Her Dearest Enemy

“Supper will be on by the time you’re washed,” Harriet said, wishing she had a better meal to offer him than bread and beans, and more cheering conversation than what she needed to tell him. But the present trouble was Will’s own doing, she reminded herself. Much as she loved her brother, she could not condone what he had done or shield him from the consequences.

As she was ladling up the beans, Will emerged from the back of the house, his face scrubbed, his dark hair finger-combed and glistening with water. His lanky frame folded like a carpenter’s rule as he sank onto the rickety wooden chair. He was still awkward, like a yearling hound, with big feet and big hands and a body that was all bone and sinew. His face might one day be handsome, but for now there was an unformed quality about his features. His nose seemed too big, his jaw too long and gaunt and his chin was punctuated by an angry red pimple. Only his eyes, like two quiet black pools, showed the true character of the man who waited within the boy.

He was too thin, Harriet thought. He worked too hard and laughed too seldom. And now he was hopelessly, determinedly, in love. Heaven help them all.

She murmured a few words of grace over the food, then waited until he had buttered his bread and taken a few bites of food before plunging into her account of Brandon Calhoun’s offer and her own defiant refusal.

She had expected him to be upset, but he ate as he listened, chewing his beans and bread in silence as the story spilled out of her.

By the time she’d reached the end of it, Harriet felt as if she had lived through the encounter a second time. Her pulse was ragged, her breathing shallow, as if an iron band had been clamped around her ribs. Gazing into Brandon’s angry blue eyes had been like facing a charging buffalo or leaning into the face of a hurricane. Even the memory left her nerves in tatters.

“The man was simply monstrous,” she said. “He threatened—actually threatened—to see you in jail if you came near his daughter again, and I’ve no doubt that he has the power to do just that. Be careful, Will. Brandon Calhoun owns a good piece of this town. He has influential friends and people who are in his debt. A word from him and your whole future could be ruined.”

Harriet’s gaze dropped to her untouched plate as she struggled to collect her emotions. All her life she had protected her young brother. Now he was nearly a man, but it was clear that he still needed her protection and good judgment.

She raised her eyes to find him sopping up the last of the beans with the crust of his bread. His face wore such a faraway expression that Harriet found herself wondering whether he had heard a word she’d said. Will had seemed unusually preoccupied of late. She had chalked it up to the vagaries of puppy love. But maybe there were other things troubling him. Maybe she should have been talking less and listening more.

“Are you all right, Will?” she asked, feeling the weight of sudden apprehension. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

He raked his lank, dark hair back from his brow. For the space of a breath he hesitated, chewing his lower lip. Then he shook his head. “No, there’s nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing you can help, at least.”

“Maybe it would be best to send you to Indiana now, before the snow sets in,” Harriet said, grasping at the possibility. “You could find a place to live, get a better- paying job than the one you have at the feed store—”

“I’m not going to Indiana, sis,” he said quietly.

“Well, of course you don’t have to go right away.” She was babbling now, unwilling to face the reality that lurked behind his words. “As long as you’re there in time to get settled in before the beginning of the term—”

“I’m not going to Indiana.” There was a grim finality to his words, as if he were telling her that someone had died.

“But—” she sputtered in disbelief. “What about your schooling, Will? What about your future?”

His eyes were like a wall behind their dark pupils. “I’m not going to college. I’m staying right here in Dutchman’s Creek, with Jenny. We’re going to be married.”

* * *

Brandon strode through the fading twilight, his boots crushing the aspen leaves that littered the path like spilled gold coins. Damn Harriet Smith, he thought, muttering under his breath. Damn her to hell, and double damn that randy, calf-eyed brother of hers!

He’d done his best to reason with her, but the woman had more pride than common sense! Now Brandon found himself at an impasse, with only one way out.

His offer would have made things better for everyone concerned. He had made it in the spirit of fairness and generosity. But Miss Harriet Smith had reacted as if he’d just proposed to buy her spinsterly body for a night of unbridled lust. Her eyes had drilled into him, their expression making him feel as crass as a tin spittoon.

Who did she think she was, anyway? For all her shabby clothes and skinned-back hair, there was an aura of fierce pride that clung to the tall schoolmarm; something regal in those large, intelligent eyes that were the color of moss agate flecked with copper and set in a pale, cool ivory cameo of a face. And there was something almost queenly in her graceful, erect carriage. Given the right clothes and a decent hairstyle, she might be a handsome woman, he mused. But never mind that fantasy. The high-minded Miss Smith might be made to look like the Queen of Sheba, but she had the disposition of a hornet. He wanted nothing more to do with her.

He walked on as the glow of sunset faded into gloomy autumn twilight. From up the roadway, at the top of the hill he could see the glimmer of lamplight in the windows of his stately redbrick home—not a grand place by Denver standards, but by far the finest house in Dutchman’s Creek.

Most nights it gave him a sense of satisfaction, seeing what his hard work and shrewd business sense had built. He had come to Dutchman’s Creek and started the bank during the silver boom; and he had invested its profits wisely enough to thrive even after the mines played out and the economy shifted to farming and ranching. He owned a handsome assortment of properties in the valley and was wealthy enough to live anywhere he chose. But he was a man who liked to put down roots, and his roots were here.

Most nights he would sit down with Jenny to share the hot meal that Helga Gruenwald, their aging housekeeper, had prepared. While they ate, Jenny would chatter about the day’s events, her girlish voice like music in his ears.

Most nights he looked forward to coming home. But tonight would be different. Brandon’s footsteps dragged as he realized those sweet evenings with his daughter were about to end, perhaps forever.

All the way home, he had wrestled with the wrenching decision. If he could not get rid of Will Smith, then he would have no choice except to send Jenny away before things got any further out of hand. His sister in Maryland had offered to take Jenny in so that she could attend a nearby girls’ preparatory school. Jenny had shown no interest in going, so Brandon, reluctant to part with her, had not pushed the plan. But now…

He paused in the shadow of a gnarled pine tree. His clenched fists thrust deep into his pockets as he gazed up at the cold, silver disk of the moon.

She was so innocent, his Jenny. A reckless, uncaring boy could easily take advantage of her. Someone needed to tell her the facts of life for her own protection. But who? Brandon sighed wearily. It would hardly be proper for him to instruct her. And he could not imagine the grim, taciturn Helga broaching such an intimate subject.

He should have remarried after Ada’s death, he thought as he forced his steps toward the house. Not for love—he had long since given up on that sentimental nonsense—but he should have taken a wife for Jenny’s sake. He was just beginning to realize how much the girl had missed having a mother in the past six years. In remaining single, he had shielded his own heart but he had failed to meet his daughter’s needs. No wonder she was so vulnerable, so hungry for the affection he’d had too little time to give her.

With a leaden spirit, he mounted the three steps to the wide, covered porch. Even the aroma of Helga’s succulent pot roast, which enveloped him like a warm blanket as he opened the door, did nothing to raise his spirits.

The house seemed strangely quiet. To Brandon, it was as if the silence floated ahead of him, casting its phantom shadow down the tiled hallway with its oak- paneled walls and tall grandfather clock, through the parlor with its hefty leather armchairs and into the dining room where the long table seemed to dwarf the slight figure in pink who sat in a high-backed chair on its far side.

Only as he saw her did Brandon realize how much he’d feared that his daughter might not be here to welcome him.

“Hello, Papa.” Her voice was thin, her smile as tenuous as a cobweb. The two of them had not spoken since last night when he’d caught her opening her window to young Will Smith. In a rage, Brandon had ordered Will off the property and sent his daughter back to bed. Even later, when the house had quieted down, he had been too upset to go talk with her.

“Hello, angel.” Brandon tried to sound natural, but his voice was hoarse with strain. No words could change what had happened last night. The trusting relationship they’d shared for so many years would never be the same again.

They sat on opposite sides of the table, the painful silence a wall between them as they picked at their food, pretending to eat. Helga, who took her own supper early, shuffled in and out with the dishes, her wrinkled face as impassive as a slab of burled oak.

Brandon studied his daughter furtively over the rim of his coffee cup. She looked like one of her own precious dolls in her starched pink pinafore, her pale gold curls caught up and bound by a matching ribbon. But her face was blotchy and her cornflower eyes were laced with red, as if she had spent much of the day crying. He ached, knowing that nothing he had to say would ease those tears.

Only when Helga had retired to her cozy room at the rear of the house did Brandon venture to bring up the matter that was tearing at his heart.

“I’ve been thinking…” He paused to clear the tightness from his throat. “I’ve been thinking it’s time you went to stay with your aunt Ellen for a while.”

Jenny’s blue eyes widened. Her lips parted in protest, but Brandon cut her off before she could speak.

“It’s high time you continued your education,” he said. “Your aunt Ellen has a fine, big house, and I know she’ll be happy to have you. You can make new friends at school, and there’ll be dances, parties and picnics— plenty of chances for you to meet suitable young men.”

“I don’t care a fig for dances and parties.” There was a thread of steel in Jenny’s voice. “Will is a suitable young man, and I happen to love him.”

“You’re too young to know anything about love,” Brandon snapped. “Will Smith is a small-town yokel with no more manners than a mule. Once you’ve met some proper gentlemen, with the means to give you the life you deserve, you’ll come to realize that and you’ll thank me for saving you from your own foolishness!”

He saw her face blanch, saw the whitening of the skin around her lips, but he plunged ahead before she could raise an argument. “Pack your things, Jenny. You won’t need much in the way of clothes—your aunt can help you buy new things in Baltimore. We’ll be leaving for Johnson City tomorrow, in time to put you on the afternoon train. Helga can go along to make sure you arrive safely. I daresay she’ll enjoy the trip.”

“No.”

Brandon stared at her as if she’d just slapped his face. Jenny had always been the most respectful of daughters. He could not recall even one time when she had openly defied him—until now.

“Excuse me?” His words emerged as a hoarse whisper.

“You heard me.” He saw the tears then, welling up in her eyes and spilling through the golden fringe of her lashes. “Sending me away won’t make any difference. It’s too late for that.”

“Too late?” The pounding of Brandon’s heart seemed to fill the room. “What do you mean, too late?”

Her voice caught in a ragged little sob. “I’m going to have a baby, Papa. Will’s baby. And we’re getting married whether you like it or not.”

Chapter Three

Late that night the season’s first winter storm spilled like a feathery avalanche over the granite crags of the Rockies. Ahead of the snow, a howling wind swept down the canyons, stripping the leaves from the aspens and maples, scouring away the last remnants of Indian summer.

Harriet lay awake in the darkness, listening to the sound of the wind clawing at the shingles on the roof. Not that she would have slept in any case. Things had gone from bad to worse with Will that evening. Now, as she relived the memory for perhaps the hundredth time, her stomach clenched in anguish.

Will’s announcement that he was not going to college had unraveled the whole fabric of Harriet’s life. Her first reaction had been shocked disbelief. She had tried to reason with the boy, but to no avail. His stubborn young mind was set and, as that reality struck her, she had broken down and railed at him.

“You’re throwing it all away, Will!” She had flung the words like daggers, wanting to wound him as he had wounded her. “Our parents’ dreams for you, my hard work and sacrifice to make them come true— all of it for a golden-haired bit of fluff with no more sense than a chicken!”

Will had taken her tirade calmly until she had attacked Jenny. “You’re talking about my future wife!” he’d snapped, the color rising in his pale face.

“Have you lost your reason?” Harriet had retorted. “Brandon Calhoun will have you drawn and quartered if you go near the girl!”

Both of them had risen to their feet. His dark eyes had glared down at her as if she were a simple-minded fool. “Jenny’s a woman, not a girl. She’s reached the age of consent, and if we want to get married, there’s not a damned thing Brandon Calhoun or anyone else can do about it!”

“Not within the law, maybe. But I got a taste of his methods this afternoon. The man is absolutely ruthless! Cross him and he’ll do anything, legal or not, to destroy you!” Harriet had seized his arm, gripping it as she’d done when he was five years old and she’d saved his life by pulling him out of the millrace. “I can’t let you do this, Will! I haven’t worked and sacrificed all these years to let you spend your life in a backwater town, married to a spoiled little chit who’ll bring you nothing but trouble!”

She had said too much. She’d known it even before she’d felt him stiffen beneath her touch and seen the flash of cold anger in his eyes. But it had been too late to take back the words spoken in a fever of desperation.

“I can’t live my life for you,” he’d said in a strained voice. “And you’ve already lived too much of yours for me. It’s time to let go, sis. It’s time for you to back off and let me be a man.”

“But you’re not a man—not yet!” She’d gripped him stubbornly, refusing to give up. “You’re eighteen years old, and you’ve no way to support a wife, let alone one who’s grown up rich and pampered! Think about it, Will! Use the brain God gave you, instead of—”

“That’s enough.” He had twisted away to stand facing her, his face shadowed by an odd sadness. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. We can talk in the morning.”

“But what about your lessons?” she’d protested, ignoring what he’d just told her. “You have three weeks to finish your algebra course before…”

Her words had trailed off as he’d cast her a look of utter desperation, then stalked into his room and slammed the door behind him.

Now, sick with regret, Harriet lay staring up into the darkness. Why hadn’t she been more understanding? Why hadn’t she listened to her brother instead of raging at him like a harridan? He had looked so weary, as if the weight of the whole world had dropped onto his young shoulders. Her emotional outburst had only added to that burden.

The worst of it was, she had treated him like a child when, in truth, he was already doing a man’s work, and doing it well. As for his character, Will had been responsible, honest and trustworthy his whole life. Harriet remembered the summer he was eleven years old and he’d rescued a lost purebred spaniel puppy. He’d fallen in love with the little dog and would have given anything to keep it, but because he’d known it wasn’t a stray, he’d forced himself to trudge up and down the dusty streets, knocking on doors until he found the rightful owner. Afterward, Will had been so heartbroken that he’d refused the reward the family had offered for the return of their valuable pet.

It was much the same now, Harriet told herself. Will was infatuated with pretty Jenny Calhoun, but in the end he would see the light and do the right thing, no matter how much it hurt. Meanwhile, trying to force him to a decision would only make him dig in his stubborn young heels. It was time to take a quieter, wiser course of action.

Tomorrow was Saturday. While Will was at work, she would have time to prepare a pot roast with new potatoes, carrots and onions, and to bake his favorite molasses cake. When he came home from work, she would encourage him to talk, and this time she would listen instead of lecture. Somehow she would find a way to break this spell of youthful madness and set his feet back on the path to happiness and prosperity.

As for Brandon Calhoun, he could take his precious daughter and go to the devil! If the man harmed so much as a hair on her brother’s head, she would see that he paid for the rest of his life!

A shattering heat, like flame blazing through ice, surged through Harriet’s body as Brandon’s image took shape in her mind. She had struggled for hours to erase that image—the looming stature that made her feel small and defenseless; the piercing cerulean eyes that rendered her as transparent as apple jelly; the chiseled-granite jaw and the grim yet, somehow, disturbingly sensual mouth.

Harriet had never felt at ease around men, especially men like Brandon Calhoun. Arrogant, overbearing and reeking of self-made success, with the kind of looks that caused matrons to reach for their smelling salts, he was everything that made her want to snatch up her skirts and bolt like a rabbit.

But running away from Brandon was the worst thing she could do. If she so much as flinched under the scrutiny of those storm-blue eyes, he would see it as a victory. She would never again be able to stand up to him in a convincing manner. Despite any show of bravado on her part, he would look down at her and know that her mouth was dry, her pulse was racing and her knees were quivering beneath her petticoats. He would bully her into a corner and keep her there while he did his worst to destroy her brother’s life.

Whatever the cost to her own pride, she could not allow that to happen.

Outside, the voice of the wind had risen from a moan to a shriek. Its force caught the edge of a warped shutter, splintering the weakened wood and tearing it loose from its upper hinge. Held by a single corner, the shutter flapped and twisted in the wind, banging against the front window, threatening to shatter the fragile glass panes.

Harriet sat up in bed, shivering in her high-necked flannel nightgown. She was not tall enough to reach the top of the shutter and hammer the hinge back into place, nor was she strong enough to pull the shutter down for later repair. For this, she would have to rouse her angry, exhausted young brother.

Without taking time to find her slippers, she sprinted across the icy floor. A wooden splinter jabbed into the ball of her bare foot. Ignoring the pain, she rapped sharply on the thin planks. She hated the thought of waking Will when he was so tired, but the shutter had to be fixed or it would break the window, letting in the cold wind and the snow that was sure to follow.

“Will!” When he did not respond, she rapped harder on the door. “Wake up! I need your help!”

She paused, ears straining in the darkness, but no sound came from her brother’s room. She could hear nothing except the slamming of the shutter, the scrape of a dry branch against the roof and the howling cry of the wind.

“Will!” She pounded so hard that pain shot through her knuckles, but when she stopped to listen again, there was still no answer. Harriet sighed. Will always slept like a hibernating bear, with the covers pulled up over his ears. She would have no choice except to go in and wake him, as she’d done so often when he was a schoolboy.

The doorknob, which had no lock attached, was cold in her hand. She gave it a sharp twist to release the catch. The warped wood groaned as the door swung open on its cheap tin hinges.

The room was eerily silent, its stillness unbroken by so much as a breath. A flicker of moonlight through the window revealed a lumpy, motionless form in the bed. Harriet’s throat tightened as she crept toward it.

“Will?” She tugged at the quilts. There was no stirring at her touch, no familiar, awakening moan. Heart suddenly racing, she seized the covers and swept them aside. An anguished groan stirred in her throat as she stared down at her brother’s pillows, his bunched-up dressing gown and his Sunday hat, arranged to mimic his sleeping outline beneath the covers.

Will was gone.

* * *

The frantic pounding on Brandon’s front door jerked him from the edge of a fitful sleep. He sat up, still groggy, swearing under his breath as he swung his legs off the bed, jammed his feet into fleece-lined slippers and reached for his merino dressing gown. What could bring someone to his house at this ungodly hour? Had something gone wrong at the bank? A robbery? A fire?

Still cursing, he lit a lantern and made his way down the long flight of stairs. Only Helga slept on the ground floor of the house, and she snored too loudly to hear anything short of an earthquake. As for Jenny…

His chest clenched at the memory of their confrontation over dinner. Lord, what he wouldn’t give to wake up and discover that he’d dreamed the whole miserable scene—and that his precious, innocent girl wasn’t really with child by a moon-eyed yokel who worked at the feed store and lived in a shack with his prissy schoolmarm sister.

First thing tomorrow he would be driving her to Johnson City and putting her on a train for Baltimore, where his sister, God willing, would shelter her from scandal and see that her baby was adopted by a good family.

As for himself, he would wait until the train had pulled out of the station. Then, by all heaven, he would go after the young fool who had ruined his daughter and make him pay for every despicable thing he had done!

The pounding continued as Brandon lumbered across the entry hall. “Hold your horses,” he muttered, fumbling with the bolt. “You don’t need to break down the damned door!”

Released by the latch, the door blew inward. A bedraggled figure stumbled into the hallway to collapse like a storm-washed bird against the wall. Brandon stared, his gaze taking in the wind-raked tangle of dark hair above copper-flecked eyes that were wide and frightened, set in a face that seemed too narrow and pale to contain them. The creature wore a threadbare cloak, clutched around her thin body with fingers that looked to be half-frozen. Her lips were blue with cold.

Time shuddered to a halt as Brandon recognized Harriet Smith.

Summoning her strength, she pushed herself away from the wall and stood erect to face him in the flickering lamplight. Sparks of defiance glittered in her eyes, but her teeth were chattering so violently that she could not speak. The shack by the cemetery was almost two miles from Brandon’s house. Judging from the looks of her, she had walked the whole distance in the storm.