Page 53 of West Wind

“How long will it take to get to San Francisco?” she whispered when she could speak again.

He thought about her question for a few seconds. “Three weeks, give or take a few days.”

She rested her head on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart. “Is that all? Can’t we go... by way of Canada?”

He brushed her hair from her face. “Are you trying to kill me?” His tone of voice remained light and easy.

She propped her chin on his chest and looked into his eyes. “Is what we’ve been doing life-threatening?”

“Not normally.”

With a satisfied smile she laid her head down again, her ear against his heart. For the next three weeks, her heart.

They slept long into the morning. When they woke Shelley carried her to the creek so they could bathe. He washed her hair; she volunteered to wash his back. Impulsively she pressed her lips against the small scratches she’d inflicted the night before.

“What are you doing?” he asked, motionless as she kissed his shoulders and his back.

“Kissing away the hurt,” she murmured into his spine.

When she stopped, he turned to her. “What about this?” He pointed a long finger at the healing cut on his forehead, and leaned forward while she obediently kissed him there. “And this.” He pointed to a fading bruise on his shoulder and she pressed her lips against his wet skin, finishing with a fast flick of her tongue. “And this.” He pointed to his lips.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her face to his. She didn’t kiss him, but studied his perfect lips. “They look fine to me.”

“You bit me last night.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “Remember?”

“I didn’t bite very hard.” She smiled, her lips almost touching his. “You on the other hand…”

He kissed her lightly. “I’m sorry. Where else did I hurt you?”

She pointed to her earlobe, and Shelley kissed her there. She placed a finger at the base of her throat and he kissed her there, too, letting his lips linger against her skin. He lowered his head when she pointed first to one breast and then the other, licking droplets of water from her skin before he lifted her in his arms and headed for the grassy bank. She pressed her face against his neck and rained feathery kisses on his damp skin.

“Dammit,” he swore as he lowered her to the blanket.

She ran her hands over his wet skin, slick and smooth. “What’s wrong?”

“We’ll never get to San Francisco this way,” he said, resigned as he lowered himself to her.

The ache in the pit of her belly was so strong she didn’t want to talk. She wanted Shelley, her passion, to kiss her and touch her. She never wanted to leave the bank of their little creek.

“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad,” she whispered as his lips closed over hers.

They made barely ten miles that afternoon, but neither of them cared. There was plenty of water and food, simple as it was, and the weather was agreeable. The sun warmed their faces while a cooling breeze washed over them. Annabelle rode her mare either just behind or beside Shelley, so close she could almost reach out and touch him.

Every so often he smiled at her, that easy grin, his eyes sparkling when they lit on her. It was almost as if he were checking to make certain she was really there, that she wasn’t a dream. His smile warmed her heart, though she knew it was a smile he gave generously. Did she feel this way because she felt so safe in his presence? Was it, as he claimed, a purely physical attraction? Lust. Passion.

She pushed the questions to the back of her mind. Three weeks, maybe more, maybe less, was all she’d have of him, and she wasn’t going to spoil it by thinking too hard. If she did she’d be forced to think about life after Shelley. Prison, death, or, if she were lucky, a return to the life she’d led before that horrifying night in New York. Even that possibility wasn’t very appealing at the moment.

They camped for the night a short distance from the worn trail, in a green spot not nearly as enchanting as their campsite by the creek. A thick copse of trees and a natural L-shaped cluster of cool gray boulders afforded them some semblance of privacy. They silently went about their chores, Shelley unsaddling and unpacking the horses, she making coffee and heating beans over the fire he’d started.

They ate not side by side, but across the fire from one another. Firelight flickered on their faces, in their eyes. She should be starving, but she could barely eat the all too familiar beans. She grew more and more nervous as the minutes ticked past. Last night they’d fallen together so naturally there had been no time for thought. But now… would he come to her or did he expect her to go to him? Would it be possible to recreate the magic that had brought them together like thunder and lightning?

“Not hungry?” He tossed down his own empty plate and nodded to her almost full one.

She shrugged. “Not really. Are you still hungry?” She offered her plate to him but he declined, shaking his head while he ran one hand over his beard. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was as nervous as she.

“No complaints about the cuisine tonight?” he teased.

She found a leaf in her hair and plucked it out, deciding to unbraid her hair there by the fire. At least that would keep her hands busy. “No complaints, but I’d sell my soul for a fresh peach.”