Author's Muse (Sweet Town Clean Historical Western Romance Book 12)

by Sarah Christian

  Belle felt her cheeks warm up. “I accidentally used habeas corpus instead of corpus delecti when describing a murder without a body. And we went back and forth editing that one for so long, it ended up being the third book published even though it was the second I’d sent you.”

  He gave a grunt in answer, watching his coin as he kept playing with it. “In our letters, Ross said one character inspired him more than any other.”

  “Do you mean someone else’s character or my own?” she asked archly. “Edgar Allan Poe’s Auguste Dupin was the one that drew me to mysteries, but I’ve always been so fond of my own Wyatt Burton.”

  Theo fell silent again. Belle watched, waiting for some sign of what he was thinking, but he gave none. She could imagine where his thoughts might be going, though, from what he’d asked so far. He was focusing on their private correspondence, rather than anything that had made it to publication. It was a clever thing to do and she felt a warm little thrill at that, as she’d always thought Mr. Tulloch quite clever in his letters. Abjectly wrong when it came to matters of linguistic integrity, but clever. If that was what he was doing and he still refused to believe her, then he was most likely rationalizing away her answers with the excuse that she had seen Jamison’s letters at some point. If that were the case, then he’d have to dismiss any further questions based on that, but what would be left? He’d have to focus instead on the finer details of a person’s mind. Though they’d never met in person before, he likely fancied himself fairly well acquainted with Jamison and how the writer thought. Theo would try to grasp onto that, perhaps something that had been inferred or would make sense to him based on what they’d said to one another, yet not anything Jamison had ever written explicitly.

  “My favorite aspect of the character Dupin,” she said, “was how he appeared to read the mind of his companion by logically following his train of thought.”

  The coin pinged off the floor of the cell when Theo dropped it, his hand jerking back as though he’d been burned. He stared over at her a moment, pupils wide in his hazel eyes, making the iris look almost like granite in the dim light. “Well, I’ll be,” he murmured. “Jamison Ross.”

  She rose from her cot to cross the tiny cell, so she could thrust a hand through the bars to shake. “Mr. Theodore Tulloch. A pleasure to meet you. Did you start reading the Dupin stories before or after I told you how influential they were?”

  “Oh, years before. And I always pictured Ross a bit like Poe. Sensitive and perhaps a little melancholy.” He released her hand and looked her up and down. “I failed to imagine the corset and petticoats.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  After they shook hands, Belle returned to her seat on the cot, smoothing her skirt out. Despite her surroundings, she took complete care in sitting properly and Theo had to admire that. For himself, it seemed wasted effort, which was why he’d chosen the floor. It better matched his mood.

  “Was Mr. Poe the one to draw you towards editing stories of crime and detection?” Belle asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I already had the interest before I read anything by the man. When I was a little boy, my family lived in Baltimore. It was before the inauguration but after Lincoln was elected. He had to travel through the area and there was a whole lot of tension. Maryland was a slave state at the time, you understand.” He leaned over to pluck up his coin from where it had rolled across the floor, then flipped it once in the air. “My father’s barber had been talking about this plan of filling a crowd of people on the train platform with a bunch of conspirators with knives. When Mr. Lincoln came off the train, they’d stab him as he went through the crowd, just like the Roman senate did to Julius Caesar.”

  “You heard them talking about this?”

  “Yes. I was bored waiting for my pa and went wandering around the shop, until I heard voices in an office. I stood outside listening, shaking like a leaf, sure I had to be hearing wrong, but every new word just confirmed the last. I tried talking to my parents about it and they dismissed it as wild stories.”

  She leaned forward, perched on the edge of the cot now. “What happened?”

  He smiled ruefully at the memory. “There was a woman. She was new in town and had a lot of questions. Kept asking about what people thought about the president-elect. Obviously, there were a lot of people who didn’t think too kindly on him, but why did she care? I sought her out to tell her about the barber and the plan I’d overheard.” He gave the coin another toss and closed his eyes for a moment, reliving those days and the pride he’d felt. “She tipped me for my help with a silver half-dollar. I never saw her again, but later people said she was a Pinkerton agent. Lincoln never stepped off that platform. His train went through secretly in the night instead.”

  “The Baltimore Plot,” Belle murmured.

  He gave a short nod. “I don’t know if I really told her anything she didn’t already know, but it sure left me with a thirst for unraveling mysteries and conspiracies. I always wanted to write a novel of my own of the type, but it’s never seemed to work out. Since my wife died, I really haven’t been able to write at all.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Other than your woefully casual way of speaking and writing, I always thought you were a wonderful writer in your letters.”

  The backhanded compliment made him laugh, slapping his hand down on his knee. “Thank you. If you could put that in writing, I’ll frame it over my desk.”

  She narrowed her eyes slightly at him, a hint of a smile teasing about her lips, then looked away. “Now that you know who I am, I hope you’ll listen when I say I had nothing to do with my husband’s death. I abhor violence. It’s one of the reasons why I write about terrible people getting their comeuppance. It’s justice that I love, not the crimes that precede it.”

  Did he believe her now? The woman certainly didn’t look or act like a killer and he felt fairly confident in that, had since he’d seen the tears in her eyes at being separated from her boy, but he hardly knew her. Now Jamison Ross, he knew. They’d corresponded for long enough that he could often guess how the author would respond to one of his editing notes before the response arrived. Ross was a gentle person, with a soft heart. Looking at Belle now, he had to admit that everything he’d ever thought about Ross was most likely true except for the matter of the author’s gender.

  “What drove you to the Dakota Territory, Mrs. Lindholm? I know you’re not wealthy from your writing, but it’s enough you could choose to live all sorts of places and you never struck me as the pioneer type.”

  “It’s far away,” she whispered. “I tried living in Chicago for a while, but we were found. Foolish of me, living there under my own name. So I came farther west and Erik and I used new names.”

  That sounded awfully like a criminal on the run. He remembered when Ross had been using an address in Chicago and when it had abruptly changed to Sweet Town. It had struck him as odd, but he’d brushed it off as the eccentricities of writers at the time. Theo rose to his feet again and took hold of the bars between their cells, leaning against them. “Who found you, Belle?” he murmured and, he had to admit, her name felt good in his mouth. Far better than the married name she’d apparently run from.

  “Business associates of my husbands. He ran a brewery in Chicago, you see, and had contacts all over. I really should have seen it coming.”

  “And you had to run from them?”

  Lips pressed together tightly, she nodded. “Paul would rather see us dead than not under his control. It was the only way to keep us safe.”

  It could have been hyperbole, as he’d so often assumed it was when he heard women refer to their husbands that way, but it had the ring of truth to it. Just because his father had been a good man and kind to his mother, just because he’d doted on his dearly departed bride Violet didn’t mean all men were the same. Hadn’t some men been happy to plot to kill their president in order to protect their right to keep other people as slaves? Perhaps some men truly were monsters and he’d s
imply, naively, hoped they all were as good to their women as he had been to his.

  “Belle.” Reaching through the bars, he gestured to her. Gratifyingly, she came closer and he wrapped her up in his arms to hold her, each locked in their own separate cell and yet bound together in that moment.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Mommy? Did you sleep in your clothes?”

  Since the day he’d been born, Erik’s sweet little voice had often been the first thing she heard in the morning. In the earliest days, all he’d been able to muster was a weak whimper, more like a kitten’s cry than the lusty wail of a fat newborn. For the first few months of his life, she’d kept him in bed with her all through the night, always against her chest. At the slightest hint of hunger, she’d nurse him, so he couldn’t grow weaker from hunger or his tiny body grow cold, unable to maintain his own warmth like larger infants. Born over a month early, she had done her best to treat him as though he were still in the womb until he grew strong. Paul had complained at length about this, telling her she acted like some beggar woman instead of a woman of means, who could certainly afford to leave her baby in a bassinet under the watchful eye of a hired nurse. Yet even once he no longer needed such careful watching, she’d already trained herself to listen for him, always ready should something be wrong.

  Belle sat up with a snort, then clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified. Kit Price was standing in front of the cell with the keys, Erik beneath him pressing his face against the bars. She looked over to the other cell where Theo slept on his back, fingers intertwined, hands resting on his chest. He looked like he were taking a leisurely nap in the back of a coach. How did the man manage to be so infuriatingly relaxed about everything?

  “Darling, don’t put your head against the bars. You might get stuck.” She rose to her feet and crossed the cell to put her hand on her son’s forehead, gently nudging him back. Her eyes met with Kit’s. “Does this mean I can go?”

  The sheriff unlocked the cell and started to pull it open, then stopped. “I assume you’re not going to have any more screaming confrontations with Mr. Tulloch in the night?”

  She sighed. “We appear to have come to an agreement.”

  That satisfied Kit enough for the time being, though she suspected there would be further questions from him eventually. She led Erik to the back of the mercantile and picked up the bags she’d hidden there as discreetly as she could before slipping inside. Running was still at the forefront of her mind, but after a night in a jail cell she found herself oddly hopeful. Likely it was from the talk with Theo. Other than her parents, he was the only person to know about her writing persona and if she closed her eyes she could still feel his warm, strong arms around her, as though they might protect her from anything.

  Of course she knew better than to trust in that, she mentally scolded herself. They had grown to be good friends through their letters, but that had been when he believed her to be a man. And just as Paul had been so charming before they were married, men could all too often change for the worse just when a woman put her faith in them.

  In the apartment, she pulled a few things from the bags that would make it easier to keep up an everyday routine, but didn’t unpack all of it, just in case. The two well-stuffed carpet bags were shoved beneath her bed where she could get them on short notice if necessary. Aside from enough clothes for a few days, she took out her current manuscript she’d been working on, an as yet untitled work about her favorite character Wyatt Burton, a gentleman who solved crimes as a sort of strange hobby. She set it on the table, then went into the apartment’s small kitchen to bustle about.

  “Did the Prices feed you breakfast, Erik?”

  “Yes, Mommy. I got hot cakes and an egg.”

  “Had,” she prompted gently. “You had hot cakes.”

  That actually sounded rather good. She went to the stove to get the fire going so she could make a few cakes for herself and perhaps a cup of tea. Just as she was mixing up her batter there was a knock at the door. Her mind went through a dozen possibilities on her way to answer it. Lucy might have decided she was too much trouble after last night and was throwing her out. Kit had finally decided to grill her with questions. Theo had awoken and had come to speak with her again. But when she opened the door, it was none of them.

  She considered the unpleasant woman with her severe bun and the sweet faced child by her side. From Theo’s letters, she knew he was widowed and hadn’t remarried. The little girl had to be his daughter, but who was the woman? With everything else that had happened, she’d never been introduced to her.

  “May I help you?”

  “Mrs. Lindholm, my name is Clara Bader,” she began, her voice having an uncomfortable edge to it despite her smile. With the expression not quite meeting her eyes, it looked closer to a sneer or a grimace. “My father is your publisher.”

  “Oh, I see. I’d wondered. Please, come in.” She gestured Clara through the door, then offered a warm look to the little girl. “And you must be Maeve Tulloch. My son Erik doesn’t have many toys here, but I bet you and he can find something to do.”

  “Thank you.” Maeve looked up through her lashes, shy where Erik would be bold but just as endearing.

  Belle returned to mixing her batter, then put a dollop of lard into the pan to grease it. Part of her felt wrong continuing about her business when company was over, but it would be a terrible waste of the batter and fuel to not cook promptly. “Would you care for some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I had breakfast at the hotel.” Clara walked around the small apartment while she cooked, which Belle found she didn’t much like at all. She kept looking away from the pan to check on where Clare was and what she was doing. There was something invasive in the way the woman looked at things, even something as simple as the books on the shelf. “Oh, are you writing a new Wyatt Burton novel? I’ve been waiting for the next one.”

  Belle turned her head sharply from the stove to stare at Clara’s back. She’d made her way over to the table and was leafing through the manuscript there, making Belle bristle protectively. Not even her editor got to see a first draft in progress.

  “I don’t think you should touch that.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Standing in the open doorway, Theo could see Clara holding Belle’s manuscript, a sheath of papers covered with her careful, fine handwriting. Dime novels were ordinarily shorter books, meant to be read for entertainment, but even so there were a lot of pages held in the unpleasant woman’s hands. “I don’t think you should be touching that,” he repeated, and Clara looked up, surprise evident on her face, her mouth opened in a small circle, lines radiating out from her lips.

  “Theo, I’m glad you’re a free man once again,” Belle said with a smile from where she stood across the room near a small cookstove. She was putting flap jacks onto a plate and held it aloft. “Would you like to join me in breakfast?”

  “I’d love to. I’m as hungry as a bear.” He stepped further into the room and saw Maeve in the corner with Erik. They were stacking blocks, making a tower of the colorful wooden cubes. “Clara, are you and my daughter eating with us?”

  “No, we had a meal at the hotel.”

  “Then I would appreciate it if you and Maeve would go downstairs for a moment.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, not his lucky one but a shiny nickel, and tossed it to her. She fumbled and it dropped to the floor, rolling under the table. She grimaced. “Sorry about that,” he said and handed her another directly into her hand. “Buy a couple candy sticks for the kids, if you would. I have something to talk with Mrs. Lindholm about privately.”

  Erik had perked up by Theo’s arrival and come closer. “Mommy, can I go with them to the store?’

  “May I,” Belle said automatically placing two plates on the table.

  Hopping up and down he chanted, “May I? May I?”

  She nodded as she returned to the kitchen area and poured two cups of tea.

  Clara put the ma
nuscript back down on the table, with more force than was necessary. “I’ll give you just a few minutes. I’m not a child minder, I’ll have you know.” Her voice was sharp and Theo was surprised.

  Though he had always found her demeanor off putting, the scowls and sly glances, she didn’t ordinarily sound quite so common. Her complaint implied he was taking advantage of her presence, when nothing could be further from the truth. That was the first time he had actually asked her to watch Maeve, though she often did volunteer.

  As soon as the door shut behind them, Theo looked to Belle, who motioned for him to sit and eat. The pancakes were fluffy and steaming, a pat of butter melting across the top and warmed maple syrup in a small pitcher in the center of the table. He pushed the manuscript a little bit further away from his plate, and picked up his fork.

  “I believe she’s in love with you.”

  Theo looked up in surprise from the dripping bite he was preparing to put in his mouth. “Who?”

  “Miss Bader.” Belle cut a small, ladylike piece of hotcake..

  “Clara? I seriously doubt it. She barely tolerates me. In fact, she’s always double checking my editing, and following up on my progress. Quite insulting.” He chewed enthusiastically, and washed it down with a large gulp of tea.

  “What is it you wanted to speak with me about?”

  He held his fork aloft and looked at it for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I thought we might go over your husband’s death in detail. Perhaps together we can see something that the police missed.”

  “All right,” she said, pushing her plate away from her. She rested her elbows on the table and supported her chin on her clasped hands. “Tell me about the murder scene.”

  It was quite one thing for Belle to tell him that her husband was abusive and she was frightened of him, and quite another for her to not have an ounce of sympathy or grief over his death. Theo scratched his chin and took another bite of his food.