Hell's Belle (4 page)

Cookson poured
another glass of liquor and studied his partner. Marquardt had that look on his
face—the look that warned he was on to some new scheme. "Wait just a
moment…" Cookson frowned. "That young whelp who was at the table?
Don't start ruminating on him. He and his old man couldn't afford themselves
decent pillows. You seen them t'other night, heads on their chests? And that
mouse traveling with them. She weren't no fancy bit of fluff."

"But they're
bound for
Nevada
, Cooky."

Cookson shrugged.
"Me old mum was always going to Kent. Never made it that I know of, but
she was always going."

"Shut up about
her and pay attention. My nose is itching. I'm telling you, there's something.
That young one's had a bit tonight. Can tell he's not used to the demon rum.
Loosened his tongue. I asked him, sort of general like, what's in that book the
elder's always furtively peeking at."

"What
book?"

"Didn't you
notice? He's got this thin bound volume, keeps it inside his coat. The son said
right off it had a map, mentioned how all the territory where they're bound is
rich in minerals. Gold, silver, the like."

Cookson just
snorted.

Marquardt scowled.
"I'm telling you, there's something to it! The boy backtracked right off.
Because I think he knew he wasn't supposed to blurt that out. Was the liquor
talking. Then he tried to brush it off right quick, changed his tune, see?
Though he did allow that his uncle is an explorer of some renown."

"Really?"
Cookson seemed to chew on these new revelations.

"They've got
themselves a map to a vein of gold ore. You hear about fellows working their
claims, dropping dead of lung ailments or such."

"Aye, and you
hear about idjits listening to stories about gold that doesn't exist."

"What doesn't
exist is that mercantile business! That's smoke, Cooky. Why'd they want to go
and open a bleeding emporium now, after the railroad's already up and running?
A thousand other souls already moved to the town. Probably some already opened
shops ahead of them. Think about it. Doesn't make sense. It's a cover for the
real
reason they're going West."

Cookson chewed at a
hangnail, ruminated a bit. "Well…perhaps we should change our own
destination. To this Nevada he spoke of. Won't cost us a farthing to travel a
bit beyond, will it, seeing as how the railroad's being so considerate?"

"Precisely
what I was thinking!" Marquardt drew his brow down in thought, then
brightened as a brilliant notion struck. "But we'll not disembark where
they do. I'll wait until the father advises the conductor exactly where they're
bound. Then we'll get off at another stop, one either side of it. We don't want
them to realize we're on to them. Since the lad tried to cover up his little
blunder, we'll put on as though we never believed a word."

Cookson squinted,
took another puff on his cigar. "Right." He took a sip of the scotch
whiskey the hotel had provided and winced at the taste. "These Americans
don't know what they're about when it comes to spirits. Dreadful stuff. Utter
swill."

"I hear
something else that can be dreadful is working in a mine. Dirty, nasty
business. Quite risky…financially. Also to life and limb, I should
imagine." Marquardt winked and offered a slow smile.

"Might be
weeks or months before any real profits. I say we find a nice alternate
destination for the nonce. A place with busy dice tables. We'll give it a
decent spell, then stop by whichever part of Nevada those Bells are headed for.
And see about that supposed mercantile of theirs."

* * *

Wadsworth, Nevada
Summer, 1870

Despite delays and
the stolen luggage, Fletcher and Lucius Bell were able to arrange for a grand
opening of the new Bell & Son Emporium on the morning of July first. Twila
helped organize the shelves and set up displays. She was particularly proud of
the front window.

Storefront glass
was costly, yet she'd convinced her penny-pinching uncle that in order to draw
attention from the existing dry goods store, he needed an impressive exterior.
And nothing would catch the eye better than a big window display. She also
convinced him that men might outnumber women in the West, but women could make
men part with their wages. So they'd ordered a china tea service. Twila set it
up in the window, alongside a washboard and tin washtub, clothespins,a skillet,
a pair of gingham curtains, and other practical household items.

The emporium
stocked shovels and picks, hammers and nails…all manner of things men sought,
from horse and human liniment oils to tobacco. But it also attempted to appeal
to the local ladies.

She surveyed her
work after repositioning one or two items and paused to rub a handprint off the
glass with her apron. A crinkling sound reminded her there was a note in the
apron's pocket. She'd received a message from her local friend, a cowboy who'd
stopped by to inquire what kind of establishment they were fixing to build when
he saw the stacks of raw lumber. He'd struck up a lengthy conversation with
Twila. Fortunately for her, the Bell men had been too busy directing workmen
and carpenters to notice.

Something about the
young ranch hand's open, friendly manner affected her. She flushed now to think
how she'd drawn him into her web of deceit.

Henry Dobbs was a
polite young man. She often saw him at church. She knew he was honest and
forthright. She'd never understand what had possessed her to tell him such an
outrageous lie…other than daily life with Impossibly-Demanding Fletcher or
Smirking Lucius. Once they'd arrived here in Wadsworth, she'd gone to the
telegraph office and sent a wire to San Francisco, placing advertisements for
Miss Hilde Vogel to contact her via general delivery in Wadsworth.

Weeks had passed
without a response. By late May, Twila grew worried. The necklace could be
worth as much as everything in their store put together. And as much as most of
the townspeople seemed hardworking and reputable, one never knew about migrant
towns like this one. Unsavory types passed through, and the train robbery had
stolen much of Twila's naïve trust along with most of her clothing and
belongings.

She hated being
responsible for that necklace, and still had never told a soul she had it in
her possession.

Her uncle thought
of nothing but the grand opening. Lucius barked orders regarding housekeeping
and the wash. They'd taken temporary rooms the first few weeks, but now lived
in a modest apartment above the store. Twila was busy every day, but thoughts
about the misplaced satchels still nagged at her. She wanted her own things
back, wanted to be rid of the costly jewelry.

Then, while at the
river doing laundry, she overheard other women discussing long-lost kinfolk. An
idea bloomed. And the next time Henry Dobbs stopped by to say howdy, Twila drew
him aside to ask for help. She explained that she couldn't venture out on her
own, but that she'd been separated from her mother's side of the family—the
Vogels—due to an unfortunate, long-standing feud. Her uncle and cousin wouldn't
help her locate her dear grandfather. She really didn't have any affection for
the Bells. But worse, they had none for the Vogels.

And as luck would
have it, at that very moment, Uncle Fletcher had passed by her with a rebuke
about how she'd spilled a bottle of ink and he could still see the stain on the
parlor table. She needed to be working on that stain, not wasting time visiting
with other folks.

Henry frowned and
squared his shoulders. "Ain't right, him treating you like a slave and
keeping you from your own lawful kin. If you want to go live with your
Grandpappy Vogel, they ought to let you, I say."

"Oh, they
wouldn't like it, but I don't know that they'd actually
prevent
me from
going. It's just that I don't know where my grandfather lives exactly. I
thought he'd settled in San Francisco with my cousin Hilde. She's a wonderful
girl. I tried placing a notice in the papers there, asking the Vogels to
contact me. But they didn't answer. I was hoping maybe you could…somehow, find
them for me?"

"Golly, Miss
Bell, I'm no Pinkerton man! I'd have to do some thinking on this." But
then he brightened. "You know what just dawned on me? My boss sends a
couple men delivering stock from time to time. Maybe if he's looking for
volunteers to ride to California, I could go and maybe make some inquiries. You
know, like at the assay or post office."

Twila allowed that
was considerate of him, but it didn't seem to offer much hope for the immediate
future. Could she give him some funds to perhaps hire someone else to look into
the matter, or place announcements in other papers? He thought that seemed
reasonable enough. So Twila had bought herself an investigator.

She ducked around
behind the store and pulled out Henry's note. It was just a quick scribble, but
Twila's heart thumped with renewed hope. He'd placed small advertisements in
papers clear to Oregon and had someone checking for Vogels in San Diego—in case
Twila had her "Sans" mixed up.

He really was the
dearest fellow!

"Twila! What's
keeping you? We have to open our doors in less than ten minutes and you haven't
swept the floor yet."

Twila trudged
forward. "Yes, Uncle, because I swept it late yesterday afternoon."

"I don't care,
young lady. This place must be
immaculate
! Not clean, but so free of
dust and dirt a person could get down and lick the planking. Lucius! That
banner's crooked."

For once, Twila
wasn't the only recipient of Fletcher's bile. She stalked past Lucius, who
wrestled with the oversized banner Fletcher wanted hung across the front porch.
Fletcher had propped the front door open with a cast iron doorstop shaped like
Old Glory, and now was busy in the stockroom. Twila sighed and took up her
broom, attacking the puncheon floors. She'd just chased a tiny dust ball into a
corner when she heard shouting and a commotion outside.

She whirled around
to see Lucius, the ladder, and a bucking horse somehow collide on the porch,
then careen precariously toward the store itself. Twila dropped her broom
handle and dashed forward, already sensing she'd be too late.

Several hundred
pounds of frenetic horseflesh crashed through the sparkling front window.
Fletcher Bell rushed out of his stockroom to find a snorting animal draped in
gingham checks, standing amid the shattered remains of his storefront glass,
broken teacups, and three dozen clothespins. Not to mention Lucius wearing a
woman's corset on his head.

"What in
Satan's name have you done now, you human hex?" Fletcher demanded, fuming
at Twila. "There's a goddamned
horse
in my emporium!"

As if she hadn't
noticed. Particularly since the animal in question now had begun chewing on the
hem of her apron. The corner of the hem she'd used to blot a small drip of
pancake syrup that morning.

Twila couldn't help
herself. She stared at Uncle Fletcher and started to laugh.

A lanky stranger in
dusty dungarees stumbled over the threshold. "Aw, Christ! I'm sorry! He's
always been a little skittish. Think he got spooked when you swung that banner
out from the roof. Thought it was comin' right at him, I guess…" The
flushed cowboy was beet red and stammering. Then he glanced over at Lucius,
who'd somehow managed to further entrap himself in the corset by tangling its
garters with his neck cloth. "Uh, would you like a hand with that?"

"Dammit, that
pony's not ready for sale yet. I told you that yesterday, " a deeper voice
growled.

Twila gaped at the
new visitor. If ever a man could be said to have a mischievous twinkle in his
eyes, it was this fellow. Even though he sounded angry, he didn't look truly
murderous. And the sparkle astonished her all the more for the fact that his
eyes were an otherwise innocent slate blue, like the sky between buttermilk
clouds. Then his gaze raked over Twila as he spotted the horse chewing on her
apron.

"Take that
back, Leon. Appears he's
lady
broke already. How do, ma'am. Apologize
for the disturbance and—"

"For the
disturbance
?"
Fletcher roared. "That idiot there didn't break wind in my store. He broke
the win
dow
! A brand new display window I had to special order, not to
mention the destruction of valuable merchandise I had for sale. It's my grand
opening, and you've utterly
ruined
it!"

The second cowboy
glanced back toward the street. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe just made it a
little more
open
than you had in mind. But it looks like you got
yourself a couple customers. Come on in, gals. Step lightly over that broken
glass, Betsy honey."

Somehow Twila
sensed that neither Betsy nor her female companion were what people called the
"right sort" of womenfolk. Not that Betsy evinced anything remarkable
in her outward appearance or manner. But Twila couldn't get over the way the
blue-eyed man had spoken to her. The familiar tone, all but caressing Betsy
with his voice and eyes. The way Betsy seemed perfectly comfortable with that
bold caress.