“But I left Chicago before the book was published, so the police didn’t make the connection until after I was gone.” Belle gestured around the shack. “So what brings us here, Clara?”
“I wanted you to die, but then I realized I could have one last Wyatt Burton book. I had to throw away all the letters Theo sent you after the murder, so you’d have no warning. I couldn’t have you running away and never writing again.” Clara sighed and swanned over to the table, touching the paper stacked there.
Now that her attention had been drawn to it, Belle looked down and realized it was her manuscript. The top page had been replaced, rewritten in another hand, but beneath that it was her own work. She leafed through it to verify it was all there. “I don’t understand. I saw this in Theo’s room.”
“You saw the top page,” Clara countered. “I’d put it on top of blank paper, hoping you’d see it and it would drive the two of you apart. He was always around you constantly, I couldn’t get you alone for an instant.” Clara huffed. “But now, at last, we have our time.”
Belle looked to the gun. “Time to do what?”
“You’re going to finish the book, of course. It won’t take long to finish at this point.”
And then as soon as she was done, Belle expected Clara would put that gun to good use. She picked up a pen to begin, wishing it really were mightier than the sword. In One Thousand and One Nights, Scheherazade had saved her own life and all the lives of the other women the king would have killed, just by drawing her story out as long as possible.
“You know,” Belle began, “I’m really not one of those hacks, just like you said before. I only write dime novels because it was a way to make money quickly. I always felt like Wyatt Burton deserved a longer book.”
Clara narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “How much longer?”
That was unfortunate. She wasn’t as stupid as a fictional villain would be for a convenient plot, but Belle wasn’t ready to give up. “I’ve only ever had the space to follow a single plot at a time, so it didn’t go over the length, you know. I couldn’t explore much of Wyatt’s life outside the mysteries he was solving. We only know a little about him. This book is fine for a dime novel, but don’t you think for the last Wyatt novel ever, it should be a bit more?” Belle turned in her chair, begging Clara with her eyes. “I want to tell his whole story. What drives him, where he comes from, and I’d always thought he needed a proper love interest. I’m a writer, Clara. My words matter more to me than just about anything. I need to do this properly.”
Clara lowered the gun slightly, looking enthralled. “I’d always wondered where he came from. If there was a real answer, or if being an orphan was just an easy way to avoid his backstory.”
“Have more faith in me than that, Clara.” Belle picked up a blank piece of paper to begin writing. “Let me tell you about his father, the Duke of Shelby.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Once away from the tiny settlement of Sweet Town, just a cluster of buildings huddled on the edge of the prairie, in the shadow of the mountains to the west, the foothills seemed to be a maze. Every tall pine tree looked the same. Theo tried following the path Lore had told him of, but it seemed that there were many paths, or at times none at all. He stopped and looked about him, frustration mounting. Every moment that went by filled him with dread, worrying about Belle, and frightened for her safety.
Off to the left he saw several riders coming, galloping in his direction. As they drew nearer he recognized the sheriff, Lore, Hunter, and Neal Leonetti.
“You’re off track,” Lore shouted as they came close. He pointed in another direction and took off.
Theo’s backside was being pounded, his teeth jarred from where his jaws slammed together with each beat of the horse’s hooves, and he wondered if he would even be able to continue to ride when suddenly, there it was. A small building made of boards, blackened by age and mold, hidden in the shadows of several trees. A small spiral of smoke rose from a metal chimney.
Theo leaned toward Kit. “I believe Clara is behind all of it. The fire. The stolen manuscript. Maybe even the murder back in Chicago.”
In answer, the lawman nodded and put a finger to his lips to silence Theo. Then he pointed at himself and at the shack, and twirled his finger in a circle. He got off his horse and slowly made his way around the side of the building, avoiding the windows.
Hunter did likewise, and then Lore and Neal followed, until they were surrounding the building, each with a gun drawn, ready to fire.
Theo was thrilled and horrified all at the same time. This was his dream come true, to live a wild west fantasy of gunfights and wilderness. Unfortunately, the part he had never considered before was that someone would have to be in danger, people’s lives would be risked. He had no gun, so he wasn’t sure what he could do, but he refused to sit idly - and safely - by while these men rescued Belle.
He got off the horse and immediately wobbled on legs made of jelly. His nether region was externally numb but his tailbone felt like it was being painfully bent the wrong direction. He took a step and the ground tilted.
The horses belonging to the other men were docilely standing by where the fellows had dropped their reins but when Theo took a step, his horse tried to follow. He looked back at her and she seemed to nod her head.
He looked around at the ground until he found a rock that he set on top of the reins. Even though his mount could have easily pulled it loose, she seemed to get the message that she was to stay put. Theo walked toward the building, his legs now recovered somewhat from their exertions.
Kit was using some more of his miming talents to give a sort of direction to the other men. They all crept closer to the walls. Theo ran awkwardly to a tree in front and stood behind it, peering out to see if anything had changed.
The men were crouched, legs poised for running.
Theo could see through a window next to the door that Belle was in there. She was talking to someone but until Clara appeared, leaning over the writer, nudging her temple with a gun, he realized he had been holding out hope that it was all a misunderstanding.
Kit was now next to the front door, his back pressed to the wall, too close to be seen by anyone looking out the window. “Miss Bader,” Kit yelled, “Come out with your hands up. You’re surrounded by my deputies.”
From Theo’s vantage point, he saw Clara startle and look toward the door. He supposed the sheriff’s voice must’ve sounded very loud through the wall. Another voice came from another wall, this time Neal. “Give yourself up.” When Clara twisted to look behind her, in the direction the new call for her surrender had come from, Theo watched as Belle smoothly rose to her feet. She raised her hand, a pewter candleholder grasped there, and quickly lowered it, smashing Clara in the head. It had all happened so quickly he was stunned. Realizing the others had not seen what had transpired, he rushed forward shouting, “She’s down, Clara’s down.”
He reached the door just as Belle flung it open and crashed into his arms, oblivious to the men pouring in behind them and taking the other woman into custody.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Some scents, Belle knew, the nose became immune to after exposure. She had rarely noticed her own perfume after the first application of it. The scent of freshly washed linens brought in from drying in crisp summer sun didn’t fade nearly as fast as a person’s sensitivity to it. Others remained forever sharp, no matter how much she was around them, like the beguiling magic that she could still remember inhaling from Erik’s little scalp as a baby or the homey scent of rising bread dough. Or the acrid stench of burned wood and fabric, which clung to everything she owned.
The laundry might have been able to do something about the odor, but she’d had no time for that, not thinking to contact Mrs. O’Cuinn before her abduction. What a failure to think ahead, Belle thought dryly as she looked in the little mirror of her hotel room. The buttery yellow wrapper dress she’d put on looked perfectly clean, having been laundered
shortly before it had gone in her carpetbag, but the stench of the fire had wormed its way into the luggage and lingered. She pinned her hair up into place with a sigh. Perhaps she should just buy Erik and herself an entirely new wardrobe.
A knock at the door drew her out of her reverie. She automatically looked to where Erik was playing under the bed, verifying that he was safe and all was well, then crossed to open the door. Theo stood there, leaning against the frame in that way he did. If he was bothered by the scent of smoke or even noticed it, she couldn’t tell. He only looked her over appreciatively in a way that made her cheeks burn.
“While the sheriff was sending word this morning to the Chicago police about catching Clara, a telegram arrived for you. I volunteered to deliver it.” He held a little strip of paper out to her between his fingers.
She took it from him, fingers trembling a little. “Paul is dead. Stop. Police think the books are involved. Stop. Told them they had the wrong Jamison. Stop. Be careful.”
“What is it?” Theo craned his neck to look over the edge of the paper.
She showed it to him, as there was no sense in trying to hide it. “The real Jamison. It would have been helpful if Jimmy could have given me warning before you arrived, but he probably didn’t expect anyone to actually come here looking.”
“No, I can’t imagine he would have,” Theo mused before passing the telegram back to her. “Have you given any thought to what you’ll do now? Your name is cleared - or your nom de plume, at least - and your husband can never harm you again. You’re a free woman.”
She spared another look toward where Erik continued to play, then shooed Theo back so she could slip out into the hall and shut the door behind her. The boy usually seemed oblivious to adult conversations around him, but she knew he was paying more attention than he showed and he’d already overheard far too much about the whole mess. “I’m going back to Chicago, obviously.”
“You are?” Shock widened Theo’s eyes. “I’d gotten the impression there were no happy memories for you back there.”
“There aren’t,” she admitted, “but it’s still home. I can make new memories. Besides, someone has to put Paul’s affairs in order.”
“I suppose that’s true.” He pulled the silver half-dollar from his pocket to roll across the backs of his fingers, staring off down the hall as though in a daze. “There’s not much to go back to now for me. I imagine Mr. Bader is going to fire me the moment he finds out Clara’s been arrested. I really don’t know what I’ll do.”
Belle stepped closer to him, laying a hand on his arm, feeling the swell of muscle there beneath his coat. “There are other publishing houses you could edit for.”
“There are, yes, but now I don’t know if it’s the right place for me.” He shook his head and she could see the tension in his jaw. “I started writing last night after we returned to the hotel. For the first time in years, the words were coming easily. So much of it was inspiration from this little community here.” His head turned, those light hazel eyes of his catching her like a fly in amber. “And inspiration from you.”
“Oh.” The single syllable was breathy, like a schoolgirl receiving her first compliment. Belle mentally scolded herself and cleared her throat. “I suppose that means you’ll be staying here to finish your book then?”
“I...” He trailed off, brow furrowed with what looked like pain. “I had thought to do that, yes. I don’t want to let go of this muse after finally finding one again. It’s the first time I’ve felt like this since Violet died, you see.”
And it was the first time since her husband had first struck her that she could see herself fully trusting an unrelated man and wanting something more than just his friendship. Her eyes lingered on his face, drinking in every detail of it. The faint worry lines between his brows, the dark flecks in his eyes, his square jaw that would have seemed too stern if it weren’t all too often offset by the boyish dimples above. “Of course. Sweet Town is a very special place. I can’t blame you at all for finding it invigorating for your writing.”
He went silent a moment and tossed his coin up into the air before catching it and sliding it back into his pocket. “I won’t be your editor anymore after this.”
“I doubt I’ll be writing for Mr. Bader after this, so even if you aren’t fired, it would appear that way.” A stab of grief struck her, deeper and sharper than anything she’d felt in years. What would it be like to write a book without expecting his input? No letters from Theo, both encouraging her and tearing her down when she was going in the wrong direction. None of his little quips, no arguments with him about whether or not a plot twist was believable. A world without Theo would be far too dull and empty. She grasped the doorknob behind herself with a shaking hand, eager to get back into her room before she began crying and made a fool of herself. “I’m really terribly busy. We need to prepare for our trip back to Chicago. Excuse me.”
“Belle,” he called, but she shut the door on him before he could go on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By the next morning, Belle and Erik were packed and ready for the coach as it came through Sweet Town, heading toward Rapid City. It was all so impossibly fast and yet Theo was well-acquainted with how a life could change forever in an instant. Such instances could sneak up on a person, as his wife’s death had, or come when he thought he’d been fully prepared and yet still thunderstruck by the reality of the change, like when Maeve was born and he held her for the first time. As he watched the coach drive off in a cloud of trail dust, he felt certain one of those changes was coming on.
“Papa, I miss Erik and Mrs. Lindholm.”
He looked down at Maeve, her serious little face turned up toward his. He gave her hand a squeeze before crouching down in front of her. “I know. I miss them too, but they’re going back to Chicago. It’s possible we might see them again.” Though he couldn’t think of any good excuse for it, since he was no longer Belle’s editor and the matter of her husband’s murder was now to be settled by the courts.
“When are we going back home?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “You see, your papa doesn’t have a job to go back to any longer. I thought I might stay here and write for a while. You like Sweet Town, don’t you? I can finish my book and we’ll figure out what we’re doing next. Maybe we could get a claim and set up a little homestead for ourselves. Would you like that? You could be a real pioneer girl then.”
Maeve screwed up her face, giving him the same sort of skeptical look she made when he tried feeding her Brussels sprouts and told her they would make her grow up strong and healthy. “But I don’t want to be a pioneer girl without the deputy.”
“The deputy?” He frowned. “Oh, yes, I forgot. The sheriff told Erik he could be his deputy, didn’t he?” The little boy had looked thoroughly thrilled by any attention from the sheriff, Theo recalled. He wondered if the little boy would find officers of the law so patient with children in Chicago. But of course the boy was no stranger in Illinois, having been born and raised there until only a few weeks before.
A bench sat just outside the post office, making a convenient place for people to wait for the stagecoach, or prospectors coming into town to rest while they read their mail before going out into countryside once more. Theo sank onto it and pulled off his hat, then rubbed a hand over his mouth. The coach had come early, but it seemed that life began early in Sweet Town as well. The mercantile was open, with Lucy Price out on the boardwalk, sweeping her own little section of it. Across the street at the medical clinic, the doctor and his wife were having tea in front of the big picture window. They looked to be having some serious talk. All of a sudden, the doctor’s face went slack with shock, then brightened before he took his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her enthusiastically. Theo could hear the bellows working at the smithy, followed a few moments later by hammering. A group of children strolled across Main Street towards the schoolhouse. He breathed in deep, taking in the scent of the clover tha
t grew so thickly around the little town. Even with the smithy and the big industrial laundry behind the mercantile, the air was purer than anything he could get in Chicago. With so many people living in close proximity, just keeping them warm could choke the atmosphere. In contrast, Sweet Town was a beautiful little place, more perfect than any of the fantasies he’d held about the west before coming. It was everything he could have asked for.
And yet he still found his heart aching with longing for something else.
He cleared his throat, then pointed past the clinic to where the children had gathered. “Would you like to go to a little one room school like that?”
“Maybe,” Maeve said cautiously. He recognized the sly tone to her voice, the one she took when she was trying to be clever and get her own way. He waited, certain she’d soon enough reveal where her thoughts were going. “But those kids look pretty boring.”
“They do, do they?” He squinted in the direction of the children, doing his best not to laugh. “What’s boring about them?”
“I don’t know any of them. I haven’t made a table fort with them. What if they don’t know how to make forts?”
“I’m sure the children here are very experienced at building forts. Maybe even out of sod, like some of the settlers do when they first get here. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Maybe,” she said again in that same tone of voice. “But they’re all bigger than me. I think I need someone smaller to play with.”
“Oh, do you? How small are you thinking?”
“I think,” Maeve began, pursing her little lips in a show of thought, “I think about three would be a good kind of small.”
Author's Muse (Sweet Town Clean Historical Western Romance Book 12) Page 9