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
