Chapter 7 - The Devil’s Proposition
The front door swung open slowly, letting in the muffled sound of the town clock chiming nine.
Thomas Bell stepped into the mercantile as if he owned the floorboards beneath him—and in truth, he legally owned ninety percent of them. He was a man in his late fifties, his silver hair swept back impeccably, his jawline sharp, his left hand gloved in fine kidskin to disguise the mangled stump where three fingers were missing.
Behind him loomed four armed guards carrying Winchester repeaters, their breath fogging in the drafty room.
"Good evening, Agnes," Bell said smoothly, his voice cultured, like polished silver scraping against marble. "You really should keep your deadbolts oiled. A lady living alone cannot be too careful in these lawless territories."
Nathaniel stepped forward, his Winchester leveled dead at Bell’s heart. "Take one more step, Thomas, and they’ll be scraping your brains off those bolts."
Bell didn't even flinch. He raised his ivory cane, signaling his men to hold their fire.
"Always so impetuous, Cross," Bell sighed, shaking his head with mock pity. "That fiery temper cost you your timber mill five years ago. It would be a tragedy if it cost your daughter her life tonight."
Nathaniel’s eyes flared with murderous intent, but he held his fire.
Bell turned his gaze toward Clara. For the first time, the tycoon’s composure fractured. His eyes flickered with something dark, haunted, and predatory. He drank in the sight of her face, the high cheekbones, the gray eyes that mirrored the woman who had defied him a quarter of a century before.
"Clara," Bell whispered, taking off his hat, revealing a white scar running along his hairline. "You truly are your mother’s masterpiece."
"Don't speak her name," Clara said, her voice shaking with disgust. "You hunted her like an animal. You sent fake letters to lure me here to be butchered!"
Bell laughed softly—a dry, rattling sound. "Butchered? My dear child, you have been listening to the bitter ramblings of failures and ghosts. I didn't lure you here to die. I lured you here because you are the only missing piece of my empire."
He walked closer, completely ignoring Nathaniel’s rifle.
"Your mother was an obstinate fool," Bell said, his tone turning intimate, venomous. "She chose Samuel, a weakling who wanted to turn this valley into wheat fields and sheep pastures. I saw the fire beneath the rock. I built the mines. I built this town! But the law is a tedious beast, Clara. Washington bureaucrats demand a clean chain of title."
Bell reached into his inside coat pocket. Nathaniel clicked the hammer of his rifle back, but Bell only pulled out a velvet-lined jeweler’s box. He clicked it open, revealing a flawless sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds.
"Marry me tomorrow night at the Gala," Bell said, extending the ring toward Clara. "Before the Governor. Before the territorial supreme court justice. The Bell bloodline unites. The valley remains whole. You will be the richest woman in the West. You will have silk, pearls, palaces in New York and Paris."
"And if I refuse?" Clara challenged, her chin held high, defying the tyrant.
Bell’s smile vanished, replaced by an abyss of pure malice.
"If you refuse," Bell whispered, "the Sheriff will find your frozen corpse at the bottom of the Blackfoot gorge tomorrow morning. Nathaniel Cross will hang for your murder by noon. And his charming little daughter will be sent to the territorial workhouse in Deer Lodge, where children rarely survive their first winter."
Willa let out a whimper, clutching Clara’s coat from behind.
Clara looked at Bell, then at Nathaniel, whose knuckles were white on the rifle stock, his eyes begging her not to break.
Clara took a slow, deliberate breath. She reached out her hand, plucked the diamond ring from the velvet box, and held it up to the candlelight.
"You really think you can buy everything, don't you, Mr. Bell?" she said quietly.
"In this valley, Miss Vance, everything has a price."
Clara dropped the ring onto the floorboards, raised her heavy boot, and crushed the sapphire beneath her heel until the stone cracked against the oak.
May you like
"My name is Clara Bell," she said, each word ringing like a death knell. "And I would rather burn this valley to the bedrock than let you touch one thread of my mother’s name."
***
