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
L
ate 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.