Page 21 of Sure as Shooting

Chapter Nine

“Look what Bud Pennington sold to me. This odd Oriental picture book with little paintings on wooden blocks.”

It was very snug inside the house as rain needles splattered the glass windowpanes. Belle kept the kitchen oven stoked, and her duties included stoking the study’s fireplace, as well. She had a teapot of hot water in her hand to warm the men’s brandies when she paused at the study door, only to hear Major Ashbury tell Whit that Bud had sold him her own Chinese pillow book! But of course Bud hadn’t known it belonged to her. She would never have shown it to anyone other than her husband Ned. It had been secreted in the bottom of her trunk in the prairie schooner coming across the plains, and it was the only item to survive her travails—not even her photograph of Samantha had traveled with her to the Indian encampment. The Indians had marveled and laughed at the pillow book but had not stolen it from her. Now, apparently, her own brother had spirited it off from her ochum hut. It made her wonder how many of her Indian friends Bud had polished off. Of course, he hadn’t known they were her friends.

“That’s intriguing,” said Whit. “By any chance, did Bud pick up this item on Battle Mountain?”

Ashbury said, “He didn’t tell me where he got it. Why would Indians be in possession of such a remarkable item? It’s obviously Oriental.”

“Plundered, obviously, from Americans,” said Whit. “How much did you pay? Would you allow me to purchase it from you? At a profit, of course.”

Belle could stand it no more. Retreating a few steps into the foyer, she stamped her slippers loud enough to make it sound as though she had come directly from the kitchen. She pressed open the study door, practically humming a casual tune as she took the teapot to the low table in front of the couch where the men sat.

“Belle!” Whit said, apparently shocked at being caught handling the precious woodblocks.

Major Ashbury, however, had no shame, as he had no idea she even recognized the thing, and he said to Whit, “Those rocks have a curiously phallic shape.”

She had refilled only one glass with hot water, declaring lightly, “Oh! Why, thank you, Whit. You’ve found my pillow book.” She rudely snatched it from his frozen fingers and flipped through it with a smile. “How wonderful to see this again! Yes, this one was my favorite. Playing chess in a pleasure pavilion. And this one. Swinging under the willow trees.” Unabashed, she held the block so the men could view it. Yes, the couple was swinging, but the man was simultaneously impaled upon a dildo that was affixed to the swing’s seat, while impaling the woman who squatted atop him.

Major Ashbury looked at Whit as if to say, Does she really know what those people are doing in that painting? “This is your book, Miss Belle?”

“Why, yes. You stole it from my wigwam, evidently.” She didn’t want them to know she’d been eavesdropping and knew Bud had stolen it.

Whit said, “And what is it you like especially about that one painting?”

“Well. The paintings are all very joyful. I like how the Chinese present sex as a happy, creative occasion, and not one to be tolerated with gritted teeth. As for this particular one. The Chinese are so inventive—see how they employed this wooden protuberance in the swing’s seat?”

Major Ashbury made a motion to request the pillow book, so Belle handed it to him. She was gratified when realization swept over his face, and he reddened. He swiftly handed the book to Whit as if it were a turd. Now Belle knew. Major Ashbury was one of those prudish men who humped for their own enjoyment, and their partners probably tolerated it with gritted teeth. It was too bad. He was so very handsome. What a shame.

Whit said, “Yes, these are things that are commonly accepted in the Orient and even in Europe, but are practically unheard-of here.” A sly look came into Whit’s eyes. “The ingenuity they’ve invested in this swing gives me some crafty ideas.”

For some reason, this mortified Major Ashbury even further, for he got to his feet and took his hot brandy to the fireplace, even grabbing the poker and rustling the embers. Belle admired the athletic globes of his ass in the buckskins, but thinking of him as an old lady potato-head in matters of sex quashed her interest in him. She looked back to Whit, who was studying the pillow book.

“Crafty ideas?” she prompted, knowing it wasn’t appropriate conversation for a maid.

Whit’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, I can see where one could replicate this position.” But when he looked back to the major’s stiffly hunched shoulders, Whit’s conversation, too, petered out.

Belle went on, “You mentioned treatment for hysterical paroxysm.”

“Yes, indeed! I think you could benefit greatly from it.”

At this, Major Ashbury turned to face his guests, now seemingly intrigued.

Belle asked Whit, “Would it be possible to try this treatment tonight? Unless you have other more pressing things to do, related to the campaign.”

Whit stood eagerly. “Not at all. Huntley is just composing a speech to give to the battalion tomorrow, but we’re hampered by the rain.”

“And the inactivity of the commissioners,” Ashbury added.

“That, too,” Whit agreed. “We must do this in your room, if you don’t mind. The hospital tent is entirely inappropriate for a female patient.”

Belle said, “Of course.”

Ashbury was taking a few long strides toward them. “But,” he sputtered. Then he laughed, as though trying to lighten the mood. “Hysterical paroxysm? And what might that be?”

Whit squiggled his silken eyebrows. “I don’t think you want to know, Huntley.” He chuckled and took Belle’s arm to guide her from the room.

But the major was curious now. “This ‘treatment’—you may go, Miss Belle. The doctor will join you shortly.”