“Before I agree to help you, I need to be sure there won’t be trouble.”

“You can’t be sure.” She strained against him, setting off heat waves where their bodies touched. Whatever was happening, Brandon could not bring himself to step away and let her go.

“You can’t be sure of…anything.” Her voice was breathy, her words tangled skeins of logic. “You can’t just bend life to your will, Brandon. Things happen, and sometimes you have to let them. You bet and you lose, you love and you get hurt, or you hurt others.”

“Since when did you become so wise, schoolmarm?” His lips brushed the soft hair at her temple as he spoke. “You don’t strike me as a lady who’s done a lot of living.”

Or a lot of loving, he thought. Lord, the lessons he would teach this woman if things were different between them!

Elizabeth Lane has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

A recent story by the same author:

ANGELS IN THE SNOW

(in Stay for Christmas anthology)

HER DEAREST ENEMY

Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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HER DEAREST ENEMY

Chapter One

Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado, 1884

It was late afternoon on an October day when sunlight pooled like melted butter in the hollows of the land. The children of Dutchman’s Creek savored its warmth as they trooped down the path that led from the one-room schoolhouse to the wagon road. They laughed and chattered, their feet swishing happily through the thick carpet of dry leaves.

In the west, rising from foothills brushed with pine and aspen, the jagged peaks of the Rockies jutted against the indigo sky. The mountains were already white with snow; but here in this high valley the beauty of the day was like a last, lingering kiss, bittersweet, as only Indian summer can be.

A vagrant breeze swept through a clump of big- toothed maples, swirling leaves into the air like flocks of pink-and-crimson butterflies. The schoolhouse door, which the last departing child had left ajar, blew inward, causing Miss Harriet Smith to glance up from the half-graded stack of arithmetic papers on her desk. What she saw through the open doorway made her heart plummet like a mallard shot down in flight.

There was no mistaking the identity of the angry figure striding up the path toward the schoolhouse. Brandon Calhoun, who owned the bank, the hotel and, so it was whispered, the saloon, was the tallest man in town, with shoulders like a blacksmith’s and rough-hewn features that captured the eye of every woman he met.

Under different circumstances Harriet might have been flattered that the most powerful man in Dutchman’s Creek had come to pay her a call. But she knew exactly what was on Brandon Calhoun’s mind. She had been dreading their confrontation all day. Now that it was at hand, she had only one regret— that she hadn’t taken the offensive and bearded the lion in his den. After all, she had her own concerns, her own pride. And, truth be told, she was as worried about her brother Will as he was about his precious daughter Jenny.

Harriet’s nervous fingers tucked a stray lock of dark brown hair behind one ear as she watched his approach. Dressed in the slate-gray suit he often wore at the bank, he walked leaning slightly forward, like a ship battling its way in a storm—no, she thought, more like the storm itself, raging up the path, his elegant black boots plowing through the fallen leaves, creating chaos in their wake. His brow was a thundercloud, his mouth a grim slash in his chiseled, granite face. All he lacked was a fistful of lightning bolts to hurl at her with the fury of Jove.

As if this debacle were her fault!

Harriet’s heart drummed against her ribs as she settled her reading spectacles on her nose, dipped her pen in the inkwell and pretended to write. Her pulse broke into a gallop as he mounted the stoop and crossed the threshold. Fixing her gaze on the scribbling pen nib, she forced herself to ignore him until he spoke.

“I want a word with you, Miss Smith.”

“Oh?” She glanced up to see him looming above her, his face a study in controlled fury. Slowly and deliberately, Harriet removed her spectacles and rose to her feet. She was nearly five feet eight inches tall, but she had to look up to meet his withering blue eyes.

“You know why I’ve come, don’t you?” he said coldly.

“I do. And I’ve spoken with Will. There’ll be no more sneaking out at night to meet your daughter.”

“You’ve spoken to him!” Brandon Calhoun’s voice was contemptuous. “I caught your brother in a tree, last night, talking to Jenny through her open window! If I hadn’t come along, he’d likely have climbed right into her bedroom! If you ask me, the young whelp ought to be horsewhipped!”

Harriet felt the rush of heat to her face. “My brother is eighteen years old,” she said, measuring each word. “I can hardly turn him over my knee and spank him, Mr. Calhoun. But I do agree that he shouldn’t see Jenny alone. We had a long talk last night after he—”

“A long talk!” He muttered a curse under his breath. “You might as well have a long talk with a tomcat! I was his age once and I know what it’s like! There are girls down at Rosy’s who’ll put him out of his misery for a few dollars and others in town who’d likely do it for nothing. But, by heaven, I won’t have him touching my Jenny! Not him or any other boy in this town!”

His frankness deepened the hot color in Harriet’s face. In the eight years since the death of their parents in a diphtheria epidemic, she had devoted all her resources to raising her younger brother. She had done her best to teach Will right from wrong. But there were some things an unmarried sister couldn’t say to a growing boy—things that required the counsel of an experienced man. And there had been no man available.

With a growl of exasperation, Brandon Calhoun wheeled away from her and stalked to the window, where he stood glaring out at the autumn afternoon. Sunlight, slanting through the glass, played on the waves of his thick chestnut hair, brushing the faint streaks of gray at his temples with platinum. How old was he? Old enough to have a seventeen-year-old daughter, but surely no more than forty. There were deepening creases at the corners of his eyes, but his belly was flat and taut, his movements graced with a young man’s vigor.

Harriet had come to teach school in Dutchman’s Creek less than a year ago. Except for the schoolchildren, she was not well acquainted with many of the town’s citizens. But a woman at church had told her that the banker’s wife had died six years ago and, despite the fact that any number of ladies had set their caps for him, he had raised his daughter alone, just as she had raised Will. Maybe that was part of what had drawn the two young people together. Will and Jenny had met last summer and had been close ever since. That they were becoming too close was as much a concern to Harriet as it was to Jenny’s father.

Silence lay cold and heavy in the little classroom as Harriet pushed herself away from the desk and took a step toward him. Her legs quivered beneath her, threatening to give way. She willed herself to stand erect, to thrust out her chin and meet his blistering gaze with her own.

“Believe it or not, I’m no happier about this situation than you are,” she declared. “For years, I’ve been planning for Will to attend college. He’s finishing up his preparatory work by correspondence now, so that he can enter Indiana University in the spring to study engineering. If you think I’d have him jeopardize his future by getting mixed with some girl who doesn’t have the sense to—”

“Jenny isn’t some girl!” he snapped, cutting her off angrily. “And as for sense, she’s every bit as bright as she is pretty! I want nothing but the best for her, and that doesn’t include your calf-eyed, tree-climbing brother! By heaven, she deserves better!”

Harriet felt her anger rising as his words hung in the air between them. So the truth had come out at last. Brandon Calhoun was nothing but a strutting, bombastic snob who placed himself above common folk like Will and herself and judged his daughter worthy of a Vanderbilt heir. Merciful heaven, what grandiose delusions! He was nothing but a big fish in a very small pond! If she weren’t so furious, she could almost feel sorry for him!

“You’ve made your position quite clear, Mr. Calhoun,” she said in a voice that crackled like thin ice. “At least we seem to agree on one thing. I’m as anxious to protect Will’s future as you are to promote your daughter’s.”

Her subtle shift of verbs was not lost on him. His cobalt eyes darkened and she braced herself for another blast of hostility. For a long moment the only sound in the room was the droning buzz of a horsefly trapped against the windowpane. Seconds crawled past. Then, as Harriet held her breath, his rigid shoulders sagged. He exhaled raggedly, thrusting his fists into the pockets of his fine gabardine jacket.

“Jenny’s all I have,” he said. “She’s the only thing in my life that I give a damn about. If you had children of your own, you’d understand how I feel.”

If you had children of your own. Harriet winced as if he had caused her physical pain. She had put aside the hope of having her own family when she’d taken on the task of raising Will. Now, at twenty-nine, she knew that time had passed her by. She had become that most disparaged of creatures—an old maid.

Pressing her lips together, she gazed past him into the blur of sunlight that fell through the uncurtained window. She had always despised self-pity and refused to indulge in it. But the wretched man had known exactly where to jab and he had jabbed with a vengeance. Harriet had no doubt that he’d meant to wound her.

He cleared his throat, breaking the leaden silence between them. “This so-called talk you had with your brother. What did he have to say about his intentions?”

“That he loves your daughter. That he wants to marry her.”

He sucked in his breath as if he’d been gut- punched. “And how did you answer him?”

“How do you expect I would answer?” she retorted. “I told him it was foolish to even think of love at his age, let alone marriage! Getting involved with a girl at this point could ruin his plans for the future— indeed, it could ruin his whole life!”

“And did you resolve anything with him?” Brandon Calhoun’s voice was flat and cold.

“Only that there’ll be no more sneaking out at night to see Jenny. Will tends to be headstrong. As his sister, I’ve learned that if I draw the reins too tightly he’s quite capable of breaking them and going his own way.”

“So the reality is, he’s eighteen years old and the only control you have over the boy is what little he allows you.” He shot her a withering scowl. “I thought as much.”

Harriet fought the urge to fly at him and rip the smug expression off his face with her bare hands. “Whatever you’re implying, Mr. Calhoun, my brother is a decent, responsible young man!” she snapped. “Ask anyone who knows him!”

“I already have. Hezekiah Moon at the feed store says your brother’s the best worker he’s ever hired. He’s always on time, he has every account figured to the penny, and he can load a wagon in the time it takes the customer to have a smoke. But that doesn’t mean I want the young whelp sniffing around my Jenny!”

“So what is it you want?” Harriet demanded, suddenly out of patience with him. “If you’ve only come to grouse and complain, please consider your mission accomplished and let me get back to work!”

He retreated a step as if startled by her sudden vehemence. Then he swiftly recovered and seized the offensive. “I wouldn’t have wasted my time in coming here if I didn’t have something in mind,” he said, shifting his weight uneasily, like a boxer. “Since you don’t keep your money in my bank, I can only judge your financial situation from what I see. You live in a rented, two-bedroom shack next to the cemetery. You don’t own a buggy or even a horse, and as for your clothes—”

“My clothes are clean and modest and in good repair.” Harriet’s fists clenched against the skirt of her faded gingham dress. “If I don’t look like a page from a fashion magazine, that’s none of your concern, nor is the way I live! Aside from the matter of Will and Jenny, you and I have nothing to say to each other, Mr. Calhoun! Now kindly get out of my classroom and leave me in peace!”

He loomed over her, making everything in the room seem small. Blue lightning crackled in his eyes. “For what it’s worth, Miss Smith, I own this building and the land it sits on,” he said. “That would make it my classroom. And I don’t intend to leave you in any kind of peace until you’ve heard me out.”

Harriet willed herself to ignore her liquid knees and slamming pulse. She faced him squarely, her chin up, her features composed, her eyes meeting his in a steady gaze. But when she spoke, her shaking voice betrayed her. “Go on, then. I can hardly throw you out with my bare hands.”

One dark smudge of an eyebrow slid upward in unspoken challenge, as if to imply he’d like to see her try manhandling him; but when he spoke, his manner was cold and formal. “Very well. I’m prepared to make you and your brother an offer. I think you’ll agree that it’s more than generous.”

“I’m listening.” Harriet felt as if the ground had dissolved under her feet, leaving her with no solid place to stand. He was so imposing, so damnably sure of his power to turn her to quivering jelly. She found herself wishing he would give her an excuse to slap his insolent face. Of all the girls in town, why had Will chosen to fall in love with the pampered only child of a man like Brandon Calhoun?

He took a deep breath, the air rushing into his powerful chest. “Here’s my offer,” he said, pulling a folded paper out of his vest. “Leave town within the week, the two of you, and I’ll pay your way to wherever you want to go. If your brother agrees never to contact Jenny again, I’m prepared to pay for his college education. Every penny of it.”

Harriet stared up at him, shocked into silence by his audacity. The offer was more than generous; it was unimaginable.

She struggled to keep her wits about her, but her head had already begun to spin—as he had doubtless known it would. Over the years she had saved her own money for Will’s education, living like a pauper so that she could send every spare cent to the Denver bank where she kept her savings. By now, she calculated, she had enough to pay for three years of college. Somehow, with Will working summers, they would manage the fourth year.

But if Brandon Calhoun were to pay for Will’s education, the money she had saved would be hers. Dear heaven, she would be able to travel—to England, to Italy, to all the places she’d dreamed of seeing. Or she might even be able to buy her own small house, with space for a garden and no landlord to trouble her for the rent. It would be like a dream come true.

All she needed to do was to strike a bargain with the devil.

He was watching her, his steel-blue eyes wary but confident. Harriet could almost read his thoughts. This sorry spinster, so drab in her worn gingham frock, could not possibly be foolish enough to turn him down. Just like anyone else, the woman had her price. For a few thousand dollars he would be rid of her and her troublesome brother once and for all, with no stain on his own conscience or reputation.

Brandon Calhoun thought he could buy them off, as if they were common trash; as if they were so poor and so devoid of pride that they would take his charity—or bribery, to call it by its real name. She was as anxious to keep Will and Jenny apart as he was, but not at such a price. What a smug, self-righteous prig he was!

The wave of outraged pride that welled up in Harriet almost swept her off her feet. “How dare you?” She flung the words at him. “I am not for sale, Mr. Calhoun, and neither is my brother! I have enough money saved to pay for Will’s education myself. And as for our leaving, I have a two-year contract and twenty-three children who will be without a teacher if I desert them. If you’re so anxious to keep your daughter from associating with common folk like us, you might want to consider leaving town yourself!”

He glowered at her, his face burning as if she had slapped him. Harriet fought the impulse to shrink away from him. Even with her heart pounding and her legs buckling beneath her petticoat, she could not let this man intimidate her.

“Very well,” he said in a flat, cold voice. “I made you a fair and generous offer and you rejected it. All I have left to say is, keep your brother in line for his own good, Miss Smith. If he so much as speaks to my daughter, I’ll have the law on him!”

With those words, Brandon Calhoun turned on his heel and stalked out of the schoolroom.

Harriet stood rooted to the floor, gazing after him as he disappeared down the path in a swirl of fallen leaves. Her hands were shaking and the inside of her mouth felt as if she’d swallowed a fistful of dry sawdust.

Stumbling backward, she collapsed onto the cramped seat of a first-grade desk. Outside, the sun was sinking below the peaks. Its fading light cast dingy shadows on the schoolroom walls. The breeze that blew in through the open doorway had turned bitter. Harriet wrapped her arms around her trembling body, too stunned to even get up and close the door.

Had she done the right thing? Heaven help her, should she have swallowed her pride and accepted Brandon Calhoun’s offer?

Her spirit sank deeper as a gust of wind rattled the trees, ripping leaves off the branches and scattering the math papers on her desk. Maybe she should have put the banker off, told him she’d think on the matter and let him know. At least she should have spoken with her brother before making such a rash decision—but no, that would have changed nothing. Will was head over heels in love with the banker’s pretty, shy daughter. Young as he was, he had his own share of family pride. His answer would have been the same as hers.

Now what? How could she keep her brother from pursuing Jenny Calhoun—especially when Jenny seemed as eager as he was?

Harriet’s head throbbed at the thought of what lay ahead. Brandon had spoken truly about one thing. Will was eighteen years old, practically a man, and the only control she had over him was what little he allowed her. Her only hope was that her headstrong brother could be made to listen to reason.

Keep your brother in line for his own good, Miss Smith. If he so much as speaks to my daughter, I’ll have the law on him!

The words rang in Harriet’s ears as she staggered to her feet, shoved the door closed and bent to gather her wind-scattered papers. Could Brandon Calhoun really put her brother in jail? There was no law, surely, against two young people falling in love, but as the most influential man in town, the arrogant banker had the means to accomplish anything he wanted.

Would he carry out his threat, or worse? Either way it was a chance Harriet could ill afford to take. She had no means of knowing what lay in the darkness of Brandon’s heart. The only certainty was that she had made a very dangerous enemy.

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.”

Chapter Three

Late that night the season’s first winter storm spilled like a feathery avalanche over the granite crags of the Rockies. Ahead of the snow, a howling wind swept down the canyons, stripping the leaves from the aspens and maples, scouring away the last remnants of Indian summer.

Harriet lay awake in the darkness, listening to the sound of the wind clawing at the shingles on the roof. Not that she would have slept in any case. Things had gone from bad to worse with Will that evening. Now, as she relived the memory for perhaps the hundredth time, her stomach clenched in anguish.

Will’s announcement that he was not going to college had unraveled the whole fabric of Harriet’s life. Her first reaction had been shocked disbelief. She had tried to reason with the boy, but to no avail. His stubborn young mind was set and, as that reality struck her, she had broken down and railed at him.

“You’re throwing it all away, Will!” She had flung the words like daggers, wanting to wound him as he had wounded her. “Our parents’ dreams for you, my hard work and sacrifice to make them come true— all of it for a golden-haired bit of fluff with no more sense than a chicken!”

Will had taken her tirade calmly until she had attacked Jenny. “You’re talking about my future wife!” he’d snapped, the color rising in his pale face.

“Have you lost your reason?” Harriet had retorted. “Brandon Calhoun will have you drawn and quartered if you go near the girl!”

Both of them had risen to their feet. His dark eyes had glared down at her as if she were a simple-minded fool. “Jenny’s a woman, not a girl. She’s reached the age of consent, and if we want to get married, there’s not a damned thing Brandon Calhoun or anyone else can do about it!”

“Not within the law, maybe. But I got a taste of his methods this afternoon. The man is absolutely ruthless! Cross him and he’ll do anything, legal or not, to destroy you!” Harriet had seized his arm, gripping it as she’d done when he was five years old and she’d saved his life by pulling him out of the millrace. “I can’t let you do this, Will! I haven’t worked and sacrificed all these years to let you spend your life in a backwater town, married to a spoiled little chit who’ll bring you nothing but trouble!”

She had said too much. She’d known it even before she’d felt him stiffen beneath her touch and seen the flash of cold anger in his eyes. But it had been too late to take back the words spoken in a fever of desperation.

“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?

Turning away from the fire, he seized her icy hands—not out of affection or sympathy but in an effort to hold her captive while he pummeled her with the truth. Her thin, cold fingers were all but lost in his big fists. Instinctively they sought the warmth of his flesh, pressing into the hollows of his palms, even as her eyes blazed resistance.

Heat and emotion had brought the color back to her face. With the wind-tossed mane of her hair framing her aquiline features, she reminded Brandon of some wild, mythical bird goddess, held to earth only by his determined grip. Let her go and she would fly away, back into the storm that had brought her here.

Lowering his eyes, he forced his mind back to reality. When he looked at her again it was dowdy, stubborn Harriet Smith he saw. Harriet Smith, his enemy, dressed in his own robe and a pauper’s gown that gapped between the buttons.

He pressed her hands so hard that she winced. “Didn’t your brother talk to you?” he rasped. “Didn’t he tell you about the ungodly thing he’d done to my Jenny?”

“What?” She stared at him, caught off guard. “Will told me he’d changed his mind about going to college. We quarreled…” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes widened in horror as the realization struck her.

“Yes!” Brandon crushed her hands in his, wanting her to feel the kind of pain he was feeling. “Your no-account brother has gotten Jenny with child. She gave him the news yesterday, and now he’s skipped out on her, slunk off like the filthy coward he is!”

He watched her crumble then, like a mud figure in a deluge—first her face, then her head and shoulders. Even her fingers seemed to dissolve in his hands.

“No,” she murmured dazedly. “Will’s always been such a good boy, so upright and honorable. He wouldn’t do such a thing, especially to someone he cared about!”

“He would and he did,” Brandon snapped, releasing her hands. “I’m only thankful that he’s finally out of Jenny’s life for good. The young scapegrace has caused her enough grief.”

“No!” Harriet was sitting straight now, leaning forward, her eyes like twin flames in the darkness. “Tonight at supper, Will said he wouldn’t leave her— that he would never leave her. He must have been trying to tell me about the baby, but I refused to listen. I just—”

She halted in midsentence, the color draining from her face. When she spoke again, her voice was taut and strained. “Where is your daughter?”

“In her room where she belongs,” Brandon growled impatiently. “I checked on her before I went to bed. She was sleeping like an angel.”

It was only a half truth. Jenny had cried herself into silence behind the closed door of her room. Later, when Brandon had passed her door on his way to bed, she had not answered his discreet knock. He had left her in peace, resolving to settle things in the morning.

Only now, as he gazed into Harriet’s stricken face, did the truth leap like chain lightning from her mind to his.

Not that! Dear God, anything but that!

Knocking over a footstool in his haste, Brandon dashed for the entry and seized the lantern from the table. Harriet sprang to her feet and plunged after him, clutching her skirts as they pounded up the stairs.

Brandon was not a religious man, but he found himself silently praying as they reached the door of Jenny’s room. Please let her be here. Let her be safe….

But it was too late for prayers. Even as he fumbled with the knob and flung the door open, he knew what he would find.

Chapter Four

As the door to Jenny’s room swung open, light from the upraised lantern cast Brandon’s features into craggy relief. Harriet watched from the shadows as waves of raw emotion swept across his face—first disbelief, then despair, then a tide of helpless fury, as if he were biting back a howl. She had never seen a man look so angry, or so wretched.

Harriet braced herself for a tirade against her brother, but it did not come. He only stood in rigid silence, one white-knuckled hand gripping the lantern, one taut muscle twitching in his cheek.

No words were needed. His expression made it clear that when Brandon caught up with Will, there would be hell to pay.

Tearing her eyes away, Harriet stared past him into the silent room. The pretty little bedchamber was in perfect order, as if young Jenny had given it a farewell tidying before she’d vanished into the stormy night. The pink satin coverlet had been carefully smoothed over the canopied bed, with ruffled pillows arranged against a headboard of inlaid mahogany. A lacy afghan, crocheted in shades of rose and mauve, was draped over the back of a carved wooden rocker. Its colors matched those of the oval rug, hooked in an intricate pattern of cabbage roses, that lay on the polished wooden floor.

It was the kind of room Harriet had dreamed of as a child, and never possessed. The kind of room a father would want to provide for a little girl he loved.

Two exquisite French dolls, with mohair curls and bisque porcelain faces, decorated the top of a bookshelf. A third doll, with golden ringlets like Jenny’s, sat in a miniature copy of the rocking chair, dressed in a gauzy pink princess gown and holding a tiny doll of her own. Harriet had never seen such elegant dolls. The cost of any one of them would probably be enough to keep a poor family in beans and bacon for an entire winter. Now they sat like abandoned children, their glass eyes wide and vacant, silent witnesses to everything that had taken place in this child-woman’s bedroom.

From the far side of the room, a flutter of movement caught Harriet’s eye. Her taut nerves jumped— but it was only a lace curtain, blown by a sliver of wind that whistled through a crack beneath the sash. Jenny, it appeared, had not quite managed to close the window when she’d climbed out into the darkness.

Crossing the floor, Brandon shoved the window down with a snap that rang like a gunshot in the room. Harriet saw him turn, then hesitate abruptly as his gaze fell on a sheet of notepaper that lay on the dresser, anchored in place by the weight of a silver- framed looking glass.

Still gripping the lantern, he snatched up the paper with his free hand. A lock of sleep-tousled hair tumbled over his brow, casting his face in shadow as he scanned the page.

“What does it say?” Harriet’s question broke the tense silence.

He flashed her a contemptuous glance, then deliberately crumpled the paper in his fist and flung it to the floor. “Read it yourself if you’re so damned curious!”

Harriet bent forward, then checked herself. Brandon Calhoun’s insufferable pride demanded that she grovel at his feet. But even now, while her whole being screamed with the urgent need to know what Jenny had written, she could not afford to give him that satisfaction.

Straightening, she took his measure with emboldened eyes. Any other man would have looked ridiculous facing her down in his nightshirt and slippers. But Brandon Calhoun was as fierce as a mythological giant roused from sleep. The sight of his bloodshot eyes, tousled hair and whisker-shadowed jaw triggered a leaden sensation somewhere below Harriet’s stomach. She willed herself to ignore it.

“Stop behaving like a peevish child,” she ordered in her sternest schoolteacher voice. “I’m just as upset about this situation as you are. What makes you think I want my promising eighteen-year-old brother saddled with a wife and baby?”

He glowered down at her, his lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

“Blaming me is only going to make matters worse!” she declared, thrusting out her chin. “Right now, nothing matters except those two foolish youngsters, their safety and their happiness. Either you accept that and we work together, or, heaven help me, I’ll walk out of here and leave you to unravel this mess by yourself!”

Brandon’s countenance was icy. Harriet searched his face for any sign that his resolve was crumbling. But she could detect no change in him. Like a wounded animal, he was masking his pain with tightly reined fury. The pain was real; but so, Harriet sensed, was the danger.

The ticking of the tiny porcelain clock on Jenny’s nightstand echoed in the stillness of the room. From outside, Harriet could hear the rubbing of a bare sycamore branch against the window—a nerve-grating sound, like the scrape of fingernails against a blackboard. Her damp clothes felt clammy beneath Brandon’s robe—the heavy, satin-lined robe that had enfolded his naked body countless times and carried his essence in every fiber. Its richly masculine aroma surrounded her, swimming in her senses, filling her mind with forbidden images and unnamable yearnings. Suddenly the little room seemed too warm, his looming, male presence much too close.

Harriet tried to swallow, but her throat was as dry as chalk dust. Her lips parted but the power of speech had fled. At the very time when she should be defending her brother, she stood like a tongue- tied schoolgirl, riveted by the raw power in those cobalt eyes.

She willed herself not to avert her gaze or to back away. Brandon Calhoun was the enemy. If need be, for Will’s sake, she would fight him like a tigress.

“The…note.” She forced the words out with the effort of a six-year-old writing them on a slate.

His eyes darkened in the lamplight. Then, with a weary exhalation, he bent, scooped up the crumpled note and shoved it toward her. “Here. Go ahead and read the damned thing. It won’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

Still numb with cold, Harriet’s fingers fumbled with the crinkled folds. Tilting the paper to the light, she scanned Jenny Calhoun’s round, girlish script. As she read, her hands trembled, blurring the letters on the page.

Dearest Papa,

By the time you read this, I will be Mrs. William Smith. Please forgive me. I tried to make you understand, but you wouldn’t listen. Will and I love each other. We want to be a family and raise our baby together. This is the only way. I know you’ll be angry, but Will is a good man. In time, you will come to like and respect him. Please know how much I love you.

Your Jenny

The paper slipped from Harriet’s fingers and fluttered to the rose-patterned rug. When she looked up at Brandon, his narrowed eyes were the color of gathering storm clouds, grim and dark and angry.

“The county line’s about fifteen miles north of here.” His voice was drained of emotion now. “Johnson City’s just the other side of it. On the way into town, there’s a justice of the peace who’d marry a coyote to a mule if they had the money to pay him. That’s where your brother will likely take Jenny—unless I can put a stop to this foolishness once and for all.”

“What are you thinking?” Harriet stared at him, alarmed by his cold resolve.

Brandon picked up the note and crumpled it in his fist. “Jenny didn’t expect me to come in here and find this until morning. If I leave now and travel fast, I might be able to catch up with them.”

“And then what?” Harriet clutched at his sleeve as he turned to leave the room. “What do you intend to do?”

“Whatever I have to.” He shot her a threatening glance, then jerked away from her and strode out into the hall. Harriet plunged after him, the danger screaming in every nerve. If he caught Will alone on the road with his daughter, Brandon, in his present condition, was capable of killing him.

“I’m going with you!” Catching up with him outside his bedroom door, she seized his arm. “This is as much my problem as yours! I need to be there when you find them!”

“Don’t be a fool! You’ll only slow me down!” He tried to pull out of her grip but only succeeded in dragging her along the hallway, over the threshold and into his dimly shadowed bedroom.

Harriet struggled to ignore the massive, rumpled four-poster bed, its covers flung back to reveal a slight depression where his body had been lying when her knock had roused him from sleep. “I won’t slow you down,” she argued. “I can ride as well as any man, and I’m as anxious to find them as you are!”

He twisted away, strode to the hulking wardrobe and flung open the doors. “You’re already half-frozen. You can wait here, if you like, but I don’t want a whining, shivering woman on my hands, and I won’t be responsible for your catching your death of cold.”

“I’ll be fine. Lend me a warm coat, or even a blanket, and you won’t hear a word of complaint from me.”

He glanced back at her, his dark brows knit into a scowl. “And if I say no?”

Harriet drew herself tall, clutching his robe around her still-shivering body. “Then, so help me, I’ll trail you on foot, in the clothes that brought me here! Either way, you’re not leaving me behind, Brandon Calhoun!”

Brandon swore under his breath as he set the lantern on the nightstand and jerked a pair of heavy woolen trousers out of the wardrobe. “If the sight of a man getting dressed shocks your modesty, you’re welcome to wait in the hall,” he said, scuffing off his slippers to reveal long, pale, elegant feet.

Harriet felt the hot color rise in her face. She took a step backward, then hesitated. Brandon would welcome any chance to get away without her. She could not afford to leave him alone to slip out the back window as his daughter had done.

She shook her head, praying the darkness would hide her furious blush. “Just hurry,” she said. “I raised my brother alone. Seeing a man dress is nothing new to me.”

It was only a half lie. She and Will had been decorously modest in their years together. Harriet had not seen her brother unclothed below the waist since his early childhood. And this gruff, looming man was definitely not her brother.

“Suit yourself.” Turning away from her, he tossed the trousers on the bed and seized a set of long johns that lay over the back of a wooden chair. In a series of quick motions he thrust his feet into the legs and jerked them up beneath his nightshirt. Harriet felt her chilled flesh growing warm beneath her clothes. So far he had not given her so much as an indecent glimpse of his body. But the air of intimacy lay thick and heavy in the shadowed room, dizzying in its power. She fought the urge to avert her eyes, unmasking the falsehood she had told him, leaving herself exposed and vulnerable.

“Hurry,” she whispered, and was startled by the husky timbre of her own voice.

The trousers came up next, then hastily donned wool stockings and a pair of heavy brogans before he stripped off the flannel nightshirt. For the space of a breath he stood bare above the waist, his skin glinting gold in the lamplight, his body spare and rock hard, as subtly powerful as a puma’s. A crisp dusting of chestnut hair formed a dark inverted triangle between the mauve-brown beads of his nipples. Harriet battled the urge to let her eyes trace the shadowed line downward over his flat belly, to where it disappeared beneath the bunched long johns at his waist. Her mouth, she realized, had gone dry.

He moved swiftly, yanking the top portion of the long underwear onto his arms and over his shoulders. With scarcely a pause, he bunched the discarded flannel nightshirt in his hand and flung it toward Harriet.

“Pull it on over your clothes,” he said. “You’ll need an extra layer of warmth, and there’s not much in this house that will fit you.” When she hesitated he added, “It was clean when I put it on tonight. This is no time to be fussy.”

Ignoring the jibe, Harriet slipped out of Brandon’s robe, found the hem of the nightshirt and pulled it over her head. The velvety flannel smelled of lye soap and clean male flesh. Lingering warmth from Brandon’s body surrounded her as she pulled it downward over her frame. He was right about there being little to fit her in this house. Jenny was a fairy creature, as dainty as the dolls that decorated her room. And the length of Brandon’s trousers would dwarf even Harriet’s Amazonian height. As for their German housekeeper, whom Harriet had seen at church, she was as solid as an onion, no higher than Harriet’s shoulder and almost as round as she was tall.

Brandon had flung on a thick woolen shirt and was tucking it into the waist of his pants. He glanced up from fastening his belt, his eyes troubled.

“I’ve thought on it,” he said, “and I’m not taking you with me after all. It’s a miserable night, and I’ll make better time on my own.”

Harriet slipped the robe on over his nightshirt, jerking the sash tight around her slim waist. “If you catch up with them, you’ll need me there. Things could get out of hand—”

“Out of hand?” His black eyebrows slithered upward. “Don’t be a silly goose! I’m a civilized man.”

Turning away, he reached into the depths of the wardrobe and pulled out a cartridge belt with a long leather holster attached. Harriet felt the color drain from her face as he buckled the belt around his hips.

“No.” The word emerged as a hoarse whisper.

“No?” He shot her a contemptuous look as he opened a hidden drawer in the nightstand and pulled out a hefty Colt revolver.

“You’re not going after my brother with a gun!” she insisted, taking a step toward him. “I won’t have it!”

“You think I’m going to shoot him?” Brandon swore under his breath. “After what he’s done, your fool brother isn’t worth the price of a bullet. All I want is to get my daughter back, safe and sound, so we can salvage the mess he’s made of her life.”

“And if Will has a gun, too?” Fear rose like cold black sludge in Harriet’s throat. Her brother didn’t own a firearm, but he had friends who did. It would be easy enough to borrow a weapon for the night.

Even now, the awful scenario took shape in her mind—the confrontation, the threats, one man drawing on the other, then a gunshot shattering the snowy night…

“No!” Harriet flung herself at him with a desperate fury she had not known she possessed. Her momentum struck his arm, knocking the pistol out of his hand and sending the weapon spinning across the floor. Her fists pummeled his chest in impotent rage, doing no more damage than the fluttering wings of a bird. “No! You can’t—I won’t let you—”

“Stop it!” He seized her wrists, his brute strength holding her at bay. His stormy cobalt eyes drilled into hers. “Damn it, Harriet, this isn’t helping anything!”

His use of her given name startled and sobered her. She glared back at him, her face inches from his own. “Don’t you see? This is a tragedy in the making. You with a gun, angry and upset—anything could happen out there. You’ve got to take me with you!”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll rip my clothes and go to the sheriff.” Harriet could scarcely believe her own wild words. “I’ll tell him that I came here looking for my brother, and you dragged me up to your room and tried to have your way with me!”

“Oh, good Lord!” Brandon’s hands released her wrists and dropped to his sides. A muscle twitched at the corner of his grimly drawn mouth. “You’d be a fool to try it. Nobody in his right mind would believe you.”

The implication of his words was all too obvious. Only a depraved man would make indecent advances to a priggish old-maid schoolteacher like herself, and Brandon Calhoun was one of the town’s most respected citizens. His arrogance stung Harriet like lye in a cut, but she masked the hurt with defiance.

“Wouldn’t they?” She hurled the words, wanting to shock him, to hurt him. “Maybe the story wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, but I have your nightshirt, and I can describe your bedroom down to the last detail. That should be enough to smear your precious reputation with mud.”

Silence quivered between them like the hanging blade of a guillotine. Harriet’s audacious threat, she sensed, had hit its mark. Brandon’s livelihood depended on the trust and good will of the townspeople. Lose that and he might as well pack his bags and move away.

“You wouldn’t dare!” he snapped.

“Wouldn’t I?” Harriet’s eyes narrowed in what she hoped was a menacing look. “You don’t know me well enough to predict what I might do, Mr. Calhoun. Can you afford to take that chance?”

He groaned, looking as if he wanted to strangle her with his bare hands. “This is blackmail, Miss Harriet Smith. You know that, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

With a muttered curse, he snatched up the pistol from the floor and jammed it into the holster. “Let’s get moving, then,” he growled. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

* * *

Brandon peered over the backs of the horses, into the stinging blizzard. The hood on the elegant black landau was fully raised, but the windblown snow peppered his face like buckshot. He could barely see the ears of the two sturdy bays, let alone the familiar road that wound north along the creek bed toward the county line.

Harriet huddled beside him on the seat, wrapped in his long woolen greatcoat. A thick shawl, belonging to Helga, swathed her head and shoulders. The shawl’s edges were pulled forward, hiding her stoic profile from his view. And that was just as well, Brandon told himself. The less he saw of the insufferable woman, the better.

Had he gotten away alone, he would have saddled one of the horses and ridden through the storm. But Harriet was not dressed for riding. Moreover, after her performance in his bedroom, Brandon was ill-disposed to trust her. Put her on a horse and there’d be nothing to stop the fool woman from bolting after the runaways on her own. The landau was slower, but it would be safer—and as long as he held the reins, he would be the one in charge.

“How can we be certain they came this way?” She leaned toward him, raising her voice to be heard above the storm.

“We can’t be certain. This is just a likely guess.” He shot her a sidelong glance and met the flash of her coppery eyes. Framed by the shawl, her pale, classic features reminded him of a Madonna’s. A Madonna with the scruples of a whore and the disposition of a bobcat, Brandon reminded himself. And he had already felt her claws.

Would she have carried out her threat to ruin his reputation? Brandon huddled into his hip-length sheepskin coat, the pistol cold against his leg. Hellfire, he knew nothing about the woman—where she’d come from or what she was doing in a remote place like Dutchman’s Creek. For all he knew, this show of concern for her brother could be an act. She could have encouraged the boy’s relationship with Jenny, in the hope of snagging him a rich, pliant little wife that the two of them could control.

Whatever her plan, he swore it wasn’t going to succeed. Once Jenny was safely home, he would get his lawyer to annul any marriage that might have taken place. Then he would go ahead with his plan to send the girl back east to have her baby.

Her baby.

The images hit him like a barrage of body blows. Jenny—his sweet, innocent Jenny, her body swelling with child; Jenny giving birth in agony, screaming, bleeding, maybe even dying in the process. Lord, she was so small. The birth was bound to be horren-dously difficult for her.

And if Jenny died, Brandon vowed, God help him, whatever the consequences, he would hunt Will Smith down and send him straight to hell where he belonged.

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