by Beth Ciotta
“Sure you can, honey. Just think of one of your adventures. Twists and turns. The plot thickens.”
Her thoughts shifted to her own deception. She blushed. “You went thought my chest?”
“I did.”
“Were you shocked?”
“At first, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. Especially your latest version of Constance and Antonio’s adventure.”
Her heart burst with pride, tears stung her eyes. “I was inspired.”
“I’m flattered.”
He smiled, but his eyes shone with concern. He kept skimming his gaze over her injuries. She wondered if he blamed himself.
“I’m also curious as to why someone capable of writing novels like Verne or Dumas, would adopt an alias to write sensationalized short stories?”
She blinked. Had he really just compared her to two of her favorite authors? “I did it for the money,” she blurted. “To finance a grand adventure. For my mother. She was so unhappy and she never really . . . I think she thought of me as more a burden than a blessing.”
He reached over and clasped her hand, stroked his thumb over her knuckles. Quiet support. She was glad for it. It helped her tell all.
“I thought that if we shared a grand adventure, maybe we’d bond. I thought maybe a trip to New York or Paris. But I needed money, lots of money. I saw an advertisement in the paper, a dime novel publisher looking for stories. I devoured a dozen issues, read every story, and thought, I can do this. But I knew Father wouldn’t approve, so I wrote to Mr. Beeslow and asked if he’d act as my liaison. We came up with the name I. M. Wilde. We knew everyone would assume it was a man and we figured that was good considering the writing was pretty . . . frank. I wrote what came naturally, wrote what I knew.”
“The Garrett brothers.”
Her cheeks flamed. “I didn’t mean any harm. I admired them, their work. The publisher loved my stories, kept asking for more. The money poured in and I kept thinking how close I was to making my Grand Design a reality. But then Mother left.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“One morning we woke up and she was gone. She left a note for Father and one for me. She didn’t want to do this anymore, she said. This wasn’t the life of her choosing. She wished us well and asked that we not look for her.”
She burst into tears. “She went on her adventure . . . without me.”
“Ah, honey.” He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her.
“She made it as far as San Francisco.” This town, Emily thought. With all of the excitement it hadn’t occurred to her until now. “She must’ve had her nose in a book or her head in the clouds, because she stepped in front of a cable car. Father blamed her books. He burned her entire collection. I hated him for that. Told him I’d never forgive him. That’s the night he drank himself to death.”
Seth made soothing sounds as he stroked her hair. Seth, not Pinkerton, although he seemed very much the same man. He made her heart flutter.
“You’ve got to let that go, Em. Let them both go.”
She sniffed back tears. “I know.”
He tipped up her face, stroked her hair out of her face and brushed his lips across her bruised cheek. “I hate that bastard hurt you, Em. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”
“I heard a gunshot.”
“Rome.”
“Did he kill the man?”
“Yeah.”
“There was another letter.” She pushed out of his arms, dug in her reticule and passed him the letter with the broken seal. “It got mixed with Sheriff McDonald’s mail. He only saw it today. Look at the date and time of the meeting. I thought Mr. Beeslow was in danger. I had to come.”
“I know, hon.”
“But it wasn’t him. The man Rome shot wasn’t my Savior. It couldn’t be. He didn’t even know who Mr. Beeslow was.”
“The man Rome shot was a hired thug.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Baby, did Mr. Bellamont say where he was staying?”
“No. But he wrote down the name of the hotel.” She passed him that information, too. “He seemed concerned about my wellbeing. He wanted me to know that his proposal of marriage still stood, but that, no matter what, I could rely on him for anything. Money. Protection.” She faltered, her mind grasping the clues that had been there all along. The expression on Seth’s face said he’d already formed the same conclusion. “Oh, my God. Why? Why would he do this to me?”
Seth tucked the address in his jacket pocket. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”
He rose and she snagged his hand. “Wait. I need to ask him myself. To do what I came here to do. I need to confront my Savior.” She needed to wrap up the mess of her old life so she could attack her future with a clear conscience and heart.
His gaze flicked over her injuries, a muscle twitched in his cheek. He was furious with Bellamont, worried for her. He was going to refuse her, lock her in the room. Maybe she could argue a gopher into a tree, but a warrior of God was another matter.
He squeezed her hand, infusing her with strength and hope. “On one condition.”
CHAPTER 27
Emily clenched her fists and breathed deep. I can do this.
Even though he had no hard evidence, Seth had reasoned through the blackmail scheme, convincing her that Bellamont was indeed her Savior. She’d been fascinated by the way he pinpointed clues and presented different scenarios and motives. She went through a like process when she plotted a story.
Only this was real life.
A defining moment for the new Emily McBride.
She straightened her spine and rapped on the ornate door. Room 357 of the Palace Hotel, a seven-story opulent wonder. Her Savior traveled in style.
The door swung open and anger replaced trepidation.
Three o’clock in the morning. The resplendent room was bathed in muted amber light. He was dressed and fully awake. He’d been expecting her. So, why did he look so surprised? “My God, Emily. Your face. Who--?”
“Please don’t insult me by playing dumb, Mr. Bellamont. You know who. The man you set me up to meet.” The words flew out, terse, to the point. She felt no compassion for this man, this fiend who had tried to crush her spirit through manipulation.
His horrified expression cinched his guilt. To his credit and her surprise, he didn’t deny the accusation. “I never meant . . . He wasn’t supposed to hurt you. Please tell me he didn’t--”
“What if he did?” She pushed her way in, careful to leave the door partially open. She itched to slap Claude Bellamont’s face, but she knew the appropriate words could deliver the same sting. “Would you still want me? That was your goal, right? To scare me so badly that I’d seek your protection? So I’d relent and marry you? Lord knows, surviving on my own would be a struggle. You stole my savings. You ensured a bleak future by threatening retribution should I pursue the career that enabled my financial independence. You tricked me into believing I could trust you, rely on you. You condemned my chosen life and appointed yourself my Savior! How could you be so conniving? So cruel?”
He stumbled back and crumpled into a chair, his face the same purplish-red as his favored merlot. “I didn’t mean to take it so far. If only you had agreed to be my wife.”
“So it’s my fault I’m destitute? I deserved to be attacked by a hired thug?” Her blood boiled.
“You deserved a better life, a life that I could give you. A fine home, beautiful gowns. You deserved to be cherished. Your parents never appreciated your unique spirit, but I did. I do.” He licked dry lips, met her gaze. “Do you remember the first night I brought your father home after he’d had too much to drink?”
She nodded, feeling more ill by the moment.
“You asked me to wait in the sitting room while you tucked him into bed. You’d left your journal on your desk.”
“Oh, God.”
“I couldn’t help myself. So many times I’d seen you hunched o
ver, pouring your thoughts onto paper. I remembered well the stories concocted by Emily the child, but what of Emily the woman?” He pressed trembling fingers to his silver temples and massaged. “You can imagine my surprise when I read those erotic passages. Such naughty thoughts for an innocent. I was intrigued, fascinated by your complexity. From that moment on you became an obsession. I wanted that fire in my life, in my bed.”
Revolted, Emily wrapped her arms around her middle, fighting nausea and the urge to escape this man’s company. She hadn’t meant for those passages to be read. He’d been seduced by an emotionally void experiment!
“I thought we’d established a relationship,” he continued. “Working together to keep Walt’s drinking problem a secret. When he died, I did everything in my power to keep that from coming to light. You seemed so grateful and, at the same time, so sad and alone. I waited a respectable amount of time before proposing. I thought you would eagerly accept. You would want for nothing.”
“I would want for love. I don’t love you, Mr. Bellamont, and you don’t love me.”
“You are wrong.” He stood and reached for her. When she recoiled, he clasped his hands together. “I loved you enough to bribe Sheriff McDonald and Doctor Kellogg into keeping quiet about the circumstances behind your father’s death. I loved you enough to save you from future ridicule. How do you think the citizens of Heaven would react if they knew you were in fact the dime novelist who writes those adventure tales? Violence, obscenity, titillation. Really, Emily. And what about the Garrett brothers? Don’t you think they’d feel betrayed?”
She’d soon find out.
Her heart pounded as she pressed onward. She needed to know all, as badly as she needed to tell all. No more lies. No more repressing or hiding or pretending. Seth wasn’t ashamed of her writing, no matter how whimsical or graphic. Why should she censure her true self?
“Who are you to judge me? You invaded my privacy. You stole my manuscript pages which means you stole a package meant for Mr. Beeslow.”
“I made it a point to know your business. I reveled in learning your secret. It made me feel closer to you and provided me with a means to secure our future. I thought you would break after one letter. I thought you’d come to me for help, but you rallied. Cole complicated matters with his proposal of marriage. Hope rekindled when you refused him. But then that deviant, Pinkerton, moved into your home.”
A dark rage bubbled within Emily. “You followed us to Weaver’s Meadow. You shot him!”
“I’d hoped to scare him away. I couldn’t have him tainting you with his abnormal tendencies.”
Red hot fury erupted, compromising rational thought. She bolted forward and shoved Claude Bellamont against the wall. “You could have killed him!”
Stunned, he shook his head. “I’m not a murderer.”
“Maybe not. But you’re an intolerant bully. A manipulator. A man who stoops to criminal tactics to get his way!”
“I did it because I love you.”
“Stop saying that!” She balled her fists, but instead of pummeling him, she backed away. Angry tears blurred her vision. “People don’t terrorize those they love!”
“I know you’re upset,” he said, inching forward, “but we can work this out. Give me a chance to make amends.” His eyes teared, his hands shook. “Please let me hold you. Let me show you.”
“Touch her and you’re a dead man.”
Seth.
He’d been standing outside the door, listening, waiting. His one condition: to be within striking distance when she confronted Bellamont. He agreed to let her try for a full confession, but had promised to intervene should things get too ugly. She was surprised he’d restrained himself this long.
Drained and shaken, Emily turned away from her tormentor and into Seth’s arms.
“You.” Bellamont’s voice cracked. “This is your doing, Pinkerton.”
“Actually, it’s yours. And the name’s Wright. Seth Wright.”
“He’s a lawman, Claude, and you’re screwed.” London stepped in beside them. Emily cringed at his hostile expression, thankful it wasn’t directed at her.
“Seth’s equally proficient with his fists and his Colt. Given his tender feelings toward Emily, I suggest you come peaceably with me.”
The man was flummoxed. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain on the way to the police station.”
“But--”
“Because of you, Rome’s in a jam with the law,” Emily blurted. She turned and faced the winemaker, though she held tight to Seth’s hand. “You need to make things right, Mr. Bellamont.”
He washed his hands over his weary face and aged another ten years before her eyes. “You’re right, Emily. I apologize. I’m . . . It all went so wrong. I only wanted . . . Can you ever forgive me?”
His beseeching gaze tore at her heart. Perhaps he wasn’t a fiend so much as a lonely, misguided soul. He had been a good friend to her father, right to the ugly end. She reminded herself that she had no right to condemn him. Not when she herself had done wrong at the expense of others. This was the moment to choose the landscape of her future and she would not move forth with a black hole in her soul. Her father had preached, “Only you hold the power to let the light into your life.” She was so tired of the dark.
“He, who cannot forgive a trespass of malice to his enemy, has never yet tasted the most sublime enjoyment of love,” she said.
Bellamont eyes lightened. “The Bible?”
“Johann Kaspar Lavater. Pastor and poet.”
London tossed Bellamont his coat and ushered him from her sight. “I’ll meet you back at the Gilded,” he called over his shoulder.
Then there was silence.
The last of the starch in her spine dissolved, and Emily sagged against Seth. “It’s over.”
“Almost.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “Just remember, baby, sticks and stones.”
His words baffled her until she angled away and saw Rome and Boston crowding the doorway. They’d promised to wait in the lobby. Patience had never been one of their better qualities. “How much did you hear?” she asked, a stupid question given their stony expressions.
“Pretty much everything,” Boston said.
Rome worked his jaw. “You think you know a person.”
The shock in his voice proved the last straw. Emily burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I made you feel violated. I’m sorry that I got you suspended.” She gulped down a sob. “I didn’t know Sarah Smith was married. To a politician, no less. I just thought it was . . . brave and romantic . . . the way you saved her and she thanked you and . . . I should have told you I was Wilde the other night. Sooner even. I just . . . I only wrote about you because I admired you. Because I--”
Boston held up a hand. “Emily, stop. Please. It’s late. You’re overwrought and we’re--” “--impressed as hell.”
Emily blinked at Rome, hiccupped over another sob. “What?”
He stabbed his hands through his hair, shook his head in wonder. “After all Bellamont did to you, and you forgave the son of a bitch.”
He moved into the room, glanced at Seth who squeezed her shoulders and then left her standing on her own. Her knees quaked as the object of her childhood infatuation came toe to toe with her. “You think you know someone,” he repeated in a soft voice. “But I never knew how strong you were, how courageous. I never realized the extent of your talent, Emily McBride.”
She sniffed back tears, confused. “But . . . but I’m Wilde. I. M. Wilde. The dime novelist.” His lip twitched. “We got that.”
“You said if you got your hands on me you’d . . .you’d . . .”
He pulled her into his arms, a brotherly hug, a comforting hug. “I’m not going to beat the shit out of you. Chrissakes, what do you take me for? Besides, I’m betting Seth would shoot any man who looked cross-eyed at you.”
“You’re not mad?”
He blew out a breath. “We’r
e not thrilled. You shouldn’t have revealed certain specifics. But I’d be a hypocrite if I said I didn’t enjoy the fame brought on by your stories, Emily. There are . . . benefits to being a pulp hero. As for Sarah, she was my mistake, not yours.”
She shifted her teary gaze. “Boston?”
He offered a forgiving smile. “I’ll get over it.”
Relief whooshed through her body as she blubbered on her best friend’s brother’s shoulder. To think she used to dream about being in his arms; now all she wanted was a lifetime with Seth. “I’m sorry if I was a moony-eyed pain all those years, Rome.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t pay you any mind.”
She eased back, took off her spectacles, and sleeved away her tears. “I just want you to know I don’t love you, not like a woman loves a man.”
“My loss.”
Exhausted and relieved, Emily locked gazes with the warrior poet and spoke her heart. “I’m in love with Seth.”
Boston grunted.
Rome cleared his throat. “We got that.”
By the time they returned to the Gilded Garrett it was a few hours shy of dawn. Wrung out, Emily looked like the walking dead. Ignoring her protests, Seth carried her upstairs and settled her in the guest room. He was almighty tempted to help her undress, but, by God, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his hands to himself. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, lay claim to her heart, body, and soul. She’d scared the hell out of him multiple times today. Her courage would be the death of him.
She’d handled Bellamont with grit and grace.
Rome had been stunned by her compassion. Not Seth. Emily McBride was an extraordinary woman. He knew now, without a doubt, that he could be, and would be, faithful to her until his dying day. He’d been humbled and thrilled when she declared her love in front of the Garretts. He ached to tell her his heart, but wasn’t free to do so until he made things right with Athens. As spent as he was, he needed to handle this now. This was a big city. Surely he could track down a twenty-four hour telegraph operator.
Midway down the hall, he ran into London. The man motioned him into the study, closed the door. Rome and Boston had already retired. London sat behind his massive desk, massaged his temples. “They’re holding Claude for twenty-four hours, but unless Emily presses charges--”
