Her Dearest Enemy (14 page)

Pulse slamming, Brandon reached into the back
of the desk drawer and seized the loaded Navy Colt
he had always kept there but never used until now.
What he was hearing could only mean one thing.
The bank was being robbed.

Cocking the pistol, he plunged toward the closed
door, then froze. To come barreling into the lobby
with a weapon would likely draw gunfire from the
robbers. Innocent people could be hurt or killed. His
first concern would have to be the safety of the employees
and customers in the bank. Stopping the robbers
and saving the money would be a distant second.

Moving along the wall, he touched a panel that
opened into the small back room that housed the entrance
to the vault. From there, another door opened
into the space behind the counter. That door was
slightly ajar.

Flattening himself alongside the doorframe, Brandon
peered through the narrow crack. The first thing
he saw was his two clerks. Both of them were standing
behind the counter with their hands raised high.
Beyond them, in the outer lobby, he could see the elderly
man who waited tables at the hotel. His face was
deathly white and his hands were in the air. Virginia
Wheaton, the wife of the livery-stable owner, stood
a few feet behind him, protecting her four-year-old
daughter who clung in terror to her mother’s skirts.
Mrs. Sims, the minister’s wife, appeared to have
fainted. She lay sprawled amid the ruins of a potted
asparagus fern, which she’d most likely knocked off
its stand when she fell.

From the narrow angle of his view, Brandon could
not see the robbers. Only when he shifted his position
did he get a clear look at the two men who stood
just inside the front door, one holding an old army
pistol, the other a double-barreled shotgun.

Brandon stifled a groan. Even with their pudgy
faces masked by bandannas, there was no mistaking
the squat, identical figures of Harvey and Marlin
Keetch. The sight of them would have been laughable
except for the deadly weapons in their hands.
Few things could be more dangerous than stupid men
with guns.

“You two boys better get out of here,” Mrs. Wheaton
declared in a quivering voice. “I just saw somebody
run past the window, in the direction of the
sheriff’s office. Sheriff Langtry will be here any second
and you’ll be in serious trouble then.”

The answering nasal guffaw was distinctly Marlin’s.
“In a pig’s eye, he will, lady! Sheriff Langtry
and his deputies is on the way to our ranch right now.
Only they won’t find us there, will they, Harvey?”

“Shut the hell up, Marlin,” Harvey snarled. “There
ain’t nobody comin’ to help you folks, so you might
as well do like we tell you to!” He shifted his gaze
to the two young clerks. “Less’n you two want to see
these good people hurt, you’ll clean out the tills and
put the money in this bag.” He tossed a dirty feed
sack on the counter. “Then we want all the cash
what’s in the vault. Go on, move!”

One clerk picked up the bag and started cleaning
out the cash drawers. The other clerk cleared his
throat and spoke, his voice tight with fear. “Excuse
me, sir, but we can’t open the vault. We don’t have
the combination. Only Mr. Calhoun does.”

“Calhoun?” Harvey’s voice rose to a yowl of hatred.
“That’s the son of a bitch we want! Where is the
bastard?”

Brandon slipped the pistol into his vest and
stepped through the doorway. “Right here, boys,” he
said quietly. “And your quarrel’s with me, not with
these good people. Why don’t you let them walk out
of here? Then we can talk in private, and I’ll give you
anything you want.”

“What we really want is to carve you up like a
stuck pig and listen to you squeal, Banker,” Harvey
jeered.

Brandon felt a bead of sweat ooze down his temple.
“Understood,” he said, “but you’d be crazy to do
that in front of a half-dozen witnesses. Go on, send
them on their way. Then you can deal with me man
to man.”

The two brothers glanced at each other. “Aw, let
’em go, Harv,” Marlin wheezed. “I ain’t got it in me
to hurt women and kids and—”

“Shut up!” Harvey stormed. “Calhoun, you got
about thirty seconds to open that vault and put the
money in that sack afore I shoot one of these folks.
Maybe I’ll start with the kid.” He glanced toward the
little girl, whose mother clutched her even more protectively.
The minister’s wife had come to and was
clambering to her feet. Her face was white with fear.

“All right.” Brandon knew he could take no more
chances. “Which one of you wants to come back to
the vault with me?”

Harvey’s bushy eyebrows knit in a scowl above
the grease-splotched bandana. “You go,” he said to
his brother. “I’ll stay here and make sure nobody
tries no funny stuff.”

Brandon walked back into the small room. Marlin
followed him with the sack, using the muzzle of
the shotgun to nudge him toward the door of the vault.

Brandon knew the combination from memory.
His fingers ached with tension as he worked the dial
on the heavy iron door, thinking of the helpless people
in the lobby and the hair-trigger temper of the
man who held them at gunpoint. If anything went
wrong out there, he would blame himself for the rest
of his life.

“If anybody dies in this robbery, you and your
brother will hang, Marlin,” he said. “You don’t have
to be part of this. You’ve always been the sensible
one. Maybe you can talk some sense into Harvey
now, before anybody gets hurt.”

“Just shut up and open that vault,” Marlin said. “Harvey
and me, we had ourselves a talk. We’s in this together
all the way. Ain’t neither of us backin’ out now.”

The tumblers clicked into place, releasing the lock
on the vault. Brandon turned the heavy handle and
the door swung open, revealing a brick-faced enclosure
lined with narrow shelves, where bags of gold-and-
silver coins and bundles of paper bills were
stored.

Marlin thrust the feed sack into Brandon’s hands.
“We’ll take the gold and silver first. Better’n paper
where we’re goin’, Harvey says.”

“Mexico?” Brandon began dropping bagged coins
into the sack. He could only hope they would be
heavy enough to slow the brothers down on their
long ride south.

“Gonna buy ourselves a fine hacienda. Then we’ll
get us a couple of them purty black-haired
señoritas
and have ourselves a grand time.”

“The only place you’ll be going is to jail,” Brandon
said. “Think about it, Marlin. You’re not a bad
sort, but you’ll pay a high price for letting Harvey get
you into this mess.”

Marlin scratched behind his ear with his free hand.
Before he could speak, however, all hell broke loose
outside in the lobby.

Everything happened in a flash, starting with a terrified
wail from the little girl, followed by Harvey
cursing and shouting at the mother to shut the brat
up before he put a bullet in her. Then there was a
scream, a crash and the sound of scuffling.

Catching Marlin off guard, Brandon grabbed his
arm and, with a desperate jerk, pulled him into the
vault and sent him crashing against the shelves. Before
Marlin could recover, Brandon pushed past him,
hurled himself out of the vault and swung the massive
door shut behind him, locking the man in, shotgun
and all.

Drawing his pistol, Brandon raced back into the
lobby. The two young clerks had jumped Harvey and
were trying to wrestle the old army pistol away from
him, but they were no match for his brute strength
and he still gripped the weapon in his hand. Brandon
knew he had to stop them before the gun went off accidentally,
wounding or killing one of the bystanders,
who cowered against the walls.

“Get out of here!” he shouted at the two women
and the old man. “Get out now!”

The three of them stumbled toward the front door,
Mrs. Wheaton clutching her little girl in her arms. As
soon as they were safely outside, Brandon pointed his
pistol at the ceiling and fired. The sound echoed
around the lobby, startling Harvey and the two clerks,
who released their hold on him and staggered backward
to a safe distance.

Brandon leveled the Navy Colt at Harvey’s chest.
“Drop that gun and put your hands up,” he said. “It’s
all over, Harvey. Your brother’s locked in the vault
and isn’t going anywhere. Give it up now, and the
worst they’ll charge you with is attempted robbery.
I’ll do my best to see that you get a fair trial.”

Harvey Keetch had risen onto one knee. The bandana
had been torn from his face, which was set in a
paroxysm of pure animal hatred.

“Damn you all to hell!” he screamed, and raised
his gun.

That was the last thing Brandon remembered before
the world shattered in a burst of pain and died
into blackness.

B
y the time school was out for the day, the news of
the bank robbery was two hours’ old and had spread
from one end of Dutchman’s Creek to the other. With
each retelling the story had changed slightly, an embellishment
added here, a detail omitted there. But
everyone agreed on the basic facts—the Keetch
brothers had held up the bank, the money was safe,
Marlin Keetch was in jail, Harvey Keetch had escaped
and was still at large, and Brandon Calhoun
had been shot.

Harriet heard the story for the first time from a
mother who’d come to get her two children after
school. She listened with her heart in her throat,
struggling to keep her emotions in check as the
woman stood in the schoolroom doorway, chatting
on and on about what had happened.

“They say that terrible man threatened to shoot
Virginia Wheaton’s little Ellie. That’s why I came to
school today, to walk home with Betsy and Tim.
With a madman like Harvey Keetch on the loose, one
can’t be too careful. Goodness me, what’s this town
coming to? It used to be such a peaceful place!”

“What have you heard about Brandon Calhoun?”
Harriet asked, her nerves silently screaming. “How
badly was he hurt?”

“Nobody seems to know. The doctor came, and
they carried him to the buggy on a stretcher, with his
head wrapped in bandages. Elvira Sims said he was
unconscious. Oh, my, do you think anyone’s told his
daughter? Why, with her in a family way, and her
time so close, there’s no telling what the shock could
do to her!” The woman glanced around for her children,
who were playing in the schoolyard. “Tim!
Betsy! You stay close now, hear? That awful man
could be anywhere!”

“I’ve got to go.” Harriet nudged the visitor off the
stoop and locked the schoolhouse door. Her pulse
was galloping and her skin felt as clammy as cold
dough. She needed to find out what had happened to
Brandon. And then she needed to get to Jenny.

Clutching at her shawl, she raced down the path
to the road. Nightmare images flashed through her
mind—Brandon falling to the polished slate floor as
the bullet penetrated his skull, Brandon lying on the
stretcher, bleeding and unconscious, his eyes closed,
his head swathed in bandages. Sweet, merciful
heaven, he could be dying right now. He could already
be dead.

Where should she go first? To the doctor’s office
on Main Street, she resolved. It was on the way
home, and someone there should have the most recent
news.

Will worked on Main Street, so he would already
know what had happened. By now, he would likely
be with Jenny, giving her the comfort and support she
needed. But there was no way to be certain of that.
On this terrible day, Harriet could only be certain of
one thing—she loved Brandon Calhoun with all her
heart and soul. If he died, a warm and vital part of
her would die with him. She would live on, but as
something less than a whole person, too emotionally
numb to feel the depths of pain or the heights of joy.

Why had the two of them been so foolish, letting
pride lay waste to their time together? Why hadn’t they
realized that it was all the time they might ever have?

If Brandon lived, Harriet vowed, she would throw
away her pride, go to him on her knees and beg him
to forgive her. Then, if fate allowed them the blessing
of starting over, she would thank heaven for each
tick of the clock, each second and minute and hour
of their time together.

A magpie scolded from its perch on a chokecherry
bush. The harsh sound startled her, jerking her back
to the ugly reality of the present. People rarely survived
gunshot wounds to the head—or if they did, the
injury left them so impaired that they needed nursing
care to the end of their days. She needed to prepare
herself for the worst possible news about
Brandon; and no matter how bad it was, she could
not allow herself to fall apart. She would need to be
strong for Jenny’s sake.

But where was her strength now? Her legs quivered
as she stumbled down the path. Her stomach churned
as her body reacted to the gut-wrenching fear. Her lips
moved in silent prayer.
Please
…
please
…

She reached the main road, where the spring mud
was drying into axle-deep ruts. Pausing to catch her
breath, Harriet caught sight of something large and
dark in the distance, moving rapidly toward her. A
cry escaped her throat as she recognized the doctor’s
high-topped buggy.

She plunged down the road, running full tilt, heedless
of her skirts and the treacherous ruts. By the
time she reached the buggy, she was out of breath and
had fallen twice. Her palms were skinned, her clothes
smeared with dirt.

Dr. Tate leaned across the seat and offered a hand
to pull her up beside him. He shook his head as his
bespectacled eyes took in Harriet’s condition. “I was
just coming to find you,” he said. “What the devil’s
the matter?”

“Brandon—I just heard—” She gasped out the
words, gripping his arm with her muddy, bleeding
hand. “Is he—?”

“Brandon’s going to be fine,” the doctor said. “But
he gave us all a good scare. Bullet creased his scalp.
Gave him a nasty gash and knocked him out for a
good twenty minutes, but he’s awake and resting
now. Damned lucky man, I’d say.”

Harriet felt light-headed, as if she were floating
off the seat. She closed her eyes, too overcome to
breathe, let alone talk.

“I wanted to keep him at my place, but he insisted
on being taken home,” the doctor said. “He promised
me he’d go straight to bed. I hope I can trust him to
do just that.”

“Does Jenny know?” Harriet found her voice, but
it sounded far away, as if she were hearing someone
else ask the question.

“I gave her the news myself. Will had come home
to be with her. She took it hard, but she’ll be fine once
the shock wears off.”

“Thank heaven!” She sank back against the seat as
the doctor turned his buggy around. She felt giddy and
exhausted, like a child who’d just spent a long time
spinning in circles. Brandon was all right. Jenny was
all right. Her world had just slipped back into its orbit.

She remembered the surly twins who’d confronted
Brandon at the bank and her own encounter
with them later in the alley. The hatred emanating
from the two of them had made her flesh crawl.
“What about Harvey Keetch?” she asked. “Have they
caught him yet?”

The doctor shook his head. “The sheriff’s still out
with the posse, but if I know Harvey, he’ll take a heap
of finding. His family prospected the back country
west of town for years before they bought their ranch.
He knows every rock and hollow, including the old
mines. My guess is he’ll lie low somewhere till the
heat dies down, then he’ll head for Mexico.”

He clucked to his aging mare, easing the buggy
forward, down the hill. “It’ll be tough on him, alone
out there, without his brother. Twins tend to be close,
and those two have never been apart. Harvey was always
the mean one and the leader. I’ve no doubt the
robbery was his idea and poor Marlin just went along
as usual. But a leader needs a follower. Harvey’s
going to be lost on his own.”

“You think he’ll try to break Marlin out of jail?”

“Maybe, although he’d be taking a big chance.”
The doctor chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I’d wager
that’s what the sheriff’s hoping. Bait the trap and wait.
That’s what I’d do if I were Matt Langtry. It’s easier
to catch a rat in the kitchen than in the woodshed.”

“Of course.” Harriet had only half heard what the
doctor was saying. Her thoughts were flying back to
Brandon and the vow she’d made when she thought
he might be dying. A promise was a promise, she reminded
herself. She had sworn that if he survived,
she would go to him and ask his forgiveness. Now
that she knew his life had been spared, it was her turn
to keep her word.

The buggy had reached the bottom of the hill and
the doctor was turning the horse left, onto the cemetery
road. Harriet reached out and touched his sleeve.
“Could you just let me off here?” she asked. “I…have
some thinking to do. It might help me to walk awhile.”

He shot her a puzzled glance, but pulled the buggy
to the side of the road, allowing her to climb to the
ground. “You’re sure you’ll be all right? You don’t
seem quite yourself, Harriet.”

“I’m…fine. Never better!” She waved him off
with her thanks, then stood watching as the buggy
swung back toward town and disappeared beyond a
clump of poplars.

Fears and doubts lashed at her as she turned her
steps toward Brandon’s house. What if he refused to
see her, or worse, welcomed her in, only to be icily
polite? What if he tried to humiliate her, as he’d done
before? Or—horrors—what if she were to walk in
and discover that he wasn’t alone?

Her courage almost failed her as she gazed up the
road toward Brandon’s tall, silent house. Her visit
could wait, she told herself. Brandon would be resting,
maybe asleep, and it wouldn’t do to disturb him.
Surely she could invent some pretext to visit him tomorrow,
when he was feeling stronger.

But no, Harriet admonished herself. If she lost
heart now, she would never find the courage to face
him. This was the moment of truth, and it would
never come again.

The lines from Tennyson’s poem, “The Charge of
the Light Brigade,” which she’d had her older students
memorize that year, echoed in her head as she
marched up the front steps.

Holding her breath, she raised the lion’s-head
knocker, rapped it lightly and waited.

No one answered.

Cautiously she tried the latch. The door was unlocked.
It swung quietly open at her touch, into the
deserted entry. Only the sonorous tick of the tall
grandfather clock disturbed the silence in the house.

Once more, Harriet almost turned tail. But she
forced herself to mount the stairs, one step, then another.
By the time she reached the landing at the top,
her pulse was racing. What if Brandon’s injury had
gone deeper than the doctor suspected? What if he’d
suffered a hemorrhage or a stroke and was sprawled
somewhere in the house, unconscious or dead?

The door to his bedroom was slightly ajar. Harriet
tiptoed forward and pushed it open.

Brandon lay in his massive four-poster bed, his
head elevated on two pillows and the coverlet pulled
up to his bare chest. His eyes were closed, his color
natural, his breathing deep and even. The neat, white
bandage wrapped around his head offered the only
evidence of his close brush with death.

Harriet walked softly across the floor and stood
gazing down at him. Her eyes traced the line of the bandage
where it lay against his golden skin. His lashes
were thick and dark, his firm lips relaxed in a little half
smile, as if he were dreaming of something pleasant.

How she loved looking at him! Her gaze caressed
every curl of his silver-kissed hair and traveled adoringly
along every line and crease of his splendid patrician
face. Her eyes measured the broadness of his
smooth-muscled shoulders and traced the line of crisp,
dark hair that tapered down from his chest to disappear
beneath the sheet. His nipples were widely spaced and
exquisitely small, like tiny shells from a secret beach.

He was as beautiful as a sleeping prince, Harriet
thought. She ached to reach out and stroke his hair
with her fingers, or to bend close and brush a kiss
across his quiet lips. But her touch would undoubt
edly rouse him from slumber. And Brandon awake
was a very different creature from Brandon asleep.

A wave of cowardice swept over her and she was
tempted once more to tiptoe out of the room and
leave with her words unspoken and her dignity intact.
But no, she had to do this. She had vowed to say what
was in her heart. However…

Harriet sighed with relief as she realized she had
left a loophole, albeit a silly one. She had committed
herself to speaking to Brandon. But her vow
didn’t require him to be awake at the time.

At least it would be a way to start.

Sinking onto her knees beside the bed, she rested
her head on the quilted coverlet, with her lips a few
inches from his ear. “Brandon?” she whispered.

When he did not stir, she plunged ahead.

“I…don’t quite know where to begin. When I
heard you’d been shot, I was so afraid… Oh, Brandon,
if that awful man had killed you, I don’t know
what I’d have done. I can’t imagine my world without
you.”

Harriet paused for breath. She realized she had already
said too much, but now that the words had broken
loose, they spilled out of her in a torrent.

“That Christmas, the last time we were together,
I wanted you so much. I would have thrown it all
away—my reputation, my self-respect, everything—
just to be loved by you. When you turned me away—
for my own good, I realize now—I was hurt. I was
so hurt that I wanted to hurt you back. I said some
cruel things, half-truths, meant to wound you as
deeply as you’d wounded me. Now I’d give anything
to take them back. I’m sorry, so sorry…”

Harriet’s eyes were welling with tears. She had
said more than enough to fulfill her promise. But
now the words wouldn’t stop pouring out of her.

“I love you, Brandon…I think I started loving you
the day you walked into my classroom and we had
our first big fight. I’ve wanted to tell you how I feel,
but I was always afraid of what you might think, what
you might say.” She inhaled a gulping breath. “It took
this accident to make me realize that I needed to tell
you now, today, before we lost any more time. If you
don’t feel the same, I’ll understand, but if you do…”