Her Dearest Enemy

“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.

What was the woman doing here at this hour? Had she changed her mind about his offer? Not a chance of that, Brandon thought, remembering her fiery pride. More likely, her damn-fool brother had just given her the same news Jenny had given him and she’d come for her pound of flesh.

A dizzying tide of rage swept through him. For one blinding moment, it was all he could do not to seize her in his two hands, jerk her off her feet and fling her back into the storm. After all, didn’t she share the blame for what had happened? Hadn’t she reared the young hooligan who’d impregnated his daughter? Hadn’t her coming to Dutchman’s Creek set the whole ugly chain of events in motion?

With near-superhuman effort, Brandon willed his impulses under control. When he spoke, his voice emerged as a hoarse croak. “What is it? Are you all right?”

She shook her head, her mouth working in a futile effort to speak. Specks of ice clung to her thick black eyelashes. They glowed in the lamplight like miniature jewels. Below them, her eyes watched him guardedly, emotions he could not read swimming in their coppery depths.

Only one thing seemed clear—if he wanted the woman to talk, he would have to get her warm first. Shaking off the paralysis of surprise, Brandon set the lantern on a table and forced himself to move toward her.

His hands pried her stiffened fingers loose from the edges of her cloak. The soggy garment fell to the floor, revealing beneath it a faded gingham dress, so hastily donned that the buttons down the front were misaligned with their buttonholes. The resulting gaps allowed glimpses of the creamy skin beneath—far more of it than any lady would want a gentleman to see.

Brandon averted his eyes, but not swiftly enough. She glanced down, to where his gaze had rested an instant before. With a horrified gasp, she jerked her arms across her breasts. Color flamed in her bloodless cheeks.

Without a word, Brandon whipped off his woolen robe and wrapped it around her trembling body. She huddled into its warmth, her eyes downcast, her teeth still chattering.

Suddenly her gaze jerked upward. Her color deepened. Brandon bit back a curse as he realized what had caught her eye. The hem of his gray flannel nightshirt hung just past his knees, revealing the lower part of his bare legs and ankles—more naked flesh than any proper lady would be fit to see.

Well, to hell with her, he thought. If the sight of his hairy calves offended Harriet Smith’s sense of propriety, that was her problem. It wasn’t as if he’d sent her an engraved invitation to come calling tonight. She could damned well take him as he was or come back when he was dressed for company.

It was chilly in the front hall. Gripping her upper arm through the robe, he steered her into the parlor, where a few dying embers still flickered in the fireplace. Two comfortable leather armchairs faced the hearth. Thrusting her firmly into one of them, he gathered some kindling sticks from the wood box and began feeding them into the embers. Little by little, small orange tongues of flame began to lick at the splintered pitch pine. The crackling sound was warm and welcome.

“Will’s gone.” Harriet’s low voice, rising from the shadows of the chair, startled him. “I think he’s run away.”

Brandon bit back a sigh of relief. It would hurt Jenny’s pride to know that Will had deserted her, but in the long run it would make everything easier. Now, surely, she would stop fighting his plan to send her to Baltimore.

He glanced up at Harriet, his expression deliberately cynical. “So the young rooster’s flown the coop, has he? Somehow I can’t say I’m surprised. I would have wagered he wasn’t man enough to own up to his responsibility.”

She surged forward, her eyes suddenly angry. “I don’t know what responsibility you’re talking about, Mr. C-Calhoun,” she said, her teeth still chattering with cold. “But I didn’t fight my way through the storm to sit here and listen to you disparage my brother! I only came to ask you if you’d seen Will, or if you had any idea where he might be. If you can’t tell me, I’ll be on my way….”

Her voice trailed off, catching at the end as if she were stifling a sob. Brandon stared at her in amazement. Lord, didn’t she know? Hadn’t the young fool told her what he’d done to Jenny?