Hell's Belle

by Shannah Biondine

  "But they're bound for Nevada, Cooky."

  Cookson shrugged. "Me old mum was always going to Kent. Never made it that I know of, but she was always going."

  "Shut up about her and pay attention. My nose is itching. I'm telling you, there's something. That young one's had a bit tonight. Can tell he's not used to the demon rum. Loosened his tongue. I asked him, sort of general like, what's in that book the elder's always furtively peeking at."

  "What book?"

  "Didn't you notice? He's got this thin bound volume, keeps it inside his coat. The son said right off it had a map, mentioned how all the territory where they're bound is rich in minerals. Gold, silver, the like."

  Cookson just snorted.

  Marquardt scowled. "I'm telling you, there's something to it! The boy backtracked right off. Because I think he knew he wasn't supposed to blurt that out. Was the liquor talking. Then he tried to brush it off right quick, changed his tune, see? Though he did allow that his uncle is an explorer of some renown."

  "Really?" Cookson seemed to chew on these new revelations.

  "They've got themselves a map to a vein of gold ore. You hear about fellows working their claims, dropping dead of lung ailments or such."

  "Aye, and you hear about idjits listening to stories about gold that doesn't exist."

  "What doesn't exist is that mercantile business! That's smoke, Cooky. Why'd they want to go and open a bleeding emporium now, after the railroad's already up and running? A thousand other souls already moved to the town. Probably some already opened shops ahead of them. Think about it. Doesn't make sense. It's a cover for the real reason they're going West."

  Cookson chewed at a hangnail, ruminated a bit. "Well…perhaps we should change our own destination. To this Nevada he spoke of. Won't cost us a farthing to travel a bit beyond, will it, seeing as how the railroad's being so considerate?"

  "Precisely what I was thinking!" Marquardt drew his brow down in thought, then brightened as a brilliant notion struck. "But we'll not disembark where they do. I'll wait until the father advises the conductor exactly where they're bound. Then we'll get off at another stop, one either side of it. We don't want them to realize we're on to them. Since the lad tried to cover up his little blunder, we'll put on as though we never believed a word."

  Cookson squinted, took another puff on his cigar. "Right." He took a sip of the scotch whiskey the hotel had provided and winced at the taste. "These Americans don't know what they're about when it comes to spirits. Dreadful stuff. Utter swill."

  "I hear something else that can be dreadful is working in a mine. Dirty, nasty business. Quite risky…financially. Also to life and limb, I should imagine." Marquardt winked and offered a slow smile.

  "Might be weeks or months before any real profits. I say we find a nice alternate destination for the nonce. A place with busy dice tables. We'll give it a decent spell, then stop by whichever part of Nevada those Bells are headed for. And see about that supposed mercantile of theirs."

  * * *

  Wadsworth, Nevada

  Summer, 1870

  Despite delays and the stolen luggage, Fletcher and Lucius Bell were able to arrange for a grand opening of the new Bell & Son Emporium on the morning of July first. Twila helped organize the shelves and set up displays. She was particularly proud of the front window.

  Storefront glass was costly, yet she'd convinced her penny-pinching uncle that in order to draw attention from the existing dry goods store, he needed an impressive exterior. And nothing would catch the eye better than a big window display. She also convinced him that men might outnumber women in the West, but women could make men part with their wages. So they'd ordered a china tea service. Twila set it up in the window, alongside a washboard and tin washtub, clothespins,a skillet, a pair of gingham curtains, and other practical household items.

  The emporium stocked shovels and picks, hammers and nails…all manner of things men sought, from horse and human liniment oils to tobacco. But it also attempted to appeal to the local ladies.

  She surveyed her work after repositioning one or two items and paused to rub a handprint off the glass with her apron. A crinkling sound reminded her there was a note in the apron's pocket. She'd received a message from her local friend, a cowboy who'd stopped by to inquire what kind of establishment they were fixing to build when he saw the stacks of raw lumber. He'd struck up a lengthy conversation with Twila. Fortunately for her, the Bell men had been too busy directing workmen and carpenters to notice.

  Something about the young ranch hand's open, friendly manner affected her. She flushed now to think how she'd drawn him into her web of deceit.

  Henry Dobbs was a polite young man. She often saw him at church. She knew he was honest and forthright. She'd never understand what had possessed her to tell him such an outrageous lie…other than daily life with Impossibly-Demanding Fletcher or Smirking Lucius. Once they'd arrived here in Wadsworth, she'd gone to the telegraph office and sent a wire to San Francisco, placing advertisements for Miss Hilde Vogel to contact her via general delivery in Wadsworth.

  Weeks had passed without a response. By late May, Twila grew worried. The necklace could be worth as much as everything in their store put together. And as much as most of the townspeople seemed hardworking and reputable, one never knew about migrant towns like this one. Unsavory types passed through, and the train robbery had stolen much of Twila's naïve trust along with most of her clothing and belongings.

  She hated being responsible for that necklace, and still had never told a soul she had it in her possession.

  Her uncle thought of nothing but the grand opening. Lucius barked orders regarding housekeeping and the wash. They'd taken temporary rooms the first few weeks, but now lived in a modest apartment above the store. Twila was busy every day, but thoughts about the misplaced satchels still nagged at her. She wanted her own things back, wanted to be rid of the costly jewelry.

  Then, while at the river doing laundry, she overheard other women discussing long-lost kinfolk. An idea bloomed. And the next time Henry Dobbs stopped by to say howdy, Twila drew him aside to ask for help. She explained that she couldn't venture out on her own, but that she'd been separated from her mother's side of the family—the Vogels—due to an unfortunate, long-standing feud. Her uncle and cousin wouldn't help her locate her dear grandfather. She really didn't have any affection for the Bells. But worse, they had none for the Vogels.

  And as luck would have it, at that very moment, Uncle Fletcher had passed by her with a rebuke about how she'd spilled a bottle of ink and he could still see the stain on the parlor table. She needed to be working on that stain, not wasting time visiting with other folks.

  Henry frowned and squared his shoulders. "Ain't right, him treating you like a slave and keeping you from your own lawful kin. If you want to go live with your Grandpappy Vogel, they ought to let you, I say."

  "Oh, they wouldn't like it, but I don't know that they'd actually prevent me from going. It's just that I don't know where my grandfather lives exactly. I thought he'd settled in San Francisco with my cousin Hilde. She's a wonderful girl. I tried placing a notice in the papers there, asking the Vogels to contact me. But they didn't answer. I was hoping maybe you could…somehow, find them for me?"

  "Golly, Miss Bell, I'm no Pinkerton man! I'd have to do some thinking on this." But then he brightened. "You know what just dawned on me? My boss sends a couple men delivering stock from time to time. Maybe if he's looking for volunteers to ride to California, I could go and maybe make some inquiries. You know, like at the assay or post office."

  Twila allowed that was considerate of him, but it didn't seem to offer much hope for the immediate future. Could she give him some funds to perhaps hire someone else to look into the matter, or place announcements in other papers? He thought that seemed reasonable enough. So Twila had bought herself an investigator.

  She ducked around behind the store and pulled out Henry's note. It was just a quick scribble, but Twi
la's heart thumped with renewed hope. He'd placed small advertisements in papers clear to Oregon and had someone checking for Vogels in San Diego—in case Twila had her "Sans" mixed up.

  He really was the dearest fellow!

  "Twila! What's keeping you? We have to open our doors in less than ten minutes and you haven't swept the floor yet."

  Twila trudged forward. "Yes, Uncle, because I swept it late yesterday afternoon."

  "I don't care, young lady. This place must be immaculate! Not clean, but so free of dust and dirt a person could get down and lick the planking. Lucius! That banner's crooked."

  For once, Twila wasn't the only recipient of Fletcher's bile. She stalked past Lucius, who wrestled with the oversized banner Fletcher wanted hung across the front porch. Fletcher had propped the front door open with a cast iron doorstop shaped like Old Glory, and now was busy in the stockroom. Twila sighed and took up her broom, attacking the puncheon floors. She'd just chased a tiny dust ball into a corner when she heard shouting and a commotion outside.

  She whirled around to see Lucius, the ladder, and a bucking horse somehow collide on the porch, then careen precariously toward the store itself. Twila dropped her broom handle and dashed forward, already sensing she'd be too late.

  Several hundred pounds of frenetic horseflesh crashed through the sparkling front window. Fletcher Bell rushed out of his stockroom to find a snorting animal draped in gingham checks, standing amid the shattered remains of his storefront glass, broken teacups, and three dozen clothespins. Not to mention Lucius wearing a woman's corset on his head.

  "What in Satan's name have you done now, you human hex?" Fletcher demanded, fuming at Twila. "There's a goddamned horse in my emporium!"

  As if she hadn't noticed. Particularly since the animal in question now had begun chewing on the hem of her apron. The corner of the hem she'd used to blot a small drip of pancake syrup that morning.

  Twila couldn't help herself. She stared at Uncle Fletcher and started to laugh.

  A lanky stranger in dusty dungarees stumbled over the threshold. "Aw, Christ! I'm sorry! He's always been a little skittish. Think he got spooked when you swung that banner out from the roof. Thought it was comin' right at him, I guess…" The flushed cowboy was beet red and stammering. Then he glanced over at Lucius, who'd somehow managed to further entrap himself in the corset by tangling its garters with his neck cloth. "Uh, would you like a hand with that?"

  "Dammit, that pony's not ready for sale yet. I told you that yesterday, " a deeper voice growled.

  Twila gaped at the new visitor. If ever a man could be said to have a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, it was this fellow. Even though he sounded angry, he didn't look truly murderous. And the sparkle astonished her all the more for the fact that his eyes were an otherwise innocent slate blue, like the sky between buttermilk clouds. Then his gaze raked over Twila as he spotted the horse chewing on her apron.

  "Take that back, Leon. Appears he's lady broke already. How do, ma'am. Apologize for the disturbance and—"

  "For the disturbance?" Fletcher roared. "That idiot there didn't break wind in my store. He broke the window! A brand new display window I had to special order, not to mention the destruction of valuable merchandise I had for sale. It's my grand opening, and you've utterly ruined it!"

  The second cowboy glanced back toward the street. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe just made it a little more open than you had in mind. But it looks like you got yourself a couple customers. Come on in, gals. Step lightly over that broken glass, Betsy honey."

  Somehow Twila sensed that neither Betsy nor her female companion were what people called the "right sort" of womenfolk. Not that Betsy evinced anything remarkable in her outward appearance or manner. But Twila couldn't get over the way the blue-eyed man had spoken to her. The familiar tone, all but caressing Betsy with his voice and eyes. The way Betsy seemed perfectly comfortable with that bold caress.

  Goodness, but Twila never would have been, if a man had looked at her that way! Well, maybe some other man, but not this one. If this particular man ever looked at her and talked so friendly like that, Twila would probably sputter like a fool and not remember her own name, or…

  Twila realized she was sputtering like a fool, in her own thoughts. And he wasn't even looking at her.

  In that instant, Twila decided the amazing hallmark of Opening Day for her would always be the moment this stranger appeared inside the store. Not the horse—which was somehow connected to him—but the man himself. A horse could crash through the storefront and destroy the whole front half of the place, but Twila was ruffled by the cowboy who'd come to see about the mess.

  What on earth had come over her?

  She snatched the offending corset away from Lucius, who'd finally risen to his feet. "Are you all right?"

  He winced but straightened. "The horse sort of broke my fall. I mean, he knocked me off the ladder, but then I hit his rump and just kept coming."

  The lanky fellow, Leon, began chuckling. "See, Boss? Now there's the mark of a fine quarter horse! Always under his rider, no matter what the terrain. Gordon will be pleased as punch."

  "The devil with this Gordon, whoever he is!" Fletcher looked about to choke on his own saliva. "I want that animal out of my store immediately, and you hooligans are going to pay for every blessed thing you broke. My son could have been killed!"

  The second man, the handsome, uppity one the other man called "boss," gave Lucius a withering look before quirking an eyebrow at Fletcher. "Killed from falling off an eight-foot ladder? A man would have to be cursed with the worst luck—"

  "Don't talk to me about bad luck! I'm an expert on the subject. If that insufferable female hadn't been here, the whole incident likely wouldn't have happened. I should have known better than to tempt fate by asking you to sweep the floor."

  Twila's cheeks burned and she dropped her eyes. She'd withstood Fletcher's tirades in front of strangers before, but not this stranger. Not in front of him…and those women of questionable virtue. Suddenly Twila just wanted to die, she was so mortified.

  "The simplest act. Just sweep the floor. But if there's a way to decimate everything—"

  "Now hold on there a sec," the stranger interjected. "The gal had nothing to do with it. I wasn't twenty feet away when the horse bucked and keeled up onto your porch. The female didn't come into it until the pony broke through the window and put on that gingham veil. You oughtn't be so hard on your daughter."

  "She's not my daughter," Fletcher snapped. "She's my niece, the family curse! The one and only Hell's Bell." He tapped Twila's upper arm. "Go on upstairs. Your apron's torn and you look like a tornado hit you. You need to look presentable to the customers."

  Twila eased her apron out from between the horse's teeth, yanked the curtain off its head, and glanced back at the stranger. She would never forget the look in his eyes. The merriment was gone. They'd gone a deep slate, a color she could drown in, and spoke to her. Bits and pieces of things she didn't understand. But she flushed, because somewhere in the mix was the ugly assurance that he was embarrassed for her.

  He turned to face her uncle. "Listen, Bell…" Twila realized something else about the stranger then. He'd seen the banner before it crashed down. He'd known her family's name all along. Not because of what Uncle Fletcher just said, which most would have taken to be the word "belle," as in young woman. No, he'd known Bell was their surname, and could have been polite, apologetic, circumspect in addressing her uncle. Considering his horse had done all the damage, he should have been.

  But he treated Fletcher Bell with the same disdain Fletcher showed to others. Twila's estimation of the horseman rose another notch.

  "I got to meet a man and do some serious horse trading. I take full liability for the damage to your place. The window, this china, all of it. Figure up a total and let me know what I owe. I'll be back in a couple days, and settle the tab."

  Fletcher snorted. "How do I know—"

  "Because I said so. N
ame's Del Mitchell. I own a horse ranch just outside of town proper, along the riverbank. Everybody in this town knows who I am, and every man here will tell you I'm as good as my word. Might spit into the wind or climb a pine tree while gargling salt water, but I've never cheated anybody."

  This had the two women giggling and rolling their eyes.

  "Pine tree…? Hey, you can't just leave us in a mess like this!" Fletcher stammered. "At least have your man stay and help us clean up. My son's injured, and I've got customers."

  "Oh, right. Betsy, buy something from Mr. Bell here and put it on my tab over at Minerva's. Sorry, Bell, but your son's going to have to manage. I need my wrangler to help me deliver some horses."

  Then he pivoted, glancing back over at her, and Twila's heart thumped again.

  "Miss Bell," he intoned with that caressing tone of voice again. He touched a finger to his hat brim, and Twila could almost swear she felt the rough tip of that finger. She actually shivered inside from the sensation. "It's been a genuine pleasure."

  Then he walked out.

  The horse meekly followed, reins trailing in its wake.

  Twila knew just how the animal felt. Her feet were glued to the floor and she couldn't seem to form a single word, but without so much as a word, if he'd wanted her to, Twila sensed she would have followed him just as blandly as the horse had done.

  Then Betsy appeared in Twila's line of vision and smiled. A feminine, knowing smile. "Careful, sweetie. Bad enough the horse chewed your apron. You don't want to let Delancy Mitchell do the same to your skirts."

  CHAPTER 4

  "Welcome back, Mitchell. Do any good with the horse sales this time around?"

  Del ignored the question. Postmaster Stanislaus was possibly the worst busybody Del had ever encountered. Everybody held that gossiping was a female's pastime, but anybody in this small town who still believed that obviously never went by the post office. Del didn't offer up any information, just pointedly glanced down at the envelopes in Amos' hand.