Page 8

"Have you heard that singin' washerwoman? I swear she's got a voice like one of God's own choir,"

a bearded man remarked to his companion.

"That she does, but she's right here on earth and she don't seem to be married. I was thinkin' I might call on the young gal personal-like and ask to her to some festivities,"

his companion replied, and washed down a doughnut with a mug of beer.

"You? Why, she's too much of a lady to be seen with the likes of you. Besides, she's got that baby there with her. I bet her man is workin' in the gold fields and she's makin' ends meet with her laundry."

"Well, I won't know till I ask, will I?"

Eavesdropping on this conversation between two rough miners standing behind him at the bar, Dylan scowled. After what he'd seen lying next to Melissa the night before, he had no little difficulty in checking his impulse to deck them both. After all, he told himself, in some circles it was considered a dueling offense to even mention a lady's name in a saloon.

He turned and gave them a sour look, but they didn't notice.

Rafe, who stood next to him, obviously did notice, and he laughed so hard he started coughing.

"Come on, Dylan,"

he said, recovering his wind, "let's find a table to sit at."

Lately it had seemed that the lawyer grew tired as quickly as an old man, and he'd taken to carrying a walking stick. It was an impressive thing, with a big gold filigree head and black lacquered ferrule, and it certainly looked correct on a spiffy dresser like Rafe. But Dylan noticed that he leaned on the stick more than carried it.

Grabbing the whiskey bottle, Dylan led them through the crowded saloon to a table, and Rafe eased himself into a chair, chuckling at Dylan again.

"I'm surprised you think this is funny,"

Dylan commented, flopping into the opposite chair. He downed his own shot "Wasn't that what you were worried about when Melissa decided to start that laundry business? That she'd be exposed to 'unsavory opportunities'?"

"I'm not laughing about that. I'm laughing at you. You might not admit it, but you're the one who doesn't like their interest."

Rafe had a wicked gleam in his deep-set eyes. He flicked a speck of lint from his crisply tailored coat.

"I just don't want her to be pestered by people like Ned Tanner."

Dylan inclined his head toward the two miners.

"Or men like that."

"Maybe she wouldn't see it as pestering,"

Rafe suggested, keeping a keen eye on him.

"If you think she's looking for another man's attentions, I can guarantee you that you're wrong. It's the last thing she wants."

Dylan put his feet on the chair next to him.

"And how would you know?"

Dylan thought back to Melissa's impassioned speech about giving Jenny a chance in life.

"I don't need to be a genius to figure that out. Besides, your mumbo jumbo at McGinty's back table didn't do away with Coy Logan. She's still legally married to him, if you'll recall."

Rafe shrugged and took another deep swallow from his whiskey glass.

"He deserted her. I'm sure any judge would grant a divorce decree given the circumstances."

Dylan didn't want to think about that. As long as she was technically some other's man's wife, he felt a measure of safety from the thoughts that kept creeping up on him.

"It makes no difference to me—that's her business. All she wants is to make money, and from what I can tell, that's just what she's doing."

***

The day was overcast, although the sun peeked through the clouds from time to time. A cool, stiff breeze threatened to carry away the wash drying on Melissa's clotheslines. She had erected a little tent over Jenny's cubbyhole to keep the wind from blowing in the baby's face.

Melissa stood over her iron kettle, stirring a batch of starch with a broken oar. She paused for a moment to roll up her sleeves and then leaned on the oar.

Despite the breeze, this was hot, hard work. In fact, everything about the laundry business was grueling. She had given up on perfection; most of the clothes that were brought to her were so grimy with embedded earth and sweat, they would never be truly clean again no matter how hard she scrubbed. She had to settle for mostly clean, but her customers were very satisfied.

Now and then they would linger to make small talk, lonely miners with their mostly clean wash wrapped in brown paper and tucked under their arms. Her experience with men was limited, but she sensed their interest by the questions they asked. How had she gotten started with this laundry business? Wasn't this a hot summer? Did she like to dance? Melissa was polite, but she reminded them that she was Mrs. Harper, and suggested that they might want to do business with her husband at his trading store. Some of them actually did.

She'd also had a couple of unpleasant experiences. The gold rush had drawn men from all walks of life, most of whom, she was surprised to learn, had come seeking escape more than gold. They sought refuge from nagging wives or mothers-in-law, bill collectors, punishing jobs, and the law. A few of them reminded her of Coy; they eyed her speculatively, as if assessing her ability to be dominated, and possibly because she was making more money than they were.

One man offered her money to sing to him—in private. Another erupted into a rage when she couldn't remove a wine stain from his shirt front. But the Mounties also made their presence known, and they patrolled her side street just often enough to keep any situation from getting out of hand.

Yes, the work was hard, but oh, it paid so well. She hoarded every single grain of gold dust she received, and she weighed it every night. For good measure she'd sewn a button closure on her apron pocket where she kept her poke, and once in a while, especially when her back ached the most, she'd heft that pocket to feel the weight of it. While she'd had every intention of paying Dylan for Coy's debt, in her heart of hearts, the plan had been more like a child's solemn promise than a certainty. How on earth would she do it? Now, though, she was beginning to believe that she would achieve that goal.

She had seen and heard nothing of Coy since the afternoon at the Yukon Girl Saloon, and for that she was grateful. He had taken her fragile hopes for a better life and crushed them before he deserted her. At first she had been as wary and watchful for his return as she'd been with Dylan. People like Coy rarely went away, but turned up again like the famous bad penny. And she knew Coy well enough to have trouble believing she'd seen the last of him. But as the days passed with no sign of him, she began to relax her guard. She wished that she weren't still his wife, but eventually perhaps that could be remedied.

Occasionally, she would glance up from the bubbling cauldron of starch to look at the side window of Harper's Trading. Dylan wasn't standing there. She wasn't sure if she hoped to see him or not. He was still a mystery to her. She sensed that something drove him, and that an old grievance—a disappointment, maybe—that lurked in his past had colored his viewpoint.

However her original fear of him was turning into curiosity, and lately she'd caught herself watching him in the morning while he shaved. It was always the same—he stood at the mirror barefoot with no shirt, his jeans hanging low, his sun-blond hair brushing his wide shoulders—

"Ma'am, are you Miz Harper?"

Melissa lurched back to the present and saw two men approach in a wagon that had pulled into the side street. In the wagon bed they carried a large, tarp-covered object.

"Yes, I'm Mrs. Harper,"

she answered, stopping her oar. Strange how easy it had become for her use Dylan's last name. She hoped that a wagonload of dirty clothes wasn't hidden under the tarp.

The driver nodded, then set the brake and wrapped the lines around the brake handle.

"Ma'am, we have your order back here,"

he said, and both men jumped down.

"Order? I haven't ordered anything."

"Says here you did."

He waved a piece of paper at her so quickly she saw nothing but the largest print before he jammed it into his back pocket. She had been able to read Bill of Sale and Paid.

"Leastways, we was hired to make a delivery here."

The other man, ignoring the conversation, had already begun to untie the ropes holding the tarp in place.

"But what is it?"

The man unpacking the delivery flipped the canvas back with a flourish.

"Here you go, ma'am."

There Melissa saw a large sign that read, Mrs. M. Harper’s Laundry. It was beautifully painted, with scrolls and fancy black lettering outlined in gold leaf.

"Who bought this?"

she asked, astounded.

"Well, lessee."

The man pulled out the bill of sale again and handed it to her. She read Dylan's bold signature, and the price—seventy-five dollars! It seemed no matter how hard she worked, her obligation to him kept growing. And she hadn't even asked for this.

"Oh, please, no, I can't accept this. You'll have to take it back."

"You don't like it?"

"Oh, no, it's a wonderful sign, a beautiful sign. But I can't keep it. Please, can't you take it back?"

The man rubbed his stubbled chin, obviously unprepared for this possibility.

"No, we can't do that, ma'am. See, the thing has been bought and paid for proper, and we was paid to put it up for you. Anyways, what would the sign painter do with it if we took it back to him? He can't sell it to somebody else, 'less you know another Miz Harper doing wash in Dawson."

"But I—"

"It's a gift, Melissa."

She turned and saw Dylan approaching. His stride was graceful and long. The wind whipped his hair away from his handsome face and flattened his shirt against his torso, outlining the frame and muscle of him. Intermittent sun highlighted the gold hair on his arms, making it sparkle. She wished she could learn to ignore his striking looks.

"You said you wanted a sign. I had one painted."

"But I meant when I could afford it. I didn't expect you to pay for it."

He shrugged and gestured at the back of the wagon.

"Well, it's here today, and I wanted to pay for it. So—what are you going to do, Melissa?"

The delivery man watched her expectantly. Dylan smiled and looked vaguely triumphant, as if he knew he would have his own way. Melissa didn't know what else to do but accept. It bothered her that once again, she'd had no say in a decision that affected her. But mingling with her annoyance was a sense of pleasure that Dylan had actually thought of her, and done something nice to surprise her.

"All right,"

she said to the men, "put it up."

***

The next day was Sunday, and by strict order of the North West Mounted Police, the lively, sleepless Dawson that everyone knew six days a week came to a dead stop. Every business in town, including the saloons and dance halls, closed up tight. The only sound to be heard was the faint strains of hymns coming from the Catholic and Anglican missionaries who had traveled to Dawson to save those who lusted after wealth and its associated evils. An air of grudging repentance hung over everything.

Dylan chafed at the enforced weekly inactivity. It was one thing if a man decided to take a day off—it was another when it was demanded of him. He couldn't even keep the store closed and work within its walls. Businesses were required to keep their lights burning so that the Mountie on the patrol could see inside and be certain that no one broke the law.

On most Sundays, Dylan used the time to walk through the hills. He missed owning a horse, but so far there weren't that many to be had up here, or much livestock of any kind. Two weeks ago Dawson had seen its first cow arrive, floated in by a man named Miller, who immediately sold the milk for thirty dollars a gallon.

Today, though, Dylan remained in the room over the store, looking out at the deserted streets. The sky was low and gray again. God, he really hated what this town had become. Six days and nights a week it was loud and crowded. And although it was surrounded by wilderness, in just a few weeks it had grown to almost the size of Portland and Seattle.

The town hadn't been so bad when he arrived. It hadn't been where he wanted to be, but there was a beauty to the place, a grandeur in its harsh vastness that had appealed to him. Now it had two banks, two newspapers, five churches, and telephone poles lined the streets. It was like a damned carnival. The scars of men's futile dreams crisscrossed the surrounding land, which was further disfigured by the machinations of those dreams—sluice boxes, ugly cabins, tailings, and mining shafts.

It seemed like a lifetime since he'd seen the green, forested hills and sheer rock cliffs that he'd left behind in The Dalles. The Columbia River, fierce and wide, cut a relentless course from its headwaters in Canada through the Cascade Mountains on its way to the Pacific Ocean. In its path it carved the most beautiful river gorge Dylan had ever seen. He sighed and jammed his hands into his back pockets.

The desire to see it again, to live upon that land once more, was what made Dawson bearable. He'd have the money he needed, he hoped within the next few months. Then he'd go back to The Dalles and live the way he wanted to. His father would see that a man didn't have to cheat or lie his way through life to succeed.

Behind him at the washstand, Melissa was just finishing giving Jenny her bath in the flowered porcelain bowl. The sound of water splashing, and the cooing between mother and baby were not so bad, he conceded. In fact, they were kind of homey. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Melissa button Jenny into one of the dresses she'd made for her.

"How's she doing today?" he asked.

Melissa cradled Jenny in the crook of her arm, with the baby's dress trailing over, and brought her to the window.

"Oh, she's doing just fine, aren't you, button?"

she replied with a smile, more to Jenny than to him.

"She's fed and washed, and has clean clothes."

In this muted light both mother and child looked as pretty as the dawn. Although Melissa was busy every day from morning till evening, Dylan realized that she looked much better than she had when he first met her. She was still too thin, but her shape was beginning to round out. Her gray eyes were clearer, and her skin had acquired a luminous, peach-colored bloom. Either hard work agreed with her, or liberating her from that bastard Logan had helped. Hell, maybe it was both, he thought.

One way or the other, she was becoming a distraction that Dylan hadn't anticipated the day her husband traded her to him. Back then, clutching the baby to her thinness she'd looked not much older than a child herself.

That had definitely changed.

He put out a finger for Jenny to grab, and her little hand closed around it with a strong grip. She stared at him, seemingly even more fascinated with him than he was with her. Something about the child stirred his heart. She smelled of fresh soap and water, not unlike her mother.

Standing this close to Melissa, he felt blood begin to pound through his veins. The crescents of her lashes made him think of dark, smooth sable. Her cheek, softly curved, wore a. pale rose stain like a sunset sky. And her mouth, full and coral-pink, parted slightly when the tip of her tongue peeked out to touch her upper lip.

She was a married woman, and Dylan had never dallied with another man's wife, no matter how tempting. Or, as in this case, no matter how low the man or thin the couple's bonds had stretched. His mind might know better, but his body didn't give a tinker's damn about morals or ethics. It wasn't to have been a problem when he agreed to this arrangement. But as he gazed at the slightly damp spot on her lip where her tongue had touched, he asked himself again what harm could be found in just a kiss—

"Would you like to hold her?"

Melissa asked.

He looked up and found her gray gaze resting on him. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he pulled his hand from Jenny's fist and backed up a step.

"Oh, well, no . . . I . . .

"

He brushed his hands against his pants legs and shrugged.

The baby, clearly unhappy with losing Dylan's finger, scrunched up her face and started crying.

Melissa barely stifled a giggle. Here was this big man-savage, who kept a nasty-looking knife tied to his thigh and a meat cleaver under his store counter, a man who could be so completely intimidating that he'd steal her breath. But he backed away from Jenny as if she were a twenty-foot-tall ogre.

"She won't bite you—she doesn't have any teeth,"

she teased, enjoying her advantage. She knew that Dylan was curious about Jenny. She'd seen him stop to look at the baby while she slept, or dangle his watch in front of her, but he'd never picked her up.

"But she's so little,"

he said over Jenny's squalling.

"I'd probably hurt her."

She couldn't help but smile.

"You won't hurt her, although it looks like she's pretty upset with you for taking your finger away from her."

Uncertainty was written on his handsome face.

"Well, I don't know how to—"

Melissa closed the distance he'd opened between them and thrust Jenny into his arms. He held her awkwardly, his inexperience glaring.

"You just need to support her head and back,"

she said, and pantomimed the proper technique.

"Hold her a little closer."

As soon as he got the hang of it, Jenny's bawling stopped, and she stared up at Dylan and smiled, waving a slobbery fist at him. He smiled back, then looked up at Melissa.

"She's soft."

He sounded surprised.

This time Melissa couldn't check her laughter.

"Yes, she is. Babies are soft. Haven't you ever held one before? Maybe a little brother or sister? Or a niece or nephew?"

He shook his head.

"No. My brother is only a couple of years younger than me. Anyway, we were never what could be called close."

This tidbit of information threw another log onto Melissa's fire of curiosity. It might be her chance to learn something about Dylan.

"Did he come North, too?"

Picking up the washbasin, she walked to the door.

His laugh was short and biting.

"Scott? Hell, no. As far as I know, he's still in The Dalles, following my father's example and learning his ways."

"Is that bad?"

Balancing the bowl on one hip, she opened the door and stepped out to the landing to toss Jenny's bathwater over the railing.

"Yeah, it is for the people the old man forecloses with his banking business."

He shook his head and chuckled again, keeping his gaze fixed on the baby.

"He never seemed to think he did anything wrong. I suppose his motto could be, do unto others to serve yourself."

Holding Jenny as if he carried a priceless art object, he sat down in a chair at the table.

"Besides, Scott has a wife."

This last he said with special bitterness.

She closed the door again and considered him.

"You don't look like a banker's son. At least not the way I'd imagine one to look."

"Yeah? And what does a banker's son look like?"

"Well, you know, more starched, I guess."

She gestured in his direction.

"Shorter hair, and probably no knife or buckskin pants."

"That's what my brother and father thought, too."

"Does your family know you came up here?"

He frowned then, his brows lowering to rest on his eyelids, and making him look as fierce as he had the day she saw him wield the meat cleaver. He stood and carried Jenny to her crate.

"No, they don't know where I am, and they aren't my family."

The word was as sharp as a broken bottle.

"I was the sand in their picnic lunch—the conscience that kept asking them what they were doing—and they were embarrassed by me. My father and my brother put widows, children, and old men out of their homes if they couldn't pay their mortgages. Piled their belongings up in front of their houses and told them, it was nothing personal . . . just business. It was just greed. I was ashamed of them, and I don't care if I never see them again. Not exactly what you'd call a loyal group, huh?"

He walked back to the window, beyond which drifted the tolling of a distant church bell.

When he was mad, he seemed to fill whatever space he occupied. He looked taller, broader at the shoulder, bigger than ever. Strange, Melissa was less afraid of him this time, perhaps because she realized that his anger was not really directed at her. But it was a palpable thing, growling at the past.

"You've cut yourself off from everyone? Even your mother?"

She thought of her own mother and that she'd never see her again, and felt a catch in her heart.

"She died during an influenza epidemic. I was about eleven, I guess. Anything else you want to know?"

He turned and faced her then.

The question sounded more like an accusation, and she realized that he was more vexed than she'd thought.

"Yes, what do you want for dinner?"

It was a silly question, but it just popped out of her mouth.

He stared at her, then burst out laughing. His smile revealed straight, white teeth, and dimples. The tension in the small room evaporated. He shook his head ruefully and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Melissa, you're a different kind of woman,"

he admitted.

She didn't know why—after all, it wasn't really a compliment, exactly—but it sounded like the nicest thing anyone had said to her in years.

***

Two days later, Melissa was up to her elbows in hot sudsy water, scrambling to finish an order of boiled shirts for Big Alex McDonald. Called the King of the Klondike, his wealth and business interests were so vast that when asked by the Bank of Commerce to list them, it had taken several hours and the entire bank staff to sort them out. He'd promised Melissa an extra two hundred dollars if she had the shirts ready by morning, and she intended to do it.

While Jenny reached for the rawhide string of beads that a customer had hung above her little niche, Melissa sang "Sweet Marie,"

and scrubbed.

"You sing mighty nice, Lissy. I didn't know you could sing so nice."

Melissa froze, her hands wound in the fabric of Big Alex's shirt. Even without hearing that familiar, hated diminutive, she knew the voice of the speaker behind her. Her heart took off at a gallop, like a runaway horse inside her chest.

Coy Logan sidled up to the washtub and stood across from her. She stared at him, speechless. She had foolishly lulled herself into believing that she had seen the last of him.

If possible, he looked even more dissipated and threadbare than he had the day he'd sold her. He had a gurgling, wet cough that sounded like he'd spent too much time in a damp place. His clothes hung on his skinny frame and looked as if he'd slept in the gutter with them. One grubby shirttail hung out, and his fly was partially unbuttoned.

"I been hearing all about the pretty laundry lady who sings to pass her time."

He glared up at her sign with narrowed eyes.

"

'Cept I heard her name was Mrs. Harper, so I didn't figure right off that it was you they meant."

Desperately, Melissa glanced around, hoping someone, anyone would come by. Dylan had gone to meet a steamship at the river, and she had no idea when he'd be back. The Mounties had already dropped by here earlier, and she didn't expect to see them again until much later. Men and animals and wagons traveled up and down busy Front Street, but none turned down here. Never had this side street seemed so deserted and isolated.

"What do you want, Coy?"

she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. Over the past few weeks she had been shedding her fear, a layer at a time, the way a person would peel an onion. But seeing Coy brought it all back, and she was wrapped tightly within it again. Habits and attitudes were even harder to let go of than they were to learn, she realized.

He eyed her up and down with assessing, bloodshot eyes, taking full measure of her.

"You're looking damn fine, Lissy. I like that braid in your hair and those new clothes."

His tone was ingratiating and jovial.

"Just like I figured, you clean up pretty good."

He smiled, revealing scummy-looking teeth, and he licked his lips in a way that made Melissa's stomach turn over. There was nothing left of the man she remembered sitting at the kitchen table with her father and brother. He hadn't been a prize catch then—now, though, he seemed to have slid to the bottom of life.

"You still haven't told me what you want,"

she said, and gripped the edge of the washtub with her nerveless fingers.

"You been making money too, by the looks of it,"

he went on, fingering a shirt on her clothesline.

"Seems like I did you a big favor by letting Harper take care of you for a while."

Automatically, Melissa started to reach for the apron pocket where she kept her gold pouch, but stopped herself in time. If Coy knew she had that gold dust, he'd take it from her without a moment's hesitation.

"You're not supposed to come around here, Coy. That paper you signed in the saloon said so."

"Shee-it, I don't give that"—he snapped his grimy fingers—"for any paper. Anyways, I got me a hankering to have my wife back. So pack up your stuff and let's go on."

She stared at him, horrified.

"I'm not going with you. You deserted me, sold me, and I don't belong to you anymore!"

"Got a little gumption, too, dontcha,"

he said, pushing his greasy hair back with one hand. He appraised her again with a vaguely leering look that made her heart thump even harder.

"I kinda like that—so long as you don't overdo it."

She saw the meanness flash through his eyes. He coughed again, wet and phlegmy, then dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.

Once more Melissa looked toward Front Street, searching for someone to interrupt, even if it was just one of her laundry customers. But there was no one. She felt like a drowning swimmer who could see the shore, but was too far away to reach it.

She took a deep breath and tried to sound brave.

"I don't want anything to do with you anymore, Coy. I want you to go away."

"You're starting to try my patience, girl,"

he warned, sounding more like the man she remembered.

"I'm giving you five minutes to get your gear, or I'll take you with me now, as you are. I don't think you'll like that since I don't have your old clothes anymore."

He gripped her forearm, and Melissa tried to wrench free, but he was stronger than he looked.

"Why should I go with you?"

she demanded, trying to hear over the pulse pounding in her ears.

"You left me here, and that's the way I want it. We're divorced."

His anger was in full sway now, but he was cunning enough to keep his voice down to avoid drawing attention from some passerby on Front.

"I ain't stupid, Lissy, and I got my rights. I don't care what that lawyer friend of Harper's said. We ain't in the United States, we're in Canada, and that Louisiana dandy ain't got no say here. I know there wasn't nothing about that divorce that was legal. You're still my wife, and that girl is still my baby."

He pointed at Jenny, and Melissa felt the wild horse in her chest climb to her throat. Jenny— "And I don't give a damn what Dylan Harper says. You been practicing adultery with that son of a bitch. Unlawful carnal knowledge, they call it. I call it whoring. The law is on my side. Your daddy gave you to me, and you belong to me. Even if you are a whore!'

"No, Coy, please—you don't know what you're talking about,"

she cried, aghast at his filthy accusations.

He tightened his grip on her arm, making her fingers tingle, and yanked her around to his side of the washtub. He slapped her once, sharply, making her ears buzz and tears spring to her eyes.

"You come along, or I'll teach you a good lesson for talking back to me."

Then, with a truly evil glint in his beady eyes, he snatched up the baby in one arm. Jenny started crying.

"Now, let's have a little of what you been giving away to Harper,"

he said, and with his free arm pulled her up against his sour-smelling body. She struggled to turn away as she saw his mouth coming toward hers, but he held her head fast. Oh, God, please, send someone—

Suddenly, as if God had taken pity upon her, she was free. Dylan was there. He grabbed Coy by the hair and yanked him away from Melissa. Taking advantage of the instant, she plucked Jenny out of Coy's arm and clutched her as tightly as she dared, trying to quiet the baby's shrieking.

Standing behind him, Dylan gripped Coy's forelock and dragged his head backward to his shoulder in a chilling embrace. His knife, its long blade gleaming in the sun like a mirror, he touched to Coy's throat.

"Didn't I tell you not to come around here, you sniveling dog's pizzle?"

he growled.

Melissa watched the struggle, and thought Dylan looked a hundred times more frightening than Coy did. His face flushed blotchy red, and a vein throbbed in his temple.

Dylan tightened his grip on Coy's hair, his green eyes blazing like burning emeralds.

"Didn't I tell you to stay away from her?"

he repeated.

"Answer me!"

Coy made a strangled noise in his throat that sounded like an affirmative.

"That's right, Logan,"

he said next to Coy's ear.

"But I didn't tell you what I'd do to you if I caught you here."

Dylan put a little pressure on the blade against his neck, cutting a nick that dripped blood.

Melissa let out a little squeal.

"Dylan, no!"

She had suspected that in his darkest moments, Dylan Harper was very capable of killing a man. If he killed Coy, the Mounties would hang him for certain.

"Dylan!"

Looking up, Melissa saw Rafe making his way toward them, walking as fast as he could. He looked weaker every time she saw him, but his voice carried thunder, as it had that day in the saloon. Dressed as impeccably as ever, he held his gold-headed cane like a scepter, and the frown on his thin face gave him the look of a scowling skull.

Dylan kept his grip on Coy, the fury still pouring out of him, his jaw locked. He didn't lift his gaze or acknowledge his friend's approach. Melissa believed he was aware of nothing around him except the debate in his own mind either to kill Coy or to spare him.

Coy's eyes were as wide as stove lids, and the color had drained from his sallow face. Acrid, fear-scented sweat leaked from him in sheets, adding to the already foul odor that he exuded.

"Let him go,"

Rafe ordered. His commanding tone almost disguised his winded panting. He stood a scant two feet from Dylan with Coy sandwiched between them.

"Dylan, goddamn it . . . let him go! If you kill him . . . you'll lose every . . . thing . . . think, man . . . he's not worth it!"

Rafe backed off then as a coughing fit overtook him, the worst Melissa had heard yet. Gray-faced, he stumbled to an overturned lard barrel next to the clotheslines and sat down, pressing a fist to his heart. Melissa hurried over and put a hand on his bony shoulder. His lips were tinged a faint blue, and his eyes bulged alarmingly with each round of coughing, but he kept his gaze fixed on his friend.

After what seemed like an eternity, Dylan released Coy's hair and gave him a hard shove that pushed him into the dirt. Dylan's own breath was coming fast, and the muscles along both of his jaws rippled with tension. Coy skittered sideways along the ground, his legs working as if he pedaled an imaginary bicycle.

"This is the last time, Logan,"

Dylan said between gritted teeth.

"If you ever show your face around here again, no one will be able to save you. No one."

Incredibly, Coy made one last protest after he gained his feet.

"Lissy's my woman, and that's my kid. They belong to me, and I know my rights,"

he harped with watery bravado, waving a shaking finger at them as he backed away.

"I got rights, by God!"

Still gripping his knife, Dylan took two menacing steps toward him and spit at his feet. Coy danced backward.

"You've got shit. You gave away everything—your wife, your child, and the right to call yourself a man—the day you sold them to me for twelve hundred dollars. Melissa belongs to herself now. The next time I see you around here, you won't be walking away. I'll have to call Father William to take you off to his hospital."

Gawping like a landed fish, apparently Coy could think of no reply. His small eyes full of fear and impotent hate, he turned and hurried back toward Front Street as fast as his skinny legs could carry him. To return, Melissa hoped, to the rock from beneath which he'd crawled.

No one spoke for a moment, and the ensuing silence was broken only by Rafe's ratchety breathing and Jenny's diminished wails. Dylan put his knife back in its sheath, then strode to Melissa.

"Are you all right?"

Putting her finger under her chin, he tipped her face up to his, and she saw the fury rush back into his green eyes. Flinching, she tried to pull back.

"Jesus—Jesus Christ! Did he hit you?"

She supposed that Coy must have left a red imprint of his open hand on her cheek. She nodded, trying to find her voice, but her throat was too tight. Her insides quivered like Fannie Farmer's aspic, and her outsides didn't feel much better.

Dropping his hand, he paced in front of her, his rage back in full force.

"I should have killed the son of a bitch! Damn it, I should have! I'll find him—"

Melissa found her voice and pulled on his arm.

"No, Dylan, no!"

she begged.

"Rafe is right. The police would banish you from Dawson. He won't come back now. Just let him go."

Beneath the fabric of his sleeve she felt tightly drawn muscle.

After pacing a moment longer, he nodded grudgingly, then slipped an arm around her shoulders. She yearned to lean against him, to give into the infinite comfort of his strength. Was it possible that such comfort and safety might be found in a man's embrace? Melissa had thought so once and had been fooled by the very man who had just left. She wouldn't take the chance again. She straightened and pulled away from Dylan's arm.

"What about the baby?"

he asked, and reached down to draw Jenny's blanket away from her face. The baby's whimpers ceased.

"Oh, she's fine now."

She pressed a kiss to Jenny's forehead.

"Thank you,"

she whispered from her tight throat.

"And you?"

Dylan asked Rafe.

"By God,"

the other man wheezed, "no one can call this a dull town. I was on my way to the saloon when I glanced down here and saw you in an altercation with Logan. It's a good thing I happened along before the Mounties did."

Melissa thought it was a good thing that Dylan had happened along before Coy could do anything worse.