My Darling Melissa Read Free Page B

Wearing the same serious expression she’d seen on her brother Adam’s face when he was perusing a medical journal, Mr. Rafferty turned to the first page of chapter one and read soberly, “ ‘Phoebe Millikin was a woman bound for destruction.’” He stopped and gave the book’s cover a pensive look, then cleared his throat and went on.
    Melissa settled into her pillows, all ears. Despite the fact that she’d written Phoebe’s Dangerous Decision herself, she was intrigued. The carefully chosen words sounded different falling from Mr. Rafferty’s lips. More august, somehow.
    He’d covered only about two pages when there was a respectful rap at the railroad car’s inner door. Quinn got up to answer it, leaving the book in the seat of his chair.
    The beef stew had arrived. Quinn allowed Melissa the use of the tray while he sat on the edge of the bed, holding his bowl in one hand and his spoon in the other.
    “Mind your manners,” he warned, waggling the spoon atMelissa. “I can overlook having a book thrown at me, but stew is another matter.”
    In spite of herself and all her miseries, Melissa smiled. She tasted the stew and found it as savory as any Maggie McQuire might have concocted for the family back home.
    Quinn was frowning at her; he had yet to take a bite of his own food. “We have a problem here,” he said, as though that were some great revelation.
    “We have a number of problems,” Melissa pointed out in a scratchy voice that hurt her throat.
    Rafferty took in the wrinkled linen shirt she had been wearing since taking off her wedding dress. “You haven’t got a damned thing to wear,” he said. “This is a scandalous situation—the kind of fine how-do-you-do that could ruin a lady’s reputation.”
    “What about your reputation, Mr. Rafferty?” It pained Melissa to ask.
    He grinned, showing those flawless white teeth of his. “It can only be enhanced,” he said.
    Melissa considered crowning him with her bowl of stew but in the end refrained. She was ravenously hungry—it appeared that death was not imminent after all—and wanted every morsel of her food. She said nothing.
    Quinn’s glance strayed to the book sitting in the seat of the chair he’d occupied a few minutes before. “I’m sorry you didn’t like your present,” he told Melissa.
    Melissa chewed thoughtfully and swallowed with great care for her sore throat before replying, “It wasn’t the present itself, Mr. Rafferty. It was what you said about it.”
    He looked genuinely baffled. “What was that?” he asked.
    “You called my book ‘trash,’” Melissa answered reasonably. “I worked long and hard on the manuscript, and while Phoebe is admittedly no Emma Bovary or Jane Eyre, she does represent my best effort.”
    Quinn’s mouth sagged open; Melissa resisted an urge to thrust a spoonful of stew into it. Again, it was greed that stopped her.
    “You wrote that book?” Rafferty finally managed to ask.
    Melissa finished her stew and fell back against her pillows,weary from the effort of eating. “I did indeed. That one and three others, if you count the dime novels I wrote as Marshal S. Whidbine.”
    “I’ll be damned,” Quinn muttered.
    “Probably,” sighed Melissa, “but that’s no concern of mine.” She yawned widely, closed her eyes, and tipped her chin at an imperious angle. “Read on,” she ordered.
    “I will not,” Quinn said flatly.
    She heard dishes clatter together on the tray and felt it lifted from her lap but did not open her eyes. After a while she slept.
    The renewed motion of the train awakened her; she sat up in bed. They must have begun the journey back west. The car was dark, except for a splash of golden light fringing the partition. “Quinn?” she called in a small voice.
    When he didn’t answer she scrambled shakily out of bed and peered around the wall.
    Quinn was seated at a desk, Melissa’s novel open before him. He looked up at her and shook his head in dour