to Coy, Rafe murmured so that only Melissa could hear, "I doubt that the North West Mounted Police or anyone else with the Canadian government would appreciate our little procedure here, madam. However, I suspect that you won't mind the opportunity to escape from this philistine?" He was a young man, but so thin and cadaverous that when he smiled, he reminded Melissa of a pale, grinning jack-o'-lantern. But his eyes were kind, and he had the voice and manners of the finest of gentlemen.

  She only glanced at Coy—she knew better than to look him in the face. A blur of memories crowded upon her, of pain and worry and indignity. Dylan gave her an even stare. She shook her head. "No, I won't mind."

  Rafe looked pleased. "As I supposed. Whatever else he may be, Mr. Harper is a gentleman." He spoke a few more words, and Melissa Logan became Melissa Harper. "You are free to leave, Logan, and I'd advise you to do so now."

  Coy gave them a mocking, smart-alecky salute and headed toward the swinging doors with a bouncing step, as if he did not have a care in the world.

  "Court is adjourned," Rafe said, and lifted his glass of whiskey in a toast. "Best wishes to both of you, Mr. Harper and Mrs. Harper. Now you'd better escort her to the door, Dylan, before poor old Seamus has an apoplectic fit."

  "All right, let's get out of here," Dylan grumbled and led Melissa through the crowd toward the open doors. His broad shoulders blocked out most of the daylight, though, as she passed among the men who eyed her with both curiosity and something more.