My Darling Melissa (33 page)

“You are quite correct, of course, Mrs.—er, Miss Corbin. Have you written plans for what you propose to do?”

Melissa had been up all the night before preparing. She passed a tidy sheaf of papers across the desk and waited patiently as Mr. Crowley read them.

“Impressive work,” he allowed somewhat grudgingly when he’d finished. “Did someone help you?”

At a less harried time in her life Melissa might have taken issue with the suggestion that she wasn’t capable of accomplishing such a task on her own. As it was, however, she had enough to worry about without answering every slight, fancied or otherwise. She simply shook her head.

Mr. Crowley aligned the stack of papers neatly and then rested folded hands upon them. He cleared his throat. “You are aware, of course, that the building you’ve selected to house your enterprise is in the worst part of town.”

Melissa was fully aware of that. The structure had once held the Rip Snortin’ Saloon, and it was surrounded by other establishments of that ilk. “There aren’t a great many empty buildings in town that are large enough to suit my purposes,” she said reasonably.

Once again Mr. Crowley was forced to concede the point. He nodded, sighed, and said, “I’ll have your funds transferred
and ask my clerk to prepare a letter of credit so that you may get underway.”

This was the first hopeful thing that had happened to Melissa in over a week, and she felt encouraged. She rose from her chair, prompting the stuffy little banker to rise from his, and they shook hands vigorously. Now she could arrange to have her printing press brought from Quinn’s house, along with the remainder of her clothes.

A few hours later Melissa walked into the former Rip Snortin’ Saloon carrying a broom and bucket she’d bought on credit at Kruger’s Mercantile. Her friend Dana and a young man who served as a stock boy were behind her, carrying other housekeeping items.

The stock boy whistled in dismay as he took in the cobwebs arching like enormous fishnets from the ceiling to the long wooden bar. There was a mirror in back, but it was so filthy that no hint of a human image was reflected.

Dana set her box of groceries and cleaning materials down on a debris-littered pool table, and a cloud of dust rose up to make her sneeze. “You’re not actually going to live in this dreadful place!” she wailed, staring at Melissa in disbelief.

“Of course I am,” Melissa said, pretending to more courage than she actually possessed. “It only needs a little cleaning, after all.”

In the near distance a drunken whoop sounded, followed by shouts of raucous laughter. Melissa hoped that her friend hadn’t noticed the slight shudder she’d given.

“You know,” Dana began, waggling one finger at Melissa, “sometimes I think Mr. Rafferty is right about you!”

Melissa folded her arms. “Oh? Exactly what is he saying, and how did you happen to hear it?”

The stock boy took his leave by the back way, and Dana watched him out of sight before answering. “He came by to see me yesterday, if you must know. It happens that he’s planning to build accommodations for wives and families near the lumber camp, and he wants to establish a school.”

Melissa was touched by the philanthropy of such a gesture, but she would never have let on. She had to
remember what Quinn had done to her and keep her heart hardened against him. “What did he say about me?” she couldn’t resist asking.

“That you’re stubborn as a blind ox,” Dana responded quite willingly, “and that you ought to be given a sound spanking.”

Color throbbed in Melissa’s face, and she looked away to hide it. “I see,” she said.

Dana sighed. “Melissa, give this silly charade up and go home to your husband.”

“Mr. Rafferty is not my husband.” Melissa bit down on her lower lip in an effort to hold back tears, then added, “He never was.”

“He loves you!”

“That must be why he’s been maligning me—calling me an ox and saying I should be beaten!”

Dana rolled her eyes. “There is simply no talking to you, is there?” She consulted the watch pinned to the bodice of her blouse. “Well, then stay here and grapple with the dirt and rats. I’ve got better things to do.”

Resigned, Melissa watched her friend march out through the swinging doors. Then, having exchanged her good cambric dress for one of the ugly calicos that had been given to her in Spokane, she covered her hair with a bandanna and set to work.

The first thing she did was sweep down all the cobwebs. When that was done she scrubbed the mirror behind the bar, although it would be taken away as soon as she could make arrangements.

She had just carried the last of the chairs that had surrounded the drinking and gaming tables into the shed out back when Quinn walked in.

The light was poor inside the long-deserted saloon, since many of the windows were boarded up, but Melissa didn’t miss the signs of strain that marked his countenance. Quinn looked thinner, there was a haunted expression in his eyes, and, as always, he needed a shave. In some detached part of her mind Melissa wondered why he didn’t just grow a beard and be done with it.

“What do you want?”

Quinn was clearly annoyed at the question. His dark eyes turned hot with anger, and Melissa was glad to see that, although she couldn’t have explained why. He slammed one fist down on the pool table, and more dust clouded the air. “You can’t stay here,” he announced, completely ignoring her question.

“I can do anything I like, Mr. Rafferty,” Melissa reminded him. “I’m of legal age, and I’m unmarried.” Her blue eyes were flashing as she glared at him. “I’m also stubborn as an ox and in need of physical assault, I hear.”

Quinn chose to let that last comment pass, but his jawline was tight. He let out a ragged breath and thrust one hand through his hair. “Melissa,” he began, clearly struggling for a reasonable tone of voice, “I want you to come home. You can sleep in Mary’s room until we figure out what to do.”

Melissa would have died before spending a single night under the man’s roof, but she didn’t want to make things too easy for him by saying so outright. “Until we figure out what to do? About what?”

“About us!” Quinn’s frustration fairly reverberated against the dirty but sound walls of the Rip Snortin’ Saloon. “About our baby. You’re not safe here, Calico, and neither is my child.”

Melissa’s spine went stiff. “You have no child, Mr. Rafferty—and you never will. Not by me.”

He stepped closer to her, and Melissa tried to retreat, only to find that her back was pressed to the long bar. Quinn closed in, resting a hand on either side of her and trapping her within his arms. Although his body was not quite touching hers, Melissa was painfully aware of his hardness, his heat, and his strength, and she felt as if her heart were crowding into her throat.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, and then he bent his head and kissed the side of her neck, setting the tender flesh there to pulsing.

Melissa longed to push him away, but she hadn’t the power or the will to do it. She trembled as his lips trailed up
over her jawline and her cheek to claim her mouth in a tentative kiss.

She could not help responding, and when she did, Quinn took complete advantage. Their tongues sparred, and when the kiss ended at long, long last Melissa was glad of the wooden bar behind her, because it was all that was holding her upright.

“Get out,” she ordered, breathless and shaken.

His hands had not moved from the bar; they created a prison of muscle and bone. “If you won’t come home with me, Calico,” he said against her mouth, “I swear I’ll move in here with you. And I’ll drive you crazy all night, every night, until you’re finally willing to be reasonable.”

“I’ll have you arrested,” Melissa vowed weakly.

Quinn gave a low, gruff laugh and shook his head. “You’d never do that. Shall I prove it?”

Melissa shook her head wildly. “No—please. Just go away and leave me alone!”

Some unreadable emotion moved in his eyes, darkening them. He withdrew, and Melissa felt a tearing desolation at the parting. “Are you planning to spend the night in this place?” he asked.

“No,” Melissa answered honestly. She hadn’t even started cleaning the room upstairs. The bedroom she’d selected as her own needed painting and wallpapering as well as a new mattress, and the tiny kitchen was inhabited by mice and owls.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Well, that’s something, I guess.”

Melissa took up her broom and began sweeping frantically. All she was doing was stirring up more dirt, and both of them knew it, but she had to be busy or burst. “If you wouldn’t mind having my printing press delivered—”

Quinn halted the furious progress of her broom with one hand, and Melissa was forced to meet his eyes. “I won’t play this game forever,” he warned. “I meant what I said before: If you insist on living in this place, you can count on me as a house guest.”

Melissa’s cheeks were hot, and her knuckles and jawline ached from being clenched. She longed to slap Quinn, but she had a terrible feeling that he would retaliate in kind, so she kept her hand at her side. “I hate you,” she said.

He caught a finger under her defiant little chin and lifted. “We’ll see about that,” he taunted softly, “the first time you lie down under this roof.” Having made this pronouncement, he turned and strode away toward the swinging doors, leaving Melissa to stare after him in impotent fury.

When she arrived at the State Hotel hours later she was tired and hungry and dirty as a coal miner coming out of the pit. It seemed a cruel fate that Ajax was lurking around the lobby, waiting for her. She did take some satisfaction in his look of horror, however.

“Hello, Ajax,” she said with a sweet smile, offering her filthy hand for a continental kiss.

There was nothing he could do except complete the gesture, and he did, though he looked as though he might retch. “How can you demean yourself this way?” he scolded, shaking his head and clucking like an old lady watching a whores’ parade.

Melissa laughed, too tired for a sparring match with Ajax or anyone else. She’d exhausted her supply of emotional ammunition earlier, with Quinn. “I could ask you the same question,” she pointed out. “I’ve told you again and again that there’s no future for us, but you still stay in Port Riley, making a pest of yourself.”

Ajax smiled his flawless smile, as unmoved as ever. Melissa considered telling him that she was carrying Quinn’s child, since that would surely put him off, but the news was too private and precious to share with someone she liked so little.

“Come to supper with me tonight, Cinderella,” he said in a smooth, teasing tone of voice. “There’s a fine orchestra playing at the new hotel, and we can dance until all the stars have stopped winking.”

Melissa was intrigued despite her weariness, but not because she fancied spending an evening in Ajax’s arms.
What appealed to her was the prospect of being seen in the company of an eligible man by that officious, overbearing rascal who had broken her heart. It was almost a certainty that Quinn would be at the new hotel if there was an event taking place there.

On impulse she nodded her assent, although she felt a little guilty knowing that Ajax was entertaining false hopes.

He kissed her grubby hand again, this time with tenderness instead of revulsion, and said in his autocratic way, “Meet me here in the lobby at six o’clock.”

Melissa executed a mocking little curtsy, her mouth twitching at one corner, and climbed the stairs to her room on the second floor. A tub had been brought in for her, as it was every day, and a pair of maids appeared within a short time, each bearing two buckets of hot water.

As best she could under such circumstances, Melissa scrubbed herself clean. She was wearing her yellow silk wrapper and brushing the tangles from her snarled, wet tresses when there was a knock at the door.

Thinking that the maids had come back to carry away the big copper bathtub, Melissa unlocked the door and swung it open without asking who was there. She was startled to find Rowina Brown’s daughter, Charlotte, standing in the hallway, looking as though she’d rather be in any one of a thousand other places.

Wordlessly, Melissa stepped back to admit her unexpected caller.

“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” Charlotte began, tossing her blue-black hair, which fell to her waist in a sleek curtain, back over one shoulder.

Melissa only shrugged and went on brushing, though she did close the door.

“I heard you had some crazy idea about opening up a newspaper where the Rip Snortin’ used to be. Is that true?”

Melissa nodded distantly. “Yes. Why?”

A beautiful smile broke over Charlotte’s face. “My mother was right about you—you’ve got as much grit as any man.”

Although pleased at the compliment—if indeed it
was
a compliment—Melissa was no less confused as to Charlotte’s purpose in paying her a visit. “Thank you,” she said remotely, still brushing her hair.

Charlotte was pacing, and for the first time Melissa noticed what she was wearing—trousers, a flannel shirt, and a buckskin jacket with fringe. “That was a bad piece of luck you had—Rafferty fooling you the way he did, I mean.”

Melissa flushed, hating the fact that Quinn’s deception was common knowledge in Port Riley. No doubt the other men secretly admired him for the dastardly trick he’d played. “I’ve recovered,” she lied.

Obsidian eyes refuted the claim in silent challenge for a few moments, then Charlotte said, “I’m sorry I was so rude to you that day when you stopped by our place. I thought you were just another bit of fluff, like Gillian Aires, and I didn’t have much respect for you.”

Melissa suppressed a smile and waited.

A golden blush showed in Charlotte’s cheeks. “Damn it, you’re not going to make this easy, are you? I came to apologize and to tell you that you need somebody to help you clean up that old saloon.”

“Somebody like you?” Melissa inquired lightly.

Charlotte nodded and ducked her head for a moment. “I’m a hard worker, and I need a job.”

Melissa assessed her caller seriously. “I admit that I need help, but before I agree to hire you, I want to know what you have against Quinn.”