Hell's Belle

by Shannah Biondine

  Twila looked deep into the blue eyes of her husband. She wasn't clear on anything. She'd never been clear on life in general. The world seemed too much a muddle. Too busy, too wide and complex. But so was this man's heart.

  And he'd set her a place of honor right in the center of it.

  "I love you, Del. So much."

  "Mmm. Better show me. Every night for the rest of your life."

  "Yes, Del."

  "I better get to some serious eradicating myself," he mumbled, molding her breast to his hand as his mouth hovered over the hardening tip. "Think there might be a couple smidgens of doubt that still need to be wiped away here."

  Then he began licking and sucking and loving her, and Twila knew he was wrong.

  Her doubts were gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  Twila glanced back along the roadway. "I don't see anyone coming, Del."

  "He's a big boy, Twila. He can make it back home on his lonesome." Del resisted the impulse to inform her exactly how big a boy her cousin was, frittering away hours and who-knew-how-many dollars in an overpriced bordello.

  "Thanks again, Anderson," Del told the camp boss.

  Twila waved at the men and Del wheeled the buggy around toward home, giving the reins a slap. This was the one flaw in his plan, driving straight eastward into the morning sun. Hell on a man's eyes. But Del wouldn't have traded the previous night alone with Twila for a king's castle and all its gold.

  Lying naked with Twila on a crude cot made a man feel rich as Midas, anyway.

  He patted her hand and turned his attention to the road, quietly mulling over recent developments. Betty Lee's revelation had cut him, of course. Mainly the shock of it. Del had gone out to sit in the dark woods and really examine it from every angle last night before returning to his bed and Twila. He hadn't been all that surprised to discover the sting went only so deep. Mostly wounded his pride.

  There was a cloak of autumn beauty protecting his heart these days, a cloak that murmured of golden sunrises and purple clouds in a darkening sky. Leaves turning. Cool breezes. The first flakes of winter. Things he'd always found comforting in nature were now comforting because he associated them with Twila.

  He'd been far more hurt by her admission she thought he wanted to leave her. That he'd go back to Betty Lee. Didn't Twila know what she meant to him? Obviously not. Not when she could make herself sick worrying over something that would never happen. He'd sooner cut off both his legs. The question was, how could he get her to understand that?

  "How are you both feeling, this fine morning, Mrs. Mitchell?" He glanced pointedly at her belly.

  Twila blushed and looked at the scenery. "Fine, sir."

  Damn but his groin was already full again. Whenever they had a particularly amorous night, Twila would inevitably react the next day with ludicrous formality. As though she could put a limitation on how intimate they'd truly become. As if he didn't know the exact scent and taste of her female musk, the feel of her bare skin. As if she hadn't caressed his most vulnerable places or he hadn't worshipped her body for hours with his hands and mouth.

  Her formal tone of address had the exact opposite effect of what she intended. Del thought about pulling over to the side and having her again, right there in the buggy. "You think we ought to slow down, maybe wait for Lucius to turn up?"

  "I suppose we could, but I thought you were anxious to get back to the ranch and your men."

  "Right." That reminder was a bucket of ice water over his head. He'd already devoted too much time to this wild goose chase in Sacramento.

  Whenever Lucius Bell concluded his "commerce" in Sacramento, he'd have to take the train or catch a stagecoach back to Reno. Maybe he'd find a freight wagon about to make a delivery to Wadsworth. Maybe he'd end up walking about fifty miles. Del didn't care either way. Served the skunk right.

  Lucius' transportation wasn't Del's problem, and it sure as hell shouldn't be Twila's. Lucius and his miserable father had never wasted an ounce of concern over her.

  Del shook himself and clucked to the horse. They were wasting daylight.

  * * *

  "Lord save me," Cookson groaned. He couldn't face his neck cloth. Not with the welts he was sporting around his collar area.

  He noted Marquardt had a distinct limp himself. Good. If it hadn't been for his bedamned "nose" and ridiculous assertions that the Bell family had hidden wealth somewhere, they wouldn't be in this miserable state. "If I ever lay my hands on that young whoreson, I'll throttle him within an inch of his very life."

  "You trying to be amusing?" Cookson snapped. "It's not working. I take very little humor out of a woman trying to suffocate me, by way of erotic adventure. The bloody bitch left marks on my throat that look as though I've just been taken down from the gibbet at Newgate!"

  "At least you can sit," his partner snarled. "I'll be taking tea and eating my meals standing upright for the next week. Can you believe gents actually pay to be mistreated and abused like that? In the name of diabolical fun?"

  Cookson didn't want to admit that at some point the diabolical torture had indeed produced results worthy of some men's dark fantasies. He hadn't liked being choked with a restraint at all, but when that same pressure was applied to other regions—regions considerably further south of his neck—he'd responded admirably. Several times.

  Humiliating, actually. Thank God he'd never be visiting that particular whore or establishment again. "I say we give up this farce. Enough already. We're beaten, Marquess." It was his jesting nickname for Marquardt. A joke about the peerage and Marquardt's grandiose aspirations. "We need to find a nice quiet place to lay low, deal some cards, make some ready operating coin. Then we an decide if it's time to move on and set up a more elaborate plan."

  Marquardt shook his head as they started walking the measurable distance to the train station. "I suppose you're right. No way of knowing where the little bugger's got off to at this point, anyhow. Or the others. That mud lark and her strapping fine husband."

  Cookson frowned at his friends' uneven gait. "Maybe we'd better try to hail a cab. You'll be all day at that rate. If we miss the train, it's another night of hotel. Our coffers are rather thin."

  "Too thin for a cabbie, if we're pressing our backsides to the wall. I can walk. Just barely. Did you like her? Lot of flesh on that one you had."

  "Melissandra was indeed a fleshy sort," was all Cookson offered in reply. No point in pouring salt into Marquardt's wounds. Cookson had seen the woman they locked him in with. He shuddered at the thought. She looked like a depraved raven: darting eyes, gleaming black hair, malevolence with a bright red beak. Even if hers did come by way of lip rouge.

  "Tweak," Marquardt huffed. A few paces later, "Tweak!" Another few yards and it came as a roar. "Tweak! I'll kill that bastard!"

  Cookson soothed with his voice and a calming hand on his partner's stooped shoulder. The old boy truly was in a world of pain. "You'd have to find him first, and we agreed, we're finished searching. Let's make the train depot and sort things out later. You'll feel much better after a hot bath. I'm sure a hotel near the station must have hot baths. Come on. Just a bit further."

  It promised to be a very long three miles or so.

  Cookson weighed their decisions thus far, harking back to that fateful ride on the train when they'd first met the accursed Bells. He should have known better than to listen to Marquardt. Those Bells appeared hopelessly commonplace. Cookson had always made a point to avoid such prey. Ordinary folk gave a man's conscience a bit of a prick. Better to focus on blathering toffs who reeked of wealth and discourtesy. Surly hotheads who boasted too loudly and drank too long.

  If only they'd pursued someone like that to the lengths they'd gone for the Bell family. People who turned out to be far from ordinary, because they brought nothing but ill.

  Cookson mentally snorted in derision. Marquardt didn't want to admit his nose had failed him, but he was past his prime hunting days. No more common folk, Cookson resolved. The
y needed to be shrewd hereafter. The hell with a "nose for prosperity." All Marquardt's nose had gotten them was an evening of painful debasement and empty pockets.

  * * *

  "For heaven's sake! I wonder what's happened?"

  Twila gaped at the front of the Bell & Son Emporium. The front door stood open, and from the maw of the doorway spewed a bizarre assortment of crates and merchandise in a reckless jumble. A careless heap like that was contrary to everything she knew about her uncle. Fletcher Bell was nothing if not orderly and precise. To the point of obsessive.

  How could he allow the storefront to be littered like this?

  Del helped her down from the buggy and they picked their way inside. As she reached the threshold, Twila heard loud cursing in her uncle's voice—another first—and discovered the merchandise scattered about was all damaged. Hard goods lay broken and strewn about. Foodstuff containers were cracked or open, contents leaking onto the floor.

  The store seemed to have suffered some kind of limited tornado. Everything inside it had broken or spilled. Yet the outside looked untouched, as was everything else on the street.

  "Jesus." Del gave a low whistle.

  The shelves and counter, the walls…the whole interior lay in smithereens. The counter paper was unrolled clear across the floor. Stands were toppled, garments lay in heaps. The twine for tying packages had been deliberately dragged and spooled around a support post. Rakes were knocked over. Flour coated the entire puncheon floor, which was dotted in places with gobs of molasses. The licorice jar must have somehow exploded. Black candy whips had flown everywhere. They jutted out from shelves, adorned a woman's bonnet on a hat stand, even sat forlornly amid the destruction on the big display window sill.

  "What do you want? Come to gloat?"

  Twila glanced up at her uncle's snarl. His hair was literally standing on end. His garments were askew and rumpled and he had a clump of something edible that might be cornmeal stuck to one sideburn. She tried very hard not to laugh.

  "We just got back to town," she said meekly.

  His eyes narrowed, telling her he'd detected the slight huff on that last word. She hadn't totally succeeded in stifling her amusement. But really, to see Fletcher Bell in such a state was beyond comical. It was hilarious. She was sure she'd be doubled over in mirth all the way home.

  Del saved her.

  "I understand I owe you for some curtains and minor damage abovestairs." Del let his gaze drift upward, then frowned. "Although if this redecorating extends up there, too, it's going to be hard to say what's fair. You one of those people who believes in a good Spring cleaning and a good Fall demolition?"

  Twila did laugh that time.

  "My imbecile son—who I thought was with you, Twila—left a window open upstairs. A brood of furry creatures decided to venture inside during everyone's absence. I just returned myself to find this…chaos."

  "Lucius is still winding up his business in Sacramento," Del responded. "He knew we started back last night. Slept in a logging camp up on the ridge. Didn't see any rider behind us this morning, but I'm sure he'll be along shortly."

  Fletcher looked even more annoyed. "What business would that be? I leave this store for a few hours—the first time I entrusted him with full responsibility while I was detained on a personal matter—and I come back to find the whole place utterly decimated."

  "Gee, and Twila fifty miles away, too."

  She smothered her giggle at that one.

  "What's that supposed to mean? I never brought her name into things. But, I might point out, she must have some connection to whatever this sudden business is that called my son away. What was in Sacramento that was so urgent, Twila?

  "I needed to return something to the Vogels. You may remember them. Manus Vogel and his very nice granddaughter, Hilde. It turned out our small satchels had been accidentally confused. I discovered I had hers, not mine. Mine was stolen by the robbers who took all the luggage. It took me some time to locate the Vogels, but they live in Sacramento. I went to return Hilde's bag. Lucius offered to take me because he had something to do for you. A vendor for the store, I thought he said."

  "A vendor for the store?" Fletcher spat. He hit a key on the cash register and the till opened. Empty. Not so much as a single coin in the drawer. "Do you know of a raccoon that can open a cash register machine?"

  "Coons?" Del repeated, grinning. "You got a whole family of coons in here? Good God, no wonder the place looks like this! I hope to hell there wasn't any water available anywhere, because—"

  "A basin in my bedchamber. Thank you. I've already discovered their penchant for washing various items. And what their spoor looks and smells like. On my bed."

  Del burst into laughter at that. Twila couldn't see any reason to suppress hers any longer, and joined in.

  Fletcher merely folded his arms and glared at the two of them while they laughed themselves silly. Finally Del sobered, wiping at the corner of one eye. "Sorry, but this is about the most ridiculous thing I've seen—"

  "Since your horse bucked right through the front window?" Fletcher finished, glowering all the worse.

  "I don't think that was anywhere near as bad," Twila observed, surveying the store again. "At least the rest of the walls and counters didn't look—er, everything wasn't sticky then, or coated with flour and cornmeal."

  He clearly was in no mood to see the humor of the situation.

  Del started up the stairs. "Well, we better get to settling our account with you and leave you to finish cleaning up." He chuckled again. "Although you might have to strip the walls and start from the framing out when—"

  He broke off at the sight of the kitchen, which looked much worse than the emporium floor below. Mostly because where there had once been a stove and sideboard below a window, there was now a stove and a gaping hole in the wall big enough to step through.

  Del glanced at Twila. "I thought you said a candle had singed some curtains."

  "That's all it was!" she protested in horror. "Honestly, I don't know what could—"

  "The filthy creatures were still gamboling about!" Fletcher interrupted. "I tried a broom, shooing them every which way. I had no one else here to help me corner the beasts. Finally, in desperation, I ran for a shotgun. I thought to pepper their hides so they'd bolt out the window. It was still wide open."

  "You blew a hole through the wall." Del stared at it in amazement. Then he glanced over at Twila, and she saw mischief dancing in his blue eyes. "Well, hardly seems worth paying for curtains, then. You got to get a carpenter in here, and take care of all that trash downstairs. Lucius will have his work cut out for him, won't he?"

  "That's an understatement," Fletcher seethed. "Lucius will be very fortunate if I let him live long enough to clean up. To think I entrusted him…" He shook his head.

  "Where were you all this time, Uncle?" Twila asked politely. He'd mentioned something personal that had detained him. She couldn't imagine what he'd meant, but she'd realized that confession was completely out of character for Fletcher Bell. Living above his store was nearly a compromise—sometimes Twila felt he'd be happier if he could live right in it. He had no personal life, no life at all beyond running his precious store. And they'd all been away for a matter of days, not hours.

  Where had Uncle Fletcher been while Lucius had helped himself to whatever had been in the till and raccoons ransacked the place?

  "I was seeing…someone."

  Twila frowned and looked at Del. He lifted a shoulder, obviously not knowing what to make of that response, either. The man had turned his back and was making a show of fussing with broken crockery. Twila could swear he'd mumbled too low to be heard on purpose.

  "You did what? I didn't catch that."

  He rose and turned back to her, glowering once more. "I was courting someone, if you must know! Your aunt's been gone several years, in case you'd forgotten. There's no reason I can't pursue a liaison myself, now that you're married off to this brute and Lucius is a m
an fully grown. I'm not yet in my dotage!"

  No, but he might be in the throes of passion, Twila acknowledged, or he never would have left Lucius running the store and disappeared for—she didn't actually know how long he'd been away. "Uncle Fletcher, did you stay with this woman? Overnight?"

  Del howled with glee as Fletcher Bell turned as red as a squashed tomato.

  "I certainly hope you intend to do what's proper," Twila admonished, loving the role reversal. How many times had he lectured her on propriety and decorum? Dozens, maybe a hundred times. And here he was, his business in shambles and his face red with shame, because he hadn't been able to keep his fly buttoned up as tightly as his pride.

  Another secret wish had come true, and she was here to witness it. Uncle Fletcher in the midst of a true comeuppance.

  CHAPTER 19

  Fletcher Bell cleared his throat and tugged at his vest. "I've already proposed and been accepted. In fact, she's due here today with her things. She's going to stay at the hotel until we're officially wed."

  A woman screeched somewhere below them. All three of them hurried down the stairs to reassure the customer that appearances were somewhat deceptive. The store wasn't going to collapse on anyone's head at any second. But when the strange woman gaping in horror pivoted and spotted Fletcher, her whole demeanor changed.

  From horror to fury. "This is the fine store you told me about? This, this…atrocious hovel?"

  "Dionisa, I can explain," Fletcher sputtered. "My son was supposed to be minding the place while I was—"

  "Your son? Is that the same son you described as 'brilliantly shrewd, with an astonishing head for figures'? That son? Or is there perhaps another, with weaker mental capacities?"

  "Excuse me," Twila spoke up and offered her right hand. "I'm Twila Bell Mitchell. Fletcher's niece. And he only has the one son, Lucius."

  "Who is clearly given to fits of rage or maniacal behavior!" She pinned Fletcher with a glare. "You said he'd accept the situation and—"