Читать книгу Her Dearest Enemy - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 8

Chapter Two

All the way home Harriet struggled with the question of what to tell her brother. Given the power, she would have chosen to wipe out the shattering encounter with Brandon Calhoun, the way she might erase a child’s botched arithmetic problem from the blackboard. That way, Will would never know what she had thrown away out of pride; nor would she need to make it clear that she was still dead set against his courtship of Jenny.

But that kind of denial was useless. One way or another, Will was bound to ferret out the truth. It was best that he hear it from her.

The wind plucked at her thin skirts, raising gooseflesh on her legs as she passed along the weathered picket fence that ringed the cemetery. Blowing leaves danced among the tombstones like ghostly spirits in the twilight.

Harriet pulled her thin wool shawl tighter around her shoulders. She’d been told that winters were long and harsh in this high mountain valley, but she had comforted herself with the thought that Will would be with her through the cold months to shovel the paths, chop wood for the stove and provide companionship on dark, snowbound evenings. Now she found herself wondering if it might not be best to send him to Indiana before the storms set in. He wouldn’t be able to start college until spring term, but maybe he could find work and a place to board until then. It would be a dear price to pay, for she truly wanted his presence over the winter. But at least he would be far away from Jenny Calhoun and her fire-breathing dragon of a father!

Harriet’s resolve began to crumble as she opened the door of the unpainted clapboard house and stepped over the threshold into its dusky interior. The place would be so lonely without Will. Worse, he was only eighteen, little more than a boy! And they had no relatives anywhere who might take him in. Sending him away to school was one thing, but simply putting him on the train was quite another. If he left now, he would be entirely on his own, easy prey for any opportunist who happened along! Merciful heaven, how could she just turn him out into the world, so innocent and untried?

Harriet was still struggling with the dilemma twenty minutes later as she sliced the bread and set the table for supper. The fire in the stove flickered on the rough-cut walls, lending a touch of warmth to the bleak kitchen with its small alcove that served as a parlor. Brandon had been right about the house. It was a shack in every sense of the word. Even the homey touches Harriet had added—the calico curtains, the crocheted afghan draped over the rocker and the framed family photographs on the wall— could not relieve the drabness or stanch the cold draughts that whistled between the boards.

She had rented the cheapest place she could find so that she could save the remainder that was needed for her brother’s education. True, she may have carried frugality too far this time. But there was nothing to be done about it now, except to thank the good Lord that she and Will had a roof over their heads, food on the table and the bright promise of days to come.

She was stirring last night’s leftover beans when she heard the scrape of Will’s boots on the stoop. Harriet could tell from the weary cadence of the sound that he’d put in a long, hard day at the feed store. At an age when many boys were sowing their wild oats, Will did the labor of a man. But he would not always have to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. She would see to that. She owed that much to their parents, who had cherished such hopes for him.

Will stumbled inside as if the wind had blown him through the open doorway. His hair and clothes were coated with dust from loading sacks of feed. His body sagged with weariness, as if he had spent the past nine hours carrying the weight of the world on his young back.

“Supper will be on by the time you’re washed,” Harriet said, wishing she had a better meal to offer him than bread and beans, and more cheering conversation than what she needed to tell him. But the present trouble was Will’s own doing, she reminded herself. Much as she loved her brother, she could not condone what 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 of him, casting its phantom shadow down the tiled hallway with its oak- paneled walls and tall grandfather clock, through the parlor with its hefty leather armchairs and into the dining room where the long table seemed to dwarf the slight figure in pink who sat in a high-backed chair on its far side.

Only as he saw her did Brandon realize how much he’d feared that his daughter might not be here to welcome him.

“Hello, Papa.” Her voice was thin, her smile as tenuous as a cobweb. The two of them had not spoken since last night when he’d caught her opening her window to young Will Smith. In a rage, Brandon had ordered Will off the property and sent his daughter back to bed. Even later, when the house had quieted down, he had been too upset to go talk with her.

“Hello, angel.” Brandon tried to sound natural, but his voice was hoarse with strain. No words could change what had happened last night. The trusting relationship they’d shared for so many years would never be the same again.

They sat on opposite sides of the table, the painful silence a wall between them as they picked at their food, pretending to eat. Helga, who took her own supper early, shuffled in and out with the dishes, her wrinkled face as impassive as a slab of burled oak.

Brandon studied his daughter furtively over the rim of his coffee cup. She looked like one of her own precious dolls in her starched pink pinafore, her pale gold curls caught up and bound by a matching ribbon. But her face was blotchy and her cornflower eyes were laced with red, as if she had spent much of the day crying. He ached, knowing that nothing he had to say would ease those tears.

Only when Helga had retired to her cozy room at the rear of the house did Brandon venture to bring up the matter that was tearing at his heart.

“I’ve been thinking…” He paused to clear the tightness from his throat. “I’ve been thinking it’s time you went to stay with your aunt Ellen for a while.”

Jenny’s blue eyes widened. Her lips parted in protest, but Brandon cut her off before she could speak.

“It’s high time you continued your education,” he said. “Your aunt Ellen has a fine, big house, and I know she’ll be happy to have you. You can make new friends at school, and there’ll be dances, parties and picnics— plenty of chances for you to meet suitable young men.”

“I don’t care a fig for dances and parties.” There was a thread of steel in Jenny’s voice. “Will is a suitable young man, and I happen to love him.”

“You’re too young to know anything about love,” Brandon snapped. “Will Smith is a small-town yokel with no more manners than a mule. Once you’ve met some proper gentlemen, with the means to give you the life you deserve, you’ll come to realize that and you’ll thank me for saving you from your own foolishness!”

He saw her face blanch, saw the whitening of the skin around her lips, but he plunged ahead before she could raise an argument. “Pack your things, Jenny. You won’t need much in the way of clothes—your aunt can help you buy new things in Baltimore. We’ll be leaving for Johnson City tomorrow, in time to put you on the afternoon train. Helga can go along to make sure you arrive safely. I daresay she’ll enjoy the trip.”

“No.”

Brandon stared at her as if she’d just slapped his face. Jenny had always been the most respectful of daughters. He could not recall even one time when she had openly defied him—until now.

“Excuse me?” His words emerged as a hoarse whisper.

“You heard me.” He saw the tears then, welling up in her eyes and spilling through the golden fringe of her lashes. “Sending me away won’t make any difference. It’s too late for that.”

“Too late?” The pounding of Brandon’s heart seemed to fill the room. “What do you mean, too late?”

Her voice caught in a ragged little sob. “I’m going to have a baby, Papa. Will’s baby. And we’re getting married whether you like it or not.”