Her Dearest Enemy. Elizabeth Lane

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