Page 17

Allred Kaady straightened from the sack of oats he'd been cutting open.

"Why, I can hardly believe my eyes—Dylan Harper! When did you get back into town?"

Grinning, Dylan stepped into the cool gloom of Kaady's Livery and let the tall, bony man pump his hand.

"Early yesterday morning, Red. I'm staying over at the hotel. How are things here at the stable?"

Red shrugged, grinning back.

"I ain't complaining. A couple of folks around here have bought one of those new horseless carriages, but hell, they make so much racket and smoke, their day will pass. Then those people will be on my doorstep to buy a real carriage."

He sat down on a vacant hay bale and motioned Dylan to another one.

"Tell me, where've you been these past two-three years? We were ready to give you up for dead."

Dylan sat and glanced at the cool, dark confines of the stable, inhaling the rich, familiar scents of horse and hay.

"I knocked around for a while, but I was in Dawson for most of the time."

"Went up for the gold rush, did you?"

"I was already there when it got started. I owned a trading store. I bought and sold miners' outfits. I never saw so many men digging in the dirt in my life. You'd be surprised what people will do for the chance to get rich."

Red looked wistful.

"I was tempted to give it a try myself, but then I figured, what would happen to my boys and girls if I went? I couldn't leave 'em with just anybody, and you weren't here to take 'em."

A stranger wouldn't realize that he was referring to his horses and not his children.

Good old Red, Dylan thought. Still here in his baggy overalls and battered straw hat.

"That's okay. It's good to see that some things don't change. Anyway, I was trying to decide if I wanted to spend another winter up there when I happened to come across an old copy of the Oregonian. I read about my brother and the old man."

Red fidgeted a bit.

"Say, I'm sure sorry about that. It was a surprise to the town."

Dylan thought he was being especially tactful, given that Columbia Bank had nearly foreclosed on him for being one day late with a loan payment, after he'd established a long history of paying on time. Dylan never knew for sure what had happened, but he suspected that Griffin Harper had extorted some kind of bribe from the liveryman that didn't go on the books. A bachelor in his mid-fifties, Red's whole life was tied up in this stable, and he would have done anything to keep from losing it to the bank. The old man had probably known that.

"You know we were always at odds, the three of us. Especially just before I left."

Dylan stood and walked over to the stall containing Red's sweet-tempered sorrel mare. Sticking her head out, she bumped her nose against his chest and sniffed at his shirt pockets. He laughed, then to the mare he added, "I swear, Penelope, you'd follow anyone home if you thought you'd get an apple. I don't have anything for you."

Red laughed.

"But she knows a soft touch when she sees one."

Dylan's smile faded.

"Like some women I know."

The older man pulled a straw out of the bale he was sitting on and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

"She's still living up there, if you're wondering."

The whole town had known that Elizabeth and Dylan were engaged, but only Red really knew how much he'd cared about her.

"I thought she might be."

"But maybe not for long. It turns out there were a few years' worth of taxes that haven't been paid on that property. The county assessor aims to collect."

Dylan stared at him. That was startling news.

"And if they aren't paid?"

"Well, I guess the sheriff will put it up for sale. I think they've held off as a courtesy to your brother's widow."

This put everything in a new light. The plan that Dylan had formulated during the trip over from Portland became more firmly fixed in his mind.

"Red, can I rent Penelope here for a little ride? I'd like to take a look at the home place."

Red studied him for a moment, then stood up to get a saddle.

"Sure, go ahead and take her. If you don't bring her back tonight, I won't worry."

***

The mare was a sturdy, dependable mount that didn't need much control, so Dylan had time to think as he rode out to the house. Regardless of the circumstances, or how many times his thoughts turned to Melissa, it was good to see these grasslands again. The Yukon had been majestic before the stampeders arrived, but not beautiful like this. The last of the day's sun was warm on his back, and off in the distance he heard the twitter of meadowlarks as they winged toward their nests for the night.

Remnants of summer's wildflowers edged the road, and to his left the Columbia River stretched out below. Dylan could think of no place else on earth that looked so good in all seasons, even in the gray, rainy spring. He wished Melissa were here to see it.

"Damn it,"

he swore aloud, "let's get going, Penelope."

He had to stop thinking about her, wondering about her, envisioning her. She and Jenny were part of his past, and he had to try and keep them there.

But thinking about his impending meeting with Elizabeth was no more comforting. How would he feel about seeing her after all this time? After . . . everything? Would the pain of her betrayal, once exquisitely sharp, spring to life again when he saw her?

At last, he reached the long, graveled drive that led to the house where he'd grown up. He couldn't think of it as a home—he'd always felt alone and out of place there. Passing the stables, he saw the stall doors hanging open, swinging lazily on the light breeze. The stalls themselves were empty and rundown, and the entire structure needed to be cleaned and painted. Remembering the fine, blooded stock that had occupied the stables before, and how tidy and well kept they were, he felt a flash of white-hot anger. It was as if Griffin Harper had done everything he could to obliterate Dylan's hard work, and his very existence.

But he got the biggest surprise of all when he rounded the last turn in the drive and saw the house. The stately colonial seemed just as desolate and forsaken, and in little better condition than the stables. What had happened here? he wondered. Red hadn't said anything about the property going to ruin, but it looked as if no one had lived here in months. The lawn had grown into a wild tangle that fell over the flagstone walk, and weeds grew through the gravel. For as long as Dylan could remember, the old man had kept two gardeners busy six months out of the year tending the grounds. No one had touched these in a long time.

Dylan climbed down from his saddle and led Penelope to the hitching rail by the back door. Tying her up, he walked slowly around the place, looking up at the windows, searching for signs of life. Maybe Elizabeth was away or had moved back to her father's house. But where was the staff?

Finally, he walked around to the double front doors, turned the knob, and stepped inside. There he found the entry hall and parlor as he remembered them, although he thought a piece or two of furniture were missing

"Ada, did you forget something?"

a familiar female voice called from the dining room.

His heart began thudding in his chest, and his hands suddenly grew damp.

"It's not Ada. It's me, Dylan."

A moment of silence that seemed to stretch into an hour was followed by soft, hurried footsteps Elizabeth rushed out to the hallway and stared at him. She stood with her hand at her throat, utter surprise and perhaps a little fear stealing the color from her creamy cheeks. Her black wavy hair was swept into a coronet at the back of her head, and wispy tendrils curled in front of her ears. He saw no sign of mourning dress, though. She wore a beautiful white gown made of gauzy organdie, decorated with panels of inset lace. Looking as if she were preparing for a dinner party, she was as breathtaking as ever.

"Dylan!"

She took a step forward, and then another.

"Wh-what are you doing here?"

Her voice was still sweet and deceptively childlike.

"I used to live here,"

he reminded her softly.

"When did you get back?"

"This morning. I heard about the accident, and I caught the boat down from Dawson."

She came closer still. The familiar scent of roses followed her.

"You've been in the Yukon? At the gold rush?"

"For over two years. Look, Elizabeth"—he gestured at her hair and dress—"if I'm interrupting some plans of yours, I'll just get on my horse and ride back to town."

Were those tears in her dark eyes? he wondered.

"Oh, no, please stay! I have no plans at all. None. In fact, I—"

She hurled herself into his arms.

"Oh, Dylan, I'm so glad you're back! Everything will be fine now."

***

Melissa looked at the scrap of paper in her hand, then at the address on the house. Yes, this was the right place. It was a nice-looking home, with a neat lawn and window boxes, on a quiet tree-lined street.

She was so nervous about this interview. Was she dressed correctly? What if she made a bad impression? She'd spent an hour or so each day sitting in the hotel lobby with Jenny, watching women pass by, studying their clothes and their manners, hoping to learn the ways of a lady. Certainly, her mother had taught her manners, but etiquette had been in short supply in her old neighborhood, and she hadn't learned much in Dawson.

Taking a deep breath, she proceeded up the walk and climbed the stairs to the front porch.

When she rang the bell, from within she heard a clamor of children's voices and a thunder of running feet that reverberated through the floorboards on the porch.

"I'll get it!"

"No, you always answer the door, and the telephone, too! Let me."

"Ma, someone's at the door—"

"You girls hush now and go back to your schoolwork, or you'll be doing all the cooking every night for a month!"

"Aw, Ma—"

"Lordy, don't call me 'Ma' in front of company! It sounds rude. Go on with you—"

After the sound of more giggling and scampering feet, the front door opened, and Melissa saw a little bird of a woman with high color in her cheeks and smiling brown eyes. She wore her rich chestnut hair in a luxuriant knot on top of her head that added perhaps another three or four inches to her diminutive height. Without knowing anything more about her, Melissa instinctively took a liking to her. Perhaps it was the kindness she saw in the woman's eyes.

"Mrs. Keller?"

"Yes, yes,"

she replied eagerly.

"And you're Mrs. Logan?"

Melissa tried not to cringe, but she knew she couldn't use Dylan's name any longer. After all, Logan was Jenny's name, although nowhere was it recorded as such. Birth certificates had been in short supply on the frozen banks of Lake Bennett when Jenny was born.

"Yes, I'm Melissa Logan."

"My nephew, Tommy, telephoned about you."

Mrs. Keller reached for her hand and shook it, practically pulling her in over the threshold.

"Please do come in."

Inside, the house was as neat as a pin. The furnishings weren't extravagant, but there was such a homey atmosphere, Melissa began to relax a little.

The bustling little woman ushered her to what appeared to be the nicest chair in the parlor. Then she sat down opposite Melissa and poured coffee from a pot that stood waiting on the side table.

"Tommy said you want to rent a house."

Tommy Keller was a polite young man who worked in the dining room at the Portland Hotel. Melissa had struck up a conversation with him a few times, and he'd told her about his aunt. Only to him had she confided her legal last name.

Melissa accepted a cup of coffee and nodded.

"Well, yes, I've just come back to town from Dawson. My husband died while we were up there, and I didn't want my baby to spend another winter in the Yukon. Now I'm looking for a place to live."

"Oh, dear, to be widowed so young—"

She reached over and patted Melissa's hand.

"I know how you must feel. I was young when I lost Mr. Keller. Fortunately, he left me with a little income and some property, or I'd really be in a fix."

Melissa couldn't very well reveal that Coy's death hadn't devastated her. Her separation from Dylan was a thousand times more painful. But she wanted to make a good impression, so she admitted reluctantly, "It's been hard, but I think Jenny and I will be, fine if we can just settle someplace."

Mrs. Keller nodded sagely.

"A woman's instinct is always to make a nest, and I can well imagine how difficult that would be in a hotel, especially with a child. Um, where is your baby today?"

"The hotel staff has been very kind to me. When I told the manager about this appointment, he offered to have one of the chambermaids watch her for me. She's such a good-tempered child, I don't think she'll have much trouble with her."

Of course, except for Tommy Keller, the staff all believed she was Mrs. Dylan Harper.

"I have four girls myself, and they're quite a handful, I can tell you!"

From the hallway came the sound of muffled giggling.

"Of course, they know if they don't behave,"

she went on in a louder voice, "their chores will double for six weeks."

A scuffling in the hall was followed by the sound of feet pounding up the stairs.

"I'm sorry,"

Mrs. Keller said.

"They're really good girls most of the time, but they tend to be a bit too exuberant. But enough about us—let me show you the house. It's just next door."

She followed Sarah Keller outside to a house of identical design just to the right of her own. Leading Melissa on a tour of the unfurnished three-bedroom dwelling, she pointed out its recent improvements, such as wallpaper and new paint.

By the time they were back in Mrs. Keller's parlor, sipping coffee, Melissa had fallen in love with it. It would be hers—well, perhaps not hers in the sense of ownership, but she would shop for some modest furniture and put her own identity into it. She and Jenny would have peace and quiet. A baby carriage—she could buy a baby carriage and take Jenny for strolls to the park. They would be warm and snug on winter nights by the stove or the fireplace, and she would teach Jenny her ABCs. The only thing missing from the picture in her mind was Dylan. If he were with them, it would be perfect. For a moment she felt such a wave of grief and loneliness for him, it was almost as if he were the one who had died. Oh, God, she knew she'd never see him again.

"Mrs. Logan? Are you all right, dear?"

"What? Oh, oh yes, I'm sorry. I guess I was just remembering . . ."

Mrs. Keller sat back in her chair.

"I understand. There are some losses that nothing can make up for. But having good friends will help."

Melissa looked at her and gave her a watery smile.

"I guess you're right."

At least she hoped so.

***

"Dylan, I can't tell you how good it is to see you again. I'm so glad you agreed to have dinner with me."

Elizabeth directed him to the dining room table and went out to the kitchen. It felt odd to be treated like a guest in the house he grew up in.

He plucked the linen napkin from his plate, and memories of a thousand tense mealtimes at this very table came crowding back.

"I agreed to it because I want you to tell me what's been going on around here, Elizabeth. Why is the place so run down?"

He gestured to her as she carried a roast chicken to the table.

"And what happened to Ada and the rest of the help? Are you living here alone?"

"Oh, we can talk about that in a minute. I want to hear all about the Yukon. Was there a lot of gold up there? We heard reports, of course, but they must have been exaggerated. They talked about millions of dollars. Isn't that silly?"

"There are millions of dollars in gold up there. I wouldn't have stayed if I weren't making money."

He was fully aware of what she wanted to know, and he didn't mind baiting her a bit. Especially when they were discussing a subject so dear to her heart.

"Now tell me about this place."

"Oh, my, where to begin,"

she sighed prettily, toying with one of her earrings.

"Well, after you left, Scott and I married. Of course, you know that."

She had the decency to look embarrassed, and poured each of them a glass of wine.

"Oh, Dylan, it really was a dreadful mistake."

She dropped her breathy pretense and sounded earnest.

"I know he was your brother, and my husband, and now he's gone, but . . . I never should have listened to my father. He was the one who insisted that Scott and I marry."

His stomach knotting, Dylan put down his fork. He didn't want to hear any of that, not now, not if he was going to sit at the same table with her.

"Elizabeth, never mind about that. What happened is in the past, and nothing is going to change it. I want to know about this property. In town I heard the taxes haven't been paid."

She dropped her gaze.

"No, they haven't. There's no money to pay them."

"Why not?"

he demanded. With every minute that passed, he felt he knew less and less.

She didn't answer.

"Damn it, Elizabeth!"

Losing his patience with her coy game, he pounded his fist on the table, making her jump and the glassware rattle.

"You own only half of this place. I own the other half, and I want to know why I'm about to lose it!"

"You don't need to shout at me,"

she said coldly.

"It seems I do—"

"I only wanted to spare you the pain."

He shook his head and gave her a sardonic smile.

"Why? You didn't before."

"Dylan, I tried to tell you about that. I loved you. My father—"

"Not now, Elizabeth."

She lifted her wineglass and took a big, unladylike swallow.

"Scott and your father made some bad investments. When they ran through their own money, they solicited other investors to put up more, and lost that too. My own father lost everything. This house and the land are all that's left."

Dylan slumped back in his chair and laughed. He laughed until his side ached and tears came to his eyes.

She stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"My God, how can you laugh? What can you possibly find in this that's funny? It's a tragedy!"

Throwing his napkin on the table, he snorted.

"Tragedy—if I believed in divine retribution, that's what I'd call it. Griffin Harper made his money by taking advantage of other people, calling their notes, throwing them out of their homes. And Scott followed right behind him. I'm not glad they were killed, but I'm not surprised by the way this is ending."

"Well, I can tell you that unless some miracle occurs, this place will be sold by the county for the taxes. I've just been scraping by here. I can't ask my family for help—they're worse off than I am. Ada comes by sometimes out of the goodness of her heart, but I can't pay her. The rest of the help left right after the funeral. I've had to do the housework and even my own laundry. It's so degrading."

Laundry. Dylan thought of Melissa washing clothes for dozens of miners while she sang to Jenny, handling those heavy flatirons, working harder than Elizabeth had ever dreamed of even in a nightmare. On top of that, she'd taken care of a baby and done the housework too. And through it all, she hadn't lost courage, she'd gained it. She had never complained when she had every reason in the world to do so. Some inner grace, he thought, must have sustained her through a hard childhood and her life with Logan. A grace that Elizabeth would never have because money couldn't buy it. It wasn't her fault—she'd led a soft, spoiled life and now couldn't adjust to the loss of luxury. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"It's getting late, and there's no moon tonight to see by,"

she added, taking another drink of wine.

"Will you stay?"

Drinking his own wine, he replied, "Yeah, why not? I'd hate to end up like Scott and the old man."

***

Dylan lay in the darkness on a feather tick, thinking that the last thing he'd ever expected to do was sleep under this roof again. The bedding was scented with lavender, and the furniture was expensive. It all was a far cry from a handmade bedstead and wolf hide blankets.

It was at times like this, late at night, when he missed Melissa the most. It had started on the trip down from Dawson. He could imagine her singing, sweet and clear, as she worked or rocked Jenny, and an aching emptiness swelled in his chest that made him feel like crying. Damn it, anyway, he thought impatiently, he had to get over this. Grabbing the other pillow, he wrapped his arms around it and rolled to his side, trying to shut out her image. But it was hopeless. She was burned into his heart, and she would remain there always, even if he lived to be a very old man. And someday, he might find himself giving advice to another man, just as Rafe had tried to advise him. If that man was smarter or luckier than Dylan had been, he'd listen.

He thought he wouldn't be able to sleep, but soon he found himself in the misty world between consciousness and slumber, where half-formed dreams came to life. Melissa was with him then, lying soft and warm against his bare body. He felt her hand sliding up the inside of his thigh as she whispered his name and rained soft, moist kisses down his back. When her hand closed over his erection and quickened him with long, slow strokes, he groaned and rolled slowly to his back.

"Melissa, Melissa . . . oh God, honey, I love you."

He reached for her soft, fragrant flesh, and she smelled like roses—

Dylan was awake in an instant.

"Elizabeth, damn it, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Pushing her hand away, he fumbled with a match and lit a bedside candle. She lay beside him propped on one elbow, naked, her long wavy hair flowing over her like black satin.

"Don't send me away,"

she pleaded.

"It was always good between us, Dylan. Scott couldn't make me—I mean, he—you were the only one who knew what I needed."

He sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at her, incredulous, wondering if he'd ever really known her.

"Don't you realize that there's nothing left between us? I don't care what your reason was—you broke off our engagement to marry my brother, Elizabeth, for money. There are some pretty ugly words for women like you."

"Oh? And who is Melissa?"

she demanded, flipping her hair behind one shoulder.

"Your wife?"

Startled, he realized he must have called her name in his sleep.

"None of your business. Look, you just get back to your own bedroom."

Making no attempt to cover herself, she rose to her knees and looked at him with her big, dark eyes.

"Dylan, think how it was between us. Don't you remember those nights I came to you in your rooms over the stables? Sometimes you were so satisfied when we finished, you couldn't move. We could have all that again. I never stopped loving you. And you loved me once—we can start over, from the beginning."

He shook his head, hardly believing his own ears.

"What makes you suppose I want you?"

"Think,"

she continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"If we married, we could restore this house and the grounds to their past glory. You'd have horses back in the stables again."

"Are you crazy? This is the last house I'd want to live in. And you're the last woman I'd want to live with!"

He jumped off the mattress and reached for his pants and shirt, so furious he was almost afraid to say anything more.

"Are you leaving?"

Her lower lip was actually trembling. Finally, she drew the sheet up to cover herself.

"Yes, damn it, of course I'm leaving."

He jammed his arms through his shirtsleeves.

"And I've got one proposition for you, Elizabeth, so you'd better listen. I'll make a settlement on you so that you can move out of here and get a new start somewhere else. Or you can wait here and let me buy you out when the county puts this house up for sale. If you do that, you won't get a dime from me. But make no mistake—I'll get this place one way or the other."

She clutched the sheet to herself.

"But you said you don't want to live here."

"I don't."

She reached for his arm.

"Are you doing this just to spite me? Dylan, don't be a fool. I could make you happy."

He disentangled his arm and pulled on his boots.

"Elizabeth, spite hasn't got a thing to do with it. You're nothing more than a beautiful viper. You did me a favor by marrying Scott. Christ, I actually feel sorry for him."

"Where will you go? What are you going to do?"

He walked toward the door to the hall, then turned to look at her.

"I almost made the biggest mistake of my life a few days ago, and tomorrow night I'm going to catch a boat back to Portland to see if I can fix it. In the meantime, I'm staying at the hotel in town. I'll give you till noon to let me know your decision. If you decide to take me up on my offer, there'll be ten thousand dollars in the bank in your name by tomorrow afternoon."

"T-ten th-thousand . . . ten thousand dollars?"

"It'll be the best money I ever spent."