Elizabeth Lane - Her Dearest Enemy

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—”