Her Dearest Enemy

Silence quivered between them like the hanging blade of a guillotine. Harriet’s audacious threat, she sensed, had hit its mark. Brandon’s livelihood depended on the trust and good will of the townspeople. Lose that and he might as well pack his bags and move away.

“You wouldn’t dare!” he snapped.

“Wouldn’t I?” Harriet’s eyes narrowed in what she hoped was a menacing look. “You don’t know me well enough to predict what I might do, Mr. Calhoun. Can you afford to take that chance?”

He groaned, looking as if he wanted to strangle her with his bare hands. “This is blackmail, Miss Harriet Smith. You know that, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

With a muttered curse, he snatched up the pistol from the floor and jammed it into the holster. “Let’s get moving, then,” he growled. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

* * *

Brandon peered over the backs of the horses, into the stinging blizzard. The hood on the elegant black landau was fully raised, but the windblown snow peppered his face like buckshot. He could barely see the ears of the two sturdy bays, let alone the familiar road that wound north along the creek bed toward the county line.

Harriet huddled beside him on the seat, wrapped in his long woolen greatcoat. A thick shawl, belonging to Helga, swathed her head and shoulders. The shawl’s edges were pulled forward, hiding her stoic profile from his view. And that was just as well, Brandon told himself. The less he saw of the insufferable woman, the better.

Had he gotten away alone, he would have saddled one of the horses and ridden through the storm. But Harriet was not dressed for riding. Moreover, after her performance in his bedroom, Brandon was ill-disposed to trust her. Put her on a horse and there’d be nothing to stop the fool woman from bolting after the runaways on her own. The landau was slower, but it would be safer—and as long as he held the reins, he would be the one in charge.

“How can we be certain they came this way?” She leaned toward him, raising her voice to be heard above the storm.

“We can’t be certain. This is just a likely guess.” He shot her a sidelong glance and met the flash of her coppery eyes. Framed by the shawl, her pale, classic features reminded him of a Madonna’s. A Madonna with the scruples of a whore and the disposition of a bobcat, Brandon reminded himself. And he had already felt her claws.

Would she have carried out her threat to ruin his reputation? Brandon huddled into his hip-length sheepskin coat, the pistol cold against his leg. Hellfire, he knew nothing about the woman—where she’d come from or what she was doing in a remote place like Dutchman’s Creek. For all he knew, this show of concern for her brother could be an act. She could have encouraged the boy’s relationship with Jenny, in the hope of snagging him a rich, pliant little wife that the two of them could control.

Whatever her plan, he swore it wasn’t going to succeed. Once Jenny was safely home, he would get his lawyer to annul any marriage that might have taken place. Then he would go ahead with his plan to send the girl back east to have her baby.

Her baby.

The images hit him like a barrage of body blows. Jenny—his sweet, innocent Jenny, her body swelling with child; Jenny giving birth in agony, screaming, bleeding, maybe even dying in the process. Lord, she was so small. The birth was bound to be horren-dously difficult for her.

And if Jenny died, Brandon vowed, God help him, whatever the consequences, he would hunt Will Smith down and send him straight to hell where he belonged.

Chapter Five

Harriet sat with her fists thrust into the pockets of the thick woolen greatcoat Brandon had lent her. Falling snow danced hypnotically before her eyes as the road wound along the bank of the rushing creek. The wind that fronted the storm had lessened, its voice fading to a breathy moan. But even through the coat’s luxuriant thickness, the cold still bit into her flesh, and worry rested its crushing weight on her shoulders.

Questions beat at her like black wings. Where were Will and Jenny? Were they safe? Was it too late to stop them from marrying?

Dear heaven, should they be stopped? Was it right that the baby who was her own flesh and blood, as well as Brandon’s, be raised by strangers, without ever knowing its true family?

Early in their journey, before they’d run out of civil things to say to each other, Brandon had told her about his plan to send Jenny back east to give birth. His sister, who’d evidently married well, would keep Jenny’s condition a secret and turn the baby over to a church adoption agency. After a year or two of finishing school, the girl would be introduced to Baltimore society, where, in due time, she would choose a suitable husband from among her suitors.

Suitable. The word rankled like a burr. Will was suitable. He was honest and kind and hardworking, and he truly seemed to love pert little Jenny. Was it so wrong that they should marry and become a family?

Struck by a gust of icy wind, Harriet tightened the shawl around her head. What on earth was she thinking? If Brandon’s plan succeeded, her brother would be free of any obligation. He could carry on as if nothing had happened—go to college, have a successful career, even travel abroad. In time he could marry a fine woman, one who’d be a helpmate and companion, not a spoiled little doll who would demand to be pampered and coddled every day of her life.

With the passing of years the hurt would heal, Harriet promised herself. Will would have other children, beautiful, happy children, to fill his life with love and laughter. Perhaps, in time, he would even come to forget that somewhere there was another child with his blood and his features. His firstborn.

The child he would never know.

Harriet blinked back a surge of scalding tears. All her life, she had believed that there was a clear line between right and wrong, and that good, moral choices led to good consequences. But there was no good choice here—only the leaden weight of one heartache balanced against another.

Beside her, as immovable as a granite boulder, Brandon sat hunched on the seat of the heavy black landau. From the shadows of the shawl, Harriet studied him furtively. Cold anger lay in the taut line of his mouth, in the set of his jaw and the white-knuckled grip of his hands on the leathers.

He was as resolute as the march of time, she thought. Untroubled by the conflicts that tore at her, he was driven solely by the need to put things right— to avenge the ruination of his daughter and to erase the damage to her young life—if such a shattering event could ever be erased. Brandon wanted everything on his own terms, and he was a man accustomed to getting his way.

What would he do if he didn’t get his way this time?

Straining to see into the darkness, Harriet brushed the snow from her cold-numbed face. Not far ahead the road entered a steep-sided narrows where the creek had gouged a deep cut through the foothills. Last summer, she recalled, she and Will had come this way in the preacher’s wagon when they’d attended a church picnic at a popular canyon grove. Even in good weather the road along the creek was treacherous—prone to slides and cave-ins and so narrow that in many spots it was little more than a ledge. She could only imagine what it would be like in a winter snowstorm.

“There’s no other way they might have gone?” She spoke more out of nervousness than doubt.

“Not if they planned to get married.” Brandon’s taut voice echoed faintly as they entered the narrows. The granite cliffs that rose on either side of them offered shelter from the wind and snow, but the cold was intense, the silence almost unearthly. “Since we’re not seeing their tracks, they most likely left town ahead of this ungodly storm. They could already be in Johnson City by now. Or they could be stuck in the snow somewhere, unable to go on. I know it’s miserable out here, and you’re suffering, but it was your choice to come along. We can’t turn back till we find them.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we turn back,” Harriet retorted. “And I never said I was suffering. Have you heard one word of complaint from me, Mr. Calhoun?”

Brandon muttered something under his breath, but did not voice an answer. They were entering the narrowest part of the canyon now. On their left was a sheer rock face. On their right, a mere handbreadth from the wheel rims, was a five-foot drop-off to the rushing creek below.

Harriet held her breath as he guided the horses around a hairpin curve. A fist-size rock broke loose beneath one of the outer wheels. She swallowed a gasp as it skittered down the steep slope and splashed into the creek. Brandon would have had easier going alone, on horseback, she realized. But she had blackmailed him into bringing her along and, because she was in no condition to ride, he had hitched the team to the sturdy landau. If they slid off the road or broke an axle on this treacherous night, it would be, in part, her own fault.

The thought fluttered through her mind that she should apologize. But no, she had done the right thing. Whatever the risk, she needed to be there when Brandon caught up with Will and Jenny. Lives could depend on it.

As she remembered the pistol Brandon had loaded and buckled at his hip, a dark chill rippled through her veins. Even if she was there, she might not be able to stop a confrontation between Will and Brandon. With both of them roused to fury, it would be like trying to separate two charging bears. And with guns involved…

Harriet shuddered as the ghastly montage of events passed through her mind—Will’s body bleeding in the snow, or perhaps Brandon lying dead and Will in handcuffs, or Jenny darting between them, her body stopping a hastily fired bullet.

Somehow she had to defuse the situation before tragedy struck. And the only way to do that, short of knocking Brandon out, was by careful persuasion.

“Have you given any thought to the baby?” Her voice echoed in the silence of the narrow canyon.

“What kind of a question is that?” His gaze remained focused on the road ahead, but his jaw tensed visibly.

“Jenny’s baby will be your grandchild. Your own flesh and blood. How can you be so heartless as to pass it off like an unwanted puppy, to be raised by strangers?”

His eyes shifted toward her, narrow and cold as he weighed her question. “It’s Jenny I’m thinking of,” he said. “If she gives the baby up, she can still have the good life she deserves—a place in society and marriage to a respected man who’ll provide well for her and her future children. If she keeps the baby, it’s all over for her. She’ll be branded a fallen woman, an outcast for the rest of her life.”

“Not if she marries her child’s father,” Harriet responded with sudden conviction. “Lord knows, I’ve had dreams for Will, too, and I’m no happier about this mess than you are. But we have to do what’s right for the baby!”

“My sister will see that the baby goes to a good home,” Brandon snapped. “Now put it to rest. You’re only making things harder.”

“That’s because you know I’m right! But you’ll never admit that, will you, Mr. Calhoun? You’ve too much stubborn pride to see anyone’s point of view except your own!” Harriet was trembling now, her plan of a calm reasonable approach shattered. “Those two poor, foolish children ran off in the night because neither of us was willing to listen to them! Neither of us could face the fact that Will and Jenny are the only ones who have the right to decide their future and their baby’s future! We drove them to this desperate act, and if something terrible happens tonight, I’ll never forgive myself—or you!”

You…you…you. Harriet’s last word echoed off the rocky ledges as Brandon glared at her through the falling snow. The landau was inching along the narrowest part of the road now. Its outer wheels crunched through the soft snow along its edge, sending small showers of gravel rattling down into the creek. A horse snorted nervously in the darkness.

“Who made you an expert on life, Miss Smith?” Brandon’s voice was as brittle as thin ice. “Lord, do you even understand what your brother had to do to my poor, innocent little girl to get her with child?”

Harriet’s face blazed. “I won’t even dignify that question with an answer,” she snapped.

“For that alone, I could rip him to pieces with my bare hands. But no, I’m a civilized man. If my so- called heartless plan is carried out, he’ll be as free as a bird! He can go on with his education, and his life, as if nothing had happened! Isn’t that what you told me you wanted?”

“Yes.” Harriet stared straight ahead into the swirling snow. “I just don’t know if… Look out!”

The huge, tawny cat shape that flashed across the road and bounded into the rocks was gone in the blink of an eye. But that brief glimpse was enough to send the horses into a rearing, plunging frenzy of terror.

“Whoa…easy there…” Brandon pulled steadily on the reins and spoke with masterful calm, but it was too late. The landau had already lurched to the right and was tilting perilously over the creek bed. Gravel clattered down the slope as the wheels bit into the crumbling bank.

“Get to the left and lean out!” Brandon shouted at Harriet. “If she starts to fall, jump!”

Harriet did not need to be told a second time. She flung herself to the left side of the buggy, pushing behind Brandon to add her weight above the two stable wheels. But even when she leaned outward, as far over the side as she dared, it was not enough. With the horses bucking and the bank caving in, the heavy landau was canting farther and farther toward the creek.

“Hang on!” Brandon slapped the reins down with all his strength, using them as whips in a desperate effort to get the horses moving forward. But even as the sturdy bays pushed into their collars, the edge of the road caved in and the carriage tumbled sideways, toward the rushing water.

“Jump!” Brandon yelled. “Damn it, jump!”

Harriet clambered over the left side of the carriage. She caught a glimpse of Brandon still struggling with the reins as she gathered her strength and flung herself into the darkness.

The scream of horses filled her ears as she hit the road with a force that knocked the wind out of her. For a terrifying moment she lay still on the snowy ground, listening to the sound of splintering wood and the crash of the landau falling into the river.

Brandon! Her mind shrilled his name but she could not breathe deeply enough to shout. As she crawled toward the road’s caved-in edge, she could hear the horses screaming and thrashing.

She was all right, Harriet realized as each of her limbs responded to her will. The snow on the road and the thickness of Brandon’s coat had combined to cushion her landing. But where was Brandon? Had he gone into the water? Her gaze darted up and down the road. She could see no sign of him in either direction. That could only mean one thing.

Growing more and more frantic, she clambered shakily to her knees and stared down the slope. Through a swirling veil of snowflakes, she could see the broken, overturned landau, lying wheels-up in the creek. One horse was on its feet. The other lay on its side, its head raised above water. She could not see Brandon at all.

Sliding on snow and gravel, she skidded down to the water’s edge. The creek was not deep, but an unconscious man with his face under water could drown in no time. If she didn’t hurry, Brandon could be dead by the time she got to him.

“Brandon!” She found her voice. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” His voice came from somewhere under the chassis, muffled by the sound of the creek. “Don’t worry about me. See to the horses.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, damn it! Just something on my leg.” He seemed to be biting back pain. “You’ve got to take care of the horses! There’s a pocketknife in that coat you’re wearing. Use it to cut them loose. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try.” Harriet found the knife in one of the pockets and managed to get it open.

“Listen to me.” Brandon’s voice sounded fainter than before. “I just honed that blade last week, so it should be sharp enough to slice through the leathers. From what I can see, Captain looks all right. Cut him loose first and get him out of the way. Then you can go to work on Duchess. If she can’t get up, I’ll hand you the gun and you’ll have to shoot her. Do you understand?”

Harriet stared at the downed animal, her heart plummeting. If the horse couldn’t get out of the water, it would drown or freeze. Better to put it out of its misery, she knew. Still…

“Harriet?”

“Yes, I understand,” she said. “Hold on. I’ll do everything I can.”

Gathering her courage, she waded into the water and hacked at the twisted lines that fastened the standing horse to the landau. Seconds crawled by at the pace of hours as she sliced into the tough leather, but at last the big gelding was free. It snorted, shook its wet coat and lurched up the bank, onto the road.

The mare had been twisted onto her side by the momentum of the overturning buggy. Only the angle of her straining neck kept her head out of the water, and she was weakening fast. Clearly terrified, she laid back her ears and rolled her eyes as Harriet approached. “Easy, girl…easy, there,” she murmured, praying with all her heart that she wouldn’t have to shoot the poor animal.

This time the cutting was even more difficult. The leathers were twisted and soaked with water, and the icy cold numbed Harriet’s hands, making them slow and clumsy.

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