"Well, there's no time like the present, and I really should close up the emporium until we can sort out the mess upstairs. Seems like the perfect timing to me."
Twila realized that while he'd been blathering, he'd also succeeded in pressing her down the staircase. Now he was hastily scratching a note on a section of the wrapping paper at the front counter. He tore it off and taped it to the countertop. "Oh, goodness, I never thought! We'll most likely be gone overnight, don't you think? It's a fair ride. Yes, I'll need a bag. I'll meet you at the buggy. Won't be but five minutes."
He abruptly raced back upstairs. Twila stood staring after him in astonishment.
He was up to something, with this sudden desire to leave town. It was completely unlike her cousin to offer her an ounce of help…vendor in Sacramento or not. In fact, she hadn't really believed that. Lucius had looked…frightened, almost.
Which was ridiculous. Yes, Fletcher would be furious when he saw the damage to the kitchen and that she'd ruined his precious cigars. But the key point was she'd done it. Lucius had a flair for blaming Twila for every little mistake. Uncle Fletcher would easily believe that Twila could visit and within thirty minutes set fire to his kitchen and destroy anything in it. So why was Lucius so anxious to avoid his father?
She didn't go out to the buggy. She went only as far as the porch, and didn't even go that far until she'd scanned the note Lucius meant to leave behind.
The situation only grew stranger. He'd scrawled that there had been a fire on the premises and he'd been forced to leave out of safety concerns. When he arrived with a small grippe—brand new, she noted, even though she'd been told they weren't bothering to replace their lost luggage pieces—he had yet another note. This one he tacked up on the outside of the store. Then he shoved his key in the lock and closed the emporium down.
The second note said it would reopen the following morning, with Proprietor Fletcher Bell in attendance.
"Have you been smoking those cigars?" she demanded. "Are there perhaps more than a few missing? Because honestly, Lucius, I can't imagine that you'd go running off like a scared jackrabbit over that little blaze. Uncle Fletcher will—"
"Forget Father," he interrupted, glancing around the street.
"What has come over you? I don't understand why we're suddenly dashing off like a couple of escaped maniacs from a mental asylum. I hadn't even packed myself an overnight bag. I'd only brought this one…"
Twila let her voice trail off as he rushed over to the buggy and threw his bag inside. She'd brought Miss Vogel's satchel, but hadn't had Lucius' foresight, to realize they'd have to remain overnight. She climbed up into the buggy—of course, he didn't offer her his hand—and said, "We'll have to stop by the ranch first, so I can pack some more things."
She had no idea Lucius even knew how to drive, but to her surprise, he turned out to be rather adept at handling the reins. "I convinced Father to buy a horse and wagon. He's using it today, but I usually do the driving," Lucius explained. They rolled through town in a flurry of dust and impatience. He jerked the buggy to a stop next to the ranch house. "Don't dawdle, Twila. We have a long way to go before nightfall. "
She went inside to pack a change of undergarments and get her cloak. Lucius had reminded her that the air was much cooler in the high elevation of the Sierras, which they must cross on their way to Sacramento. She hesitated by the table. Maybe she should also write out a note.
"Twila, come on!" Lucius shouted.
She decided it would be easier to leave word with one of the men. Which proved to be no challenge at all, since when she stepped back out the front door, she found Sandy Thayer holding the horse's bridle. "Your cousin says you have urgent business with him in Sacramento, Mrs. Mitchell."
"Well, we both have—"
"It's all right, Twila," Lucius interceded. "I explained that I've got a vendor there, and the order involves some merchandise of a feminine nature. A new line of women's underthings for the store. I told him you'd promised my father to help me with this buying trip. Perhaps you forgot to mention that before your hasty marriage."
Good God, they were escaped lunatics. Whatever "business" Lucius was about, there was something decidedly shady about it. This wasn't a flight from repercussions for damage to the Bell kitchen. Lucius had some other agenda. She was certain of that. Then again, she wasn't going to enlighten him as to her own motive for going to Sacramento, so perhaps she shouldn't cast any stones.
"I did tell Del that I'd need to go to California. I just wasn't sure when. You might remind him…Is he available?"
Sandy squinted and shook his head. "No, ma'am. He's clear on the far side right now, rounding up some of the last of the stray mares. So you're bound for Sacramento with your cousin here. And you'll be—how many days did you say, Bell?"
"Two," Twila replied.
"Three," Lucius answered at the same time.
Twila flushed and stammered. "Beg pardon. I thought you said 'we' when you must have meant the duration. Yes, three. No longer, surely."
"Uh-huh. Well, you slow down, son. I seen you barreling in here like your wheels was on fire. Need your word you won't drive on the open road like that, or I can't let Mrs. Mitchell go along."
"Oh no," Lucius chuckled. "I was only hurrying because she'd forgotten her things."
"What's that, then?" Sandy pointed to a woman's satchel on the floor.
"Part of my necessaries," Twila lied. "But I needed my cloak, too. Chilly up in the mountains, my cousin advises. We'll be fine, Mr. Thayer. Tell Mr. Mitchell I'll be home as soon as possible. Not to worry. Be sure to get enough rest."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll be sure and tell him."
The foreman tipped his hat and they were off.
Twila glanced back as they crossed the gentle knoll marking the outskirts of Del's land. Sandy Thayer was on the porch, arms folded across his chest, his expression shadowed by his hat brim and the overhanging roof. He didn't appear particularly different than any other time, but Twila detected something about his stance. Something like suspicion or wariness.
She smiled as the first of her tiny hopes came true. Someone in this town other than Del actually seemed to give a damn what might happen to her. A small victory, but she'd take whatever she could get.
CHAPTER 13
"One more time, from the beginning." Del square his shoulders and set his hands on his hips, watching as Leon saddled Caramel in preparation for Del's ride out.
Sandy heaved a sigh and went back over what little he knew. "She asked to take the buggy into town earlier. Leon and Tommy had shown her how to handle the rig. You know Patches is the easiest nag on the whole spread."
That much was true, Del reflected with a measure of relief. The mare most often used with the buggy was amenable to commands, even from a novice, and smart enough to find her way home without any instruction at all.
"She went into town alone, came back an hour or so later with her cousin. They claimed to have urgent business in Sacramento. Something about women's undergarments and Twila having promised her uncle to go along. She said you knew. That she told you she'd have to go to California, but she hadn't known exactly when."
Del cast his mind back. It was damned hard, with all the turmoil recently. Jordy's death put a pall over everything, still numbing Del's thoughts. Del visited the grave every evening—was secretly glad Jordy was buried on his land so he could—yet somehow still was barely able to force his mind to accept that Zoyer truly lay in it. He kept expecting that cocky grin, some smart-ass remark, or Jordy to pop up out of thin air and boast he'd really pulled a hell of a stunt this time.
And beyond the stunning blow of the sudden death itself, Del had taken powerful comfort in Twila's presence in his life. He mentally kicked himself now, thinking how he'd carped to Jordy and others that she seemed barely cognizant of him before that awful day. Since then, Twila dogged his movements, held his hand or his whole body when he needed warmth and a safe place to reflect and mourn. He let hims
elf weep, fall apart. She never laughed, never made him feel weak for hurting so badly at his loss.
Even their lovemaking seemed different in recent weeks. Slower paced, richer, more tender and satisfying. When he'd believed it was about as good as it could possibly get, it had gotten even better. She'd become more important to him than anything on his spread. So of course it annoyed the crap out of him that she'd taken off on a jaunt without even saying goodbye in person.
Yes, she'd talked about having to go to California…just after they'd taken their vows. Maybe as they'd ridden out here, or back in Reno. He couldn't recall exactly when, but it sounded vaguely familiar. He couldn't recall her precise words, but he was certain they didn't have anything to do with that abomination of a general store. Not the store…
"She said something about folks in California. People her uncle didn't hold with."
"Uh, Boss?"
He pivoted to find Henry Dobbs standing there, throat bobbing nervously, ears red as ripe-for-picking-apples. "What do you know about this, Henry?"
Impossibly, the ears went even redder. "Well, sir, I didn't think you knew about 'em, or I wouldn't speak up, but you seem to have forgotten what Mrs. Mitchell must have told you. About them Vogels and how the Bells hate 'em."
"Vogels?" The name meant nothing to Del. On the other hand, his wrangler's obvious discomfort meant there was more to this than Del knew…and he didn't like feeling left out of whatever had been going on.
"Yep, the folks in Sacramento. She thought they'd settled in San Francisco. When that didn't work, I tried Washington and Oregon…case it weren't even California, at all. But it was, and not San Diego, or Luey Obispo. I must've tried all those places before we found where they'd settled and they wrote her back."
Sandy whistled low and mumbled an excuse about having something needing his attention. Leon scuttled off in search of some horseshit that needed scooping up. Bobby Chang announced his mother was fixing him supper that night over at her Chinese laundry in town.
That left Del and the idiot alone in the barn.
"You're saying Mrs. Mitchell wrote to strangers that you helped hook her up with? In San—excuse me, in Sacramento?"
"Uh, not strangers," Henry stammered. "Her other kin. Grandpappy on her ma's side or something. She told me she didn't like living with the Bells…you know all about that. So I agreed to put a few advertisements in newspapers around the countryside, seeing if she could find her other folk."
"Didn't it ever occur to you to wonder why she was still doing that, when I'm her other folk now?"
Henry scratched at his elbow. "Well, the thing is, we'd stopped placing them ads, but then one day this letter come for her. You remember, couple months back. Before…before we had the problem with that bronc."
"Oh, right…I remember now. Yeah, I recall her sitting by the fireside one night, reading it." That wasn't complete fabrication. Del did indeed recall her sitting in the front room perusing something. He'd been too aggrieved to ask her about it—she'd also been trying to shield him from all the letters and notes of condolences.
Del adjusted his hat brim. "Nice folks. Glad to find out she'd been looking for them."
Henry immediately brightened. "Sure as the day is long! That's right. She wrote back that she was fixing to visit pretty soon. But you know, that was before. I reckon she waited until you were back on your feet—I mean, busy working. And she didn't want to bother you."
Del's eyes smarted. "It's all right, Henry. Fair assessment of things around here. I wasn't exactly running this spread for a couple weeks there. So you figure she didn't tell me she was going this morning, cause she didn't want to give me anything else to worry about. You know, cause another distraction."
"Yessir, that's it exactly. You know your missus clings to you like fleas love a hound. 'Bout busted her spirit to see you so low and hurting We all was, but I know he was your best friend, and I'm sorely grieved by your loss, Mr. Mitchell."
Del grunted and checked his cinch. He straightened and was about to mount up when Henry set a hand on the pommel, blocking Del. "Hey, don't you think you better take your heavy coat? Mrs. Mitchell will tan my hide if I let you go through them mountains without your warm coat. Might want your gloves, too."
Christ. Del had nearly forgotten he'd need warmer duds, being so caught up in his anger. Righteous anger, he told himself. Because no matter the reason for it, he still didn't like this sudden trip or the fact she hadn't discussed it and prepared him. Hadn't kissed him goodbye.
"Yeah, thanks. I'll ride up to the house to get it."
Henry nodded and released the pommel. "And you don't go flaying her cousin, neither. Maybe he does have business in town. Maybe not. Could be he wants to keep an eye out for Twila, against his own pa's stubborn outlook. That Fletcher Bell is about as sour a man as God ever made. Surprised he didn't grow on a lemon bush. I say if the younger Bell's willing to accompany Twila and see them Vogels, it's to his credit. Buryin' the hatchet, and all that."
Del went back to the house and studied the surroundings, looking for any sign, no matter how small, that something wasn't right. Surely if Twila were being coerced into going with Lucius against her will, she would have found some way to leave a clue. But there wasn't one.
The only strange thing he noticed, after scouring the place for half an hour, was the mysterious brown leather bag she was so touchy about was missing.
She'd never let Del so much as lay a finger on it. Kept it clutched to her chest all the while that first ride together, out to Reno. Again all the way riding back here. She'd tucked it away in the back of a bureau drawer Del had emptied for her use, behind a petticoat, where he might not see it.
If he hadn't peeked—well, outright spied—while she'd been asleep one night as his new bride. His bride.
Dammit! The phrase wasn't just some technical description of the place she occupied here on the ranch, a minor legality. She was his woman, his mate, the closest person he had left in the world now that Jordy had gone out of it, and he'd come to care deeply for her.
The insidious voice of doubt whispered that she might be little better than Betty Lee. Only this gal hadn't run off with some fancy man. She couldn't run off to get married. But she'd as much as admitted that she'd tried to run off from Wadsworth before. Maybe this time she'd bade her cousin take her to freedom. To Sacramento…or even further west? To San Francisco, and a steamer?
Christ, she could go anywhere from—but she didn't have any money to speak of. Or did she?
Del jerked on his coat and fairly flew into the saddle, digging in his heels so the big palomino hit the dirt at a full gallop. Del realized he'd never looked inside that precious brown leather satchel. The way she obsessed over it…was just like someone who kept their life savings in the thing. She might have been skimming profits away from her uncle, embezzled from him even before they headed West. She'd made it clear that the entire four years she'd lived with the Bell men had been a miserable hell for her.
She hadn't come out here that pecuculiar afternoon in search of Henry specifically, he saw now. Not Henry himself in a personal way, but because of Henry's connection to the other folks, those Vogels. Whoever the hell they were. Del was positive he'd never heard the name before today.
And now she'd left town with the precious mystery bag, their address, and a couple of hours head start.
Nice try, lady, Del glowered as he hunkered down for the long ride. But you've never seen me truly angry. What I did to your uncle is nothing compared to what I'm going to do to everybody I meet up with in Sacramento, if they figure to help you get away from me. God better help those Vogels!
* * *
"The Lord does indeed work in mysterious ways, my friend," Cookson chortled as they boarded the train for Sacramento.
Just when they'd been wondering how to get the information they needed from their elusive young friend, Lucius Bell, they learned of interesting news hailing from the Mitchell ranch.
Having bec
ome semi-permanent residents of Wadsworth's Hell on Wheels, they'd discovered that the Bell girl had eloped and run off with a local rancher by the name of Mitchell. They'd dug up what they could about him, but that seemed a dead end. No one seemed to offer much explanation for the sudden nuptials, save for the remark they'd heard more than once in town—that the groom had been jilted by his previous intended. Maybe he simply wasn't willing to take chances with another formal "engagement." Perhaps it had been lust at first sight.
"He'd have to be in rather desperate marital straights to go for that gangly young ninny from the train," Marquardt theorized when they'd first learned about it. He'd certainly seen nothing in her to inspire lustful cravings.
But now Cookson wasn't so sure about the Bell family and their odd doings.
They'd operated under the assumption that there was no love lost between the Bell cousins. Yet as soon as they'd left the emporium that afternoon, unable to question Lucius as intended, he'd apparently gone straight out to the Mitchell ranch, and ultimately left town with his young female cousin.
More intriguing was the rumor they'd caught over a game of poker at Jacob's Ladder that same night. A cowboy from the Mitchell ranch said everyone working for Del Mitchell had been startled when he'd suddenly ridden out of town, as well. Except the foreman appeared convinced it was because there was something suspicious about the wife's story concerning supposed pressing business in Sacramento.
"I'm telling you, my nose it itching again," Marquardt confided in a hushed whisper as the train began steaming out of the station. "There's something strange surrounding those Bells. Maybe the whelp stole his father's map, or maybe he invented that tale to hide the true source of their means…but I've caught a whiff, my friend. The Bells have something of rare value clinging to them. Gold, jewels, stocks…treasure of some kind. I can smell it."
Cookson settled against the seat and tugged his hat brim down to cover his eyes. "We shall see. But if your nose is wrong, I'm going to find myself a new partner. Your nose was certain the book with the treasure map was hidden somewhere inside that store, too. Nothing there but a few farthings and a crude assortment of rubbish. Americans," he tsked, "so woefully rustic."
Hell's Belle Page 14
