Hell's Belle (2 page)

Del spoke without
thinking. "Only if somebody—maybe Harly here—draws a picture of Betty Lee
Lydecker on my belly first."

Minerva laughed so
hard then, Del couldn't see how either her pile of curls or whalebones
withstood the jiggling. Betsy rolled her eyes and licked her rouged lips.
Cinnamon offered a catlike flirtation at the bottom of the stairs, and the men
started placing bets on which gal would obliterate the likeness of Betty Lee
even as Harly Wilson hollered for a pen and inkwell.

Word spread across
town like wildfire. Farmers left their plows. Nearly half its crew abandoned
the railroad cars under repair in the maintenance shop. Slim Johnston closed
his barber shop early. The other saloons and bordellos in Wadsworth's
"virgin alley" sat woefully empty that night, as men crowded into
Minerva's to place wagers and hopefully get a gander of the big doings
upstairs.

Minerva kept the
drink flowing, the card tables full, the roulette wheel spinning. Tonight she
was taking bets of a different sort. Forget red and black. This particular
evening the gents were betting brown or white, representing chocolate or
whipped cream. Winners were declared by a house dealer standing sentinel
outside the door of the "bridal boudoir." Whatever color most of
Del's body was slathered in when the little ball dropped paid terrific odds.

As did bets on how
the infamous Mitchell carousal would ultimately end. Some had their money on
the fallen angels getting ill from too much chocolate and cream. Some bet Del
lacked the stamina to outlast a pair of soiled doves. And one or two bet the
longest odds of all—that Del Mitchell would concede defeat and back down from
the dare that had started the whole mess.

Those wagering Del
would pass out went home richest. Sandy Thayer noted men had taken to mapping
out the tiles on the floor and calculating distances from the bed to the
balcony, down the outer stairs to the privy. Sandy didn't bother to point out
that Minerva had wisely provided a chamber pot.

By noon the
following day, it was all over.

Del had been driven
home in a buckboard, thrown in the largest horse trough, and scrubbed clean by
his pal Zoyer. As often as the foreman found himself tempted to give that
no-account wrangler the heave-ho and get him off the ranch completely, he never
bothered trying. Del owned the place, and all the town residents knew he'd been
friends with Jordan Zoyer since they were both kids shooting fish from a
footbridge over the Truckee.

Wouldn't serve any
purpose to fire Zoyer's ass. He'd just turn up again. The foreman before Thayer
warned him. "Those two are thick like brothers. Much as Del gets
aggravated with Jordy's laziness and penchant for troublemaking, next thing you
know, he's up to mischief right alongside his pal. Expect Mitchell would jump
off his barn roof into a pair of pants hung on the wash line and set on fire,
if Jordan Zoyer dared him to. Don't make a lick of sense, but that's the way it
is."

Sandy shook his
head ruefully as he regarded his boss splayed across his bedstead, buck naked
and dead to the world. Del Mitchell hadn't moved a muscle in ten hours, falling
down drunk and exhausted as he'd been from the latest mischief Jordan had
concocted. A fellow like Sandy Thayer couldn't begin to dream up the sort of
nonsense that involved goo and two whores on a Saturday night. He reckoned he
just had a dull imagination—unlike Zoyer.

But Sandy had to
give the no-account cowpuncher credit for one thing. After all the wild
carousing and carrying on at Minerva's, Del Mitchell truly
wasn't
pining
after the faithless Betty Lee Lydecker. He might not even remember her when he
finally came around.

A couple of men had
wagered on that, too.

Western Wyoming
Late Spring 1870

"Give the
conductor your satchel, Twila," Fletcher Bell commanded impatiently.

"I really
prefer to keep it with me, Uncle," Twila argued. "A lady has certain
items she needs conveniently at hand during a train excursion. I've learned
that much and more on this odyssey."

"Huh,"
her uncle grunted as he waved his son Lucius up the steps ahead of him.
"I'd no notion when we left Omaha it would take so long or be so
infernally dusty."

Twila couldn't
disagree with the last observation. She no longer owned a stitch of traveling
clothes not coated with dust and ash, owing to the constant flow of cinders and
smoke from the locomotive engines. On the other hand, she guessed part of Fletcher
Bell's comment was meant as a rebuke. They'd missed a connection and had to
remain in one station overnight, which Fletcher maintained was due to Twila's
"perpetual dawdling."

She sighed, taking
a seat across the aisle from her relations. She'd always been aware of Uncle
Fletcher's dislike. She wasn't particularly fond of him, either. Never had
been. They'd barely been acquainted before "the Shameful and Horrible
Tragedy," as Fletcher ever-after would call it. Twila was attending a
girl's boarding school when her parents drowned at sea. She vividly recalled
the day the headmistress summoned Twila, saying her uncle had come.

To tell her of the
tragedy, and that she was going home with him.

That had been some
four years ago, when Aunt Lavinia was still alive. Lavinia seemed to regard
Twila as the daughter she'd never had, rather than a constant living reminder that
Twila's father, Fletcher's brother Nathan, was too soon in his grave.

Nathan and Fletcher
had been close as youngsters, but inevitably made their own separate ways in
the world. Twila could remember the occasional family gathering with the
Fletcher branch of the Bells, but such occasions had been infrequent. Fletcher
married Lavinia and settled in Omaha; Nathan and his wife clung to the Atlantic
coastline.

Fletcher had just
about come to terms with his grief over the loss of his brother and being named
Twila's legal guardian when his own wife took ill. Lavinia faded quickly and
died within a few months after being diagnosed with ravaging cancer. Now there
was only Cousin Lucius, who, at two years older than Twila, should have been
out making his own way in the world. Yet he appeared content to remain under
his papa's wing. Twila actually shuddered, thinking how alike they were.

Somehow Fletcher's
answer to all the loss and grief was to pull up stakes and head West.

Worldly soul Nathan
had often spoken of the far shores of their great nation, of gold strikes,
wagon trains, and untamed wilderness. Nathan kept up on news from a distance,
scouring several newspapers and talking to a variety of men claiming to have firsthand
knowledge of Easterners who braved the challenges and had gone Westward-ho.
Such stories were just amusing entertainment to Twila, who never dreamed her
Uncle Fletcher would hear them very differently. As a businessman hears
opportunities for great profits.

Fletcher had always
been a storekeeper, and one thing the Western tales emphasized was the need for
Eastern goods and merchandise on the untamed frontier. With the completion of
the the transcontinental railroad in '69, more people traveled West than ever
before. Some declined to stay and returned to the East.

Fletcher intended
to make money on folks going either direction. He would open a general store in
Wadsworth, Nevada.

The name alone made
Lucius howl with laughter the first time his father suggested it. A fancy,
noble-sounding name for a bunch of shacks in the middle of nowhere. But he
sobered when Fletcher recited details and figures:  the site was a primary
supply and railhead for crews and roundhouse of the Central Pacific line. Some
of the Chinese laborers still encamped nearby, prospectors passed through, and
all factors pointed to a thriving Western outpost. Situated on the banks of the
Truckee River along the transcontinental line, Wadsworth was the last supply
station as travelers headed East into the Nevada desert region. Along with the
town newly christened Reno, it was also one of the final locations where
pioneers heading West to California and Oregon could stock up before ascending
into the Sierra mountains.

What Uncle Fletcher
described made sense.

What didn't was his
insistence in dragging Twila along. It was clear neither he nor Lucius cared
for her. Fletcher was ever quick to criticize, while Lucius behaved like a
jealous sibling. She couldn't understand why Uncle Fletcher didn't just leave
her at some young lady's academy, unless he was simply too stingy to pay the
cost of boarding school. It certainly wasn't out of any fondness or even sense
of duty. While Fletcher's son could seemingly do no wrong, it was clear to her
she could do nothing right.

She couldn't
exactly remember when her uncle had begun referring to her as a jinx. But she
knew some of the adversity blamed on her had actually come through Lucius'
deliberate meddling. He delighted in causing problems for her. She smiled,
thinking perhaps he might fall down a well or drown in the river her uncle kept
bragging about, so near to where they'd be settling. Lucius couldn't swim.

"Is this seat
taken?"

Twila glanced up
from her musing to find a young girl indicating the empty seat next to Twila.
"No, please do sit down. Are you traveling alone? I'm going to Nevada with
my relations. That's my Uncle Fletcher and Cousin Lucius across the way."

The girl nodded and
took the open seat beside Twila, placing a brown satchel on the floor. Twila
couldn't help but laugh. "Why, look at that! Our bags are so similar, and
we're both—oh, did you say you had companions, also?"

"My
grandfather." The girl pointed at an elderly man with a walking stick.
"But with his cane, he prefers to sit near the exit. Less distance to
board and disembark. However, I absolutely hate the platforms! Do you know, my
hat blew clean off and right under the wheels when we left Cheyenne? It was my
absolute favorite, too!"

Twila expressed
surprise that the girl and older man didn't look familiar. As they compared
travel histories, it turned out they'd been on the same rail line but a
different schedule until now. The girl introduced herself as Hilde Vogel, and
said she and her grandfather were bound for San Francisco. Twila chatted
happily with Hilde until nightfall, when the Vogels retired to the sleeping
car.

Twila watched the
girl help her grandfather depart with a pang of envy. Once she'd known that
kind of caring concern in her family. Now she was an interloper, a pest,
someone Fletcher Bell regarded as penance. A nuisance and burden.

He complained that
her parents had been irresponsible, hapless fools, who never thought to provide
for their unmarried daughter's future before recklessly taking an ocean voyage.
Now it was up to her uncle to find her a husband…which he constantly reminded
would be a daunting task. After all, not only was Twila clumsy and prone to
mishaps of every variety, but she was thin and had unremarkable, common
features. No dowry. Indeed, Fletcher was certain he'd have to pay some man to take
Twila off his hands.

Fletcher loved to
tell stories about olden times, when fathers and uncles had to pay marriage
settlements or provide extensive dowries to foist their womenfolk off on
stalwart males. The men were always more intelligent, brawnier, braver, and far
more noble than any of the women in these anecdotes and fables. The women in
them ranked just above horses and hunting hounds.

He finally stopped
spinning such yarns at the dinner table when Twila asked exactly how much Aunt
Lavinia's father had offered Fletcher.

Settling herself
now as best she could, Twila closed her eyes and told herself to let the
incessant clack of the train wheels lull her to sleep. She'd had to learn to
rest sitting straight up. Her uncle refused to pay the extra cost for sleeping
car accommodations. Twila cracked open an eyelid and noted with some
satisfaction that Uncle Fletcher was curled into an unnatural position that
should guarantee a kink in his neck after a few hours and Lucius fidgeted,
unable to get comfortable. Good.

Bracing her elbow
with her satchel now occupying the seat Hilde had vacated, Twila drifted into a
light slumber.

* * *

She awoke to
shouting and mass confusion. A woman two rows ahead of Twila was sobbing aloud.
Fletcher and Lucius looked angry. A glance at the windows told Twila it was
still full dark, yet passengers were out of their seats, milling around,
swarming a uniformed conductor.

"What's
happened?" she asked her uncle.

"This blasted
railroad is running defective trains, that's what!" a stranger bellowed.
Several other men chimed in, shouting and hurling epithets.

Lucius sniffed,
"They've lost most of our baggage and several passengers, yet that
imbecile of a conductor tells everyone not to panic."

Passengers?

"How on earth
can a train misplace its passengers? I don't understand."

"Two of the
rail cars are somehow missing," Lucius huffed, as if Twila should easily
grasp this incomprehensible news.

"But how could
railroad cars just vanish into thin air?"