Harper's Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A

sardonic and lyrical by turns,
were so different from his own.
    "Still here?" Rafe asked, plucking an orange
from a basket. "You should have closed up long ago. You wouldn't
want to keep the wife waiting."
    At Rafe's comment, the long-ago memory of a
lithe, raven-haired beauty suddenly rose in his mind, sharply
detailed, and so different from the blond waif upstairs. He
frowned. "Those oranges are a dollar each," Dylan groused, not in
the mood for the lawyer's wit. Then he admitted more reluctantly,
"Anyway, I'm not ready to go up there."
    Rafe leaned against the counter and peeled
the orange, ignoring Dylan's remark about the price. "Then I
believe I'll accompany you next door and let you buy me a drink. As
payment, shall we say, for my legal services."
    "I should charge you for getting me into
this. Besides, you don't need me to buy you a drink." Dylan had
never seen a man who could put away as much liquor as Rafe could.
He drank at least a quart a day, although he never really seemed
drunk and he never staggered. Rafe had not told him so, but Dylan
suspected that his drinking had cost him his law practice. However,
his considerable gambling skill seemed unaffected, and he made a
fairly comfortable living at it.
    "Stop your bellyaching, Dylan," Rafe said,
popping an orange section into his mouth. "That little girl needed
someone to look out for her and her baby. And you can use the
company."
    Dylan frowned again. "I don't need
company—"
    Rafe straightened and flung the orange rind
out the door into the muddy street. "God, you're as cross as a
grizzly bear with a boil on his ass. I think you'd better go next
door with me to the saloon. Mrs. Harper doesn't need to deal with
your foul mood after the day she's had."
    "Oh, hell," Dylan said, cringing. Mrs.
Harper . He tossed the last orange into a basket. Rafe was
probably right, a drink didn't sound like a bad idea, especially
given the circumstances. And it gave Dylan an excuse to put off the
inevitable for a while longer. "All right, let's go. But just for a
while—I have work to finish."
    Rafe pushed himself away from the counter and
smiled, all gleaming white teeth, emphasizing his pallid thinness.
His skin was pulled tight across his cheekbones, and his eyes
looked like hollow sockets. Sometimes, when the light was just
right, his smile reminded Dylan of a grinning skull.
    As they walked to the Yukon Girl, Dylan
almost suggested that they cross the street and drink at the Arctic
Star instead. After all, he was trying to get his mind off Melissa,
and returning to the scene of their "wedding" probably wouldn't do
the trick. But he decided it really wouldn't matter. It sure as
hell wouldn't change anything.
    The Yukon Girl was noisy and crowded with a
cross section of the men who had come to Dawson seeking their
fortune. Cheechakos, the old-timers called them, newcomers.
Newcomers of every stripe—buckaroos, escaped convicts,
schoolteachers, ex-buffalo hunters—filled the streets and the
barrooms up and down Front Street, all hoping to strike gold. Dylan
knew that most of them would be disappointed.
    "God, will you look at them?" Rafe drawled,
gazing at the crowd. Many of the men sat with elbows on the tables,
shoulders hunched, looking dispirited and apathetic. "They were
expecting Paris on the Yukon River, I imagine. Too bad the poor
bastards didn't know that most of the best claims were already
staked before they left Seattle last fall."
    "Most of them know it now," Dylan replied,
pouring his own shot. "I bought an outfit from a man yesterday who
said he'd camped for five days in that line outside the recorder's
office. When his turn finally came up, he found out that no ground
was left to claim. He sold me his gear for a fraction of what he
paid for it and said he's trying to scrape up enough money for
passage home—if his wife will have him."
    Lounging against the bar, Rafe poured himself
a full tumbler of whiskey while Dylan watched. He'd never said much
about