by Beverly Long
She considered changing into the rose-colored dress that she’d worn to the dance. After all, if she planned on advertising herself for sale, she needed to have her price tags visible. But since she didn’t necessarily want Toomay thinking he’d stumbled upon a double coupon day, she kept on her brown skirt and tan blouse.
She put the whiskey bottle into the bag. Once she had her cloak on, she picked up the glass. The sleeve was long enough that when she kept her elbow slightly bent, the glass was hidden.
She left the Mercantile by the back door and was halfway across the street when she stopped in her tracks. Less than fifteen feet away from her, lounging against the wood post, talking to Bart Schneider, was her father.
“Daddy,” she whispered.
Fortunately, neither of the men heard her. They continued their conversation.
He was young—much younger than she could ever remember him being. He was dressed in rough-looking brown pants, a big coat, and he had stubble on his chin.
In 2007, he was an attractive man. In 1877, he’d been hot.
It made her already queasy stomach flip around some more just knowing how truly weird it was to have those kind of thoughts about her father.
She stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and lingered.
“I’m looking for Thomas Bean,” her father said. “I’ve got some cattle for him.”
Thomas. Wasn’t that interesting? Everything had been connected. “A couple miles that direction,” Bart said, gesturing toward the east. When he turned, he spied Bella.
“Afternoon, Bella,” he said, tipping his hat. Her father turned, their eyes—so much alike—locked and Bella held her breath. “Ma’am,” he said, tipping his own hat.
“Gentlemen,” she said. She could hear the trembling in her own voice. She felt stiff and awkward holding one arm just so to keep the whiskey glass hidden under her sleeve while she kept the other arm wrapped around her satchel. While she wanted to stand there and examine her father and get a better idea of what he’d been like as a young man, she forced her feet to move. She’d be seeing her father for real in a few hours.
Bella walked into the lobby of the hotel and realized, rather belatedly, that she didn’t have Toomay’s room number. She approached the small man behind the desk. He was reading a book. It was the same guy who’d checked Toomay in, just two days earlier.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.
“I’m looking for Mr. Toomay’s room,” she said.
The desk clerk stared pointedly at Bella’s satchel. “Is Mr. Toomay expecting you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you Freida Stroganhaufer’s niece?”
Bella nodded and forced herself to keep her breathing slow and steady. If she had her magic, this guy would be a seal at Sea World where he could balance balls on his big nose every day.
The man’s bushy eyebrows moved up and down, as if to say he could hardly believe how bold she was. He leaned forward and whispered, “Does Freida know you’re here?”
She didn’t know why he was whispering. There was nobody else around. “Yes,” she lied.
What did one more matter? She’d been lying to everybody since the minute she’d arrived. Someday, when the real Merribelle Wainwright showed up, they’d all know the truth.
Would Jed ever forgive her? Would he think everything had been a lie? She hated that.
“The room number, please,” she said, her voice firm.
He sniffed, as if he didn’t like her bossy tone. “Number Four. Second door on the left.” He turned and picked up his book.
Bella walked up the eight steps to the second floor. The whiskey in the glass she carried sloshed over the side and a stream ran down her thumb, onto the top of her hand. She found the door and knocked. When Toomay opened the door, he didn’t have a shirt or socks on. He wore only black pants, with suspenders hanging loose at the waist.
Oh, shit. “Mr. Toomay,” she said, determined to be in control from the start.
“Mrs. Wainwright,” he said, his voice low, suggestive. “Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”
***
When Jed was a mile outside of Mantosa, he stopped his horse. He was cold, hungry, and the prospect of going home to an empty cabin held no appeal.
He wanted to see Bella.
She’d no doubt closed the Mercantile over an hour earlier. He turned his horse toward Freida’s, feeling happier than he’d felt most of the day.
When he got to the cabin, he knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Freida, it’s Jed,” he said.
“Come in.”
He opened the door and shut it quickly behind him. The wind was picking up again. Freida was sitting at her table. The lantern was turned low. There were no signs that supper had been eaten or that it would be eaten soon.
Something wasn’t right. “Where’s Bella?” he asked.
Freida motioned to a chair. “Maybe you should have a seat, Jedidiah.”
Panic flared in his empty gut. “Has something happened?”
Freida pushed a piece of paper in his direction. Jed could see that it was a telegram. “Wymer brought this to me earlier,” Freida said. “Read it.”
Aunt Freida. Please accept my humblest apology. Mother wishes for me to make a visit but I do not yet feel up to traveling. Perhaps in the spring. With warmest regards. Merribelle Wainwright.
“What the hell is this?” Jed threw the telegram onto the table.
Freida shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been sitting here for the better part of an hour trying to figure it out. I guess I’ve been duped. I don’t know who Bella is but I know she’s not my niece.”
Jed shook his head. “No. Maybe it’s someone playing a trick on you—could be the person who’s been bothering the Mercantile—just another way to cause trouble.” He stopped because he ran out of breath.
Freida gave him a look of pure pity. “Do you really think that, Jedidiah?”
He wanted to think anything but what was staring him in the face. She’d taken him for a fool.
“Where is she?”
“In town, I guess. She was here this afternoon and when she left, that’s where she said she was headed.”
He started for the door.
“Jedidiah,” Freida said.
He turned.
“Whoever she is, I think she’s a good person. I don’t know why she’s lying but I can’t help but think there’s a good reason.”
“I don’t like liars.”
“I know that. But I think she cares for you, Jedidiah. I’m pretty sure she’s not lying about that.”
***
Bella crossed Toomay’s room, set her satchel down on the table and threw her head back. “I do hope you don’t mind that I got a head start,” she said. Then she hiccupped. Just once. She didn’t want to overact the part. This was the most important play she’d ever been in.
She opened her satchel and pulled out the bottle. “I had a drink at the saloon and that tasted so good that I just felt compelled to open this little bottle, too. You’ll join me?” she asked, holding up the bottle with one hand and her glass with the other.
He considered the whiskey and her stomach quivered with nerves. Was it possible to see that she’d added Averil’s pain medication? Would he kill outright or make her suffer first? Her hand shook and she quickly sat both the bottle and the glass down onto the table. She couldn’t let him know that she was nervous. Bad Magic fed off emotions like that. He would take her fear and use it against her.
“Why Mrs. Wainwright, I don’t like to see a woman drink alone,” he said. He walked across the room and picked up an empty glass off the dresser. She got ready to pour. However, instead of walking toward her, he stopped at the bed, sat down, and scooted up until he was leaning back against the headboard. His legs were stretched out. He patted the spot next to him. “Bring that bottle over here and I’ll be happy to join you,” he said.
It was show time a
nd the script wasn’t finished. She didn’t know what her next line was.
She smiled and picked up the bottle of whiskey. “Of course,” she said. She walked over to his side of the bed. She poured the liquid in his glass and she held her breathe when he took the first sip. He let the liquid slide over his tongue and then he swallowed.
When he didn’t cough or spit it out, she felt immensely grateful. That was short lived because he reached up, grabbed her wrist, and said, “You’re overdressed, Mrs. Wainwright.”
She still had her coat on. “I got pretty cold on the walk over here.”
“I’ll warm you up,” he said. He took another sip.
“Of course.” She took a step back and unbuttoned her cloak. He watched her like a hawk and she could barely get her fingers to work. Finally she flipped the heavy material back and let it fall to the floor. She bent to pick it up.
“Leave it,” he ordered. He patted the bed next to him.
“Let me get my glass,” she said. She deliberately tripped on the rug. “Oops,” she said and giggled. She glanced over at Toomay. “I think you need to catch up,” she said.
He took a big drink. “You may be right.” He stared at her. “I changed my mind. Don’t sit down.”
Her heart stopped beating—probably because she’d stopped breathing. “I never took you for a fickle man,” she said.
He stroked his chin. “You’re a beautiful woman. And it’s been a long time since I’ve had a beautiful woman dance for me. Bring me my guitar,” he said, pointing toward the corner of the room. “I will play for you and you will dance for me.”
She turned. Propped up against the chair in the corner was a beautiful guitar. She remembered seeing it in Saul’s store. She picked it up and the shiny wood gleamed in the lamp light. She could do this. She could dance. He would drink. It might work out okay.
She handed him the guitar. He strummed a few notes. “Mrs. Wainwright,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You’re still overdressed. Take off your clothes.”
***
When Jed got back to town, he immediately went to the Mercantile. It made him feel good to pound on the back door. He’d been furious after he’d read the telegram and the cold ride back to town had done nothing to improve his disposition.
“Bella,” he yelled. “Open the damn door.”
The windows were dark but he knew that didn’t necessarily mean the store was empty. He learned that well enough the night before. That sobering thought made his legs feel weak and he stopped kicking. Instead, he reached in his pocket and pulled out the key.
The minute he opened the door, he knew she wasn’t there. The place felt different. Empty. Cold.
He slammed the door and stalked over to the saloon. He pushed his way through the swinging doors and they swung so hard that they practically hit the wall. Every eye in the place was on him.
None of the eyes belonged to Bella.
Damn. He felt like a pot that had a hot fire underneath it. His insides were churning and his head felt like it might blow off any minute.
But it wouldn’t do any good to let everybody know that he’d been played for a fool. He took a deep breath.
“I’m looking for Bella Wainwright,” he said calmly. “Her aunt is inquiring after her.”
Snake shook his head. Several sets of shoulders shrugged. Jed smiled. His face felt so stiff that it might have been carved from stone. “Thank you, anyway. Enjoy your evening.”
He left the saloon and quickly walked down the sidewalk. He was halfway to the sheriff’s office when he heard footsteps running behind him.
“Sheriff.”
He turned. Delilah stood a few yards behind him. She didn’t have a coat on and she was shivering in her thin dress. “Yes,” he said.
“I didn’t want to say anything in the saloon because I respect Freida Stroganhaufer. I don’t think any good can come from people wondering about her but earlier today I did sell Bella some whiskey. She said it was for her aunt and I got the impression that she intended to take it to her right away. Did she not make it there? Is that why Freida is asking about her?”
More lies. “What time was this, Delilah?”
“Several hours ago.”
That had been well before Bella had been to see Freida. If she truly had any intention of giving it to her aunt, she’d had the opportunity. What the hell was she planning on doing with a bottle of whiskey? Was it possible that he’d missed that she had a problem with drink?
He didn’t think so. Bella’s eyes were clear, her breath sweet, her steps sure.
She wasn’t a drunk. She was a liar.
“I appreciate the information. You better get on back to the saloon before you catch a bad chill.”
Delilah started to turn away but then stopped. “I hope Freida is better soon. I could tell that Bella really cares for her.” She proceeded to hurry back toward the saloon.
Wasn’t that interesting? According to Freida, Bella cared for him, too. She’d fooled the whole damn town. It should have made him feel better, that he hadn’t been the only one to succumb to her charms. But it didn’t. He was pretty sure nothing would ever make him feel better again.
When he walked into the sheriff’s office, Bart had pulled his chair and a small table up close to Pete’s cell. Pete had likewise pulled his cot up close to the bars and the two men were playing checkers.
“Howdy, Jedidiah,” Bart said. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Is anything wrong? You look as if you’ve had bad news.”
His world was crumbling. He didn’t have the energy to lie to Bart so he evaded the question entirely. “You haven’t seen Bella by any chance, have you?” Jed asked.
“I saw her earlier. She was—”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Pete screamed. “She’s not like you and me.”
“Shut up, Pete,” Bart said.
“What’s he talking about?” Jed asked.
“Nothing,” Bart said.
“I saw her,” Pete said. “Me and Lenny were sitting behind the General Store and she appeared out of thin air. She didn’t offer a word of explanation. Just walked away and got on the stage like a regular person. But she’s not regular.”
Jed looked at Bart. “How much whiskey has he had to drink?”
“None. He’s been talking about Bella all afternoon, ever since she dropped off some peppermint sticks.”
All afternoon. Jed’s heart felt heavy. “So you haven’t seen her since then?”
“Oh no. I saw her less than a half hour ago. She was headed for the hotel.”
***
Take off your clothes. The words seemed to bounce off the wood floor, hit the beamed ceiling, and then ricochet off the papered walls. Oh, shit. Naked. With Rantaan Toomay.
She’d known from the minute she’d seen him get off the stage, that Toomay could hurt her, badly. And she had wondered how it was possible that she would be able to endure his touch.
He picked at the strings of the guitar. There was no melody, no song. Just one note, a steady drone. The noise clawed at her raw nerves. “Well, Mrs. Wainwright?” he asked.
She’d come so far and so many would suffer if she failed. She sucked in a deep breath and reached for the top button of her blouse. His eyes tracked her, like a hunter watching his prey.
“Dance,” he ordered. He took a sip of whiskey.
Drink, you son-of-a-bitch, drink. She let her hips sway. She felt awkward and stiff but it was evidently good enough. Toomay leaned back against the pillows. The guitar lay across his stomach and he continued to pick at the one string. In his other hand, he held the glass of whiskey.
Another button. Another sip.
The third button. Now her blouse gaped open and he stared at the white camisole that she’d taken from Freida’s store. Sweat broke out on his forehead and more stained his shirt under his arms.
The fourth button. His glass was empty. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another.<
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The fifth and final button. She slowly pulled one arm out, then the other. The material slide to the ground.
The hand that had been strumming the guitar fell to the bed, palm up. The only sound in the room was his harsh breathing, in and out through his open mouth.
She raised her arms above her head, arched her back, and pressed her breasts forward, knowing full well that her nipples were visible through the thin material. He took a big drink of whiskey and she saw him slip his hand under the guitar and into his pants.
He was stroking himself.
She closed her eyes and when she heard the sound of whiskey splashing into a glass, she reached for her skirt button. She emptied her mind, thinking of nothing.
One button. Two buttons. The waistband was loose. Her hips swayed and felt the heavy material slip until it was pooled around her feet. She opened her eyes.
Toomay’s face was red and the veins in his neck were bulging. The guitar had fallen to the side and the buttons of his pants were all undone. He had his hand in his pants and her fingers were wrapped around his penis.
His soft penis.
Her eyes met his. And she knew. Rantaan Toomay was impotent. He didn’t beat women because he wanted to rape them. He beat women because he couldn’t.
I don’t disappoint beautiful women. That’s what he’d said to her in the saloon. But he did. And God help the poor woman when it happened because it had to be her fault.
He had all the power in the world, yet he couldn’t control this. She understood the curse better now. When her father had rescued Delilah, Toomay had assumed that her father had either seen that he was impotent or that Delilah would soon tell the story. So, when he could have summoned all his power to heal himself, he’d instead chosen to use it to curse Good Magic. Dying had been a better alternative than having others know his secret.
He pulled his hand out of his pants and lurched off the bed. “Damn you,” he said. He teetered and grabbed the table for support. The whiskey bottle—the almost empty whiskey bottle, wobbled back and forth until it tumbled over the side. It hit the floor hard and shattered. The remaining whiskey seeped into the rug.
