Her Dearest Enemy (13 page)

Rage and hurt boiled up in her as she swung back
toward him.

“How can you be so self-righteous, Brandon Calhoun?
How can you judge your poor, unhappy wife,
who only wanted to be loved, and then found herself
trapped? She was a victim—the victim of a selfish
man, bent on his own pleasure! A man no worse
than
you!
”

A pale edge had formed around Brandon’s mouth.
He looked as if he wanted to lash back at her, but he
stood in silence as Harriet plunged toward the end of
her tirade.

“What a fool I was tonight! You would have ruined
me, just the way he ruined her, and not given it
a second thought!” She flung the words at him like
poison-tipped daggers. “The next time you feel like
judging someone, just look in the mirror. Look at
yourself, you…you
hypocrite!
”

With that, she wheeled and fled out the front door,
slamming it behind her. The cold wind, which had
risen to a gale in the past hour, struck her at the foot
of the steps, slamming her sideways and almost ripping
the cloak from her hands. She struggled to get it
around her shoulders as she reeled into the blowing
snow. Home was a mile away and she would be
chilled to the bone by the time she arrived. But even
the risk of dying from pneumonia would be better than
going back into that house and facing Brandon again.

What a fool she’d been—melting in his arms, then
turning into a raging harridan when he’d changed his
mind and spurned her. How could she ever face him
again? How could she live in the same town, walk the
same streets, knowing that he was close by?

A hunted animal’s desperation threatened to close
in on her. If only she could get away, pack her things
and leave tomorrow, or even tonight—but that, she
knew, would not be possible. Dutchman’s Creek could
be snowbound for weeks, and even if the roads were
open, she could not leave the children without a teacher
for the rest of the year. And she certainly couldn’t
leave Will and Jenny, not with a baby coming.

For now, she had no choice except to grit her teeth
and stay. But come next spring, after the baby’s arrival
and the closing of school, she would make arrangements
to leave Dutchman’s Creek. Hopefully,
Jenny, Will and the baby would leave with her, but
that would have to be their choice. Either way, she
would not remain in this wretched little town a day
longer than she had to.

Stumbling through the snow-covered ruts in the
road, she staggered forward against the blasts of icy
wind. At least she had delivered Jenny’s gift—the one
bit of good she’d accomplished. But at such a price!
Oh, why hadn’t Brandon kept that awful story to himself?
When would she be able to look at Jenny again
without remembering? And Jenny was so tender, so
vulnerable. Learning such a secret could destroy her.

Whatever happened in the future, Harriet vowed,
Jenny must never, never know the truth.

Hunched in his sheepskin coat, Brandon retraced
his path up the road. He had followed Harriet’s narrow
boot prints in the blowing snow, across town and
out along the cemetery road, until they’d turned into
her gate. Then, knowing she was all right, he’d headed
for home. The last thing he wanted was to be seen by
her, but he’d needed to make sure she’d made it safely
home. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.

Not that he’d be able to sleep anyway. Hellfire,
what a jackass he’d made of himself tonight! First
he’d attacked Harriet like a depraved libertine, and
then, as if that weren’t enough, he’d given away the
one secret he’d sworn to take to his grave.

What in God’s name had he been thinking? What
was it about being around Harriet Smith that made him
want to open a vein and bleed all over her ugly shoes?

He would have given anything he owned to take
back all he’d said and done tonight, but it was too late
for that. All he could do was move on and try to forget
what had happened. As for Harriet, he would be
a grateful man if he never laid eyes on her again.

A full winter moon was rising above the eastern
hills. Windblown clouds fluttered like veiled dancers
across its face, their shadows causing the snowy
landscape to float in and out of darkness. Taking his
hand out of his pocket, Brandon fingered the knitted
woolen scarf at his throat. Jenny’s gift was soft and
warm. The thought of her little hands plying the needles,
looping each awkward stitch, raised an aching
lump in his throat. He swallowed hard and trudged
on through the blowing snow.

At least, he mused, he could trust Harriet not to
tell Jenny what she’d learned tonight. Harriet was a
kind person, and she appeared to truly care for the
girl. He could not imagine her doing anything to
cause Jenny pain. But then, again, who could say
what might come out in a moment of hurt or anger?
His recklessness had created a perilous situation, and
the one at risk was his Jenny. If she learned the truth,
he would never forgive Harriet—or himself.

Glancing back down the road, toward the cemetery,
he could just see the lights that shone through
the windows of the shabby little house. Inside, it was
Christmas. There would be a tiny tree, trimmed with
homemade decorations. There would be love and
laughter and the smell of good food. There would be
the daughter of his heart, and the woman he had very
nearly made love to this evening.

If the disaster in the kitchen hadn’t happened,
would they have stopped themselves? Would they
have drawn apart, horrified by the narrowness of
their escape and repentant to the depths of their hidebound
souls? Or would they be lying, even now, in
each other’s arms next to the crackling fire, warm and
muzzy and deliciously sated?

Look at yourself, you hypocrite!

The words stung like pellets of ice as he remembered
the feel of her in his arms, the ripe, willing lips,
the sweet satin of her skin beneath his fingertips, the
rushed, eager cadence of her breathing. He had never
wanted a woman so much in his life. Even now he
wanted her—for her untamed spirit as much as for
her glorious body. Opinionated, irritating, maddening,
Harriet, with the temper of a hornet, the passion
of a goddess and the courage of a lion. He wanted
her in his arms, in his bed, in his life.

Lord help him, he was in love with her.

He was in love with Harriet Smith, but it was too
late to act on his feelings now. He had made such a
tarnal mess of everything that she would never want
to speak to him again.

All he could do was slink off with his tail between
his legs and wait for cold reason to return. That,
Brandon suspected, could take a very long time.

B
y late February, the first spring thaw had set in. The
sun blazed in a dazzling sky, its warmth melting away
the layers of ice and snow that had buried Dutchman’s
Creek all winter. Water dripped from the trees, drizzled
from the eaves of the houses and ran in rivulets
down the roads, turning them to troughs of liquid mud.

Harriet picked her way along the grassy edge of
the cemetery road, holding up her skirts with one
hand and clutching her schoolbag with the other. In
the near distance, through the bare trees, she could
see her house and yard. Jenny, a bright figure in her
rose-colored shawl, was just coming out of the shed,
teetering under the weight of the firewood she was
carrying toward the house.

“Jenny!” Harriet broke into a run that carried her
through the gate. “You shouldn’t be doing that!
Leave the wood to me or to Will!” She raced forward,
seized the stacked logs from the girl’s arms and put
them down on the back porch.

Jenny sighed as she brushed the bark splinters
from her sleeves. “Oh, Harriet, I’m fine! And it’s
such a beautiful day. I just had to get outside and do
something!”

Will’s bride had grown as round as a crab apple.
She had curtailed her teaching at the school, but Harriet
had left her the task of grading papers at home, so
that she could continue to receive her small salary. Will
was working overtime at the feed store to build up their
savings before the baby’s arrival. His absence left
Jenny alone for too many hours of the day. With the
birth scarcely a month off, Harriet worried constantly
about her young sister-in-law’s fragile condition.

Dr. Tate had written to the specialist in Denver to
arrange for Jenny’s confinement there. But the mail
in and out of Dutchman’s Creek was slow in the wintertime.
As of this morning, no reply had come.
Maybe now, with the snow melting off the canyon
road, the letter would arrive.

“Oh!” Jenny’s cornflower eyes—a more delicate
shade than Brandon’s, Harriet had come to realize—
widened in wonder and joy. Her hands spread over
her tightly swollen belly. “He’s kicking me right
here! Feel him, Harriet! Feel his little foot!”

She seized Harriet’s hand and placed it over the
moving spot. Something tightened around Harriet’s
heart as she felt the jab of a tiny heel against her
palm. Once more, she prayed silently that Jenny’s little
one would enter the world without harm to itself
or its mother.

As for herself—but to think of her own future would
only throw her into turmoil for the rest of her day.
Over the years, Harriet had learned to accept the likelihood
that she would never have a family of her own.
Now, once more, the chance was there. All she had to
do was to say yes, and she would have it all—a husband,
a comfortable home, a respected position in the
town and as many children as heaven would allow.

But not with the man whose memory burned in
her heart.

“Enoch stopped by on his way back from the cemetery,”
Jenny said with a sly wink. “He left some
peppermints and asked me to remind you about the
church supper Saturday night. He’ll be picking you
up at six o’clock sharp and he says he’s hoping for
an answer to his question.” She giggled mischievously.
“My, my, what could that question be…?”

Harriet suppressed a sigh. Enoch Farley, the widowed
undertaker, had been calling on her since the first
of the year. Twenty-one years her senior, with thinning
gray hair, a narrow but pleasant face and a shy demeanor,
Enoch was a good man and comfortably well-
off. She could do worse, Harriet mused as she gathered
an armful of kindling to carry into the kitchen. So why
wasn’t she champing at the bit to accept his proposal?

True, she wasn’t in love with him. But if there was
kindness, sharing and mutual respect in a marriage,
love would surely follow, wouldn’t it? After all, how
choosy could an old-maid schoolteacher afford to
be? When did she think she was going to get another
chance?

A woman in her situation would be foolish to turn
down a proposal from a good man like Enoch. But
how could she live here in Dutchman’s Creek, longing
for Brandon, straining for glimpses of him on the
street or at town gatherings, when she was married
to another man?

“For a woman with a serious beau, I can’t say you
look very excited about it,” Jenny observed as she
followed Harriet into the kitchen and began peeling
potatoes for supper. “Would you be any happier if
Matt Langtry had kept coming around?”

Harriet forced herself to laugh. “Matt’s far too
young for me. Besides, I don’t imagine he’ll be ready
to settle down for a long time. He’s got too much wildness
in him yet, like an unbroken colt. The woman
who lays a saddle on him will be in for a wild ride.”

“But, oh, my goodness, just imagine that ride!”
Jenny’s eyes twinkled. Harriet smiled back at her.
She and the young sheriff had enjoyed their brief
flirtation, but neither of them had expected it to last.
They had long since parted as friends and gone their
separate ways.

Enoch Farley, however, had been widowed more
than a year and was looking for a new wife. Harri
et’s gentle efforts to discourage him had had no more
effect than waving a feather in the path of a millstone.

“Just think,” Jenny said, practically bubbling. “If
you marry Enoch, by this time next year, you could
be expecting a cousin for this little mischief.” She
gave her bulge an affectionate pat. “Just think what
fun they’d have as playmates!”

“Really, Jenny, it’s a little soon to be making those
kinds of plans,” Harriet said, chopping at an onion
from the root cellar. “I haven’t agreed to marry Enoch
yet. In fact, I’m not at all sure I want to marry at all!”

“But why not?” Jenny slipped the potatoes into the
broth that simmered on the stove. “He’s a very nice
man, and not bad looking. I know that his being the
undertaker takes a little getting used to, but he makes
a very good living. Why, Enoch Farley is probably
the wealthiest man in town, next to Papa—”

Jenny’s words trailed off as she took in Harriet’s
stricken expression. Her eyes widened in sudden
understanding.

“Oh, Harriet!” she murmured. “Dear Harriet, why
didn’t I see it before? You’re in love with my father,
aren’t you?”

“Nonsense!” The vapors from the onion were
making Harriet’s eyes water. “Your father and I can
barely stand each other! When we’re together, all we
do is argue! He’s the most arrogant, stubborn, impossible
man I’ve ever known in my life!”

“Christmas night, when you walked home in that
awful windstorm, I knew something had happened.
But then, you didn’t say anything, and I didn’t want
to pry. Harriet, if you married my father, then you’d
be my stepmother! I would so love that! It would
make everything all right again!”

“Don’t wish for what can’t be, Jenny.” Harriet
wiped her streaming eyes with the back of her hand,
which made them water all the more. “The last time
I saw your father, we said terrible things to each other,
things that can never be taken back. I pray every night
that you and Will might be reconciled with him, but
as for myself—no, it’s just not possible. Not now.”

“So, are you going to marry Enoch?” Jenny’s
question was little more than a sigh.

“No,” Harriet said, making the decision as she
spoke. “I’m not going to marry anybody. I’m going
to start writing letters and checking the newspaper
advertisements, so that by the time school is out, I’ll
have a teaching position waiting in another town.”

“What?” Jenny uttered a little gasp. “You’d leave
Dutchman’s Creek?”

Harriet scooped the chopped onion pieces into the
pot. “You and Will and the baby would be welcome
to come with me, of course. But I know Will likes his
job here. If you decide to stay, I’ll understand, and,
of course, I’ll plan to visit you as often as I’m able.”

“But what will I do without you?” Jenny looked
ready to cry. “You made it possible for Will and me
to be a family. You taught me how to keep house and
sew and knit, and how to be a teacher. I’ll be lost
without you, Harriet!”

Harriet gathered the distraught girl into her arms.
“You’ll be ready for a home of your own soon. And
you won’t need an old-maid sister-in-law to tell you
how to manage things. You’ve grown up, Jenny.
You’re going to do fine.”

A surge of tears flooded Harriet’s eyes. She
blinked them away. It was only the onion, she told
herself. Just the silly old onion.

Brandon jabbed his pen into the inkwell and
scrawled his name below the judge’s signature at the
bottom of the foreclosure notice. As he’d expected,
the Keetch brothers had done nothing to repay the delinquent
mortgage on their ranch. Now the foreclosure
had been approved by the court. The matter
would be turned over to the sheriff, who would serve
the papers, evict the Keetches from the property, and
have the place put up for public auction. Money from
the sale would go to repay the debts on the ranch.

“I don’t envy you this job,” Brandon said as he
passed the legal documents across his desk to Matt
Langtry. “Harvey and Marlin may look like fools, but
they’ve got a mean streak that runs bone-deep, and
they’re as cunning as a pair of weasels. Don’t go out
to the ranch alone.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll take along a couple
of deputies to watch my back.” Matt tucked the sheaf
of folded papers into his vest. “Damned dirty work.
But that’s what we get paid for.”

“Good luck.” Brandon opened another file of reports
as the young sheriff strode out of his office,
closing the door behind him. The Keetch brothers
wouldn’t take kindly to being served with papers and
ordered off the ranch. They were bound to be foul-mouthed
and whiney, and they might even put up a
fight. But Matthew T. Langtry was good at his job.
Brandon felt confident that he would keep things
under control and see that nobody got hurt.

Forcing the matter from his mind, Brandon tried
to focus on checking the monthly reports from his
bookkeepers. But the golden rays of sunlight, slanting
through the high window above his desk, kept
pulling his thoughts to the world outside his office—
a world where the robins were singing, the wild violets
were sprouting and the aspens were festooned
with long brown catkins.

Spring had arrived in Dutchman’s Creek, a time of
hope and dread. Jenny’s baby was due in less than three
weeks’ time. Simon Tate, who’d kept him appraised of
her condition, had finalized the arrangements to transport
her to Denver. The trip itself would be risky
enough, but the thought of the birth ordeal and the
things that could go wrong had Brandon worried sick.

He would not be going with her, of course. As
things stood, he would not even be seeing her to the
train in Johnson City. Will and the doctor would be
making the trip with Jenny, and Harriet planned to
join them a week later. That, Brandon told himself,
was just as well. Harriet and Will were Jenny’s family
now, and the three of them appeared to be managing
fine without him. Apart from the cost of Jenny’s
medical care, which he had secretly arranged to pay,
there was no reason they should need him at all.

But if Jenny lost her precious young life bringing
this baby into the world, Brandon vowed, Will Smith
would pay for what he’d done to her. He would pay
in this life, and he would pay in hell for the rest of
eternity!

Releasing his anger in a long exhalation, Brandon
bent to his paperwork once more. For a time he managed
to concentrate, but after thirty or forty minutes
the figures began to shift before his eyes, rearranging
themselves in his mind to form the appearance
of haunting brown eyes in a pale oval face, framed
by soft wings of dark mahogany hair.

Ever since their soul-searing encounter on Christmas
night, he had been struggling to rid his memory
of Harriet. But the sight, smell, taste and feel of her
had taken possession of his senses. He still awoke in
the night, drenched and cursing from dreams in
which she leaned over him like a succubus, the silky
curtain of her hair hanging around him, her nipples
brushing his eager mouth, her hips poised a finger
breadth above his aching arousal as she teased and
tormented him to a frustrating climax.

He had last seen her sitting beside Enoch Farley
in the undertaker’s shiny black barouche. Rumor had
it that Enoch had proposed and had been gently refused,
but clearly, he had not given up his pursuit. He
was a tenacious sort, and he would keep pressing his
quarry, plying her with gifts and outings, until she
said yes.

Brandon glared down at the long, cramped columns
of figures, struggling not to imagine Enoch
making love to his bride. It would be like pairing a
swan with a turkey, he thought. Or an elegant, wide-
eyed doe with a moose.

Brandon shoved the file aside, shoved his chair
away from the desk and strode to the window. From
the prison that his office had become, he could see
the open blue of the sky where a pair of red-tailed
hawks soared on outspread wings, spiraling above
the valley.

Maybe he ought to leave Dutchman’s Creek, he
thought. He could sell the house and his interest in
the bank for enough money to live on the rest of his
life. He could travel anywhere he chose, to London,
Paris and Rome, to Greece, to Egypt. Why should he
stay here, where the thought of Harriet in another
man’s arms would be like slow death?

With a weary sigh, he sat down again and took up
his work. For now, at least, he was trapped right here.
He had commitments and responsibilities. He had—

A sudden clamor from the bank lobby outside his
office wrenched Brandon’s attention away from his
own thoughts. He heard the sound of the door banging
open and a man’s gruff voice, strangely familiar,
shouting orders. A woman screamed and something
crashed to the floor.