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Authors: Alexis Harrington
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most frightening part of his anger had
been the deadly cold of it. Coy would rant and swear and carry on,
yelling and throwing things. A lot of noise had accompanied his
fits of anger. Coy's outbursts had been no less frightening, but
they hadn't sneaked up on her. Dylan's fury made her think of a
cool and deadly snake, sliding up from nowhere.
Dylan was so different in every way from Coy,
or her father and brothers. At least he seemed so in her few
dealings with him.
But a temper was a temper, and she imagined
that one slap or punch hurt just as much as another.
Her heart, though . . . she had learned to
keep it safely out of reach. The bruises healed, but a broken heart
would not fare as well.
*~*~*
After Rafe left Harper's to search out a card
game at the saloon, Dylan decided to lock up for an hour or so and
go eat dinner. He thought he detected the aroma of ham and hot
apple pie drifting down through the ceiling. It smelled better than
any saloon food he'd tasted in Dawson, maybe better than anything
he'd eaten since he left The Dalles, his hometown in Oregon.
He stood outside on the duckboard and flipped
the hasp over the door, then secured it with a padlock. Despite the
hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold dust deposited here in
Dawson, he knew a lot of business owners didn't bother to lock
their doors. The Mounties's presence was so respected, and the
threat of banishment from Dawson so real, genuine crime was a
rarity here. No one wanted to be forced to leave town and forfeit
his one big chance to strike it rich. Men were arrested for using
obscene language, or cheating at cards, or for selling whiskey to
saloon girls. Theft, robbery, and assault were surprisingly rare;
towns with far fewer people living under calmer circumstances
experienced much worse. But Dylan had been burned by tempting fate,
and he kept his place locked.
Dawson's low instance of crime wasn't the
chief subject on his mind, though. His thoughts kept drifting back
to Melissa. It wasn't difficult for him to picture her standing at
the stove in that new dress he'd seen her wearing when she came
into the store. It had looked nice on her, with its narrow
blue-and-white stripe, and high white collar that made her neck
look like a swan's.
More than her dress, though, he remembered
her expression of pure, ashen terror when he'd glanced up to find
her standing over there by the basket of oranges. Fierce annoyance
had been his first reaction; why the hell had she chosen that
moment of all moments to walk in? If the miner had decided to make
the situation uglier than it was, having a woman in the mix could
have complicated things considerably.
But he knew that Rafe was right. She feared
Dylan more than anybody else. He felt certain that she'd seen her
share of violence in her life. And in a town like Dawson, where
everyone was struck with gold fever, scrapes like the one with the
miner were bound to occur. Still, he didn't want her to be afraid
of him; how would she share that small living space upstairs—how
would she even work for him—if she feared him?
Settling his hat, he recalled that Elizabeth
had been afraid of him sometimes, but she had seemed to relish the
fear. It had excited her. In turn, she had aroused in him a dark,
hot desire that gave him no peace, not even after their clandestine
moments in his bed over the stables. He paused, his gaze fixed
unseeing on the passing traffic. How did she like her life now? he
wondered bitterly, with her wealthy, dull husband—
As he climbed the stairs, he heard the
muffled sound of the baby squalling and it shook him from his
thoughts. None of his past mattered now, he knew, and looking back
to review regrets was one of the biggest mistakes a man could
make.
When he opened the door, he saw steaming food
on the stove, and Melissa pacing back and forth with the baby in
her arms. Hearing him, she whirled and her expression made him
think of a doe he'd once startled in the woods. Their eyes
been the deadly cold of it. Coy would rant and swear and carry on,
yelling and throwing things. A lot of noise had accompanied his
fits of anger. Coy's outbursts had been no less frightening, but
they hadn't sneaked up on her. Dylan's fury made her think of a
cool and deadly snake, sliding up from nowhere.
Dylan was so different in every way from Coy,
or her father and brothers. At least he seemed so in her few
dealings with him.
But a temper was a temper, and she imagined
that one slap or punch hurt just as much as another.
Her heart, though . . . she had learned to
keep it safely out of reach. The bruises healed, but a broken heart
would not fare as well.
*~*~*
After Rafe left Harper's to search out a card
game at the saloon, Dylan decided to lock up for an hour or so and
go eat dinner. He thought he detected the aroma of ham and hot
apple pie drifting down through the ceiling. It smelled better than
any saloon food he'd tasted in Dawson, maybe better than anything
he'd eaten since he left The Dalles, his hometown in Oregon.
He stood outside on the duckboard and flipped
the hasp over the door, then secured it with a padlock. Despite the
hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold dust deposited here in
Dawson, he knew a lot of business owners didn't bother to lock
their doors. The Mounties's presence was so respected, and the
threat of banishment from Dawson so real, genuine crime was a
rarity here. No one wanted to be forced to leave town and forfeit
his one big chance to strike it rich. Men were arrested for using
obscene language, or cheating at cards, or for selling whiskey to
saloon girls. Theft, robbery, and assault were surprisingly rare;
towns with far fewer people living under calmer circumstances
experienced much worse. But Dylan had been burned by tempting fate,
and he kept his place locked.
Dawson's low instance of crime wasn't the
chief subject on his mind, though. His thoughts kept drifting back
to Melissa. It wasn't difficult for him to picture her standing at
the stove in that new dress he'd seen her wearing when she came
into the store. It had looked nice on her, with its narrow
blue-and-white stripe, and high white collar that made her neck
look like a swan's.
More than her dress, though, he remembered
her expression of pure, ashen terror when he'd glanced up to find
her standing over there by the basket of oranges. Fierce annoyance
had been his first reaction; why the hell had she chosen that
moment of all moments to walk in? If the miner had decided to make
the situation uglier than it was, having a woman in the mix could
have complicated things considerably.
But he knew that Rafe was right. She feared
Dylan more than anybody else. He felt certain that she'd seen her
share of violence in her life. And in a town like Dawson, where
everyone was struck with gold fever, scrapes like the one with the
miner were bound to occur. Still, he didn't want her to be afraid
of him; how would she share that small living space upstairs—how
would she even work for him—if she feared him?
Settling his hat, he recalled that Elizabeth
had been afraid of him sometimes, but she had seemed to relish the
fear. It had excited her. In turn, she had aroused in him a dark,
hot desire that gave him no peace, not even after their clandestine
moments in his bed over the stables. He paused, his gaze fixed
unseeing on the passing traffic. How did she like her life now? he
wondered bitterly, with her wealthy, dull husband—
As he climbed the stairs, he heard the
muffled sound of the baby squalling and it shook him from his
thoughts. None of his past mattered now, he knew, and looking back
to review regrets was one of the biggest mistakes a man could
make.
When he opened the door, he saw steaming food
on the stove, and Melissa pacing back and forth with the baby in
her arms. Hearing him, she whirled and her expression made him
think of a doe he'd once startled in the woods. Their eyes
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