Hell's Belle (14 page)

She didn't want him
telling her uncle that he'd been remiss in straightening out the problem of the
confused luggage, or demanding to search out the Vogels himself. She'd never in
her life really been charged with a responsibility. She'd been looked after,
barked at, tolerated, but never brought into any major decisions about
anything. Even Del had more or less pushed her into this union, running her to
ground like he would a wild mare in a box canyon.

He'd left her
little choice but to agree to his proposal. Not that she regretted the choice.
Only just once, Twila thought, she wanted to investigate and solve a problem on
her own. Without her parents, her uncle, or her husband telling her telling her
how to go about it or what should be done. Del had a ranch to operate. He
didn't need this distraction, and Twila had little to occupy her. She could
easily continue in her search for the Vogels.

She blinked, suddenly
realizing Henry Dobbs might even now be spilling the entire fictional, tale to
Del. Henry's version would definitely rile her new husband and wreak havoc. She
rushed out, asking any wranglers she encountered if they knew where she might
find Henry.

To their credit, a
couple offered to help with whatever her urgent requirement might be. To her
dismay, several others pretended they didn't hear her, averted their faces, and
clearly weren't about to accept her as the new lady of the house. In fact, one
fellow flat out scowled at her, insisting she was a Jonah. He predicted Del
would rue the day he'd taken a daughter of the Devil to wife. Twila would later
realize she'd never again see that particular man working at the ranch.

But at that moment,
she'd recoiled in shock. Then glanced around to find Henry walking rapidly
toward her. Deliverance! Abandoning anything but her immediate concern about
the necklace, she rushed to ask him how much he'd confided to his employer
about their investigation for her "long lost kin."

"I haven't
seen him all morning, ma'am."

"Twila,
please. You've always called me Twila," she reminded.

He stubbornly shook
his head. "You got to understand, Mrs. Mitchell. When you worked in that
store, you were a gal named Twila. But the boss told us he wants you called by
your rightful married name, and I do what the boss says. Did you tell him about
your grandfather? I figured maybe that's part of why he stole you away from
your uncle. On account of the Bell feud."

"I've told him
I may have to go to California, that I have folks there I may wish to visit. I
don't want further unpleasantness between my husband and the Bell menfolk, as
I'm sure you can understand."

"No, ma'am…I
mean, yes, ma'am." Poor Henry. He stammered on,"I mean, I can understand
you don't want no more trouble. Hell of a—excuse me, Mrs. Mitchell, I mean to
say that's a darned shame, folks not getting on together, and all. Especially
when they're kin. Enough misery in the world without making hard feelings
between folks who should all break bread at the same table. That's what my ma
always used to say."

"She sounds
very sensible, Henry."

"She was. Salt
of the earth, my ma."

Twila thought it
best to change the subject. She wasn't exactly the salt of anything at the
moment, asking this boy to continue in chicanery of a sort.

"I need your
word that you'll keep working for me without admitting as much to Mr. Mitchell.
Can you do that, Henry? I understand you respect him as your employer. I'm
asking for that same kind of respect. If you don't feel we can continue—"

"Oh, no,
ma'am! I mean, sure I'll do whatever you need, ma'am. And I won't say anything
if you don't want me to. Course, you got to understand the ranch comes first. I
was only helping you when I had a spare moment. Still has to be like that, or
the boss will fire my sorry butt. He won't allow anybody to hang around like
deadwood. Every man here has to do his share."

"Naturally,
Henry. I wouldn't want to make things difficult for you here. But they're even
more awkward for me now, if you see my point. Before I was in the heart of
town…such as it is."

Twila had refrained
from denigrating Wadsworth up until now, but in comparison to Omaha, Cheyenne,
Laramie, or Ogden, this was a ragtag collection of buildings and homesteads
along a riverbank. Nothing special. Hardly the bustling center of enterprise
her uncle had spoken of before they made the arduous trip out. A handful of
stores, livery stable, post office, and two blocks of bawdy houses…it hardly
qualified in Twila's mind as a real town. Not to mention the place had only one
house of worship, run by the most distasteful excuse for a preacher Twila could
imagine.

"Oh, I guess
you're right. Didn't ponder on that when I said I was glad you were here. I
meant for Boss' sake." He made an impatient gesture with his hand.
"Well, you know."

No, she didn't. Not
at all. In fact, she'd been suspicious from the first that this whole marriage
stemmed from some grandiose act of noble charity on Del's part. It was only the
earnestness in Henry's eyes that had her doubting that assumption. "What
do you mean? Is something wrong with Del? Is he ill or—"

"Oh no,
nothing like that. Not so's anyone would see on the outside. He's real cagey
about that. Even I didn't know at first. But when you work with a man for
months, maybe even rescue him from being trampled or thrown…" Henry
flushed again, ambling through the dust back toward the house. "We have to
work together in a different way than you folks running the mercantile. Any day
someone could get seriously hurt, maybe even killed. We're like a family here,
and that's how come I came to see that Mr. Mitchell's really a lonely sort.
Deep inside. He'll go to the saloon with us other fellas, have him a good
laugh, maybe play cards. But his heart ain't in it. Not really."

"Oh. I never
realized. He's so—" Now Twila blushed in turn, realizing she'd been about
to say "virile." Del was possibly the best looking, most
overwhelmingly
male
person she'd ever encountered. She hadn't even been
aware of the dichotomy in her own mind until this instant.

There were men,
like Uncle Fletcher or Lucius, or any number of passengers on the trains.
Customers who came into the emporium. Then there were these wranglers. Tougher,
leaner, faces creased by the sun, clothes permanently softened into folds and
wrinkles earned through hard labor. And at the pinnacle of that second group
stood Del. A male of some entirely different order. A man who Twila had
glimpsed stark naked—vulnerable as a man could ever be—yet he'd still managed
to emanate formidable strength and solidity. Assurance. Power.

She choked at the
image. Literally.

Caught between the
impulse to speak and draw an inward gasp at her own startling realization—that
he'd indeed been naked on the divan in that hotel suite under his blanket, a
fact revealed when he'd fallen to the floor—she managed to draw her spittle
into her windpipe. Henry began slapping her back, hollering at the top of his
lungs. A handful of men came running to see what the trouble was.

Twila saw them in
the periphery of her vision, but was barely able to get her breath. She tried
to slap away the open palms flailing at her. They weren't clearing her airway,
they only managed to hit her with blows firm enough to leave bruises.

"Put your arms
up over your head."

The calm voice of
reason. Del's voice.

He seized her
wrists and forced her arms up. He tilted her head back. Her airway opened.

"Was she
eating or drinking anything out here?" He frowned at Henry.

Henry shook his
head in denial. Del watched her closely as Twila was finally able to draw
several breaths without immediately going into another paroxysm of coughing.
"I'll take over. You fellas get on back to work."

Twila was grateful
she couldn't speak. She had this crazy mental image of herself blurting out
that maybe she'd fallen hopelessly in love. All because Henry had offered a
sorrowful tale about Del being unhappy inside. Or maybe because Twila saw Del
as handsome, incredibly masculine and capable. Maybe because she'd never known
anyone quite like Delancy Mitchell, and had never been so aware of any man.
Maybe because she'd never before yearned for the things Del's presence
conjured.

Images of patient
understanding and appreciation. A true home. Children at her feet. A loving
smile, warm embraces…more of the mysterious communication and reassurance that
seemed to emanate from Del's blue eyes. He was doing it again, in fact. Right
that second. Because she wasn't choking anymore, and somehow Del seemed amused.

"Henry play on
your female sensitivities until you got all choked up, Mrs. Mitchell?"

"How did you
know?"

Del quietly led
Twila inside the house. "He's been after me to get married since about a
week after I hired him. He's a good kid. But he
is
a kid, and he misses
his ma something fierce. She died about three years ago. I reckon he's been
hoping I'll bring a female on the scene who can replace her."

Twila sat down
heavily on one of the wooden chairs. Hadn't Henry just brought up his late
mother?

"He seemed to
think that you're secretly lonely."

Del calmly hung his
hat on a peg and walked into the bedroom. Without consciously thinking about
what she was doing, Twila followed. "Del? Did you hear me? Is he just
fancying something because he wants to, or is he right about that?"

Del sat down on the
edge of the big bed. "Maybe. But I think everybody's a little lonely
inside. You were friends with Henry before, so I could ask the same thing.
Aren't you lonely yourself, Twila? Haven't you always needed someone to understand
you, the way nobody else ever could, maybe your whole life?"

These odd
philosophical moments still gave her pause. They didn't seem in keeping with
the hard-drinking, bronco-riding exterior of Del Mitchell. She shrugged,
feigning a casual acceptance she didn't feel in the least.

"I guess you
know the answer. Everyone thinks the worst about me. I've never understood why,
beyond my uncle's open disdain. Lucius has always been hateful. I assume it's
some sort of twisted sibling rivalry in his case. Other people? I don't know. I
haven't done anything to most of them. I don't know how they can make
assessments."

"You're a
wonder, Twila. A woman with real depth and dimension."

Tears stung her
eyes. "Please don't say things like that," she pleaded, wringing her
hands. If he didn't stop, she just might make a complete fool of herself.

He calmly reached
for one of her hands and drew her to stand beside the bed, then captured her
with his arms, burying his face against her breasts. It was truly scandalous to
be held like that. No man had ever put his face against her bosom. But it felt
so very peculiar, Twila wanted a second to analyze the sensation. She also
belatedly realized Del wasn't talking. Just holding her. But he wasn't about to
let go, she discovered when she tried to pull free.

"Twila,"
he breathed. God, she'd never felt warm breath quite
there
. It gave her
a most unsettled feeling, a tightening in places no lady even thought about.
"You haven't asked me where your place is in this big bed."

She gasped, discovering
he was using the toe of one boot to tug down the heel of the other, effectively
shucking off his footwear even as he held her close and nuzzled her breasts.
"Del, it's broad daylight! Anyone could come in the front door and—"

"Only if they
want to either be fired from my payroll or possibly shot on sight. None of them
are quite that dumb."

"Del!"

Now his fingers
worked at the fastening at the waistband of her skirt.

"Twila,"
he purred right back. "You still didn't ask me."

"I
can't," she confessed in a whisper as he raised his head. She saw his
thick lids, the sensual haze that had come over his features.

"All right.
Step out of that skirt and take off your shoes. Then I'll tell you."

Maybe, her mind
desperately churned, he was just going to suggest they have an afternoon nap.
Yes, hadn't she read that somewhere? These Western cowboy sorts kept odd
schedules, rising before dawn and so forth. "Are we going to have a
fiesta
?"
she inquired, trying to remember the Spanish word she'd read for the custom.

She could swear he
snorted. "Yeah, I'd say so." He let her remove her shoes, then tugged
her bodily onto the mattress and bore her down, kissing her until she was
breathless.

"Twila,
sweetheart, your place in this bed is
underneath
me. Welcome home, Mrs.
Mitchell."

Twila had began to
buck and resist, murmur weak protests…pretty much as he'd expected. Del debated
with himself all morning about how to get her past "the stranger he'd
married" to "wife in fact." He'd decided he wouldn't give her
all afternoon and evening to think about consummating their union. That would
just let her work up a set of nerves until she was so jittery, she'd be about
ready to vomit at his first intimate touch. Instead, he decided to face the
problem early on, but take the subtle approach.