Her Dearest Enemy

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.