Hell's Belle (30 page)

"Don't be
crazy. I don't see how I could. You fathered the child."

"It's getting
cold over here, Twila. Could we move this along? If you don't start eradicating
pretty soon, I'm afraid I'll get frostbite. I heard of a fellow once who got
frostbitten balls, and they—"

"Shut up,
Del!" Twila flung herself on top of him and kissed him soundly, giggling
when he rolled them over so she was pinned beneath him.

"There you
are, honey. Back where you belong," he announced, smiling at her. Not his
cocky grin. Not that smirk he'd worn when he'd talked about the harlots and
chocolate sauce. A sweet, gentle smile that melted Twila's reserve and would
have made her agree to anything. Follow him anywhere.

"I love you,
Twilagleam," he whispered, tracing the edge of her cheekbone with his
forefinger. "It's got nothing to do with Betty Lee or Jordan, or your
uncle, or your idiot cousin, or anyone else in the whole wide world. I love
you
. Because you're like that twilight gleaming. Elusive but powerful.
There for all to see, but few to genuinely appreciate. And when you give me
this child growing inside your body, I'm only going to love you more for it.
But not
because
of it. We clear on that?"

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.

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.
They 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."