Page 45 of West Wind

“You might as well lean back and relax.” When he spoke she jumped a little, apparently startled that he’d bother to talk to her. “We’ll ride for a while longer, put some distance between us and the wagon train.”

“I’m not tired, thank you,” she answered crisply.

Shelley smiled, studying her stubborn spine and the dark braid that fell down her back. She was still angry. Good. In fact, it would be a good idea to keep her that way all the way to California.

“It’s no wonder Swift Eagle was smitten. Look at this.” He lifted her braid, unwilling to admit to himself how wonderful it felt, silky and soft. “You’re even beginning to look like an Indian.”

She reached back and jerked the braid from his hand, pulling it forward so it fell over her shoulder. “You don’t like it? Good. I’ll keep it this way.”

He cursed his foolishness. For eleven years he’d managed to avoid the kind of attachment he felt for Annie. She was nothing but trouble. Since his first look into her wide brown eyes he’d had to lay out the Pinkerton agent, a man who was probably just doing his job; Jim Butler, a man who certainly deserved what he got; and he’d gotten himself beaten to the point where he could barely hold his body straight in the saddle.

He was riding west when he should be in Kansas, hunting down those outlaws Vaughan and Blount. That was his job, that was his calling. Not this.

Aggravation. The woman had turned his life upside down. Still, he couldn’t forget how she’d felt in his arms, like she belonged there. Like she was a part of him and when he let her go he’d again be incomplete. Dangerous thoughts best kept buried until they could be completely forgotten.

When he stopped in a protected clearing with stone walls on three sides, he managed to dismount without groaning aloud. It took effort. He lifted his arms to help Annie down, but she ignored him and dismounted on her own.

Just as well.

A nearly full moon in a cloudless sky illuminated Shelley’s face, showing Annabelle more than she wanted to see. His battered face, his eye swollen almost shut, the stiffness of his normally graceful body… it all reminded her that she was indebted to him.

Three hundred dollars! She didn’t know what bothered her most, his willingness to pay the Castletons so much to be rid of her, or her doubts about where he’d gotten so much cash. He seemed to have nothing. Was he was an outlaw? Was the three hundred dollars part of his takings from a bank robbery or a stage holdup?

It made perfect sense. He disdained hard work, spent all his time in saloons, and had never mentioned his profession. Given the numerous people they’d met along the way who knew him, it was obvious that he didn’t stay in one place too long. Shelley, with his easy smile and his quick fists... an outlaw.

Their campsite was so secluded she decided that he must’ve known it was there. He’d probably spent many nights here, hiding from a posse. Three hundred dollars!

He laid out his bedroll and placed the saddle at the head. “You first,” he said, motioning graciously. “We’ll keep a cold camp and sleep in shifts for a few days, just to be safe.”

“I’ll stay up for a while. I couldn’t sleep right now anyway, and you look terrible.” She could have said it more kindly, but she managed to make the observation sound like an insult. The moonlight cast eerie shadows on his battered face, and in spite of herself she felt a tugging at her heart. He was in that condition because of her.

He dropped to the makeshift bed and closed his eyes. “So I’m supposed to trust you to watch over me?” He smiled ever so slightly.

She pulled the derringer from her waistband and Swift Eagle’s long knife from her boot. “I don’t suppose you have any choice.”

He was asleep in minutes, and she lost the grim frown she’d worn since leaving the Castletons’ camp. She sat beside him, a weapon clutched in each hand as if an enemy might appear at any moment. He slept as deeply and soundly as the Castleton children. How did he do that? How could a man like him, an outlaw, sleep the sleep of the innocent?

Ever since she’d washed the blood from his face, she’d tried to convince herself that she didn’t really love him. He was arrogant, demanding, short-tempered, sometimes downright mean where she was concerned, and in her opinion he was much too free with his affections. With the moonlight on his face he was nothing special to look at, all bumps and bruises. Still, she wanted nothing more than to kiss him, and to have him kiss her back. To love him, and to have him love her back. She wanted him to sit up and grin at her and make love to her the way he had before. He’d already said that wouldn’t happen. Not ever again.

His breathing was deep and even; she watched the rise and fall of his chest. If she pressed her ear to that chest she’d hear the gentle, steady pounding of his heart, the constant, staid beating that could comfort her and fill her with a peace that was so precious, so rare.

He’d never know, she thought as she rested her head gently against his chest. She wouldn’t sleep, she’d simply rest for a few moments, perhaps close her eyes and listen to the tender thumping in her ear…

Her performance had come off perfectly. Annabelle left the stage to appreciative applause. She wore her lovely low-cut green silk costume, which revealed more of her ample bosom than she would’ve liked and flared becomingly at the waist. Lisette had had to let the seams out a bit. She was gaining weight, her face becoming too round and her hips too wide. Lisette and Pierre fed her too well, insisting that she needed lots of strength for her vocation. More than a vocation, a calling, a God-given gift. Her only passion.

Henri waited in her dressing room. Dear, sweet Henri. It was his first trip to America. She couldn’t wait to introduce him to Nicky. In a few weeks they’d leave New York and take the rail to San Francisco. She wanted Nicky to approve of Henri. What was there not to approve of? Henri was tender, cultured. His family was far wealthier than Nicky, and Nicky was quite well off. More than that, Henri cared for her, and she for him. Theirs was a deep friendship, the perfect basis for a good marriage.

If only Albert wasn’t being so difficult.

She didn’t understand why Albert disliked Henri. Albert would always be the one to manage her finances, would always be a part of her professional life. True, he’d expressed an interest in marrying her once, but that had been long ago. She’d let him know that she had no interest in him other than as her business manager, and they’d moved on with no hard feelings.

Albert had accepted that for all these years but he openly detested Henri, whom he insisted on referring to as “that damned Frenchman.” Henri was her fiancé, and her best friend.

She opened the door, and in that instant everything changed.

A motionless Henri was slumped on the floor, blood soaking his shirt, his throat, the floor around him. So much blood. Albert stood over Henri’s body, a knife in his hand, his face a mask of distorted rage. His expression changed to one of surprise when he saw her. Their eyes met. For a moment there was complete silence. Albert recovered his wits first.

He took a deep breath, grimaced, and raised the knife. Annabelle wanted to run, but she couldn’t. It was as if her legs were made of lead. Albert brought the knife swinging across and into his own shoulder, wincing as the blade drove in and he withdrew it. That done, he tossed the weapon at her feet.