“Don’t you have anything else?” she asked with
a sigh.
“I haven’t had much need for pretty gowns over
the years, let alone the money to buy them,” Harriet
said. “Just grab one for me. It doesn’t matter what I
wear tonight.”
Jenny was still shuffling through the dresses.
“What a shame you can’t wear my clothes,” she
mused. “Maybe…yes!” She seized a dark brown
wool twill with an ample shawl collar of ecru lace.
“Heavens, this one must make you look just like
Martha Washington! But we can fix that. I have just
the thing!”
Her small fingers began pulling at the lace collar,
ripping away the stitches that held it in place.
“What are you doing?” Harriet cried. “That dress
needs the collar to cover the bodice! Without it, I’ll
be liable to get arrested for indecent exposure!”
“Don’t worry.” Jenny grinned impishly. “I have
something better. Wait till you see it!”
She dashed into the other room and Harriet could
hear the sounds of her rummaging through her trunk.
Moments later she returned with a triangular shawl of
exquisite silk brocade, patterned in a rich design of
forest green, burgundy and amber leaves. It was edged
with silk fringe and trimmed in tiny amber beads.
“My aunt Ellen bought it from a Hungarian
woman,” Jenny said. “It doesn’t suit me at all, but on
you it would be perfect.”
Harriet put out her hand. The fabric was as soft and
delicate as the skin of a new baby. “It’s beautiful,” she
murmured. “Much too beautiful for me to wear.”
“Nonsense,” Jenny said. “Put on your brown
dress. Then sit down in front of the mirror.”
Harriet did as the girl had asked. Without the lace
collar to soften it, the brown dress looked stark and
showed far too much of her shoulders and breasts.
Jenny moved behind her, holding the Hungarian
shawl. “Close your eyes,” she said. “Don’t open them
until I tell you.”
Harriet closed her eyes, trying not to squirm as
Jenny draped, tucked, clipped and pinned the sensuous
fabric around her shoulders and over the bodice
of her dress. An exotic, musky aroma lingered in the
folds of the shawl, as if its former owner had
drenched herself in perfume, perhaps for a lover.
The Hungarian shawl began to cast its spell even
before Harriet opened her eyes. When, at Jenny’s
signal, she looked at herself in the mirror, she almost
forgot to breathe.
The woman gazing back at her was as radiant as
a sunset. The colors in the shawl, which Jenny had
fastened artfully over the bodice of the dress, brought
out the subtle rose glow in her ivory cheeks and
turned the copper flecks in her eyes to dancing dots
of fire. Her hair, which framed her face in gleaming
waves, was caught up and pinned at the back of her
head in a loose knot of curls.
“One more thing.” Jenny dashed back into her
room again and came back with a small green-velvet
box. Opening it with a flourish, she pulled out a
pair of dangling gold filigree earrings set with faceted
carnelian beads that glimmered in the lamplight, reflecting
a myriad of tiny flames.
“Aren’t they perfect?” Jenny gushed happily. “I
just happened to notice you had pierced ears.” She
bent close, blocking the mirror and causing Harriet
to wince as she worked the wires into place. “You
need to wear earrings more often, Harriet. These little
holes have almost closed up.”
“Most days it’s not worth the bother.”
“Well, it’s definitely worth the bother tonight.
Look at you!”
Jenny whirled away from the mirror, giving Harriet
a full view of her reflection. The baubles that
dangled from her earlobes provided the crowning
touch to the transformation. The gold filigree contrasted
richly with her mahogany hair, and each
facet of the deep red carnelian beads reflected a
warm dot of lamplight on her face. She looked…intriguing,
like a mysterious woman from a romantic
novel.
“Oh!” Harriet murmured, staring at the mirror.
“Oh, my goodness, who is that person?”
“That person is you, and you’re just stunning!”
Jenny clapped her hands, beside herself with delight.
“Now, go to the ball, Cinderella. Dance with the
prince. But be sure to come home before midnight!”
“Silly, I’m just going to tend the bake-sale table,”
Harriet protested. “And they’ll be needing me there
any minute, so I’d best get moving.”
Flinging on her cloak, she hurried out through
the kitchen. On her way, she passed the shiny new
black-and-chrome Red Oak stove that their landlord
had installed the day after the smoke problem.
Since the landlord was a tight man with a dollar and
seldom fixed anything around the place, Harriet
suspected Brandon’s hand in the matter. After
Jenny’s near disaster, she could only be grateful for
his help.
The night was mild and clear, the walk to the
church an easy distance through well-tracked snow.
Harriet arrived early enough to arrange the cakes,
pies and cookies the women had brought in earlier,
post the price list and put some change in the cigar
box that served as a till. By the time the crowds started
arriving she was seated primly behind the table,
braced for the night’s ordeal. A few parents stopped
by, and she sold four plates of cookies, but no one
mentioned her appearance except one ten-year-old
girl who stared at her across the table for a long moment
before piping in a loud voice, “Oh, Miss Smith,
you look just like the queen of the Gypsies!”
Harriet shrank a little lower in her chair. Yes, she
did look like a Gypsy, she realized, with her dark hair
and eyes, the exotic Hungarian shawl and the glittering
earrings. But it was too late to do anything about
it now. Removing the shawl would expose the ugly
bodice of her dress, to say nothing of her breasts and
shoulders. And the earrings were surely valuable. To
take them off would be to risk losing them. Worst of
all, she could not leave the hall. The queen of the
Gypsies was stuck right here, on open display, for the
entire evening.
Her heart lurched as Brandon’s tall figure loomed
in the doorway. Harriet pretended to count the change
in the cigar box as she watched him covertly through
the screen of her lowered eyelashes. Dressed in an
immaculate white shirt and dark blue suit, he was
walking with a cane instead of his crutches. It appeared
that the doctor had removed the heavy splint
and replaced it with a light brace that barely showed
under his well-fitted trousers.
He looked fit and elegant and meltingly handsome.
Just seeing him made Harriet want to slink
under the table and hide. She held her breath until he
took his seat on the front row, with the other members
of the town council, then sighed with relief. So
far, at least, he had not appeared to notice her.
The festivities started with a flag ceremony and an
opening prayer, followed by an enactment of the
Christmas story by the children in the town, under the
direction of the minister’s wife. After that, a good
half hour was devoted to the singing of Christmas
carols. Finally, after peppermint sticks had been
passed out among the children, the chairs were
moved to the walls, clearing the floor for dancing.
Men and women scurried to find their partners as
the fiddler took his place next to the piano and struck
up a lively polka. Harriet was pretending to count the
change in the cigar box when a long-fingered brown
hand thrust into view and a deep, masculine voice
with a hint of Texas drawl said, “May I have the
honor of this dance, Miss Smith?”
It wasn’t Brandon. Harriet knew that at once, and
her heart sank a little. But as her eyes shifted upward
to the clean-cut features and twinkling brown eyes
of Sheriff Matthew Langtry, she told herself she
could do far worse. The sheriff was a few years her
junior, and several of the older girls in her classroom
had teenage crushes on him. It was easy enough to
see why.
“I’m afraid I can’t leave—” she started to say, but
an elderly woman inspecting the pies interrupted her.
“Oh, go ahead and dance, dearie! I’ll watch the till
for you. You’re much too young and pretty to hide
behind a table all night!”
With a polite murmur of thanks, Harriet allowed
the sheriff to lead her onto the dance floor. He was
almost as tall as Brandon but more slender and athletic.
He was an excellent dancer and, although she
felt awkward for the first moment, he soon had her
flying around the floor.
“Is this the way they dance in Texas?” She
laughed up at him, out of breath.
“Oh, no, ma’am.” His expressive eyes smiled
down at her as if they were seeing an attractive
woman, definitely not the queen of the Gypsies. “In
Texas we do the Spanish fandango and the Texas
two-step. I’d be right pleased to teach you those dances
sometime.”
“I just may take you up on that, Sheriff.” She
flashed him a bubbly smile that did not seem like her
at all. Among the blurred faces at the edge of the
dance floor, she caught a glimpse of Brandon’s familiar
scowl. He was watching her, probably thinking
that she was making a silly fool of herself. Well,
let him think whatever he pleased! She was having
a good time.
No sooner had the polka ended than Enoch Farley,
the town undertaker, claimed her for a reel. Enoch was
a widower nearing fifty and rather shy. Harriet did her
best to put him at ease, but it was a relief when the
dance ended and she found herself in the arms of Hans
Peterson, Dutchman Creek’s plump, affable mayor.
“You’re quite the belle tonight, Miss Harriet
Smith.” His grin showed the gleam of a gold front
tooth. “The only a way a man can get a word with
you, it seems, is to ask you to dance.”
“You wanted a word with me?” Harriet’s breath
caught as he swung her out of the path of a whirling
couple.
“That’s right. But my feet and my mouth don’t
work very well at the same time. What do you say
we get something to drink?”
Harriet allowed the mayor to lead her to the refreshment
table where he dipped her a cup of cold
apple cider from a cut-glass bowl. “Brandon spoke
with me about your having Jenny help with the little
ones at school for a few months. As long as the girl
is strong enough, I think it’s a fine idea. The money’s
in place. Let me know when you want her to start.”
Harriet gazed at him in happy astonishment. Brandon
had come through, after all. “Jenny’s not to know
the money came from her father,” she cautioned.
The mayor gave her a sly wink. “Since the money’s
now part of the school budget, that shouldn’t be
a problem.”
“And no one on the town council objected?”
“It wasn’t the council’s decision. It was mine.”
“Thank you.” Harriet seized his big ham of a hand
in her own. “I can hardly wait to tell her! She’ll be
so excited.”
“It’s Brandon you should thank,” the mayor said.
“And since he’s standing right behind you, I’ll just
wander back to my wife and leave you to do that.”
Harriet stifled a gasp as she turned around and saw
Brandon looming above her. His face wore a polite
smile but his eyes were like a panther’s, smoldering
with ferocity.
The fiddler had begun to play a slow, sweet waltz.
Keeping his gaze locked with hers, Brandon balanced
his cane against the end of the table. “You
might have to hold me up, but I think I can manage
this dance if you’ll do me the honor,” he said.
Harriet glided into his arms, aware that she was
trembling. He moved well, even on his injured leg,
but the silence between them was awkward. She’d
been glib and flirtatious with the young sheriff. But
now her tongue seemed to have taken leave.
“I’m…glad to see your leg’s getting better,” she
stammered. “Did the bones knit well?”
“As well as could be expected. I won’t be winning
any footraces, but I should be able to get around all
right.” He was looking at her in an odd way, as if
there were something about her he disliked, yet
couldn’t tear his eyes away from.
“How is Jenny?” he asked as if he’d waited all evening
to find out.
“Resting tonight, but she’s healthy and happy,
thank heaven, with no ill effects from the smoke.
She’ll enjoy helping with the children at school.
Thank you for following my suggestion. I—I’m
sorry for calling you Ebenezer Scrooge.”
“You didn’t call me Ebenezer Scrooge, you just
suggested I change my name.” His smile was a bit
cold, and he seemed slightly ill at ease.
“Forgive me, but I need to say this.” Harriet
plunged ahead impulsively, knowing she might not
have another chance. “Christmas is just two weeks
away, Brandon. It’s a terrible time for people to be
estranged. I know how many ways you’ve tried to
help Jenny. Can’t you just—”
“No.” The word was spoken with the finality of a
slamming door. “Let it go, Harriet. You’re just wasting
your breath.”
“But—” The protest died on her lips as she saw
the reflected glimmer in his eyes and realized what
he’d been looking at all along.
Heaven help her, it was those accursed gold-and-carnelian
earrings!
Chapter Eleven
U
ntil a moment ago Harriet had loved the beautiful
earrings Jenny had lent her. She had loved the
weight of them, their faint musical tinkle as she
danced, and the warmth of red-gold light that
burned in the depths of each faceted carnelian bead.
Until a moment ago, they had possessed an aura of
pure magic.
But not now.
“Oh,” she whispered, gazing up at Brandon with
stricken eyes. “Oh, Brandon, I’m so sorry! It was Jenny’s
idea to lend me these earrings. I’m sure she only
meant to be kind, but I should have realized where
they came from—” Her fumbling fingers reached up
for the wires, but she swiftly realized that removing
the earrings would only rouse people’s curiosity. It
would be more discreet to leave them in place.
“Jenny inherited her mother’s jewelry,” Brandon
said stiffly. “The pieces are hers, and she has the
right to do whatever she pleases with them.”
“But for me to wear them here, to flaunt them in
front of you and all these people—”
“Harriet, you didn’t know.” He sighed wearily.
“Now let’s just finish our dance before people start
looking at us.”
They moved like marionettes as the waltz played
out to its end. Harriet stared fixedly at Brandon’s
neatly tied cravat, acutely conscious of the pressure
of his hand against the small of her back and the
clamminess of her fingers where they rested in his
palm. He held her as lightly as he might have held
one of Jenny’s porcelain dolls, and with no more
emotion. Oh, why hadn’t she stayed behind the
baked-goods table where she belonged? She should
have known what a terrible mess she’d make of the
whole evening.
The music swelled to a crescendo and crashed into
silence as the fiddler lowered his bow. Harriet shot
Brandon a farewell glance and made a break for her
table—only to be swept back into the maelstrom of
dancers by the handsome young sheriff. “You’re a
popular lady!” he said, grinning down at her. “I’ve
been waiting to get another dance with you!” With that
he caught her waist and whirled her into the bounding
rhythm of another polka.
“Hang on to your hairpins, Miss Harriet!” he
laughed. “Here’s how we do this dance in Texas!”
* * *
Brandon watched from the corner of the hall as
Harriet flew around the floor with Matt Langtry.
Flushed and laughing, with the Hungarian shawl
bringing out the color in her face, she looked downright
seductive, he thought—but then, he had long
since concluded she was a beautiful woman. Tonight
other men were clearly thinking the same thing.
The young sheriff, known to be a ladies’ man, was
probably just having a good time. All the same, Brandon’s
fists were quietly clenching with the urge to
storm the dance floor, punch him in the jaw and reclaim
Harriet for himself.
All evening, from the moment he saw her, Brandon
had ached to have her in his arms. That ache had driven
him to brave the waltz on his still-injured leg. But all
his good intentions had been doomed the instant he
recognized those cursed earrings she was wearing.
He had given the earrings to Ada for their fifth
wedding anniversary, the first year he’d had the money
to buy her something of value. She had worn them to
a dinner party that night, where she’d begun sneaking
liquor behind his back almost as soon as they’d arrived.
By the time he’d gotten her home she’d been
reeling drunk and he had been sick with frustration.
Behind their closed bedroom door, they’d had a
terrible argument. It had followed the same course as
other battles they’d had over the years, but with one
devastating difference. Brandon would spend the rest
of his life trying to blot out the words his wife had
said to him that night.
Now, as Harriet spun around the dance floor in another
man’s arms, the earrings caught the light, flashing
the message of those killing words into his brain.
He struggled to ignore them. After all, what difference
did it make? Ada was dead, and Jenny had gone
her own way. None of it mattered anymore.
But his head had begun to ache and his lungs
cried out for fresh air. The dancers and the music
and the laughter swirled around him, enclosing him
in a fog of light and sound and movement. In recent
years Brandon had almost never suffered from the
blinding headaches that had plagued him during
the years of his marriage, but he felt a humdinger
coming on now. There was no remedy for it, he
knew, except to go home, go to bed and try to sleep
it off.
Gripping his cane, he edged around the hall and
stepped out into the blessed cold stillness of the December
night. Snow crunched under his shoes as he
made his way down the steps. Behind him, the music
blared as Harriet polkaed around the floor in the
young sheriff’s arms. Never mind her, Brandon told
himself. There were other women in the world—
sweet, pliant, predictable women who would not try
his patience and turn him into a raging madman. For
instance…
What was the name of that attractive widow he’d
met in Denver? The one he was going to visit after
his leg healed?
Lord help him, in his present condition, he
couldn’t even recall.
“How many now? Let’s count them together! One,
two, three, four…” Jenny was helping the youngest
children string popcorn kernels for the little Christmas
tree that stood in one corner of the crowded
schoolroom. It had been her own idea to turn the activity
into an arithmetic lesson. Harriet could not
have been more pleased.
“Now let’s add three more. One…two…three!
How many do we have now?”
The children wriggled excitedly and raised their
hands, all of them eager to answer. Smiling, Jenny
called on a shy little boy in patched overalls who seldom
spoke up in class. The girl was a natural teacher,
Harriet thought. What a pity she’d ended her schooling
here in Dutchman’s Creek. But at least, with her gift for
reaching children, Jenny would be a wonderful mother.
Will was a bigger worry, so bright and promising,
and still breaking his back at the feed store. How
would he get the education he needed, with a wife and
baby to support? The money she’d put aside was
enough to pay for school, but not nearly enough for a
growing family to live on while he attended classes.
Would he be doomed to a life of hard labor, spending
the strength of his body while his fine mind lay fallow?
She sighed as she walked quietly between the
rows of desks, where the older students labored over
their American history examinations. Jenny and the
coming baby had blessed her life in surprising ways.
But few blessings tumbled pure and unmixed from
heaven. Everything had its price—and no one could
know what that final price would be.
Outside, a fresh winter storm rattled the windows,
pelting the glass panes with huge, wet flakes of snow.
With only a week remaining until Christmas, the
children were so excited they could barely sit still.
Even the boys and girls from the poorest families
could look forward to a gift—the town council saw
to that with the help of several businessmen including,
she suspected, Brandon. No one could ever say
that the people of Dutchman’s Creek did not take
care of their own.
Harriet herself was looking forward to celebrating
the day with Jenny and Will. There wouldn’t be
much in the way of presents, but they would enjoy a
fine dinner of baked ham and potatoes, with hot rolls
and mince pie for dessert. There would be games and
carols, laughter and warmth and love.
It would be the perfect time for reconciliation between
Jenny and her father.
The idea had come to Harriet weeks ago, and she
had been bolstering her resolve ever since. After
their last encounter, it would take all the courage
she possessed to face Brandon and invite him to
share their humble Christmas, but she would do it
in the true spirit of the season. She would do it for
Jenny, whom she had come to love. After all, Brandon
was family now. And it was senseless, even
tragic, for a father and daughter who cared so
deeply for each other to be kept apart by their own
stubborn pride.
Brandon had slammed the door on the whole idea
when she’d brought it up at the dance. But then,
she’d been wearing his late wife’s earrings at the
time. She might as well have waved a red flag in front
of a bull. No wonder he’d closed his mind and refused
to listen.
She would not make that mistake again, Harriet
promised herself. She would call on him looking as
sedate as a nun. And she would not push him to forgive
his daughter or to welcome Will into his family—
that would be asking too much. She would
simply invite him to Christmas dinner as a neighborly
gesture. If she could persuade him to take that
one small step, love and human nature would surely
accomplish the rest.
But first she would need to get Jenny’s cooperation.
Her chance came after school, as the two of them
walked down the path through the falling snow. The
maple branches were bare above their heads, the
ground slippery beneath their boots. Harriet gripped
Jenny’s arm to steady her on the uneven slope as the
flakes swirled around them, soft and white and cold.
“You’re doing a wonderful job with the little ones,
Jenny,” Harriet said. “Your father would be so proud
of you.”
Jenny’s body stiffened warily. “I love working
with the children. But that has nothing to do with my
father. Why are you bringing him up now, Harriet?”
“I was just thinking about him, alone in that big
house, with Christmas coming. It’s going to be a sad
time for him.”
“It’s his own choice, you know,” Jenny said in a
taut voice. “If Papa doesn’t like being alone at Christmastime,
we both know what he can do about it.”
“I know, but he’s a very proud man.” Harriet’s
arm tightened around her young sister-in-law. She
wished she dared tell Jenny about the things Brandon
had secretly done for her. But the girl’s obstinance
was equal to her father’s. She would most
likely rebel at having to accept his help.
“Sometimes pride needs a nudge in the right direction,
Jenny,” she said. “Inviting your father to
share our Christmas could provide that nudge.”
“It could,” Jenny replied pensively. “Or it could
put everyone on edge and end up in a big, ugly
fight like the ones Papa and Mama used to have. I
don’t want that to happen, Harriet. This will be my
very first Christmas as Will’s wife. I want it to be
peaceful and happy, with no bad memories to spoil
it. So please don’t even think about inviting Papa
to come to our house. I love him, but if he shows
up, I promise you, I’ll get a sick headache and go
to bed.”
Harriet sighed as her hopes crumbled away.
Jenny was right. If Brandon were to come to the
house, his presence would impose a strain on them
all. But there had to be some other way, something
she could do to make this Christmas a time of love
and healing.
“I did make Papa a present,” Jenny said. “Remember
last month, when you taught me to knit and
helped me make that little blanket for the baby?”
“I do remember, and you did a fine job.” Harriet
recalled how Jenny had labored over the soft blue
blanket. The end result had been lopsided because of
her uneven stitches, but it would be warm for the
baby, which was all that really mattered.
“After I finished the blanket, I started working on
a neck scarf for Papa. I knew he wouldn’t want light
blue baby wool, so I unraveled an old gray shawl of
mine to get enough yarn. I’ll have it done by Christmas
day. Maybe—” She hesitated, glancing down at
her bulging waistline. “Maybe you could take it to
his house, Harriet. I don’t think I’m quite up to seeing
him, especially on Christmas day.”
“Of course,” Harriet heard herself saying. “And
if we wait until after dinner, I can wrap up a basket
of food for him. With Helga gone and no one hired
to replace her, he’ll probably appreciate a home-
cooked meal.”
“Thank you.” Jenny squeezed her hand. “Maybe
someday I’ll be ready to face him again. But not yet.
The wounds are still too raw.”
“Those wounds will heal someday,” Harriet said,
“but you have to let them heal, Jenny. You can’t just
leave them to fester.”
“Tell that to Papa,” Jenny said. “He’s the one who
can’t seem to forgive.”
“Forgiveness takes two,” Harriet replied, wishing
she felt as wise as she sounded.
“I’ve made him a gift,” Jenny said quietly. “That
should be enough to let him know the door is open.
But he’s the one who has to walk through it. No one
can force him, not even you.”
“All right, I see your point,” Harriet said contritely.
How naive she’d been to think she could step
in and forcefully close the rift between Brandon and
his daughter. Jenny, in her sweet way, had shown her
the truth. No amount of manipulation could change
two stubborn hearts. Forgiveness could only take
place when both of them were ready.
She would deliver Jenny’s gift to Brandon and
plan to hold her tongue, Harriet resolved. But if the
man provided her with an opening, by heaven, she
would not turn away. She would tell him exactly
what was on her mind. It might not move him a hairbreadth
toward reconciliation, but at least it might
give him something to think about.
After all, what did she have to lose?
* * *
By Christmas day the snow had blanketed the town
in drifts that lay as deep as a horse’s belly. Daily plowing
had kept the main street clear for business, but the
school had closed three days early and the road to Johnson
City was impassable. Dutchman’s Creek was cut
off from the world, like an island in a cold, white sea.
Brandon had planned a trip to Denver for the
week, to visit a few friends and look into renewing
his acquaintance with Helen Woodridge, the widow
whose name he’d finally managed to remember. But
the weather had kept him here, a solitary prisoner in
this big, empty, miserable dungeon of a house.