Page 21 of West Wind

“They’re haulin’ wagons, I suppose?” Shelley’s grin never wavered.

Pops nodded. “Yep. Nice folks. Buncha kids.” He repeated his earlier observation.

Shelley looked at her, really looked at her for the first time in days. “We can catch up with them tomorrow.”

She tried to be as happy as he seemed to be, but couldn’t quite manage it. She’d never trust anyone the way she trusted Shelley. The way her life was going, she might never trust another human being again. But she smiled, unwilling to let him know how much she feared traveling the rest of the way without him.

He quickly gathered together a few supplies, and left her standing at the counter facing Pops. She looked around the grimy store wondering how anyone could stand to purchase the merchandise that had been lying in the filth that surrounded the old man, when she saw the newspaper, the San Francisco Chronicle.

“May I buy that newspaper?”

Pops grinned, to her dismay. “Hell, you can have it. It’s two months old. Some fella just left it here when he was done readin’ it.”

She cradled the paper and withdrew a few coins from the front pocket of her britches. “And a bottle of that tequila Shelley likes so much.”

She didn’t mind leaving Pops’ store behind, as she sometimes did the few reminders of civilization along the trail. They resumed their journey. With the bottle in her saddlebag and the newspaper under her arm, she waited anxiously for Shelley to stop.

She couldn’t wait to read the paper. There was still plenty of light in the sky when he finally found a place that suited him. She sat in the open; not that she had any choice. All she could see was miles and miles of flat land. She unfolded The Chronicle. There on the front page was an article about her, along with the same atrocious drawing that had graced her wanted poster. Would anyone recognize her, now? She wasn’t the same woman she’d been three months ago; the changes went deeper than her physical transformation.

As she read on, she became more and more disturbed. The article was completely false, and, even more disconcerting, it was only one of a series about her life and her alleged crimes being written by one Samuel Robertson. According to the libelous Mr. Robertson she was a man-eating Jezebel, a woman who thought nothing of killing one lover and attempting to kill another. The story only reaffirmed her conviction that no one would ever believe her. It was Albert’s word against her own, and she’d made the unpardonable mistake of running.

She forced herself to read the entire article, though it made her physically ill. Thank heaven Shelley didn’t know who she really was. Even he would believe everyone else’s version of the story.

She turned the pages, devouring every word until she came to the personals. She almost skipped over them entirely, but a bold word jumped out at her.

BRAT,

Please come home. I can help. Love you.

Icky

She smiled. There was one person in the world who’d believe her. Nicky would believe her. Believe in her.

She ripped the personal from the paper roughly, tearing all around it but leaving Nicky’s ad intact. Then she tucked it inside her new hat, where it would be safe.

Shelley presented her with a plate of beans; she grimaced at the all too familiar fare.

“Don’t like my cookin’ anymore?” he asked as he sat next to her, closer than he had been lately. Usually he settled himself comfortably on the other side of the fire.

“It’s not that.” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “I’m just tired of beans, that’s all.” She ate them anyway.

Shelley reached across and grabbed the paper she’d discarded. “Any interestin’ articles in here?” he asked casually.

She shook her head. “Not really.” She stared into the fire as he began to read the article about her. Fortunately, he didn’t seem very interested in news that was two months old and soon tossed the paper aside, never realizing that the notorious Annabelle St. Clair sat just a few feet away.

“Did you read the article about the opera singer?” he asked, his tone conversational.

If he’d looked at her just then he would’ve seen the truth written on her face. “Yes, I did,” she finally said calmly.

“I never did care for opera, myself. Bored the pants off of me the one time my brother dragged me to one.” He was simply looking for polite conversation, she surmised. He knew they’d probably catch up with the wagon train the very next day, and he wouldn’t stick around after that.

She tilted her head to one side and looked at him curiously. “You’ve been to the opera?”

“I just said so, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t care for it?”

“Said that, too. What? You like it?” He gave her a big grin.