Romancing the West (33 page)

Only this was real life.

A defining moment for the new Emily McBride.

She straightened her spine and rapped on the ornate door. Room 357 of the Palace Hotel, a seven-story opulent wonder. Her
Savior
traveled in style.

The door swung open and anger replaced trepidation.

Three o’clock in the morning. The resplendent room was bathed in muted amber light. He was dressed and fully awake. He’d been expecting her. So, why did he look so surprised? “My God, Emily. Your face. Who--?”

“Please don’t insult me by playing dumb, Mr. Bellamont. You know who. The man you set me up to meet.” The words flew out, terse, to the point. She felt no compassion for this man, this
fiend
who had tried to crush her spirit through manipulation.

His horrified expression cinched his guilt. To his credit and her surprise, he didn’t deny the accusation. “I never meant . . . He wasn’t supposed to hurt you. Please tell me he didn’t--”

“What if he did?” She pushed her way in, careful to leave the door partially open. She itched to slap Claude Bellamont’s face, but she knew the appropriate words could deliver the same sting. “Would you still want me? That was your goal, right? To scare me so badly that I’d seek your protection? So I’d relent and marry you? Lord knows, surviving on my own would be a struggle. You stole my savings. You ensured a bleak future by threatening retribution should I pursue the career that enabled my financial independence. You tricked me into believing I could trust you, rely on you. You condemned my chosen life and appointed yourself my
Savior!
How could you be so conniving? So cruel?”

He stumbled back and crumpled into a chair, his face the same purplish-red as his favored merlot. “I didn’t mean to take it so far. If only you had agreed to be my wife.”

“So it’s
my
fault I’m destitute? I deserved to be attacked by a hired thug?” Her blood boiled.

“You deserved a better life, a life that I could give you. A fine home, beautiful gowns. You deserved to be cherished. Your parents never appreciated your unique spirit, but I did. I
do.”
He licked dry lips, met her gaze. “Do you remember the first night I brought your father home after he’d had too much to drink?”

She nodded, feeling more ill by the moment.

“You asked me to wait in the sitting room while you tucked him into bed. You’d left your journal on your desk.”

“Oh, God.”

“I couldn’t help myself. So many times I’d seen you hunched over, pouring your thoughts onto paper. I remembered well the stories concocted by Emily the child, but what of Emily the woman?” He pressed trembling fingers to his silver temples and massaged. “You can imagine my surprise when I read those erotic passages. Such naughty thoughts for an innocent. I was intrigued, fascinated by your complexity. From that moment on you became an obsession. I wanted that fire in my life, in my bed.”

Revolted, Emily wrapped her arms around her middle, fighting nausea and the urge to escape this man’s company. She hadn’t meant for those passages to be read. He’d been seduced by an emotionally void experiment!

“I thought we’d established a relationship,” he continued. “Working together to keep Walt’s drinking problem a secret. When he died, I did everything in my power to keep that from coming to light. You seemed so grateful and, at the same time, so sad and alone. I waited a respectable amount of time before proposing. I thought you would eagerly accept. You would want for nothing.”

“I would
want
for love. I don’t love you, Mr. Bellamont, and you don’t love me.”

“You are wrong.” He stood and reached for her. When she recoiled, he clasped his hands together. “I loved you enough to bribe Sheriff McDonald and Doctor Kellogg into keeping quiet about the circumstances behind your father’s death. I loved you enough to save you from future ridicule. How do you think the citizens of Heaven would react if they knew you were in fact the dime novelist who writes those adventure tales? Violence, obscenity, titillation. Really, Emily. And what about the Garrett brothers? Don’t you think they’d feel betrayed?”

She’d soon find out.

Her heart pounded as she pressed onward. She needed to know all, as badly as she needed to tell all. No more lies. No more repressing or hiding or pretending. Seth wasn’t ashamed of her writing, no matter how whimsical or graphic. Why should she censure her true self?

“Who are you to judge me? You invaded my privacy. You stole my manuscript pages which means you stole a package meant for Mr. Beeslow.”

“I made it a point to know your business. I reveled in learning your secret. It made me feel closer to you and provided me with a means to secure our future. I thought you would break after one letter. I thought you’d come to me for help, but you rallied. Cole complicated matters with his proposal of marriage. Hope rekindled when you refused him. But then that deviant, Pinkerton, moved into your home.”

A dark rage bubbled within Emily. “You followed us to Weaver’s Meadow. You
shot
him!”

“I’d hoped to scare him away. I couldn’t have him tainting you with his abnormal tendencies.”

Red hot fury erupted, compromising rational thought. She bolted forward and shoved Claude Bellamont against the wall. “You could have killed him!”

Stunned, he shook his head. “I’m not a murderer.”

“Maybe not. But you’re an intolerant bully. A manipulator. A man who stoops to criminal tactics to get his way!”

“I did it because I love you.”

“Stop saying that!” She balled her fists, but instead of pummeling him, she backed away. Angry tears blurred her vision. “People don’t terrorize those they love!”

“I know you’re upset,” he said, inching forward, “but we can work this out. Give me a chance to make amends.” His eyes teared, his hands shook. “Please let me hold you. Let me show you.”

“Touch her and you’re a dead man.”

Seth.

He’d been standing outside the door, listening, waiting. His one condition: to be within striking distance when she confronted Bellamont. He agreed to let her try for a full confession, but had promised to intervene should things get too ugly. She was surprised he’d restrained himself this long.

Drained and shaken, Emily turned away from her tormentor and into Seth’s arms.

“You.” Bellamont’s voice cracked. “This is your doing, Pinkerton.”

“Actually, it’s yours. And the name’s Wright. Seth Wright.”

“He’s a lawman, Claude, and you’re screwed.” London stepped in beside them. Emily cringed at his hostile expression, thankful it wasn’t directed at her.

“Seth’s equally proficient with his fists and his Colt. Given his tender feelings toward Emily, I suggest you come peaceably with me.”

The man was flummoxed. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain on the way to the police station.”

“But--”

“Because of you, Rome’s in a jam with the law,” Emily blurted. She turned and faced the winemaker, though she held tight to Seth’s hand. “You need to make things right, Mr. Bellamont.”

He washed his hands over his weary face and aged another ten years before her eyes. “You’re right, Emily. I apologize. I’m . . . It all went so wrong. I only wanted . . . Can you ever forgive me?”

His beseeching gaze tore at her heart. Perhaps he wasn’t a fiend so much as a lonely, misguided soul. He
had
been a good friend to her father, right to the ugly end. She reminded herself that she had no right to condemn him. Not when she herself had done wrong at the expense of others. This was the moment to choose the landscape of her future and she would not move forth with a black hole in her soul. Her father had preached,
“Only you hold the power to let the light into your life.”
She was so tired of the dark.

“He, who cannot forgive a trespass of malice to his enemy, has never yet tasted the most sublime enjoyment of love,” she said.

Bellamont eyes lightened. “The Bible?”

“Johann Kaspar Lavater. Pastor and poet.”

London tossed Bellamont his coat and ushered him from her sight. “I’ll meet you back at the Gilded,” he called over his shoulder.

Then there was silence.

The last of the starch in her spine dissolved, and Emily sagged against Seth. “It’s over.”

“Almost.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “Just remember, baby, sticks and stones.”

His words baffled her until she angled away and saw Rome and Boston crowding the doorway. They’d promised to wait in the lobby. Patience had never been one of their better qualities. “How much did you hear?” she asked, a stupid question given their stony expressions.

“Pretty much everything,” Boston said.

Rome worked his jaw. “You think you know a person.”

The shock in his voice proved the last straw. Emily burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I made you feel violated. I’m sorry that I got you suspended.” She gulped down a sob. “I didn’t know Sarah Smith was married. To a politician, no less. I just thought it was . . . brave and romantic . . . the way you saved her and she thanked you and . . . I should have told you I was Wilde the other night. Sooner even. I just . . . I only wrote about you because I admired you. Because I--”

Boston held up a hand. “Emily, stop. Please. It’s late. You’re overwrought and we’re--” “--impressed as hell.”

Emily blinked at Rome, hiccupped over another sob. “What?”

He stabbed his hands through his hair, shook his head in wonder. “After all Bellamont did to you, and you forgave the son of a bitch.”

He moved into the room, glanced at Seth who squeezed her shoulders and then left her standing on her own. Her knees quaked as the object of her childhood infatuation came toe to toe with her. “You think you know someone,” he repeated in a soft voice. “But I never knew how strong you were, how courageous. I never realized the extent of your talent, Emily McBride.”

She sniffed back tears, confused. “But . . . but I’m Wilde. I. M. Wilde. The dime novelist.” His lip twitched. “We got that.”

“You said if you got your hands on me you’d . . .you’d . . .”

He pulled her into his arms, a brotherly hug, a comforting hug. “I’m not going to beat the shit out of you. Chrissakes, what do you take me for? Besides, I’m betting Seth would shoot any man who looked cross-eyed at you.”

“You’re not mad?”

He blew out a breath. “We’re not thrilled. You shouldn’t have revealed certain specifics. But I’d be a hypocrite if I said I didn’t enjoy the fame brought on by your stories, Emily. There are . . . benefits to being a pulp hero. As for Sarah, she was my mistake, not yours.”

She shifted her teary gaze. “Boston?”

He offered a forgiving smile. “I’ll get over it.”

Relief whooshed through her body as she blubbered on her best friend’s brother’s shoulder. To think she used to dream about being in his arms; now all she wanted was a lifetime with Seth. “I’m sorry if I was a moony-eyed pain all those years, Rome.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t pay you any mind.”

She eased back, took off her spectacles, and sleeved away her tears. “I just want you to know I don’t love you, not like a woman loves a man.”

“My loss.”

Exhausted and relieved, Emily locked gazes with the warrior poet and spoke her heart. “I’m in love with Seth.”

Boston grunted.

Rome cleared his throat. “We got that.”

By the time they returned to the Gilded Garrett it was a few hours shy of dawn. Wrung out, Emily looked like the walking dead. Ignoring her protests, Seth carried her upstairs and settled her in the guest room. He was almighty tempted to help her undress, but, by God, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his hands to himself. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, lay claim to her heart, body, and soul. She’d scared the hell out of him multiple times today. Her courage would be the death of him.

She’d handled Bellamont with grit and grace.