A Love to Cherish (29 page)

Belle felt Casey’s weight shift as he lifted himself off her. She closed her eyes, adrift in a sensory fog, willing herself not to look as he rose from the bed and went to the wash basin. A few minutes later she heard him approach the bed and she opened her eyes. He was staring down on her, regarding her through hooded lids. She had this strange feeling that he was waiting for her to say something. When she remained mute she felt the tattered edges of his disappointment reach out to her. What did he want her to say? What was he waiting for?

“Don’t ever tell me this marriage is an empty one because I just proved otherwise.”

She felt her cheeks flaming. She said nothing.

His regard was intense, probing. It was also enigmatic. Belle could not decipher his thoughts and wasn’t sure she wanted to. Finally he turned away and began dressing.

“Mark and I are going back to the winery today,” he informed her coolly. “Mark is proving indispensable. His interest in the winery is something I hadn’t expected. Perhaps I’ll make him manager of the operation once he’s learned the ropes. If that’s all right with you.”

“Since I have little knowledge of that kind of operation, I have no objection. I do intend to acquaint myself soon with all the facets of Tommy’s inheritance.”

“Talk to Mr. Engle at the bank, he’s trustee of the estate.”

Belle regarded him curiously. Casey had gone from passionate lover to polite stranger in a matter of minutes.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, Belle?” Casey encouraged. He was fully dressed now and eyeing her dispassionately.

“You’re not angry about Greta, are you?”

Disappointment flickered briefly in Casey’s eyes. “No, but you’re going to have to quit taking in strays.” He turned to leave. “Stay in bed today, Belle. And eat something substantial. After heaving this morning your stomach must be touching your backbone.”

Belle decided to follow Casey’s advice, up to a point. She was feeling fine now and devoured a huge breakfast while a beaming Wan Yo stood over her, nodding his approval.

“Missy eat for two now,” the old man said.

Belle’s fork clattered into her plate. “What! How do you know?”

“Wan Yo not stupid, missy. Baby come. Wan Yo happy for missy and master.”

“You haven’t said anything to Casey, have you?”

Wan Yo gave her a reproving look. “Not my place, missy, but master not stupid, either.”

After bestowing those words of wisdom, Wan Yo left to tend to duty. Greta entered the dining room while Belle was sipping her coffee.

“Tommy is eating in the kitchen with Wan Yo,” Greta said shyly. “I thought this was a good time to discuss my duties.”

“Perhaps you should take it easy for a few days,” Belle suggested kindly. She wondered if Greta had been beaten about her body as well as her face, but didn’t want to ask embarrassing questions.

“I’d prefer to begin my duties immediately,” Greta said. “Tommy is an adorable child. I’m sure we’ll get along famously.”

“Very well. I do have some books for his lessons, but you’re to purchase anything else you need and charge it to my husband. In addition to room and board you’ll receive a salary of one hundred dollars a month.”

“One hundred dollars! That’s far too much,” Greta protested.

“I insist,” Belle said. “You will have weekends free but your weekdays must be devoted to Tommy.”

Tears of gratitude slid down Greta’s cheeks. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Taking care of my son will be thanks enough. How old are you, Greta, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“Twenty-one. Is that a problem? Did you want someone older?”

Belle smiled. “You’ll do just fine. Why don’t you
eat breakfast with Tommy? I have an errand or two to run.”

Belle’s errands consisted of visits to Mr. Engle at the bank and Harry Hopkins at the jailhouse. She was stunned by what she learned from Mr. Engle. Tommy would never want for a thing as long as he lived. His grandfather had left him wealthy beyond belief. She was somewhat surprised at how effortlessly Casey had taken control of Tommy’s vast estate. While grateful for his business acumen, she was nonetheless wary of the amount of authority he wielded, but Engle seemed pleased that Casey had willingly assumed responsibility for Tommy and his empire.

The visit to the jailhouse was enlightening in one respect yet disheartening in another. The sad part was that poor Harry appeared to be wasting away. They conversed for a few minutes, and in the course of the conversation Harry told her the cell next to him was occupied by a man named Hank Jones. Belle remembered Naomi telling her that Hank Jones was the man who had beaten Greta. On the way home Belle recalled something else. Something Casey had mentioned while trying to prove her innocence.

T.J. McAllister’s third partner was a man named Arnold Jones. It could be a coincidence. Jones was a common enough name. But intuition told Belle there was a connection between Hank Jones and Arnold Jones. In that respect the visit to the jailhouse had been enlightening.

A
week later Harry Hopkins was sentenced to die. Confessed killers were shown little mercy. He was to hang in two weeks. A gallows was being constructed on the empty lot across from the jailhouse. Belle visited Hopkins following his sentencing. The old man seemed resigned to his fate. Not so Belle.

“I’m sorry,” Belle lamented. “But I have an idea. Do you recall the man who occupied the cell next to yours? What happened to him?”

“You mean Hank Jones? He was fined ten dollars for beating up one of Naomi’s girls and set free.”

“Wasn’t one of the partners in the gold mine named Jones?”

Hopkins scratched the bald spot on his head and peered at Belle through rheumy eyes. “I reckon he was, but I don’t see the connection. Arnold Jones would be nearly as old as I am had he lived. Jones is a common name.”

“Tell me about Arnold Jones,” Belle urged. “Help me, Harry, I’m trying to save your life.”

Harry gave her a gentle smile. “I appreciate your
concern, Belle, but it’s no use. I confessed, remember? It ain’t gonna be that bad. I’ll probably cheat the hangman and die in this here bunk.”

“Humor me, Harry. Tell me about Arnold Jones. Where did you meet? Was he a friend of T.J. McAllister’s?”

Hopkins stared off into space, thinking back twenty years. “We met in a saloon over a poker game one night. A miner by the name of Rusty Steinbeck needed money. He’d lost heavily at the tables and offered to sell the deed to his mine for cash money. Neither McAllister nor Jones nor myself had enough cash to buy the mine, but by pooling our money we found we could manage it. So we formed a partnership. That’s how it all began.”

“How did Jones die?”

“Cave-in. He was in a new tunnel. Said he smelled gold. A ton of rock fell on him. We never even tried to dig him out. Still there, for all I know.”

“When was that, Harry? Before or after you sold out to my father-in-law?”

Harry’s mind traveled backward in time, trying to pinpoint the exact time of the cave-in that took Jones’s life. “I reckon it happened shortly after the surveyor told us the mine was worthless, and McAllister offered to buy us out. I was more than agreeable but Jones refused. He said the mine held gold and he was going to find it. That cave-in ended all his dreams.”

“What happened to Jones’s share? Was it divided between you and McAllister?”

“Naw. Jones had a family back East. Left a widow and young son. They inherited his share. McAllister
wrote the widow a nice letter, told her the mine was worthless and sent her a draft to cover Jones’s share. She accepted McAllister’s money, though truth to tell the sum was a mere pittance compared to the gold McAllister pulled out of the mine later.”

Belle grew excited.
Jones had a son!
It could mean everything or it could mean nothing. “Did you ever hear from the son or widow?”

“Naw. Like I said before, I didn’t stick around. Didn’t learn McAllister struck gold until months later. I don’t see how all this is gonna make any difference in what happens to me,” Hopkins said. His voice was thready and weak; he was completely tuckered out from talking.

“I don’t know,” Belle said, “but it gives me something to go on. Get some rest, I’ll return soon.”

Belle lingered to talk to the sheriff before leaving the building.

“I don’t know why you’re wasting your time coming here, Mrs. Walker. Haven’t you better things to do?”

“I’m convinced Harry Hopkins is innocent, Sheriff.”

“It’s a mite late for that, ma’am. Why don’t you go on home and see to your family?”

“There is a killer loose in your city, Sheriff,” Belle said with asperity. “Do you remember Hank Jones, the man who beat up one of Naomi’s girls? Find him and you might be surprised at what you learn.”

Sheriff Rogan gave her a look of utter disbelief. “Are you accusing Hank Jones of murder? You don’t even know the man. I think all this has made you a tad loco, Mrs. Walker. I got rounds to make and I know you’ve got things to do.”

He held the door open for her. Belle had no
choice but to leave. It looked like Harry Hopkins was going to die on her account, and it nearly tore her apart.

Casey left his office and walked down the street toward the Lucky Nugget saloon. He needed a drink. He knew Harry Hopkins had been sentenced to hang and worried over Belle’s response to the sentence. She was so convinced the man was innocent it was beginning to rub off on him.

His lips curved upward into a smile, recalling Belle’s chagrin when he’d continued to sleep with her each night. He didn’t make love to her every night, but just holding her in his arms made him happy. When he did make love to her, it didn’t take long for her to warm to his kisses and caresses. In the end her own passion took over and her pleasure was as exuberantly vocal as his.

But no matter how long he waited, how badly he wanted Belle to tell him about their baby, she remained stubbornly mute on the subject. Her stomach was still flat and showed no signs of pregnancy. It was her ultra-sensitive breasts that gave away her condition. Not only were they sensitive to his slightest touch, but they had become fuller, her nipples larger.

Lost in his contemplation of Belle’s ripening body, Casey suddenly realized he had reached the Lucky Nugget. Two things happened at the same time. Sheriff Rogan hailed Casey from across the street, and a man approached the swinging door from the inside, saw the sheriff hurrying in his direction and ducked away from the door. He was a youngish man, no more than thirty-five. His reddish hair and beard were in need of cutting and his
clothing was rumpled and stained. His eyes were downright mean. One knew immediately that crossing this man was dangerous. He hovered just inside the swinging doors, out of sight but close enough to eavesdrop on the sheriff and Casey.

“Sheriff Rogan,” Casey greeted affably, “is there something on your mind?”

“Yeah, Walker, something
is
on my mind. It’s that wife of yours. Can’t you keep her home where she belongs? I’d advise you to keep her barefoot and pregnant so she can’t meddle.”

Casey gave him a wry smile. What in the hell had Belle done now to upset the sheriff? “My wife is free to go where she pleases.”

“Yeah, well it doesn’t please me to have her visiting my jail every day. She’s a damn nuisance, Walker, with her accusations and suppositions. Now she claims a man named Hank Jones killed McAllister. Granted, Jones is an ornery bastard, but she can’t go around accusing people of murder without proof.”

“That’s exactly what you did, Sheriff, when you jailed Belle for McAllister’s murder,” Casey charged.

“That’s different,” Rogan grunted, not quite meeting Casey’s eyes. “Tell your wife to stay away from the jailhouse and to keep her accusations to herself. If Mr. Jones gets wind of them, he might get ugly. I haven’t heard he’s left town so I reckon he’s still around.”

Flattened against the wall inside the saloon, Hank Jones had heard everything. A few months ago he’d learned that old man McAllister had cheated his father out of a fortune, and he’d come to San
Francisco to confront his father’s old partner. McAllister hadn’t been frightened of him and had refused to part with the money that rightfully belonged to his father. Now McAllister was dead and could no longer make him a rich man, but his daughter-in-law and grandson could. Women were weak, they frightened more easily than men. Old McAllister was probably burning in Hell now, sorry he’d not heeded Hank Jones or given in to his demands. Jones was smiling when he headed back to the bar and ordered another drink.

Casey fumed in impotent rage as he watched the sheriff march off down the street. He no longer wanted a drink. He wanted to go home and put an end to Belle’s meddling. Hank Jones was the man who’d beaten Greta and he was taking no chances with his wife’s life. Belle had more to protect now than her own beautiful neck.

Belle had reached home in a despondent mood. There was only one way Harry Hopkins could be saved. Casey was a good detective. She needed to convince him of Harry’s innocence and implore him to investigate Hank Jones. And it had to be done within the space of two weeks.

Casey wasn’t home yet when Belle returned, but Mark was. She found him and Greta seated side by side on the parlor sofa. Their heads were together and they appeared quite taken with one another. They sprang apart guiltily when Belle entered the room and cleared her throat.

“Oh, Belle, we didn’t hear you come in,” Greta said, flushing. “Tommy is in the kitchen with Wan Yo, I haven’t been neglecting him. We just finished our lessons for the day.”

“No need to explain,” Belle said distractedly.

“Problems?” Mark asked. “Can I help?”

“It’s …” She started to tell him, then thought better of it. “Nothing.”

It suddenly occurred to Belle that Greta and Mark had become more than just friends in a very short time. She should have noticed it before now but she’d been too involved with Harry Hopkins. She didn’t begrudge either of them their happiness. Both had suffered reverses in their lives and had earned the right to happiness. She wished she and Casey could find that same kind of happiness.